"Dios de mi
alma!"
Roldan had great faith in his sense of locality, but in a blinding rain
on a black night with a mighty wind roaring inside one's very skull, and
whirling the heavy poncho about one's ears every few moments, it was
difficult to preserve any sense at all. They galloped on, however,
occasionally pausing to shout, straining their eyes into the darkness on
every side. But nothing came back to eye or ear. Apparently they had the
wilderness to themselves. There was no sign of even an Indian pueblo.
It was during one of these halts that the boys ejaculated
simultaneously: "The river!"
"No," shouted Roldan, a moment later "it is only a creek."
"Are we lost?" demanded Adan; and even the loud tone had a note of
pained resignation in it.
"No; I think this must be what he meant. Some of the low people say
river for everything but the ocean. It is shallow, and we cannot turn
back. Come."
They rode along the bank until they came to an easy slope, then crossed,
and cantered on. In a very short time the storm was behind them and the
stars burst out, but there was no sign of habitation. They kept on for
an hour longer, hoping for a welcome twinkle below; but not even a
coyote crossed their path.
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