With a wounded, helpless man across the saddle, this stretch of thorny and contorted desert was practically impassable.  Yet Gale headed into it unflinchingly.  He would carry the Yaqui as far as possible, or until death make the burden no longer a duty.  Blanco Sol plodded on over the dragging sand, up and down the steep, loose banks of washes, out on the rocks, and through the rows of white-tooled choyas.

The sun sloped westward, bending fiercer heat in vengeful, parting reluctance.  The wind slackened.  The dust settled.  And the bold, forbidding front of No Name Mountains changed to red and gold.  Gale held grimly by the side of the tireless, implacable horse, holding the Yaqui on the saddle, taking the brunt of the merciless thorns.  In the end it became heartrending toil.  His heavy chaps dragged him down; but he dared not go on without them, for, thick and stiff as they were, the terrible, steel-bayoneted spikes of the choyas pierced through to sting his legs.

To the last mile Gale held to Blanco Sol’s gait and kept ever-watchful gaze ahead on the trail.  Then, with the low, flat houses of Forlorn River shining red in the sunset, Gale flagged and rapidly weakened.  The Yaqui slipped out of the saddle and dropped limp in the sand.  Gale could not mount his horse.  He clutched Sol’s long tail and twisted his hand in it and staggered on.

Blanco Sol whistled a piercing blast.  He scented cool water and sweet alfalfa hay.  Twinkling lights ahead meant rest.  The melancholy desert twilight rapidly succeeded the sunset.  It accentuated the forlorn loneliness of the gray, winding river of sand and its grayer shores.  Night shadows trooped down from the black and looming mountains.

VII

WHITE HORSES

“A crippled Yaqui!  Why the hell did you saddle yourself with him?” roared Belding, as he laid Gale upon the bed.

Belding had grown hard these late, violent weeks.

“Because I chose,” whispered Gale, in reply.  “Go after him—­he dropped in the trail—­across the river—­near the first big saguaro.”

Belding began to swear as he fumbled with matches and the lamp; but as the light flared up he stopped short in the middle of a word.

“You said you weren’t hurt?” he demanded, in sharp anxiety, as he bent over Gale.

“I’m only—­all in....Will you go—­or send some one—­for the Yaqui?”

“Sure, Dick, sure,” Belding replied, in softer tones.  Then he stalked out; his heels rang on the flagstones; he opened a door and called:  “Mother—­girls, here’s Dick back.  He’s done up....Now —­no, no, he’s not hurt or in bad shape.  You women!...Do what you can to make him comfortable.  I’ve got a little job on hand.”

There were quick replies that Gale’s dulling ears did not distinguish.  Then it seemed Mrs. Belding was beside his bed, her presence so cool and soothing and helpful, and Mercedes and Nell, wide-eyed and white-faced, were fluttering around him.  He drank thirstily, but refused food.  He wanted rest.  And with their faces drifting away in a kind of haze, with the feeling of gentle hands about him, he lost consciousness.