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Desert Gold by Zane Grey

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I. Old Friends
II. Mercedes Castaneda
III. A Flight Into The Desert
IV. Forlorn River
V. A Desert Rose
VI. The Yaqui
VII. White Horses
VIII. The Running of Blanco Sol
IX. An Interrupted Siesta
X. Rojas
XI. Across Cactus and Lava
XII. The Crater of Hell
XIII. Changes at Forlorn River
XIV. A Lost Son
XV. Bound In The Desert
XVI. Mountain Sheep
XVII. The Whistle of a Horse
XVIII. Reality Against Dreams
XIX. The Secret of Forlorn River
XX. Desert Gold




A FACE haunted Cameron--a woman's face. It was there in the white
heart of the dying campfire; it hung in the shadows that hovered
over the flickering light; it drifted in the darkness beyond.

This hour, when the day had closed and the lonely desert night set
in with its dead silence, was one in which Cameron's mind was thronged
with memories of a time long past--of a home back in Peoria, of a
woman he had wronged and lost, and loved too late. He was a prospector
for gold, a hunter of solitude, a lover of the drear, rock-ribbed
infinitude, because he wanted to be alone to remember.

A sound disturbed Cameron's reflections. He bent his head listening.
A soft wind fanned the paling embers, blew sparks and white ashes
and thin smoke away into the enshrouding circle of blackness. His
burro did not appear to be moving about. The quiet split to the
cry of a coyote. It rose strange, wild, mournful--not the howl
of a prowling upland beast baying the campfire or barking at a
lonely prospector, but the wail of a wolf, full-voiced, crying out
the meaning of the desert and the night. Hunger throbbed in
it--hunger for a mate, for offspring, for life. When it ceased,
the terrible desert silence smote Cameron, and the cry echoed in his soul.
He and that wandering wolf were brothers.

Then a sharp clink of metal on
stone and soft pads of hoofs in sand prompted Cameron to reach for his gun,
and to move out of the light of waning campfire. He was somewhere
along the wild border line between Sonora and Arizona; and the
prospector who dared the heat and barrenness of that region risked
other dangers sometimes as menacing.

Figures darker than the gloom approached and took shape, and in
the light turned out to be those of a white man and a heavily
packed burro.

"Hello there," the man called, as he came to a halt and gazed
about him. "I saw your fire. May I make camp here?"

Cameron came forth out of the shadow and greeted his visitor, whom
he took for a prospector like himself. Cameron resented the breaking
of his lonely campfire vigil, but he respected the law of the desert.

The stranger thanked him, and then slipped the pack from his burro.
Then he rolled out his pack and began preparations for a meal. His
movements were slow and methodical.

Cameron watched him, still with resentment, yet with a curious and
growing interest. The campfire burst into a bright blaze, and by
its light Cameron saw a man whose gray hair somehow did not seem to
make him old, and whose stooped shoulders did not detract from an
impression of rugged strength.

"Find any mineral?" asked Cameron, presently.

His visitor looked up quickly, as if startled by the sound of a
human voice. He replied, and then the two men talked a little.
But the stranger evidently preferred silence. Cameron understood
that. He laughed grimly and bent a keener gaze upon the furrowed,
shadowy face. Another of those strange desert prospectors in whom
there was some relentless driving power besides the lust for gold!
Cameron felt that between this man and himself there was a subtle
affinity, vague and undefined, perhaps born of the divination that
here was a desert wanderer like himself, perhaps born of a deeper,
an unintelligible relation having its roots back in the past. A
long-forgotten sensation stirred in Cameron's breast, one so long
forgotten that he could recognize it. But it was akin to pain.


When he awakened he found, to his surprise, that his companion had
departed. A trail in the sand led off to the north. There was no
water in that direction. Cameron shrugged his shoulders; it was
not his affair; he had his own problems. And straightway he forgot
his strange visitor.

Cameron began his day, grateful for the solitude that was now unbroken,
for the canyon-furrowed and cactus-spired scene that now showed no
sign of life. He traveled southwest, never straying far from the
dry stream bed; and in a desultory way, without eagerness, he hunted
for signs of gold.

The work was toilsome, yet the periods of rest in which he indulged
were not taken because of fatigue. He rested to look, to listen,
to feel. What the vast silent world meant to him had always been
a mystical thing, which he felt in all its incalculable power, but
never understood.

That day, while it was yet light, and he was digging in a moist
white-bordered wash for water, he was brought sharply up by hearing
the crack of hard hoofs on stone. There down the canyon came a man
and a burro. Cameron recognized them.

"Hello, friend," called the man, halting. "Our trails crossed again.
That's good."

"Hello," replied Cameron, slowly. "Any mineral sign to-day?"


They made camp together, ate their frugal meal, smoked a pipe, and
rolled in their blankets without exchanging many words. In the
morning the same reticence, the same aloofness characterized the
manner of both. But Cameron's companion, when he had packed his
burro and was ready to start, faced about and said: "We might
stay together, if it's all right with you."

"I never take a partner," replied Cameron.

"You're alone; I'm alone," said the other, mildly. "It's a big
place. If we find gold there'll be enough for two."

"I don't go down into the desert for gold alone," rejoined Cameron,
with a chill note in his swift reply.

His companion's deep-set, luminous eyes emitted a singular flash.
It moved Cameron to say that in the years of his wandering he had
met no man who could endure equally with him the blasting heat,
the blinding dust storms, the wilderness of sand and rock and lava
and cactus, the terrible silence and desolation of the desert.
Cameron waved a hand toward the wide, shimmering, shadowy descent
of plain and range. "I may strike through the Sonora Desert. I
may head for Pinacate or north for the Colorado Basin. You are
an old man."

"I don't know the country, but to me one place is the same as
another," replied his companion. for moments he seemed to forget
himself, and swept his far-reaching gaze out over the colored gulf
of stone and sand. Then with gentle slaps he drove his burro in
behind Cameron. "Yes, I'm old. I'm lonely, too. It's come to me
just lately. but, friend, I can still travel, and for a few days
my company won't hurt you."

"Have it your way," said Cameron.

They began a slow march down into the desert. At sunset
they camped under the lee of a low mesa. Cameron was glad his
comrade had the Indian habit of silence. Another day's travel found
the prospectors deep in the wilderness. Then there came a breaking
of reserve, noticeable in the elder man, almost imperceptibly
gradual in Cameron. Beside the meager mesquite campfire this
gray-faced, thoughtful old prospector would remove his black pipe
from his mouth to talk a little; and Cameron would listen, and
sometimes unlock his lips to speak a word. And so, as Cameron
began to respond to the influence of a desert less lonely than
habitual, he began to take keener note of his comrade, and found
him different from any other he had ever encountered in the wilderness.
This man never grumbled at the heat, the glare, the driving sand,
the sour water, the scant fare. During the daylight hours he was
seldom idle. At night he sat dreaming before the fire or paced to
and fro in the gloom. He slept but little, and that long after
Cameron had had his own rest. He was tireless, patient, brooding.

Cameron's awakened interest brought home to him the realization
that for years he had shunned companionship. In those years only
three men had wandered into the desert with him, and these had
left their bones to bleach in the shifting sands. Cameron had
not cared to know their secrets. But the more he studied this
latest comrade the more he began to suspect that he might have
missed something in the others. In his own driving passion to
take his secret into the limitless abode of silence and desolation,
where he could be alone with it, he had forgotten that life dealt
shocks to other men. Somehow this silent comrade reminded him.

One afternoon late, after they had toiled up a white, winding wash
of sand and gravel, they came upon a dry waterhole. Cameron dug
deep into the sand, but without avail. He was turning to retrace
weary steps back to the last water when his comrade asked him to
wait. Cameron watched him search in his pack and bring forth
what appeared to be a small, forked branch of a peach tree. He
grasped the prongs of the fork and held them before him with the
end standing straight out, and then he began to walk along the
stream bed. Cameron, at first amused, then amazed, then pitying,
and at last curious, kept pace with the prospector. He saw a
strong tension of his comrade's wrists, as if he was holding hard
against a considerable force. The end of the peach branch began to
quiver and turn. Cameron reached out a hand to touch it, and was
astounded at feeling a powerful vibrant force pulling the branch
downward. He felt it as a magnetic shock. The branch kept turning,
and at length pointed to the ground.

"Dig here," said the prospector.

"What!" ejaculated Cameron. Had the man lost his mind?

Then Cameron stood by while his comrade dug in the sand. Three feet
he dug--four--five, and the sand grew dark, then moist. At six
feet water began to seep through.

"Get the little basket in my pack," he said.

Cameron complied, and saw his comrade drop the basket into the deep
hole, where it kept the sides from caving in and allowed the water
to seep through. While Cameron watched, the basket filled. Of all
the strange incidents of his desert career this was the strangest.
Curiously he picked up the peach branch and held it as he had seen
it held. The thing, however, was dead in his hands.

"I see you haven't got it," remarked his comrade. "Few men have."

"Got what?" demanded Cameron.

"A power to find water that way. Back in Illinois an old German used
to do that to locate wells. He showed me I had the same power.
I can't explain. But you needn't look so dumfounded. There's
nothing supernatural about it."

"You mean it's a simple fact--that some men have a
magnetism, a force or power to find water as you did?"

"Yes. It's not unusual on the farms back in Illinois, Ohio,
Pennsylvania. The old German I spoke of made money traveling round
with his peach fork."

"What a gift for a man in the desert!"

Cameron's comrade smiled--the second time in all those days.

They entered a region where mineral abounded, and their march became
slower. Generally they took the course of a wash, one on each side,
and let the burros travel leisurely along nipping at the bleached
blades of scant grass, or at sage or cactus, while they searched
in the canyons and under the ledges for signs of gold. When they
found any rock that hinted of gold they picked off a piece and gave
it a chemical test. The search was fascinating. They interspersed
the work with long, restful moments when they looked afar down the
vast reaches and smoky shingles to the line of dim mountains.
Some impelling desire, not all the lure of gold, took them to the
top of mesas and escarpments; and here, when they had dug and picked,
they rested and gazed out at the wide prospect. Then, as the sun
lost its heat and sank lowering to dent its red disk behind far-distant
spurs, they halted in a shady canyon or likely spot in a dry wash and
tried for water. When they found it they unpacked, gave drink to the
tired burros, and turned them loose. Dead mesquite served for the
campfire. While the strange twilight deepened into weird night they
sat propped against stones, with eyes on the dying embers of the
fire, and soon they lay on the sand with the light of white stars
on their dark faces.

