He did not see the stars pale and the thin streak
of light above the eastern rim of the Basin widen
into the morning. He did not see the hills, all
rose and purple, develop magically against the sky.
He did not see the sun burst into view from the world
below the line of the dun plain and roll its flood
of light over the wide desert. He knew nothing
more until someone was forcing something between his
lips and a grateful, stimulating warmth crept through
his veins. A familiar voice drawled: “He
ain’t a-goin’ out this time, boys.
Hit takes more than one greaser bullet and a little
ride to San Felipe an’ back to send his kind
over the line.”
And a rich Irish brogue responded: “Ut’s
thim black hathen that’ll be goin’ over
the line in a bunch av I can git widin rache av thim
wid me two hands.”
Abe opened his eyes with a smile. “Mornin’
boys! Did Holmes make it in time?”
An articulate yell of delight from Pat greeted his
speech. The grizzled plainsman, with a smile
of understanding, answered his question.
“Sure he made it. Everything’s as
peaceful as the parson’s blessin’ after
his discourse on the eternal fires of torment.
Barbara’s waitin’ breakfast for you, son.
Wake up, an’ come along.”
The surveyor did not need to ask why Texas Joe had
brought so large a party of mounted and armed friends.
He gave Texas and his companions all the information
he could that would help them in their search for
the Mexicans.
When they had made him as comfortable as possible
on a cot in the spring wagon, with Pat beside him
and Pablo on the driver’s seat, the horsemen
mounted and Texas riding alongside the wagon drawled:
“There ain’t no tellin’ when we’ll
get back, Abe; but I don’t reckon we’ll
be long an’ there ain’t no use me tellin’
you to take things easy. So adios!”
“Adios,” came the answer, “and good
luck!”
Pablo spoke to his team and they moved ahead.
For a moment the horsemen watched, then Tex spoke.
“All set, boys?”
“All set,” came the answer.
Wheeling about, the five men rode rapidly in the opposite
direction towards Devil’s Canyon.
BARBARA MINISTERS TO THE WOUNDED.
Willard Holmes, after a few hours of refreshing sleep
and a good breakfast prepared and served by his hostess
with her own hands, announced himself as well as ever.
“But you need some fixing just the same,”
declared Barbara as the Indian woman entered the room
carrying warm water, towels and bandages. While
the young woman bent over the engineer and with firm,
deft fingers removed the wrappings from his shoulder,
carefully cleansed the wound and applied fresh dressing
and clean bandages, he watched her face, so near his
own, and wondered that he had ever thought her plain.
Her skin, warmly browned by desert sun and air, was
fresh and glowing with the abundance of the rich red
life in her veins; her brown hair, soft and wavy, tempted
him to reach up his free hand and put back a rebellious
lock. He moved slightly and the brown eyes, full
of womanly pity, met his.
