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Rojas? He appeared to sink against the wall. The Yaqui stole closer and
closer. He was the savage now, and for him the moment must have been
glorified. Gale saw him gaze up at the great circling walls of the crater,
then down into the depths.
Perhaps the red haze hanging above him, or the purple haze below, or the deep
caverns in the lava, held for Yaqui spirits of the desert, his gods to whom he
called. Perhaps he invoked shadows of his loved ones and his race, calling
them in this moment of vengeance.
Gale heard--or imagined he heard--that wild, strange Yaqui cry.
Then the Indian stepped close to Rojas, and bent low, keeping out of reach.
How slow were his motions! Would Yaqui never--never
end it?...A wail drifted across the crater to Gale's ears.
Rojas fell backward and plunged sheer. The bank of white choyas caught him,
held him upon their steel spikes. How long did the dazed Gale sit there
watching Rojas wrestling and writhing in convulsive frenzy? The bandit now
seemed mad to win the delayed death.
When he broke free he was a white patched object no longer human, a ball of
choya burrs, and he slipped off the bank to shoot down and down into the
purple depths of the crater.
XIII
CHANGES AT FORLORN RIVER
THE first of March saw the federal occupation of the garrison at
Casita. After a short, decisive engagement the rebels were dispersed into
small bands and driven eastward along the boundary line toward Nogales.
It was the destiny of Forlorn River, however, never to return to the slow,
sleepy tenor of its former existence. Belding's predictions came true. That
straggling line of home-seekers was but a forerunner of the real invasion of
Altar Valley. Refugees from
Mexico and from Casita spread the word that water and wood and grass and land
were to be had at Forlorn River; and as if by magic the white tents and red
adobe houses sprang up to glisten in the sun.
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Belding was happier than he had been for a long time. He believed that evil
days for Forlorn River, along with the apathy and lack of enterprise, were in
the past. He hired a couple of trustworthy
Mexicans to ride the boundary line, and he settled down to think of ranching
and irrigation and mining projects. Every morning he expected to receive some
word form Sonoyta or Yuma, telling him that Yaqui had guided his party safely
across the desert.
Belding was simple-minded, a man more inclined to action than reflection.
When the complexities of life hemmed him in, he
groped his way out, never quite understanding. His wife had always been a
mystery to him. Nell was sunshine most of the time, but, like the
sun-dominated desert, she was subject to strange changes, wilful, stormy,
sudden. It was enough for Belding now to find his wife in a lighter, happier
mood, and to see Nell dreamily turning a ring round and round the third finger
of her left hand and watching the west. Every day both mother and daughter
appeared farther removed from the past darkly threatening days. Belding was
hearty in his affections, but undemonstrative.
If there was any sentiment in his make-up it had an outlet in his memory of
Blanco Diablo and a longing to see him. Often
Belding stopped his work to gaze out over the desert toward the west. When he
thought of his rangers and Thorne and Mercedes he certainly never forgot his
horse. He wondered if Diablo was running, walking, resting; if Yaqui was
finding water and grass.
In March, with the short desert winter over, the days began to grow warm. The
noon hours were hot, and seemed to give promise of the white summer blaze and
blasting furnace wind soon to come.
No word was received from the rangers. But this caused Belding no concern,
and it seemed to him that his women folk considered no news good news.
Among the many changes coming to pass in Forlorn River were the installing of
post-office service and the building of a mescal drinking-house. Belding had
worked hard for the post office, but he did not like the idea of a saloon for
Forlorn River. Still, that was an inevitable evil. The Mexicans would have
mescal. Belding had kept the little border hamlet free of an establishment
for distillation of the fiery cactus drink. A good many Americans drifted
into Forlorn River--miners, cowboys, prospectors, outlaws, and others of
nondescript character; and these men, of course, made the saloon, which was
also an inn, their headquarters.
Belding, with Carter and other old residents, saw the need of a sheriff for
Forlorn River.
One morning early in this spring month, while Belding was on his way from the
house to the corrals, he saw Nell running
Blanco Jose' down the road at a gait that amazed him.
She did not take the turn of the road to come in by the gate.
She put Jose' at a four-foot wire fence, and came clattering into the yard.
"Nell must have another tantrum," said Belding. "She's long past due."
Blanco Jose, like the other white horses, was big of frame and heavy, and
thunder rolled from under his great hoofs. Nell pulled him up, and as he
pounded and slid to a halt in a cloud of dust she swung lightly down.
It did not take more than half an eye for Belding to see that she was furious.
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"Nell, what's come off now?" asked Belding. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]