The Long Chance | Page 8

as much by his hatred and fear of the man as by his
desire to possess the gold. One moment he would shudder at the
thought that he had committed murder; the next he was appalled at the
thought that after all he had only stunned the man--that even now the
Desert Rat and his Indian retainer were tracking him through the waste,
bent on wreaking summary vengeance.
He need not have worried so prematurely. A low range of black
malpais buttes stretched between him and the man he had despoiled,
and as yet the direction of his flight could not be observed. He drifted
rapidly south and presently disappeared into one of those long swales
which slope gradually to the river.
Here, weaving his way among the ironwood that grow thickly in this
section of the desert, for the first time since the commission of his
crime he felt safe.

CHAPTER II
It was still dark when the Desert Rat regained consciousness. He lay for
quite a while thereafter, turning things over in his befuddled brain,
striving to gather together the tangled thread of the events of the night.
Eventually he succeeded in driving his faculties into line. He rolled
over, got to his hands and knees and paused a minute to get a fresh grip
on himself. His aching head hung low, like that of a dying horse; in the
silence of the night he could hear the drip, drip of his blood into the
sand.
Presently he began to move. Round and round in the sage he crawled,
like some weary wounded animal, breaking off the rotten dead limbs
which, lie close to the base of the shrub. Three piles of sage he gathered,

placing the piles in a row twenty feet apart. Then he set fire to them and
watched them burst into flame.
It was the desert call for help: three fires in a row by night, three
columns of smoke against the horizon by day--and the Cahuilla Indian,
coming down the draw from Chuckwalla Tanks five miles away, saw
flaming against the dawn this appeal of the white man he loved, for
whom he lived and labored. Straight across the desert he ran, with the
long tireless stride that was the heritage of his people. His large heavy
shoes retarded him; he removed them, tucked them under his arm and
with a lofty disdain of tarantulas and side-winders fled barefooted.
Three- quarters of an hour from the time he had first seen the
signal-fires, the mozo was kneeling beside the stricken Desert Rat, who
lay unconscious close to one of the fires. The water from the mozo's
canteen revived him, however, and presently he sat up, while the
Cahuilla washed the gash in his head and bound it up with his master's
bandanna handkerchief.
As the Indian worked, the white man related what had occurred and
how. He recalled his conversation with his assailant, and shrewdly
surmised that he would head for the Colorado river, after having first
secured a supply of water at Chuckwalla Tanks. The Desert Rat's plan
of action was quickly outlined.
"You will help me to get to the Tanks, where I'll have water and a
chance to rest for a day or two until I'm able to travel; then I'll head for
the Rio Colorado and wait for you in Ehrenburg. I'll keep one canteen
and you can take the other; I have matches and my six-shooter, and I
can live on quail and chuckwallas until I get to the river. You have your
knife. Track that man, if you have to follow him into hell, and when
you find him--no, don't kill him; he isn't worth it, and besides, that's my
work. It's your job to run him down. Bring him to me in Ehrenburg."
It was past noon when they arrived at the Tanks, and the Indian was
carrying the Desert Rat on his back. While the man was quite conscious,
he was still too weak from the effect of the blow and loss of blood to
travel in the heat.

At the Tanks the Indian picked up the trail of four burros and a man. He
refilled his canteen, took a long drink from the Tank, grunted an
"_Adios, senor,_" and departed up the draw at the swift dog-trot which
is typical of the natural long-distance runner.
The Desert Rat gazed after him. "God bless your crude untutored soul,
you best of mozos" he murmured. "You have one virtue that most white
men lack--you'll stay put and be faithful to your salt. And now, just to
be on the safe side, I'll make my will and write out a detailed account of
this entire affair--in case."
For half an hour he scribbled haltingly in an old russet-covered