Each succeeding day and night Cameron felt himself more and more
drawn to this strange man. He found that after hours of burning
toil he had insensibly grown nearer to his comrade. He reflected
that after a few weeks in the desert he had always become a different man.
In civilization, in the rough mining camps, he had been a prey to unrest
and gloom. but once down on the great billowing sweep of this lonely
world, he could look into his unquiet soul without bitterness.
Did not the desert magnify men? Cameron believed that wild men
in wild places, fighting cold, heat, starvation, thirst, barrenness,
facing the elements in all their ferocity, usually retrograded,
descended to the savage, lost all heart and soul and became mere
brutes. Likewise he believed that men wandering or lost in the
wilderness often reversed that brutal order of life and became
noble, wonderful, super-human. So now he did not marvel at a slow
stir stealing warmer along his veins, and at the premonition that
perhaps he and this man, alone on the desert, driven there by life's
mysterious and remorseless motive, were to see each other through
God's eyes.

His companion was one who thought of himself last. It humiliated
Cameron that in spite of growing keenness he could not hinder him
from doing more than an equal share of the day's work. The man
was mild, gentle, quiet, mostly silent, yet under all his softness
he seemed to be made of the fiber of steel. Cameron could not
thwart him. Moreover, he appeared to want to find gold for Cameron,
not for himself. Cameron's hands always trembled at the turning
of rock that promised gold; he had enough of the prospector's
passion for fortune to thrill at the chance of a strike. But the
other never showed the least trace of excitement.

One night they were encamped at the head of a canyon. The day had
been exceedingly hot, and long after sundown the radiation of heat
from the rocks persisted. A desert bird whistled a wild, melancholy
note from a dark cliff, and a distant coyote wailed mournfully.
The stars shone white until the huge moon rose to burn out all their
whiteness. And on this night Cameron watched his comrade, and
yielded to interest he had not heretofore voiced.

"Pardner, what drives you into the desert?"

"Do I seem to be a driven man?"

"No. But I feel it. Do you come to forget?"


"Ah!" softly exclaimed Cameron. Always he seemed to have known
that. He said no more. He watched the old man rise and begin
his nightly pace to and fro, up and down. With slow, soft tread,
forward and back, tirelessly and ceaselessly, he paced that beat.
He did not look up at the stars or follow the radiant track of the
moon along the canyon ramparts. He hung his head. He was lost in
another world. It was a world which the lonely desert made real.
He looked a dark, sad, plodding figure, and somehow impressed
Cameron with the helplessness of men.

Cameron grew acutely conscious of the pang in his own breast, of
the fire in his heart, the strife and torment of his passion-driven
soul. He had come into the desert to remember a woman. She
appeared to him then as she had looked when first she entered his
life--a golden-haired girl, blue-eyed, white-skinned, red-lipped,
tall and slender and beautiful. He had never forgotten, and an old,
sickening remorse knocked at his heart. He rose and climbed out
of the canyon and to the top of a mesa, where he paced to and fro
and looked down into the weird and mystic shadows, like the darkness
of his passion, and farther on down the moon track and the glittering
stretches that vanished in the cold, blue horizon. The moon soared
radiant and calm, the white stars shone serene. The vault of heaven
seemed illimitable and divine. The desert surrounded him, silver-streaked
and black-mantled, a chaos of rock and sand, silent, austere,
ancient, always waiting. It spoke to Cameron. It was a naked
corpse, but it had a soul. In that wild solitude the white stars
looked down upon him pitilessly and pityingly. They had shone
upon a desert that might once have been alive and was now dead,
and might again throb with life, only to die. It was a terrible
ordeal for him to stand along and realize that he was only a man
facing eternity. But that was what gave him strength to endure.
Somehow he was a part of it all, some atom in that vastness,
somehow necessary to an inscrutable purpose, something
indestructible in that desolate world of ruin and death and decay,
something perishable and changeable and growing under all the
fixity of heaven. In that endless, silent hall of desert there
was a spirit; and Cameron felt hovering near him what he imagined
to be phantoms of peace.

He returned to camp and sought his comrade.

"I reckon we're two of a kind," he said. "It was a woman who drove
me into the desert. But I come to remember. The desert's the only
place I can do that."

"Was she your wife?" asked the elder man.


A long silence ensued. A cool wind blew up the canyon, sifting the
sand through the dry sage, driving away the last of the lingering
heat. The campfire wore down to a ruddy ashen heap.

"I had a daughter," said Cameron's comrade. "She lost her mother
at birth. And I--I didn't know how to bring up a girl. She was
pretty and gay. It was the--the old story."

His words were peculiarly significant to Cameron. They distressed
him. He had been wrapped up in his remorse. If ever in the past
he had thought of any one connected with the girl he had wronged
he had long forgotten. But the consequences of such wrong were
far-reaching. They struck at the roots of a home. Here in the
desert he was confronted by the spectacle of a splendid man, a
father, wasting his life because he could not forget--because
there was nothing left to live for. Cameron understood better now
why his comrade was drawn by the desert.

"Well, tell me more?" asked Cameron, earnestly.

"It was the old, old story. My girl was pretty and free. The
young bucks ran after her. I guess she did not run away from them.
And I was away a good deal--working in another town. She was in love
with a wild fellow. I knew nothing of it till too late. He was engaged
to marry her. But he didn't come back. And when the disgrace became
plain to all, my girl left home. She went West. After a while I heard
from her. She was well--working--living for her baby. A long
time passed. I had no ties. I drifted West. Her lover had also
gone West. In those days everybody went West. I trailed him,
intending to kill him. But I lost his trail. Neither could I find
any trace of her. She had moved on, driven, no doubt, by the hound
of her past. Since then I have taken to the wilds, hunting gold
on the desert."

"Yes, it's the old, old story, only sadder, I think," said Cameron;
and his voice was strained and unnatural. "Pardner, what Illinois town
was it you hailed from?"


"And your--your name?" went on Cameron huskily.

"Warren--Jonas Warren."

That name might as well have been a bullet. Cameron stood erect,
motionless, as men sometimes stand momentarily when shot straight
through the heart. In an instant, when thoughts resurged like
blinding flashes of lightning through his mind, he was a swaying,
quivering, terror-stricken man. He mumbled something hoarsely and
backed into the shadow. But he need not have feared discovery,
however surely his agitation might have betrayed him. Warren sat
brooding over the campfire, oblivious of his comrade, absorbed in
the past.

Cameron swiftly walked away in the gloom, with the blood thrumming
thick in his ears, whispering over and over:

"Merciful God! Nell was his daughter!"


As thought and feeling multiplied, Cameron was overwhelmed. Beyond
belief, indeed, was it that out of the millions of men in the world
two who had never seen each other could have been driven into the desert
by memory of the same woman. It brought the past so close. It showed
Cameron how inevitably all his spiritual life was governed by what had
happened long ago. That which made life significant to him was a wandering
in silent places where no eye could see him with his secret. Some fateful
chance had thrown him with the father of the girl he had wrecked.
It was incomprehensible; it was terrible. It was the one thing
of all possible happenings in the world of chance that both father
and lover would have found unendurable.

Cameron's pain reached to despair when he felt this relation between
Warren and himself. Something within him cried out to him to reveal
his identity. Warren would kill him; but it was not fear of death
that put Cameron on the rack. He had faced death too often to be
afraid. It was the thought of adding torture to this long-suffering
man. All at once Cameron swore that he would not augment Warren's
trouble, or let him stain his hands with blood. He would tell the
truth of Nell's sad story and his own, and make what amends he could.

Then Cameron's thought shifted from father to daughter. She was
somewhere beyond the dim horizon line. In those past lonely hours
by the campfire his fancy had tortured him with pictures of Nell.
But his remorseful and cruel fancy had lied to him. Nell had
struggled upward out of menacing depths. She had reconstructed a
broken life. And now she was fighting for the name and happiness
of her child. Little Nell! Cameron experienced a shuddering ripple
in all his being--the physical rack of an emotion born of a new and
strange consciousness.

As Cameron gazed out over the blood-red, darkening desert suddenly
the strife in his soul ceased. The moment was one of incalculable
change, in which his eyes seemed to pierce the vastness of cloud
and range, and mystery of gloom and shadow--to see with strong vision
the illimitable space before him. He felt the grandeur of the desert,
its simplicity, its truth. He had learned at last the lesson it
taught. No longer strange was his meeting and wandering with Warren.
Each had marched in the steps of destiny; and as the lines of their
fates had been inextricably tangled in the years that were gone,
so now their steps had crossed and turned them toward one common
goal. For years they had been two men marching alone, answering
to an inward driving search, and the desert had brought them together.
For years they had wandered alone in silence and solitude, where
the sun burned white all day and the stars burned white all night,
blindly following the whisper of a spirit. But now Cameron knew
that he was no longer blind, and in this flash of revelation he
felt that it had been given him to help Warren with his burden.

He returned to camp trying to evolve a plan. As always at that
long hour when the afterglow of sunset lingered in the west,
Warren plodded to and fro in the gloom. All night Cameron lay
awake thinking.

In the morning, when Warren brought the burros to camp and began
preparations for the usual packing, Cameron broke silence.

"Pardner, your story last night made me think. I want to tell you
something about myself. It's hard enough to be driven by sorrow
for one you've loved, as you've been driven; but to suffer sleepless
and eternal remorse for the ruin of one you've loved as I have
suffered--that is hell. . . .Listen. In my younger days--it seems
long now, yet it's not so many years--I was wild. I wronged the
sweetest and loveliest girl I ever knew. I went away not dreaming
that any disgrace might come to her. Along about that time I fell
into terrible moods--I changed--I learned I really loved her. Then
came a letter I should have gotten months before. It told of her
trouble--importuned me to hurry to save her. Half frantic with
shame and fear, I got a marriage certificate and rushed back to her town.
She was gone--had been gone for weeks, and her disgrace was known.
Friends warned me to keep out of reach of her father. I trailed her--
found her. I married her. But too late!...She would not live with me.
She left me--I followed her west, but never found her."

Warren leaned forward a little and looked into Cameron's eyes, as
if searching there for the repentance that might make him less
deserving of a man's scorn.

Cameron met the gaze unflinchingly, and again began to speak:

"You know, of course, how men out here somehow lose old names, old
identities. It won't surprise you much to learn my name really isn't
Cameron, as I once told you."

Warren stiffened upright. It seemed that there might have been a
blank, a suspension, between his grave interest and some strange
mood to come.

Cameron felt his heart bulge and contract in his breast; all his
body grew cold; and it took tremendous effort for him to make his
lips form words.

"Warren, I'm the man you're hunting. I'm Burton. I was Nell's

The old man rose and towered over Cameron, and then plunged down
upon him, and clutched at his throat with terrible stifling hands.
The harsh contact, the pain awakened Cameron to his peril before
it was too late. Desperate fighting saved him from being hurled
to the ground and stamped and crushed. Warren seemed a maddened
giant. There was a reeling, swaying, wrestling struggle before
the elder man began to weaken. The Cameron, buffeted, bloody,
half-stunned, panted for speech.

