eyes of the girl met Kit's gaze of understanding.

"The hurt is of his head," she stated again. "In the night he made
speech of strange old-time things, secret things, and of fear."

"So? Well, it was a bad night for old men and Indian girls in the
desert. Let's be moving."

Tula picked up her hidden wicker water bottle and trudged on sandaled
feet beside Kit. Miguel went into a heap in the saddle, dazed,
muttering disjointed Indian words, only one was repeated often enough
to make an impression,--it was Cajame.

"What is Cajame?" he asked the girl, and she gave him a look of
tolerance.

"He was of chiefs the most great. He was killed for his people. He was
the father of my father."

Kit tried to recall where he had heard the name, but failed. No one
had chanced to mention that Miguel, the peaceful Piman, had any claims
on famous antecedents. He had always seemed a grave, silent man,
intent only on herding the stock and caring for the family, at the
little cluster of adobes by the well of Palomitas. It was about two
miles from the ranch house, but out of sight. An ancient river hill
terminated in a tall white butte at the junction of two arroyas, and
the springs feeding them were the deciding influence regarding
location of dwellings. Rhodes could quickly perceive how a raid could
be made on Palomitas and, if no shots were fired, not be suspected at
the ranch house of Mesa Blanca.

The vague sentences of Miguel were becoming more connected, and Kit,
holding him in the saddle, was much puzzled by some of them.

"It is so, and we are yet dying," he muttered as he swayed in the
saddle. "We, the Yaqui, are yet dumb as our fathers bade. But it is
the end, senor, and the red gold of Alisal is our own, and----"

Then his voice dwindled away in mutterings and Rhodes saw that the
Indian girl was very alert, but watching him rather than her father as
she padded along beside him.

"Where is it--Alisal?" he asked carelessly, and her velvet-black eyes
narrowed.

"I think not anyone is knowing. It is also evil to speak of that
place," she said.

"What makes the evil?"

"Maybe so the padres. I no knowing, what you think?"

But they had reached the place of camp where Cap Pike had the packs on
the animals, waiting and restless.

"Well, you're a great little collector, Bub," he observed. "You start
out on the bare sand and gravel and raise a right pert family. Who's
your friend?"

Despite his cynical comment, he wa