Thorne's bad hurt...Now
rustle--Dick, old--boy."
Lash's voice died away in a husky whisper, and he quietly lay back,
stretching out all but the crippled leg. Gale examined it, assured
himself the bones had not been broken, and then rose ready to go
down the trail.
"Mercedes, hold Thorne's head up, in your lap--so. Now I'll go."
On the moment Yaqui appeared to have completed the binding of
his wounded shoulder, and he started to follow Gale. He paid no
attention to Gale's order for him to stay back. But he was slow,
and gradually Gale forged ahead. The lingering brightness of the
sunset lightened the trail, and the descent to the arroyo was swift
and easy. Some of the white horses had come in for water. Blanco
Sol spied Gale and whistled and came pounding toward him. It was
twilight down in the arroyo. Yaqui appeared and began collecting
a bundle of mesquite sticks. Gale hastily put together the things
he needed; and, packing them all in a tarpaulin, he turned to
retrace his steps up the trail.
Darkness was setting in. The trail was narrow, exceedingly steep,
and in some places fronted on precipices. Gale's burden was not
very heavy, but its bulk made it unwieldy, and it was always
overbalancing him or knocking against the wall side of the trail.
Gale found it necessary to wait for Yaqui to take the lead. The
Indian's eyes must have seen as well at night as by day. Gale
toiled upward, shouldering, swinging, dragging the big pack; and,
though the ascent of the slope was not really long, it seemed
endless.
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