The man without a conscience, the man who was capable of planning and
ordering murder, turned pale under this announcement.

Notwithstanding its commonness, notwithstanding that it has been described
until the subject is hackneyed, notwithstanding that it has become a
laughing-stock for many, even including poets and novelists, there is
probably no heart-pain keener than disappointment in love. The shock of it
is like a deep stab; it not merely tortures, but it instantly sickens; the
anguish is much, but the sense of helplessness is more; the lover who is
refused feels not unlike the soldier who is wounded to death.

This sorrow compares in dignity and terror with the most sublime sorrows
of which humanity is capable. The death of a parent or child, though
rendered more imposing to the spectator by the ceremonies of the
sepulchre, does not chill the heart more deeply than the death of love. It
lasts also; many a human being has carried the marks of it for life; and
surely duration of effect is proof of power. We are serious in making
these declarations, strange as they may seem to a satirical age. What we
have said is strictly true, notwithstanding the mockery of those who have
never loved, or the incredulity of those who, having loved, have never
lost. But probably only the wretchedly initiated will believe.

Coronado, though selfish, infamous, and atrocious, was so far susceptible
of affection that he was susceptible of suffering. The simple fact of
pallor in that hardened face was sufficient proof of torture.

However, it stood him in hand to recover his self-possession and plead his
suit. There was too much at stake in this cause for him to let it go
without a struggle and a vehement one. Although he had seen at once that
the girl was in earnest, he tried to believe that she was not so, and that
he could move her.

"My dear cousin!" he implored in a voice that was mellow with agitation,
"don't decide against me at once and forever. I must have some hope. Pity
me."

"Ah, Coronado! Why will you?" urged Clara, in great trouble.

"I must! You must not stop me!" he persisted eagerly. "My life is in it. I
love you so that I don't know how I shall end if you will not hearken to
me. I shall be driven to desperation. Why do you turn away from me? Is it
my fault that I care for you? It is your own. You are _so_ beautiful!"

"Coronado, I wish I were very ugly," murmured Clara, for the moment
sincere in so wishing.

"Is there anything you dislike in me? I have been as kind as I knew how to
be."

"It is true, Coronado. You have overwhelmed me with your goodness. I could
go on my knees to thank you."

"Then--why?"

"Ah! why will you force me to say hard things? Don't you see that it
tortures me to refuse you?"

"Then why refuse me? Why torture us both?"

"Better a little pain now than much through life."

"Do you mean to say that you never can--?" He could not finish the
question.

"It is so, Coronado. I never could have said it myself. But you have said
it. I never shall love you."

Once more the man felt a cutting and sickening wound, as of a bullet
penetrating a vital part. Unable for the moment to say another word, he
rose and walked the room in silence.

"Coronado, you don't know how sorry I am to grieve you so," cried the
girl, almost sobbing. "It seems, too, as if I were ungrateful. I can only
beg your pardon for it, and pray that Heaven will reward you."

"Heaven!" he returned impatiently. "You are my heaven. You are the only
heaven that I know."

"Oh, Coronado! Don't say that. I am a poor, sinful, unworthy creature.
Perhaps I could not make any one happy long. Believe me, Coronado, I am
not worthy to be loved as you love me."

"You are!" he said, turning on her passionately and advancing close to
her. "You are worthy of my life-long love, and you shall have it. You
shall have it, whether you wish it or not. You shall not escape it. I will
pursue you with it wherever you go and as long as you live."

"Oh! You frighten me. Coronado, I beg of you not to talk to me in that
way. I am afraid of you."

"What is the cause of this?" he demanded, hoping to daunt her into
submission. "There is something in my way. What is it? Who is it?"

Clara's paleness turned in an instant to scarlet.

"Who is it?" he went on, his voice suddenly becoming hoarse with
excitement. "It is some one. Is it this American? This boy of a
lieutenant?"

Clara, trembling with an agitation which was only in part dismay, remained
speechless.

"Is it?" he persisted, attempting to seize her hands and looking her
fiercely in the eyes. "Is it?"

"Coronado, stand back!" said Clara. "Don't you try to take my hands!"

