Yet Gale headed into
it unflinchingly. He would carry the Yaqui as far as possible, or
until death make the burden no longer a duty. Blanco Sol plodded on
over the dragging sand, up and down the steep, loose banks of washes,
out on the rocks, and through the rows of white-tooled choyas.
The sun sloped westward, bending fiercer heat in vengeful, parting
reluctance. The wind slackened. The dust settled. And the bold,
forbidding front of No Name Mountains changed to red and gold.
Gale held grimly by the side of the tireless, implacable horse,
holding the Yaqui on the saddle, taking the brunt of the merciless
thorns. In the end it became heartrending toil. His heavy chaps
dragged him down; but he dared not go on without them, for,
thick and stiff as they were, the terrible, steel-bayoneted spikes
of the choyas pierced through to sting his legs.
To the last mile Gale held to Blanco Sol's gait and kept
ever-watchful gaze ahead on the trail. Then, with the low, flat
houses of Forlorn River shining red in the sunset, Gale flagged
and rapidly weakened. The Yaqui slipped out of the saddle and
dropped limp in the sand. Gale could not mount his horse. He
clutched Sol's long tail and twisted his hand in it and staggered on.
Blanco Sol whistled a piercing blast. He scented cool water and
sweet alfalfa hay. Twinkling lights ahead meant rest. The
melancholy desert twilight rapidly succeeded the sunset. It
accentuated the forlorn loneliness of the gray, winding river of
sand and its grayer shores.
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