“No, we don’t,” shouted the boys.  “We’ve had more than a million dollars worth of fun out of it already.”

“Certainly not,” added the Professor.

“We’ll discuss that later,” said Mr. Marquand firmly.  “Just now we must take care of what we have found.  Who will get the bags?”

“We will,” answered the boys promptly.

“No; you stay here.  I’ll get them,” answered Kris Kringle.  “Light me up the stairs so I don’t break my neck in this old rookery.

One of the boys lighted the way to the next floor, then stepped back into the cellar, where Mr. Marquand was turning over the treasure in an effort to find out if the pile extended all the way to the bottom of the chest.

In the meantime Kris Kringle unbarred the door and threw it part way open.  He did it cautiously, as if half expecting trouble.

He threw the door to with a bang, springing to one side, and dropping the bar back into place.

The reason for his sudden change of plans was that no sooner had the door opened than several thirty-eight calibre bullets were fired from the sage brush outside.

Kris Kringle waited to learn whether those in the cellar had heard the shots.  But they had not.  They were some distance below ground, and their minds were wholly taken up with the great treasure before them.

After a few moments the guide once more removed the bar, first having drawn his revolver in case of sudden surprise.  Then he cautiously opened the door an inch or so.

At first nothing happened.  The moonlit landscape lay as silent and peaceful as if there were not a human being on the desert.

There were six distinct flashes all at once and a rain of lead showered into the door.

Kris Kringle took a pot shot at one of the flashes, then slammed the door shut and barred it.

“Well; I hope that would get you,” he muttered.

Hastily retracing his steps he called the party up to the second cellar.

“Did you fetch the sacks?” called Mr. Marquand.

“No, but I’ve fetched trouble.  It’s coming in sackfuls.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re besieged.”

“Besieged?” wondered the Professor.

“Yes; there’s a crowd outside, and they’ve been trying to shoot me up.  Must be some of your friends, Mr. Marquand.”

“Lasar and Comstock?  The scoundrels!” growled Mr. Marquand.  “But we’ll make short work of them.”

“Not so easy as you think There are more than two out there—­ there’s a crowd and they’ve got rifles.  Our rifles are over in the camp.  I’ve got a six-shooter and so have you, but what do they amount to against half a dozen rifles?”

“I’ll talk to them, if I can get any place to make them hear,” announced Mr. Marquand, starting up the stairs.

“I reckon there’s a window on the second floor, but you’d better be careful that you don’t get winged,” warned the guide.