f them, and
the anxiety they caused was presently lost in another discovery: They
had reached the end of the line of ore!

Try as hard as they could, not another piece of wire-gold ore could they
find. The thief, it appeared, must have discovered the hole in the bag,
at that point, and have repaired it.

Still searching, and hoping against hope, the boys presently came close
to the edge of the chaparral. Then, with stunning abruptness, a voice
shouted from among the bushes.

"Now, then, pards, make a surround!"

It was a familiar voice. Merry as not so startled that he failed to
realize that.

The chaparral shook and rustled with the movements of horsemen. In a
moment four riders plunged into view and drew rein on each side and in
front and rear of Merriwell and Clancy. The surprised lads recognized
the fellows at once.

They were some of the cowboy athletes from the Bar Z Ranch--Blunt, the
Cowboy Wonder, and his particular cronies, Ben Jordan, Bandy Harrison,
and Aaron Lloyd.

"Whoop!" exulted Blunt, his spirited black horse rearing under his firm
grip on the reins. "Look who's here, pard! It's Merriwell, by glory!
Chip Merriwell, the son of his dad! Merriwell, the silk-stocking
athlete! We're diamonds in the rough, pards, but he's cut and polished
until he dazzles the eyes. Well, well! What do you think of this?"

Merry was conscious of one thing, and that was that the present meeting
in the desert was due to chance alone, and not to any plotting on
Blunt's part.

"Whoop!" jubilated Blunt's three companions, put to it somewhat to curb
their restive mounts.

"Hold still, Frank, you crazy fool!" cried the Wonder, slapping his
horse about the ears with his hat. "He's scared of those chug-chug
bikes, same as the rest of the bronks. Whoa, I tell you!"

Blunt was a master horseman, and soon had his plunging steed steadied
down. Clancy looked up into the face of the Cowboy Wonder and scowled.

"You're the limit," he grunted. "I guess Chip will believe you've got a
yellow streak, after this."

A smile, mirthless and ugly, crossed Blunt's bronzed face. Leaning
forward along his horse's neck, he fixed his sloe-black eyes on
Clancy's.

"Yeller streak, eh?" he echoed. "What is there, in this, to make
Merriwell think I've got a thing like that?"

"Of course," flashed Clancy, "you touched up the professor's claim for
the trail of ore we've been following front Happenchance."

"That's a lie," snapped Blunt. "We