little more Mexican blood in his veins than had Feeny himself. He was
an Americano, a cursed Gringo for whom long years ago the sheriffs of
California and Nevada had chased in vain, who had sought refuge and a
mate in Sonora, and whose swarthy features found no difficulty in
masquerading under a Mexican name when the language of love had made
him familiar with the Mexican tongue.

Slow to action, slow of speech as was the paymaster, he was not slow
to see that Sergeant Feeny was anxious and ill at ease, and if a
veteran trooper whom his captain had pronounced the coolest,
pluckiest, and most reliable man in the regiment, could be so
disturbed over the indications, it was high time to take precaution.
What was the threatened danger? Apaches? They would never assault the
ranch with its guard of soldiers, whatsoever they might do in the
cañons in the range beyond. Outlaws? They had not been heard of for
months. He had inquired into all this at Yuma, at the stage stations,
by mail of the commanding officers at Lowell and Bowie and Grant. Not
for six months had a stage been "held up" or a buck-board "jumped"
south of the turbid Gila. True, there was rumor of riot and
lawlessness among the miners at Castle Dome and the customary shooting
scrape at Ehrenberg and La Paz, but these were river towns, far behind
him now as he looked back over the desert trail and aloft into the
star-studded, cloudless sky. Nothing could be more placid, nothing
less prophetic of peril or ambush than this exquisite summer night.
Somewhere within the forbidden region of Moreno's harem a guitar was
beginning to tinkle softly. That was all very well, but then a woman's
voice, anything but soft, took up a strange, monotonous refrain. Line
after line, verse after verse it ran, harsh, changeless. He could not
distinguish the words,--he did not wish to; the music was bad enough
in all conscience, whatsoever it might become when sung by youth or