aper, and in lieu of ink he wrote with blood. The
moon afforded him enough light to see; and, having replaced the paper,
he laid the little box upon a shelf of rock. It would remain there
unaffected by dust, moisture, heat, time. How long had those painted
images been there clear and sharp on the dry stone walls? There were
no trails in that desert, and always there were incalculable changes.
Cameron saw this mutable mood of nature--the sands would fly and seep
and carve and bury; the floods would dig and cut; the ledges would
weather in the heat and rain; the avalanches would slide; the cactus
seeds would roll in the wind to catch in a niche and split the soil
with thirsty roots. Years would pass. Cameron seemed to see them,
too; and likewise destiny leading a child down into this forlorn waste,
where she would find love and fortune, and the grave of her father.

Cameron covered the dark, still face of his comrade from the light of
the waning moon.

That action was the severing of his hold on realities. They fell away
from him in final separation. Vaguely, dreamily he seemed to behold
his soul. Night merged into gray day; and night came again, weird and
dark. Then up out of the vast void of the desert, from the silence and
illimitableness, trooped his phantoms of peace. Majestically they
formed around him, marshalling and mustering in ceremonious state, and
moved to lay upon him their passionless serenity.

I

OLD FRIENDS

RICHARD GALE reflected that his sojourn in the West had been what his
disgusted father had predicted--idling here and there, with no
objective point or purpose.

It was reflection such as this, only more serious and perhaps somewhat
desperate, that had brought Gale down to the border. For some time the
newspapers had been printing news of Mexican revolution, guerrilla
warfare, United States cavalry patrolling the international line,
American cowboys fighting with the rebels, and wild stories of bold
raiders and bandits. But as opportunity, and adventure, too, had
apparently given him a wide berth in Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, he had
struck southwest for the Arizona border, where he hoped to see some
stirring life. He did not care very much what happened. Months of
futile wandering in the hope of finding a place where he fitted had
inclined Richard to his father's opinion.

It was after dark one evening in early October when Richard arrived in
Casita. He was surprised to find