It was as he had left
it that morning; there was no trace of recent human visitation. Revolver
in hand, Concho examined every cave, gully, and recess, peered behind
trees, penetrated copses of buckeye and manzanita, and listened. There
was no sound but the faint soughing of the wind over the pines below
him. For a while he paced backward and forward with a vague sense of
being a sentinel, but his mercurial nature soon rebelled against this
monotony, and soon the fatigues of the day began to tell upon him.
Recourse to his whisky flask only made him the drowsier, until at last
he was fain to lie down and roll himself up tightly in his blanket. The
next moment he was sound asleep.
His horse neighed 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.
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