of space, one
expects to hear the rush of worlds through the universe. At times the
bosom swells with a wild desire to sing and shout in the glory of pure
living.

The day comes quickly; the sun, leaping edge of the world, floods mesa
and canon, withering, sparing no living thing, lavishing reds and
purples, blues and violets upon canon walls and wind-sculptured rocks.
But a remorseful glare, blinding, sight-destroying, is thrown back from
the sand and alkali of the desert. Shriveled sage-brush and shrunken
cactus bravely fight for life.

A narrow pathway leads from the mesa down the canon's wall, twisting
and doubling on itself to Apache Spring. The trail then moves
southward between towering cliffs, a lane through which is caught a
far-distant glimpse of the mountains. Little whirlwinds of dust spring
up, ever and anon, twirling wildly across the sandy wastes. The air
suffocates, like the breath of a furnace. Ever the pitiless sun
searches and scorches, as conscience sears and stings a stricken soul.

Down the narrow trail, past the spring, ride in single file the
Apaches, slowly, on tired horses, for the pursuing soldiers have given
them no halting space. Naked, save for a breech-clout, with a narrow
red band of dyed buckskin about his forehead, in which sticks a
feather, each rides silent, grim, cruel, a hideous human reptile, as
native to the desert as is the Gila monster. The horse is saddleless.
For a bridle, the warrior uses a piece of grass rope twisted about the
pony's lower jaw. His legs droop laxly by the horse's sides. In his
right hand he grasps his rifle, resting the butt on the knee. The only
sound to break the stillness of the day is the rattle of stones,
slipping and sliding down the pathway when loosened by hoofs of the
ponies.

Creeping down the canon wall, they cross the bottom, pass the spring,
and disappear at a turn in the canon walls. Nature and Indian meet and
merge in a world of torture and despair.

Dick had fared badly in the Lava Beds. One spring after the other he
found dry. His horse fell from exhaustion and thirst; he ended the
sufferings of his pack-mule with a revolver-bullet.

Dick staggered on afoot across the desert, hoping to find water at
Apache Spring. His blue shirt was torn and faded to a dingy purple.
Hat and shoulders were gray with alkali dust. Contact with the rocks
and cactus had rent trousers and leggings. His shoes, cut by sharply
pointed stones, a