FAR away from Forlorn River Dick Gale sat stunned, gazing down into the
purple depths where Rojas had plunged to his death. The Yaqui stood
motionless upon the steep red wall of lava from which he had cut the
bandit's hold. Mercedes lay quietly where she had fallen. From across
the depths there came to Gale's ear the Indian's strange, wild cry.
Then silence, hollow, breathless, stony silence enveloped the great
abyss and its upheaved lava walls. The sun was setting. Every instant
the haze reddened and thickened.
Action on the part of the Yaqui loosened the spell which held Gale as
motionless as his surroundings. The Indian was edging back toward the
ledge. He did not move with his former lithe and sure freedom. He
crawled, slipped, dragged himself, rested often, and went on again. He
had been wounded. When at last he reached the ledge where Mercedes lay
Gale jumped to his feet, strong and thrilling, spurred to meet the
responsibility that now rested upon him.
Swiftly he turned to where Thorne lay. The cavalryman was just
returning to consciousness. Gale ran for a canteen, bathed his face,
made him drink. The look in Thorne's eyes was hard to bear.
"Thorne! Thorne! it's all right, it's all right!" cried Gale, in
piercing tones. "Mercedes is safe! Yaqui saved her! Rojas is done
for! Yaqui jumped down the wall and drove the bandit off the ledge.
Cut him loose from the wall, foot by foot, hand by hand! We've won the
fight, Thorne."
For Thorne these were marvelous strength-giving words. The dark horror
left his eyes, and they began to dilate, to shine. He stood up,
dizzily but unaided, and he gazed across the crater. Yaqui had reached
the side of Mercedes, was bending over her. She stirred. Yaqui lifted
her to her feet. She appeared weak, unable to stand alone. But she
faced across the crater and waved her hand. She was unharmed. Thorne
lifted both arms above head, and from his lips issued a cry. It was
neither call nor holloa nor welcome nor answer. Like the Yaqui's, it
could scarcely be named. But it was deep, husky, prolonged, terribly
human in its intensity. It made Gale shudder and made his heart beat
like a trip hammer. Mercedes again waved a white hand. The Yaqui
waved, too, and Gale saw in the action an urgent signal.
Hastily taking up canteen and rifles, Gale put a supporting arm around
Thorne.
"Come, old man. Can you walk? Sure you can walk! Lean on me, and
we'll soon get out of this. Don't look across. Look where you step.
We've not much time before dark. Oh, Thorne, I'm afraid Jim has cashed
in! And the last I saw of Laddy he was badly hurt."
Gale was keyed up to a high pitch of excitement and alertness. He
seemed to be able to do many things. But once off the ragged notched
lava into the trail he had not such difficulty with Thorne, and could
keep his keen gaze shifting everywhere for sight of enemies.
"Listen, Thorne! What's that?" asked Gale, halting as they came to a
place where the trail led down through rough breaks in the lava. The
silence was broken by a strange sound, almost unbelieveable considering
the time and place. A voice was droning: "Turn the lady, turn! Turn
the lady, turn! Alamon left. All swing; turn the lady, turn!"
"Hello, Jim," called Gale, dragging Thorne round the corner of lava.
"Where are you? Oh, you son of a gun! I thought you were dead. Oh,
I'm glad to see you! Jim, are you hurt?"
Jim Lash stood in the trail leaning over the butt of his rifle, which
evidently he was utilizing as a crutch. He was pale but smiling. His
hands were bloody. A scarf had been bound tightly round his left leg
just above the knee. The leg hung limp, and the foot dragged.
"I reckon I ain't injured much," replied Him. "But my leg hurts like
hell, if you want to know."
"Laddy! Oh, where's Laddy?"
"He's just across the crack there. I was trying to get to him. We had
it hot an' heavy down here. Laddy was pretty bad shot up before he
tried to head Rojas off the trail.... Dick, did you see the Yaqui go
after Rojas?"
"Did I!" exclaimed Gale, grimly.
"The finish was all that saved me from runnin' loco plumb over the rim.
You see I was closer'n you to where Mercedes was hid. When Rojas an'
his last Greaser started across, Laddy went after them, but I couldn't.
Laddy did for Rojas's man, then went down himself. But he got up an'
fell, got up, went on, an' fell again. Laddy kept doin' that till he
dropped for good. I reckon our chances are against findin' him
alive.... I tell you, boys, Rojas was hell-bent. An' Mercedes was game.
