Greasewood clumps and mesquit chaparral hurled past her, and she glimpsed their gloomy tangles as a traveler might view them from the window of a railroad-coach.
“You’re the limited express, Silver,” she murmured jestingly, “and Beaver River is the only place where you can take water. Hustle, boy!”
And Silver Heels “hustled.” Without let or stay he reeled off the dizzy miles, seemingly proud to show his speed and mettle.
In two hours the cayuse carried his rider over the sandy bank of the Beaver and down into the stream. The river was shallow, and in the middle of it Silver Heels caught his promised drink—a small one, however, for a warm horse, who is to stand for some time, has no business with his fill of water.
Ascending the opposite bank carefully, Dell left the trail and backed Silver Heels into a thicket of paloverde. There she dismounted, and, with reins over one arm, sat down in the warm sand in front of her horse, waiting for Patterson and watching the ford.
Coyotes yelped in the hills; at intervals, from somewhere, came the shrill, humanlike scream of a mountain lion; gray forms of desert-rats slid across the open stretch in front of her, and the ungainly form of a Gila monster shambled slowly near, only to puff himself up and blow when she rolled a stone, and then turn and shamble off into the thick bushes again.
None of these things did Dell heed. She was used to such sights and sounds. Only the crawling form of an Apache would have aroused her from her position in the sand.
The slow minutes dragged on, but without bringing the messenger from Grant.
She began to fear that, after all, Patterson had not taken the trail she had followed from Grant. Certainly the sergeant had not been long in following her from the post.
If he did not come, she would traverse the country to Bonita alone. She could do it, and easily, and she was not afraid. But she would have preferred to travel with Patterson.