Yaqui had brought Gale to the source of Forlorn River.
Flashing thoughts in Gale's mind were no swifter than the thrills
that ran over him. He would stake out a claim here and never be
cheated out of it. Ditches on the benches and troughs on the steep
walls would carry water down to the valley. Ben Chase had build
a great dam which would be useless if Gale chose to turn Forlorn River
from its natural course. The fountain head of that mysterious desert
river belonged to him.
His eagerness, his mounting passion, was checked by Yaqui's unusual
action. The Indian showed wonder, hesitation, even reluctance. His
strange eyes surveyed this boiling well as if they could not
believe the sight they saw. Gale divined instantly that Yaqui had
never before seen the source of Forlorn River. If he had ever
ascended to this plateau, probably it had been to some other part,
for the water was new to him. He stood gazing aloft at peaks,
at lower ramparts of the mountain, and at nearer landmarks of
prominence. Yaqui seemed at fault. He was not sure of his location.
Then he strode past the swirling pool of dark water and began to
ascend a little slope that led up to a shelving cliff. Another
object halted the Indian. It was a pile of stones, weathered,
crumbled, fallen into ruin, but still retaining shape enough to
prove it had been built there by the hands of men. Round and
round this the Yaqui stalked, and his curiosity attested a further
uncertainty.
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