Half an hour ahead of him on another trail rode Juan, smiling with
satisfaction. He had come to San Felippe to get a look at the canyon on
Friday nights, and Martin had given him an excuse entirely unexpected.
For this he was truly grateful, even while he knew that the American
had tried to pick a quarrel with him and thus rid the border of a man
entirely too clever for the good of customs receipts; and failing in
that, had hoped the treacherous canyon trail would gain that end in
another manner. Old Jim Lane's fingers touched wires not one whit more
sensitive than those which had sent Juan Alvarez to look over the San
Miguel--and Lane's wires had been slow this time. When Juan had left the
saloon the night before and had seen Manuel slip away from the group and
ride off into the north, he had known that the ghost would show itself
the following night.

But Juan was to be disappointed. He was still some distance from the
canyon when a snarling bulk landed on the haunches of his horse. He
jerked loose his gun and fired twice and then knew nothing. When he
opened his eyes he lay quietly, trying to figure it out with a head
throbbing with pain from his fall. The cougar must have been desperate
for food to attack a man. He moved his foot and struck something soft
and heavy. His shots had been lucky, but they had not saved him his
horse and a sprained arm and leg. There would be no gauntlet found at
the Big Bend at daylight.

When Johnny Nelson reached the twin boulders marking the beginning of
the sloping run where the trail pitched down, he grinned happily at
sight of the moon rising over the low hills and then grabbed at his
holster, while every hair in his head stood up curiously. A wild,
haunting, feminine scream arose to a quavering soprano and sobbed away
into silence. No words can adequately describe the unearthly wail in
that cry and it took a full half-minute for Johnny to become himself
again and to understand what it was. Once more it arose, nearer, and
Johnny peered into the shadows along a rough backbone of rock, his Colt
balanced in his half-raised hand.

"You come 'round me an' you'll get hurt," he muttered, straining his
eyes to peer into the blackness of the shadows. "Come on out, Soft-foot;
the moon's yore finish. You an' me will have it out right here an'
now--I don't want no cougar trailing me through that ink-black canyon on
a two-foot ledge--" he thought he saw a shadow glide across a dim patch
of