The
Indian had three wounds--a bullet hole in his shoulder, a crushed
arm, and a badly lacerated leg. What had been the matter with
him before being set upon by the raider Gale could not be certain.
The ranger thought rapidly. This Yaqui would live unless left there
to die or be murdered by the Mexicans when they found courage to
sneak back to the well. It never occurred to Gale to abandon the
poor fellow. That was where his old training, the higher order of
human feeling, made impossible the following of any elemental instinct
of self-preservation. All the same, Gale knew he multiplied his
perils a hundredfold by burdening himself with a crippled Indian.
Swiftly he set to work, and with rifle ever under his hand, and
shifting glance spared from his task, he bound up the Yaqui's
wounds. At the same time he kept keen watch.
The Indians' burros and the horses of the raiders were all out
of sight. Time was too valuable for Gale to use any in what might
be a vain search. Therefore, he lifted the Yaqui upon Sol's broad
shoulders and climbed into the saddle. At a word Sol dropped
his head and started eastward up the trail, walking swiftly,
without resentment for his double burden.
Far ahead, between two huge mesas where the trail mounted over
a pass, a long line of dust clouds marked the position of the horses
that had escaped from the corral. Those that had been stolen would
travel straight and true for home, and perhaps would lead the others
with them.
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