y--all thing."

"Good. Say, you need to get around before daylight. Good luck."

The Indian grunted his reply while he stooped again to release the
rawhide painter. Then, with a nice sense of balance, he sprang lightly
into the shell-like vessel.

John Kars waited only till he heard the muffled dip of the paddle.
Then he withdrew, a sigh escaping him, an expression of pent feeling
which had hope and doubt closely intermingling for its inspiration. He
passed up to the defences for his second night's vigil. He had
arranged that Abe should sleep unless emergency demanded otherwise.

The night passed without incident. Kars was thankful. It was so much
valuable time gained. The labors had been hard following upon the
night of battle. The whole garrison had needed rest. This had been
achieved by systematic relief, which was almost military in its method.
But sleep had been taken at the defences. There had been no relaxing
of vigilance. Nor had the enemy any intention of permitting it. His
loose fire went on the whole time, stirring the echoes of the gorge in
protest at the disturbance of the night.

Towards morning Kars and Bill were at the water's edge, searching the
black distance, while they strained for a sound other than the echoes
of the spasmodic rifle fire.

"Charley'll find a trail, if he hasn't broken his fool neck," Kars
said. "Guess he'd find a trail in a desert of sand that's always
shifting. This darn gorge must be scored with them. If he don't, why,
I guess we'll need to chance it up-stream past those workings."

"Yes."

Bill sat on the boulder Charley had used as a mooring. He had had his
sleep, but a certain weariness still remained.

"You'd stake a roll on Charley," he said, with an upward glance of
amusement that was lost in the darkness.

"Sure." Kars gave a short laugh. "He's a mascot. It's always been
that way since I grabbed him when he quit the penitentiary for
splitting another neche's head open in a scrap over a Breed gal.
Charley's got all the brains of his race, and none of its virtues. But
he's got virtues of a diff'rent sort. They're sometimes found in white
folk."

"You mean he's loyal."

"That's it. Every pocket he's got is stuffed full of it. He'll find a
trail or break his fool neck--because I'm needing one. He's the sort
of boy, if I needed him to shoot up a feller, it wouldn't be sufficient
acting the way I said. He'd shoot up his whole darn family