A gloomy black terror had passed
by. He wanted to thank the faithful Mercedes, and Thorne for
getting well, and the cheerful Lash, and Ladd himself, and that
strange and wonderful Yaqui, now such a splendid figure. He thought
of home and Nell. The terrible encompassing red slopes lost something
of their fearsomeness, and there was a good spirit hovering near.
"Boys, come round," called Ladd, in his low voice. "An' you,
Mercedes. An' call the Yaqui."
Ladd lay in the shade of the brush shelter that had been
erected. His head was raised slightly on a pillow. There seemed
little of him but long lean lines, and if it had not been for his
keen, thoughtful, kindly eyes, his face would have resembled a
death mask of a man starved.
"Shore I want to know what day is it an' what month?" asked Ladd.
Nobody could answer him. The question seemed a surprise to Gale,
and evidently was so to the others.
"Look at that cactus," went on Ladd.
Near the wall of lava a stunted saguaro lifted its head. A few
shriveled blossoms that had once been white hung along the fluted
column.
"I reckon according to that giant cactus it's somewheres along the
end of March," said Jim Lash, soberly.
"Shore it's April. Look where the sun is. An' can't you feel
it's gettin' hot?"
"Supposin' it is April?" queried Lash slowly.
"Well, what I'm drivin' at is it's about time you all was hittin'
the trail back to Forlorn River, before the waterholes dry out.
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