A Gunman Rode North

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During the late afternoon hours large white clouds began to form in ominously boiling platoons over the Gulf of Lower California, drawing up heavy loads of precipitation from the undulating swells of the wind-disturbed salt waters below. In the night blackness they moved slowly northward like well-fed cows plodding ponderously homeward from pasture, long overdue and with heavy udders swinging. Converging into a solid front over Arizona's arid southern wastes, they unloaded amid ear-shattering thunder and lightning flashes; then, gathering their forces, lumbered on farther to the north.

It was the first big rain of early September; the wet blanket before the passing of the months until the coming of Ghost Face. Winter.

The Colorado River, rough and angry now because of slashing brown waters fed in by the rain-hit Gila tributary, had begun to rise; and, as always, Yuma's main street turned from tire and hoof-powdered dust into soggy mire and muddied boardwalks.

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