den up.

"Want it for yourself?"

"Not a drop."

"Better keep it for the horses, then; if we can keep them going to the
next spring, they'll carry us out. Anything the matter with me that
you ask that?"

"Oh no; A thought A saw you wave y'r arms."

The Ranger looked at the elder man. He was riding leaning forward
heavily; and the dust had trenched deep fatigue lines in the hollow
beneath his eyes and from the nostrils to the mouth. Wayland didn't
retort that the frontiersman's speech had sounded guttural and muffled.
He was not sure it was _not_ the fault of his own ears.

They worked slowly to the crest of the sand roll, zig-zagging to break
the steepness. An ash-colored shadow skulked along the tracks of the
outlaw trail. The little mule gave a squealing hind kick. The shadow
looked back: it was a coyote, scenting the tracks of the drovers' lame
horse. It went loping over the sand a blurr of gray.

"Curious thing that, Wayland! Notice the antics of the mule? Always
see that in a range bred beast, centuries of ham stringing."

The Ranger did not answer. The sand was no longer heaving in waves.
It was running, sliding like the glossy surface of the sea. The throb
of his temples, the slide of the sand, the lakes of light, light and
crystal pools, that ran away as you came up, all brought visions of
water. The dust cloud on the sky line dipped and disappeared behind a
ridge of rolling sand.

There was the drowsy swash of saddle leather and the padded chug of
dragging feet and the hum, the hypnotic hum, of the heat that drowsed
from delirium to sleep.

"I think," said Wayland, "this seems a pretty good jumping-off place
for a rest."

The afternoon was waning. They were under shelter of a sand bank from
the wind and sun.

"A think, Wayland, this is nearly my jumping off place altogether."

Matthews spoke feebly. On pretense of steadying the fagged broncho,
the Ranger helped him to dismount. Then, Wayland unsaddled and drew
the water bag from the pack trees. He handed it over to the old man.
Matthews pushed it aside: "Keep it for yourself to-morrow. If y' find
no spring, y'll need the water to-morrow; but A'll take y'r flask of
brandy if y' don't mind?"

"That's a fool thing to take in the heat, sir."

"'Tis if y' intend to live, Wayland; but A'm at the end of this Trail.
A'd like a bit strength t' tell y' a thing or two before . . . as we
rest! Don't waste any water on flap jacks."