"Warren--hold on! Give me--a minute. I married Nell. Didn't you
know that?...I saved the child!

Cameron felt the shock that vibrated through Warren. He repeated
the words again and again. As if compelled by some resistless
power, Warren released Cameron, and, staggering back, stood with uplifted,
shaking hands. In his face was a horrible darkness.

"Warren! Wait--listen!" panted Cameron. "I've got that marriage
certificate--I've had it by me all these years. I kept it--to
prove to myself I did right."

The old man uttered a broken cry.

Cameron stole off among the rocks. How long he absented himself
or what he did he had no idea. When he returned Warren was sitting
before the campfire, and once more he appeared composed. He spoke,
and his voice had a deeper note; but otherwise he seemed as usual.

They packed the burros and faced the north together.

Cameron experienced a singular exaltation. He had lightened his
comrade's burden. Wonderfully it came to him that he had also
lightened his own. From that hour it was not torment to think
of Nell. Walking with his comrade through the silent places, lying
beside him under the serene luminous light of the stars, Cameron
began to feel the haunting presence of invisible things that were
real to him--phantoms whispering peace. In the moan of the cool
wind, in the silken seep of sifting sand, in the distant rumble
of a slipping ledge, in the faint rush of a shooting star he
heard these phantoms of peace coming with whispers of the long
pain of men at the last made endurable. Even in the white noonday,
under the burning sun, these phantoms came to be real to him.
In the dead silence of the midnight hours he heard them breathing
nearer on the desert wind--nature's voices of motherhood, whispers
of God, peace in the solitude.


There came a morning when the sun shone angry and red through a
dull, smoky haze.

"We're in for sandstorms," said Cameron.

They had scarcely covered a mile when a desert-wide, moaning, yellow
wall of flying sand swooped down upon them. Seeking shelter in
the lee of a rock, they waited, hoping the storm was only a squall,
such as frequently whipped across the open places. The moan
increased to a roar, and the dull red slowly dimmed, to disappear
in the yellow pall, and the air grew thick and dark. Warren slipped
the packs from the burros. Cameron feared the sandstorms had
arrived some weeks ahead of their usual season.

The men covered their heads and patiently waited. The long hours
dragged, and the storm increased in fury. Cameron and Warren wet
scarfs with water from their canteens, and bound them round their
faces, and then covered their heads. The steady, hollow bellow of
flying sand went on. It flew so thickly that enough sifted down
under the shelving rock to weight the blankets and almost bury
the men. They were frequently compelled to shake off the sand
to keep from being borne to the ground. And it was necessary
to keep digging out the packs. The floor of their shelter gradually
rose higher and higher. they tried to eat, and seemed to be grinding
only sand between their teeth. They lost the count of time. They
dared not sleep, for that would have meant being buried alive.
The could only crouch close to the leaning rock, shake off the sand,
blindly dig out their packs, and every moment gasp and cough and
choke to fight suffocation.

The storm finally blew itself out. It left the prospectors heavy
and stupid for want of sleep. Their burros had wandered away, or
had been buried in the sand. Far as eye could reach the desert
had marvelously changed; it was now a rippling sea of sand dunes.
Away to the north rose the peak that was their only guiding mark.
They headed toward it, carrying a shovel and part of their packs.

At noon the peak vanished in the shimmering glare of the desert.
The prospectors pushed on, guided by the sun. In every wash
they tried for water. With the forked peach branch in his
hands Warren always succeeded in locating water. They dug,
but it lay too deep. At length, spent and sore, they fell and
slept through that night and part of the next day. Then they
succeeded in getting water, and quenched their thirst, and filled
the canteens, and cooked a meal.

The burning day found them in an interminably wide plain, where
there was no shelter from the fierce sun. The men were exceedingly
careful with their water, though there was absolute necessity of
drinking a little every hour. Late in the afternoon they came
to a canyon that they believed was the lower end of the one in
which they had last found water. For hours they traveled toward
its head, and, long after night had set, found what they sought.
Yielding to exhaustion, they slept, and next day were loath to
leave the waterhole. Cool night spurred them on with canteens
full and renewed strength.

Morning told Cameron that they had turned back miles into the
desert, and it was desert new to him. The red sun, the increasing
heat, and especially the variety and large size of the cactus plants
warned Cameron that he had descended to a lower level. Mountain
peaks loomed on all sides, some near, others distant; and one, a
blue spur, splitting the glaring sky far to the north, Cameron
thought he recognized as a landmark. The ascent toward it was
heartbreaking, not in steepness, but in its league-and-league-long
monotonous rise. Cameron knew there was only one hope--to make
the water hold out and never stop to rest. Warren began to weaken.
Often he had to halt. The burning white day passed, and likewise
the night, with its white stars shining so pitilessly cold and bright.

Cameron measured the water in his canteen by its weight. Evaporation
by heat consumed as much as he drank. During one of the rests, when
he had wetted his parched mouth and throat, he found opportunity to pour
a little water from his canteen into Warren's.

At first Cameron had curbed his restless activity to accommodate
the pace of his elder comrade. But now he felt that he was losing
something of his instinctive and passionate zeal to get out of
the desert. The thought of water came to occupy his mind. He
began to imagine that his last little store of water did not
appreciably diminish. He knew he was not quite right in his mind
regarding water; nevertheless, he felt this to be more of fact
than fancy, and he began to ponder.

When next they rested he pretended to be in a kind of stupor; but
he covertly watched Warren. The man appeared far gone, yet he had
cunning. He cautiously took up Cameron's canteen and poured water
into it from his own.

This troubled Cameron. The old irritation at not being able to
thwart Warren returned to him. Cameron reflected, and concluded
that he had been unwise not to expect this very thing. Then, as
his comrade dropped into weary rest, he lifted both canteens. If
there were any water in Warren's, it was only very little. Both
men had been enduring the terrible desert thirst, concealing it,
each giving his water to the other, and the sacrifice had been useless.

Instead of ministering to the parched throats of one or both, the
water had evaporated. When Cameron made sure of this, he took one
more drink, the last, and poured the little water left into Warren's
canteen. He threw his own away.

Soon afterward Warren discovered the loss.

"Where's your canteen?" he asked.

"The heat was getting my water, so I drank what was left."

"My son!" said Warren.

The day opened for them in a red and green hell of rock and cactus.
Like a flame the sun scorched and peeled their faces. Warren went
blind from the glare, and Cameron had to lead him. At last Warren
plunged down, exhausted, in the shade of a ledge.

Cameron rested and waited, hopeless, with hot, weary eyes gazing
down from the height where he sat. The ledge was the top step
of a ragged gigantic stairway. Below stretched a sad, austere,
and lonely valley. A dim, wide streak, lighter than the bordering
gray, wound down the valley floor. Once a river had flowed there,
leaving only a forlorn trace down the winding floor of this forlorn valley.

Movement on the part of Warren attracted Cameron's attention.
Evidently the old prospector had recovered his sight and some of
his strength. for he had arisen, and now began to walk along the
arroyo bed with his forked peach branch held before him. He had
clung to the precious bit of wood. Cameron considered the prospect
for water hopeless, because he saw that the arroyo had once been
a canyon, and had been filled with sands by desert winds. Warren,
however, stopped in a deep pit, and, cutting his canteen in half,
began to use one side of it as a scoop. He scooped out a wide
hollow, so wide that Cameron was certain he had gone crazy. Cameron
gently urged him to stop, and then forcibly tried to make him.
But these efforts were futile. Warren worked with slow, ceaseless,
methodical movement. He toiled for what seemed hours. Cameron,
seeing the darkening, dampening sand, realized a wonderful possibility
of water, and he plunged into the pit with the other half of the
canteen. Then both men toiled, round and round the wide hole,
down deeper and deeper. The sand grew moist, then wet. At the
bottom of the deep pit the sand coarsened, gave place to gravel.
Finally water welled in, a stronger volume than Cameron ever
remembered finding on the desert. It would soon fill the hole and
run over. He marveled at the circumstance. The time was near
the end of the dry season. Perhaps an underground stream
flowed from the range behind down to the valley floor, and at
this point came near to the surface. Cameron had heard of such
desert miracles.

The finding of water revived Cameron's flagging hopes. But they
were short-lived. Warren had spend himself utterly.

"I'm done. Don't linger," he whispered. "My son, go--go!"

Then he fell. Cameron dragged him out of the sand pit to a
sheltered place under the ledge. While sitting beside the failing
man Cameron discovered painted images on the wall. Often in the
desert he had found these evidences of a prehistoric people. Then,
from long habit, he picked up a piece of rock and examined it.
Its weight made him closely scrutinize it. The color was a
peculiar black. He scraped through the black rust to find a
piece of gold. Around him lay scattered heaps of black pebbles
and bits of black, weathered rock and pieces of broken ledge, and
they showed gold.

"Warren! Look! See it! Feel it! Gold!"

But Warren had never cared, and now he was too blind to see.

"Go--go!" he whispered.

Cameron gazed down the gray reaches of the forlorn valley, and
something within him that was neither intelligence nor emotion--something
inscrutably strange--impelled him to promise.

Then Cameron built up stone monuments to mark his gold strike. That
done, he tarried beside the unconscious Warren. Moments passed--grew
into hours. Cameron still had strength left to make an effort to
get out of the desert. But that same inscrutable something which
had ordered his strange involuntary promise to Warren held him
beside his fallen comrade. He watched the white sun turn to gold,
and then to red and sink behind mountains in the west. Twilight
stole into the arroyo. It lingered, slowly turning to gloom.
The vault of blue black lightened to the blinking of stars.
Then fell the serene, silent, luminous desert night.

Cameron kept his vigil. As the long hours wore on he felt creep
over him the comforting sense that he need not forever fight sleep.
A wan glow flared behind the dark, uneven horizon, and a melancholy
misshapen moon rose to make the white night one of shadows. Absolute
silence claimed the desert. It was mute. Then that inscrutable
something breathed to him, telling him when he was alone. He need
not have looked at the dark, still face beside him.

Another face haunted Cameron's--a woman's face. It was there in
the white moonlit shadows; it drifted in the darkness beyond; it
softened, changed to that of a young girl, sweet, with the same
dark, haunting eyes of her mother. Cameron prayed to that nameless
thing within him, the spirit of something deep and mystical as
life. He prayed to that nameless thing outside, of which the rocks
and the sand, the spiked cactus and the ragged lava, the endless
waste, with its vast star-fired mantle, were but atoms. He prayed
for mercy to a woman--for happiness to her child. Both mother and
daughter were close to him then. Time and distance were annihilated.
He had faith--he saw into the future. The fateful threads of the
past, so inextricably woven with his error, wound out their tragic
length here in this forlorn desert.

