CHAPTER X.

DISCOVERY OF THE THIEF.

The state of mind of the Seven cannot be described. A moment before they had been upon a pinnacle of success and happiness. And now it seemed that they had climbed but that their fall might be all the more unbearable. All their ambitions and plans, all the fun they meant to have--it was too terrible to be true!

It was half with a feeling of incredulity that one after another they climbed up to the opening and went in. Not one of them could quite bring himself to believe that the whole thing was not a horrible delusion, a nightmare. But when they got inside they found that it was too true.

There was the deep trench that Parson Stanard had dug; there was the spade he had dug it with, the tracks of the others who had gathered anxiously about to watch him. There was even one of the bright glittering gold pieces half hidden in the dirt, a horrible mockery, as it appeared to them; for the big wooden chest that had been full to the brim with gold pieces, was gone, and the money with it. And all the hopes of the Banded Seven were gone, too.

At first they stood and stared, gasping; and then they gazed about the place in horror, thinking that surely they they must find the chest lying somewhere else. But it was not there. They dashed around the room, hunting in every corner of the place, even in the locked cell, where the ghastly skeletons lay grinning at them as if in delight. But there was not a sign of the chest, nor of any one who could have taken it.

And then suddenly Mark noticed a footprint in the soft earth just underneath the entrance that told him the story.

“They’ve taken it out!” he cried.

Feverish with disappointment and impatience, the Seven scrambled out again through the hole. There on the ground was the same footprint, larger than any of theirs. It did not take half an eye to see that. There, too, was a great three-cornered dent in the ground, showing where the chest had been dropped. And there were finger marks of the hand that had scooped up the fallen coins to put them back into the chest.

Texas, plainsman and cowboy, had often told stories of how he had followed a half-washed out trail for miles across an otherwise trackless prairie. He was on his knees now studying every mark and sign, his eyes fairly starting from his head with excitement. And suddenly he sprang to his feet as he noticed a trail a short way off, a deep, smooth rut worn in the earth.

“A wheelbarrow!” roared he.

A wheelbarrow it was, for a fact. And the track of it lay through the woods to the river. Texas had started on a run, without saying another word, and the rest were at his heels.

The men who had taken that heavy chest down that steep forest slope to the river must have had hard work. Any one could see that as he looked at the mark of the wheel. It would run down a slippery rock and plunge deep into the soft earth at the bottom. It would run into a fallen log, or plunge through a heavy thicket. And once, plain as day was written a story of how the chest had fallen off and the heap of scattered coins all been gathered up again.

These things the plebes barely noticed in their haste. They ran almost all the way. It was perhaps two hundred yards to the river, and there was a steep, shelving bank, at the bottom of which was a little pebbly beach. Down the bank the wheelbarrow had evidently been run, half falling, upsetting the box once more, and necessitating the same labor of gathering up the coins. One of them had been left in the sand.

The poor plebes realized then how hopeless was their search. Deep in the sand was the mark of a boat’s keel, and they knew that the work of trailing was at an end. Their treasure was gone forever, stolen during the few hours since they had left it last.

“There’s no use shedding any tears about it,” said Mark at last, when the state of affairs had had time to be realized. “We’ve simply got it to bear. Somebody probably saw us leave the camp last night and followed us up here. And when they saw that treasure they just helped themselves.”

There is little that will make most people madder than to be told “never mind” when they feel they have something to be very much worried over. The Seven did mind a great deal. They sat and stared at each other with looks of disgust. Even the Parson (who ought to have been happy) wore a funereal look, and the only one who had a natural expression was Indian, the fat boy from Indianapolis. That was because Indian looked horrified and lugubrious always.

They wandered disconsolately about the spot where the boat had landed for perhaps five minutes, gazing longingly at the trace of the boat in the sand and wishing they could see it in the water as well, before any new development came. But the development was a startling one when it came. It took no detective to read the secret; it was written plain as day to all eyes in an object that lay on the ground.

Mark was the first to notice it. He saw a gleam of metal in the sand, and he thought it was one of the coins. But a moment later he saw that it was not, and he sprang forward, trembling with eagerness and sudden hope.

A moment later he held up before his startled companions a handsome gold watch. They sprang forward to look at it. Crying out in surprise as they did so, and a moment later he turned it quickly over. Written upon the back were three letters in the shape of a monogram--a monogram they had seen before on clothing, worn by a yearling, and that yearling was----

“Bull Harris!”

The scene that followed then precludes description. The Seven danced about on the sand, fairly howled for what was joy at one moment, anger at another. There was joy that they had found a clew, that they knew where to hunt for their treasure; and anger at that latest of the many contemptible tricks that yearling had tried.

What Bull Harris had done scarcely needs to be mentioned here--at least, not to old readers of this series. He had tried every scheme that his revengeful cunning could suggest to even matters with that hated Mark Mallory. He had tried a dozen plans to get Mark expelled, a dozen to get him brutally hazed. And they had all been cowardly tricks in which the yearling took good care to run no danger. This was the last, the climax; he had stolen their treasure by night, and what was almost as bad had he found their secret cavern. And as Mark stood and stared at that watch he clutched in his hand he registered a vow that Bull Harris should be paid for his acts in a way that he would not forget if he lived a thousand years.

And then he turned to the others.

“Come on, fellows,” he said. “We can’t gain anything by standing here. Let’s go back and watch Bull Harris like so many cats until we find out what he’s done with our money.”

The Seven turned and made their way through the woods once more, talking over the situation and their own course as they went. They had room for but one idea in their heads just now. They must find out where that money was and get it back, if it was the last thing they ever did in their lives.

It was clear that the hiding place could not be very far away, and that Bull and his cronies must go to it again. The Seven had left the place at about one in the morning, and réveille came at five; that gave but four hours in which Bull, who it was presumed, had watched them digging, had returned to West Point, gotten a boat and wheelbarrow and taken the treasure away. He could not have taken it a great distance in that time.

Another question was, who had helped him? Probably some of his gang, Mark thought, until he chanced to remember that Bull had another ally just then. He had a cousin, a youth even less lovely than he staying at the hotel. And then came another vague idea--perhaps he had the treasure there. Bull could surely not have it in his tent, and perhaps he had been afraid to bury it.

That was but a faint hope, yet Mark decided in a moment to follow it up. He thought of a scheme. Grace Fuller was at the hotel, and also George, the Fuller’s family butler. George was a merry, red-faced Irishman, who had once fired off some cannon at night for the plebes and scared West Point out of its boots. Mark determined after a moment’s consultation that George was the man to investigate this clew for them.

As I said, it was only a possibility, a very bare one. Mark strolled around near the hotel late in the afternoon when he returned, keeping a sharp lookout for the man just mentioned. When he saw him he whispered to him and strolled slowly away.

“George,” said Mark, hurriedly, when the other joined him, “do you know which is Cadet Harris’ cousin, the young man who’s staying in the hotel there?”

“Yes, sir,” said the butler. “His name’s Mr. Chandler. Why?”

“I’ve got a secret,” said Mark, briefly. “It’s something important, and I want you to help me, without saying a word to any one. Get one of the women, his chamber-maid if you can, to find out if he’s got a box in his room.”

And the butler chuckled to himself.

“Bless you, sir,” he said. “I can tell you that now. It’s the talk of the place, among the help. One of the girls saw Mr. Harris and his cousin carrying a heavy box up to his room just before réveille this morning.”

And as Mark turned away again he was ready to shout aloud for joy.