WHAT Gale might have thought an appalling situation, if considered from
a safe and comfortable home away from the desert, became, now that he
was shut in by the red-ribbed lava walls and great dry wastes, a matter
calmly accepted as inevitable. So he imagined it was accepted by the
others. Not even Mercedes uttered a regret. No word was spoken of
home. If there was thought of loved one, it was locked deep in their
minds. In Mercedes there was no change in womanly quality, perhaps
because all she had to love was there in the desert with her.
Gale had often pondered over this singular change in character. He had
trained himself, in order to fight a paralyzing something in the
desert's influence, to oppose with memory and thought an insidious
primitive retrogression to what was scarcely consciousness at all,
merely a savage's instinct of sight and sound. He felt the need now of
redoubled effort. For there was a sheer happiness in drifting. Not
only was it easy to forget, it was hard to remember. His idea was that
a man laboring under a great wrong, a great crime, a great passion
might find the lonely desert a fitting place for either remembrance or
oblivion, according to the nature of his soul. But an ordinary,
healthy, reasonably happy mortal who loved the open with its blaze of
sun and sweep of wind would have a task to keep from going backward to
the natural man as he was before civilization.
By tacit agreement Ladd again became the leader of the party. Ladd was
a man who would have taken all the responsibility whether or not it was
given him. In moments of hazard, of uncertainty, Lash and Gale, even
Belding, unconsciously looked to the ranger. He had that kind of power.
The first thing Ladd asked was to have the store of food that remained
spread out upon a tarpaulin. Assuredly, it was a slender enough
supply. The ranger stood for long moments gazing down at it. He was
groping among past experiences, calling back from his years of life on
range and desert that which might be valuable for the present issue.
It was impossible to read the gravity of Ladd's face, for he still
looked like a dead man, but the slow shake of his head told Gale much.
There was a grain of hope, however, in the significance with which he
touched the bags of salt and said, "Shore it was sense packin' all that
salt!"
Then he turned to face his comrades.
"That's little grub for six starvin' people corralled in the desert.
But the grub end ain't worryin' me. Yaqui can get sheep up the slopes.
Water! That's the beginnin' and middle an' end of our case."
"Laddy, I reckon the waterhole here never goes dry," replied Jim.
"Ask the Indian."
Upon being questioned, Yaqui repeated what he had said about the
dreaded ano seco of the Mexicans. In a dry year this waterhole failed.
"Dick, take a rope an' see how much water's in the hole."
Gale could not find bottom with a thirty foot lasso. The water was as
cool, clear, sweet as if it had been kept in a shaded iron receptacle.
Ladd welcomed this information with surprise and gladness.
"Let's see. Last year was shore pretty dry. Mebbe this summer won't
be. Mebbe our wonderful good luck'll hold. Ask Yaqui if he thinks it
'll rain."
Mercedes questioned the Indian.
"He says no man can tell surely. But he thinks the rain will come,"
she replied.
"Shore it 'll rain, you can gamble on that now," continued Ladd. "If
there's only grass for the hosses! We can't get out of here without
hosses. Dick, take the Indian an' scout down the arroyo. To-day I seen
the hosses were gettin' fat. Gettin' fat in this desert! But mebbe
they've about grazed up all the grass. Go an' see, Dick. An' may you
come back with more good news!"
Gale, upon the few occasions when he had wandered down the arroyo, had
never gone far. The Yaqui said there was grass for the horses, and
until now no one had given the question more consideration. Gale found
that the arroyo widened as it opened. Near the head, where it was
narrow, the grass lined the course of the dry stream bed. But farther
down this stream bed spread out. There was every indication that at
flood seasons the water covered the floor of the arroyo. The farther
Gale went the thicker and larger grew the gnarled mesquites and palo
verdes, the more cactus and greasewood there were, and other desert
growths. Patches of gray grass grew everywhere. Gale began to wonder
where the horses were. Finally the trees and brush thinned out, and a
mile-wide gray plain stretched down to reddish sand dunes. Over to one
side were the white horses, and even as Gale saw them both Blanco
Diablo and Sol lifted their heads and, with white manes tossing in the
wind, whistled clarion calls. Here was grass enough for many horses;
the arroyo was indeed an oasis.