She was erect, her eyes flashing, her cheeks spotted with crimson, her
expression strangely imposing.

The man's courage drooped the moment he saw that she had turned at bay. He
walked to the other side of the room, pressed his temples between his
palms to quiet their throbbing, and made an effort to recover his
self-possession. When he returned to her, after nearly a minute of
silence, he spoke quite in his natural manner.

"This must pass for the present," he said. "I see that it is useless to
talk to you of it now."

"I hope you are not angry with me, Coronado."

"Let it go," he replied, waving his hand. "I can't speak more of it now."

She wanted to say, "Try never to speak of it again;" but she did not dare
to anger him further, and she remained silent.

"Shall we go to see the dance?" he asked.

"I will, if you wish it."

"But you would rather stay alone?"

"If you please, Coronado."

Bowing with an air of profound respect, he went his way alone, glanced at
the games of the Moquis, and hurried back to camp, meditating as he went.

What now should be done? He was in a state of fury, full of plottings of
desperation, swearing to himself that he would show no mercy. Thurstane
must die at the first opportunity, no matter if his death should kill
Clara. And she? There he hesitated; he could not yet decide what to do
with her; could not resolve to abandon her to the wilderness.

But to bring about any part of his projects he must plunge still deeper
into the untraversed. To him, by the way, as to many others who have had
murder at heart, it seemed as if the proper time and place for it would
never be found. Not now, but by and by; not here, but further on. Yes, it
must be further on; they must set out as soon as possible for the San Juan
country; they must get into wilds never traversed by civilized man.

To go thither in wagons he had already learned was impossible. The region
was a mass of mountains and rocky plateaux, almost entirely destitute of
water and forage, and probably forever impassable by wheels. The vehicles
must be left here; the whole party must take saddle for the northern
desert; and then must come death--or deaths.

But while Coronado was thus planning destruction for others, a noiseless,
patient, and ferocious enmity was setting its ambush for him.




CHAPTER XVII.


Shortly after the safe arrival of the train at the base of the Moqui
bluff, and while the repulsed and retreating warriors of Delgadito were
still in sight two strange Indians cantered up to the park of wagons.

They were fine-looking fellows, with high aquiline features, the prominent
cheek-bones and copper complexion of the red race, and a bold, martial,
trooper-like expression, which was not without its wild good-humor and
gayety. One was dressed in a white woollen hunting-shirt belted around the
waist, white woollen trousers or drawers reaching to the knee, and
deerskin leggins and moccasins. The other had the same costume, except
that his drawers were brown and his hunting-shirt blue, while a blanket of
red and black stripes drooped from his shoulders to his heels. Their
coarse black hair was done up behind in thick braids, and kept out of
their faces by a broad band around the temples. Each had a lance eight or
ten feet long in his hand, and a bow and quiver slung at his waist-belt.
These men were Navajos (Na-va-hos).

Two jolly and impudent braves were these visitors. They ate, smoked,
lounged about, cracked jokes, and asked for liquor as independently as if
the camp were a tavern. Rebuffs only made them grin, and favors only led
to further demands. It was hard to say whether they were most wonderful
for good-nature or impertinence.

Coronado was civil to them. The Navajos abide or migrate on the south, the
north, and the west of the Moqui pueblas. He was in a manner within their
country, and it was still necessary for him to traverse a broad stretch of
it, especially if he should attempt to reach the San Juan. Besides, he
wanted them to warn the Apaches out of the neighborhood and thus avert
from his head the vengeance of Manga Colorada. Accordingly he gave this
pair of roystering troopers a plentiful dinner and a taste of aguardiente.
Toward sunset they departed in high good-humor, promising to turn back the
hoofs of the Apache horses; and when in the morning Coronado saw no
Indians on the plain, he joyously trusted that his visitors had fulfilled
their agreement.

Somewhere or other, within the next day or two, there was a grand council
of the two tribes. We know little of it; we can guess that Manga Colorada
must have made great concessions or splendid promises to the Navajos; but
it is only certain that he obtained leave to traverse their country.
Having secured this privilege, he posted himself fifteen or twenty miles
to the southwest of Tegua, behind a butte which was extensive enough to
conceal his wild cavalry, even in its grazings. He undoubtedly supposed
that, when the train should quit its shelter, it would go to the west or
to the south. In either case he was in a position to fall upon it.

