hikes. When I got out, Bill was down on one knee drawin' a bead down in the basin. The ol' woman had gone off in a faint, an' lav at his feet.

It was Slim. He had come back, an' the crazy loon was still headin' up the hill under Tom's fire, skirtin' along through the timber like. Finally the blame hairbrain comes right out onto an open patch of slide-rock. Tom draws a bead, an' I saw two puffs of dust jump up offen the slide rock in succession an' heard the bullets hummin' off through the air. I see, then, that Tom was a-shootin' three or four rods wide.

"Gimme that shootin'-iron," I says, "an' I'll pick that cur outen his saddle so quick it'll make his head swim."

"Leggo," says Tom, drawin' the gun back. "I ain't figgerin' on puncturin' 'im. I wanta give 'im a show to pull out." He goes to makin' the lead sing offen the slide rock again.

I was sorter disgusted by now, as I see Slim had turned tail, an' was in a fair way of makin' his get-away. It was a slim chance I was takin', but just as Tom gets a bead I stumbled against the riflebarrel. I was some surprised to hear the shot followed by a lusty whoop. He let out a couple more, too, 'fore he got under cover of the timber. We'd just winged 'im, though. A little later he come outen the timber an' took down the trail, an' he was not ridin' like what yu'd call fatal wounded. He was throwin' the leather

into his bronc twice every jump, an' looking back over his shoulders between jumps.

Slim's whoops had sorter brought the ol' woman back to herself. But when Tom lifted her up she claps her hands over her face an' begins shriekin'.

"You killed him!" she yells. "You killed him!"

"If you'd seed him makin' the bend down the creek you wouldn't think so," says Tom. "Never mind now, ol' woman. He won't bother us no more.'

She sorter got the grip on herself then, an' the color begun comin' back to her cheeks.

"Don't worry no more now," says Tom, strokin' her ol' gray head. "We'll pack up an' get outen this to-morrow."

He catches me by the sleeve, then, an' leads me on down to the foot of the dump. He pries back a couple of timbers, an' the sunlight showed me a glow of yellow where one of the sacks had busted open.

"Nineteen of 'em," I says, after counting 'em twice. "Which means you put in some purty stiff licks that night after comin' to terms with Slim."

"Stiff enough," he says. "Carried 'em all clear from the breast of the tunnel."

"But the bunch Slim packed out?" I asks. "Didn't I count twenty sacks that mornin'?"

"Counted twenty sacks, I guess," says Tom, "but nineteen of 'em was filled with this bird's-eye stuff from the dump."

N

OT IF HE were ten thousand times a Don!" shouted the mining man, slapping his thigh with terrific energy.

The outfit was moving slowly across the wide Mexican plain a typical miners' wagon train of ante-railroad date-and Johnson was in the lead, his pretty daughter on her pony at his side. Close in the rear of the two jogged Len Tucker, mining man also, but just now more than all things else chief suitor for the hand of the fair Georgia. Judging by the coquettish glances she threw him from time to time, Len had some reason for a certain air of hopefulness which irradiated his honest, wholesome countenance.

In the middle distance rode a Mexican gentleman of the period, magnificent to behold and attended by three mozos. For several days this cavalcade had hovered on the skirts of the American caravan, the Senor Don offering trifling courtesies whenever possible. Johnson strongly disapproved of these ebullitions, which he curtly dismissed under the head of "butting in;" for those were the days of much bitter feeling between Gringo and Mexican, and to the Gringo all Mexicans "looked alike." That Johnson's fair-faced girl was the magnet attracting the handsome, brown Senor was rather an aggravation than a palliation of the offense.

