Desert Gold by Zane Grey Page A

a lover who must have brutal truth.
    It stilled Dick’s lighter mood, and he was about to reply when Mercedes pressed close to him, touched his hands looked up into his face with wonderful eyes. He thought he would not soon forget their beauty—the shadow of pain that had been, the hope dawning so fugitively.
    â€œDear lady,” said Gale, with voice not wholly steady. “Rojas himself will hound you no more tonight, nor for many nights.”
    She seemed to shake, to thrill, to rise with the intelligence. She pressed his hand close over her heaving breast. Gale felt the quick throb of her heart.
    â€œSeñor! Señor Dick!” she cried. Then her voice failed. But her hands flew up; quick as a flash she raised her face—kissed him. Then she turned and with a sob fell into Thorne’s arms.
    There ensued a silence broken only by Mercedes’s sobbing. Gale walked some paces away. If he were not stunned, he certainly was agitated. The strange, sweet fire of that girl’s lips remained with him. On the spur of the moment he imagined he had a jealousy of Thorne. But presently this passed. It was only that he had been deeply moved—stirred to the depths during the last hour—had become conscious of the awakening of a spirit. What remained with him now was the splendid glow of gladness that he had been of service to Thorne. And by the intensity of Mercedes’s abandon of relief and gratitude he measured her agony of terror and the fate he had spared her.
    â€œDick, Dick, come here!” called Thorne, softly. “Let’s pull ourselves together now. We’ve got a problem yet. What to do? Where to go? How to get anyplace? We don’t dare risk the station—the corrals where Mexicans hire out horses. We’re on good old U.S. ground this minute, but we’re not out of danger.”
    As he paused, evidently hoping for a suggestion from Gale, the silence was broken by the clear, ringing peal of a bugle. Thorne gave a violent start. Then he bent over, listening. The beautiful notes of the bugle floated out of the darkness, clearer, sharper, faster.
    â€œIt’s a call, Dick! It’s a call!” he cried.
    Gale had no answer to make. Mercedes stood as if stricken. The bugle call ended. From a distance another faintly pealed. There were other sounds too remote to recognize. Then scattering shots rattled out.
    â€œDick, the rebels are fighting somebody,” burst out Thorne, excitedly. “The little federal garrison still holds its stand. Perhaps it is attacked again. Anyway, there’s something doing over the line. Maybe the crazy Greasers are firing on our camp. We’ve feared it—in the dark…. And here I am, away without leave—practically a deserter!”
    â€œGo back! Go back, before you’re too late!” cried Mercedes.
    â€œBetter make tracks, Thorne,” added Gale. “It can’t help our predicament for you to be arrested. I’ll take care of Mercedes.”
    â€œNo, no, no,” replied Thorne. “I can get away—avoid arrest.”
    â€œThat’d be all right for the immediate present. But it’s not best for the future. George, a deserter is a deserter!…Better hurry. Leave the girl to me till tomorrow.”
    Mercedes embraced her lover, begged him to go. Thorne wavered.
    â€œDick, I’m up against it,” he said. “You’re right. If only I can run back in time. But, oh, I hate to leave her! Old fellow, you’ve saved her! I already owe you everlasting gratitude. Keep out of Casita, Dick. The U.S. side might be safe, but I’m afraid to trust it at night. Go out in the desert, up in the mountains, in some safe place. Then come to me in camp. We’ll plan. I’ll have to confide in Colonel Weede. Maybe he’ll help us. Hide her from the rebels—that’s all.”
    He wrung Dick’s hand, clasped Mercedes tightly in his arms, kissed her, and