Belding was hearty in his affections, but undemonstrative.
If there was any sentiment in his make-up it had an outlet in
his memory of Blanco Diablo and a longing to see him. Often
Belding stopped his work to gaze out over the desert toward
the west. When he thought of his rangers and Thorne and Mercedes
he certainly never forgot his horse. He wondered if Diablo was
running, walking, resting; if Yaqui was finding water and grass.
In March, with the short desert winter over, the days began to
grow warm. The noon hours were hot, and seemed to give promise
of the white summer blaze and blasting furnace wind soon to come.
No word was received from the rangers. But this caused Belding
no concern, and it seemed to him that his women folk considered
no news good news.
Among the many changes coming to pass in Forlorn River were the
installing of post-office service and the building of a mescal
drinking-house. Belding had worked hard for the post office, but
he did not like the idea of a saloon for Forlorn River. Still, that
was an inevitable evil. The Mexicans would have mescal. Belding
had kept the little border hamlet free of an establishment for
distillation of the fiery cactus drink. A good many Americans
drifted into Forlorn River--miners, cowboys, prospectors, outlaws,
and others of nondescript character; and these men, of course,
made the saloon, which was also an inn, their headquarters.
Belding, with Carter and other old residents, saw the need of a
sheriff for Forlorn River.
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