e behind you."

The fear of delaying her companion gave her fresh strength and she
went on beside him. In the next arroyo they found a footprint deeply
marked in a bed of sand. As Mead glanced at it he saw some grains of
sand fall down from the rim of the depression. He called Marguerite's
attention to them.

"We must be close behind him," he said, "or that sand would not still
be trembling on the edge like that."

"If we only had some water for him!" said Marguerite. "He will need it
so badly."

Mead thought that the child would probably be beyond the need of human
aid when they should find him, but he merely answered: "Yes, I ought
to have thought of it, but we started so hurriedly." His only hope was
that they might be in time to save the little worn body from the
coyotes. The trail crossed the arroyo and essayed the hill. It was
steep and had been too much for the child's ebbing strength. The track
went down into the valley again and part way up the other side, then
back and across the arroyo, and took the hill once more at a long
slant. They lost the trail there and walked about for a few minutes,
searching the ground closely for signs of the little feet. Marguerite
went on to the top of the hill, and Mead, glancing toward her, saw her
standing stiff and still as if turned to stone, holding a little
forward her tightly clasped hands. She gave a low cry and he sprang to
her side. A moving splotch of red showed above a clump of greasewood
half way down the hill. Then a tottering little figure in a torn and
ragged linen kilt moved slowly down the hillside, lifting its feet
wearily, but still going on.

"Paul! Paul! My darling!" A ringing call broke from Marguerite's lips
and she rushed down the hill at a pace which even Mead's running
strides could barely equal. The boy heard her cry, turned, swayed on
trembling legs, and fell to the ground. She snatched the child to her
breast and pressed her face to his. He smiled faintly and wearily, and
his parched, cracked lips whispered, "some drink!" and then his eyes
closed and his head fell back upon her arm. The gladness in her face
froze into terror and she turned to Mead in despairing appeal.

"Is he dead?" she whispered.

The man bent one ear to the child's heart.

"No, he is not dead, nor dying. His heart seems to be beating
naturally, but feebly. If we only had some water!"

She held the child toward him, speaking rapidly: "Take him in your
arms and run to w