"Is she going to have a fit?" asked Jack.
"Naw, she's going ter sing. Mules don't speak often, but when they do, they do it about something worth while. Hark!"
He-haw-he-haw-he-haw-he-haw!
Maud's song of triumph, as Pete had described it, went echoing up and down the cañon in the most discordant series of sounds known to the ear of man. But if there had been a hundred Mexicans in earshot, neither of the two fugitives would have grudged Maud her vocal exercise, nor have attempted to cut it short.
As it was, however, the mule's pean of victory had evidently reached other ears than those of Jack Merrill and Coyote Pete. They were still petting her and wishing for lumps of sugar and gold head stalls and all sorts of equine delicacies when both were startled by a gruff voice addressing them.
"Hullo, strangers!"
"Hullo yourself!" rejoined Pete, considerably surprised, and peering about him keenly.