“H-he sure was.  He m-m-m-meant business all r-right, an’ hed f-f-forty rounds b-b-buckled on him.  H-here goes, Mike,” and Brown grasped the warped handle of the windlass and began to grind slowly, coiling the heavy rope, layer upon layer, around the straining drum.  He brought the huge ore-bucket to the surface, dumped its load of rock over the edge of the shaft-hole, and had permitted it to run down swiftly to the waiting Mike, when a slight noise behind sent the man whirling suddenly about, his hand instinctively reaching forth toward the discarded but ready rifle.  A moment he stared, incredulous, at the strange vision fronting him, his face quickly reddening from embarrassment, his eyes irresolute and puzzled.  Scarcely ten feet away, a woman, rather brightly attired and apparently very much at her ease, sat upon a rather diminutive pony, her red lips curved in lines of laughter, evidently no little amused at thus startling him.  Brown realized that she was young and pretty, with jet black, curling hair, and eyes of the same color, her skin peculiarly white and clear, while she rode man fashion, her lower limbs daintily encased within leggings of buckskin.  She had carelessly dropped her reins upon the high pommel of the saddle, and as their glances fairly met, she laughed outright.

“You mooch frighten, senor, and you so ver’ big.  It make me joy.”  Her broken English was oddly attractive.  “Poof! los Americanos not all find me so ver’ ter’ble.”

Stutter Brown ground his white teeth together savagely, his short red moustache bristling.  He was quite young, never greatly accustomed to companionship with the gentler sex, and of a disposition strongly opposed to being laughed at.  Besides, he felt seriously his grave deficiencies of speech.

“I-I-I was s-sorter expectin’ a-a-another kind of c-c-caller,” he stuttered desperately, in explanation, every freckle standing out in prominence, “an’ th-th-thought m-m-maybe somebody ’d g-g-got the d-drop on me.”

The girl only laughed again, her black eyes sparkling.  Yet beneath his steady, questioning gaze her face slightly sobered, a faint flush becoming apparent in either cheek.

“You talk so ver’ funny, senor; you so big like de tree, an’ say vords dat vay; it make me forget an’ laf.  You moost not care just for me.  Pah! but it vas fight all de time vid you, was n’t it, senor?  Biff, bang, kill; ver’ bad,” and she clapped her gauntleted hands together sharply.  “But not me; I vas only girl; no gun, no knife—­see.  I just like know more ’bout mine—­Americano’s mine; you show me how it vork. Sabe?”

Stutter appeared puzzled, doubtful.

“Mexicana?” he questioned, kicking a piece of rock with his heavy boot.

“Si, senor, but I speak de English ver’ good.  I Mercedes Morales, an’ I like ver’ much de brav’ Americanos.  I like de red hair, too, senor—­in Mexico it all de same color like dis,” and she shook out her own curling ebon locks in sudden shower.  “I tink de red hair vas more beautiful.”