Cordial and warm was Sandy Mackintavers that evening, expanding under the genial thought of what was to happen on the morrow, and making himself a wondrous fine host. He told how Abel Dorales had secured an interpreter, had approached two withered, wrinkled old Cochiti bucks who loved round silver dollars, and had brought them here upon specious pretexts. He told how, on the following morning, those two withered, wrinkled Cochiti bucks were to be left for an hour in this same room, alone with the seven stone gods on the mantel and a whiskey bottle on the table; and he told how a dictagraph, already concealed and in readiness, would be waiting for them.
Being presumably alone, being mellowed by one or two stolen drinks, being in the amazing presence of those seven stone gods, the two withered, wrinkled old Cochiti bucks would most unquestionably talk to each other in their own language. Later, the dictagraph record could be translated.
It never occurred to Sandy that the entire Cochiti pueblo might have been aware that he was in possession of these seven stone gods almost from the very day he obtained them. Sandy had picked up some knowledge about the relics of dead redskins; but he had a good deal to learn about Indians in the flesh.
So the morning came—the morning that was to bring about the satisfaction of ambition. Abel Dorales left the breakfast table in order to bring the two withered, wrinkled old Cochiti bucks. Mackintavers drew the eminent scientist into the library for a last look at the preparations—ah!
“It might be an excellent idea,” said the professor, dryly, “to set your stone gods in place, Mr. Mackintavers.”
“Aiblins, yes!” And Mackintavers stared blankly at the mantel. “Where the devil have they gone? They were here last night!”
That the seven stone gods had sat, grinning, upon the mantel only the evening previous, was true; but they were not on the mantel now. They were not in the room. They were not in the ranch house at all!
Curious to incoherence, suspecting everyone around him, Sandy Mackintavers sought an explanation. He obtained none. The two wrinkled, withered old bucks had been in the bunk house all night. Every man about the place established a convincing alibi.
Every building upon the place was searched from ground to rafters, without avail. Noon came, and Mackintavers had relapsed into a dour, grim rage. At this juncture, the old Chinaman who served as cook related that, while emptying the slops the previous evening, he had seen a strange horseman down near the creek. He could give no description.
“Stolen!” howled Sandy, beside himself with fury. “Out and after him!”