“No,” observed Tom Baker, holding up the coin he had been examining, “Murietta wasn’t alive when this ‘ere gold piece came from the mint. This is some of Don Manuel’s stuff.”
“The White Wolf!” exclaimed Munson.
“Yes, the White Wolf,” continued the sheriff. “So if the White Wolf ain’t dead, as Pierre declared that night—” Tom gazed at the bedroom door as if the spectral figure might reappear—“he’s honorin’ the Frenchie’s sight draft, that’s sure.”
“I see,” said Munson. “He is paying the five thousand dollars old Pierre promised in his letter if he was helped to freedom and five thousand dollars besides.”
“Precisely,” Tom Baker replied. “But if the White Wolf is dead, as most folks say, then the Frenchie’s got the key to the treasure vault, all right.”
“So we’ve got to get him back here again, boys,” murmured Buck, rubbing his hands while his eyes feasted upon the heap of gold. “I don’t mind boardin’ Pierre Luzon for a spell, and he can have all the bourbon he wants.”
“Till he tells us where Guadalupe gets her nuggets,” grinned Jack. “But you’ve forgotten to show ‘em, Munson, the card that came with the coin.”
“Oh, yes,” rejoined Munson, drawing a small piece of pasteboard from his pocket. “It is brief enough. Luzon gives his countryman’s family address in Marseilles where the first five thousand dollars is to be mailed. Then he writes down our five names, Dick Willoughby’s first, and says the five of us are to share equally.” He passed the card to Tom Baker for inspection, and went on: “Jack and I are going to ride over to Bakersfield, get the French bank draft and put Dick’s money in the bank along with our own.”
“Where’s Dick?” asked Buck, with a quick uplift of his eyes into Munson’s face.
But the latter was not to be betrayed into divulging any information that might be in his possession.