of this at the time, however. Not the
slightest suspicion entered my head. In view of that fact, I have
since believed in guardian angels. For my next move, which at the time
seemed to me absolutely aimless, was to change my blankets from one
side of the fire to the other. And that brought me alongside the five
rifles.

Owing to this fact, I am now convinced, we awoke safe at daylight,
cooked breakfast, and laid the plan for the day. Anderson directed us.
I was to climb over the ridge before us and search in the ravine on the
other side. Schwartz was to explore up the beach to the left, and
Denton to the right. Anderson said he would wait for Billy Simpson,
who had overslept in the darkness of the cubbyhole, and who was now
paddling ashore. The two of them would push inland to the west until a
high hill would give them a chance to look around for greenery.

We started at once, before the sun would be hot. The hill I had to
climb was steep and covered with chollas, so I didn't get along very
fast. When I was about half way to the top I heard a shot from the
beach. I looked back. Anderson was in the small boat, rowing rapidly
out to the vessel. Denton was running up the beach from one direction
and Schwartz from the other. I slid and slipped down the bluff,
getting pretty well stuck up with the cholla spines.

At the beach we found Billy Simpson lying on his ace, shot through the
back. We turned him over, but he was apparently dead. Anderson had
hoisted the sail, had cut loose from the anchor, and was sailing away.

Denton stood up straight and tall, looking. Then he pulled his belt in
a hole, grabbed my arm, and started to run up the long curve of the
beach. Behind us came Schwartz. We ran near a mile, and then fell
among some tules in an inlet at the farther point.

"What is it?" I gasped.

"Our only chance--to get him--" said Denton. "He's got to go around
this point--big wind--perhaps his mast will bust--then he'll come
ashore--" He opened and shut his big brown hands.

So there we two fools lay, like panthers in the tules, taking our only
one-in-a-million chance to lay hands on Anderson. Any sailor could
have told us that the mast wouldn't break, but we had winded Schwartz a
quarter of a mile back. And so we waited, our eyes fixed on the boat's
sail, grudging her every inch, just burning to fix things to suit us a
little better. And naturally she made the point in what I now know was
o