Just before dawn on the ensuing morning, however, the father was temporarily beguiled into a different opinion. One of the men on sentinel duty hastily aroused him with the information that a band of Indians, hostile in intent were preparing to attack the camp at break of day. Having been on the watch for this war party for some time, Johnson was not taken by surprise; what did surprise him was the additional information that the Senor Don had in person braved the danger of being shot by the American sentinels, and had

ridden into the camp with the warning, and was even now engaged in assisting the Americans to fortify their camp in the customary manner. Not pausing to waste tirne with questions, Johnson spoke a word to his daughter, already awake and alert with the watchfulness bred of the plains, and hurried to the defense. The wagons were soon in place, the animals and the few women within the square thus made-in fact, all was done with the methodical speed of men who daily carried their lives in their hands. The Senor Don was among the most active. More than once Johnson thought of asking him why his mozos were not with him, as every man would count in the expected conflict, but failed to find his opportunity. Trusting to his daughter's obedient habits in such strenuous hours, it never occurred to him to leave his duties and ascertain if she was with the other women, engaged in loading shotguns and rifles; he had appointed her to this by no means novel duty, and thought no more about her.

At length dawn began to faintly illumine the Eastern sky, and presently, defined against the opal horizon, two figures --the advance guard, it was assumedcame into view on the crest of the mesa. Indians, undoubtedly. Time went by; nothing more happened, and the figures disappeared. The men, rebelling under the suspense, threatened to become unmanageable; it was all that Johnson and the other leaders could do to hold them down, and prevent them from making a sortie. The women, bringing hot coffee and food to their defenders, made a diversion, and then for the first time the father's thoughts turned definitely to his daughter.

"Where's my lazy girl?" he cried, jovially.

The women looked at him in surprise. "Why, Georgia?" said one. "She got to worryin' over her cayuse, and nothin' we

could do would hold her down. Ain't she here ?"

No, she was not there. A frantic search of the camp was made, all anxiety concerning Indians dismissed in this new terror, but all in vain. A more careful investigation revealed a narrow opening left between two wagons, just large enough to permit the passage of a pony; on the sandy ground was imprinted the trail made by four small, unshod hoofs.

As Johnson. lifted his head, Len, who had been rushing furiously hither and thither like one demented, burst upon the scene, and with an outburst of anger scarcely human, shouted:

"He has gone! The greaser has gone!" All was now clear-only too clear. Victims of a horrible fraud, the camp of the Gringos was for awhile the scene of wild and ungovernable disorder. The bereft father was the first to recover some modicum of reason and self-control, and in a few words laid the desperate situation before his companions.

The Don was splendidly mounted; not only so, but his mozos were equally wellprovided, and without doubt relays of horses were set all along the trail to his hacienda, wherever that might be; Georgia's little cayuse would soon be abandored. The camp must not be left insufficiently protected. This was the situation.

"But," concluded the father, "but I go! Farewell, all!"

He turned and walked in the direction of his horse, the best in the outfit, Len, without a word. following close on his heels. In another moment the men were mounted, and soon nothing was left of their presence but the rapidly lessening sound of fast-beating hoofs.

It was two days before they came back, leading the little cayuse-men and horses exhausted almost unto death. Speech, at first impossible by reason of the men's sad physical plight, was soon found to be unnecessary. Georgia, beloved of the camp, and of one young man in particular, was gone, never again in all likelihood to be seen by those who loved her so well.

II.

Three months had gone by, and Georgia was still a prisoner. Decoyed from the camp by the carefully planned escape of

the pony she valued so greatly, the rest had been easy. Relays of horses, whose like on her native Texan plains she had never known, had borne her, stage after stage, to the remote hacienda of the Senor Don.

She was not seriously the worse for her experience; she was young and healthy, and the young cannot forever weep for the loss of father and lover; and above all, she was angry, indignant, and she still had hope.

Now she was alone with the sheepherder -alone in the midst of the unbounded prairie, mounted on an imported horse that in Mexico must have cost a small fortune. Fast he was, strong and sound, that she knew. She lifted her eyes to the wide horizon, a sudden light in their blue depths; then, as suddenly dropped them once more to the stooping, swishing range grass, drooping, too, in her saddle. Bah! What could she, a girl, do, all alone on the bald prairie!

