"

"I speak in warning, not threat,--and I am not the only cloud in the
sky. The women of vengeance are coming beyond there where the willows
are green."

Dona Jocasta looked the way he pointed, and stood up with an
exclamation of alarm.

"Clodomiro! Call Clodomiro!" she said hurriedly, and as the priest
only stared at her, she sped past him to the portal and called the boy
who came running from the patio.

She pointed as the priest had pointed.

"They are strangers, they do not know," she said. "Kill a horse, but
meet them!"

His horse was in the plaza, and he was in the saddle before she
finished speaking, digging in his heels and yelling as though leading
a charge while the frightened animal ran like a wild thing.

Dona Jocasta stood gazing after him intently, shading her eyes with
her hand. Women came running out of the patio and Padre Andreas stared
at her.

"What new thing has given you fear?" he asked in wonder.

"No new thing,--a very old thing of which Elena told me! That green
strip of willow is the edge of a quicksand where no one knows the
depth. The women are thinking to make a short path across, and the one
who leads will surely go down."

The priest stared incredulous.

"How a quicksand and no water?" he asked doubtfully.

"There _is_ water,--hidden water! It comes under the ground from the
hills. In the old, old days it was a wide well boiling like a kettle
over a fire, also it was warm! Then sand storms filled that valley and
filled the well. It is crusted over, but the boiling goes on far
below. Elena said not even a coyote will touch that canoncita though
the dogs are on his trail. The Indians say an evil spirit lives under
there, but the women of Mesa Blanca and Palomitas do not know the
place."

"It should have a fence,--a place like that."

"It had, but the wind took it, and, as you see, Soledad is a forgotten
place."

They watched Clodomiro circle over the mesa trail and follow the women
down the slope of the little valley. It was fully three miles away,
yet the women could be seen running in fear to the top of the mesa
where they cast themselves on the ground resting from fright and
exertion.

Quite enjoying his spectacular dash of rescue, Clodomiro cantered back
along the trail, and when he reached the highest point, turned looking
to the southeast where, beyond the range, the old Yaqui trail led to
the land of despair.

He halted there, throwing up his hand as if in ans