Thus, like a disbanding company of players, the actors in this tale of California, pass into history. The olden days of bandits are no more, while the hatred of the gringo is only a tradition. The broad acres of the San Antonio Rancho no longer lie comparatively fallow in Nature’s pasture, but are tilled by the thrifty plowman as he labors afield with fullest confidence of a bountiful reward. Meanwhile, the mountains that look down upon the beauteous valley guard their secret well. But searching eyes will yet, undoubtedly, sometime, somewhere, rediscover the mysterious cavern with its hoarded millions of loot, stored by the rapacious hands of Joaquin Murietta, the White Wolf, and their brigand bands, its lake of oil from which outlaws fed their lamps, and its subterranean river from whose shallow riffles Guadalupe, and Dick Willoughby also, gathered a wealth of golden spoil.