Blanco Sol trembled in all his great frame, and then
Gale was certain the sound was not imagination.
That certainty, once for all, fixed in Gale's mind the mood of
his flight. The Yaqui dominated the horses and the rangers.
Thorne and Mercedes were as persons under a spell. The Indian's
strange silence, the feeling of mystery and power he seemed to
create, all that was incomprehensible about him were emphasized in
the light of his slow, sure, and ruthless action. If he dominated
the others, surely he did more for Gale--colored his
thoughts--presage the wild and terrible future of that flight. If
Rojas embodied all the hatred and passion of the peon--scourged
slave for a thousand years--then Yaqui embodied all the darkness,
the cruelty, the white, sun-heated blood, the ferocity, the tragedy
of the desert.
Suddenly the Indian stalked out of the gloom. He mounted Diablo
and headed across the river. Once more the line of moving white
shadows stretched out. The soft sand gave forth no sound at all.
The glimmering campfires sank behind the western bank. Yaqui
led the way into the willows, and there was faint swishing of
leaves; then into the mesquite, and there was faint rustling of
branches. The glimmering lights appeared again, and grotesque
forms of saguaros loomed darkly. Gale peered sharply along the
trail, and, presently, on the pale sand under a cactus, there lay
a blanketed form, prone, outstretched, a carbine clutched in one
hand, a cigarette, still burning, in the other.
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