“He will turn to look—­to wave good-by?” asked Nell.

“Dear he is an Indian,” replied Gale.

From that height they watched him ride through the mesquites, up over the river bank to enter the cactus.  His mount showed dark against the green and white, and for a long time he was plainly in sight.  The sun hung red in a golden sky.  The last the watchers saw of Yaqui was when he rode across a ridge and stood silhouetted against the gold of desert sky—­a wild, lonely, beautiful picture.  Then he was gone.

Strangely it came to Gale then that he was glad.  Yaqui had returned to his own—­the great spaces, the desolation, the solitude—­to the trails he had trodden when a child, trails haunted now by ghosts of his people, and ever by his gods.  Gale realized that in the Yaqui he had known the spirit of the desert, that this spirit had claimed all which was wild and primitive in him.

Tears glistened in Mercedes’s magnificent black eyes, and Thorne kissed them away—­kissed the fire back to them and the flame to her cheeks.

That action recalled Gale’s earlier mood, the joy of the present, and he turned to Nell’s sweet face.  The desert was there, wonderful, constructive, ennobling, beautiful, terrible, but it was not for him as it was for the Indian.  In the light of Nell’s tremulous returning smile that strange, deep, clutching shadow faded, lost its hold forever; and he leaned close to her, whispering:  “Lluvia d’oro”—­ “Shower of Gold.”