On this December afternoon the three rangers, as often, were
separated. Lash was far to the westward of Sonoyta, somewhere
along Camino del Diablo, that terrible Devil's Road, where many
desert wayfarers had perished. Ladd had long been overdue in a
prearranged meeting with Gale. The fact that Ladd had not shown
up miles west of the Papago Well was significant.
The sun had hidden behind clouds all the latter part of that day,
an unusual occurrence for that region even in winter. And now,
as the light waned suddenly, telling of the hidden sunset, a cold
dry, penetrating wind sprang up and blew in Gale's face. Not at
first, but by imperceptible degrees it chilled him. He untied his
coat from the back of the saddle and put it on. A few cold drops
of rain touched his cheek.
He halted upon the edge of a low escarpment. Below him the
narrowing valley showed bare, black ribs of rock, long, winding
gray lines leading down to a central floor where mesquite and
cactus dotted the barren landscape. Moving objects, diminutive
in size, gray and white in color, arrested Gale's roving sight.
They bobbed away for a while, then stopped. They were antelope,
and they had seen his horse. When he rode on they started once
more, keeping to the lowest level. These wary animals were often
desert watchdogs for the ranger, they would betray the proximity
of horse or man. With them trotting forward, he made better time
for some miles across the valley.
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