Ladd and the others were awaiting Gale's report, and they received it
with calmness, yet with a joy no less evident because it was
restrained. Gale, in his keen observation at the moment, found that he
and his comrades turned with glad eyes to the woman of the party.
"Senor Laddy, you think--you believe--we shall--" she faltered, and her
voice failed. It was the woman in her, weakening in the light of real
hope, of the happiness now possible beyond that desert barrier.
"Mercedes, no white man can tell what'll come to pass out here," said
Ladd, earnestly. "Shore I have hopes now I never dreamed of. I was
pretty near a dead man. The Indian saved me. Queer notions have come
into my head about Yaqui. I don't understand them. He seems when you
look at him only a squalid, sullen, vengeful savage. But Lord! that's
far from the truth. Mebbe Yaqui's different from most Indians. He
looks the same, though. Mebbe the trouble is we white folks never knew
the Indian. Anyway, Beldin' had it right. Yaqui's our godsend. Now as
to the future, I'd like to know mebbe as well as you if we're ever to
get home. Only bein' what I am, I say, Quien sabe? But somethin'
tells me Yaqui knows. Ask him, Mercedes. Make him tell. We'll all be
the better for knowin'. We'd be stronger for havin' more'n our faith in
him. He's silent Indian, but make him tell."
Mercedes called to Yaqui. At her bidding there was always a suggestion
of hurry, which otherwise was never manifest in his actions. She put a
hand on his bared muscular arm and began to speak in Spanish. Her voice
was low, swift, full of deep emotion, sweet as the sound of a bell. It
thrilled Gale, though he understood scarcely a word she said. He did
not need translation to know that here spoke the longing of a woman for
life, love, home, the heritage of a woman's heart.
Gale doubted his own divining impression. It was that the Yaqui
understood this woman's longing. In Gale's sight the Indian's
stoicism, his inscrutability, the lavalike hardness of his face,
although they did not change, seemed to give forth light, gentleness,
loyalty. For an instant Gale seemed to have a vision; but it did not
last, and he failed to hold some beautiful illusive thing.
"Si!" rolled out the Indian's reply, full of power and depth.
Mercedes drew a long breath, and her hand sought Thorne's.
"He says yes," she whispered. "He answers he'll save us; he'll take us
all back--he knows!"
The Indian turned away to his tasks, and the silence that held the
little group was finally broken by Ladd.
"Shore I said so. Now all we've got to do is use sense. Friends, I'm
the commissary department of this outfit, an' what I say goes. You all
won't eat except when I tell you. Mebbe it'll not be so hard to keep
our health. Starved beggars don't get sick. But there's the heat
comin', an' we can all go loco, you know. To pass the time! Lord,
that's our problem. Now if you all only had a hankerin' for checkers.
Shore I'll make a board an' make you play. Thorne, you're the
luckiest. You've got your girl, an' this can be a honeymoon. Now with
a few tools an' little material see what a grand house you can build
for your wife. Dick, you're lucky, too. You like to hunt, an' up
there you'll find the finest bighorn huntin' in the West. Take Yaqui
and the .405. We need the meat, but while you're gettin' it have your
sport. The same chance will never come again. I wish we all was able
to go. But crippled men can't climb the lava. Shore you'll see some
country from the peaks. There's no wilder place on earth, except the
poles. An' when you're older, you an' Nell, with a couple of fine boys,
think what it'll be to tell them about bein' lost in the lava, an'
huntin' sheep with a Yaqui. Shore I've hit it. You can take yours out
in huntin' an' thinkin'. Now if I had a girl like Nell I'd never go
crazy. That's your game, Dick. Hunt, an' think of Nell, an' how
you'll tell those fine boys about it all, an' about the old cowman you
knowed, Laddy, who'll by then be long past the divide. Rustle now,
son. Get some enthusiasm. For shore you'll need it for yourself an'
us."
Gale climbed the lava slope, away round to the right of the arroyo,
along an old trail that Yaqui said the Papagos had made before his own
people had hunted there. Part way it led through spiked, crested,
upheaved lava that would have been almost impassable even without its
silver coating of choya cactus. There were benches and ledges and
ridges bare and glistening in the sun. From the crests of these
Yaqui's searching falcon gaze roved near and far for signs of sheep,
and Gale used his glass on the reaches of lava that slanted steeply
upward to the corrugated peaks, and down over endless heave and roll
and red-waved slopes. The heat smoked up from the lava, and this, with
the red color and the shiny choyas, gave the impression of a world of
smoldering fire.
