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CHAPTER X
AN ELOPEMENT

Once again Felipe waited patiently for the setting of the moon, in the dark corner between the mud oven and the wall where we saw him first. Thoughts keen almost as sensations chased each other through his mind as he crouched there watching. Dominant was the feeling of the eternal sense of need: "I want her and I'll have her." All this trouble, and strife, and disappointment only made him more obstinate. "I will succeed," he said to himself. "I will. If I fail now I shall be a loser all my life – always wanting, never getting. If I win I shall have what I desire all my life and be happy." This was frank egoism. Felipe's moral standpoint may be guessed from the fact that had he been told he was egoistic he would not have understood the implied reproach. To himself his position was simply natural.

But it would be wrong to suppose that generous and unselfish impulses did not run side by side with self-regarding ones. He thought of Josefa, lonely and sad in her father's house. His anger rose as he thought of the unkindness and the threats she had to endure, and of the heartless way in which she was being disposed of. He longed to save her from the present trouble and from the hateful future that threatened her. How sweet she was and how beautiful! Every fibre in his frame thrilled at the thought of becoming her protector, at the delicious idea of her seeking safety in his arms, while he acted as her shield against tyranny and wrong. And through her sweet eyes there looked out, he knew, the faithful soul of a true and loving woman. She was good. He felt as sure of that as he did of his own existence. Her kindness and dutiful spirit he knew, for he had seen her behaviour in the daily life of the village. What a shame it was that she should be so ill-treated just because she was by nature gentle and obedient! Poor girl, she would want to be comforted a great deal to make up for all the trials she was undergoing now. He would have to be very good to her in every way, and he swore to himself that he would be so; he would do his best to make her happy. Ah, if they could but once get to the padre at Ensenada and be married by him, it would be all right; and at the thought his pulse beat high.

At last the welcome hand appeared at the hole in the wall he had been watching so long, and he flew to the spot.

"Is that you, sweetheart?" he whispered as he stretched his hand along the wall to meet the little fingers. "I always tell myself you will not come, just to tease myself, for I know all the time that you will. And at last I see the signal and I know it is all right."

"You know I always do come," she returned, "you bad boy, as soon as I feel sure they are sound asleep. But now tell me what news you have."

"Bad enough," said he despondently. "I asked the American – I begged hard of him; but he would not lend me one of his beasts. I waited till he was in a good temper, after he had blasted the rock; but it was no use. I will go to-morrow to the sierra for my father's horse and I will come back for you in the night. He is thin and cannot travel fast, so you must come early before the moon sets or we shall not have time enough; but we must take our chance as we can get it. I will tie him away off on the edge of the mesa, so that there will be no horse tracks for them to follow close here. You must come afoot so far."

"Stay, Felipe," said she. "I have been thinking. Can you get a saddle – now – to-night?"

"I can get one of the American's," he said. "He has an old one he never uses. He would lend me that, I know."

"Yes, but can you go to him to-night, Felipe?"

"Oh, yes," he answered. "I would wake him – he doesn't mind what I do. But what horse are you thinking of? One of his?"

"No, no," she cried; "I have a better plan than that. We must take my father's horse. I got the key this evening after he went out. Go first and get the saddle, and then here is the key."

His fingers tightened eagerly on hers. "You darling!" he whispered. "How clever you are! Ten times cleverer than I. Why didn't I ever think of that before? Wait. I'll be back in a moment." He gave her hand one more rapturous pressure, and loosing it, darted off like the wind to Stephens's house.

Stephens was a sound sleeper, but in the middle of the night he was waked by a sudden angry growl from Faro. He opened his eyes, but it was pitch-dark. A low knock was heard at the door. "Who is it?" he cried, first in English, then in Spanish.

A voice answered, likewise in Spanish. "Oh, Don Estevan, it's me, Felipe."

"Felipe!" he exclaimed. "Why, what the mischief are you up to now? But come in, the door isn't locked."

He heard the latch pulled, and seized the collar of Faro, who was snarling savagely. The door opened and the cool night air blew freshly in. A figure was dimly seen in the starlight. Felipe approached the bed. "Oh, Don Estevan!" he began at once, "do be kind to me; lend me your saddle – the old saddle, not the good one. You know the old one hanging on the wall in there."

"Why, what's up, Felipe?" said Stephens, surprised at being roused by this request in the middle of the night. "What do you want with it? What makes you come bothering me now?"

