“Well!” said Arthur.

The Ranchero looked suspiciously about him, and, finding that there was no one within sight or hearing, he detached his knife and sheath from his belt, produced a folded paper from the crown of his sombrero, and handed them both to Arthur, saying, in a suppressed whisper: 

“It’s all right.”

“Did you see him?” asked Arthur, eagerly.

“I did, and he says your plan is an excellent one, and he will help you to carry it out.  The black line on that paper points out the road you are to follow; the light lines, that branch off from it, are old bridle-paths.  Look at the paper often, and you can’t get lost.  He has never seen you, you know, and, when you find him, you must show him my knife to prove that you are a friend.  Bear one thing in mind, now, and that is, you are playing a dangerous game, and if you are found out, the country around here will be too hot to hold you.  Remember that I am your only friend in this matter, and say nothing to nobody except me.”

With this piece of advice, the Ranchero galloped off, and Arthur, after placing the knife in his belt, and putting the paper carefully away in his pocket, rode toward the mountains.

During the next few hours, Arthur consulted his paper frequently, and, about noon, he was standing at the base of a precipitous cliff, twenty miles from home, examining the natural features of the place, and comparing them with his diagram.  He saw no one; but half way up the cliff was a huge bowlder, over which peered a pair of eyes that were closely watching every move he made; and, when Arthur whistled twice, the eyes disappeared, and a man stepped from behind the rock, and said, in a gruff voice: 

“Who are you, and what do you want here?”

“Are you Pierre Costello?” asked Arthur.

“Well, now, that’s no concern of yours,” replied the man.  “Who are you?” As he spoke, he drew a revolver from his sash, and rested it on the rock beside him, the muzzle pointing straight at the boy’s head.

“Don’t!” cried Arthur, turning pale, and stepping back.  “I am Arthur Vane, and I have come here to have a talk with you.  Here is Joaquin’s knife, which will prove that I am all right.”

The man returned his revolver to his belt, and came down the cliff; and, presently, Arthur found himself standing face to face with a live robber.

“I am Pierre Costello,” said the latter; “and I was waiting for you.”

CHAPTER XII.

Off for the mountains.

Arthur looked at the robber with curiosity.  Yellow-covered novels had always been his favorite reading, and highwaymen, brigands, and pirates were, in his estimation, the only heroes worthy of emulation.  Pierre, but for one thing, would have come up to his beau ideal of a robber.  He was loaded with weapons, and he was tall and broad-shouldered, sported a ferocious mustache, and his hair fell down upon his shoulders.  He was dressed in the gayest Mexican style, but his clothing had seen long service, and was not quite as neat as Arthur would have liked to have seen it.  It was plain that Pierre did not waste much time upon his toilet; but, after all, he was a very good-looking villain.