Did the savage know anything about Coronado? Had he attacked his wagons
without being aware that they belonged to the man who had paid him five
hundred dollars and sent him to harry Bernalillo? Or had he attacked in
full knowledge of this fact, because he had been beaten off the southern
trail, and believed that he had been lured thither to be beaten? Had he
learned, either from Apaches or Navajos, whose hand it was that slew his
boy? We can only ask these questions.

One thing alone is positive: there was a debt of blood to be paid. An
Indian war is often the result of a private vendetta. The brave is bound,
not only by natural affection and family pride, but still more powerfully
by sense of honor and by public opinion, to avenge the slaughter of a
relative. Whether he wishes it or not, and frequently no doubt when he
does not wish it, he must black his face, sing his death-song, set out
alone if need be, encounter labors, hardships, and dangers, and never rest
until his sanguinary account is settled. The tyranny of Mrs. Grundy in
civilized cities and villages is nothing to the despotism which she
exercises among those slaves of custom, the red men of the American
wildernesses. Manga Colorada, bereaved and with blackened face, lay in
wait for the first step of the emigrants outside of their city of refuge.

We must return to Coronado. Although Clara's rejection of his suit left
him vindictively and desperately eager for a catastrophe of some sort, a
week elapsed before he dared take his mad plunge into the northern desert.
It was a hundred miles to the San Juan; the intervening country was a
waste of rocks, almost entirely destitute of grass and water; the mules
and horses must recruit their full strength before they could undertake
such a journey. They must not only be strong enough to go, but they must
have vital force left to return.

It is astonishing what labors and dangers the man was willing to face in
his vain search for a spot where he might commit a crime in safety. Such a
spot is as difficult to discover as the Fountain of Youth or the
Terrestrial Paradise. More than once Coronado sickened of his seemingly
hopeless and ever lengthening pilgrimage of sin. Not because it was
sinful--he had little or no conscience, remember--only because it was
perplexing and perilous.

It was in vain that Thurstane protested against the crazy trip northward.
Coronado sometimes argued for his plan; said the route improved as it
approached the river; hoped the party would not be broken up in this
manner; declared that he could not spare his dear friend the lieutenant.
Another time he calmly smoked his cigarito, looked at Thurstane with
filmy, expressionless eyes, and said, "Of course you are not obliged to
accompany us."

"I have not the least intention of quitting you," was the rather indignant
reply of the young fellow.

At this declaration Coronado's long black eyebrows twitched, and his lips
curled with the smile of a puma, showing his teeth disagreeably.

"My dear lieutenant, that is so like you!" he said. "I own that I expected
it. Many thanks."

Thurstane's blue-black eyes studied this enigmatic being steadily and
almost angrily. He could not at all comprehend the fellow's bland
obstinacy and recklessness.

"Very well," he said sullenly. "Let us start on our wild-goose chase. What
I object to is taking the women with us. As for myself, I am anxious to
reach the San Juan and get something to report about it."

"The ladies will have a day or two of discomfort," returned Coronado; "but
you and I will see that they run no danger."

Nine days after the arrival of the emigrants at Tegua they set out for the
San Juan. The wagons were left parked at the base of the butte under the
care of the Moquis. The expedition was reorganized as follows: On
horseback, Clara, Coronado, Thurstane, Texas Smith, and four Mexicans; on
mules, Mrs. Stanley, Glover, the three Indian women, the four soldiers,
and the ten drivers and muleteers. There were besides eighteen burden
mules loaded with provisions and other baggage. In all, five women,
twenty-two men, and forty-five animals.

The Moquis, to whom some stores and small presents were distributed,
overflowed with hospitable offices. The chief had a couple of sheep
slaughtered for the travellers, and scores of women brought little baskets
of meal, corn, guavas, etc. As the strangers left the pueblo both sexes
and all ages gathered on the landings, grouped about the stairways and
ladders which led down the rampart, and followed for some distance along
the declivity of the butte, holding out their simple offerings and urging
acceptance. Aunt Maria was more than ever in raptures with Moquis and
women.