"Oh, please don't be angry, but lend it me," pleaded the boy. "I will bring it you back, and I know you don't want it; you never use it."

"What mischief are you after?" said Stephens. "You want to go off sweethearting somewhere – that's what it is, you young rascal. That's what you wanted my mare for to-day. I know what you are up to."

"Oh, Don Estevan," begged the boy, – "the saddle, please. If you won't lend it to me, sell it to me. I have money, – five dollars."

"Hold on till I strike a light, and shut the door, will you?" said Stephens. "Lie down, Faro, and be quiet." The prospector got out of bed, struck a match, and lit a candle. "You're a pretty sort of fellow, to come roaming around this time of night!" he went on as, candle in hand, he stepped cautiously across the floor in his bare feet to the door of the inner room, which he unlocked. "Sensible people are in bed and asleep at this time of night," he grumbled. "Come in here and get your saddle."

Felipe followed him instantly to the storeroom where he kept his powder-keg, mining-tools, pack-saddles, and provisions.

"There it is," said Stephens, pointing to an old saddle hanging by one stirrup from a peg in the wall. "Get it down. And the bridle; yes, that's it" – and the pair emerged again into the outer room.

Stephens locked the door again, and turning round encountered Felipe's hand with a five-dollar bill in it. "Here it is, Don Estevan; five dollars," said the young Indian.

"Tut, tut, I don't want your money," said the American cheerfully. "Keep it or give to your sweetheart to keep for you. She'll do that fast enough" – and he chuckled at his own wit. "Now don't you smash that saddle," he continued; "and mind you bring it back when you've done with it."

"Oh, thank you, Don Estevan, a thousand times!" cried the young Indian. "God will reward you for it."

"Likely story," growled his employer, "when I guess it's the devil's business you're riding on. There, that'll do; be off with you," he added; and he escorted Felipe, still protesting his gratitude, to the door.

As the boy stepped outside, Stephens asked through the half-shut door, "Who's going to look after my stock to-morrow?"

"Oh, Don Estevan, my brother, my little brother Tomas. He will see to them. I have told him."

"Much good he'll be!" retorted the Californian. "Whom did I hire, him or you?"

"Why, me, Don Estevan, but my little brother will – "

"Yes, your little brother will play the mischief," said Stephens, cutting him short. "I know you. There, get along with you. I'm tired of you," – and the sarcastic prospector turned growling to his blankets again. "Who is she? for there's some woman at the bottom of it, as sure as fate," said he to himself as he turned over on his bed before going to sleep. "One of the young squaws I suppose. Felipe used to be a pretty good sort of a boy, but durn my skin if I don't believe he's going to turn out just as ornery as the rest of 'em. Who is she, I wonder, anyway?" He was just dropping off to sleep when the thought struck him, "Maybe he's gone to the corral to get the mare!" He half rose at the idea, but lay down again, soliloquising slowly, "No, he never would have come here to borrow the saddle if that had been his game; he dursn't. I'd break every bone in his confounded young carcass if he dared do such a thing"; and comforting himself with this hypothetical revenge, he finally dropped asleep.

With the saddle safely tucked into the fold of his blanket, Felipe flew round the corner and down the street to the back of the cacique's house. When he came to the place he stooped down and picking up a tiny pebble he tossed it through the hole. Josefa was waiting inside and answered his signal instantly.

"Have you got the saddle?" she whispered.

"Yes, yes, all right," answered her lover.

"Here is the key," said she rapidly; "take this and go to my father's stable and get out the horse and take him away outside the pueblo and tie him, and then come back for me. I mustn't risk being caught getting out unless we are quite sure to succeed; it would prevent our ever having another chance."

"Good!" said Felipe shortly; and without a moment's delay he started off.

"Stop, Felipe, stop an instant," she whispered. "Don't tie him near the corrals; he'll neigh to Don Estevan's animals."

"As if I didn't know that!" returned the boy almost indignantly, and he turned again and darted away. It was all plain sailing now. How clever of Josefa! How thoughtful she was!

He reached the cacique's stable, looked stealthily round to be sure he was not watched, and then turned the key in the lock and entered. The horse, a noble and intelligent creature, was standing there quietly. In a minute Felipe put the saddle on him and brought him out, locking the door again behind him. He led him straight away from the pueblo, up along the acequia; a few dogs began to bark at the unwonted sound of hoofs in the night. He tied him to a tree in a peach orchard, and gave him a handful of corn fodder which he had brought from the stable to keep him quiet. Then he flew back to the village.

