Yet
these thorny forms were beautiful.
In the basins between the ridges, to right and left along the floor
of low plains the mirage glistened, wavered, faded, vanished--lakes
and trees and clouds. Inverted mountains hung suspended in the
lilac air and faint tracery of white-walled cities.
At noon Yaqui halted the cavalcade. He had selected a field of
bisnagi cactus for the place of rest. Presently his reason became
obvious. With long, heavy knife he cut off the tops of these
barrel-shaped plants. He scooped out soft pulp, and with stone and
hand then began to pound the deeper pulp into a juicy mass. When
he threw this out there was a little water left, sweet, cool water
which man and horse shared eagerly. Thus he made even the desert's
fiercest growths minister to their needs.
But he did not halt long. Miles of gray-green spiked walls lay
between him and that line of ragged, red lava which manifestly he
must reach before dark. The travel became faster, straighter.
And the glistening thorns clutched and clung to leather and cloth
and flesh. The horses reared, snorted, balked, leaped--but they
were sent on. Only Blanco Sol, the patient, the plodding, the
indomitable, needed no goad or spur. Waves and scarfs
and wreaths of heat smoked up from the sand. Mercedes reeled
in her saddle. Thorne bade her drink, bathed her face, supported
her, and then gave way to Ladd, who took the girl with him on
Torre's broad back. Yaqui's unflagging purpose and iron arm were
bitter and hateful to the proud and haughty spirit of Blanco Diablo.
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