I saw her shoot him. But mebbe bullets couldn't stop him then. If I
didn't sweat blood when Mercedes was fightin' him on the cliff! Then
the finish! Only a Yaqui could have done that.... Thorne, you didn't
miss it?"
"Yes, I was down and out," replied the cavalryman.
"It's a shame. Greatest stunt I ever seen! Thorne, you're standin' up
pretty fair. How about you? Dick, is he bad hurt?"
"No, he's not. A hard knock on the skull and a scalp wound," replied
Dick. "Here, Jim, let me help you over this place."
Step by step Gale got the two injured men down the uneven declivity and
then across the narrow lava bridge over the fissure. Here he bade them
rest while he went along the trail on that side to search for Laddy.
Gale found the ranger stretched out, face downward, a reddened hand
clutching a gun. Gale thought he was dead. Upon examination, however,
it was found that Ladd still lived, though he had many wounds. Gale
lifted him and carried him back to the others.
"He's alive, but that's all," said Dick, as he laid the ranger down.
"Do what you can. Stop the blood. Laddy's tough as cactus, you know.
I'll hurry back for Mercedes and Yaqui."
Gale, like a fleet, sure-footed mountain sheep, ran along the trail.
When he came across the Mexican, Rojas's last ally, Gale had evidence
of the terrible execution of the .405. He did not pause. On the first
part of that descent he made faster time than had Rojas. But he
exercised care along the hard, slippery, ragged slope leading to the
ledge. Presently he came upon Mercedes and the Yaqui. She ran right
into Dick's arms, and there her strength, if not her courage, broke,
and she grew lax.
"Mercedes, you're safe! Thorne's safe. It's all right now."
"Rojas!" she whispered.
"Gone! To the bottom of the crater! A Yaqui's vengeance, Mercedes."
He heard the girl whisper the name of the Virgin. Then he gathered her
up in his arms.
"Come, Yaqui."
The Indian grunted. He had one hand pressed close over a bloody place
in his shoulder. Gale looked keenly at him. Yaqui was inscrutable, as
of old, yet Gale somehow knew that wound meant little to him. The
Indian followed him.
Without pausing, moving slowly in some places, very carefully in
others, and swiftly on the smooth part of the trail, Gale carried
Mercedes up to the rim and along to the the others. Jim Lash worked
awkwardly over Ladd. Thorne was trying to assist. Ladd, himself, was
conscious, but he was a pallid, apparently a death-stricken man. The
greeting between Mercedes and Thorne was calm--strangely so, it seemed
to Gale. But he was calm himself. Ladd smiled at him, and evidently
would have spoken had he the power. Yaqui then joined the group, and
his piercing eyes roved from one to the other, lingering longest over
Ladd.
"Dick, I'm figger'n hard," said Jim, faintly. "In a minute it 'll be
up to you an' Mercedes. I've about shot my bolt.... Reckon you'll do--
best by bringin' up blankets--water--salt--firewood. Laddy's got--one
chance--in a hundred. Fix him up--first. Use hot salt water. If my
leg's broke--set it best you can. That hole in Yaqui--only 'll bother
him a day. Thorne's bad hurt... Now rustle--Dick, old--boy."
Lash's voice died away in a husky whisper, and he quietly lay back,
stretching out all but the crippled leg. Gale examined it, assured
himself the bones had not been broken, and then rose ready to go down
the trail.
"Mercedes, hold Thorne's head up, in your lap--so. Now I'll go."
On the moment Yaqui appeared to have completed the binding of his
wounded shoulder, and he started to follow Gale. He paid no attention
to Gale's order for him to stay back. But he was slow, and gradually
Gale forged ahead. The lingering brightness of the sunset lightened
the trail, and the descent to the arroyo was swift and easy. Some of
the white horses had come in for water. Blanco Sol spied Gale and
whistled and came pounding toward him. It was twilight down in the
arroyo. Yaqui appeared and began collecting a bundle of mesquite
sticks. Gale hastily put together the things he needed; and, packing
them all in a tarpaulin, he turned to retrace his steps up the trail.
