ng and writhing in convulsive frenzy? The
bandit now seemed mad to win the delayed death.

When he broke free he was a white patched object no longer human, a
ball of choya burrs, and he slipped off the bank to shoot down and down
into the purple depths of the crater.

XIII

CHANGES AT FORLORN RIVER

THE first of March saw the federal occupation of the garrison at
Casita. After a short, decisive engagement the rebels were dispersed
into small bands and driven eastward along the boundary line toward
Nogales.

It was the destiny of Forlorn River, however, never to return to the
slow, sleepy tenor of its former existence. Belding's predictions came
true. That straggling line of home-seekers was but a forerunner of the
real invasion of Altar Valley. Refugees from Mexico and from Casita
spread the word that water and wood and grass and land were to be had
at Forlorn River; and as if by magic the white tents and red adobe
houses sprang up to glisten in the sun.

Belding was happier than he had been for a long time. He believed that
evil days for Forlorn River, along with the apathy and lack of
enterprise, were in the past. He hired a couple of trustworthy
Mexicans to ride the boundary line, and he settled down to think of
ranching and irrigation and mining projects. Every morning he expected
to receive some word form Sonoyta or Yuma, telling him that Yaqui had
guided his party safely across the desert.

Belding was simple-minded, a man more inclined to action than
reflection. When the complexities of life hemmed him in, he groped his
way out, never quite understanding. His wife had always been a mystery
to him. Nell was sunshine most of the time, but, like the
sun-dominated desert, she was subject to strange changes, wilful,
stormy, sudden. It was enough for Belding now to find his wife in a
lighter, happier mood, and to see Nell dreamily turning a ring round
and round the third finger of her left hand and watching the west.
Every day both mother and daughter appeared farther removed from the
past darkly threatening days. Belding was hearty in his affections,
but undemonstrative. If there was any sentiment in his make-up it had
an outlet in his memory of Blanco Diablo and a longing to see him.
Often Belding stopped his work to gaze out over the desert toward the
west. When he thought of his rangers and Thorne and Mercedes he
certainly never forgot his horse. He wondered if Diablo was running,
walk