seein' that poor woman's face," argued Lynn Taps.

Mississip tore off a piece of his trowsers, struck fire with flint and
steel, poured on whisky, and blew it into a flame.

Rapidly the miners straggled up the trail, and halted opposite
Mississip.

"Well, I'll be durned!" shouted the latter; "he ain't got no shirt on,
an' there's an ugly cut in his arm. It beats anything I ever seed!"

One by one the miners leaped the cleft, and crowded about Mississip and
stared.

It was certainly Codago, and there was certainly his pack, made up in
his poncho, in the usual Greaser manner, and held tightly in his arms.

But while they stared, there was a sudden movement of the pack itself.

Lynn Taps gave a mighty tug at it, extricated it from the dead man's
grasp, and rapidly undid it.

Suddenly, by the glare of a fresh light, the boys saw the face of a
rather dirty, large-eyed, brown-skinned Mexican baby; and the baby,
probably by way of recognition, raised high a voice such as the boys
never heard before on that side of the Rocky Mountains.

"Here's what that cut in his arm means," shouted a miner who had struck
a light on the trail; "there's a finger-mark, done in blood on the snow,
by the side of the trail, an' a-pintin' right to that ledge; an' here's