Farther along the slope Yaqui halted and crawled behind projections to
a point commanding a view over an extraordinary section of country.
The peaks were off to the left. In the foreground were gullies,
ridges, and canyons, arroyos, all glistening with choyas and some other
and more numerous white bushes, and here and there towered a green
cactus. This region was only a splintered and more devastated part of
the volcanic slope, but it was miles in extent. Yaqui peeped over the
top of a blunt block of lava and searched the sharp-billowed
wilderness. Suddenly he grasped Gale and pointed across a deep wide
gully.
With the aid of his glass Gale saw five sheep. They were much larger
than he had expected, dull brown in color, and two of them were rams
with great curved horns. They were looking in his direction.
Remembering what he had heard about the wonderful eyesight of these
mountain animals, Gale could only conclude that they had seen the
hunters.
Then Yaqui's movements attracted and interested him. The Indian had
brought with him a red scarf and a mesquite branch. He tied the scarf
to the stick, and propped this up in a crack of the lava. The scarf
waved in the wind. That done, the Indian bade Gale watch.
Once again he leveled the glass at the sheep. All five were
motionless, standing like statues, heads pointed across the gully. They
were more than a mile distant. When Gale looked without his glass they
merged into the roughness of the lava. He was intensely interested.
Did the sheep see the red scarf? It seemed incredible, but nothing
else could account for that statuesque alertness. The sheep held this
rigid position for perhaps fifteen minutes. Then the leading ram
started to approach. The others followed. He took a few steps, then
halted. Always he held his head up, nose pointed.
"By George, they're coming!" exclaimed Gale. "They see that flag.
They're hunting us. They're curious. If this doesn't beat me!"
Evidently the Indian understood, for he grunted.
Gale found difficulty in curbing his impatience. The approach of the
sheep was slow. The advances of the leader and the intervals of
watching had a singular regularity. He worked like a machine. Gale
followed him down the opposite wall, around holes, across gullies, over
ridges. Then Gale shifted the glass back to find the others. They
were coming also, with exactly the same pace and pause of their leader.
What steppers they were! How sure-footed! What leaps they made! It
was thrilling to watch them. Gale forgot he had a rifle. The Yaqui
pressed a heavy hand down upon his shoulder. He was to keep well
hidden and to be quiet. Gale suddenly conceived the idea that the sheep
might come clear across to investigate the puzzling red thing
fluttering in the breeze. Strange, indeed, would that be for the
wildest creatures in the world.
The big ram led on with the same regular persistence, and in half an
hour's time he was in the bottom of the great gulf, and soon he was
facing up the slope. Gale knew then that the alluring scarf had
fascinated him. It was no longer necessary now for Gale to use his
glass. There was a short period when an intervening crest of lava hid
the sheep from view. After that the two rams and their smaller
followers were plainly in sight for perhaps a quarter of an hour. Then
they disappeared behind another ridge. Gale kept watching sure they
would come out farther on. A tense period of waiting passed, then a
suddenly electrifying pressure of Yaqui's hand made Gale tremble with
excitement.
Very cautiously he shifted his position. There, not fifty feet distant
upon a high mound of lava, stood the leader of the sheep. His size
astounded Gale. He seemed all horns. But only for a moment did the
impression of horns overbalancing body remain with Gale. The sheep was
graceful, sinewy, slender, powerfully built, and in poise magnificent.
As Gale watched, spellbound, the second ram leaped lightly upon the
mound, and presently the three others did likewise.
Then, indeed, Gale feasted his eyes with a spectacle for a hunter. It
came to him suddenly that there had been something he expected to see
in this Rocky Mountain bighorn, and it was lacking. They were
beautiful, as wonderful as even Ladd's encomiums had led him to
suppose. He thought perhaps it was the contrast these soft, sleek,
short-furred, graceful animals afforded to what he imagined the barren,
terrible lava mountains might develop.
The splendid leader stepped closer, his round, protruding amber eyes,
which Gale could now plainly see, intent upon that fatal red flag.
Like automatons the other four crowded into his tracks. A few little
slow steps, then the leader halted.
