ot punish me as you
have her! For you are very strong--and you comprehend."

But Grey did not comprehend, and with a few hurried apologies he managed
to escape his fair but uncanny tormentor. Besides, this unlooked-for
incident had driven from his mind the more important object of his
visit,--the discovery of the assailants of Richards and Colonel
Starbottle.

His inquiries of the Ramierez produced no result. Senor Ramierez was not
aware of any suspicious loiterers among the frequenters of the fonda,
and except from some drunken American or Irish revelers he had been free
of disturbance.

Ah! the peon--an old vaquero--was not an angel, truly, but he was
dangerous only to the bull and the wild horses--and he was afraid even
of Cota! Mr. Grey was fain to ride home empty of information.

He was still more concerned a week later, on returning unexpectedly
one afternoon to his sanctum, to hear a musical, childish voice in the
composing-room.

It was Cota! She was there, as Richards explained, on his invitation, to
view the marvels and mysteries of printing at a time when they would
not be likely to "disturb Mr. Grey at his work." But the beaming face of
Richards and the simple tenderness of his blue eyes plainly revealed
the sudden growth of an evidently sincere passion, and the unwonted
splendors of his best clothes showed how carefully he had prepared for
the occasion.

Grey was worried and perplexed, believing the girl a malicious flirt.
Yet nothing could be more captivating than her simple and childish
curiosity, as she watched Richards swing the lever of the press,
or stood by his side as he marshaled the type into files on his
"composing-stick." He had even printed a card with her name, "Senorita
Cota Ramierez," the type of which had been set up, to the accompaniment
of ripples of musical laughter, by her little brown fingers.

The editor might have become quite sentimental and poetical had he not
noticed that the gray eyes which often rested tentatively and meaningly
on himself, even while apparently listening to Richards, were more than
ever like the eyes of the mustang on whose scarred flanks her glance had
wandered so coldly.

He withdrew presently so as not to interrupt his foreman's innocent
tete-a-tete, but it was not very long after that Cota passed him on the
highroad with the pinto horse in a gallop, and blew him an audacious
kiss from the tips of her fingers.

For several days afterwards Richards