The chief and several others accompanied the cavalcade for eight or ten
miles in order to set it on the right trail for the river. But not one
would volunteer as a guide; all shook their heads at the suggestion.
"Navajos! Apaches! Comanches!"

They had from the first advised against the expedition, and they now
renewed their expostulations. Scarcely any grass; no water except at long
distances; a barren, difficult, dangerous country: such was the meaning of
their dumb show. On the summit of a lofty bluff which commanded a vast
view toward the north, they took their leave of the party, struck off in a
rapid trot toward the pueblo, and never relaxed their speed until they
were out of sight.

The adventurers now had under their eyes a large part of the region which
they were about to traverse. For several miles the landscape was rolling;
then came elevated plateaux rising in successive steps, the most remote
being apparently sixty miles away; and the colossal scene was bounded by
isolated peaks, at a distance which could not be estimated with anything
like accuracy. Ranges, buttes, pinnacles, monumental crags, gullies,
shadowy chasms, the beds of perished rivers, the stony wrecks left by
unrecorded deluges, diversified this monstrous, sublime, and savage
picture. Only here and there, separated by vast intervals of barrenness,
could be seen minute streaks of verdure. In general the landscape was one
of inhospitable sterility. It could not be imagined by men accustomed only
to fertile regions. It seemed to have been taken from some planet not yet
prepared for human, nor even for beastly habitation. The emotion which it
aroused was not that which usually springs from the contemplation of the
larger aspects of nature. It was not enthusiasm; it was aversion and
despair.

Clara gave one look, and then drew her hat over her eyes with a shudder,
not wishing to see more. Aunt Maria, heroic and constant as she was or
tried to be, almost lost faith in Coronado and glanced at him
suspiciously. Thurstane, sitting bolt upright in his saddle, stared
straight before him with a grim frown, meanwhile thinking of Clara.
Coronado's eyes were filmy and incomprehensible; he was planning,
querying, fearing, almost trembling; when he gave the word to advance, it
was without looking up. There was a general feeling that here before them
lay a fate which could only be met blindfold.

Now came a long descent, avoiding precipices and impracticable slopes,
winding from one stony foot-hill to another, until the party reached what
had seemed a plain. It was a plain because it was amid mountains; a plain
consisting of rolls, ridges, ravines, and gullies; a plain with hardly an
acre of level land. All day they journeyed through its savage interstices
and struggled with its monstrosities of trap and sandstone. Twice they
halted in narrow valleys, where a little loam had collected and a little
moisture had been retained, affording meagre sustenance to some thin grass
and scattered bushes. The animals browsed, but there was nothing for them
to drink, and all began to suffer with thirst.

It was seven in the evening, and the sun had already gone down behind the
sullen barrier of a gigantic plateau, when they reached the mouth of the
canon which had once contained a river, and discovered by the merest
accident that it still treasured a shallow pool of stagnant water. The
fevered mules plunged in headlong and drank greedily; the riders were
perforce obliged to slake their thirst after them. There was a hastily
eaten supper, and then came the only luxury or even comfort of the day,
the sound and delicious sleep of great weariness.

Repose, however, was not for all, inasmuch as Thurstane had reorganized
his system of guard duty, and seven of the party had to stand sentry. It
was Coronado's _tour_; he had chosen to take his watch at the start; there
would be three nights on this stretch, and the first would be the easiest.
He was tired, for he had been fourteen hours in the saddle, although the
distance covered was only forty miles. But much as he craved rest, he kept
awake until midnight, now walking up and down, and now smoking his eternal
cigarito.

There was a vast deal to remember, to plan, to hope for, to dread, and to
hate. Once he sat down beside the unconscious Thurstane, and meditated
shooting him through the head as he lay, and so making an end of that
obstacle. But he immediately put this idea aside as a frenzy, generated by
the fever of fatigue and sleeplessness. A dozen times he was assaulted by
a lazy or cowardly temptation to give up the chances of the desert, push
back to the Bernalillo route, leave everything to fortune, and take
disappointment meekly if it should come. When the noon of night arrived,
he had decided upon nothing but to blunder ahead by sheer force of
momentum, as if he had been a rolling bowlder instead of a clever,
resolute Garcia Coronado.

