Desert Gold

  "Shore we won't ride into Rio Forlorn in the daytime.  Let's slip the packs, Jim.  We can hid them off in the cactus an' come back after them.  With the young man ridin' we–"

  The whispering was interrupted by a loud ringing neigh that whistled up from the arroyo.  One of the horses had scented the travelers on the ridge top.  The indifference of the Mexicans changed to attention.

  Ladd and Lash turned back and led the horses into the first opening on the south side of the road.  There was nothing more said at the moment, and manifestly the cowboys were in a hurry.  Gale had to run in the open places to keep up.  When they did stop it was welcome to Gale, for he had begun to fall behind.

  The packs were slipped, securely tied and hidden in a mesquite clump.  Ladd strapped a blanket around one of the horses.  His next move was to take off his chaps.

  "Gale, you're wearin' boots, an' by liftin' your feet you can beat the cactus," he whispered.  "But the–the–Miss Castaneda, she'll be torn all to pieces unless she puts these on.  Please tell her–an' hurry."

  Dick took the caps, and, going up to Mercedes, he explained the situation.  She laughed, evidently at his embarrassed earnestness, and slipped out of the saddle.

  "Senor, chapparejos and I are not strangers," she said.

  Deftly and promptly she equipped herself, and then Gale helped her into the saddle, called to her horse, and started off.  Lash directed Gale to mount the other saddled horse and go next.

  Dick had not ridden a hundred yards behind the trotting leaders before he had sundry painful encounters with reaching cactus arms. The horse missed these by a narrow margin.  Dick's knees appeared to be in line, and it be came necessary for him to lift them high and let his boots take the onslaught of the spikes.  He was at home in the saddle, and the accomplishment was about the only one he possessed that had been of any advantage during his sojourn in the West.

  Ladd pursued a zigzag course southward across the desert, trotting down the aisles, cantering in wide, bare patches, walking through the clumps of cacti.  The desert seemed all of a sameness to Dick–a wilderness of rocks and jagged growths hemmed in by lowering ranges, always looking close, yet never growing any nearer. The moon slanted back toward the west, losing its white radiance, and the gloom of the earlier evening began to creep into the washes and to darken under the mesas.  By and by Ladd entered an arroyo, and here the travelers turned and twisted with the meanderings of a dry stream bed.  At the head of a canyon they had to take once more to the rougher ground.  Always it led down, always it grew rougher, more rolling, with wider bare spaces, always the black ranges loomed close.

  Gale became chilled to the bone, and his clothes were damp and cold. His knees smarted from the wounds of the poisoned thorns, and his right hand was either swollen stiff or too numb to move.  Moreover, he was tiring.  The excitement, the long walk, the miles on miles of jolting trot–these had wearied him.  Mercedes must be made of steel, he thought, to stand all that she had been subjected to and yet, when the stars were paling and dawn perhaps not far away, stay in the saddle.

  So Dick Gale rode on, drowsier for each mile, and more and more giving the horse a choice of ground.  Sometimes a prod from a murderous spine roused Dick.  A grayness had blotted out the waning moon in the west and the clear, dark, starry sky overhead.  Once when Gale, thinking to fight his weariness, raised his head, he saw that one of the horses in the lead was riderless.  Ladd was carrying Mercedes.  Dick marveled that her collapse had not come sooner. Another time, rousing himself again, he imagined they were now on a good hard road.