“What stuns me is that Rojas stuck to our trail,” said Thorne, his lined and haggard face expressive of dark passion.  “He has followed us into this fearful desert.  He’ll lose men, horses, perhaps his life.  He’s only a bandit, and he stands to win no gold.  If he ever gets out of here it ’ll be by herculean labor and by terrible hardship.  All for a poor little helpless woman—­just a woman!  My God, I can’t understand it.”

“Shore—­just a woman,” replied Ladd, solemnly nodding his head.

Then there was a long silence during which the men gazed into the fire.  Each, perhaps, had some vague conception of the enormity of Rojas’s love or hate—­some faint and amazing glimpse of the gulf of human passion.  Those were cold, hard, grim faces upon which the light flickered.

“Sleep,” said the Yaqui.

Thorne rolled in his blanket close beside Mercedes.  Then one by one the rangers stretched out, feet to the fire.  Gale found that he could not sleep.  His eyes were weary, but they would not stay shut; his body ached for rest, yet he could not lie still.  The night was so somber, so gloomy, and the lava-encompassed arroyo full of shadows.  The dark velvet sky, fretted with white fire, seemed to be close.  There was an absolute silence, as of death.  Nothing moved—­nothing outside of Gale’s body appeared to live.  The Yaqui sat like an image carved out of lava.  The others lay prone and quiet.  Would another night see any of them lie that way, quiet forever?  Gale felt a ripple pass over him that was at once a shudder and a contraction of muscles.  Used as he was to the desert and its oppression, why should he feel to-night as if the weight of its lava and the burden of its mystery were bearing him down?

He sat up after a while and again watched the fire.  Nell’s sweet face floated like a wraith in the pale smoke—­glowed and flushed and smiled in the embers.  Other faces shone there—­his sister’s —­that of his mother.  Gale shook off the tender memories.  This desolate wilderness with its forbidding silence and its dark promise of hell on the morrow—­this was not the place to unnerve oneself with thoughts of love and home.  But the torturing paradox of the thing was that this was just the place and just the night for a man to be haunted.

By and by Gale rose and walked down a shadowy aisle between the mesquites.  On his way back the Yaqui joined him.  Gale was not surprised.  He had become used to the Indian’s strange guardianship.  But now, perhaps because of Gale’s poignancy of thought, the contending tides of love and regret, the deep, burning premonition of deadly strife, he was moved to keener scrutiny of the Yaqui.  That, of course, was futile.  The Indian was impenetrable, silent, strange.  But suddenly, inexplicably, Gale felt Yaqui’s human quality.  It was aloof, as was everything about this Indian; but it was there.  This savage walked silently beside