ighed twice from the summit, but Concho heard him not. Then
the brush crackled on the ledge above him, a small fragment of rock
rolled near his feet, but he stirred not. And then two black figures
were outlined on the crags beyond.

"St-t-t!" whispered a voice. "There is one lying beside the furnace."
The speech was Spanish, but the voice was Wiles's.

The other figure crept cautiously to the edge of the crag and looked
over. "It is Concho, the imbecile," said Pedro, contemptuously.

"But if he should not be alone, or if he should waken?"

"I will watch and wait. Go you and affix the notification."

Wiles disappeared. Pedro began to creep down the face of the rocky
ledge, supporting himself by chemisal and brush-wood.

The next moment Pedro stood beside the unconscious man. Then he looked
cautiously around. The figure of his companion was lost in the shadow
of the rocks above; only a slight crackle of brush betrayed his
whereabouts. Suddenly Pedro flung his serape over the sleeper's head,
and then threw his powerful frame and tremendous weight full
upon Concho's upturned face, while his strong arms clasped the
blanket-pinioned limbs of his victim. There was a momentary upheaval,
a spasm, and a struggle; but the tightly-rolled blanket clung to the
unfortunate man like cerements.

There was no noise, no outcry, no sound of struggle. There was nothing
to be seen but the peaceful, prostrate figures of the two men darkly
outlined on the ledge. They might have been sleeping in each other's
arms. In the black silence the stealthy tread of Wiles in the brush
above was distinctly audible.

Gradually the struggles grew fainter. Then a whisper from the crags:

"I can't see you. What are you doing?"

"Watching!"

"Sleeps he?"

"He sleeps!"

"Soundly?"

"Soundly."

"After the manner of the dead?"

"After the fashion of the dead!"

The last tremor had ceased. Pedro rose as Wiles descended.

"All is ready," said Wiles; "you are a witness of my placing the
notifications?"

"I am a witness."

"But of this one?" pointing to Concho. "Shall we leave him here?"

"A drunken imbecile,--why not?"

Wiles turned his left eye on the speaker. They chanced to be standing
nearly in the same attitude they had stood the preceding night. Pedro
uttered a cry and an imprecation, "Carramba! Take your devil's eye from
me! What see you? Eh,--what?"

"Nothing, good Pedro," said Wiles, turning his bland right cheek to
Pedro. Th