and, is that water?"

"Where? I can't see it."

"There, at the foot of the hill."

"With trees up side down? No, sir! It may be mirage of water miles
away, carried by the rays of this twilight; but if you can see it and
the horses can't smell it, you can bet on a false pool!"

But the little mule had jerked free with a low squeal.

"A tell you, Wayland, there is water;" and he began babbling again
inconsequently of the sea, running his words together incoherent, half
delirious.

"Go on and see, then! I'll follow! If there's water, look out for the
drovers."

Wayland let go his hold of the bridle. Horse and mule shot down the
sand bank. He saw them shoulder neck and neck along the white alkali
bottom, then break to a gallop, the old man hanging to the pommel; then
all disappeared round the end of the bank. Wayland slithered down the
sand slope and dashed to the top of the next hill breathless. Below
lay the glister of water, real water and no mirage, glassy, gray and
sinister. The Ranger uttered a yell; then paused in his head-long
descent.

The pony had plunged in belly deep; the mule had lowered its head; the
old man was kneeling at the brink. Wayland saw him lave the water up
with his hand: then throw it violently back. All at once, the grip of
life snapped. Matthews was lying motionless on the sand. The horse
was chocking its head up and down; the mule was stamping angrily with
fore feet roiling the pool bottom. It had been one of the salt sinks
that lie in the depressions of the Desert.

CHAPTER XVII

WHERE THE TRACKS ALL POINT ONE WAY

Wayland poured the last very driblets of water sediments from the skin
bag. This, he forced past the old man's lips. Then he drew the
unconscious form back on the saddle blankets, loosened the neck of the
shirt, laved the temples and wrists with the salt water, tore strips of
canvas from the tent square, wet that and laid it on the old man's
forehead. He ran his hand inside the shirt and felt the heart. It was
still beating, beating furiously, with faint flutterings, then
accessions of fresh fury. The lips were black and swollen. The eyes
were sunken; and the veins stood out in deadly clear purplish
reticulation with splotches of transfused blood under the shrivelled
skin of the hands. Then, he raised the old white head from the pack
trees,--brave old warrior for right going down the Trail where the
Tracks All Point One Way--, and somehow go