Lord Apache

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At ten in the morning the Fahrenheit thermometer stood at one hundred degrees. September sun glittered on the harsh mirror of the desert. Mirages shimmered around the pack train. Even the mules were deceived, straying from the rutted wagon road to reach the beckoning lakes, tree-rimmed islands. But there were no lakes, no islands, not even human beings; the caravan might have been traveling through a lunar landscape.

It was three days since they had left the village of Phoenix, at the junction of the Salt and Gila rivers. Under the shade of his Bombay topi, Jack Drumm's wind-reddened eyes stared at his man Eggleston.

"Are you all right, Eggie?"

The valet smiled wanly, holding the umbrella over his bald head. Incongruous in the heat, he wore a wilted collar and nankeen coat in spite of his master's kindly permission to remove them.

"I am well, Mr. Jack," he murmured, "except for a slight ringing in my ears, and a touch of giddiness."

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