The discovery that Belding alluded to was one that might very well lead to the making of a wonderful and agricultural district of Altar Valley.  While in college Dick Gale had studied engineering, but he had not set the scientific world afire with his brilliance.  Nor after leaving college had he been able to satisfy his father that he could hold a job.  Nevertheless, his smattering of engineering skill bore fruit in the last place on earth where anything might have been expected of it—­in the desert.  Gale had always wondered about the source of Forlorn River.  No white man or Mexican, or, so far as known, no Indian, had climbed those mighty broken steps of rock called No Name Mountains, from which Forlorn River was supposed to come.  Gale had discovered a long, narrow, rock-bottomed and rock-walled gulch that could be dammed at the lower end by the dynamiting of leaning cliffs above.  An inexhaustible supply of water could be stored there.  Furthermore, he had worked out an irrigation plan to bring the water down for mining uses, and to make a paradise out of that part of Altar Valley which lay in the United States.  Belding claimed there was gold in the arroyos, gold in the gulches, not in quantities to make a prospector rejoice, but enough to work for.  And the soil on the higher levels of Altar Valley needed only water to make it grow anything the year round.  Gale, too, had come to have dreams of a future for Forlorn River.

On the afternoon of the following day Ladd unexpectedly appeared leading a lame and lathered horse into the yard.  Belding and Gale, who were at work at the forge, looked up and were surprised out of speech.  The legs of the horse were raw and red, and he seemed about to drop.  Ladd’s sombrero was missing; he wore a bloody scarf round his head; sweat and blood and dust had formed a crust on his face; little streams of powdery dust slid from him; and the lower half of his scarred chaps were full of broken white thorns.

“Howdy, boys,” he drawled.  “I shore am glad to see you all.”

“Where’n hell’s your hat?” demanded Belding, furiously.  It was a ridiculous greeting.  But Belding’s words signified little.  The dark shade of worry and solicitude crossing his face told more than his black amaze.

The ranger stopped unbuckling the saddle girths, and, looking at Belding, broke into his slow, cool laugh.

“Tom, you recollect that whopper of a saguaro up here where Carter’s trail branches off the main trail to Casita?  Well, I climbed it an’ left my hat on top for a woodpecker’s nest.”

“You’ve been running—­fighting?” queried Belding, as if Ladd had not spoken at all.

“I reckon it’ll dawn on you after a while,” replied Ladd, slipping the saddle.

“Laddy, go in the house to the women,” said Belding.  “I’ll tend to your horse.”