Men called for power, for protection, for water to till barren acres that might be made fertile. Men shouted for the things which the Colorado held arrogantly within its grasp, to hoard with miserly greed or to let loose in a ferocious fury. The Colorado had power, it had water, it had a cruel habit of devouring lands and homes and whooping onward toward the gulf, heedless of the destruction in its wake.
And the Eagle had lifted his head and turned his eyes upon the great river. Here, within the borders of his domain, dwelt a powerful, savage thing that must be tamed and taught to obey the will of men. The Eagle considered this headlong defiance of all civilized restraint. The Eagle saw how men looked upon the river, drew back in awe and ventured to look again; men, who should be the masters of the river. The Eagle lifted and spread his wings. And the tip of a wing reached over the desert land and laid its shadow across the Colorado.
A great orator had painted it so, and Rawley was thinking of that picture of the Eagle as he drove down the canyon to the very brink of the river and climbed out of his car. Still desolate, more forsaken than ever was the place where El Dorado had stood alive, alert, self-sufficient. The camp was gone, almost forgotten. The river flowed past, disdainful of the puny efforts of men who died and forgot their dreams and their endeavors, while it rushed on through the ages, and played with the lives of men and mocked at their fear of it.
But three men and a girl had dared to dream of holding the might of it in leash. It was to see these dreamers, to warn and to show them the shadow of the Eagle’s wing, that he had come in haste to the bank of the Colorado. For months he had heard nothing. Nevada had not written, or if she had the letter had not reached him. There was danger in delay, in their continued silence.
Rawley slung a canteen over his shoulder and started up the river, taking the well-known trail. This was the quickest way to reach the Cramers, and now that he was in their neighborhood once more a great impatience was upon him, a nervous dread that he might be an hour, a minute too late for what he had come to do.
He came upon Nevada suddenly. She was standing on the site of the old camp where he had stayed with Johnny Buffalo. Her back was toward him, and she was holding something in her two hands; something he had seen her extract from the thorny branches of a stunted mesquite bush. When his footsteps sounded close, she turned and looked at him dumbly, her eyes wide and dark. The thing she held in her hands was his pipe,—one that he had lost on that first trip into the country.
Before his better judgment or his doubts could stop him, Rawley drew her into his arms and held her close while he kissed her. It was so good to see her again, to feel her nearness. But after one rapturous minute, she put away his arms and faced him calmly, though her breath was not quite even and her eyes would not meet his with the old frankness.
“Your one eighth of Indian blood should have given you more reserve, Cousin Rawley,” she reproved him mockingly. “The Spanish of us must be watched. Well, I needn’t ask about your health; you haven’t been pining during your absence, that one could notice.”
Rawley barely escaped forswearing both his Indian and his Spanish blood, but remembered his promise just in time. He did not believe that Nevada regretted his impulsiveness,—for you simply can’t fool a man under thirty when he kisses a girl. Nevada’s lips, he joyously remembered, had not been unresponsive.
“Here’s your pipe,” she said lamely, when he only stood and looked at her. “I was just wondering whether it’s worth saving, or whether I’d better heave it into the river and see how far it would float.”