It was the destiny of Forlorn River, however, never to return to the
slow, sleepy tenor of its former existence. Belding's predictions
came true. That straggling line of home-seekers was but a
forerunner of the real invasion of Altar Valley. Refugees from
Mexico and from Casita spread the word that water and wood and grass
and land were to be had at Forlorn River; and as if by magic the
white tents and red adobe houses sprang up to glisten in the sun.
Belding was happier than he had been for a long time. He believed
that evil days for Forlorn River, along with the apathy and lack of
enterprise, were in the past. He hired a couple of trustworthy
Mexicans to ride the boundary line, and he settled down to think
of ranching and irrigation and mining projects. Every morning he
expected to receive some word form Sonoyta or Yuma, telling
him that Yaqui had guided his party safely across the desert.
Belding was simple-minded, a man more inclined to action than
reflection. When the complexities of life hemmed him in, he
groped his way out, never quite understanding. His wife had
always been a mystery to him. Nell was sunshine most of the
time, but, like the sun-dominated desert, she was subject to
strange changes, wilful, stormy, sudden. It was enough for Belding
now to find his wife in a lighter, happier mood, and to see Nell
dreamily turning a ring round and round the third finger of her
left hand and watching the west. Every day both mother and daughter
appeared farther removed from the past darkly threatening
days.
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