And
under every bunch of choya, along and in the trail, were the
discarded joints, like little frosty pine cones covered with spines.
It was utterly impossible always to be on the lookout for these,
and when Gale stepped on one, often as not the steel-like thorns
pierced leather and flesh. Gale came almost to believe what he had
heard claimed by desert travelers--that the choya was alive and
leaped at man or beast. Certain it was when Gale passed one,
if he did not put all attention to avoiding it, he was hooked
through his chaps and held by barbed thorns. The pain was
almost unendurable. It was like no other. It burned, stung,
beat--almost seemed to freeze. It made useless arm or leg.
It made him bite his tongue to keep from crying out.
It made the sweat roll off him. It made him sick.
Moreover, bad as the choya was for man, it was infinitely worse
for beast. A jagged stab from this poisoned cactus was the only
thing Blanco Sol could not stand. Many times that day, before he
carried Mercedes, he had wildly snorted, and then stood trembling
while Gale picked broken thorns from the muscular legs. But after
Mercedes had been put upon Sol Gale made sure no choya touched him.
The afternoon passed like the morning, in ceaseless winding and
twisting and climbing along this abandoned trail. Gale saw many
waterholes, mostly dry, some containing water, all of them
catch-basins, full only after rainy season. Little ugly bunched
bushes, that Gale scarcely recognized as mesquites, grew near
these holes; also stunted greasewood and prickly pear.
Pages:
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252