“You heard what he said?”

“Sure; he was tellin’ yer ’bout old Mendez being a Mexican revolutionary leader down in Mex, wa’n’t he?  Hell of a leader he is!  I reckon he’s been mixed up in scrapes enough down thar, but they had mighty little to do with revolutin’.  He’s just plain bad man, miss—­cattle thief, an’ all round outlaw.  There’s a price on his head in three States, but nobody dares go after it, because of the dangerous gang he controls.”

Her eyes sought the distant figure doubtfully.

“And this man—­this Juan Cateras—­what of him?”

“One of the devil’s own imps; I’d a heap rather play with a rattlesnake than him.”  He paused, to assure him self that Sikes was safely out of hearing.  “I thought maybe I better tell yer while I had a chance.  That fellar is plumb pisen, miss.”

She reached out her hand, and touched him.

“Thank you,” she said gratefully, “I—­I am glad you did.  Am—­am I to be left here with these—­these men?”

“No, not exactly.  I suppose they’ll naturally sorter expect to run things while they’re here, fer this yere valley is their camp, Mendez has been hidin’ out yere fer some time.  But Joe and I are goin’ to stay, and even old Mendez ain’t liable to make no enemy outer Bill Lacy.  They had a row wunst, an’ I reckon they don’t neither of ’em want another.  I ain’t greatly afeerd o’ Mendez, but I wouldn’t put nuthin’ past this Cateras lad, if he got some hell idea in his head.  He’s Injun-Mex, an’ that’s the worst kind.”

The wagon lurched down a steep bank, splashed its way across the narrow stream, and up the other side, the horses straining in their harness to the sharp snap of the driver’s whip.  A towering precipice of rock confronted them, and at its very foot stood two cabins of log construction, so closely resembling their stone background as to be almost imperceptible, at the distance of a few yards.  Sikes leaned on his rifle waiting, and as Moore halted the panting team, and leaped over the wheel to the ground, Cateras came forth from one of the open doors and crossed the intervening space on foot.  He was smoking a cigarette, the blue wreath of smoke circling above his head in the still air.

“The lady is to be placed in my care,” he said almost insolently.  “Your hand, senorita.”

Miss Donovan hesitated, the memory of Moore’s words of warning yet ringing in her ears.  The handsome face, with its smiling lips and eyes, suddenly appeared to her a mask assumed to conceal the unclean soul behind.  Moore broke the silence with a protest.

“In your care, senor?  The girl is here as prisoner to Bill Lacy.”

“So I told Mendez,” he said indifferently.  “But he is in ill humour this morning, and took small interest in the affair.  It was only when I promised to take full charge that he consented to your remaining at all.  ’Tis my advice that you let well enough alone.  You know who rules here.”