"All right, Josefa, come! I have him tied ready," he whispered.

The little hand met his once again through the hole in the wall, and he pressed it. It trembled in his clasp. "You will always be good to me, always?" she said. "I shall have nobody but you now."

"Yes, I swear it, my heart's joy, I swear it!" he cried earnestly. "But come, come quick!" The clasped hands unlocked, and the Indian boy sank down once more to wait; this was to be the end of his waiting.

It was not for long. Three minutes later, a head peeped over the edge of the terrace above him, and in a moment more Josefa dropped into her lover's arms. One long kiss, one long, rapturous embrace, was all they dared delay for; and then without a word, hand in hand and side by side, they fled with stealthy steps up the street.

Perhaps it was the fact of a woman's being abroad at that hour of the night that excited the suspicions of the dogs; but whatever it was, the whole hundred-and-odd of them belonging to the pueblo seemed to begin to bark just then. The clamour brought one or two Indians to their doors, but they saw nothing; the lovers had already disappeared.

Up along the acequia they ran. They reached the peach orchard. The horse was there all right. Felipe bridled him in a moment and then sprang across the acequia with the lariat in his hand. He pulled at the rope, but the horse refused to follow. "Hit him, Josefa," said he to the girl, "hit him." She shook the fold of her blanket at the animal, and with a snort he sprang across after Felipe. She bounded over lightly and stood beside him.

He lifted her to the saddle and vaulted on to the croup behind her. He slipped his arms round her waist, both to hold her securely and to grasp the reins, and striking the horse's sides with his feet, he urged him forward. The noble creature made nothing of his double burden, and bounded forward.

"It's no use trying to dodge," said he as he guided the animal straight towards the trail that led to the Rio Grande. "They'll track us anywhere to-morrow; but they can't see to trail before daylight, and by that time we must be at Ensenada."

"Hark to those dogs," said she, as the chorus of barkings from the village rose and fell upon the night wind.

"Never mind; we're off now," said he, holding her closer to him. "The dogs are always barking anyhow. They'll think it's only some Mexican going down the valley. Why, if they did wake up and miss us now, they must wait till morning to know which way we've gone, so don't you be frightened, sweetheart."

They struck into the trail at last – a well-marked bridle-path, which led across the mesas. There was no fear of their missing it, dark as it was after the moon had set, for both the horse and his rider knew the trail well enough. On they pushed, on, on, the keen night wind from the east blowing freshly in their faces, and causing them to fold their blankets more closely to them. The stout little Indian horse was used to carrying double, as indeed most horses in those parts are, and he travelled onward without flinching or staggering under his burden, cantering where the ground was not too rough, and picking his way with wonderful sure-footedness up and down the steep sides of the ravines, which here and there intersected the broad table-lands.

Felipe had to tell Josefa of his vain attempts to borrow the mare of the American, and he gave her a laughing description of the way in which he had roused him at midnight to borrow the saddle. "I'm glad, though, he didn't take the five dollars from me," said the boy. "Perhaps I should not have had money enough left for the padre if he had."

"But you have enough?" inquired Josefa eagerly. "How much have you?"

"Oh, I have fifteen dollars," replied he. "I have saved my wages, every cent, since Don Estevan came here last autumn, and my father let me keep half. Fifteen dollars is more than enough. It is only the rich people who pay twenty and twenty-five dollars. Why, lots of poor people pay only ten. I am sure we are poor enough."

"I am afraid we are indeed," sighed she sadly.

"Never mind," said he cheerfully, trying to keep up her spirits, which were failing somewhat at the strangeness of this lonely ride over lands unknown to her, under the immense vault of night. "Never mind that. Why, I have sown six bushels of wheat more than last year, and I am going to put in plenty of corn too. There is plenty of land, and if we have not enough the head Turquoises must give us some more. There is lots of water now in the ditch to sow a thousand bushels more than we used to."

"Yes," said Josefa thoughtfully. "I know how hard you have worked, dear Felipe, and that you will not be slack now, but are you quite sure of your father? Will he not turn us out?"

"How can he?" said the boy scornfully. "You know he is too poor to hire anyone to work for him. He cannot do without me. He is getting old and cannot put in a crop by himself, and Tomas is too young to be much good. It is I who do the work on the land. You know, Josefa, I would work ten times harder for you," and he pressed her closer to him again.

