Dingwell threw his bridle to the ground and with his rifle tucked under his arm examined the tracks carefully.  Sometimes he was down on hands and knees peering at the faint marks of which he was reading the story.  Foot by foot he quartered over the sand, entirely circling the grove before he returned to the ashes of the dead fire.  Certain facts he had discovered.  One was that the party which had camped here had split up and taken to the hills by different trails instead of as a unit.  Still another was that so far as he could see there had been no digging in or near the grove.

It was raining more definitely now, so that the distant peaks were hidden in a mist.  In the lee of the aspens it was still dry.  Dingwell stood there frowning at the ashes of the dead campfire.  He had had a theory, and it was not working out quite as he had hoped.  For the moment he was at a mental impasse.  Part of what had happened he could guess almost as well as if he had been present to see it.  Sweeney’s posse had given the fugitives a scare at Dry Gap and driven them back into the desert.  In the early morning they had tried the hills again and had reached Lonesome Park.  But they could not be sure that Sweeney or some one of the posses sent out by the railroad was not close at hand.  Somewhere in the range back of them the pursuers were combing the hills, and into those very hills the bandits had to go to disappear in their mountain haunts.

Even before reaching the park Dingwell had guessed the robbers would separate here and strike each for individual safety.  But what had they done with the loot?  That was the thing that puzzled him.

They had divided the gold here.  Or one of them had taken it with him to an appointed rendezvous in the hills.  Or they had cached it, One of these three plans had been followed.  But which?

Dingwell rubbed the open fingers of one hand slowly through his sunburnt thatch of hair.  “Doggone my hide, if it don’t look like they took it with them,” he murmured.  “But that ain’t reasonable, Dave.  The man in charge of this hold-up knew his business.  It was smooth work all the way through.  If it hadn’t been for bad luck he would have got away with the whole thing fine.  They still had the loot with them when they got here.  No doubt about that.  Well, then!  He wouldn’t divvy up here, because, if they separated, and any one of them got caught with the gold on him, it would be a give-away.  But if they didn’t have the dough on them, it would not matter if some of the boys were caught.  You can’t do anything with a man riding peaceable through the hills looking for strays, no matter how loaded to the guards with suspicions you may be.  So they would cache the loot.  Wouldn’t they?  Sure they would if they had any sense.  But tell me where, Dave.”

His thoughtful eyes had for some moments been resting on something that held them.  He stooped and picked up a little chip of sealing-wax.  Instantly he knew how it had come here.  The gold sacks had been sealed by the express company with wax.  At least one of the sacks had been opened here by the robbers.