In five minutes the ravine widened and I saw a small clearing just ahead, in the centre of which was a rude log cabin. I rode eagerly to the door and was disappointed to find it empty. Some lonely miner, perhaps, had once lived there until he either met a violent death or abandoned the place in search of a better claim. It was now quite dusk, and I realized the hopelessness of proceeding farther that night. The ravine narrowed again just ahead, and the steep ridges on each side forbade any attempt at climbing. My mind was made up in an instant. Here I must spend the night. I hastily picketed my horse outside where he could find plenty of grass, and entered the cabin. I was agreeably surprised to find it in such good condition. The door was firm on its hinges, and sockets on each side seemed to invite the heavy bar that was lying close by on the floor. The window shutter could be secured in the same way. I lost no time in securing the door and window, and then I felt comparatively safe, for I was well armed with a Winchester and a pair of revolvers. I had crackers and jerked beef in my knapsack, and, making a cheerful blaze in the fireplace, I ate a hearty lunch. Then I lit my pipe and sat down with my back against the wall where the heat could easily reach me. I could hear my horse moving about outside, but no other sound reached me; and I began to be ashamed of my fears. I smoked and pondered for two or three hours, and I was just considering the advisability of bringing my horse inside the cabin for better security, when, without the least warning, a sharp report rang in my ears, and a bullet buried itself in the log within an inch of my face. Startled as I was, I had sufficient presence of mind to throw myself flat on the floor, grasping my rifle in the fall. I did not intend this for a ruse, but my unknown enemy evidently thought I had fallen from the effects of his bullet, for instantly I heard a thumping on the door, and a few words spoken in a low voice. Castro and the Apache were outside, I had no doubt. The shot was fired through a chink in the logs, and, creeping over the floor, I put my Winchester to the orifice and let fire twice in succession, to let them know that I was not a dead man yet, and determined not to be one if I could help it. A hasty glance at the cabin walls showed me that wide cracks abounded everywhere, and, alarmed at the peril I was in, I tore off my coat, and, running swiftly to the fireplace, smothered the blaze and stamped out the embers. I breathed easier when this was done, for, of course, my foes could not do any accurate shooting in the dark. Then I sat down in the centre of the floor to await the next move. It was a trying situation, and the thought of spending the long hours of the night in baffling the attempts of two would-be assassins was terrifying.