"Ah, yes. Desert Gold!" exclaimed Dick's father, softly,
with eyes of pride. Perhaps he was glad Dick had found the rich
claim; surely he was happy that Dick had won the girl he loved.
But it seemed to Dick himself that his father meant something
very different from love and fortune in his allusion to desert gold.
That beautiful happy day, like life or love itself, could not be
wholly perfect.
Yaqui came to Dick to say good-by. Dick was startled, grieved,
and in his impulsiveness forgot for a moment the nature of the
Indian. Yaqui was not to be changed.
Belding tried to overload him with gifts. The Indian packed a
bag of food, a blanket, a gun, a knife, a canteen, and no more.
The whole household went out with him to the corrals and fields
from which Belding bade him choose a horse--any horse, even the
loved Blanco Diablo. Gale's heart was in his throat for fear the
Indian might choose Blanco Sol, and Gale hated himself for a
selfishness he could not help. But without a word he would have
parted with the treasured Sol.
Yaqui whistled the horses up--for the last time. Did he care for
them? It would have been hard to say. He never looked at the
fierce and haughty Diablo, nor at Blanco Sol as he raised his noble
head and rang his piercing blast. The Indian did not choose one
of Belding's whites. He caught a lean and wiry broncho, strapped
a blanket on him, and fastened on the pack.
Then he turned to these friends, the same emotionless, inscrutable
dark and silent Indian that he had always been.
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