The truth is, that his circumstances were too mighty for him. He had
launched them, but he could not steer them as he would, and they were
carrying him he knew not whither. At one o'clock he awoke Texas Smith, who
was now his sergeant of the guard; but instead of enjoining some instant
atrocity upon him, as he had more than once that night purposed, he merely
passed the ordinary instructions of the watch; then, rolling himself in
his blankets, he fell asleep as quickly and calmly as an infant.

At daybreak commenced another struggle with the desert. It was still sixty
miles to the San Juan, over a series of savage sandstone plateaux, said to
be entirely destitute of water. If the animals could not accomplish the
distance in two days, it seemed as if the party must perish. Coronado went
at his work, so to speak, head foremost and with his hat over his eyes.
Nevertheless, when it came to the details of his mad enterprise, he
managed them admirably. He was energetic, indefatigable, courageous,
cheerful. All day he was hurrying the cavalcade, and yet watching its
ability to endure. His "Forward, forward," alternated with his "Carefully,
carefully." Now "_Adelante_" and now "_Con juicio_"

About two in the afternoon they reached a little nook of sparse grass,
which the beasts gnawed perfectly bare in half an hour. No water; the
horses were uselessly jaded in searching for it; beds of trap and gullies
of ancient rivers were explored in vain; the horrible rocky wilderness was
as dry as a bone. Meanwhile, the fatigue of scrambling and stumbling thus
far had been enormous. It had been necessary to ascend plateau after
plateau by sinuous and crumbling ledges, which at a distance looked
impracticable to goats. More than once, in face of some beetling
precipice, or on the brink of some gaping chasm, it seemed as if the
journey had come to an end. Long detours had to be made in order to
connect points which were only separated by slight intervals. The whole
region was seamed by the jagged zigzags of canons worn by rivers which had
flowed for thousands of years, and then for thousands of years more had
been non-existent. If, at the commencement of one of these mighty grooves,
you took the wrong side, you could not regain the trail without returning
to the point of error, for crossing was impossible.

A trail there was. It is by this route that the Utes and Payoches of the
Colorado come to trade with the Moquis or to plunder them. But, as may be
supposed, it is a journey which is not often made even by savages; and the
cavalcade, throughout the whole of its desperate push, did not meet a
human being. Amid the monstrous expanse of uninhabited rock it seemed lost
beyond assistance, forsaken and cast out by mankind, doomed to a death
which was to have no spectator. Could you have seen it, you would have
thought of a train of ants endeavoring to cross a quarry; and you would
have judged that the struggle could only end in starvation, or in some
swifter destruction.

The most desperate venture of the travellers was amid the wrecks of an
extinct volcano. It seemed here as if the genius of fire had striven to
outdo the grotesque extravagances of the genii of the waters. Crags,
towers, and pinnacles of porphyry were mingled with huge convoluted masses
of light brown trachyte, of tufa either pure white or white veined with
crimson, of black and gray columnar basalts, of red, orange, green, and
black scoria, with adornments of obsidian, amygdaloids, rosettes of quartz
crystal and opalescent chalcedony. A thousand stony needles lifted their
ragged points as if to defy the lightning. The only vegetation was a spiny
cactus, clinging closely to the rocks, wearing their grayish and yellowish
colors, lending no verdure to the scene, and harmonizing with its thorny
inhospitality.

As the travellers gazed on this wilderness of scorched summits, glittering
in the blazing sunlight, and yet drawing from it no life--as stark, still,
unsympathizing, and cruel as death--they seemed to themselves to be out of
the sweet world of God, and to be in the power of malignant genii and
demons. The imagination cannot realize the feeling of depression which
comes upon one who finds himself imprisoned in such a landscape. Like
uttermost pain, or like the extremity of despair, it must be felt in order
to be known.

