e. If
harm should come----"

"Full value will be paid. Here!" and a glittering gold piece, a double
eagle, flashed in the sun. "Waste no talk now. Take this and saddle
him."

Slowly, gingerly, with thumb and finger tips the ranchman plucked the
coin from the open and extended palm, then bowed with the same native
grace and gravity.

"Come, Loring," growled the colonel impatiently, "dinner," and Sancho
caught the name.

"The Senor Loreeng--will not ride him hard--or far? It is to the camp of
the major he goes?"

But, turning on his heel, not another word would Loring say. Ten minutes
later, his hunger appeased with bacon, _frijoles_ and chocolate, he
mounted and rode quietly away eastward until Sancho's ranch was two
miles behind, then gave the roan both rein and spur and sped like the
wind up the Gila, two of Sancho's oldest customers vainly lashing on his
trail.

CHAPTER III.

Three days later, just at sundown, the loungers at Sancho's were treated
to a sensation. Up from the south--the old Tucson trail--came, dusty,
travel-stained and weary, half a troop of cavalry, escorting,
apparently, some personage of distinction, for he was an object of the
utmost care and attention on part of the lieutenant commanding and every
man in the detachment. As the cavalcade approached the dun-colored walls
of the corral and, without a word or sign to the knot of curious
spectators gathered at the bar-room door, filed away to the spot where
wandering commands of horse were accustomed to bivouac for the night
(tents would have been superfluous in that dry, dewless atmosphere), the
women whispering together behind their screened window place, stared the
harder at sight of the leaders. One was Lieutenant Blake--no mistaking
him, the longest legged man in Arizona. Another was big Sergeant Feeney,
a veteran who bad seen better days and duties, but served his flag in
the deserts of the Gila as sturdily as ever he fought along the
Shenandoah three years before. Between these two, dapper, slender,
natty, with his hat set jauntily on one side and his mustache and
imperial twirled to the proportions of toothpicks, rode a third cavalier
whom every one recognized instantly as the fugitive of Camp Cooke, the
urgently-sought Captain Nevins. And, though Nevins' arms and legs were
untrammeled by shackles of any kind, it was plain to see that he was a
helpless prisoner. He had parted with his belt and revolver. His spurs
were ravishe