Indeed, he realized now why some one had named it Forlorn River.  Even at this season when it was full of water it had a forlorn aspect.  It was doomed to fail out there on the desert—­doomed never to mingle with the waters of the Gulf.  It wound away down the valley, growing wider and shallower, encroaching more and more on the gray flats, until it disappeared on its sad journey toward Sonoyta.  That vast shimmering, sun-governed waste recognized its life only at this flood season, and was already with parched tongue and insatiate fire licking and burning up its futile waters.

Yaqui put a hand on Gale’s knee.  It was a bronzed, scarred, powerful hand, always eloquent of meaning.  The Indian was listening.  His bent head, his strange dilating eyes, his rigid form, and that close-pressing hand, how these brought back to Gale the terrible lonely night hours on the lava!

“What do you hear, Yaqui?” asked Gale.  He laughed a little at the mood that had come over him.  But the sound of his voice did not break the spell.  He did not want to speak again.  He yielded to Yaqui’s subtle nameless influence.  He listened himself, heard nothing but the scream of an eagle.  Often he wondered if the Indian could hear things that made no sound.  Yaqui was beyond understanding.

Whatever the Indian had listened to or for, presently he satisfied himself, and, with a grunt that might mean anything, he rose and turned away from the rim.  Gale followed, rested now and eager to go on.  He saw that the great cliff they had climbed was only a stairway up to the huge looming dark bulk of the plateau above.

Suddenly he again heard the dull roar of falling water.  It seemed to have cleared itself of muffled vibrations.  Yaqui mounted a little ridge and halted.  The next instant Gale stood above a bottomless cleft into which a white stream leaped.  His astounded gaze swept backward along this narrow swift stream to its end in a dark, round, boiling pool.  It was a huge spring, a bubbling well, the outcropping of an underground river coming down from the vast plateau above.

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.