It cracked the adobe walls of his house and broke windows and
sent pans and crockery to the floor with a crash. Belding's idea was
that the store of dynamite kept by the Chases for blasting had blown
up. Hurriedly getting into his clothes, he went to Nell's room to
reassure her; and, telling her to have a thought for their guests, he
went out to see what had happened.

The villagers were pretty badly frightened. Many of the poorly
constructed adobe huts had crumbled almost into dust. A great yellow
cloud, like smoke, hung over the river. This appeared to be at the
upper end of Belding's plot, and close to the river. When he reached
his fence the smoke and dust were so thick he could scarcely breathe,
and for a little while he was unable to see what had happened.
Presently he made out a huge hole in the sand just about where the
irrigation ditch had stopped near his line. For some reason or other,
not clear to Belding, the Mexicans had set off an extraordinarily heavy
blast at that point.

Belding pondered. He did not now for a moment consider an accidental
discharge of dynamite. But why had this blast been set off? The loose
sandy soil had yielded readily to shovel; there were no rocks; as far
as construction of a ditch was concerned such a blast would have done
more harm than good.

Slowly, with reluctant feet, Belding walked toward a green hollow,
where in a cluster of willows lay the never-failing spring that his
horses loved so well, and, indeed, which he loved no less. He was
actually afraid to part the drooping willows to enter the little cool,
shady path that led to the spring. Then, suddenly seized by suspense,
he ran the rest of the way.

He was just in time to see the last of the water. It seemed to sink as
in quicksand. The shape of the hole had changed. The tremendous force
of the blast in the adjoining field had obstructed or diverted the
underground stream of water.

Belding's never-failing spring had been ruined. What had made this
little plot of ground green and sweet and fragrant was now no more.
Belding's first feeling was for the pity of it. The pale Ajo lilies
would bloom no more under those willows. The willows themselves would
soon wither and die. He thought how many times in the middle of hot
summer nights he had come down to the spring to drink. Never again!

Suddenly he thought of Blanco Diablo. How the great white thoroughbred
had loved this spring! Belding straighten