Best of all, out there reached the gray, endless expanse of desert, so lonely and melancholy and familiar, extending away to the infinitude of purple distance; and there loomed the lofty, bare heights of rock which, when he scaled them as an Indian climbing to meet his spirits, seemed to welcome him with sweet, cold winds in his face. How he thrilled at sight of the winding gleam of the Rio Colorado! What a shudder, as keen and new a pang as ever, wrenched him at sight of Picacho! It did not change. Had he expected that? It towered there in the dim lilac colors of the desert horizon, colossal and commanding, immutable and everlasting, like the sin he had committed in its shadow.
Somewhere in the shadow of that doomed and turreted peak lay the grave of his brother Guerd.
“I’ll go back some day!” whispered Adam, and the spoken words seemed the birth of a long-germinating idea. Picacho haunted him. It called him. It was the place that had given the gray color and life to his destiny. And suddenly into his memory flashed an image of Margarita. Poor, frail, dusky-eyed girl! She had been but the instrument of his doom. He held her guiltless—long ago he had forgiven her. But memory of her hurt. Had she not spoken so lightly of what he meant to hold sacred? “Ah, señor—so long ago and far away!” Faithless, mindless, soulless! Adam would never forget. Never a sight of a green palo verde but a pang struck through his breast!
At sunset the old chief came to Adam, somber and grave, but with dignity and kindness tempering the seriousness of his aspect. He spoke the language of his people.
“White man, you are of the brood of the eagle. Your heart is the heart of an Indian. Take my daughter Oella as your wife.”
Long had Adam feared this blow, and now it had fallen. He had tried to pay his debt, but it could not be paid.
“No, chief, the white man cannot marry Oella. He has blood upon his hands—a price on his head. Some day—he might have to hang for his crime. He cannot be dishonest with the Indian girl who saved him.”
Perhaps the chief had expected that reply, but his inscrutable face showed no feeling. He made one of his slow, impressive gestures—a wave of his hand, indicating great distance and time; and it meant that Adam was to go.
Adam dropped his head. That decree was irrevocable and he knew it was just. While he packed for a long journey twilight stole down upon the Indian encampment. Adam knew, when he faced Oella in the shadow of the palms, that she had been told. Was this the Indian maiden who had been so shy, so strange? No, this seemed a woman of full, heaving breast, whose strong, dark face grew strained, whose magnificent eyes, level and piercing, searched his soul. How blind he had been! All about her seemed eloquent of woman’s love. His heart beat with quick, heavy throbs.
“Oella, your father has ordered me away,” said Adam. “I am an outcast. I am hunted. If I made you my wife it might be to your shame and sorrow.”