“My idea is that Gasca hid it in the wagon because he thought no one would suspect anything there,” said Polly, “and he could haul it away in a hurry if they did.”
“It’s more likely he buried it and after he died the woman dug it up and packed it in here meaning to go South with it and then got sick and died before she had the chance.”
“Well, I said you had imagination. That’s a much better theory than mine,” said Polly, generously. “But why didn’t somebody take the wagon?”
“Well, it ain’t much of a wagon. I reckon they took the horse and the pigs and chickens and let the rest slide. The wood don’t amount to much; just sticks she’s picked up.”
Mendoza, quite of the opinion that the couple whom up to this time he had suspected of nothing more alarming than an elopement, had suddenly gone very mad, stolidly chucked wood out of the wagon lest a worse thing be demanded of him.
“There!” The three gathered around the half-empty wagon in excitement, even Mendoza manifesting a slight degree of zest when through the layer of straw, half covered with sacking, was revealed a number of rough looking blocks, in shape resembling large loaves of bread. Penhallow lifted one with difficulty.
“That’s what it is, girl,” he cried, his eyes glistening. “It’s gold straight from the mine. Why, what’s the matter?”
“It’s so disappointing,” murmured the girl; “it looks like old junk.”
“Well, it’s pretty good old junk. I only wish it was mine, don’t you, Mendoza? This stuff, Mendoza, all belongs to some rich guys who own a lot of mines down yonder. Big, fat chaps who sit in easy chairs back of mahogany tables and let other fellows earn their money for them; fine business, eh?”
Mendoza grinned—a comprehending if not a lovely grin.