Darkness was setting in. The trail was narrow, exceedingly steep, and
in some places fronted on precipices. Gale's burden was not very
heavy, but its bulk made it unwieldy, and it was always overbalancing
him or knocking against the wall side of the trail. Gale found it
necessary to wait for Yaqui to take the lead. The Indian's eyes must
have seen as well at night as by day. Gale toiled upward, shouldering,
swinging, dragging the big pack; and, though the ascent of the slope
was not really long, it seemed endless. At last they reached a level,
and were soon on the spot with Mercedes and the injured men.
Gale then set to work. Yaqui's part was to keep the fire blazing and
the water hot, Mercedes's to help Gale in what way she could. Gale
found Ladd had many wounds, yet not one of them was directly in a vital
place. Evidently, the ranger had almost bled to death. He remained
unconscious through Gale's operations. According to Jim Lash, Ladd had
one chance in a hundred, but Gale considered it one in a thousand.
Having done all that was possible for the ranger, Gale slipped blankets
under and around him, and then turned his attention to Lash.
Jim came out of his stupor. A mushrooming bullet had torn a great hole
in his leg. Gale, upon examination, could not be sure the bones had
been missed, but there was no bad break. The application of hot salt
water made Jim groan. When he had been bandaged and laid beside Ladd,
Gale went on to the cavalryman. Thorne was very weak and scarcely
conscious. A furrow had been plowed through his scalp down to the
bone. When it had been dressed, Mercedes collapsed. Gale laid her
with the three in a row and covered them with blankets and the
tarpaulin.
Then Yaqui submitted to examination. A bullet had gone through the
Indian's shoulder. To Gale it appeared serious. Yaqui said it was a
flea bite. But he allowed Gale to bandage it, and obeyed when he was
told to lie quiet in his blanket beside the fire.
Gale stood guard. He seemed still calm, and wondered at what he
considered a strange absence of poignant feeling. If he had felt
weariness it was now gone. He coaxed the fire with as little wood as
would keep it burning; he sat beside it; he walked to and fro close by;
sometimes he stood over the five sleepers, wondering if two of them, at
least, would ever awaken.
Time had passed swiftly, but as the necessity for immediate action had
gone by, the hours gradually assumed something of their normal length.
The night wore on. The air grew colder, the stars brighter, the sky
bluer, and, if such could be possible, the silence more intense. The
fire burned out, and for lack of wood could not be rekindled. Gale
patrolled his short beat, becoming colder and damper as dawn
approached. The darkness grew so dense that he could not see the pale
faces of the sleepers. He dreaded the gray dawn and the light. Slowly
the heavy black belt close to the lava changed to a pale gloom, then to
gray, and after that morning came quickly.
The hour had come for Dick Gale to face his great problem. It was
natural that he hung back a little at first; natural that when he went
forward to look at the quiet sleepers he did so with a grim and stern
force urging him. Yaqui stirred, roused, yawned, got up; and, though
he did not smile at Gale, a light shone swiftly across his dark face.
His shoulder drooped and appeared stiff, otherwise he was himself.
Mercedes lay in deep slumber. Thorne had a high fever, and was
beginning to show signs of restlessness. Ladd seemed just barely
alive. Jim Lash slept as if he was not much the worse for his wound.
Gale rose from his examination with a sharp breaking of his cold mood.
While there was life in Thorne and Ladd there was hope for them. Then
he faced his problem, and his decision was instant.
He awoke Mercedes. How wondering, wistful, beautiful was that first
opening flash of her eyes! Then the dark, troubled thought came.
Swiftly she sat up.
"Mercedes--come. Are you all right? Laddy is alive Thorne's not--not
so bad. But we've got a job on our hands! You must help me."
She bent over Thorne and laid her hands on his hot face. Then she
rose--a woman such as he had imagined she might be in an hour of trial.
Gale took up Ladd as carefully and gently as possible.
"Mercedes, bring what you can carry and follow me," he said. Then,
motioning for Yaqui to remain there, he turned down the slope with Ladd
in his arms.
Neither pausing nor making a misstep nor conscious of great effort,
Gale carried the wounded man down into the arroyo. Mercedes kept at
his heels, light, supple, lithe as a panther. He left her with Ladd
and went back. When he had started off with Thorne in his arms he felt
the tax on his strength. Surely and swiftly, however, he bore the
cavalryman down the trail to lay him beside Ladd. Again he started
back, and when he began to mount the steep lava steps he was hot, wet,
breathing hard. As he reached the scene of that night's camp a voice
greeted him. Jim Lash was sitting up.