Cameron then took a little tin box from his pocket, and, opening
it, removed a folded certificate. He had kept a pen, and now he
wrote something upon the paper, and in lieu of ink he wrote with
blood. The moon afforded him enough light to see; and, having
replaced the paper, he laid the little box upon a shelf of rock.
It would remain there unaffected by dust, moisture, heat, time.
How long had those painted images been there clear and sharp on
the dry stone walls? There were no trails in that desert, and
always there were incalculable changes. Cameron saw this mutable
mood of nature--the sands would fly and seep and carve and bury;
the floods would dig and cut; the ledges would weather in the heat and rain;
the avalanches would slide; the cactus seeds would roll in the wind to
catch in a niche and split the soil with thirsty roots. Years
would pass. Cameron seemed to see them, too; and likewise destiny
leading a child down into this forlorn waste, where she would find
love and fortune, and the grave of her father.

Cameron covered the dark, still face of his comrade from the light
of the waning moon.

That action was the severing of his hold on realities. They fell
away from him in final separation. Vaguely, dreamily he seemed to
behold his soul. Night merged into gray day; and night came again,
weird and dark. Then up out of the vast void of the desert, from
the silence and illimitableness, trooped his phantoms of peace.
Majestically they formed around him, marshalling and mustering in
ceremonious state, and moved to lay upon him their passionless serenity.



RICHARD GALE reflected that his sojourn in the West had been
what his disgusted father had predicted--idling here and there,
with no objective point or purpose.

It was reflection such as this, only more serious and perhaps
somewhat desperate, that had brought Gale down to the border.
For some time the newspapers had been printing news of Mexican
revolution, guerrilla warfare, United States cavalry patrolling
the international line, American cowboys fighting with the rebels,
and wild stories of bold raiders and bandits. But as opportunity,
and adventure, too, had apparently given him a wide berth in
Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, he had struck southwest for the Arizona
border, where he hoped to see some stirring life. He did not
care very much what happened. Months of futile wandering in the
hope of finding a place where he fitted had inclined Richard to
his father's opinion.

It was after dark one evening in early October when Richard arrived
in Casita. He was surprised to find that it was evidently a town
of importance. There was a jostling, jabbering, sombreroed crowd
of Mexicans around the railroad station. He felt as if he were
in a foreign country. After a while he saw several men of his
nationality, one of whom he engaged to carry his luggage to a
hotel. They walked up a wide, well-lighted street lined with
buildings in which were bright windows. Of the many people
encountered by Gale most were Mexicans. His guide explained that
the smaller half of Casita lay in Arizona, the other half in Mexico,
and of several thousand inhabitants the majority belonged on the
southern side of the street, which was the boundary line. He also
said that rebels had entered the town that day, causing a good
deal of excitement.

Gale was almost at the end of his financial resources, which fact
occasioned him to turn away from a pretentious hotel and to ask
his guide for a cheaper lodging-house. When this was found, a
sight of the loungers in the office, and also a desire for comfort,
persuaded Gale to change his traveling-clothes for rough outing
garb and boots.

"Well, I'm almost broke," he soliloquized, thoughtfully. "The
governor said I wouldn't make any money. He's right--so far.
And he said I'd be coming home beaten. There he's wrong. I've
got a hunch that something 'll happen to me in this Greaser town."

He went out into a wide, whitewashed, high-ceiled corridor, and
from that into an immense room which, but for pool tables, bar,
benches, would have been like a courtyard. The floor was
cobblestoned, the walls were of adobe, and the large windows
opened like doors. A blue cloud of smoke filled the place. Gale
heard the click of pool balls and the clink of glasses along the
crowded bar. Bare-legged, sandal-footed Mexicans in white rubbed
shoulders with Mexicans mantled in black and red. There were
others in tight-fitting blue uniforms with gold fringe or tassels
at the shoulders. These men wore belts with heavy, bone-handled
guns, and evidently were the rurales, or native policemen. There
were black-bearded, coarse-visaged Americans, some gambling round
the little tables, others drinking. The pool tables were the center
of a noisy crowd of younger men, several of whom were unsteady on
their feet. There were khaki-clad cavalrymen strutting in and out.

At one end of the room, somewhat apart from the general meelee,
was a group of six men round a little table, four of whom were
seated, the other two standing. These last two drew a second
glance from Gale. The sharp-featured, bronzed faces and piercing
eyes, the tall, slender, loosely jointed bodies, the quiet, easy,
reckless air that seemed to be a part of the men--these things
would plainly have stamped them as cowboys without the buckled
sombreros, the colored scarfs, the high-topped, high-heeled boots
with great silver-roweled spurs. Gale did not fail to note, also,
that these cowboys wore guns, and this fact was rather a shock to
his idea of the modern West. It caused him to give some credence
to the rumors of fighting along the border, and he felt a thrill.

He satisfied his hunger in a restaurant adjoining, and as he
stepped back into the saloon a man wearing a military cape jostled
him. Apologies from both were instant. Gale was moving on when
the other stopped short as if startled, and, leaning forward,

"Dick Gale?"

"You've got me," replied Gale, in surprise. "But I don't know you."

He could not see the stranger's face, because it was wholly shaded
by a wide-brimmed hat pulled well down.

"By Jove! It's Dick! If this isn't great! Don't you know me?"

"I've heard your voice somewhere," replied Gale. "Maybe I'll
recognize you if you come out from under that bonnet."

For answer the man, suddenly manifesting thought of himself,
hurriedly drew Gale into the restaurant, where he thrust back his
hat to disclose a handsome, sunburned face.

"George Thorne! So help me--"

"'S-s-ssh. You needn't yell," interrupted the other, as he met
Gale's outstretched hand. There was a close, hard, straining grip.
"I must not be recognized here. There are reasons. I'll explain in
a minute. Say, but it's fine to see you! Five years, Dick, five
years since I saw you run down University Field and spread-eagle the
whole Wisconsin football team."

"Don't recollect that," replied Dick, laughing. "George, I'll bet
you I'm gladder to see you than you are to see me. It seems so
long. You went into the army, didn't you?"

"I did. I'm here now with the Ninth Cavalry. But--never mind me.
What're you doing way down here? Say, I just noticed your togs.
Dick, you can't be going in for mining or ranching, not in this
God-forsaken desert?"

"On the square, George, I don't know any more why I'm here than--than
you know."

"Well, that beats me!" ejaculated Thorne, sitting back in his chair,
amaze and concern in his expression. "What the devil's wrong?
Your old man's got too much money for you ever to be up against it.
Dick, you couldn't have gone to the bad?"

A tide of emotion surged over Gale. How good it was to meet a
friend--some one to whom to talk! He had never appreciated his
loneliness until that moment.

"George, how I ever drifted down here I don't know. I didn't
exactly quarrel with the governor. But--damn it, Dad hurt
me--shamed me, and I dug out for the West. It was this way.
After leaving college I tried to please him by tackling one thing
after another that he set me to do. On the square, I had no head
for business. I made a mess of everything. The governor got sore.
He kept ramming the harpoon into me till I just couldn't stand it.
What little ability I possessed deserted me when I got my back up,
and there you are. Dad and I had a rather uncomfortable half hour.
When I quit--when I told him straight out that I was going West to
fare for myself, why, it wouldn't have been so tough if he hadn't
laughed at me. He called me a rich man's son--an idle, easy-going
spineless swell. He said I didn't even have character enough to be out
and out bad. He said I didn't have sense enough to marry one of the nice
girls in my sister's crowd. He said I couldn't get back home unless I
sent to him for money. He said he didn't believe I could fight--could
really make a fight for anything under the sun. Oh--he--he shot
it into me, all right."

Dick dropped his head upon his hands, somewhat ashamed of the
smarting dimness in his eyes. He had not meant to say so much.
Yet what a relief to let out that long-congested burden!

"Fight!" cried Thorne, hotly. "What's ailing him? Didn't they
call you Biff Gale in college? Dick, you were one of the best
men Stagg ever developed. I heard him say so--that you were the
fastest, one-hundred-and-seventy-five-pound man he'd ever trained,
the hardest to stop."

"The governor didn't count football," said Dick. "He didn't mean
that kind of fight. When I left home I don't think I had an idea
what was wrong with me. But, George, I think I know now. I was
a rich man's son--spoiled, dependent, absolutely ignorant of the
value of money. I haven't yet discovered any earning capacity in
me. I seem to be unable to do anything with my hands. That's the
trouble. But I'm at the end of my tether now. And I'm going to
punch cattle or be a miner, or do some real stunt--like joining
the rebels."

"Aha! I thought you'd spring that last one on me," declared Thorne,
wagging his head. "Well, you just forget it. Say, old boy, there's
something doing in Mexico. The United States in general doesn't
realize it. But across that line there are crazy revolutionists,
ill-paid soldiers, guerrilla leaders, raiders, robbers, outlaws,
bandits galore, starving peons by the thousand, girls and women
in terror. Mexico is like some of her volcanoes--ready to erupt
fire and hell! Don't make the awful mistake of joining rebel
forces. Americans are hated by Mexicans of the lower class--
the fighting class, both rebel and federal. Half the time
these crazy Greasers are on one side, then on the other.
If you didn't starve or get shot in ambush, or die of thirst,
some Greaser would knife you in the back for you belt buckle
or boots. There are a good many Americans with the rebels
eastward toward Agua, Prieta and Juarez. Orozco is operating in
Chihuahua, and I guess he has some idea of warfare. But this Sonora,
a mountainous desert, the home of the slave and the Yaqui. There's
unorganized revolt everywhere. The American miners and ranchers,
those who could get away, have fled across into the States, leaving
property. Those who couldn't or wouldn't come must fight for their
lives, are fighting now."

"That's bad," said Gale. "It's news to me. Why doesn't the government
take action, do something?"

"Afraid of international complications. Don't want to offend the
Maderists, or be criticized by jealous foreign nations. It's a
delicate situation, Dick. The Washington officials know the gravity
of it, you can bet. But the United States in general is in the dark,
and the army--well, you ought to hear the inside talk back at San
Antonio. We're patrolling the boundary line. We're making a grand
bluff. I could tell you of a dozen instances where cavalry should
have pursued raiders on the other side of the line. But we won't
do it. The officers are a grouchy lot these days. You see, of
course, what significance would attach to United States cavalry
going into Mexican territory. There would simply be hell. My
own colonel is the sorest man on the job. We're all sore. It's
like sitting on a powder magazine. We can't keep the rebels and
raiders from crossing the line. Yet we don't fight. My commission
expires soon. I'll be discharged in three months. You can bet
I'm glad for more reasons than I've mentioned."

