But the Indian, who alone could have told where they were, where
they were going, what chance they had to escape, maintained his
stoical silence. Gale took the early watch, Ladd the midnight one,
and Lash that of the morning.
The day broke rosy, glorious, cold as ice. Action was necessary
to make useful benumbed hands and feet. Mercedes was fed while
yet wrapped in blankets. Then, while the packs were being put on
and horses saddled, she walked up and down, slapping her hands,
warming her ears. The rose color of the dawn was in her cheeks,
and the wonderful clearness of desert light in her eyes. Thorne's
eyes sought her constantly. The rangers watched her. The Yaqui
bent his glance upon her only seldom; but when he did look it seemed
that his strange, fixed, and inscrutable face was about to break
into a smile. Yet that never happened. Gale himself was surprised
to find how often his own glance found the slender, dark, beautiful
Spaniard. Was this because of her beauty? he wondered. He thought
not altogether. Mercedes was a woman. She represented something
in life that men of all races for thousands of years had loved to
see and own, to revere and debase, to fight and die for.
It was a significant index to the day's travel that Yaqui should
keep a blanket from the pack and tear it into strips to bind the
legs of the horses. It meant the dreaded choya and the knife-edged
lava. That Yaqui did not mount Diablo was still more significant.
Pages:
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249