Gale had never seen the
Indian's face change its hard, red-bronze calm. It was the color
and the flintiness and the character of the lava at his feet.
"Shore he sees somethin'," said Ladd. "But my eyes are not good."
"I reckon I ain't sure of mine," replied Jim. "I'm bothered by a
dim movin' streak down there."
Thorne gazed eagerly down as he stood beside Mercedes, who
sat motionless facing the slope. Gale looked and looked till he
hurt his eyes. Then he took his glass out of its case on Sol's
saddle.
There appeared to be nothing upon the lava but the innumerable
dots of choya shining in the sun. Gale swept his glass slowly
forward and back. Then into a nearer field of vision crept a
long white-and-black line of horses and men. Without a word
he handed the glass to Ladd. The ranger used it, muttering to
himself.
"They're on the lava fifteen miles down in an air line," he said,
presently. "Jim, shore they're twice that an' more accordin' to
the trail."
Jim had his look and replied: "I reckon we're a day an' a night
in the lead."
"Is it Rojas?" burst out Thorne, with set jaw.
"Yes, Thorne. It's Rojas and a dozen men or more," replied Gale,
and he looked up at Mercedes.
She was transformed. She might have been a medieval princess
embodying all the Spanish power and passion of that time, breathing
revenge, hate, unquenchable spirit of fire. If her beauty had been
wonderful in her helpless and appealing moments, now, when she looked
back white-faced and flame-eyed, it was transcendant.
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