"Hello, Dick. I woke some late this mornin'. Where's Laddy? Dick,
you ain't a-goin' to say--"
"Laddy's alive--that's about all," replied Dick.
"Where's Thorne an' Mercedes? Look here, man. I reckon you ain't
packin' this crippled outfit down that awful trail?"
"Had to, Jim. An hour's sun--would kill--both Laddy and Thorne. Come
on now."
For once Jim Lash's cool good nature and careless indifference gave
precedence to amaze and concern.
"Always knew you was a husky chap. But, Dick, you're no hoss! Get me a
crutch an' give me a lift on one side."
"Come on," replied Gale. "I've no time to monkey."
He lifted the ranger, called to Yaqui to follow with some of the camp
outfit, and once more essayed the steep descent. Jim Lash was the
heaviest man of the three, and Gale's strength was put to enormous
strain to carry him on that broken trail. Nevertheless, Gale went down,
down, walking swiftly and surely over the bad places; and at last he
staggered into the arroyo with bursting heart and red-blinded eyes.
When he had recovered he made a final trip up the slope for the camp
effects which Yaqui had been unable to carry.
Then he drew Jim and Mercedes and Yaqui, also, into an earnest
discussion of ways and means whereby to fight for the life of Thorne.
Ladd's case Gale now considered hopeless, though he meant to fight for
him, too, as long as he breathed.
In the labor of watching and nursing it seemed to Gale that two days
and two nights slipped by like a few hours. During that time the
Indian recovered from his injury, and became capable of performing all
except heavy tasks. Then Gale succumbed to weariness. After his
much-needed rest he relieved Mercedes of the care and watch over Thorne
which, up to that time, she had absolutely refused to relinquish. The
cavalryman had high fever, and Gale feared he had developed blood
poisoning. He required constant attention. His condition slowly grew
worse, and there came a day which Gale thought surely was the end. But
that day passed, and the night, and the next day, and Thorne lived on,
ghastly, stricken, raving. Mercedes hung over him with jealous,
passionate care and did all that could have been humanly done for a
man. She grew wan, absorbed, silent. But suddenly, and to Gale's
amaze and thanksgiving, there came an abatement of Thorne's fever. With
it some of the heat and redness of the inflamed wound disappeared.
Next morning he was conscious, and Gale grasped some of the hope that
Mercedes had never abandoned. He forced her to rest while he attended
to Thorne. That day he saw that the crisis was past. Recovery for
Thorne was now possible, and would perhaps depend entirely upon the
care he received.
Jim Lash's wound healed without any aggravating symptoms. It would be
only a matter of time until he had the use of his leg again. All these
days, however, there was little apparent change in Ladd's condition
unless it was that he seemed to fade away as he lingered. At first his
wounds remained open; they bled a little all the time outwardly,
perhaps internally also; the blood did not seem to clot, and so the
bullet holes did not close. Then Yaqui asked for the care of Ladd.
Gale yielded it with opposing thoughts--that Ladd would waste slowly
away till life ceased, and that there never was any telling what might
lie in the power of this strange Indian. Yaqui absented himself from
camp for a while, and when he returned he carried the roots and leaves
of desert plants unknown to Gale. From these the Indian brewed an
ointment. Then he stripped the bandages from Ladd and applied the
mixture to his wounds. That done, he let him lie with the wounds
exposed to the air, at night covering him. Next day he again exposed
the wounds to the warm, dry air. Slowly they closed, and Ladd ceased
to bleed externally.
Days passed and grew into what Gale imagined must have been weeks.
Yaqui recovered fully. Jim Lash began to move about on a crutch; he
shared the Indian's watch over Ladd. Thorne lay haggard, emaciated
ghost of his rugged self, but with life in the eyes that turned always
toward Mercedes. Ladd lingered and lingered. The life seemingly would
not leave his bullet-pierced body. He faded, withered, shrunk till he
was almost a skeleton. He knew those who worked and watched over him,
but he had no power of speech. His eyes and eyelids moved; the rest of
him seemed stone. All those days nothing except water was given him.
It was marvelous how tenaciously, however feebly, he clung to life.
Gale imagined it was the Yaqui's spirit that held back death. That
tireless, implacable, inscrutable savage was ever at the ranger's side.
His great somber eyes burned. At length he went to Gale, and, with
that strange light flitting across the hard bronzed face, he said Ladd
would live.
The second day after Ladd had been given such thin nourishment as he
could swallow he recovered the use of his tongue.
