were sounds of joyous laughter and
murmured gallantries of dark-eyed, dark-skinned caballeros, and the
growling injunctions of, presumably, paterfamilias. And presently the
ladder-like stairs were cleared, and, one after another, woman after
woman was assisted up the narrow way, and came sailing into the zone of
light from the polished reflectors, elder women first, then slender,
sparkling-eyed damsels whose white teeth gleamed as they chatted with
their escorts. Two undeniably attractive, Spanish-looking girls were
objects of most assiduous care. Then came a third, younger, a mere slip
of a maid, with but a single cavalier, a grim, grizzled, stern-looking
Mexican, who glanced sharply about as he set foot on the solid deck, and
then, without a word, Loring's hand was placed on the colonel's arm, and
the lieutenant's eyes said "Look!" for as the girl's face was turned for
an instant toward them, there stood revealed the dusky little maid of
the Gila, Blake's siren--Pancha.

CHAPTER X.

Not for many moons did that voyage of the Idaho lose first place in the
memory of the bevy of passengers who watched the lights of Guaymas
fading away astern that April night. All had been bustle and gayety
aboard during an hour of sheltered anchorage. Senor de la Cruz had
verified the captain's verdict and opened a case of Sillery and besought
all hands to drink to a joyous and prosperous voyage for his beloved
daughters, their duenna and his little niece--their cousin from
Hermosillo. "All hands" would have included the ship's company had the
captain permitted, so hospitable was the Mexican, and indeed was
intended to include every soul on the passenger list, most of them
boarding the boat at Guaymas. The Senor Coronel Turnbull was formally
presented to the Senor de la Cruz and by him to his charming family and
their many friends, but the junior officer, on the score of recent and
severe illness, had begged to be excused. Loring stood alone at the
taffrail, listening in thoughtful silence to the sound of revelry within
the brightly-lighted cabin, while the hoarse screeching of the
'scape-pipe drowned all other voices and proclaimed the impatient haste
of the skipper to be off. Straight, but often storm-swept, was the
southerly run to La Paz--over on the desolate shore of the long, arid
peninsula, and the green surges were rolling higher every moment and
bursting in thunder into clouds of wind-driven, hissing spray on the
rocks