At this instant Gale's absorbed attention was directed by Yaqui to the
rifle, and so to the purpose of the climb. A little cold shock
affronted Gale's vivid pleasure. With it dawned a realization of what
he had imagined was lacking in these animals. They did not look wild!
The so-called wildest of wild creatures appeared tamer than sheep he
had followed on a farm. It would be little less than murder to kill
them. Gale regretted the need of slaughter. Nevertheless, he could not
resist the desire to show himself and see how tame they really were.
He reached for the .405, and as he threw a shell into the chamber the
slight metallic click made the sheep jump. Then Gale rose quickly to
his feet.
The noble ram and his band simply stared at Gale. They had never seen
a man. They showed not the slightest indication of instinctive fear.
Curiosity, surprise, even friendliness, seemed to mark their attitude
of attention. Gale imagined that they were going to step still closer.
He did not choose to wait to see if this were true. Certainly it
already took a grim resolution to raise the heavy .405.
His shot killed the big leader. The others bounded away with
remarkable nimbleness. Gale used up the remaining four shells to drop
the second ram, and by the time he had reloaded the others were out of
range.
The Yaqui's method of hunting was sure and deadly and saving of energy,
but Gale never would try it again. He chose to stalk the game. This
entailed a great expenditure of strength, the eyes and lungs of a
mountaineer, and, as Gale put it to Ladd, the need of seven-league
boots. After being hunted a few times and shot at, the sheep became
exceedingly difficult to approach. Gale learned to know that their
fame as the keenest-eyed of all animals was well founded. If he worked
directly toward a flock, crawling over the sharp lava, always a
sentinel ram espied him before he got within range. The only method of
attack that he found successful was to locate sheep with his glass,
work round to windward of them, and then, getting behind a ridge or
buttress, crawl like a lizard to a vantage point. He failed often.
The stalk called forth all that was in him of endurance, cunning,
speed. As the days grew hotter he hunted in the early morning hours and
a while before the sun went down. More than one night he lay out on
the lava, with the great stars close overhead and the immense void all
beneath him. This pursuit he learned to love. Upon those scarred and
blasted slopes the wild spirit that was in him had free rein. And like
a shadow the faithful Yaqui tried ever to keep at his heels.
One morning the rising sun greeted him as he surmounted the higher cone
of the volcano. He saw the vastness of the east aglow with a glazed
rosy whiteness, like the changing hue of an ember. At this height
there was a sweeping wind, still cool. The western slopes of lava lay
dark, and all that world of sand and gulf and mountain barrier beyond
was shrouded in the mystic cloud of distance. Gale had assimilated
much of the loneliness and the sense of ownership and the love of lofty
heights that might well belong to the great condor of the peak. Like
this wide-winged bird, he had an unparalleled range of vision. The
very corners whence came the winds seemed pierced by Gale's eyes.
Yaqui spied a flock of sheep far under the curved broken rim of the
main crater. Then began the stalk. Gale had taught the Yaqui
something--that speed might win as well as patient cunning. Keeping
out of sight, Gale ran over the spike-crusted lava, leaving the Indian
far behind. His feet were magnets, attracting supporting holds and he
passed over them too fast to fall. The wind, the keen air of the
heights, the red lava, the boundless surrounding blue, all seemed to
have something to do with his wildness. Then, hiding, slipping,
creeping, crawling, he closed in upon his quarry until the long rifle
grew like stone in his grip, and the whipping "spang" ripped the
silence, and the strange echo boomed deep in the crater, and rolled
around, as if in hollow mockery at the hopelessness of escape.
Gale's exultant yell was given as much to free himself of some bursting
joy of action as it was to call the slower Yaqui. Then he liked the
strange echoes. It was a maddening whirl of sound that bored deeper
and deeper along the whorled and caverned walls of the crater. It was
as if these aged walls resented the violating of their silent sanctity.
Gale felt himself a man, a thing alive, something superior to all this
savage, dead, upflung world of iron, a master even of all this grandeur
and sublimity because he had a soul.
He waited beside his quarry, and breathed deep, and swept the long
slopes with searching eyes of habit.
When Yaqui came up they set about the hardest task of all, to pack the
best of that heavy sheep down miles of steep, ragged, choya-covered
lava. But even in this Gale rejoiced. The heat was nothing, the
millions of little pits which could hold and twist a foot were nothing;
the blade-edged crusts and the deep fissures and the choked canyons and
the tangled, dwarfed mesquites, all these were as nothing but obstacles
to be cheerfully overcome. Only the choya hindered Dick Gale.
