out the ruin of camp kettles, prospecting pans, and picks; she
remained quietly recumbent, occasionally raising her head as if to
contemplatively glance over the arid plain below. Then he had recourse
to useless blows. Then he essayed profanity of a secular kind, such as
"Assassin," "Thief," "Beast with a pig's head," "Food for the Bull's
Horns," but with no effect.

Then he had recourse to the curse ecclesiastic:

"Ah, Judas Iscariot! is it thus, renegade and traitor, thou leavest
me, thy master, a league from camp and supper waiting? Stealer of the
Sacrament, get up!"

Still no effect. Concho began to feel uneasy; never before had a mule of
pious lineage failed to respond to this kind of exhortation. He made one
more desperate attempt:

"Ah, defiler of the altar! lie not there! Look!" he threw his hand into
the air, extending the fingers suddenly. "Behold, fiend! I exorcise
thee! Ha! tremblest! Look but a little now,--see! Apostate!
I--I--excommunicate thee,--Mula!"

"What are you kicking up such a devil of row down there for?" said a
gruff voice from the rocks above.

Concho shuddered. Could it be that the devil was really going to fly
away with his mule? He dared not look up.

"Come now," continued the voice, "you just let up on that mule, you
d----d old Greaser. Don't you see she's slipped her shoulder?"