the arroyo； in the deepening red twilight； when the heat rolled away on slow…dying wind； Blanco Sol raised his splendid head and whistled for his master。 Gale reproached himself for neglect of the noble horse。 Blanco Sol was always the same。 He loved four thingshis master； a long drink of cool water； to graze at will； and to run。 Time and place； Gale thought； meant little to Sol if he could have those four things。 Gale put his arm over the great arched neck and laid his cheek against the long white mane； and then even as he stood there forgot the horse。 What was the dull； red…tinged； horizon…wide mantle creeping up the slope？ Through it the copper sun glowed； paled； died。 Was it only twilight？ Was it gloom？ If he thought about it he had a feeling that it was the herald of night and the night must be a vigil； and that made him tremble。
At night he had formed a habit of climbing up the lava slope as far as the smooth trail extended； and there on a promontory he paced to and fro； and watched the stars； and sat stone…still for hours looking down at the vast void with its moving； changing shadows。 From that promontory he gazed up at a velvet…blue sky； deep and dark； bright with millions of cold； distant； blinking stars； and he grasped a little of the meaning of infinitude。 He gazed down into the shadows； which； black as they were and impenetrable； yet have a conception of immeasurable space。
Then the silence！ He was dumb； he was awed； he bowed his head； he trembled； he marveled at the desert silence。 It was the one thing always present。 Even when the wind roared there seemed to be silence。 But at night； in this lava world of ashes and canker； he waited for this terrible strangeness of nature to come to him with the secret。 He seemed at once a little child and a strong man； and something very old。 What tortured him was the incomprehensibility that the vaster the space the greater the silence！ At one moment Gale felt there was only death here； and that was the secret； at another he heard the slow beat of a mighty heart。
He came at length to realize that the desert was a teacher。 He did not realize all that he had learned； but he was a different man。 And when he decided upon that； he was not thinking of the slow； sure call to the primal instincts of man； he was thinking that the desert； as much as he had experienced and no more； would absolutely overturn the whole scale of a man's values； break old habits； form new ones； remake him。 More of desert experience； Gale believe； would be too much for intellect。 The desert did not breed civilized man； and that made Gale ponder over a strange thought： after all； was the civilized man inferior to the savage？
Yaqui was the answer to that。 When Gale acknowledged this he always remembered his present strange manner of thought。 The past； the old order of mind； seemed as remote as this desert world was from the haunts of civilized men。 A man must know a savage as Gale knew Yaqui before he could speak authoritatively； and then something stilled his tongue。 In the first stage of Gale's observation of Yaqui he had marked tenaciousness of life； stoicism； endurance； strength。 These were the attributes of the desert。 But what of that second stage wherein the Indian had loomed up a colossal figure of strange honor； loyalty； love？ Gale doubted his convictions and scorned himself for doubting。
There in the gloom sat the silent； impassive； inscrutable Yaqui。 His dark face； his dark eyes were plain in the light of the stars。 Always he was near Gale； unobtrusive； shadowy； but there。 Why？ Gale absolutely could not doubt that the Indian had heart as well as mind。 Yaqui had from the very first stood between Gale and accident； toil； peril。 It was his own choosing。 Gale could not change him or thwart him。 He understood the Indian's idea of obligation and sacred duty。 But there was more； and that baffled Gale。 In the night hours； alone on the slope； Gale felt in Yaqui； as he felt the mighty throb of that desert pulse； a something that drew him irresistibly to the Indian。 Sometimes he looked around to find the Indian； to dispel these strange； pressing thoughts of unreality； and it was never in vain。
Thus the nights passed； endlessly long； with Gale fighting for his old order of thought； fighting the fascination of the infinite sky； and the gloomy insulating whirl of the wide shadows； fighting for belief； hope； prayer； fighting against that terrible ever…recurring idea of being lost； lost； lost in the desert； fighting harder than any other thing the insidious； penetrating； tranquil； unfeeling self that was coming between him and his memory。
He was losing the battle； losing his hold on tangible things； losing his power to stand up under this ponderous； merciless weight of desert space and silence。
He acknowledged it in a kind of despair； and the shadows of the night seemed whirling fiends。 Lost！ Lost！ Lost！ What are you waiting for？ Rain！。 。 。 Lost！ Lost！ Lost in the desert！ So the shadows seemed to scream in voiceless mockery。
