A Mexican opened it, and saw Nappy Boney, with extended hand and bottle.

“It is the eau-de-vie of la belle France,” he whispered.  “Tenderly I have cherished, but it is at the lady’s service.”

Chagres Charley, Lynn Taps and Bracelets were composing their nerves with pipes about the fire they had surrounded early in the morning.  Lynn Taps had just declared his disbelief of a soul inside of the Mexican frame, when the door was thrown open and an excited Mexican appeared.

“Her tongue come back!” he cried.  “She say she come over mountain—­she bring little boy—­she no eat, it was long time.  Soon she must die, boy must die.  What she do?  She put round boy her cloak, an’ leave him by rock, an’ hurry to tell.  Maybe coyote get him.  What can do?”

“What can we do?” echoed Lynn Taps; “turn out every galoot in camp, and foller her tracks till we find it.  Souls or no souls, don’t make no diff’rence.  I’ll tramp my legs off, ’fore that child shall be left out in the snow in them mountains.”

Within five minutes every man in camp had been aroused.

Each man swore frightfully at being prematurely turned out—­each man hated the Greasers with all his heart and soul and strength; but each man, as he learned what was the matter, made all possible haste, and fluently cursed all who were slower than himself.

In fact, two or three irrepressible spirits, consuming with delay, started alone on independent lines of search.

Chagres Charley appeared promptly, and assumed command.

“Boys,” said he, “we’ll sprinkle out into a line a couple of miles long, and march up the mountain till we reach the snow.  When I think it’s time, I’ll fire three times, an’ then each feller’ll face an’ tramp to the right, keepin’ a keerful lookout for a woman’s tracks p’intin’ t’ward camp.  Ther can’t be no mistakin’ ’em, for them sennyritas hez the littlest kind o’ feet.  When any feller finds her tracks, he’ll fire, an’ then we’ll rally on him.  I wish them other fellers, instid of goin’ off half-cocked, hed tracked Codago, the low-lived skunk.  To think of him runnin’ away from wife, an’ young one, too!  Forward, git!”

“They hain’t got no souls—­that’s what made him do it, Charley,” said Lynn Taps, as the men deployed.

Steadily the miners ascended the rugged slope; rocks, trees, fallen trunks and treacherous holes impeded their progress, but did not stop them.

A steady wind cut them to the bone, and grew more keen and fierce as they neared the snow.

Suddenly Chagres Charley fired, and the boys faced to the right—­a moment later another shot rallied the party; those nearest it found Nappy Boney in a high state of excitement, and leaning over a foot-print.

“Mon Dieu!” he cried; “they have not the esprit, those Mexicans; but her footprints might have been made by the adorable feet of one of my countrywomen, it is so small.”