"Shore--this's--hell," he whispered.
That was a characteristic speech for the ranger, Gale thought; and
indeed it made all who heard it smile while their eyes were wet.
From that time forward Ladd gained, but he gained so immeasurably
slowly that only the eyes of hope could have seen any improvement. Jim
Lash threw away his crutch, and Thorne was well, if still somewhat
weak, before Ladd could lift his arm or turn his head. A kind of long,
immovable gloom passed, like a shadow, from his face. His whispers
grew stronger. And the day arrived when Gale, who was perhaps the
least optimistic, threw doubt to the winds and knew the ranger would
get well. For Gale that joyous moment of realization was one in which
he seemed to return to a former self long absent. He experienced an
elevation of soul. He was suddenly overwhelmed with gratefulness,
humility, awe. A gloomy black terror had passed by. He wanted to
thank the faithful Mercedes, and Thorne for getting well, and the
cheerful Lash, and Ladd himself, and that strange and wonderful Yaqui,
now such a splendid figure. He thought of home and Nell. The terrible
encompassing red slopes lost something of their fearsomeness, and there
was a good spirit hovering near.
"Boys, come round," called Ladd, in his low voice. "An' you, Mercedes.
An' call the Yaqui."
Ladd lay in the shade of the brush shelter that had been erected. His
head was raised slightly on a pillow. There seemed little of him but
long lean lines, and if it had not been for his keen, thoughtful,
kindly eyes, his face would have resembled a death mask of a man
starved.
"Shore I want to know what day is it an' what month?" asked Ladd.
Nobody could answer him. The question seemed a surprise to Gale, and
evidently was so to the others.
"Look at that cactus," went on Ladd.
Near the wall of lava a stunted saguaro lifted its head. A few
shriveled blossoms that had once been white hung along the fluted
column.
"I reckon according to that giant cactus it's somewheres along the end
of March," said Jim Lash, soberly.
"Shore it's April. Look where the sun is. An' can't you feel it's
gettin' hot?"
"Supposin' it is April?" queried Lash slowly.
"Well, what I'm drivin' at is it's about time you all was hittin' the
trail back to Forlorn River, before the waterholes dry out."
"Laddy, I reckon we'll start soon as you're able to be put on a hoss."
"Shore that 'll be too late."
A silence ensued, in which those who heard Ladd gazed fixedly at him
and then at one another. Lash uneasily shifted the position of his
lame leg, and Gale saw him moisten his lips with his tongue.
"Charlie Ladd, I ain't reckonin' you mean we're to ride off an' leave
you here?"
"What else is there to do? The hot weather's close. Pretty soon most
of the waterholes will be dry. You can't travel then.... I'm on my
back here, an' God only knows when I could be packed out. Not for
weeks, mebbe. I'll never be any good again, even if I was to get out
alive.... You see, shore this sort of case comes round sometimes in the
desert. It's common enough. I've heard of several cases where men had
to go an' leave a feller behind. It's reasonable. If you're fightin'
the desert you can't afford to be sentimental... Now, as I said, I'm
all in. So what's the sense of you waitin' here, when it means the old
desert story? By goin' now mebbe you'll get home. If you wait on a
chance of takin' me, you'll be too late. Pretty soon this lava 'll be
one roastin' hell. Shore now, boys, you'll see this the right way?
Jim, old pard?"
"No, Laddy, an' I can't figger how you could ever ask me."
"Shore then leave me here with Yaqui an' a couple of the hosses. We can
eat sheep meat. An' if the water holds out--"
"No!" interrupted Lash, violently.
Ladd's eyes sought Gale's face.
"Son, you ain't bull-headed like Jim. You'll see the sense of it.
There's Nell a-waitin' back at Forlorn River. Think what it means to
her! She's a damn fine girl, Dick, an' what right have you to break
her heart for an old worn-out cowpuncher? Think how she's watchin' for
you with that sweet face all sad an' troubled, an' her eyes turnin'
black. You'll go, son, won't you?"
Dick shook his head.
The ranger turned his gaze upon Thorne, and now the keen, glistening
light in his gray eyes had blurred.
"Thorne, it's different with you. Jim's a fool, an' young Gale has
been punctured by choya thorns. He's got the desert poison in his
blood. But you now--you've no call to stick--you can find that trail
out. It's easy to follow, made by so many shod hosses. Take your wife
an' go.... Shore you'll go, Thorne?"
