CHAPTER 4. A BLUFF IS CALLED
Torpid lay Aravaipa in a coma of sunheat. Its adobe-lined streets
basked in the white glare of an Arizona spring at midday. One or
two Papago Indians, with their pottery wares, squatted in the
shade of the buildings, but otherwise the plaza was deserted. Not
even a moving dog or a lounging peon lent life to the drowsy
square. Silence profound and peace eternal seemed to brood over
the land.
Such was the impression borne in upon the young man riding
townward on a wiry buckskin that had just topped the rise which
commanded the valley below. The rider presented a striking enough
appearance to take and hold the roving eye of any young woman in
search of romance. He was a slender, lithe young Adonis of medium
height. His hair and eyebrows left one doubtful whether to
pronounce them black or brown, but the eyes called for an
immediate verdict of Irish blue. Every inch of him spoke of
competency--promised mastership of any situation likely to arise.
But when the last word is said it was the eyes that dominated the
personality. They could run the whole gamut of emotions, or they
could be impervious as a stone wall.
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