When his heavy burden pulled him out of sure-footedness, and he plunged
into a choya, or when the strange, deceitful, uncanny, almost invisible
frosty thorns caught and pierced him, then there was call for all of
fortitude and endurance. For this cactus had a malignant power of
torture. Its pain was a stinging, blinding, burning, sickening poison
in the blood. If thorns pierced his legs he felt the pain all over his
body; if his hands rose from a fall full of the barbed joints, he was
helpless and quivering till Yaqui tore them out.
But this one peril, dreaded more than dizzy height of precipice or
sunblindness on the glistening peak, did not daunt Gale. His teacher
was the Yaqui, and always before him was an example that made him
despair of a white man's equality. Color, race, blood, breeding--what
were these in the wilderness? Verily, Dick Gale had come to learn the
use of his hands.
So in a descent of hours he toiled down the lava slope, to stalk into
the arroyo like a burdened giant, wringing wet, panting, clear-eyed and
dark-faced, his ragged clothes and boots white with choya thorns.
The gaunt Ladd rose from his shaded seat, and removed his pipe from
smiling lips, and turned to nod at Jim, and then looked back again.
The torrid summer heat came imperceptibly, or it could never have been
borne by white men. It changed the lives of the fugitives, making them
partly nocturnal in habit. The nights had the balmy coolness of
spring, and would have been delightful for sleep, but that would have
made the blazing days unendurable.
The sun rose in a vast white flame. With it came the blasting,
withering wind from the gulf. A red haze, like that of earlier
sunsets, seemed to come sweeping on the wind, and it roared up the
arroyo, and went bellowing into the crater, and rushed on in fury to
lash the peaks.
During these hot, windy hours the desert-bound party slept in deep
recesses in the lava; and if necessity brought them forth they could
not remain out long. The sand burned through boots, and a touch of
bare hand on lava raised a blister.
A short while before sundown the Yaqui went forth to build a campfire,
and soon the others came out, heat-dazed, half blinded, with parching
throats to allay and hunger that was never satisfied. A little action
and a cooling of the air revived them, and when night set in they were
comfortable round the campfire.
As Ladd had said, one of their greatest problems was the passing of
time. The nights were interminably long, but they had to be passed in
work or play or dream--anything except sleep. That was Ladd's most
inflexible command. He gave no reason. But not improbably the ranger
thought that the terrific heat of the day spend in slumber lessened a
wear and strain, if not a real danger of madness.
Accordingly, at first the occupations of this little group were many
and various. They worked if they had something to do, or could invent
a pretext. They told and retold stories until all were wearisome.
They sang songs. Mercedes taught Spanish. They played every game they
knew. They invented others that were so trivial children would
scarcely have been interested, and these they played seriously. In a
word, with intelligence and passion, with all that was civilized and
human, they fought the ever-infringing loneliness, the savage solitude
of their environment.
But they had only finite minds. It was not in reason to expect a
complete victory against this mighty Nature, this bounding horizon of
death and desolation and decay. Gradually they fell back upon fewer
and fewer occupations, until the time came when the silence was hard to
break.
Gale believed himself the keenest of the party, the one who thought
most, and he watched the effect of the desert upon his companions. He
imagined that he saw Ladd grow old sitting round the campfire. Certain
it was that the ranger's gray hair had turned white. What had been at
times hard and cold and grim about him had strangely vanished in sweet
temper and a vacant-mindedness that held him longer as the days passed.
For hours, it seemed, Ladd would bend over his checkerboard and never
make a move. It mattered not now whether or not he had a partner. He
was always glad of being spoken to, as if he were called back from
vague region of mind. Jim Lash, the calmest, coolest, most nonchalant,
best-humored Westerner Gale had ever met, had by slow degrees lost that
cheerful character which would have been of such infinite good to his
companions, and always he sat brooding, silently brooding. Jim had no
ties, few memories, and the desert was claiming him.
Thorne and Mercedes, however, were living, wonderful proof that spirit,
mind, and heart were free--free to soar in scorn of the colossal
barrenness and silence and space of that terrible hedging prison of
lava. They were young; they loved; they were together; and the oasis
was almost a paradise. Gale believe he helped himself by watching them.
