“A Mexican who had an Indian wife and who was murdered?” went on Polly. Much to her disappointment, this minute description did not seem to clear Sam’s mind.
“You see, that fits so many of them,” he said, apologetically.
“The wife died after he was killed,” hazarded the girl, anxiously.
“Hold on—you mean the old duffer who lived up Wildcat Canyon?” demanded Penhallow. “Woman had a stroke—they found her up there dead. Their name was ‘Gasca’ or ‘Gomez’ or something of that kind.”
“I knew it!” Polly’s voice was triumphant. “If I don’t make Marc Scott apologize to me——” Then, calming herself, she continued: “I’m going to spin you a yarn, Mr. Penhallow, and then you’ve got to help me out.”
“Fire away,” said the gallant Penhallow and Polly repeated as nearly as she could remember the tale that Juan Pachuca had told her that night in Athens. Penhallow’s eyes snapped.
“By gum, I bet you’re on the trail! He and those Mexicans are looking up the stuff.”
“Of course they are, but why do they come on horseback? They can’t carry bullion on their saddles.”
“They probably don’t more than half believe the yarn themselves,” said Sam, meditatively. “They’re just snooping round to see if there’s anything in it. And automobiles ain’t so common round here that you can pick one up every time you feel like hunting treasure, either. I own the only one in town and I loaned it to-day to a good-for-nothing guy that’s courtin’ Mabel, worse luck!”
“We’ve got Mendoza and his Ford,” said Polly, eagerly. “If I run up and get my hat and coat, will you slip down and pry him out of that saloon and the three of us run out to Wildcat Canyon before those Mexicans can get there?”