She was waiting.
Then, just before the sky lightened, someone stepped cautiously along a little path that led through rocks and bushes back into the hills.
Annie-Many Ponies turned her face that way and listened.

But the steps were not the steps of Ramon; Annie-Many-Ponies had too much of the Indian keenness to be fooled by the hasty footsteps of this man.

And since it was not Ramon--her slim fingers closed upon the keen-edged knife she carried always in its sinew-sewed buckskin sheath near her heart.
The little black dog lifted his head suddenly and growled, and the footsteps came to a sudden stop quite near the rock.
"It is you ?" asked a cautious voice with the unmistakable Mexican tone and soft, slurring accent, "speak me what yoh name." "Ramon comes ?" Annie asked him quietly, and the footsteps came swiftly nearer until his form was silhouetted by the rock.
"Sh-sh--yoh not spik dat name," he whispered.

"Luis Rojas me.

I come for breeng yoh.