Taking the pony by the bridle he led him into the saloon. With Loring swaying in the saddle, the horse walked listlessly up to the bar, while Hankins playfully pulled his tail. “Great pony, that, Mr. Loring; he knows a good place, all right. He’ll take you down the trail fine as can be. He’s a wise one, for sure.” They led the pony to the door again, the hoofs creaking strangely on the wooden floor. “Look out for your head, Mr. Loring! That’s good. _Á Dios_—good night!” From the trail Loring’s voice carried back. He was singing at the top of his lungs. “Full right up to his ears!” ejaculated Hankins. “I hope he don’t fall off and break his neck.” Meanwhile the faithful little horse trudged steadily down the trail, carrying his helpless master. There are few Arizona horses which do not understand the symptoms indicated by a limp weight in the saddle, and meaningless tugs on the bridle. The camp, save for the flare by the smelter, was unlit. The pony went straight to the corral, past all the dark, silent tents and shacks. The sound of the hoof-beats echoed very clearly in the stillness. At the corral Loring tried to dismount, and fell from the saddle hard. The shock roused his consciousness. “Must be near ’leven. What, what wash I going—going to do at ’leven? Oh, yes. Hoist, extra shift.” Leaving the poor pony standing still saddled in the rain, he started up the hill for the hoist. Reaching the steps of the deserted _tienda_, he sat down and supported his head with his hands. “I _guess_ I must be—a bit—tight,” he thought. The world began to whirl, to drop suddenly, to rise, to twist. He bit his lips and pressed his knuckles hard against his temples. “Must sober up!” he kept repeating to himself. Sweat broke out all over him. He became ghastly ill. Lying at full length in the muddy road, before the steps, he did not notice the rain that beat down upon him. Gradually he began to lose consciousness. The whistle blew dull and discordant for the eleven o’clock shift. CHAPTER VIII As the echo of the whistle died away, Loring raised himself, and staggered to his feet. Not realizing what he did, he groped his way onward up the hill. As he passed the men hurrying home from the last shift, he noticed, as in a dream, the way in which the wet clothes clung to their skins, the heavy folds accentuated by the glare of the occasional electric light. Hughson, in the hoist shed, was cursing volubly at his delay in coming. As soon as he saw Loring he grabbed his coat, and calling out a hurried imprecation, started down the hill. Stephen had scarcely stepped to his place by the drum, when the indicator clanged sharply one bell. Mechanically he threw his weight against the lever, and shot the first bucket of ore mined by the shift high into the dim light, almost into the tripod framework upon which the cable hung.