But suddenly, inexplicably,
Gale felt Yaqui's human quality. It was aloof, as was everything
about this Indian; but it was there. This savage walked silently
beside him, without glance or touch or word. His thought was
as inscrutable as if mind had never awakened in his race. Yet
Gale was conscious of greatness, and, somehow, he was reminded
of the Indian's story. His home had been desolated, his people
carried off to slavery, his wife and children separated from him
to die. What had life meant to the Yaqui? What had been in his
heart? What was now in his mind? Gale could not answer these
questions. But the difference between himself and Yaqui, which
he had vaguely felt as that between savage and civilized men,
faded out of his mind forever. Yaqui might have considered he
owed Gale a debt, and, with a Yaqui's austere and noble fidelity
to honor, he meant to pay it. Nevertheless, this was not the thing
Gale found in the Indian's silent presence. Accepting the desert
with its subtle and inconceivable influence, Gale felt that the
savage and the white man had been bound in a tie which was
no less brotherly because it could not be comprehended.
Toward dawn Gale managed to get some sleep. Then the morning broke
with the sun hidden back of the uplift of the plateau. The horses
trooped up the arroyo and snorted for water. After a hurried
breakfast the packs were hidden in holes in the lava. The saddles
were left where they were, and the horses allowed to graze and wander
at will.
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