Three men were
in sight, all close to the burning sticks. They were Mexicans
and of the coarse type of raiders, rebels, bandits that Gale
expected to see. One stood up, his back to the fire; another sat
with shoulders enveloped in a blanket, and the third lounged in
the sand, his feet almost in the blaze. They had cast off belts
and weapons. A glint of steel caught Gale's eye. Three short,
shiny carbines leaned against a rock. A little to the left, within
the circle of light, stood a square house made of adobe bricks.
Several untrimmed poles upheld a roof of brush, which was partly
fallen in. This house was a Papago Indian habitation, and a month
before had been occupied by a family that had been murdered or
driven off by a roving band of outlaws. A rude corral showed
dimly in the edge of firelight, and from a black mass within came
the snort and stamp and whinney of horses.
Gale took in the scene in one quick glance, then sank down at the
foot of the mesquite. He had naturally expected to see more men.
But the situation was by no means new. This was one, or part of
one, of the raider bands harrying the border. They were stealing
horses, or driving a herd already stolen. These bands were more
numerous than the waterholes of northern Sonora; they never camped
long at one place; like Arabs, they roamed over the desert all the
way from Nogales to Casita. If Gale had gone peaceably up to this
campfire there were a hundred chances that the raiders would kill
and rob him to one chance that they might not.
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