But the family had little money and although the Government made inquiries and State departments exchanged notes and the Mexican authorities declared that soldiers had scoured the neighborhood of the mine and the passes in the sierras—and some of the bandits had been caught and punished!—there was no trace of the little girl.
No wonder that Tom suffered anguish every time he thought of her. Was she wandering about in the mountains, alone, starved? Was she a captive among the bandits? Those who had been caught declared by everything they reverenced that they had not seen her at any time nor after the retreat had they seen her in their camp among the cordilleras. Even the gold was gone! A renegade white man—they had not known his nationality—had incited the attack, seeming to guess that there was money to be had. But he had disappeared during the fighting—and so, they averred, had the gold bags and the burros.
Was the little, sunny-haired Margery his prisoner also? Tom never had learned, for no trace of him—or of her—had ever been found.
Naturally, even after five years, the pain was deep and the scar still burned; that is why he had been so anxious to see the summer vacation arrive at Amadale Military Academy, where he and his chums were students. Cliff was glad in one way, also, because the end of the term saw his graduation. That meant that he could devote all of his time, for the summer and as long as might be necessary, to his father, Mr. Gray, a great scholar and student of old civilizations. Mr. Gray wrote books on the subject of ancient history, and went to many strange places to get his facts. Cliff looked forward to the experiences and the knowledge he would gain; but mostly he was glad to be able to help his father whose health was not of the best since his years of captivity among the hidden Inca survivors in the Peruvian cordilleras.
Nicky, in the same class with Tom, and with a year yet to be passed in study and training of an athletic and disciplinary sort, looked forward to the vacation, because he knew that Mr. Gray was going to Mexico to study the Aztec civilization of a time long past, and to collect Indian relics and other material for a Museum in New York—and Cliff would go with him to help him and to write for him when his eyes were tired, and to superintend digging and so on; and Tom had been invited to accompany them, because he could in that way see at first hand the district of Mexico which had bred tragedy in its wild mountains for him. That meant that the inseparables would feel that their ranks were incomplete without the third member of the Mystery Boys, and so, of course, Nicky was with the others.
They had hired ponies and a guide and had ridden out to the mine, with the results which the boys had just discussed during their ride.
“I’ll bet this is the very trail those bandits used,” Nicky was saying as Tom reined in his pony.
“Maybe,” he said listlessly, “but there won’t be any clues or signs on it after five years. We’d better go back.”
“Well—I wish you’d look!” gasped Nicky, turning his head and spying something down the trail. “There comes that fellow who was watching us like a hawk—and he’s—yes, he is!—he’s riding Mr. Gray’s pony.”
“We’ll wait and see what he is after,” suggested Cliff at once. “We’re three to one.”