is soon lost to his
comrade's sight as he turns off along the ledge of the cliff.

Hamersley, himself inclined to caution, follows the direction last
given, and rides back behind one of the boulders. Keeping in the
saddle, he sits in silent meditation. Sad thoughts alone occupy his
mind. His prospects are gloomy indeed; his forecast of the future dark
and doubtful. He has but little hope of being able to benefit Don
Valerian Miranda, and cannot be sure of rescueing his sister--his own
betrothed--in time to avert that terrible catastrophe which he knows to
be impending over her. He does not give it a name--he scarce dares let
it take shape in his thoughts.

Nearly half-an-hour is spent in this painful reverie. He is aroused
from it by a sound which ascends out of the valley. With a start of joy
he recognises the signal his comrade promised to send him. The whistle
is heard in three distinct "wheeps," rising clear above the hoarser
sibillations of the cascades. From the direction he can tell it comes
from the neighbourhood of the house; but, without waiting to reflect
whither, he spurs his mule out, and rides down the pass as rapidly as
possible.

On reaching the level below he urges the animal to a gallop, and soon
arrives at the ranche.

There, as expected, he finds his companion, with the peon a captive.

The two, with their mules, form a tableau in front of the untenanted
dwelling.

The ex-Ranger is standing in harangue attitude, slightly bent forward,
his body propped by his rifle, the butt of which rests upon the ground.
At his feet is the Indian, lying prostrate, his ankles lashed together
with a piece of cowhide rope, his wrists similarly secured.

"I ked catched him a leetle sooner," says Walt to his comrade, coming
up, "but I war kewrious to find out what he war arter, an' waited to
watch him. That's the explication o' it."

He points to a large bag lying near, with its contents half poured out--
a varied collection of articles of bijouterie and virtu, resembling a
cornucopia; spilling its fruits. Hamersley recognises them as part of
the _penates_ of his late host.

"Stolen goods," continues Walt, "that's what they air. An' stole from a
master he's basely betrayed, may be to death. A mistress, besides,
that's been too kind to him. Darnation! that's a tortiss-shell comb as
belonged to my Concheeter, an' a pair o' slippers I ken swar wur here.
What shed we do to him?"

"What I intended,