Presently in a sheltered spot,
where blown sand had not obliterated the trail, Yaqui found the
tracks of horses. The curve of the iron shoes pointed westward.
An intersecting trail from the north came in here. Gale thought the
tracks either one or two days old. Ladd said they were one day.
The Indian shook his head.
No farther advance was undertaken. The Yaqui headed south and
traveled slowly, climbing to the brow of a bold height of weathered
mesa. There he sat his horse and waited. No one questioned him.
The rangers dismounted to stretch their legs, and Mercedes was
lifted to a rock, where she rested. Thorne had gradually yielded
to the desert's influence for silence. He spoke once or twice to
Gale, and occasionally whispered to Mercedes. Gale fancied his
friend would soon learn that necessary speech in desert travel meant
a few greetings, a few words to make real the fact of human
companionship, a few short, terse terms for the business of day or
night, and perhaps a stern order or a soft call to a horse.
The sun went down, and the golden, rosy veils turned to blue and
shaded darker till twilight was there in the valley. Only the spurs
of mountains, spiring the near and far horizon, retained their clear
outline. Darkness approached, and the clear peaks faded. The
horses stamped to be on the move.
"Malo!" exclaimed the Yaqui.
He did not point with arm, but his falcon head was outstretched,
and his piercing eyes gazed at the blurring spot which marked
the location of Coyote Tanks.
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