Thorne was evidently laboring under strong, suppressed excitement.
His face showed pale under the tan, and his eyes gleamed with a dark fire.
Occasionally his delight at meeting, talking with Gale, dominated the other
emotions, but not for long. He had seated himself at a table near one of
the doorlike windows leading into the street, and every little while
he would glance sharply out. Also he kept consulting his watch.

These details gradually grew upon Gale as Thorne talked.

"George, it strikes me that you're upset," said Dick, presently. "I seem to
remember you as a cool-headed fellow whom nothing could disturb.
Has the army changed you?"

Thorne laughed. It was a laugh with a strange, high note. It was
reckless--it hinted of exaltation. He rose abruptly; he gave the
water money to go for drinks; he looked into the saloon, and then
into the street. On this side of the house there was a porch opening
on a plaza with trees and shrubbery and branches. Thorne peered
out one window, then another. His actions were rapid. Returning
to the table, he put his hands upon it and leaned over to look
closely into Gale's face.

"I'm away from camp without leave," he said.

"Isn't that a serious offense?" asked Dick.

"Serious? For me, if I'm discovered, it means ruin. There are
rebels in town. Any moment we might have trouble. I ought to
be ready for duty--within call. If I'm discovered it means arrest.
That means delay--the failure of my plans--ruin."

Gale was silenced by his friend's intensity. Thorne bent over
closer with his dark eyes searching bright.

"We were old pals--once?"

"Surely," replied Dick.

"What would you say, Dick Gale, if I told you that you're the one
man I'd rather have had come along than any other at this crisis
of my life?"

The earnest gaze, the passionate voice with its deep tremor drew
Dick upright, thrilling and eager, conscious of strange, unfamiliar

"Thorne, I should say I was glad to be the fellow," replied Dick.

Their hands locked for a moment, and they sat down again with heads
close over the table.

"Listen," began Thorne, in low, swift whisper, "a few days, a week
ago--it seems like a year!--I was of some assistance to refugees
fleeing from Mexico into the States. They were all women, and one
of them was dressed as a nun. Quite by accident I saw her face.
It was that of a beautiful girl. I observed she kept aloof from
the others. I suspected a disguise, and, when opportunity afforded,
spoke to her, offered my services. She replied to my poor efforts at
Spanish in fluent English. She had fled in terror from her home,
some place down in Sinaloa. Rebels are active there. Her father
was captured and held for ransom. When the ransom was paid the
rebels killed him. The leader of these rebels was a bandit named
Rojas. Long before the revolution began he had been feared by people
of class--loved by the peons. Bandits are worshiped by the peons.
All of the famous bandits have robbed the rich and given to the poor.
Rojas saw the daughter, made off with her. But she contrived to
bribe her guards, and escaped almost immediately before any harm
befell her. She hid among friends. Rojas nearly tore down the
town in his efforts to find her. Then she disguised herself, and
traveled by horseback, stage, and train to Casita.

"Her story fascinated me, and that one fleeting glimpse I had of
her face I couldn't forget. She had no friends here, no money.
She knew Rojas was trailing her. This talk I had with her was
at the railroad station, where all was bustle and confusion. No
one noticed us, so I thought. I advised her to remove the disguise
of a nun before she left the waiting-room. And I got a boy to
guide her. But he fetched her to his house. I had promised to come
in the evening to talk over the situation with her.

"I found her, Dick, and when I saw her--I went stark, staring, raving
mad over her. She is the most beautiful, wonderful girl I ever saw.
Her name is Mercedes Castaneda, and she belongs to one of the old
wealthy Spanish families. She has lived abroad and in Havana. She
speaks French as well as English. She is--but I must be brief.

"Dick, think, think! With Mercedes also it was love at first sight.
My plan is to marry her and get her farther to the interior, away
from the border. It may not be easy. She's watched. So am I.
It was impossible to see her without the women of this house knowing.
At first, perhaps, they had only curiosity--an itch to gossip. But
the last two days there has been a change. Since last night there's
some powerful influence at work. Oh, these Mexicans are subtle,
mysterious! After all, they are Spaniards. They work in secret,
in the dark. They are dominated first by religion, then by gold,
then by passion for a woman. Rojas must have got word to his
friends here; yesterday his gang of cutthroat rebels arrived, and
to-day he came. When I learned that, I took my chance and left
camp I hunted up a priest. He promised to come here. It's time
he's due. But I'm afraid he'll be stopped."

"Thorne, why don't you take the girl and get married without waiting,
without running these risks?" said Dick.

"I fear it's too late now. I should have done that last night.
You see, we're over the line--"

"Are we in Mexican territory now?" queried Gale, sharply.

"I guess yes, old boy. That's what complicates it. Rojas and his
rebels have Casita in their hands. But Rojas without his rebels
would be able to stop me, get the girl, and make for his mountain
haunts. If Mercedes is really watched--if her identity is known,
which I am sure is the case--we couldn't get far from this house
before I'd be knifed and she seized."

"Good Heavens! Thorne, can that sort of thing happen less than a
stone's throw from the United States line?" asked Gale, incredulously.

"It can happen, and don't you forget it. You don't seem to realize
the power these guerrilla leaders, these rebel captains, and
particularly these bandits, exercise over the mass of Mexicans.
A bandit is a man of honor in Mexico. He is feared, envied, loved.
In the hearts of the people he stands next to the national idol--the
bull-fighter, the matador. The race has a wild, barbarian, bloody
strain. Take Quinteros, for instance. He was a peon, a slave.
He became a famous bandit. At the outbreak of the revolution he
proclaimed himself a leader, and with a band of followers he
devastated whole counties. The opposition to federal forces was only
a blind to rob and riot and carry off women. The motto of this man
and his followers was: 'Let us enjoy ourselves while we may!'

"There are other bandits besides Quinteros, not so famous or such
great leaders, but just as bloodthirsty. I've seen Rojas. He's
a handsome, bold sneering devil, vainer than any peacock. He decks
himself in gold lace and sliver trappings, in all the finery he can
steal. He was one of the rebels who helped sack Sinaloa and carry
off half a million in money and valuables. Rojas spends gold like
he spills blood. But he is chiefly famous for abducting women.
the peon girls consider it an honor to be ridden off with. Rojas
has shown a penchant for girls of the better class."

Thorne wiped the perspiration from his pale face and bent a dark
gaze out of the window before he resumed his talk.

"Consider what the position of Mercedes really is. I can't get
any help from our side of the line. If so, I don't know where.
The population on that side is mostly Mexican, absolutely in
sympathy with whatever actuates those on this side. The whole
caboodle of Greasers on both sides belong to the class in sympathy
with the rebels, the class that secretly respects men like Rojas,
and hates an aristocrat like Mercedes. They would conspire to throw
her into his power. Rojas can turn all the hidden underground
influences to his ends. Unless I thwart him he'll get Mercedes as easily
as he can light a cigarette. But I'll kill him or some of his gang or her
before I let him get her. . . . This is the situation, old friend. I've
little time to spare. I face arrest for desertion. Rojas is in town.
I think I was followed to this hotel. The priest has betrayed me
or has been stopped. Mercedes is here alone, waiting, absolutely
dependent upon me to save her from--from....She's the sweetest,
loveliest girl!...In a few moments--sooner or later there'll be hell
here! Dick, are you with me?"

Dick Gale drew a long, deep breath. A coldness, a lethargy, an
indifference that had weighed upon him for months had passed out
of his being. On the instant he could not speak, but his hand
closed powerfully upon his friend's. Thorne's face changed wonderfully,
the distress, the fear, the appeal all vanishing in a smile of
passionate gratefulness.

Then Dick's gaze, attracted by some slight sound, shot over his
friend's shoulder to see a face at the window--a handsome, bold,
sneering face, with glittering dark eyes that flashed in sinister

Dick stiffened in his seat. Thorne, with sudden clenching of hands,
wheeled toward the window.

"Rojas!" he whispered.



THE dark face vanished. Dick Gale heard footsteps and the tinkle
of spurs. He strode to the window, and was in time to see a Mexican
swagger into the front door of the saloon. Dick had only a glimpse;
but in that he saw a huge black sombrero with a gaudy band, the back
of a short, tight-fitting jacket, a heavy pearl-handled gun swinging
with a fringe of sash, and close-fitting trousers spreading wide
at the bottom. There were men passing in the street, also several
Mexicans lounging against the hitching-rail at the curb.

"Did you see him? Where did he go?" whispered Thorne, as he joined
Gale. "Those Greasers out there with the cartridge belts crossed
over their breasts--they are rebels."

"I think he went into the saloon," replied Dick. "He had a gun,
but for all I can see the Greasers out there are unarmed."

"Never believe it! There! Look, Dick! That fellow's a guard,
though he seems so unconcerned. See, he has a short carbine, almost
concealed....There's another Greaser farther down the path. I'm
afraid Rojas has the house spotted."

"If we could only be sure."

"I'm sure, Dick. Let's cross the hall; I want to see how it looks
from the other side of the house."

Gale followed Thorne out of the restaurant into the high-ceiled
corridor which evidently divided the hotel, opening into the street
and running back to a patio. A few dim, yellow lamps flickered.
A Mexican with a blanket round his shoulders stood in the front entrance.
Back toward the patio there were sounds of boots on the stone floor.
Shadows flitted across that end of the corridor. Thorne entered a huge
chamber which was even more poorly lighted than the hall. It contained
a table littered with papers, a few high-backed chairs, a couple of couches,
and was evidently a parlor.

"Mercedes has been meeting me here," said thorne. "At this hour
she comes every moment or so to the head of the stairs there, and
if I am here she comes down. Mostly there are people in this room
a little later. We go out into the plaza. It faces the dark side
of the house, and that's the place I must slip out with her if
there's any chance at all to get away."

They peered out of the open window. The plaza was gloomy, and at
first glance apparently deserted. In a moment, however, Gale made
out a slow-pacing dark form on the path. Farther down there was
another. No particular keenness was required to see in these forms
a sentinel-like stealthiness.

Gripping Gale's arm, Thorne pulled back from the window.

"You saw them," he whispered. "It's just as I feared. Rojas has
the place surrounded. I should have taken Mercedes away. But I had
no time--no chance! I'm bound!...There's Mercedes now! My God!...Dick,
think--think if there's a way to get her out of this trap!"

