The raiders were left on the desert without guns or
mounts.
Blanco Sol walked or jog-trotted six miles to the hour. At that
gait fifty miles would not have wet or turned a hair of his dazzling
white coat. Gale, bearing in mind the ever-present possibility of
encountering more raiders and of being pursued, saved the strength
of the horse. Once out of sight of Papago Well, Gale dismounted
and walked beside the horse, steadying with one firm hand the
helpless, dangling Yaqui.
The sun cleared the eastern ramparts, and the coolness of morning
fled as if before a magic foe. The whole desert changed. The grays
wore bright; the mesquites glistened; the cactus took the silver
hue of frost, and the rocks gleamed gold and red. Then, as the
heat increased, a wind rushed up out of the valley behind Gale,
and the hotter the sun blazed down the swifter rushed the wind.
The wonderful transparent haze of distance lost its bluish hue for
one with tinge of yellow. Flying sand made the peaks dimly outlined.
Gale kept pace with his horse. He bore the twinge of pain that
darted through his injured hip at every stride. His eye roved
over the wide, smoky prospect seeking the landmarks he knew.
When the wild and bold spurs of No Name Mountains loomed through
a rent in flying clouds of sand he felt nearer home. Another hour
brought him abreast of a dark, straight shaft rising clear from a
beetling escarpment. This was a monument marking the international
boundary line.
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