“Do not be alarmed, I beg of you,” implored the young officer, “it is so long since I have heard a song in a woman's voice. It is such a surprise to hear one now. Do sing for me again. I will have to stand here where I can hold my horse.” For a moment she was silent, then: “You have been to the rancho? You have seen my father?” she asked at length, her voice tremulous and almost inaudible. “I? No, I have just come; I am alone, and heard your song and forgot everything else.” To his surprise she came hurriedly forward out of the dusk, and stood close to his side, looking fearfully over toward the night lights at the bar, whence the sounds of Mexican voices could be heard. “Alone? You came here alone? O senor, ride on or ride back. Stay not here! Not at the rancho! There are wicked men--not my father; not Pedro Ruiz, but--there are others.” “Is this true? Are you Pedro's daughter?” queried the lieutenant, evidently far more impressed with this fact than with her tidings. “I never knew he had a child like you, and I have been here often and have never seen you.” “But I--have seen you, senor, when you were last here, and I saw you, too, at the _cuartel_ at Tucson. Do you know--do you remember the day of the race?” And her dark eyes were for one instant lifted timidly to his. “Is this possible?” he exclaimed, seizing her hand as it fell listlessly by her side. “Let me see your face. Surely I have heard your voice before.” But she shrank back, half timid, half capricious. “I must not; I must go, senor, and you--you must ride away.” And now her eyes glanced half fearfully toward the house, then sought his face in genuine anxiety. He had been fumbling in the pocket of his hunting shirt, and suddenly drew forth a little silver case. The next instant, while he held her wrist firmly with one hand, the brilliant flame of an electric match flashed over her face and form. [Illustration: 0027] “Oh, senor,” she cried, even when bowing her blushing face upon her bared arm, “this is madness! Put it out!” Then, like a frightened deer, she went bounding to the ranch, but not before he had recognized in her the pretty Mexican girl with whom he had thrice danced at the _festa_ at Tucson and whose name he had vainly sought to learn. Nor did he again see her on this visit. Nor did he hear again her voice. Returning with his men at dawn, he began the day's investigations and had occasion to ask many questions of old Pedro, who promptly answered that he well remembered the sergeant and that the sergeant had drunk at his bar; had partaken of his cheer; had stabled his horse at the corral; but that, after gambling with “los otros,” men of whom he, Pedro, knew naught, the sergeant had gone on his way. More he could not tell. He shrugged his shoulders and protested his ignorance even of the names of the men with whom Dinsmore had gambled.