“Never again will I say anything against a Gringo. No boy south of the Border would dare such a feat. See now! _Caramba!_ For an instant he slipped. I dare not look.” The Mexican buried his face in his hands and crouched on the ground. Emotional as are all of his race, the sight of that battle between life and death, hundreds of feet above him, had almost unstrung him. At last he dared to uncover his eyes again and once more fixed them on the toiling atom on the sunlit cliff face. But now he burst out into tones of joy. “Sanctissima Maria! See, he is almost at the summit. Oh, brave Gringo! Climb on. May your head be steady and your hands and feet nimble.” The sweat was pouring down the Mexican’s face, his knees smote together and his hands shook as he stood like one paralyzed, stock still, watching the outcome of Jack Merrill’s fearful climb. His breath came fast and the veins on his forehead stood out like whip cords. As he watched thus his lips moved in constant, silent prayers for the safety of the young Border Boy. At last he saw the infinitesimal speck that was Jack Merrill reach the summit of that frowning height. He saw the boy thrust his knife into his belt, and watched him place one hand on the ridge of the precipice and draw himself up. The next instant the cliff face was bare of life. The fight with death had been won. But Alvarez as he saw Jack attain safety on the summit of the precipice sank back with a groan. The strain under which he had labored had caused the Mexican to swoon. As he lay there perfectly still three figures appeared at the upper end of the valley in the direction of the Pool of Death. They began advancing down the valley just as Alvarez opened his eyes and staggered dizzily to his feet. CHAPTER XI. RANGERS ON THE TRAIL. It was about an hour after he had secured the firearm which he intended for Jack’s use that Baldy rode back into the Rangers’ camp in, what was for him, a state of great perturbation. The Chinaman was still up scouring dishes, and to him Baldy rode, spurring his pony almost into the remains of the camp fire in his anxiety. All about lay the recumbent forms of the Rangers, sleeping under the stars on the expanse of plain. Snores and deep breathing showed that every one of them was deeply wrapped in the healthy slumber of the plainsman. “Wallee maller, Massel Baldy?” cried the Mongolian, as Baldy spurred his pony up to him. “Nuffin, you yellow–mugged Chinee,” shot out Baldy, breathing tensely, despite his effort to appear careless; “have you seen anything of that Tenderfoot that went on watch with me a while ago?” “No, me no see him, Massel Baldy. Whafo’ you so heap much ’cited?” The keen–eyed Oriental had pierced Baldy’s mask of carelessness, and saw readily enough that the old plainsman was badly worried. “Me excited, you pig–tailed gopher!” roared out Baldy angrily. “I was never so easy–minded in my life. Where’s the cap sleeping?”