"Yes, yes, Felipe," she cried, "I know that. I am sure of that. I never could have trusted you so if I had not known you were good at home. But, Felipe dear, if they are cross to me at your house I shall hate it."

"They sha'n't be cross to you," he cried hotly. "I am a man now, and they must listen to me. If I support them they must do what I say – at least sometimes," he added, correcting himself. "Besides, my mother loves me, and when she sees how I love you, and how you are all the world to me, she will love you too; I know she will."

"Ah, perhaps not, Felipe," said the girl doubtfully. "You talk like a man. Women are not always like that, you know."

"But she will; she must," said Felipe decidedly. He had a comfortable masculine conviction that women's feelings were something that could always be put down or got round. He felt that he was acting a man's part now, and that it was time for him to assert himself. How could he feel otherwise with his arms round his sweetheart's waist, with the free sky above them and the broad mesas around, fifteen dollars in his pocket to pay the padre, and a good horse (he did not stop to think whose) to carry them to Ensenada! For the first time in his life he felt himself a man and free. They had left behind them the village with its narrow, cramping laws and customs, its parental tyrannies, and its hateful distinction of rich and poor. To Felipe, Ignacio with thirty cows was an odious monopolist. How delightful it was to have hoodwinked the watchful guardian of Josefa and baffled his miserly rival!

While the fugitives thus sped onward through the night, peace once more reigned supreme over the pueblo. The barking of the dogs at their departure had soon ceased, and no one took the trouble to inquire seriously into the source of their wrath. They might have been barking at a hungry coyote, come to explore the heaps of household refuse deposited day by day outside the village by the tidy squaws, or at some belated Mexican passing up or down the valley, or even at some stray donkey escaped from his owner's corral. At any rate, no one cared enough to prosecute his inquiries, and no movement was perceptible in the village till the first grey dawn.

Dawn caught the lovers descending the long hill that leads from the mesas down to the wide flats of the Rio Grande valley. The light was too dim as yet to do more than show vaguely the broad line of the wooded banks of the river, still some distance ahead of them. The sun rose as they were pushing across the sandy flats and passing through the poverty-stricken hovels of the Mexican village of La Boca, past a surprised-looking, unkempt peon, who blinked drowsily at the couple from his doorway. On they pressed and still onward, making for the point where the road forded the river.

But what roar was this that met their ears as they neared the grove of cottonwood trees through which the road to the ford ran, – a dull strong roar as of the rushing of many waters? Felipe recognised it, and on the instant his heart felt like lead in his breast.

"Valgame Dios, Josefa!" said he, "I believe the river is up. Oh! what luck! what luck!"

CHAPTER XI
MY DUCATS AND MY DAUGHTER

The grey dawn that awoke the household of the cacique did so to some purpose. "Josefa," called the step-mother as she arose, "Josefa" – but no answer came. "Why, where can she be?" exclaimed the Indian woman, looking round and calling her other daughters. Salvador himself rushed into the inner room to look for her. In a moment he sprang out again.

"She has gone!" he shouted. "She has got through the trap-door and escaped. Oh, the wretch!"

"Where can she be?" wondered his wife helplessly.

"Where can she be?" he echoed scornfully. "Why, with that pauper scoundrel of a Felipe. I know her. Oh, I'll make her pay for this!"

He seized his revolver and slipped his belt through the loop of its case, and grasping a horsewhip he darted from the house. The rest of the family followed him somewhat timidly, anxious to see what was going to happen, wishing, perhaps, that he would punish her a little for not being so good and steady as they were, hoping, too, to intervene and save her from the extremity of his passion, for they knew how pitiless he was when roused.

The cacique flew straight to Atanacio's dwelling, and thrusting the door open burst rudely into the apartment.

"Where is Felipe? Where is my daughter?" shouted he in tones of fury.

"I don't know. I don't know anything about it," said the old man humbly. "Isn't your daughter at home? Perhaps she is over at Sahwaquiu's." Sahwaquiu was Josefa's uncle, her own mother's brother, and Josefa was a pet of his.

"Where's Felipe, I ask you? Answer me, you old reprobate!" roared the angry cacique.

"I don't know," said the old man again, in the humblest tones. "I have not seen him. He was here last night when we lay down, but he got up and went out. I don't know where he is."

"He's run off with my daughter, that's where he is," shouted the indignant parent; "and I believe you know about it too," he added, threatening the old man with his whip. "You had better say what you know, or I'll make you."

