of Virginia—­held almost despotic powers among the troopers who spent that enlistment in the isolation of Arizona.  Rare were the cases when they abused their privilege.  Stern was their rule, rude their speech, but by officers and men alike they were trusted and respected.  As for Feeny, there were not lacking those who declared him spoiled.  Twice that day had the paymaster been on the point of rebuking his apparent indifference.  Twice had he withheld his censure, knowing, after all, Feeny to be in the right and himself in the wrong.  And now in the gathering shades of night, as he stood in silence watching the brisk process of grooming, and noted how thorough and business-like, even though sharp and stern, was Feeny, the paymaster was wishing he had not ventured to disregard the caution of so skilled a veteran.

And yet the paymaster, having a human heart in his breast, had been sorely tried, for the appeal that came for help was one he could not well resist.  Passing Ceralvo’s at midnight and pushing relentlessly ahead instead of halting there as the men had hoped, the party was challenged in the Mexican tongue.

“Que viene?”

To which unlooked-for and uncalled-for demand the leading trooper, scorning Greaser interference in American territory, promptly answered,—­

“Go to hell!”

All the same he heard the click of lock and was prompt to draw his own Colt, as did likewise the little squad riding ahead of the creaking ambulance.  The two leaders of the mules whirled instantly about and became tangled up with the wheel team, and the paymaster was pitched out of a dream into a doubled-up mass on the opposite seat.  To his startled questions the driver could only make reply that he didn’t know what was the matter; the sergeant had gone ahead to see.  Presently Feeny shouted “Forward!” and on they went again, and not until Ceralvo’s was a mile behind could the major learn the cause of the detention.  “Some of Ceralvo’s people,” answered Feeny, “damn their impudence!  They thought to stop us and turn us in there by stories of Indian raids just below us,—­three prospectors murdered twenty-four miles this side of the Sonora line.  Cochises’s people never came this far west of the Chiricahua Range.  It’s white cut-throats maybe, and we’ll need our whole command.”

And yet in the glaring sunshine of that May morning, after they had unsaddled at Moreno’s, after the sergeant, wearied with the vigils of two successive nights, had gone to sleep in the coolest shade he could find, there came riding across the sun-baked, cactus-dotted plain at the west a young man who had the features of the American and the grave, courteous bearing of the Mexican.

“My name is Harvey,” said he.  “My sisters, who have been in San Francisco at school, are with me on the way to visit our parents in Tucson.  Father was to have met us at the Bend with relays of mules.  We have waited forty-eight hours and can wait no longer.  For God’s sake let half a dozen of your men ride out and escort them down here.  There is no doubt in the world the Apaches are in the mountains on both sides, and I’m trembling for fear they’ve already found our camp.  None of my party dared make the ride, so I had to come.”