"It seems as if Satan had chosen this land for himself," was the perfectly
serious and natural remark of Thurstane.

Clara shuddered; the same impression was upon her mind; only she felt it
more deeply than he. Gentle, somewhat timorous, and very impressionable,
she was almost overwhelmed by the terrific revelations of a nature which
seemed to have no pity, or rather seemed full of malignity. Many times
that day she had prayed in her heart that God would help them. Apparently
detached from earth, she was seeking nearness to heaven. Her look at this
moment was so awe-struck and piteous, that the soul of the man who loved
her yearned to give her courage.

"Miss Van Diemen, it shall all turn out well," he said, striking his fist
on the pommel of his saddle.

"Oh! why did we come here?" she groaned.

"I ought to have prevented it," he replied, angry with himself. "But never
mind. Don't be troubled. It shall all be right. I pledge my life to bring
it all to a good end."

She gave him a look of gratitude which would have repaid him for immediate
death. This is not extravagant; in his love for her he did not value
himself; he had the sublime devotion of immense adoration.

That night another loamy nook was found, clothed with a little thin grass,
but waterless. Some of the animals suffered so with thirst that they could
not graze, and uttered doleful whinneys of distress. As it was the
Lieutenant's tour on guard, he had plenty of time to study the chances of
the morrow.

"Kelly, what do you think of the beasts?" he said to the old soldier who
acted as his sergeant.

"One more day will finish them, Leftenant."

"We have been fifteen hours in the saddle. We have made about thirty-five
miles. There are twenty-five miles more to the river. Do you think we can
crawl through?"

"I should say, Leftenant, we could just do it."

At daybreak the wretched animals resumed their hideous struggle. There was
a plateau for them to climb at the start, and by the time this labor was
accomplished they were staggering with weakness, so that a halt had to be
ordered on the windy brink of the acclivity. Thurstane, according to his
custom, scanned the landscape with his field-glass, and jotted down
topographical notes in his journal. Suddenly he beckoned to Coronado,
quietly put the glass in his hands, nodded toward the desert which lay to
the rear, and whispered, "Look."

Coronado looked, turned slightly more yellow than his wont, and murmured
"Apaches!"

"How far off are they?"

"About ten miles," judged Coronado, still gazing intently.

"So I should say. How do you know they are Apaches?"

"Who else would follow us?" asked the Mexican, remembering the son of
Manga Colorada.

"It is another race for life," calmly pronounced Thurstane, facing about
toward the caravan and making a signal to mount.




CHAPTER XVIII.


Yes, it was a life and death race between the emigrants and the Apaches
for the San Juan. Positions of defence were all along the road, but not
one of them could be held for a day, all being destitute of grass and
water.

"There is no need of telling the ladies at once," said Thurstane to
Coronado, as they rode side by side in rear of the caravan. "Let them be
quiet as long as they can be. Their trouble will come soon enough."

"How many were there, do you think?" was the reply of a man who was much
occupied with his own chances. "Were there a hundred?"

"It's hard to estimate a mere black line like that. Yes, there must be a
hundred, besides stragglers. Their beasts have suffered, of course, as
well as ours. They have come fast, and there must be a lot in the rear.
Probably both bands are along."

"The devils!" muttered Coronado. "I hope to God they will all perish of
thirst and hunger. The stubborn, stupid devils! Why should they follow us
_here_?" he demanded, looking furiously around upon the accursed
landscape.

"Indian revenge. We killed too many of them."

"Yes," said Coronado, remembering anew the son of the chief. "Damn them! I
wish we could have killed them all."

"That is just what we must try to do," returned Thurstane deliberately.

"The question is," he resumed after a moment of business-like calculation
of chances--"the question is mainly this, whether we can go twenty-five
miles quicker than they can go thirty-five. We must be the first to reach
the river."

"We can spare a few beasts," said Coronado. "We must leave the weakest
behind."

"We must not give up provisions."

"We can eat mules."

"Not till the last moment. We shall need them to take us back."

