But, even with Mercedes’ undoubted interest in Brown, and her increasing dislike of Farnham, Beth could not as yet entirely trust her unaccompanied.  Besides, there was no excuse to offer for such sudden withdrawal, no reason she durst even whisper into the ear of another.  No, there was nothing left her but to go on; let him think what he might of her action, she would not fail to do her best to serve him, and beneath the safe cover of darkness she blushed scarlet, her long lashes moist with tears that could not be restrained.  They were at the bottom of the black canyon now, the high, uplifting rock walls on either side blotting out the stars and rendering the surrounding gloom intense.  The young Mexican girl seemed to have the eyes of a cat, or else was guided by some instinct of the wild, feeling her passage slowly yet surely forward, every nerve alert, and occasionally pausing to listen to some strange night sound.  It was a weird, uncanny journey, in which the nerves tingled to uncouth shapes and the wild echoing of mountain voices.  Once, at such a moment of continued suspense, Beth Norvell bent forward and whispered a sentence into her ear.  The girl started, impulsively pressing her lips against the white hand grasping the pony’s mane.

“No, no, senorita,” she said softly.  “Not dat; not because he lofe me; because he ask me dat.  Si, I make him not so sorry.”

She remembered that vast overhanging rock about which the dim trail circled as it swept upward toward where the “Little Yankee” perched against the sky-line.  Undaunted by the narrowness of the ledge, the willing, sure-footed mustang began climbing the steep grade.  Step by step they crept up, cautiously advancing from out the bottom of the cleft, the path followed winding in and out among bewildering cedars, and skirting unknown depths of ravines.  Mercedes was breathing heavily, her unoccupied hand grasping the trailing skirt which interfered with her climbing.  Miss Norvell, from her higher perch on the pony’s back, glanced behind apprehensively.  Far away to the east a faint, uncertain tinge of gray was shading into the sky.  Suddenly a detached stone rattled in their front; there echoed the sharp click of a rifle hammer, mingled with the sound of a gruff, unfamiliar voice: 

“You come another step, an’ I ‘ll blow hell out o’ yer. Sabe?”

It all occurred so quickly that neither spoke; they caught their breath and waited in suspense.  A shadow, dim, ill-defined, seemed to take partial form in their front.

“Well, can’t yer speak?” questioned the same voice, growlingly.  “What yer doin’ on this yere trail?”

Mercedes released the pony’s bit, and leaned eagerly forward.

“Vas dat you, Beell Heeks?” she questioned, doubtfully.

The man swore, the butt of his quickly lowered rifle striking sharply against the rock at his feet.