The priest stared incredulous.
“How a quicksand and no water?” he asked doubtfully.
“There is water,––hidden water! It comes under the ground from the hills. In the old, old days it was a wide well boiling like a kettle over a fire, also it was warm! Then sand storms filled that valley and filled the well. It is crusted over, but the boiling goes on far below. Elena said not even a coyote will touch that cañoncita though the dogs are on his trail. The Indians say an evil spirit lives under there, but the women of Mesa Blanca and Palomitas do not know the place.”
“It should have a fence,––a place like that.”
“It had, but the wind took it, and, as you see, Soledad is a forgotten place.”
They watched Clodomiro circle over the mesa trail and follow the women down the slope of the little valley. It was fully three miles away, yet the women could be seen running in fear to the top of the mesa where they cast themselves on the ground resting from fright and exertion.
Quite enjoying his spectacular dash of rescue, Clodomiro cantered back along the trail, and when he reached the highest point, turned looking to the southeast where, beyond the range, the old Yaqui trail led to the land of despair.
He halted there, throwing up his hand as if in answer to some signal, and then darted away, straight across the mesa instead of toward the buildings.
“Tula has come!” said Doña Jocasta in a hushed voice of dread. “She has come, and Señor Rhodes is needed here. That coming of Tula may bring an end to quiet days,––like this!”
She sighed as she spoke, for the week had been as a space of restful paradise after the mental and physical horrors she had lived through.