a lagger lagged.

the surprise of the two men is but momentary; for there can be no mystery about the peon’s disappearance. he has simply gone down the ravine, and back into the valley. is he on return to the house, which they know is now untenanted, and, if so, with what intent? has he become so attached to the place as to intend prolonging his sojourn there? or has something arisen to make him discontented with the company he has been keeping, and so determined to get quit of it by hanging behind?

something of this sort was on their minds as they last saw him over the crest of the ridge. while in conflict with his mule, he was ever and anon turning his eyes towards the point where the soldiers must have been last seen by him; for from the gap in which he was these were no longer visible. both hamersley and wilder had noticed an uneasy air about him at the time, attributing it to his vexation at being delayed by the obstinacy of the animal and the fear of being left behind. now that he had mounted and taken the back-track, the cause must be different.

“thar’s somethin’ queery in what the coyoats doin’,” is walt’s half-soliloquised observation; adding, “though what he’s arter tain’t so eezy to tell. he must be tired o’ their kumpany, and want to get shet o’ it. he’ll be supposin’ they ain’t likely to kum back arter him; an’ i reck’n they won’t, seein’ they’ve got all out o’ him they need care for. still, what ked he do stayin’ hyar by himself?”

walt is still ignorant of the peon’s partiality for his own sweetheart. he has had a suspicion of something, but not the deep, dire passion that burns in the indian’s heart. aware of this, he would not dwell on the probability of the man having any intention, any more than himself, remain behind now that conchita is gone.

“arter all,” he continues, still speaking in half soliloquy, “i don’t think stayin’s his game. there’s somethin’ else at the bottom on’t.”

“can uraga have sent him back on any errand?”

“no, that ain’t it eyther. more like he’s good on a errand o’ his own. i reckon i ken guess it now. the traitur intends turnin’ thief as well—doin’ a leetle bit o’ stealin’ along wi’ his treason. ye remember, frank, thar war a goodish grit o’ valleyables in the shanty—the saynorita’s jeweltry an’ the like. jest possyble, in the skrimmage, whiles they war making capter o’ thar prisoners, this ugly varmint tuk devantage o’ the confusion to secret a whun o’ thar gimcracks, an’s now goed back arter ’em.”

“it seems probable enough. still, he might have some other errand, and may not go on as far as the house. in which case, we may look for his return this way at any moment. it will never do for us to start upon their trail, leaving him coming in our rear. he would see us, and in the night might slip past and give them warning they were followed.”

“all that air true. we must grup him now.”

“should we go down after him, or stay here till he comes up?”

“neythur o’ the two ways’ll do. he moutn’t kum along no time. if he’s got plunder he won’t try to overtake the sogers, but wait till they’re well out o’ his way. he knows the road to the del norte, and kin travel it by hisself.”

“then we should go down after him.”

“only one o’ us. if we both purceed to the shanty there’s be a chance o’ passin’ him on the way. he mout be in the timmer, an’, seein’ us, put back out hyar, an’ so head us. there’d no need o’ both for the capterin’ sech a critter as that. i’ll fetch him on his marrowbones by jest raisin’ this rifle. tharfor, s’pose you stay hyar an’ guard this gap, while i go arter an’ grup him. i’m a’most sartin he’ll be at the shanty. anyhow, he’s in the trap, and can’t get out till he’s hed my claws roun’ the scruff o’ his neck an’ my thumb on his thropple.”

“don’t kill him if you can help it. true he deserves to die; but we may want a word with him first. he may give information that will afterwards prove useful to us.”

“don’t be afeared, frank. i shan’t hurt a har o’ his head, unless he reesists, then i must kripple him a bit. but he ain’t like to show fight, such a coyoat as he!”

“all right, walt. i’ll wait for you.”

“you won’t hev long. ye’d better take kiver back o’ them big stones to make sure o’ not bein’ seen by him, shed he by any chance slip past me. an’ keep yur ears open. soon as i’ve treed him i’ll gie a whistle or two. when ye hear that ye can kim down.”

after delivering this chapter of suggestions and injunctions, the ex-ranger heads his mule down the pass, and is soon lost to his comrade’s sight as he turns off along the ledge of the cliff.

hamersley, himself inclined to caution, follows the direction last given, and rides back behind one of the boulders. keeping in the saddle, he sits in silent meditation. sad thoughts alone occupy his mind. his prospects are gloomy indeed; his forecast of the future dark and doubtful. he has but little hope of being able to benefit don valerian miranda, and cannot be sure of rescueing his sister—his own betrothed—in time to avert that terrible catastrophe which he knows to be impending over her. he does not give it a name—he scarce dares let it take shape in his thoughts.

nearly half-an-hour is spent in this painful reverie. he is aroused from it by a sound which ascends out of the valley. with a start of joy he recognises the signal his comrade promised to send him. the whistle is heard in three distinct “wheeps,” rising clear above the hoarser sibillations of the cascades. from the direction he can tell it comes from the neighbourhood of the house; but, without waiting to reflect whither, he spurs his mule out, and rides down the pass as rapidly as possible.

on reaching the level below he urges the animal to a gallop, and soon arrives at the ranche.

there, as expected, he finds his companion, with the peon a captive.

the two, with their mules, form a tableau in front of the untenanted dwelling.

the ex-ranger is standing in harangue attitude, slightly bent forward, his body propped by his rifle, the butt of which rests upon the ground. at his feet is the indian, lying prostrate, his ankles lashed together with a piece of cowhide rope, his wrists similarly secured.

“i ked catched him a leetle sooner,” says walt to his comrade, coming up, “but i war kewrious to find out what he war arter, an’ waited to watch him. that’s the explication o’ it.”

he points to a large bag lying near, with its contents half poured out—a varied collection of articles of bijouterie and virtu, resembling a cornucopia; spilling its fruits. hamersley recognises them as part of the penates of his late host.

“stolen goods,” continues walt, “that’s what they air. an’ stole from a master he’s basely betrayed, may be to death. a mistress, besides, that’s been too kind to him. darnation! that’s a tortiss-shell comb as belonged to my concheeter, an’ a pair o’ slippers i ken swar wur here. what shed we do to him?”

“what i intended,” responds hamersley, assuming a curious air; “first make him confess—tell all he knows. when we’ve got his story out of him we can settle that next.”

the confession is not very difficult to extract. with wilder’s bowie-knife gleaming before his eyes, its blade within six inches of his breast, the wretch reveals all that has passed since the moment of his first meditating treason. he even makes declaration of the motive, knowing the nobility of the men who threatened him, and thinking by this means to obtain pardon.

to strengthen his chances he goes still farther, turning traitor against him to whom he had sold himself—uraga. he has overheard a conversation between the mexican colonel and his adjutant, lieutenant roblez. it was to the effect that they do not intend taking their prisoners all the way back to albuquerque. how they mean to dispose of them the peon does not know.

he had but half heard the dialogue relating to don valerian and the doctor.

the female prisoners! can he tell anything of what is intended with them? though not in these terms, the question is asked with this earnestness.

the peon is unable to answer it. he does not think they are prisoners—certainly not conchita. she is only being taken back along with her mistress. about the senorita, his mistress, he heard some words pass between uraga and roblez, but without comprehending their signification.

in his own heart hamersley can supply it—does so with dark, dire misgivings.