Imagination had never pictured real happiness to him. Thorne and
Mercedes had forgotten the outside world. If they had been existing on
the burned-out desolate moon they could hardly have been in a harsher,
grimmer, lonelier spot than this red-walled arroyo. But it might have
been a statelier Eden than that of the primitive day.
Mercedes grew thinner, until she was a slender shadow of her former
self. She became hard, brown as the rangers, lithe and quick as a
panther. She seemed to live on water and the air--perhaps, indeed, on
love. For of the scant fare, the best of which was continually urged
upon her, she partook but little. She reminded Gale of a wild brown
creature, free as the wind on the lava slopes. Yet, despite the great
change, her beauty remained undiminished. Her eyes, seeming so much
larger now in her small face, were great black, starry gulfs. She was
the life of that camp. Her smiles, her rapid speech, her low laughter,
her quick movements, her playful moods with the rangers, the dark and
passionate glance, which rested so often on her lover, the whispers in
the dusk as hand in hand they paced the campfire beat--these helped
Gale to retain his loosening hold on reality, to resist the lure of a
strange beckoning life where a man stood free in the golden open, where
emotion was not, nor trouble, nor sickness, nor anything but the
savage's rest and sleep and action and dream.
Although the Yaqui was as his shadow, Gale reached a point when he
seemed to wander alone at twilight, in the night, at dawn. Far down
the arroyo, in the deepening red twilight, when the heat rolled away on
slow-dying wind, Blanco Sol raised his splendid head and whistled for
his master. Gale reproached himself for neglect of the noble horse.
Blanco Sol was always the same. He loved four things--his master, a
long drink of cool water, to graze at will, and to run. Time and
place, Gale thought, meant little to Sol if he could have those four
things. Gale put his arm over the great arched neck and laid his cheek
against the long white mane, and then even as he stood there forgot the
horse. What was the dull, red-tinged, horizon-wide mantle creeping up
the slope? Through it the copper sun glowed, paled, died. Was it only
twilight? Was it gloom? If he thought about it he had a feeling that
it was the herald of night and the night must be a vigil, and that made
him tremble.
At night he had formed a habit of climbing up the lava slope as far as
the smooth trail extended, and there on a promontory he paced to and
fro, and watched the stars, and sat stone-still for hours looking down
at the vast void with its moving, changing shadows. From that
promontory he gazed up at a velvet-blue sky, deep and dark, bright with
millions of cold, distant, blinking stars, and he grasped a little of
the meaning of infinitude. He gazed down into the shadows, which,
black as they were and impenetrable, yet have a conception of
immeasurable space.
Then the silence! He was dumb, he was awed, he bowed his head, he
trembled, he marveled at the desert silence. It was the one thing
always present. Even when the wind roared there seemed to be silence.
But at night, in this lava world of ashes and canker, he waited for
this terrible strangeness of nature to come to him with the secret. He
seemed at once a little child and a strong man, and something very old.
What tortured him was the incomprehensibility that the vaster the space
the greater the silence! At one moment Gale felt there was only death
here, and that was the secret; at another he heard the slow beat of a
mighty heart.
He came at length to realize that the desert was a teacher. He did not
realize all that he had learned, but he was a different man. And when
he decided upon that, he was not thinking of the slow, sure call to the
primal instincts of man; he was thinking that the desert, as much as he
had experienced and no more, would absolutely overturn the whole scale
of a man's values, break old habits, form new ones, remake him. More of
desert experience, Gale believe, would be too much for intellect. The
desert did not breed civilized man, and that made Gale ponder over a
strange thought: after all, was the civilized man inferior to the
savage?
Yaqui was the answer to that. When Gale acknowledged this he always
remembered his present strange manner of thought. The past, the old
order of mind, seemed as remote as this desert world was from the
haunts of civilized men. A man must know a savage as Gale knew Yaqui
before he could speak authoritatively, and then something stilled his
tongue. In the first stage of Gale's observation of Yaqui he had
marked tenaciousness of life, stoicism, endurance, strength. These
were the attributes of the desert. But what of that second stage
wherein the Indian had loomed up a colossal figure of strange honor,
loyalty, love? Gale doubted his convictions and scorned himself for
doubting.
