Pap," Jessie murmured impatiently, "now that I'm so near I can hardly wait for to see Sister Minta and the baby!"

"You'll be thar in less than two minutes," replied her father. "My! won't Minta be surprised, and won't you be tickled when you see what a fine boy they've got, who will learn to call you Auntie Jess!"

The big vehicle jolted and swayed under its ponderous load of machinery, for as they neared the saloon the road was found to be in bad condition, with deep ruts in which had settled fragments of rock the size of

a man's head. The rear wheel passed over one of these with a jerk that almost threw the girl from her seat, and at once the heavy wagon lurched forward. The teamster throwing all his weight on the brake, discovered that he was unable to check the momentum it had acquired. He glanced around quickly and uttered an exclamation of dismay: "Lordy, Lordy, Jess! We've got to do some mighty fancy drivin'. The shoe's come out from under the wheel. We ain't got nothin' but the brake to hold us back, and that ain't solid as it ought to be."

The girl answered in calm, even tones and in precisely the words which her sharptongued mother would have used: "I knowed all along, Pap, as how you'd get into a jack-pot some day along of emptying a flask every trip. You know as well as I do that you'd had too much when you fixed that shoe at the summit."

The old man attempted no defense. The wagon was increasing its speed. If his mind had been a little cloudy before, it was perfectly clear now that there was danger to be faced. They were nearing the curve. As the wagon started forward with ungovernable haste, Dad Govan exerted himself to the utmost and with every ounce of force in his tough little body jammed down the brake. It ground against the wheel, held for a moment, then a rotten bolt flew asunder and the wagon leaped down hill like a bowlder set rolling from a peak.

White-faced, but cool, the girl gripped the seat with both hands. It required all her strength to retain hold upon the swaying box.

The father braced himself and leaning forward urged the horses ahead to keep them clear of the wagon racing behind them. It was not the first time he had been suddenly called upon to face death, and if he had been alone he would have felt perfectly unconcerned, but the fact that his daughter now shared it, lent danger a new aspect. Never before in his mature life had Jerry Govan realized the meaning of fear.

Nevertheless, he was cool, master of his team and himself, and he had need of all his coolness for the crisis was at hand. He knew that if he could round the curve at Jake's place, bring the six horses and the heavy wagon between the little shack and the shaft's mouth, the danger would be practically over. From the saloon to the mine was a straight road, narrow, it is true, and precipitous above and below; steep withal but in fair condition. To race his animals down this road, make the good ford at Coyote Creek and ease up on the slight ascent that led to the engine house, would be no great feat for an old teamster like himself.

He gritted his teeth as the team took the curve and swung around in front of the saloon. A couple of Mexican miners,

loafing in the sun, were warned in time by the clatter and sprang back hastily from the road. Govan hardly saw them. His entire attention was concentrated on his task. It was a nice matter to bring those six horses deftly around so that the wagon should not upset with the sharp turn, or, on the other hand, by making too wide a curve, run into the open shaft.

'Twas done! Neatly done, just as he knew he could do it. Not on two wheels, indeed, but very nearly so. The outer ones just grazed the edge of the shaft's mouth. Tracks were left there to be admired and wondered at by many a miner and cow-puncher afterwards.

As they whirled by the saloon, a woman ran to the doorway and uttered one frantic scream of warning. Neither father nor daughter heard it for the uproar of their wild flight.

There lay the road straight and clear before them, a steep descent leading to the up grade and safety. No, by God, not clear! Not quite clear, for a small, redclad figure with naked brown legs held the center of the road a few rods ahead of them. She was slowly making her way down toward camp, pushing a clumsy cart before her. The old man knew on the instant that it was Apache Mary's little girl, who was evidently taking the wash from Jake's place to her mother's.

It did not occur to Govan that the child would do the silly thing she did and he lashed his horses as if she were not there, for the only hope of safety lay in keeping them well ahead of the wagon. The light pointers responded to the whip, the heavy wheel horses followed their lead. But the child! The child must have gone mad with terror when she glanced over her shoulder and saw the huge wagon bearing down upon her, for instead of scurrying to safety, clinging to the scattered brush on the down slope, she ran forward wildly, unthinkingly, in a vain attempt to outrun the galloping team. She did not even let go the cumbersome little push cart, which impeded her flight. Evidently the selfpossession of her race had deserted her. She was distracted from fright.

"Turn out, Dad! Turn out, for God's sake! I'll jump when you say the word!" There spoke her father's daughter. Jessie did not know what it was to fear.

But the old man made no answer, nor did he so much as glance at her. He knew well enough that it would be certain death for his daughter, probably for himself as well, without doubt the destruction of his horses if he should send them crashing down the mountain side. And for what? To save the spawn of a despised and hated race from perishing under the wheels.

