Max Brand

The Rangeland Avenger Max Brand

Of the four men, Hal Sinclair was the vital spirit. In the actual labor of mining, the mighty arms andtireless back Of Quade had been a treasure. For knowledge of camping, hunting, cooking, and allthe lore of the trail, Lowrie stood as a valuable resource; and Sandersen was the dreamy, resolutespirit, who had hoped for gold in those mountains until he came to believe his hope. He hadgathered these three stalwarts to help him to his purpose, and if he lived he would lead yet others tofailure. Hope never died in this tall, gaunt man, with a pale-blue eye the color of the horizon dusted with thefirst morning mist. He was the very spirit of lost causes, full of apprehensions, foreboding, superstitions. A hunch might make him journey five hundred miles; a snort of his horse could makehim give up the trail and turn back. But Hal Sinclair was the antidote for Sandersen. He was still a boy at thirty-big, handsome, thoughtless, with a heart as clean as new snow. His throat was so parched by that day's ride that hedared not open his lips to sing, as he usually did. He compromised by humming songs new and old, and when his companions cursed his noise, he contented himself with talking softly to his horse, amply rewarded when the pony occasionally lifted a tired ear to the familiar voice. Failure and fear were the blight on the spirit of the rest. They had found no gold worth looking attwice, and, lingering too long in the search, they had rashly turned back on a shortcut across thedesert. Two days before, the blow had fallen. They found Sawyer's water hole nearly dry, just a littlepool in the center, with caked, dead mud all around it. They drained that water dry and struck on. Since then the water famine had gained a hold on them; another water hole had not a drop in it. Now they could only aim at the cool, blue mockery of the mountains before them, praying that theponies would last to the foothills. Still Hal Sinclair could sing softly to his horse and to himself; and, though his companions cursed hissinging, they blessed him for it in their hearts. Otherwise the white, listening silence of the desertwould have crushed them; otherwise the lure of the mountains would have maddened them andmade them push on until the horses would have died within five miles of the labor; otherwise thepain in their slowly swelling throats would have taken their reason. For thirst in the desert carries thepangs of several deaths-death from fire, suffocation, and insan