There in the gloom sat the silent, impassive, inscrutable Yaqui. His
dark face, his dark eyes were plain in the light of the stars. Always
he was near Gale, unobtrusive, shadowy, but there. Why? Gale
absolutely could not doubt that the Indian had heart as well as mind.
Yaqui had from the very first stood between Gale and accident, toil,
peril. It was his own choosing. Gale could not change him or thwart
him. He understood the Indian's idea of obligation and sacred duty.
But there was more, and that baffled Gale. In the night hours, alone
on the slope, Gale felt in Yaqui, as he felt the mighty throb of that
desert pulse, a something that drew him irresistibly to the Indian.
Sometimes he looked around to find the Indian, to dispel these strange,
pressing thoughts of unreality, and it was never in vain.
Thus the nights passed, endlessly long, with Gale fighting for his old
order of thought, fighting the fascination of the infinite sky, and the
gloomy insulating whirl of the wide shadows, fighting for belief, hope,
prayer, fighting against that terrible ever-recurring idea of being
lost, lost, lost in the desert, fighting harder than any other thing
the insidious, penetrating, tranquil, unfeeling self that was coming
between him and his memory.
He was losing the battle, losing his hold on tangible things, losing
his power to stand up under this ponderous, merciless weight of desert
space and silence.
He acknowledged it in a kind of despair, and the shadows of the night
seemed whirling fiends. Lost! Lost! Lost! What are you waiting for?
Rain!... Lost! Lost! Lost in the desert! So the shadows seemed to
scream in voiceless mockery.
At the moment he was alone on the promontory. The night was far spent.
A ghastly moon haunted the black volcanic spurs. The winds blew
silently. Was he alone? No, he did not seem to be alone. The Yaqui
was there. Suddenly a strange, cold sensation crept over Gale. It was
new. He felt a presence. Turning, he expected to see the Indian, but
instead, a slight shadow, pale, almost white, stood there, not close
nor yet distant. It seemed to brighten. Then he saw a woman who
resembled a girl he had seemed to know long ago. She was white-faced,
golden-haired, and her lips were sweet, and her eyes were turning
black. Nell! He had forgotten her. Over him flooded a torrent of
memory. There was tragic woe in this sweet face. Nell was holding out
her arms--she was crying aloud to him across the sand and the cactus
and the lava. She was in trouble, and he had been forgetting.
That night he climbed the lava to the topmost cone, and never slipped
on a ragged crust nor touched a choya thorn. A voice called to him.
He saw Nell's eyes in the stars, in the velvet blue of sky, in the
blackness of the engulfing shadows. She was with him, a slender shape,
a spirit, keeping step with him, and memory was strong, sweet, beating,
beautiful. Far down in the west, faintly golden with light of the
sinking moon, he saw a cloud that resembled her face. A cloud on the
desert horizon! He gazed and gazed. Was that a spirit face like the
one by his side? No--he did not dream.
In the hot, sultry morning Yaqui appeared at camp, after long hours of
absence, and he pointed with a long, dark arm toward the west. A bank
of clouds was rising above the mountain barrier.
"Rain!" he cried; and his sonorous voice rolled down the arroyo.
Those who heard him were as shipwrecked mariners at sight of a distant
sail.
Dick Gale, silent, grateful to the depths of his soul, stood with arm
over Blanco Sol and watched the transforming west, where clouds of
wonderous size and hue piled over one another, rushing, darkening,
spreading, sweeping upward toward that white and glowing sun.
When they reached the zenith and swept round to blot out the blazing
orb, the earth took on a dark, lowering aspect. The red of sand and
lava changed to steely gray. Vast shadows, like ripples on water,
sheeted in from the gulf with a low, strange moan. Yet the silence was
like death. The desert was awaiting a strange and hated
visitation--storm! If all the endless torrid days, the endless mystic
nights had seemed unreal to Gale, what, then, seemed this stupendous
spectacle?
"Oh! I felt a drop of rain on my face!" cried Mercedes; and whispering
the name of a saint, she kissed her husband.
The white-haired Ladd, gaunt, old, bent, looked up at the maelstrom of
clouds, and he said, softly, "Shore we'll get in the hosses, an' pack
light, an' hit the trail, an' make night marches!"
Then up out of the gulf of the west swept a bellowing wind and a black
pall and terrible flashes of lightning and thunder like the end of the
world--fury, blackness, chaos, the desert storm.