being a sentinel, but his mercurial nature soon rebelled against this
monotony, and soon the fatigues of the day began to tell upon him.
Recourse to his whisky flask only made him the drowsier, until at last
he was fain to lie down and roll himself up tightly in his blanket. The
next moment he was sound asleep.

His horse neighed twice from the summit, but Concho heard him not. Then
the brush crackled on the ledge above him, a small fragment of rock
rolled near his feet, but he stirred not. And then two black figures
were outlined on the crags beyond.

"St-t-t!" whispered a voice. "There is one lying beside the furnace."
The speech was Spanish, but the voice was Wiles's.

The other figure crept cautiously to the edge of the crag and looked
over. "It is Concho, the imbecile," said Pedro, contemptuously.

"But if he should not be alone, or if he should waken?"

"I will watch and wait. Go you and affix the notification."

Wiles disappeared. Pedro began to creep down the face of the rocky
ledge, supporting himself by chemisal and brush-wood.

The next moment Pedro stood beside the unconscious man. Then he looked
cautiously around. The figure of his companion was lost in the shadow
of the rocks above; only a slight crackle of brush betrayed his
whereabouts. Suddenly Pedro flung his serape over the sleeper's head,
and then threw his powerful frame and tremendous weight full
upon Concho's upturned face, while his strong arms clasped the