An obscuring mist hung over the canyon, stretching from wall to wall.  Beneath the revealing starlight it was like looking down upon a restless, silent expanse of gray sea.  A stray breath of air came sucking up the gorge, causing the many spectral trees outlined against the lighter sky to wave their branches, the leaves rustling as though swept by rain.  There was a faint moaning among the distant rocks as if hidden caverns were filled with elves at play.  It was weird, lonely, desolate,—­straining eyes beholding everywhere the same scene of deserted wilderness.

Old Hicks lay flat under protection of the ore-dump, his ear pressed close to the earth, his contracted eyes searching anxiously those dark hollows in front, a Winchester, cocked and ready, within the grasp of his hand.  Above, Irish Mike, sniffing the air as though he could smell danger like a pointer dog, hung far out across the parapet of rock, every eager nerve tingling in the hope of coming battle.  Winston remained in the cabin door, behind him the open room black and silent, his loaded Winchester between his feet, gamely struggling to overcome a vague foreboding of impending trouble, yet alert and ready to bear his part.  It was then that Stutter Brown led the saddled pony forward from out the concealment of bushes.  The long awaited moment had come for action.  To his whispered word, Mercedes fluttered promptly forth through the shadowed doorway, and pressed her face lovingly against the pony’s quickly uplifted nose.

“See,” she whispered, patting Brown’s brawny arm even while she continued toying playfully with the silken mane, “he know me, he lofe me.  He bettah as any man, for he nevah tell lie,—­nevah,—­only be nice all de time.  He ride me till he drop dead, swift, quick, like de bird fly.  So I make eet all right, senor.  You see ven de daylight come I be San Juan.  Den I make mooch fun for de Senor Farnham—­sure I do.”

“I-I reckon you ’ll m-make it all right, l-l-little girl,” answered the man regretfully, his voice hushed to a low growl, “b-but jest the same I a-ain’t so darn g-g-glad ter l-let yer go.  H-hanged ef I would, either, if I d-did n’t th-think the toughest part o’ it wus g-goin’ ter be right yere.”

She glanced almost shyly up into his shadowed face, her black eyes like stars.

“Si—­dat vas eet.  I vas de coward; I just runs avay so ’fraid of de fight.  I no like de fight von leetle bit.  But I know you, senor; you vant to stay here, an’ have de fun.  You Americano an’ like dat ver’ mooch.  I feel of de big arm, so, an’ I know eet ees bettah dat you be here.  I mooch like please you, senor.”

He clasped her hand where it rested small and white against his sleeve, hiding it completely within his own great fist; when he spoke she could mark the tremble in the deep voice.

“Y-you ’re a m-mighty fine girl,” he managed to say, simply, “but we g-got ter go now.  I-I reckon yer b-b-better walk fer a ways, as the p-pony will step lighter.”