At the moment he was alone on the promontory。 The night was far spent。 A ghastly moon haunted the black volcanic spurs。 The winds blew silently。 Was he alone？ No。 he did not seem to be alone。 The Yaqui was there。 Suddenly a strange； cold sensation crept over Gale。 It was new。 He felt a presence。 Turning； he expected to see the Indian； but instead； a slight shadow； pale； almost white； stood there； not close nor yet distant。 It seemed to brighten。 Then he saw a woman who resembled a girl he had seemed to know long ago。 She was white…faced； golden…haired； and her lips were sweet； and her eyes were turning black。 Nell！ He had forgotten her。 Over him flooded a torrent of memory。 There was tragic woe in this sweet face。 Nell was holding out her armsshe was crying aloud to him across the sand and the cactus and the lava。 She was in trouble； and he had been forgetting。
That night he climbed the lava to the topmost cone； and never slipped on a ragged crust nor touched a choya thorn。 A voice called to him。 He saw Nell's eyes in the stars； in the velvet blue of sky； in the blackness of the engulfing shadows。 She was with him； a slender shape； a spirit； keeping step with him； and memory was strong； sweet； beating； beautiful。 Far down in the west； faintly golden with light of the sinking moon； he saw a cloud that resembled her face。 A cloud on the desert horizon！ He gazed and gazed。 Was that a spirit face like the one by his side？ Nohe did not dream。
In the hot； sultry morning Yaqui appeared at camp； after long hours of absence； and he pointed with a long； dark arm toward the west。 A bank of clouds was rising above the mountain barrier。
〃Rain！〃 he cried； and his sonorous voice rolled down the arroyo。
Those who heard him were as shipwrecked mariners at sight of a distant sail。
Dick Gale； silent； grateful to the depths of his soul； stood with arm over Blanco Sol and watched the transforming west； where clouds of wonderous size and hue piled over one another； rushing； darkening； spreading； sweeping upward toward that white and glowing sun。
When they reached the zenish and swept round to blot out the blazing orb； the earth took on a dark； lowering aspect。 The red of sand and lava changed to steely gray。 Vast shadows； like ripples on water； sheeted in from the gulf with a low； strange moan。 Yet the silence was like death。 The desert was awaiting a strange and hated visitationstorm！ If all the endless torrid days； the endless mystic nights had seemed unreal to Gale； what； then； seemed this stupendous spectacle？
〃Oh！ I felt a drop of rain on my face！〃 cried Mercedes； and whispering the name of a saint； she kissed her husband。
The white…haired Ladd； gaunt； old； bent； looked up at the maelstrom of clouds； and he said； softly； 〃Shore we'll get in the hosses； an' pack light； an' hit the trail； an' make night marches！〃
Then up out of the gulf of the west swept a bellowing wind and a black pall and terrible flashes of lightning and thunder like the end of the worldfury； blackness； chaos； the desert storm。
XVII
The Whistle Of A Horse
At the ranch…house at Forlorn River Belding stood alone in his darkened room。 It was quiet there and quiet outside； the sickening midsummer heat； like a hot heavy blanket； lay upon the house。
He took up the gun belt from his table and with slow hands buckled it around his waist。 He seemed to feel something familiar and comfortable and inspiring in the weight of the big gun against his hip。 He faced the door as if to go out； but hesitated； and then began a slow； plodding walk up and down the length of the room。 Presently he halted at the table； and with reluctant hands he unbuckled the gun belt and laid it down。
The action did not have an air of finality； and Belding knew it。 He had seen border life in Texas in the early days； he had been a sheriff when the law in the West depended on a quickness of wrist； he had seen many a man lay down his gun for good and all。 His own action was not final。 Of late he had done the same thing many times and this last time it seemed a little harder to do； a little more indicative of vacillation。 There were reasons why Belding's gun held for him a gloomy fascination。
The Chases； those grasping and conscienceless agents of a new force in the development of the West； were bent upon Belding's ruin； and so far as his fortunes at Forlorn River were concerned； had almost accomplished it。 One by one he lost points for which he contended with them。 He carried into the Tucson courts the matter of the staked claims； and mining claims； and water claims； and he lost all。 Following that he lost his government position as inspector of immigration； and this fact； because of what he considered its injustice； had been a hard blow。 He had been made to suffer a humiliation equally as great。 It came about that he actually had to pay the Chases for water to irrigate his alfalfa fields。 The never…failing spring upon his land answered for the needs of household and horses； but no more。
These matters were unfortunate for Belding； but not by any means wholly accountable for his worry and unhappiness and brooding hate。 He believed