"That trail
we hit must be hundreds of years old. It's worn deep and smooth
in iron lava."
"Well, all I got to say is--Beldin' was shore right about the
Indian. An' I can see Rojas's finish somewhere up along that
awful hell-hole."
Camp was made on a level spot. Yaqui took the horses to water,
and then turned them loose in the arroyo. It was a tired and
somber group that sat down to eat. The strain of suspense
equaled the wearing effects of the long ride. Mercedes was calm,
but her great dark eyes burned in her white face. Yaqui watched
her. The others looked at her with unspoken pride. Presently
Thorne wrapped her in his blankets, and she seemed to fall asleep
at once. Twilight deepened. The campfire blazed brighter. A
cool wind played with Mercedes's black hair, waving strands across
her brow.
Little of Yaqui's purpose or plan could be elicited from him. But
the look of him was enough to satisfy even Thorne. He leaned
against a pile of wood, which he had collected, and his gloomy
gaze pierced the campfire, and at long intervals strayed over the
motionless form of the Spanish girl.
The rangers and Thorne, however, talked in low tones. It was
absolutely impossible for Rojas and his men to reach the waterhole
before noon of the next day. And long before that time the
fugitives would have decided on a plan of defense. What that
defense would be, and where it would be made, were matters over
which the men considered gravely.
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