ence of midnight reigned over the lonely bivouac and the somber
ranch, yet had not Blake given orders that every man must remain close
to the horses throughout the evening, adventurous spirits from the troop
could surely have heard the ominous whisperings within the corral and
marked the stealthy glidings to and fro. At nine o'clock the famous roan
was cautiously led forth from the gateway and close under the black
shadow of the wall, and not until well beyond earshot of the willows was
he mounted and headed eastward. At ten Loring was sleeping soundly in
preparation for the night ride before him, and Blake, nervously puffing
at his pipe, was listening to the low, murmurous chat where the guard
were gathered about their watchfires, when soft, timid, luring, sweet,
again he heard the tinkle of that guitar. It ceased abruptly. There was
a minute of silence, then, a trifle louder, it began again; again ceased
as though waiting reply, and Blake sat up and listened. Once more, not
at the westward willows, not at the ranch, not on the open plain, but
somewhere close at hand, close to his side of the bivouac, away from the
guard, away from the occasionally stamping, snorting horses, and equally
far from the dark, shadowy buildings of the stage station, and Blake
slowly, noiselessly got to his feet and, after listening one moment to
Loring's deep, regular breathing, buckled on his revolver belt and stole
forth into the starlight. Yes, there was the sound again--a few notes, a
bar or two of the song Pancha was singing at the willows the night
before, and close to the edge of the willows crouched the musician. With
his hand on the butt of his revolver, Blake strode slowly toward the
shrinking form, and, beckoning, it rose and moved swiftly away.

"Halt where you are," growled the lieutenant, "if you want me to stay
here."

For answer there came the same softly played bars and another gesture as
though imploring him to come farther away from hearing of the ranch or
even of his bivouac, and, whipping out his revolver, the tall trooper
sprang forward and a heavy hand came down on the shoulder of the
shawl-hidden form, and there, trembling, imploring, ay weeping, was
Pancha. Before he could speak one word she began, and, to his amaze,
began in English--broken English to be sure, disjointed, incoherent,
tremulous--and he listened, at first incredulous, then half-convinced,
then utterly absorbed, too absorbed to note that a dark form w