Coronado inwardly cursed himself for venturing into this inferno, the
haunting place of devils in human shape. Then his mind wandered to
Saratoga, New York, Newport, and the other earthly heavens that were known
to him. He hummed an air; it was the _brindisi_ of Lucrezia Borgia; it
reminded him of pleasures which now seemed lost forever; he stopped in the
middle of it. Between the associations which it excited--the images of
gayety and splendor, real or feigned--a commingling of kid gloves,
bouquets, velvet cloaks, and noble names--between these glories which so
attracted his hungry soul and the present environment of hideous deserts
and savage pursuers, what a contrast there was! There, far away, was the
success for which he longed; here, close at hand, was the peril which must
purchase it. At that moment he was willing to deny his bargain with Garcia
and the devil. His boldest desire was, "Oh that I were in Santa Fe!"

By Coronado's side rode a man who had not a thought for himself. A person
who has not passed years in the army can hardly imagine the sense of
_responsibility_ which is ground into the character of an officer. He is a
despot, but a despot who is constantly accountable for the welfare of his
subjects, and who never passes a day without many grave thoughts of the
despots above him. Superior officers are in a manner his deities, and the
Army Regulations have for him the weight of Scripture. He never forgets by
what solemn rules of duty and honor he will be judged if he falls short of
his obligations. This professional conscience becomes a destiny to him,
and guides his life to an extent inconceivable by most civilians. He
acquires a habit of watching and caring for others; he cannot help
assuming a charge which falls in his way. When he is not governed by the
rule of obedience, he is governed by the rule of responsibility. The two
make up his duty, and to do his duty is his existence.

At this moment our young West Pointer, only twenty-three or four years
old, was gravely and grimly anxious for his four soldiers, for all these
people whom circumstance had placed under his protection, and even for his
army mules, provisions, and ammunition. His only other sentiment was a
passionate desire to prevent harm or even fear from approaching Clara Van
Diemen. These two sentiments might be said to make up for the present his
entire character. As we have already observed, he had not a thought for
himself.

Presently it occurred to the youngster that he ought to cheer on his
fellow-travellers.

Trotting up with a smile to Mrs. Stanley and Clara, he asked, "How do you
bear it?"

"Oh, I am almost dead," groaned Aunt Maria. "I shall have to be tied on
before long."

The poor woman, no longer youthful, it must be remembered, was indeed
badly jaded. Her face was haggard; her general get-up was in something
like scarecrow disorder; she didn't even care how she looked. So fagged
was she that she had once or twice dozed in the saddle and come near
falling.

"It was outrageous to bring us here," she went on pettishly. "Ladies
shouldn't be dragged into such hardships."

Thurstane wanted to say that he was not responsible for the journey; but
he would not, because it did not seem manly to shift all the blame upon
Coronado.

"I am very, very sorry," was his reply. "It is a frightful journey."

"Oh, frightful, frightful!" sighed Aunt Maria, twisting her aching back.

"But it will soon be over," added the officer. "Only twenty miles more to
the river."

"The river! It seems to me that I could live if I could see a river. Oh,
this desert! These perpetual rocks! Not a green thing to cool one's eyes.
Not a drop of water. I seem to be drying up, like a worm in the sunshine."

"Is there no water in the flasks?" asked Thurstane.

"Yes," said Clara. "But my aunt is feverish with fatigue."

"What I want is the sight of it--and rest," almost whimpered the elder
lady.

"Will our horses last?" asked Clara. "Mine seems to suffer a great deal."

"They _must_ last," replied Thurstane, grinding his teeth quite privately.
"Oh, yes, they will last," he immediately added. "Even if they don't, we
have mules enough."

"But how they moan! It makes me cringe to hear them."

"Twenty miles more," said Thurstane. "Only six hours at the longest. Only
half a day."

"It takes less than half a day for a woman to die," muttered the nearly
desperate Aunt Maria.

"Yes, when she sets about it," returned the officer. "But we haven't set
about it, Mrs. Stanley. And we are not going to."

The weary lady had no response ready for words of cheer; she leaned
heavily over the pommel of her saddle and rode on in silence.

"Ain't the same man she was," slyly observed Phineas Glover with a twist
of his queer physiognomy.