Presently she looked up again-to behold the peon close at her bridle rein, watching her with small, cunning eyes. The imported horse had reasons of his own for disliking peons, and backed, snorting uneasily. His rider soothed him, and once more fell to considering the sheepherder, sullen and revengeful after a sharp rebuke from the owner of the flocks and herds.

"The senorita is unhappy-triste?" he ventured at last. "She hates the Senor Don ?"

The girl, hardy and independent as she was, shrank from the expression in the eyes of the peon. But she resisted her own weakness, and bending from her saddle, said:

"Your flocks are to graze to-morrow near the camp of the Gringo soldiers?" "So said the Senor Don," was the reply, made with lowering brow.

"It is far. The trail is long," she went on. "See-I will make it easier for you." "I wish to be revenged," muttered the peon, with bent head.

"Where do the Gringo soldiers go? And

why ?"

To the city, Senorita-to the Emperor Maximilian. So it is said."

"Look up-quick!" she cried. "Yonder he comes!" for far away, speeding like a

swallow across the plain, came the peon's master, the white girl's captor. Snatching from her bosom a small gold nugget given her by her father, the miner, she held it out, and at sight of it the dull peasant face brightened.

"I have another like this," she went on, swiftly. "This I give you now; the other when you bring to me the soldiers, my countrymen. Tell them of the white senorita kept a prisoner for months in the walled hacienda of Don Eugenio, your master, whom you hate-you hate, sabe? They will come! Tell them there will be a light in the tower window of my prison for many nights to guide them-sabe?"

The peon nodded as his fingers closed over the gold, and his small eyes caught the gleam of the nugget's yellow in a fold of the senorita's dress; then, not a moment too soon, he trudged away in the wake of his vanishing flocks.

When the Senor Don sprang from his horse in the flowery patio, and came to lift the girl from her saddle, the mingled doubt and excitement, the rush of the gallop along the trail, had filled her fair face with color and light; it was almost as if she blushed at his approach. Never had she done so before, and he looked at her curiously, a light leaping into his dark

eyes.

"Senorita!" he murmured passionately, holding her for an instant to his breast. "The priest! He waits-I wait-ah, so impatiently!"

But directly she paled and grew cold, and reluctantly he released her, stepping backward, and with large, melancholy gaze watched her as she swiftly climbed the steps of her tower.

Arrived at the summit, she dismissed the old Mexican woman who waited on her, barred the heavy outer door, and sinking on a couch heaped with priceless blankets, allowed her eyes to wander for the hundredth time around the apartment. Beautiful indeed it was-unique, too; never before had she, a plain miner's daughter, been lodged like this; never before had she been brought in contact with a man so courteous, so accomplished-rarely with one so chivalrous. And like a man of honor had he courted her whom he would make his wife.

Yet why-why-had he not gone to

her father openly in camp? True, there was Len-Len, to whom she would remain ever faithful-and also at that period, love and marriage between Gringo and Mexican was not to be considered-yet

Ah,

And then he had stolen her-stolen a free American girl! Injured, no doubt, her fair name, and she innocent! this was indeed the unpardonable sin, and the fact that he had treated her honorably since might palliate the sin, but could not win forgiveness for him. And as she sat alone in her high tower, she told herself that with her whole soul she hated the man of alien race!

On the following day no message came from the Senor Don, no gorgeously bridled horse waited in the patio Georgia's good pleasure. The next day it was the same, and as the afternoon wore on, the gates of the hacienda were closed, opening only at intervals to admit armed men by twos and threes. Then terror seized the lonely girl; the Senor Don knew all-knew that she had betrayed him.

She was alone, and at his mercy. Mexicans, she had heard again and again, were cruel. How would he punish her?

Once more she crept to the window and looked down into the patio below. The Senor Don stood there, and by some instinct divining that she watched him, he lifted his eyes to where she stood. Now she doubted no more; she knew.

