"That raider who tried to grind the Yaqui under a horse's hoofs--he
was a hyena!" concluded Gale, shuddering. "I've seen some blood
spilled and some hard sights, but that inhuman devil took my nerve.
Why, as I told you, Belding, I missed a shot at him--not twenty
paces!"
"Dick, in cases like that the sooner you clean up the bunch the
better," said Belding, grimly. "As for hard sights--wait till you've
seen a Yaqui do up a Mexican. Bar none, that is the limit! It's
blood lust, a racial hate, deep as life, and terrible. The Spaniards
crushed the Aztecs four or five hundred years ago. That hate has had
time to grow as deep as a cactus root. The Yaquis are mountain
Aztecs. Personally, I think they are noble and intelligent, and if
let alone would be peaceable and industrious. I like the few I've
known. But they are a doomed race. Have you any idea what ailed
this Yaqui before the raider got in his work?"
"No, I haven't. I noticed the Indian seemed in bad shape; but I
couldn't tell what was the matter with him."
"Well, my idea is another personal one. Maybe it's off color. I
think that Yaqui was, or is, for that matter, dying of a broken
heart. All he wanted was to get back to his mountains and die.
There are no Yaquis left in that part of Sonora he was bound for."
"He had a strange look in his eyes," said Gale, thoughtfully.
"Yes, I noticed that. But all Yaquis have a wild look. Dick, if
I'm not mistaken, this fellow was a chief.
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