ered somewhat grotesque by a
deer's carcase carried over his shoulders, the shanks of the animal
rising crossways over his crown.

They are not dismayed by the uncouth apparition. She who has brought
Hamersley to the house guesses it to be the comrade of whom he spoke--
describing him as "true and faithful."

And, without reflecting further, she glides out, grasps the great hunter
by the hand, and conducts him to the bedside of his unconscious
companion.

Looking at her as she leads him, Walt Wilder mutters to himself,--

"Saved by a _angel_! I knowed it would turn out a _woman_, and this is
one for sartin."

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

THE LONE RANCHE.

A singular habitation was that into which Frank Hamersley, and after him
Walt Wilder, had found their way. Architecturally of the rudest
description--a kind among Mexicans especially styled _jacal_, or more
generally _rancho_, the latter designation Anglicised or Americanised
into ranche. The _rancho_, when of limited dimensions, is termed
_ranchito_, and may be seen with walls of different materials, according
to the district or country. In the hot low lands (_tierras calientes_)
it is usually built of bamboos, with a thatching of palm-leaf; higher
up, on the table lands (_tierras templadas_) it is a structure of mud
bricks unburnt (adobe's); while still higher, upon the slopes of the
forest-clad sierras, it assumes the orthodox shape of a log cabin,
though in many respects differing from that of the States.

The one which gave shelter to the fugitives differed from all these,
having walls of split slabs, set stockade fashion, and thatched with a
sedge of _tule_, taken from a little lake that lay near. It had three
rooms and a kitchen, with some sheds at the back--one a stable
appropriated to the mustang mare, another to some mules, and a third
occupied by two men of the class of "peons"--the male domestics of the
establishment.

All, with the house itself, structures of the rudest kind, unlike as
possible to the dwelling-place of a lady, to say nought of an _angel_.

This thought occurs to Wilder as he enters under its roof. But he has
no time to dwell upon it. His wounded comrade is inside, to whom he is
conducted. He finds the latter still alive--thank God for that!--but
unconscious of all that is passing around. To the kindly words spoken
in apostrophe he makes no reply, or only in speeches incoherent. His
skin is hot, his lips parched, his p