Yaqui slipped out of his saddle. He ran his hand
over Diablo's nose and spoke low, and repeated this action for
each of the other horses. Gale had long ceased to question the
strange Indian's behavior. There was no explaining or understanding
many of his manoeuvers. But the results of them were always
thought-provoking. Gale had never seen horse stand so silently as
in this instance; no stamp--no champ of bit--no toss of head--no
shake of saddle or pack--no heave or snort! It seemed they had
become imbued with the spirit of the Indian.
Yaqui moved away into the shadows as noiselessly as if he were one
of them. The darkness swallowed him. He had taken a parallel with
the trail. Gale wondered if Yaqui meant to try to lead his string
of horses by the rebel sentinels. Ladd had his head bent low, his
ear toward the trail. Jim's long neck had the arch of a listening
deer. Gale listened, too, and as the slow, silent moments went
by his faculty of hearing grew more acute from strain. He heard
Blanco Sol breathe; he heard the pound of his own heart;
he heard the silken rustle of the alfalfa; he heard a faint,
far-off sound of voice, like a lost echo. Then his ear seemed
to register a movement of air, a disturbance so soft
as to be nameless. Then followed long, silent moments.
Yaqui appeared as he had vanished. He might have been part of
the shadows. But he was there. He started off down the trail
leading Diablo. Again the white line stretched slowly out.
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