he sky vault the heat
increased. No breath of air stirred. The wounded man had moments of
delirium in which he moaned for water.

There was water, cool and fresh, not fifty yards from them. He could hear
the rushing river plunging toward the Pacific, the gurgling of the stream
as it dashed against boulders and swept into whirlpools. But between Bob
and that precious water lay a stretch of sandy wash which the Blanco
covered when it was high. One venturing to cross this would be an easy
mark for sharpshooters from the camp.

It seemed to him that the firing was now more distant. There was a chance
that none of the Utes were still in the camp. Fever was mounting in
Houck. He was in much distress both from thirst and from the pain of the
wounds. Bob shrank from the pitiful appeals of his high-pitched,
delirious voice. The big fellow could stand what he must with set jaws
when he was sentient. His craving found voice in irrational moments while
he had no control over his will. These were increasing in frequency and
duration.

Dillon picked up the flask. "Got to leave you a while," he said. "Back
soon."

The glassy eyes of Houck glared at him. His mind was wandering.
"Torturin' me. Tha's what you're doin', you damned redskin," he
muttered.

"Going to get water," explained Bob.

"Tha's a lie. You got water there--in that bottle. Think I don't know
yore Apache ways?"

Bob crept to the edge of the willows. From the foliage he peered out.
Nobody was in sight. He could still see a faint smoke rising from the
Indian camp. But the firing was a quarter of a mile away, at least. The
bend of the river was between him and the combatants.

Bob took his courage by the throat, drew a long breath, and ran for the
river. Just as he reached it a bullet splashed in the current almost
within hand's reach. The cowpuncher stooped and took two hasty swallows
into his dry mouth. He filled the bottle and soaked the bandanna in the
cold water. A slug of lead spat at the sand close to his feet. A panic
rose within him. He got up and turned to go. Another bullet struck a big
rock four paces from where he was standing. Bob scudded for the willows,
his heart thumping wildly with terror.

He plunged into the thicket, whipping himself with the bending saplings
in his headlong flight. Now that they had discovered him, would the
Indians follow him to his hiding-place? Or would they wait till dusk and
creep up on him unseen? He wished he knew.