The Ely miner. [volume] (Ely, Minn.) 1895-1986, 1932-07-15
CHAPTER I
tornado de la Muerte


From the bench where Wilson Nc
Cam had drawn up his horse he looked
across the shimmering desert.
Beyond the level waste were sun
drenched Tomas in the draws of which
patches of shadow rested, welcome to
the spirit in a landscape so flooded
with light. Up one of these arroyos
he would ride to the Frio River coun-
try where his father Peter Mccain
was lord of the Middle justice. the
High. and the Low.
The young man shifted his seat so
that one foot was lifted from the stir
rup and the other supported part of
his weight. The dark brown face was
hard, with lean jaw set tight. Moth
ing of the thoughts behind were mir
rored in the inscrutable gray eyes.
UnmOving. he sat for many minutes.
The desert held for him fascination.
1t was the dominating influence not
only of his own life but of that of all
living near. At times he hated every
thing it stood for-drought. starva-
ton, and bleaching bones, fierce strug
gle, temporary victory, certain and
final defeat. None the less ii was
magnet to his thoughts. What was
the mystery of its enticement? How
could he find the key to its hidden
meaning?
Tornado de la Muerte had come
down from early days as the name of
the desert. Those who lived on its
border rarely used the Spanish desig-
nation for it. To call this sand stretch
the Journey of Death would have been
a concession TO sentiment and 10 dread
that few cared to make. Painted
desert was the word these grim tact
turn men preferred.
But the Spanish name was well
chosen. For everything within reach
of its dry winds fought for existence.
The desert set the conditions for
men, too. young Mccain thought bit
terly. To survive he must have in
him something of the tough skin of
the chOlla, of the poison of the side
winder, of the bouncing lust to kill of
the wild cat. he must endure heat
and thirst and hunger or he must
perish.
Through the stiffness of the drowsy
land a shot rang out sharply. Nc
Cam listened, intent and crouched.
In this wilderness the explosion might
mean one of many things: a man in
a hill pocket, his back to a rock wall,
fiinging defiance at circle of enc
mics bullet flung from ambush and
a sprawled figure huddled on the dry
sand; a pilgrim lost and panic-strick-
en-; or the mere wanton eXuberance of
a yaquerO.
A second and a third shot followed,
at intervals evenly spaced. 1t was a
distress signal, a call for help.
Mccain drew his revolver and fired
into the air to let the one in need
know that help was on the way. Then,
swiftly but without panicky haste, he
turned and rode along the bench.
Presently another shot echoed down
the ravine up which he was moving.
This was meant to direct him. Mccain
guessed, and he fired once more for
assurance to the one in distress.
Go TO it, Jim-Dandy," he urged,
and put his horse at the steep incline
leading up from the arroyo.
gentle slope led from the edge Of
the arroyo TO the base of a hOgback
which rose knobbily like emaciated
vertebrate of Mother Earth's spine.
The quick eye of the rider searched
for and found a way up.
From the summit Mccain looked
down on a small grassy park. This
was old Jim Yerby's place. In what
seemed to this young fellow pre-his-
toric days he had settled here because
of a spring that not even in the most
arid years dried entirely. Among the
live oaks nestled low adobe cabin.
In front of the hut a woman was
standing. She had in her hands q
rife
The rider looked across the little
park and discovered that the woman
was young, almost a girl. slender and
graceful of figure. He wondered who
she could be.
"Jim Yerby's hurt" she said, wait
ing for no introduction. Hes broken
his leg. Horse fell on him."
While she elaborated the fact the
young mans train of thought still
chung TO her. What was she doing
here? Where had she come from?