Silence, ruthlessness, mystery—­these are the attributes of the desert.  True, it has its softer phases—­veiled dawns and dusks, rainbow hues, moon and stars.  But these are but tender blossoms from a spiked, poisonous stalk, like the flowers of the cactus.  They are brief and evanescent; the iron parent is everlasting.

Chapter I

A Bluebird’s Feather

In the dusk a pack-horse crested a low-lying sand-ridge, put up its head and sniffed, pushed forward eagerly, its nostrils twitching as it turned a little more toward the north, going straight toward the water-hole.  The pack was slipping as far to one side as it had listed to the other half an hour ago; in the restraining rope there were a dozen intricate knots where one would have amply sufficed.  The horse broke into a trot, blazing its own trail through the mesquite; a parcel slipped; the slack rope grew slacker because of the subsequent readjustment; half a dozen bundles dropped after the first.  A voice, thin and irritable, shouted ‘Whoa!’ and the man in turn was briefly outlined against the pale sky as he scrambled up the ridge.  He was a little man and plainly weary; he walked as though his boots hurt him; he carried a wide, new hat in one hand; the skin was peeling from his blistered face.  From his other hand trailed a big handkerchief.  He was perhaps fifty or sixty.  He called ‘Whoa!’ again, and made what haste he could after his horse.

A moment later a second horse appeared against the sky, following the man, topping the ridge, passing on.  In silhouette it appeared no normal animal but some weird monstrosity, a misshapen body covered everywhere with odd wart-like excrescences.  Close by, these unique growths resolved themselves into at least a score of canteens and water-bottles of many shapes and sizes, strung together with bits of rope.  Undoubtedly the hand which had tied the other knots had constructed these.  This horse in turn sniffed and went forward with a quickened pace.

Finally came the fourth figure of the procession.  This was a girl.  Like the man, she was booted; like him, she carried a broad hat in her hand.  Here the similarity ended.  She wore an outdoor costume, a little thing appropriate enough for her environment.  And yet it was peculiarly appropriate to femininity.  It disclosed the pleasing lines of a pretty figure.  Her fatigue seemed less than the man’s.  Her youth was pronounced, assertive.  She alone of the four paused more than an instant upon the slight eminence; she put back her head and looked up at the few stars that were shining; she listened to the hushed voice of the desert.  She drew a scarf away from her neck and let the cooling air breathe upon her throat.  The throat was round; no doubt it was soft and white, and, like her whole small self, seductively feminine.

Having communed with the night, the girl withdrew her gaze from the sky and hearkened to her companion.  His voice, now remarkably eager and young for a man of his years, came to her clearly through the clumps of bushes.