"Hullo, folks!"
The voice came suddenly from the shadows. It was Wandering William. In the general excitement everybody had forgotten him, and he, had driven up in his red wagon unheralded. But the warmth of his reception made up for any temporary slight. In fact, after supper, when Roy related their strange adventures, and told how, if it had not been for Wandering William, they might never have reached the camp, Wandering William's greeting reached an ovation.
But while all this was going on one figure had remained crouched in the circle of firelight—or, rather, just beyond it—whose dark eyes had not for an instant left the face of Wandering William. The interested observer was Alverado.
The Mexican puckered his brow as be gazed as if trying to recall something. But the effort seemed to be in vain, for at length he arose and, unnoticed, strode moodily off toward the ponies, which had been tethered high on the hillside and out of sight of the camp.
He was gone but a few minutes before he came bounding back into the camp.
"The ponies! The ponies are gone!" he shouted at the top of his lungs.
In an instant everybody but Aunt Sally and old Mr. Bell was upon his or her feet.
"Gone!" The exclamation came like a dismayed groan.
"Yes, gone! Every one of them! The lariats have been cut. Ah, the ladrone, the cursed thieves! The—"
"Some of Red Bill's work, for a million!"