What matter? The wagon would pass over her as if she had not been. Death would overtake her so quickly that she would not realize it. After all, why should he show any consideration for an Apache? When had her tribe ever spared one of his race? As he thought of the old days when Geronimo's raiders were a menace to his own life, it quenched for a moment the spark of pity he felt for the doomed child. Better that she should be the victim! Who would care or grieve if she were killed but her wretched mother, Apache Mary? A picture flashed upon his memory. was that of the savage woman, her loose black hair, her brutish, tatooed features, the shapeless garb of her race, as he had seen her a few weeks ago. She was squatting on the ground and gazing with stolid face at her papoose which had sickened and died in her arms.

It

Someone had remarked in his presence: "Injuns don't seem to care much for their young ones," but he knew better. Through the bronze mask he had caught a glimpse of a human soul, the soul of a stricken mother. He realized at that moment that he himself could not feel more keenly the loss of his own pride and joy, dearer than his horses, dearer even than his own daughter, that first grandchild, Minta's baby boy.

Dad Govan did not translate his ideas into words, it's not the way of the West. These thoughts presented themselves in quick succession like the rapid fire when a

gun-fighter empties his gun. He did translate them into action.

His left hand gathered the reins, his right sought the holster and on the instant there was a flash and report. Pet, the inside wheel horse, heaviest and best of his animals, fell like a stone that is dropped from your hand.

The wheel crashed and ground against the huge carcass. The wagon swayed violently and threatened to overturn. The other horses, checked and thrown back upon their flanks, were in panic terror. It required Govan's nerve and strength and skill, all of it, and thereto the quieting sound of his voice to soothe the panting foam-flecked animals. But they were still at last. One of them, Pet, whom the old teamster loved better than all the rest, was still forever. They had all suffered more or less from cuts and bruises.

When they were under control, Govan handed the reins to his daughter and sprang down to disentangle the horses from the broken harness. As he ran to the head of the team he caught sight of the Indian child standing in front of her push cart but a few paces distant. She was regarding the scene, stolidly, stupidly, like one in a trance.

In a revulsion of feeling, pity for the child he had saved at such a cost changed to blind fury. The teamster sprang at Apache Mary's little girl with upraised whip, but she ducked from under his hand like a squirrel, dodged into the brush on the down slope and was gone.

As she slipped aside, Dad Govan saw what was in the push cart and the whip fell from his hand. Beside the bundle of clothes, lay, purring and cooing and blinking up at the sun, that wonderful child, which was said to be a beauty, although by some amazing paradox it resembled its granddad.

E HAD hoped to get an early morning start, and thus avoid the scorching rays of midday sun; but it was not until ten o'clock that Our mozos announced everything ready, and we finally mounted and rode eastward through the long main street, circled the foot of San Blas hill, and out into the open country.

For four or five miles our road passed through a marsh, and for a mile our horses splashed stirrup deep in water. Then we reached the first rise of the foothills, and a tropical growth, dense and high, closed in upon us and shut out the last breath of air that in the open marsh below had fanned our cheeks and in some degree made tolerable the burning intensity of the noonday sun.

Stately palms and gigantic ferns, with a luxuriant tropical undergrowth, made impenetrable the jungle that lined our road. Marvelous flowering vines that entwined themselves in the forest trees, blooming shrubs with here and there beautiful orchids, and masses of wild honeysuckle, gave a setting of gorgeous color and charged the atmosphere with delicious perfume. Brilliant plumaged parrots and parrakeets screamed overhead, ugly looking lizards scurried out of our path, a grass-green snake coiled around the naked trunk of a tree, high up in air, swayed his head back and forth in defiance, and an unseen animal crashed away into the jungle as we approached. It was very wonderful to me and I experienced a strange sensation of having lived through all this before, in some far away, mystic past, just beyond any positive remembrance. It was like a dream that one

tries vainly to recall "a sleep and a forgetting." Perhaps it was only the impression made upon my mind by pictures that I had seen in early childhood.

Neither Randall nor I had been in a saddle for over twenty years, and we hailed with joy the Indian village of Libertad, the first settlement that we reached, when we rode into it at two o'clock in the afternoon, for here it was decided that we should rest ourselves and our horses for an hour and eat some luncheon. Naked children ran into the houses when we appeared, not because they were ashamed of their nakedness, for they had never worn clothing any more than the pigs and donkeys that shared the houses with them; but because they were startled at the sudden appearance of so many strange Americanos.

Libertad is a primitive Indian village with a single long street, typical of the tierra caliente. The houses are built of poles bound together with the quamacate plant a vine-like weed used in place of rope with a space between each pole, the way our corn-cribs are built. This space admits light and air. The roofs are thatched with palm leaves or grass, and some of the houses have sides running only half-way to the roof, with the upper half open. No nails or iron in any form are used in the construction of these buildings. In fact the people live practically as they did when the white man first found them, and civilization has had small influence upon their lives. The mule, perhaps, is the only innovation of note since their forefathers owned allegiance to tribal chiefs, and few of them possess mules.

We engaged an old woman to prepare our luncheon, and while we waited for it to be made ready sought the shade of a large tree, under which we unpacked our