It was as if he had come upon something surprising.
Gale wondered about the pile of stones. Had it once been a
prospector's claim?
"Ugh!" grunted the Indian; and, though his exclamation expressed
no satisfaction, it surely put an end to doubt. He pointed up to
the roof of the sloping yellow shelf of stone. Faintly outlined
there in red were the imprints of many human hands with fingers
spread wide. Gale had often seen such paintings on the walls of
the desert caverns. Manifestly these told Yaqui he had come to
the spot for which he had aimed.
Then his actions became swift--and Yaqui seldom moved swiftly.
The fact impressed Gale. The Indian searched the level floor
under the shelf. He gathered up handfuls of small black stones,
and thrust them at Gale. Their weight made Gale start, and then
he trembled. The Indian's next move was to pick up a piece
of weathered rock and throw it against the wall. It broke.
He snatched up parts, and showed the broken edges to Gale.
They contained yellow steaks, dull glints, faint tracings of green.
It was gold.
Gale found his legs shaking under him; and he sat down, trying
to take all the bits of stone into his lap. His fingers were
all thumbs as with knife blade he dug into the black pieces
of rock. He found gold. Then he stared down the slope, down
into the valley with its river winding forlornly away into the
desert. But he did not see any of that. Here was reality as sweet,
as wonderful, as saving as a dream come true.
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