wed no inclination to bend his head to the alfalfa which
swished softly about his legs. Gale felt the horse's sensitive, almost
human alertness. Sol knew as well as his master the nature of that
flight.

At the far corner of the field Yaqui halted, and slowly the line of
white horses merged into a compact mass. There was a trail here
leading down to the river. The campfires were so close that the bright
blazes could be seen in movement, and dark forms crossed in front of
them. Yaqui slipped out of his saddle. He ran his hand over Diablo's
nose and spoke low, and repeated this action for each of the other
horses. Gale had long ceased to question the strange Indian's
behavior. There was no explaining or understanding many of his
manoeuvers. But the results of them were always thought-provoking.
Gale had never seen horse stand so silently as in this instance; no
stamp--no champ of bit--no toss of head--no shake of saddle or pack--no
heave or snort! It seemed they had become imbued with the spirit of
the Indian.

Yaqui moved away into the shadows as noiselessly as if he were one of
them. The darkness swallowed him. He had taken a parallel with the
trail. Gale wondered if Yaqui meant to try to lead his string of
horses by the rebel sentinels. Ladd had his head bent low, his ear
toward the trail. Jim's long neck had the arch of a listening deer.
Gale listened, too, and as the slow, silent moments went by his faculty
of hearing grew more acute from strain. He heard Blanco Sol breathe;
he heard the pound of his own heart; he heard the silken rustle of the
alfalfa; he heard a faint, far-off sound of voice, like a lost echo.
Then his ear seemed to register a movement of air, a disturbance so
soft as to be nameless. Then followed long, silent moments.

Yaqui appeared as he had vanished. He might have been part of the
shadows. But he was there. He started off down the trail leading
Diablo. Again the white line stretched slowly out. Gale fell in
behind. A bench of ground, covered with sparse greasewood, sloped
gently down to the deep, wide arroyo of Forlorn River. Blanco Sol shied
a few feet out of the trail. Peering low with keen eyes, Gale made out
three objects--a white sombrero, a blanket, and a Mexican lying face
down. The Yaqui had stolen upon this sentinel like a silent wind of
death. Just then a desert coyote wailed, and the wild cry fitted the
darkness and the Yaqui's deed.

Once under the dar