n pasture, dotted with cedar
bushes and sparsely covered with grass, which sloped gently down the
mountain side. In the fading twilight the so-called ranch stood vaguely
outlined, the nature of its log and adobe walls indiscernible, its mill
and the still house looming vaguely over the main building against the
darker background of the slope. The faint smell of sour mash almost hid
the mealy odor of the grist mill; hogs grunted in the little corral by
the fenced-in garden, while an occasional bleating of sheep came from
the same enclosure. Dark shapes moved over the cedar-brush pasture and
the frequent stamping of hoofs told they were either horses or mules.
High up near the roof of the composite building were narrow oblongs of
faint radiance, where feeble candle light shone through the little
squares of gypsum, so much used in that country in place of window
glass. As the four newcomers smilingly looked at the comfortable
building the foot-compelling strains of a cheap violin squeaked and
rasped resinously from the living quarters and a French-Canadian, far
from home, burst ecstatically into song. Dreaming chickens cackled
briefly and a sleepy rooster complained in restrained indignation, while
the rocky mountain side relayed the distant howl of a prowling coyote.

The leader drew the flap over the ultra-modern rifle in its sheath at
his leg and glanced back at his companions.

"Wall," he growled, "hyar we air; we're plumb inter it, now."

"Up ter our scalp-locks," came a grunted reply.

"Hell! 'Tain't th' fust time they've been in danger. They'll stand a
lot o' takin'," chuckled another voice. He softly imitated a coyote and
the sleepy inmates of the hen house burst into a frightened chorus.

"Hain't ye got no sense?" asked Hank, reprovingly.

"Wouldn't be hyar if I had. I smell sour mash. Let's go on."

Hank kneed his mount, no longer the one which had become so well known
to many eyes on the long wagon trail, and led the way down to the door.
At the soft confusion of guttural tongues outside the house the door
opened and Turley, the proprietor, stood framed in the dim light behind
him.

"'Spress from Senor Bent's," said the nearest Indian, walking forward.
"It's Hank Marshall," he whispered. "Want ter palaver with ye, Turley."

"Want's more whiskey, I reckon," growled Turley. "Hobble yer hosses on
th' pasture. Ye kin roll up 'most anywhar ye like. Fed yit?"

"_Si, senor; muchos gracias_," answered the Indi