ged ocatillo and hummocky masses
of clustered bisnagi. The day grew dry and hot. A fragrant wind blew
through the pass. Cactus flowers bloomed, red and yellow and magenta.
The sweet, pale Ajo lily gleamed in shady corners.

Ten miles of travel covered the length of the pass. It opened wide
upon a wonderful scene, an arboreal desert, dominated by its pure light
green, yet lined by many merging colors. And it rose slowly to a low
dim and dark-red zone of lava, spurred, peaked, domed by volcano cones,
a wild and ragged region, illimitable as the horizon.

The Yaqui, if not at fault, was yet uncertain. His falcon eyes
searched and roved, and became fixed at length at the southwest, and
toward this he turned his horse. The great, fluted saguaros, fifty,
sixty feet high, raised columnal forms, and their branching limbs and
curving lines added a grace to the desert. It was the low-bushed
cactus that made the toil and pain of travel. Yet these thorny forms
were beautiful.

In the basins between the ridges, to right and left along the floor of
low plains the mirage glistened, wavered, faded, vanished--lakes and
trees and clouds. Inverted mountains hung suspended in the lilac air
and faint tracery of white-walled cities.

At noon Yaqui halted the cavalcade. He had selected a field of bisnagi
cactus for the place of rest. Presently his reason became obvious.
With long, heavy knife he cut off the tops of these barrel-shaped
plants. He scooped out soft pulp, and with stone and hand then began
to pound the deeper pulp into a juicy mass. When he threw this out
there was a little water left, sweet, cool water which man and horse
shared eagerly. Thus he made even the desert's fiercest growths
minister to their needs.

But he did not halt long. Miles of gray-green spiked walls lay between
him and that line of ragged, red lava which manifestly he must reach
before dark. The travel became faster, straighter. And the glistening
thorns clutched and clung to leather and cloth and flesh. The horses
reared, snorted, balked, leaped--but they were sent on. Only Blanco
Sol, the patient, the plodding, the indomitable, needed no goad or
spur. Waves and scarfs and wreaths of heat smoked up from the sand.
Mercedes reeled in her saddle. Thorne bade her drink, bathed her face,
supported her, and then gave way to Ladd, who took the girl with him on
Torre's broad back. Yaqui's unflagging purpose and iron arm were
bitter and hat