The sun was just going down, a hissing globe of fire and torment.
Already the lower limb was in contact with the jagged backbone of
the mountain chain that rimmed the desert with purple and gold. Out
on the barren, hard-baked flat in front of the corral, just where
it had been unhitched when the paymaster and his safe were dumped
soon after dawn, a weather-beaten ambulance was throwing unbroken a
mile-long shadow towards the distant Christobal. The gateway to the
east through the Santa Maria, sharply notched in the gleaming
range, stood a day's march away, -a day's march now only made by
night, for this was Arizona, and from the rising of the sun to the
going down of the same anywhere south of that curdling mud-bath,
the Gila, the only human beings impervious to the fierceness of its
rays were the Apaches. "And they," growled the paymaster, as he
petulantly snapped the lock of his little safe, "they're no more
human than so many hyenas."
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