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BLOOM OF CACTUS

CHAPTER I

AMBUSHED

As Lennon drove his heavily packed burro over the round of the ridge
above the camp spring, all the desolate Arizona waste around him was
transformed by the splendour of dawn. Up out of mysterious velvety
blue-black valleys loomed the massive purple-walled fortresses and
cities of the mountain giants, guarded by titanic skyward towering
pyramids and turrets of exquisite rose pink.

The burro was not interested in scenery or light effects. He topped the
ridge and plodded slowly down the steep trail on the far side. Lennon
lingered to enjoy the glorious illusion of the view.

All too soon, as the glaring sun cleared the high plateau on the eastern
horizon, the ethereal colours of daybreak faded. The magic towers and
pyramids lowered and shrank in bulk until they became only bald rugged
peaks and buttes.

No less remorselessly the flood of hot white sunrays burned away the
shadow tapestry of the valleys. In place of the cool mysterious vales
there were left only scorched gulleys and dry washes sparsely set with
greasewood and sagebrush and cactus.

Yet the interest in Lennon's alert gray eyes increased rather than
lessened as he swung away down slope after his burro. The trail he was
following was very old. Above almost every arable valley bottom the
heights were crested with the stone ruins of ancient pueblos. Not
improbably, Coronado or others of the early Spanish explorers had ridden
this trail, west and north around the great bend, into the territory of
the Moquis and Navahos.

Within the memory of settlers not yet white-haired, more than one
war-party of renegade Apaches had sneaked along the ancient way in
search of victims. Every few yards of the bad lands offered perfect
lurking places for liers-in-wait along the trail.

Lennon glanced at the butt of his rifle in its sheath on the burro's
pack. He recalled the tales of the old prospector whose copper mine he
was seeking to rediscover. But his glance was only momentary. He knew
that twenty-seven years had passed since the last murderous Indian
outbreak in this land of desolation.

In those days a lone prospector would never have thought of tramping
this trail without his rifle ready in hand, and the hammer at half cock.
Lennon began to whistle a dance tune as he sauntered unconcernedly at
the heels of his slow-movin