Deliberately and without an instant's hesitation the cavalryman replied
"No."
Ladd then directed his appeal to Mercedes. His face was now convulsed,
and his voice, though it had sunk to a whisper, was clear, and
beautiful with some rich quality that Gale had never heard in it.
"Mercedes, you're a woman. You're the woman we fought for. An' some
of us are shore goin' to die for you. Don't make it all for nothin'.
Let us feel we saved the woman. Shore you can make Thorne go. He'll
have to go if you say. They'll all have to go. Think of the years of
love an' happiness in store for you. A week or so an' it 'll be too
late. Can you stand for me seein' you?... Let me tell you, Mercedes,
when the summer heat hits the lava we'll all wither an' curl up like
shavin's near a fire. A wind of hell will blow up this slope. Look at
them mesquites. See the twist in them. That's the torture of heat an'
thirst. Do you want me or all us men seein' you like that?...
Mercedes, don't make it all for nothin'. Say you'll persuade Thorne,
if not the others."
For all the effect his appeal had to move her Mercedes might have
possessed a heart as hard and fixed as the surrounding lava.
"Never!"
White-faced, with great black eyes flashing, the Spanish girl spoke the
word that bound her and her companions in the desert.
The subject was never mentioned again. Gale thought that he read a
sinister purpose in Ladd's mind. To his astonishment, Lash came to him
with the same fancy. After that they made certain there never was a
gun within reach of Ladd's clutching, clawlike hands.
Gradually a somber spell lifted from the ranger's mind. When he was
entirely free of it he began to gather strength daily. Then it was as
if he had never known patience--he who had shown so well how to wait.
He was in a frenzy to get well. He appetite could not be satisfied.
The sun climbed higher, whiter, hotter. At midday a wind from gulfward
roared up the arroyo, and now only palos verdes and the few saguaros
were green. Every day the water in the lava hole sank an inch.
The Yaqui alone spent the waiting time in activity. He made trips up
on the lava slope, and each time he returned with guns or boots or
sombreros, or something belonging to the bandits that had fallen. He
never fetched in a saddle or bridle, and from that the rangers
concluded Rojas's horses had long before taken their back trail. What
speculation, what consternation those saddled horses would cause if
they returned to Forlorn River!
As Ladd improved there was one story he had to hear every day. It was
the one relating to what he had missed--the sight of Rojas pursued and
plunged to his doom. The thing had a morbid fascination for the sick
ranger. He reveled in it. He tortured Mercedes. His gentleness and
consideration, heretofore so marked, were in abeyance to some sinister,
ghastly joy. But to humor him Mercedes racked her soul with the
sensations she had suffered when Rojas hounded her out on the ledge;
when she shot him; when she sprang to throw herself over the precipice;
when she fought him; when with half-blinded eyes she looked up to see
the merciless Yaqui reaching for the bandit. Ladd fed his cruel
longing with Thorne's poignant recollections, with the keen, clear,
never-to-be-forgotten shocks to Gale's eye and ear. Jim Lash, for one
at least, never tired of telling how he had seen and heard the tragedy,
and every time in the telling it gathered some more tragic and gruesome
detail. Jim believed in satiating the ranger. Then in the twilight,
when the campfire burned, Ladd would try to get the Yaqui to tell his
side of the story. But this the Indian would never do. There was only
the expression of his fathomless eyes and the set passion of his
massive face.
Those waiting days grew into weeks. Ladd gained very slowly.
Nevertheless, at last he could walk about, and soon he averred that,
strapped to a horse, he could last out the trip to Forlorn River.
There was rejoicing in camp, and plans were eagerly suggested. The
Yaqui happened to be absent. When he returned the rangers told him
they were now ready to undertake the journey back across lava and
cactus.
Yaqui shook his head. They declared again their intention.
"No!" replied the Indian, and his deep, sonorous voice rolled out upon
the quiet of the arroyo. He spoke briefly then. They had waited too
long. The smaller waterholes back in the trail were dry. The hot
summer was upon them. There could be only death waiting down in the
burning valley. Here was water and grass and wood and shade from the
sun's rays, and sheep to be killed on the peaks. The water would hold
unless the season was that dreaded ano seco of the Mexicans.
"Wait for rain," concluded Yaqui, and now as never before he spoke as
one with authority. "If no rain--" Silently he lifted his hand.