Gale turned as his friend went down the room. In the dim light at
the head of the stairs stood the slim, muffled figure of a woman.
When she saw Thorne she flew noiselessly down the stairway to him.
He caught her in his arms. Then she spoke softly, brokenly, in a
low, swift voice. It was a mingling of incoherent Spanish and
English; but to Gale it was mellow, deep, unutterably tender, a voice
full of joy, fear, passion, hope, and love. Upon Gale it had an
unaccountable effect. He found himself thrilling, wondering.

Thorne led the girl to the center of the room, under the light where
Gale stood. She had raised a white hand, holding a black-laced
mantilla half aside. Dick saw a small, dark head, proudly held,
an oval face half hidden, white as a flower, and magnificent
black eyes.

Then Thorne spoke.

"Mercedes--Dick Gale, an old friend--the best friend I ever had."

She swept the mantilla back over her head, disclosing a lovely face,
strange and striking to Gale in its pride and fire, its intensity.

"Senor Gale--ah! I cannot speak my happiness. His friend!"

"Yes, Mercedes; my friend and yours," said Thorne, speaking rapidly.
"We'll have need of him. Dear, there's bad news and no time to
break it gently. the priest did not come. He must have been
detained. And listen--be brave, dear Mercedes--Rojas is here!"

She uttered an inarticulate cry, the poignant terror of which
shook Gale's nerve, and swayed as if she would faint. Thorne
caught her, and in husky voice importuned her to bear up.

"My darling! For God's sake don't faint--don't go to pieces!
We'd be lost! We've got a chance. We'll think of something. Be
strong! Fight!"

It was plain to Gale that Thorne was distracted. He scarcely knew
what he was saying. Pale and shaking, he clasped Mercedes to him.
Her terror had struck him helpless. It was so intense--it was so
full of horrible certainty of what fate awaited her.

She cried out in Spanish, beseeching him; and as he shook his head,
she changed to English:

"Senor, my lover, I will be strong--I will fight--I will obey.
But swear by my Virgin, if need be to save me from Rojas--you will
kill me!"

"Mercedes! Yes, I'll swear," he replied hoarsely. "I know--I'd
rather have you dead than-- But don't give up. Rojas can't be
sure of you, or he wouldn't wait. He's in there. He's got his
men there--all around us. But he hesitates. A beast like Rojas
doesn't stand idle for nothing. I tell you we've a chance. Dick,
here, will think of something. We'll slip away. Then he'll take
you somewhere. Only--speak to him--show him you won't weaken.
Mercedes, this is more than love and happiness for us. It's life
or death."

She became quiet, and slowly recovered control of herself.

Suddenly she wheeled to face Gale with proud dark eyes, tragic
sweetness of appeal, and exquisite grace.

"Senor, you are an American. You cannot know the Spanish blood--the
peon bandit's hate and cruelty. I wish to die before Rojas's hand
touches me. If he takes me alive, then the hour, the little day
that my life lasts afterward will be tortured--torture of hell.
If I live two days his brutal men will have me. If I live three,
the dogs of his camp...Senor, have you a sister whom you love?
Help Senor Thorne to save me. He is a soldier. He is bound.
He must not betray his honor, his duty, for me....Ah, you two
splendid Americans--so big, so strong, so fierce! What is that
little black half-breed slave Rojas to such men? Rojas is a coward.
Now, let me waste no more precious time. I am ready. I will be

She came close to Gale, holding out her white hands, a woman all
fire and soul and passion. to Gale she was wonderful. His heart
leaped. As he bent over her hands and kissed them he seemed to
feel himself renewed, remade.

"Senorita," he said, "I am happy to be your servant. I can conceive
of no greater pleasure than giving the service you require."

"And what is that?" inquired Thorne, hurriedly.

"That of incapacitating Senor Rojas for to-night, and perhaps
several nights to come," replied Gale.

"Dick, what will you do?" asked Thorne, now in alarm.

"I'll make a row in that saloon," returned Dick, bluntly. "I'll
start something. I'll rush Rojas and his crowd. I'll--"

"Lord, no; you mustn't, Dick--you'll be knifed!" cried Thorne.
He was in distress, yet his eyes were shining.

"I'll take a chance. Maybe I can surprise that slow Greaser bunch
and get away before they know what's happened....You be ready
watching at the window. When the row starts those fellows out
there in the plaza will run into the saloon. Then you slip out,
go straight through the plaza down the street. It's a dark street,
I remember. I'll catch up with you before you get far."

Thorne gasped, but did not say a word. Mercedes leaned against
him, her white hands now at her breast, her great eyes watching
Gale as he went out.

In the corridor Gale stopped long enough to pull on a pair of heavy
gloves, to muss his hair, and disarrange his collar. Then he stepped
into the restaurant, went through, and halted in the door leading
into the saloon. His five feet eleven inches and one hundred and
eighty pounds were more noticeable there, and it was part of his
plan to attract attention to himself. No one, however, appeared
to notice him. The pool-players were noisily intent on their game,
the same crowd of motley-robed Mexicans hung over the reeking bar.
Gale's roving glance soon fixed upon the man he took to be Rojas.
He recognized the huge, high-peaked, black sombrero with its
ornamented band. The Mexican's face was turned aside. He was in
earnest, excited colloquy with a dozen or more comrades, most of
whom were sitting round a table. They were listening, talking,
drinking. The fact that they wore cartridge belts crossed over
their breasts satisfied that these were the rebels. He had noted
the belts of the Mexicans outside, who were apparently guards. A waiter
brought more drinks to this group at the table, and this caused
the leader to turn so Gale could see his face. It was indeed
the sinister, sneering face of the bandit Rojas. Gale gazed at
the man with curiosity. He was under medium height, and striking
in appearance only because of his dandified dress and evil visage.
He wore a lace scarf, a tight, bright-buttoned jacket, a buckskin
vest embroidered in red, a sash and belt joined by an enormous
silver clasp. Gale saw again the pearl-handled gun swinging at
the bandit's hip. Jewels flashed in his scarf. There were gold
rings in his ears and diamonds on his fingers.

Gale became conscious of an inward fire that threatened to overrun
his coolness. Other emotions harried his self-control. It seemed
as if sight of the man liberated or created a devil in Gale. And
at the bottom of his feelings there seemed to be a wonder at himself,
a strange satisfaction for the something that had come to him.

He stepped out of the doorway, down the couple of steps to the floor
of the saloon, and he staggered a little, simulating drunkenness.
He fell over the pool tables, jostled Mexicans at the bar, laughed
like a maudlin fool, and, with his hat slouched down, crowded here
and there. Presently his eye caught sight of the group of cowboys
whom he had before noticed with such interest.

They were still in a corner somewhat isolated. With fertile mind
working, Gale lurched over to them. He remembered his many
unsuccessful attempts to get acquainted with cowboys. If he were
to get any help from these silent aloof rangers it must be by
striking fire from them in one swift stroke. Planting himself
squarely before the two tall cowboys who were standing, he looked
straight into their lean, bronzed faces. He spared a full moment
for that keen cool gaze before he spoke.

"I'm not drunk. I'm throwing a bluff, and I mean to start a rough
house. I'm going to rush that damned bandit Rojas. It's to save
a girl--to give her lover, who is my friend, a chance to escape with her.
When I start a row my friend will try to slip out with her. Every door
and window is watched. I've got to raise hell to draw the guards in....
Well, you're my countrymen. We're in Mexico. A beautiful girl's honor
and life are at stake. Now, gentlemen, watch me!"

One cowboy's eyes narrowed, blinking a little, and his lean jaw
dropped; the other's hard face rippled with a fleeting smile.

Gale backed away, and his pulse leaped when he saw the two cowboys,
as if with one purpose, slowly stride after him. Then Gale swerved,
staggering along, brushed against the tables, kicked over the empty
chairs. He passed Rojas and his gang, and out of the tail of his
eye saw that the bandit was watching him, waving his hands and
talking fiercely. The hum of the many voices grew louder, and
when Dick lurched against a table, overturning it and spilling
glasses into the laps of several Mexicans, there arose a shrill cry.
He had succeeded in attracting attention; almost every face turned
his way. One of the insulted men, a little tawny fellow, leaped
up to confront Gale, and in a frenzy screamed a volley of Spanish,
of which Gale distinguished "Gringo!" The Mexican stamped and
made a threatening move with his right hand. Dick swung his leg
and with a swift side kick knocked the fellows feet from under
him, whirling him down with a thud.

The action was performed so suddenly, so adroitly, it made the
Mexican such a weakling, so like a tumbled tenpin, that the shrill
jabbering hushed. Gale knew this to be the significant moment.

Wheeling, he rushed at Rojas. It was his old line-breaking plunge.
Neither Rojas nor his men had time to move. The black-skinned
bandit's face turned a dirty white; his jaw dropped; he would have
shrieked if Gale had not hit him. The blow swept him backward against
his men. Then Gale's heavy body, swiftly following with the momentum
of that rush, struck the little group of rebels. They went down
with table and chairs in a sliding crash.

Gale carried by his plunge, went with them. Like a cat he landed
on top. As he rose his powerful hands fastened on Rojas. He
jerked the little bandit off the tangled pile of struggling,
yelling men, and, swinging him with terrific force, let go his
hold. Rojas slid along the floor, knocking over tables and chairs.
Gale bounded back, dragged Rojas up, handling him as if he were a
limp sack.

A shot rang out above the yells. Gale heard the jingle of breaking
glass. The room darkened perceptibly. He flashed a glance backward.
The two cowboys were between him and the crowd of frantic rebels.
One cowboy held two guns low down, level in front of him. The other
had his gun raised and aimed. On the instant it spouted red and
white. With the crack came the crashing of glass, another darkening
shade over the room. With a cry Gale slung the bleeding Rojas from
him. The bandit struck a table, toppled over it, fell, and lay prone.

Another shot made the room full of moving shadows, with light only
back of the bar. A white-clad figure rushed at Gale. He tripped
the man, but had to kick hard to disengage himself from grasping
hands. Another figure closed in on Gale. This one was dark, swift.
A blade glinted--described a circle alot. Simultaneously with a
close, red flash the knife wavered; the man wielding it stumbled
backward. In the din Gale did not hear a report, but the Mexican's
fall was significant. Then pandemonium broke loose. The din
became a roar. Gale heard shots that sounded like dull spats in
the distance. The big lamp behind the bar seemingly split, then
sputtered and went out, leaving the room in darkness.

Gale leaped toward the restaurant door, which was outlined faintly
by the yellow light within. Right and left he pushed the groping
men who jostled with him. He vaulted a pool table, sent tables
and chairs flying, and gained the door, to be the first of a wedging
mob to squeeze through. One sweep of his arm knocked the restaurant
lamp from its stand; and he ran out, leaving darkness behind him.
A few bounds took him into the parlor. It was deserted. Thorne
had gotten away with Mercedes.

