"No, no, señorita," 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.
"I 'm damned if it ain't that Mexican agin," he exclaimed, angrily.
"Now, you get out o' yere; you hear me? I 'm blamed if I kin shoot at
no female, but you got in one measly spyin' job on this outfit, an' I
'll not put up with another if I have ter pitch ye out inter the
canyon. So you git plum out o' yere, an' tell yer friend Farnham he
better take more care o' his females, or some of 'em are liable ter get
hurt."
There was the harsh crunch of a footstep in the darkness, another
figure suddenly slid down the smooth surface of rock, dropping almost
at the pony's head. The animal shied with a quick leap, but a heavy
hand held him captive.
"Y-you sh-sh-shut up, B-Bill," and the huge form of Stutter Brown
loomed up directly between them, and that menacing rifle. "I-I reckon
as how I'll t-t-take a h-hand in this yere g-g-game. Sh-she ain't no
s-spy fer Farnham, er I 'm a l-l-liar." He touched her softly with his
great hand, bending down to look into her face, half hidden beneath the
ruffled black hair. "C-come, little g-g-girl, what's up?"
She made no response, her lips faltering as though suddenly stricken
dumb. Beth Norvell dropped down from the pony's back, and stood with
one hand resting on Mercedes' shoulder.