very pretty mouth, and fine eyes; eyes that
glowed softly in the dusk. Before he realized what had happened, Boca
was in his arms, and he was telling her again and again that "he sure
would come back."

She murmured her happiness as he kissed her awkwardly, and quickly, as
though bidding her a hasty farewell. But she would not let him go with
that. "Mi amor! Mi corazone!" she whispered, as she clasped her hands
behind his head and gently drew his mouth to hers.

Pete felt embarrassed, but his embarrassment melted in the soft warmth
of her affection and he returned her kisses with all the ardor of
youth. Suddenly she pushed him away and rose. Her mother had called
her.

"About twelve," whispered Pete. "Tell your ole man I'll bush out here.
It's a heap cooler."

She nodded and left him. Pete heard Flores speak to her gruffly.

"Somebody ought to put that ole side-of bacon in the well,"
soliloquized Pete. "I could stand for the ole lady, all right, and
Boca sure is a lily . . . but I was forgettin' I got to ride to
Showdown to-night."

CHAPTER XXIII

THE DEVIL-WIND

As Pete lay planning his departure--he wondered if Boca would think to
find him a canteen and food for his long ride--the stars, hitherto
clear-edged and brilliant, became blurred as though an almost invisible
mist had drifted between them and the earth. He rubbed his eyes. Yes,
there was no mistake about it. He was wide awake, and the sky was
changing. That which had seemed a mist now appeared more like a fine
dust, that swept across the heavens and dimmed the desert sky. It
occurred to him that he was at the bottom of a fairly deep canon and
that that impalpable dust meant wind, A little later he heard it,--at
first a faint, far-away sound like the whisper of many voices; then a
soft, steady hiss as when wind-driven sand runs over sand. A hot wind
sprang up suddenly and swept with a rush down the night-walled canon.
It was the devil-wind of the desert, the wind that curls the leaf and
shrivels the vine, even in the hours when there is no sun. When the
devil-wind drives, men lie naked beneath the sky in sleepless misery.
Horses and cattle stand with heads lowered and flanks drawn in,
suffering an invisible torture from which there is no escape. The dawn
brings no relief--no freshening of the air. The heat drives on--three
days--say those who know the southern desert--and no man rides the
trails, but seeks what shade may be,