The girl started, impulsively pressing her lips against
the white hand grasping the pony's mane.
"No, no, senorita," she said softly. "Not dat; not because he lofe me;
because he ask me dat. Si, I make him not so sorry."
She remembered that vast overhanging rock about which the dim trail
circled as it swept upward toward where the "Little Yankee" perched
against the sky-line. Undaunted by the narrowness of the ledge, the
willing, sure-footed mustang began climbing the steep grade. Step by
step they crept up, cautiously advancing from out the bottom of the
cleft, the path followed winding in and out among bewildering cedars,
and skirting unknown depths of ravines. Mercedes was breathing
heavily, her unoccupied hand grasping the trailing skirt which
interfered with her climbing. Miss Norvell, from her higher perch on
the pony's back, glanced behind apprehensively. Far away to the east a
faint, uncertain tinge of gray was shading into the sky. Suddenly a
detached stone rattled in their front; there echoed the sharp click of
a rifle hammer, mingled with the sound of a gruff, unfamiliar voice:
"You come another step, an' I 'll blow hell out o' yer.
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