It was then Gale slowed up. For the space of perhaps sixty seconds
he had been moving with startling velocity. He peered cautiously
out into the plaza. The paths, the benches, the shady places under
the trees contained no skulking men. He ran out, keeping to the
shade, and did not go into the path till he was halfway through
the plaza. Under a street lamp at the far end of the path he thought
he saw two dark figures. He ran faster, and soon reached the street.
The uproar back in the hotel began to diminish, or else he was
getting out of hearing. The few people he saw close at hand were
all coming his way, and only the foremost showed any excitement.
Gale walked swiftly, peering ahead for two figures. Presently he
saw them--one tall, wearing a cape; the other slight, mantled. Gale
drew a sharp breath of relief. Throne and Mercedes were not far ahead.

From time to time Thorne looked back. He strode swiftly, almost
carrying Mercedes, who clung closely to him. She, too, looked back.
Once Gale saw her white face flash in the light of a street lamp.
He began to overhaul them; and soon, when the last lamp had been
passed and the street was dark, he ventured a whistle. Thorne
heard it, for he turned, whistled a low reply, and went on. Not
for some distance beyond, where the street ended in open country,
did they halt to wait. The desert began here. Gale felt the soft
sand under his feet and saw the grotesque forms of cactus. Then
he came up with the fugitives.

"Dick! Are you--all right?" panted Thorne, grasping Gale.

"I'm--out of breath--but--O.K.," replied Gale.

"Good! Good!" choked Thorne. "I was scared--helpless....Dick, it
worked splendidly. We had no trouble. What on earth did you do?"

"I made the row, all right," said Dick.

"Good Heavens! It was like a row I once heard made by a mob. But
the shots, Dick--were they at you? They paralyzed me. Then the
yells. what happened? Those guards of Rojas ran round in front
at the first shot. Tell me what happened."

"While I was rushing Rojas a couple of cowboys shot out the lamplights.
A Mexican who pulled a knife on me got hurt, I guess. Then I think
there was some shooting from the rebels after the room was dark."

"Rushing Rojas?" queried Thorne, leaning close to Dick. His voice
was thrilling, exultant, deep with a joy that yet needed confirmation.
"What did you do to him?"

"I handed him one off side, tackled, then tried a forward pass,"
replied Dick, lightly speaking the football vernacular so familiar
to Thorne.

Thorne leaned closer, his fine face showing fierce and corded in
the starlight. "Tell me straight," he demanded, in thick voice.

Gale then divined something of the suffering Thorne had undergone
--something of the hot, wild, vengeful passion of a lover who must
have brutal truth.

It stilled Dick's lighter mood, and he was about to reply when
Mercedes pressed close to him, touched his hands, looked up into
his face with wonderful eyes. He thought he would not soon forget
their beauty--the shadow of pain that had been, the hope dawning
so fugitively.

"Dear lady," said Gale, with voice not wholly steady, "Rojas himself
will hound you no more to-night, nor for many nights."

She seemed to shake, to thrill, to rise with the intelligence.
She pressed his hand close over her heaving breast. Gale felt
the quick throb of her heart.

"Senor! Senor Dick!" she cried. Then her voice failed. But
her hands flew up; quick as a flash she raised her face--kissed
him. Then she turned and with a sob fell into Thorne's arms.

There ensued a silence broken only by Mercedes' sobbing. Gale
walked some paces away. If he were not stunned, he certainly was
agitated. the strange, sweet fire of that girl's lips remained
with him. On the spur of the moment he imagined he had a jealousy
of Thorne. But presently this passed. It was only that he had
been deeply moved--stirred to the depths during the last hour--had
become conscious of the awakening of a spirit. What remained with
him now was the splendid glow of gladness that he had been of service
to Thorne. And by the intensity of Mercedes' abandon of relief and
gratitude he measured her agony of terror and the fate he had spared her.

"Dick, Dick, come here!" called Thorne softly. "Let's pull ourselves
together now. We've got a problem yet. What to do? Where to go?
How to get any place? We don't dare risk the station--the corrals
where Mexicans hire out horses. We're on good old U.S. ground this
minute, but we're not out of danger."

As he paused, evidently hoping for a suggestion from Gale, the silence
was broken by the clear, ringing peal of a bugle. Thorne gave a
violent start. Then he bent over, listening. The beautiful notes
of the bugle floated out of the darkness, clearer, sharper, faster.

"It's a call, Dick! It's a call!" he cried.

Gale had no answer to make. Mercedes stood as if stricken. The
bugle call ended. From a distance another faintly pealed. There
were other sounds too remote to recognize. Then scattering shots
rattled out.

"Dick, the rebels are fighting somebody," burst out Thorne,
excitedly. "The little federal garrison still holds its stand.
Perhaps it is attacked again. Anyway, there's something doing over
the line. Maybe the crazy Greasers are firing on our camp. We've
feared it--in the dark....And here I am, away without
leave--practically a deserter!"

"Go back! Go back, before you're too late!" cried Mercedes.

"Better make tracks, Thorne," added Gale. "It can't help our
predicament for you to be arrested. I'll take care of Mercedes."

"No, no, no," replied Thorne. "I can get away--avoid arrest."

"That'd be all right for the immediate present. But it's not best
for the future. George, a deserter is a deserter!...Better hurry.
Leave the girl to me till tomorrow."

Mercedes embraced her lover, begged him to go. Thorne wavered.

"Dick, I'm up against it," he said. "You're right. If only I can
get back in time. But, oh, I hate to leave her! Old fellow, you've
saved her! I already owe you everlasting gratitude. Keep out of
Casita, Dick. The U.S. side might be safe, but I'm afraid to trust
it at night. Go out in the desert, up in the mountains, in some
safe place. Then come to me in camp. We'll plan. I'll have to
confide in Colonel Weede. Maybe he'll help us. Hide her from the
rebels--that's all."

He wrung Dick's hand, clasped Mercedes tightly in his arms, kissed
her, and murmured low over her, then released her to rush off into
the darkness. He disappeared in the gloom. The sound of his dull
footfalls gradually died away.

For a moment the desert silence oppressed Gale. He was unaccustomed
to such strange stillness. There was a low stir of sand, a rustle
of stiff leaves in the wind. How white the stars burned! Then a
coyote barked, to be bayed by a dog. Gale realized that he was
between the edge of an unknown desert and the edge of a hostile town.
He had to choose the desert, because, though he had no doubt that in Casita
there were many Americans who might befriend him, he could not chance
the risks of seeking them at night.

He felt a slight touch on his arm, felt it move down, felt Mercedes
slip a trembling cold little hand into his. Dick looked at her.
She seemed a white-faced girl now, with staring, frightened black
eyes that flashed up at him. If the loneliness, the silence, the
desert, the unknown dangers of the night affected him, what must
they be to this hunted, driven girl? Gale's heart swelled. He
was alone with her. He had no weapon, no money, no food, no drink,
no covering, nothing except his two hands. He had absolutely no
knowledge of the desert, of the direction or whereabouts of the
boundary line between the republics; he did not know where to find
the railroad, or any road or trail, or whether or not there were
towns near or far. It was a critical, desperate situation. He
thought first of the girl, and groaned in spirit, prayed that it
would be given him to save her. When he remembered himself it was
with the stunning consciousness that he could conceive of no
situation which he would have exchanged for this one--where fortune
had set him a perilous task of loyalty to a friend, to a helpless

"Senor, senor!" suddenly whispered Mercedes, clinging to him.
"Listen! I hear horses coming!"



UNEASY and startled, Gale listened and, hearing nothing, wondered
if Mercedes's fears had not worked upon her imagination. He felt
a trembling seize her, and he held her hands tightly.

"You were mistaken, I guess," he whispered.

"No, no, senor."

Dick turned his ear to the soft wind. Presently he heard, or
imagined he heard, low beats. Like the first faint, far-off beats
of a drumming grouse, they recalled to him the Illinois forests of
his boyhood. In a moment he was certain the sounds were the padlike
steps of hoofs in yielding sand. The regular tramp was not that of
grazing horses.

On the instant, made cautious and stealthy by alarm, Gale drew
Mercedes deeper into the gloom of the shrubbery. Sharp pricks from
thorns warned him that he was pressing into a cactus growth, and
he protected Mercedes as best he could. She was shaking as one with
a sever chill. She breathed with little hurried pants and leaned
upon him almost in collapse. Gale ground his teeth in helpless
rage at the girl's fate. If she had not been beautiful she might
still have been free and happy in her home. What a strange world
to live in--how unfair was fate!

The sounds of hoofbeats grew louder. Gale made out a dark moving
mass against a background of dull gray. There was a line of horses.
He could not discern whether or not all the horses carried riders.
The murmur of a voice struck his ear--then a low laugh. It made him
tingle, for it sounded American. Eagerly he listened. There
was an interval when only the hoofbeats could be heard.

"It shore was, Laddy, it shore was," came a voice out of the darkness.
"Rough house! Laddy, since wire fences drove us out of Texas we ain't
seen the like of that. An' we never had such a call."

"Call? It was a burnin' roast," replied another voice. "I felt
low down. He vamoosed some sudden, an' I hope he an' his friends
shook the dust of Casita. That's a rotten town Jim."

Gale jumped up in joy. What luck! The speakers were none other
than the two cowboys whom he had accosted in the Mexican hotel.

"Hold on , fellows," he called out, and strode into the road.

The horses snorted and stamped. Then followed swift rustling
sounds--a clinking of spurs, then silence. The figures loomed
clearer in the gloom.. Gale saw five or six horses, two with
riders, and one other, at least, carrying a pack. When Gale got
within fifteen feet of the group the foremost horseman said:

"I reckon that's close enough, stranger."

Something in the cowboy's hand glinted darkly bright in the starlight.

"You'd recognize me, if it wasn't so dark," replied Gale, halting.
"I spoke to you a little while ago--in the saloon back there."

"Come over an' let's see you," said the cowboy curtly.

Gale advanced till he was close to the horse. The cowboy leaned
over the saddle and peered into Gale's face. Then, without a word,
he sheathed the gun and held out his hand. Gale met a grip of
steel that warmed his blood. The other cowboy got off his nervous,
spirited horse and threw the bridle. He, too, peered closely into
Gale's face.

"My name's Ladd," he said. "Reckon I'm some glad to meet you again."

Gale felt another grip as hard and strong as the other had been. He
realized he had found friends who belonged to a class of men whom he
had despaired of ever knowing.

