“The Palos River can’t be more than a dozen miles—” had said the guide, pointing southward. That was all. Somewhere off there in the desert it lay, flowing yellow and aimless. Perhaps it was a lie. Perhaps the guide was mistaken, as he had been in the search for the pool. But the last feeble tie that bound these outcasts to reason had snapped at the sight of that unsteady, pointing finger, and only the original sin in them was left. The words of the guide had been heard by one man, and he was off at the instant, his only remark a curse as he knocked a boy out of his way. But others had seen the pointing finger. And still others were moved by the impulse which spurs men, in frantic moments, to any sort of action.
In the rush for mounts two men, a half-breed from the Territory and a Mexican, plunged at the same animal. The half-breed was hacking at the nigh trace and the Mexican at the off rein when their eyes met. The mule both had chosen was the nigh leader in a double team. But instead of turning to one of the other three, the men, each with a knife in his hand, fell to fighting; and while they struggled and fell and rolled over and over in the sand, a third man mounted their prize and galloped away.
But it was the boys who suffered most. None but hardy youngsters had been chosen for the drive, but their young endurance could not help them in personal combat with these grown men; and personal combat was what it came to wherever a boy stood or sat near a desirable mule. The odd thing was that every man and boy succeeded in getting away. Hats were lost. Shirts were torn to shreds, exposing skins, white and brown, to the merciless sun. Even the half-breed and the Mexican, dropping their quarrel as unreasonably as they had begun it, each bleeding from half-a-dozen small wounds, finally galloped off after the others. And when these last were gone, and the dust was billowing up behind them, something less than two minutes had passed since the guide had pointed southward.
The Palos River is probably the most uninviting stream in the Southwest. It was at this time sluggish and shallow. The water was so rich with silt that a pailful of it, after standing an hour, would deposit three inches of mud. The banks were low and of the same gray sand as the desert, excepting that a narrow fringe of green announced the river to the eye. It was into and through this fringe that the first rider plunged. It had been a long two-hour ride, and the line straggled out for more than a mile behind him. But he was not interested in his companions. His eyes were fixed on the broad yellow river-bed with the narrow yellow current winding through it. Drinking could not satisfy him. He wanted to get into the water, and feel his wet clothes clinging about him, and duck his face and head under, and splash it about with his hands. His mount needed no lash to slip and scramble down the bank and spurt over the sand. The animal was so crazily eager that he stumbled in the soft footing and went to his knees. But the rider sailed on over his head, and with a great shout, arms and legs spread wide, he fell with a splash and a gurgle into the water. The mule regained his feet and staggered after him, and then the two of them, man and beast, rolled and wallowed and splashed, and drank copiously.
The second man reached the bank on foot, for his mule had fallen within sight of the promised land. He paused there, apparently bewildered, watching his fortunate comrade in the water. Then, with dazed deliberation, he removed his clothes, piled them neatly under a bush, and walked out naked, stepping gingerly on the heated sand. But halfway to the channel a glimmer of intelligence sparkled in his eyes, and he suddenly dashed forward and threw himself into the water.
One by one the others came crashing through the bushes, and rode or ran down the bank, swearing, laughing, shouting, sobbing. And not one of them could have told afterward whether he drank on the upstream or the downstream side of the mules.
When Paul Carhart, a long while later, parted the bushes and stood out in relief on the bank, leaning on a shrub for support, he saw a strange spectacle. For a quarter of a mile, up and down the channel, were mules, some drinking, some rolling and kicking some lying out flat and motionless. Near at hand, hanging from every bush, were shirts and trousers and stockings; at the edge of the bank was a long, irregular line of boots and shoes. And below, on the broad reach of sand, laughing, and bantering, and screaming like schoolboys, half a hundred naked men stood in a row, stooping with hands on knees, while a dozen others went dancing and high-stepping and vaulting over them.
They were playing leap-frog.
Carhart walked across to the upstream side of the mules and drank. Then, after filling two canteens, he returned to the bank and sat down in such small shade as he could find. It was at this moment that the men caught sight of him. The game stopped abruptly, and for a moment the players stood awkwardly about, as schoolboys would at the appearance of the teacher. Then, first one, and another, and a group of two or three more, and finally, all of them, resumed their simple clothing, and sat down along the bank to await orders. The panic was over.
Now the chief roused himself. “Here, you two!” he cried. “Take these canteens and the freshest mules you can find, and go back to Mr. Vandervelt. Ride hard.”