He was a thick-set, muscular man, and looked well able to carry out his threat, as he stood over old Atanacio, who remained passive, seated on a sheep skin near the hearth, neither attempting to defend himself nor to escape. The cacique's black eyes flashed fury, and his coarse features worked with passion, as with taunts and threats he cowed the helpless being before him.

But meanwhile the news of the elopement had spread, and the Indians were buzzing about their village like a swarm of bees round the hive. Up dashed one of the younger men with news. "Cacique, Cacique," he cried, "the stable! Your horse has gone, but the stable is locked. His tracks go all up by the acequia"; and he pointed to where two Indians, with their heads bent low almost to the ground, were busily questing from side to side like sleuth-hounds on a scent.

"Oh, the villain!" roared Salvador. "He's got my horse. He shall be hanged." And he ran first of all to the stable to satisfy himself by seeing with his own eyes what had happened.

It was true. The stable was locked, but the steed was stolen, as could be seen by lying down and peeping under the door. The cacique got up with his white shirt and buckskins all dusty from the ground, and turning to the crowd called out:

"Here, get me a horse, some of you – Tito, Miguel, Alejandro. Go get me the mare of the Americano, and mount yourselves, too." And he himself started out towards the acequia to look at the tracks. Several Indians ran towards the corrals.

"The saddle," said one; "we want a saddle; go get yours, Alejandro. You live nearest."

"Hadn't we better tell the Americano," said Tito, "before we take his mare? Maybe he won't like to lend her."

"But he must lend her," retorted Miguel impatiently. "The cacique wants her. Isn't that enough?"

By this time they had arrived at the bars of the corral where the prospector kept his stock, and they stopped to wait for Alejandro to bring the saddle. Tito took advantage of the delay to act on his own motion, and darting over to the door of Stephens's dwelling began to knock vigorously.

"Hullo! who's there?" called out Stephens in response to the knocking. He was still between the blankets, and had not yet turned out.

"The cacique wants your mare," cried Tito through the keyhole.

"Wants my what?" exclaimed Stephens, who failed to catch his words exactly. "Open the door, can't you, and let me hear what you've got to say," he added, sitting up in bed.

Tito held the door ajar and put half his face into the aperture. He had a wholesome respect for Faro and did not care to adventure farther.

"The cacique wants to take your mare to ride, to go after his daughter," he explained.

"Well, he can't have her, that's all about it," said Stephens, getting out of bed and beginning to put on his moccasins. He had adopted the Indian foot-covering as more comfortable as well as more economical than boots. "Just tell him," he continued, "that I'm not lending horses just now. When I am I'll let him know. But why can't he take his own?"

"He hasn't got it. It's gone," said Tito, at the same time signalling with the half of him outside the doorway to Miguel not to take the mare. "It's gone. Felipe's run away with the cacique's horse and his daughter."

"The dickens he has!" said Stephens. "When did he do that?" As he spoke he recollected Felipe's midnight visit to him for the purpose of borrowing the saddle, and a light dawned on him. But under the circumstances it seemed better to say nothing about the matter.

He put on his hat and came to the door. Tito volubly expounded all he knew of the story. Presently Salvador himself came bustling up from the acequia, whip in hand and revolver on hip.

"Looks considerable on the war-path," said the prospector to himself. "Wonder what he means to do about it."

"Here," said the cacique in a loud voice to the Indians round, "where's the horse? why isn't it saddled?"

Stephens stood leaning carelessly against the doorpost, but took no notice of his speech. There was silence for a moment, and then Tito said in a apologetic tone, "Don Estevan says he doesn't want to lend her."

"Oh, nonsense!" said the cacique; and then turning to the American and mastering his passion as well as he could, he said, "Lend me your mare, Don Estevan."

"I can't do it, Salvador," said the prospector deliberately. "I want to go to the sierra to-day."

"Oh, the sierra!" said the cacique impatiently. "That will do to-morrow. My daughter is gone and my horse is gone and there's nothing else to go after them on. You must lend yours for once."

"Not to be ridden to death after them," said Stephens. "Why, they're leagues away by this time. You'll have to ride like the very mischief to catch them." There was an accent of contempt in his voice which infuriated the Indian. Stephens valued the mare, which he had brought with him from Denver, above all earthly things, and the idea of letting an Indian ride her near to death in a long, stern chase seemed to him the blankest absurdity. "Why, I wouldn't do it for my own brother!" he went on. "You can't have her, Cacique, and that's flat."

