seen. Then he sternly bound her to silence, tarried a moment to comfort
Christine, and returned to where Madeline lay concealed. He had been
there scarcely a moment when he whispered:

"I hear hosses. The guerrillas are comin'."

Madeline's hiding-place was well protected from possible discovery from
below. She could peep over a kind of parapet, through an opening in the
tips of the pines that reached up to the cliff, and obtain a commanding
view of the camp circle and its immediate surroundings. She could not,
however, see far either to right or left of the camp, owing to the
obstructing foliage. Presently the sound of horses' hoofs quickened the
beat of her pulse and caused her to turn keener gaze upon the cowboys
below.

Although she had some inkling of the course Stewart and his men were to
pursue, she was not by any means prepared for the indifference she saw.
Frank was asleep, or pretended to be. Three cowboys were lazily and
unconcernedly attending to camp-fire duties, such as baking biscuits,
watching the ovens, and washing tins and pots. The elaborate set of
aluminum plates, cups, etc., together with the other camp fixtures that
had done service for Madeline's party, had disappeared. Nick Steele
sat with his back to a log, smoking his pipe. Another cowboy had just
brought the horses closer into camp, where they stood waiting to be
saddled. Nels appeared to be fussing over a pack. Stewart was rolling
a cigarette. Monty had apparently nothing to do for the present except
whistle, which he was doing much more loudly than melodiously. The whole
ensemble gave an impression of careless indifference.

The sound of horses' hoofs grew louder and slowed its beat. One of the
cowboys pointed down the trail, toward which several of his comrades
turned their heads for a moment, then went on with their occupations.

Presently a shaggy, dusty horse bearing a lean, ragged, dark rider rode
into camp and halted. Another followed, and another. Horses with Mexican
riders came in single file and stopped behind the leader.

The cowboys looked up, and the guerrillas looked down. "Buenos dias,
senor," ceremoniously said the foremost guerrilla.

By straining her ears Madeline heard that voice, and she recognized
it as belonging to Don Carlos. His graceful bow to Stewart was also
familiar. Otherwise she would never have recognized the former elegant
vaquero in this uncouth, roughly dressed Mexican.

Stewart answered the greetin