Shutting the window, she began to pace the floor. She was no longer afraid of him, but she was weeping bitterly, murmuring incoherent words, almost as one who had lost her reason; for they rang at times with a note which was that of something akin to remorse.

III.

Midnight. The hacienda was still as death. The gallant fellows who had hastened to rescue the white girl from the man. of alien race were resting on their arms, gathering strength for the final assault. The funeral pyre of the rancheros who had given their lives for the Senor Don was burning itself out, and beneath the pall of smoke lay ashes and ruins only. The hacienda was destroyed, all save the tower, in the window of which still glowed the beacon light.

Upon the steps on the further side of

the iron-clamped door the Senor Don waited alone for death, she within waiting for happiness and life. He was a thiefa common thief. Aloud she said the words -then wept again as she waited for happiness, whilst outside he waited for the storm on whose terrible wings his black soul would flee to its appointed place.

She sprang to her feet, her heart hot and fierce within her, and leaning from the high tower window, cried:

"Come!"

Immediately an ominous murmur arose from below, and hearing, she shuddered, closed the window and swiftly crossing the floor, stood trembling at the locked door.

Suddenly she flung it wide. She had no reason for so doing, but she was only a woman. The man turned, and once more met her eyes. Though her gaze met his squarely, a crimson stream from a little lower down surged up and crossed it. He was grave and very pale. She was a woman; it was her instinct to heal wounds as well as to inflict, and she opened her lips as if to speak, but no words passed them. She closed the door as the feet of her countrymen fell on the lower step of the stair.

The waiting was over; they were coming; they were here. She ran to the couch, and leaping on it, flung herself face downward on the piled cushions. Her hair streamed about her like a flame, and with both hands she pressed it against her ears, but still she heard. The blood on his shirt, a little higher than his heart, was in her eyes; she closed them, but it was still there.

He must die-die. It was right that he should die, but she did not want to hear the knives in his body, for knives it was now, the smoke in the narrow stairway obscuring the aim. Oh, but knives must hurt-in tender flesh! She raised her head.

"Don't hurt him!" she cried. But in truth, her voice was but a whisper. Nevertheless she listened.

There was an abrupt silence. Then some one shouted:

"Fire! Finish the dog!"

Again a moment's silence; then a shot was fired from the rear. It was well aimed, but it was a little delayed, and yet a little too quick. As the lamplight clove

the darkness through the wide-flung door it illumined a sheet of gold covering the fallen man.

A soldier dashed into the tower room and returned bearing the. beacon light which had guided the rescuers to the prison of the white girl. He held it low and close; then straightened himself, giving vent to a deep and bitter oath.

The arms of the dying man-for he was not yet dead-were clasped about the woman, his blood flushing her white dress. with crimson. And he was smiling, for at last her cheek lay pressed to his.

"Yo te amo!" he murmured happilyand died.

Then upon the scene burst the General, seeking the truants of his troop, who, disregarding order and discipline, had obeyed the call of their own gallant hearts and the imperious leadership of that new recruit he who had brought the beacon light, and who now, unrebuked, threw his own body beside the two already stretched upon. the flagged floor.

"Who among you has done this thing?" thundered the General, scanning the grim faces of his men. And none answered him, for at their feet a strange thing was happening. One of the prone bodies stirred, and with a loud cry the recruit snatched the lifeless form of the girl from the breast of the Senor Don, and cradling it in its own arms, shouted again : "She lives!"

Back in Texas, on the Brazos river, a little family abides, united, flourishing and happy. She, the oldest woman amongst them-though still straight and strong-sits often at the door of the homestead in the summer gloaming, and her eyes, blue and bright, seem to hold strange dreams as they gaze steadily southward. When the old man comes out and lays his hand on her shoulder, she looks up in his kind face and smiles, and their grandchildren gather about their knees, begging for tales of mining days in Mexico long ago. Georgia and Len love one another, and have led a happy life together; yet there is one tale she never tells the children, and that is the story of the Senor Don.