"But I must," said the Indian, enraged at an opposition he had not expected. "I must and I will. What's a horse for but to ride?" He turned to the crowd of Indians behind him, and called out, "Saddle her up, will you, quick!"

Two or three began instantly to run towards the corral, and the rest were starting to follow when the loud, clear voice of the prospector arrested their movement.

"Stop right there!" were his words. "You do no such thing. If anyone touches my stock without my leave I'll shoot him."

The Indians stopped.

"I'll drive you out of here, you Americano," said the angry cacique, laying his hand upon the butt of his revolver and advancing directly towards Stephens, who was of course quite unarmed.

"Drive away then, and be d – d to you," returned the American. "I've hired these rooms from old Reyna till the end of April, and I sha'n't budge before." And his eyes flashed back defiance.

Salvador kept advancing in a threatening manner, and the younger Indian men, of whom there were thirty or forty on the spot, closed up behind their leader; they half felt that he was wrong, but still he was their chosen cacique.

Stephens stood his ground, and faced the mob with dauntless coolness. An odd thing struck him. He knew them all personally quite well, but now he hardly seemed to recognise them. The expression of their faces, usually so peaceful, was entirely altered. It gave him quite a turn to think that people who had crowded round him so full of fun, and so eager to show their friendship and gratitude only the day before, should change so quickly to a cruel mob. Yesterday's momentary outburst of suspicion excited by the dreaded charge of witchcraft had revealed to him the explosive forces that lay hidden under their quiet exterior, but that had been dissipated by his own prompt repudiation of the charge, and by the cacique's influence. Now it was the cacique himself who was assailing him, and there was none to help, nor hope of anyone. A hundred black, flashing eyes were fixed on him with an angry glare. He felt as if he were shut up in a den of wild beasts. He was quite alone; the new storekeeper at San Remo was the only other American within sixty miles.

"Take your hand off that pistol, Salvador," said he quietly. "You can't scare me, so don't you try it on."

The Indian stopped, but his hand plucked nervously at the hilt of the weapon. Stephens observed his opponent's indecision, and continued: "A pretty lot of fellows you are, to come crowding round me as you did yesterday, and call me your best friend, and say how you'll sing my praises to the third generation, and now this morning you're ready to cut my throat before breakfast, all about nothing! I've heard of the gratitude of Indians before now," he continued, "but this beats all."

The Indians visibly winced at this taunt, the justice of which they could not but acknowledge, and began to interchange rapid words in their own language, thereby making themselves unintelligible to Stephens.

Just at this moment came a most welcome diversion. Round the corner dashed Miguel full charge on a fiery steed. The Indians scattered right and left before him. With a jerk on the terrible Spanish bit he set the horse on his haunches, and as he sprang to the ground he cried, "Here, Cacique! Here's the horse of the new storekeeper at San Remo. I've got him for you."

Salvador never spoke, but seizing the rein offered him by Miguel he sprang to the saddle, turned his back on Stephens and the crowd, and dashed wildly forwards to the trail.

All eyes were bent on his rapid course. The trackers on foot had already traced the hoof-marks from the acequia across to the Ensenada trail, and were running half a mile off like hounds in full cry. In less than two minutes the galloping horseman overtook them, and cantered alongside to hear what they had to tell. They reported that the tracks were several hours old and that the horse carried double.

"I could have told you that," said Salvador, as he plied the whip freshly, and galloping ahead disappeared in the direction of the mesas from the sight of those who were watching him.

"Wonder what he'll do if he catches Felipe!" said Stephens to himself as he saw him vanish over the hills. "That young man'll have to look out for himself, as sure as he's a foot high. Rather lucky for me," he ruminated, turning to go in, "that chap Miguel's coming up with Backus's horse! I wonder, by the way, how he came to get him. I don't know what I should have done if Mr. Salvador had gone for me with that six-shooter, and he was just about mad enough to try it on. Blamed if it wasn't the suddenest scare I ever did get let in for! Why, hallo, Faro, old man," said he aloud, on finding the dog at his heels, "what's up with you? I don't often see you out of the blankets before breakfast. Blamed if I don't believe you heard me a-talkin' to them fellers and just come out to take a hand!" He was right. The dog's quick ear had caught the note of danger in his master's voice, and he had flown to his assistance.