For a while he paced backward and forward with a vague sense of being a sentinel, but his mercurial nature soon rebelled against this monotony, and soon the fatigues of the day began to tell upon him.
Recourse to his whisky flask only made him the drowsier, until at last he was fain to lie down and roll himself up tightly in his blanket.

The next moment he was sound asleep.
His horse neighed twice from the summit, but Concho heard him not.

Then the brush crackled on the ledge above him, a small fragment of rock rolled near his feet, but he stirred not.

And then two black figures were outlined on the crags beyond.
"St-t-t!" whispered a voice.

"There is one lying beside the furnace." The speech was Spanish, but the voice was Wiles's.
The other figure crept cautiously to the edge of the crag and looked over.