"Gale--Dick Gale is my name," he began, swiftly. "I dropped into
Casita to-night hardly knowing where I was. A boy took me to that
hotel. There I met an old friend whom I had not seen for years.
He belongs to the cavalry stationed here. He had befriended a
Spanish girl--fallen in love with her. Rojas had killed this girl's
father--tried to abduct her....You know what took place at the hotel.
Gentlemen, if it's ever possible, I'll show you how I appreciate
what you did for me there. I got away, found my friend with the
girl. We hurried out here beyond the edge of town. Then Thorne
had to make a break for camp. We heard bugle calls, shots, and he
was away without leave. That left the girl with me. I don't know
what to do. Thorne swears Casita is no place for Mercedes at night."

"The girl ain't no peon, no common Greaser?" interrupted Ladd.

"No. Her name is Castaneda. She belongs to an old Spanish family,
once rich and influential."

"Reckoned as much," replied the cowboy. "There's more than Rojas's
wantin' to kidnap a pretty girl. Shore he does that every day or so.
Must be somethin' political or feelin' against class. Well, Casita
ain't no place for your friend's girl at night or day, or any time.
Shore, there's Americans who'd take her in an' fight for her, if
necessary. But it ain't wise to risk that. Lash, what do you say?"

"It's been gettin' hotter round this Greaser corral for some weeks,"
replied the other cowboy. "If that two-bit of a garrison surrenders,
there's no tellin' what'll happen. Orozco is headin' west from Agua Prieta
with his guerrillas. Campo is burnin' bridges an' tearin' up the railroad
south of Nogales. Then there's all these bandits callin' themselves
revolutionists just for an excuse to steal, burn, kill, an' ride
off with women. It's plain facts, Laddy, an' bein' across the U.S.
line a few inches or so don't make no hell of a difference. My advice
is, don't let Miss Castaneda ever set foot in Casita again."

"Looks like you've shore spoke sense," said Ladd. "I reckon, Gale,
you an' the girl ought to come with us. Casita shore would be a
little warm for us to-morrow. We didn't kill anybody, but I shot
a Greaser's arm off, an' Lash strained friendly relations by destroyin'
property. We know people who'll take care of the senorita till
your friend can come for her."

Dick warmly spoke his gratefulness, and, inexpressibly relieved and
happy for Mercedes, he went toward the clump of cactus where he had
left her. She stood erect, waiting, and, dark as it was, he could
tell she had lost the terror that had so shaken her.

"Senor Gale, you are my good angel," she said, tremulously.

"I've been lucky to fall in with these men, and I'm glad with all
my heart," he replied. "Come."

He led her into the road up to the cowboys, who now stood bareheaded
in the starlight. The seemed shy, and Lash was silent while Ladd
made embarrassed, unintelligible reply to Mercedes's's thanks.

There were five horses--two saddled, two packed, and the remaining
one carried only a blanket. Ladd shortened the stirrups on his
mount, and helped Mercedes up into the saddle. From the way she
settled herself and took the few restive prances of the mettlesome
horse Gale judged that she could ride. Lash urged Gale to take his
horse. But his Gale refused to do.

"I'll walk," he said. "I'm used to walking. I know cowboys are not."

They tried again to persuade him, without avail. Then Ladd started off,
riding bareback. Mercedes fell in behind, with Gale walking beside her.
The two pack animals came next, and Lash brought up the rear.

Once started with protection assured for the girl and a real objective
point in view, Gale relaxed from the tense strain he had been laboring
under. How glad he would have been to acquaint Thorne with their
good fortune! Later, of course, there would be some way to get word
to the cavalryman. But till then what torments his friend would suffer!

It seemed to Dick that a very long time had elapsed since he stepped
off the train; and one by one he went over every detail of incident
which had occurred between that arrival and the present moment. Strange
as the facts were, he had no doubts. He realized that before that
night he had never known the deeps of wrath undisturbed in him; he
had never conceived even a passing idea that it was possible for him
to try to kill a man. His right hand was swollen stiff, so sore
that he could scarcely close it. His knuckles were bruised and
bleeding, and ached with a sharp pain. Considering the thickness of
his heavy glove, Gale was of the opinion that so to bruise his hand
he must have struck Rojas a powerful blow. He remembered that for
him to give or take a blow had been nothing. This blow to Rojas,
however, had been a different matter. The hot wrath which had been
his motive was not puzzling; but the effect on him after he had
cooled off, a subtle difference, something puzzled and eluded him.
The more it baffled him the more he pondered. All those wandering
months of his had been filled with dissatisfaction, yet he had been
too apathetic to understand himself. So he had not been much of
a person to try. Perhaps it had not been the blow to Rojas any
more than other things that had wrought some change in him.

His meeting with Thorne; the wonderful black eyes of a Spanish
girl; her appeal to him; the hate inspired by Rojas, and the rush,
the blow, the action; sight of Thorne and Mercedes hurrying safely away;
the girl's hand pressing his to her heaving breast; the sweet fire
of her kiss; the fact of her being alone with him, dependent upon him--
all these things Gale turned over and over in his mind, only to fail
of any definite conclusion as to which had affect him so remarkably,
or to tell what had really happened to him.

Had he fallen in love with Thorne's sweetheart? The idea came in
a flash. Was he, all in an instant, and by one of those incomprehensible
reversals of character, jealous of his friend? Dick was almost afraid
to look up at Mercedes. Still he forced himself to do so, and as it
chanced Mercedes was looking down at him. Somehow the light was
better, and he clearly saw her white face, her black and starry eyes,
her perfect mouth. With a quick, graceful impulsiveness she put
her hand upon his shoulder. Like her appearance, the action was
new, strange, striking to Gale; but it brought home suddenly to him
the nature of gratitude and affection in a girl of her blood. It was
sweet and sisterly. He knew then that he had not fallen in love
with her. The feeling that was akin to jealousy seemed to be of
the beautiful something for which Mercedes stood in Thorne's life.
Gale then grasped the bewildering possibilities, the infinite wonder
of what a girl could mean to a man.

The other haunting intimations of change seemed to be elusively
blended with sensations--the heat and thrill of action, the sense
of something done and more to do, the utter vanishing of an old
weary hunt for he knew not what. Maybe it had been a hunt
for work, for energy, for spirit, for love, for his real self.
Whatever it might be, there appeared to be now some hope of
finding it.

The desert began to lighten. Gray openings in the border of shrubby
growths changed to paler hue. The road could be seen some rods
ahead, and it had become a stony descent down, steadily down.
Dark, ridged backs of mountains bounded the horizon, and all seemed
near at hand, hemming in the plain. In the east a white glow grew brighter
and brighter, reaching up to a line of cloud, defined sharply below by
a rugged notched range. Presently a silver circle rose behind the
black mountain, and the gloom of the desert underwent a transformation.
From a gray mantle it changed to a transparent haze. The moon
was rising.

"Senor I am cold," said Mercedes.

Dick had been carrying his coat upon his arm. He had felt warm,
even hot, and had imagined that the steady walk had occasioned
it. But his skin was cool. The heat came from an inward burning.
He stopped the horse and raised the coat up, and helped Mercedes
put it on.

"I should have thought of you," he said. "But I seemed to feel
warm . . . The coat's a little large; we might wrap it round you

Mercedes smiled and lightly thanked him in Spanish. The flash
of mood was in direct contrast to the appealing, passionate,
and tragic states in which he had successively viewed her; and
it gave him a vivid impression of what vivacity and charm she might
possess under happy conditions. He was about to start when he
observed that Ladd had halted and was peering ahead in evident
caution. Mercedes' horse began to stamp impatiently, raised his
ears and head, and acted as if he was about to neigh.

A warning "hist!" from Ladd bade Dick to put a quieting hand on
the horse. Lash came noiselessly forward to join his companion.
The two then listened and watched.

An uneasy yet thrilling stir ran through Gale's veins. This scene
was not fancy. These men of the ranges had heard or seen or
scented danger. It was all real, as tangible and sure as the
touch of Mercedes's hand upon his arm. Probably for her the
night had terrors beyond Gale's power to comprehend. He looked
down into the desert, and would have felt no surprise at anything hidden
away among the bristling cactus, the dark, winding arroyos, the shadowed
rocks with their moonlit tips, the ragged plain leading to the black
bold mountains. The wind appeared to blow softly, with an almost
imperceptible moan, over the desert. That was a new sound to Gale.
But he heard nothing more.

Presently Lash went to the rear and Ladd started ahead. The progress
now, however, was considerably slower, not owing to a road--for that
became better--but probably owing to caution exercised by the
cowboy guide. At the end of a half hour this marked deliberation
changed, and the horses followed Ladd's at a gait that put Gale to
his best walking-paces.

Meanwhile the moon soared high above the black corrugated peaks.
The gray, the gloom, the shadow whitened. The clearing of the dark
foreground appeared to lift a distant veil and show endless aisles of
desert reaching down between dim horizon-bounding ranges.

Gale gazed abroad, knowing that as this night was the first time
for him to awake to consciousness of a vague, wonderful other
self, so it was one wherein he began to be aware of an encroaching
presence of physical things--the immensity of the star-studded sky,
the soaring moon, the bleak, mysterious mountains, and limitless
slope, and plain, and ridge, and valley. These things in all their
magnificence had not been unnoticed by him before; only now they
spoke a different meaning. A voice that he had never heard called
him to see, to feel the vast hard externals of heaven and earth, all
that represented the open, the free, silence and solitude and space.

Once more his thoughts, like his steps, were halted by Ladd's actions.
The cowboy reined in his horse, listened a moment, then swung down
out of the saddle. He raised a cautioning hand to the others, then
slipped into the gloom and disappeared. Gale marked that the halt
had been made in a ridged and cut-up pass between low mesas.
He could see the columns of cactus standing out black against
the moon-white sky. The horses were evidently tiring, for they showed
no impatience. Gale heard their panting breaths, and also the bark
of some animal--a dog or a coyote. It sounded like a dog, and this
led Gale to wonder if there was any house near at hand. To the
right, up under the ledges some distance away, stood two square
black objects, too uniform, he thought, to be rocks. While he was
peering at them, uncertain what to think, the shrill whistle of a
horse pealed out, to be followed by the rattling of hoofs on hard
stone. Then a dog barked. At the same moment that Ladd hurriedly
appeared in the road a light shone out and danced before one of
the square black objects.

"Keep close an' don't make no noise," he whispered, and led his
horse at right angles off the road.

Gale followed, leading Mercedes's horse. As he turned he observed
that Lash also had dismounted.

To keep closely at Ladd's heels without brushing the cactus or
stumbling over rocks and depressions was a task Gale found impossible.
After he had been stabbed several times by the bayonetlike spikes,
which seemed invisible, the matter of caution became equally one
of self-preservation. Both the cowboys, Dick had observed, wore
leather chaps. It was no easy matter to lead a spirited horse

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