, the blow had fallen. They found Sawyer's water hole
nearly dry, just a little pool in the center, with caked, dead mud all
around it. They drained that water dry and struck on. Since then the
water famine had gained a hold on them; another water hole had not a
drop in it. Now they could only aim at the cool, blue mockery of the
mountains before them, praying that the ponies would last to the
foothills.

Still Hal Sinclair could sing softly to his horse and to himself; and,
though his companions cursed his singing, they blessed him for it in
their hearts. Otherwise the white, listening silence of the desert
would have crushed them; otherwise the lure of the mountains would have
maddened them and made them push on until the horses would have died
within five miles of the labor; otherwise the pain in their slowly
swelling throats would have taken their reason. For thirst in the
desert carries the pangs of several deaths--death from fire,
suffocation, and insanity.

No wonder the three scowled at Hal Sinclair when he drew his revolver.

"My horse is gun-shy," he said, "but I'll bet the rest of you I can
drill a horn off that skull before you do."

Of course it was a foolish challenge. Lowrie was the gun expert of the
party. Indeed he had reached that dangerous point of efficiency with
firearms where a man is apt to reach for his gun to decide an argument.
Now Lowrie followed the direction of Sinclair's gesture. It was the
skull of a steer, with enormous branching horns. The rest of the
skeleton was sinking into the sands.

"Don't talk fool talk," said Lowrie. "Save your wind and your
ammunition. You may need 'em for yourself, son!"

That grim suggestion made Sandersen and Quade shudder. But a grin
spread on the broad, ugly face of Lowrie, and Sinclair merely shrugged
his shoulders.

"I'll try you for a dollar."

"Nope."

"Five dollars?"

"Nope."

"You're afraid to try, Lowrie!"

It was a smiling challenge, but Lowrie flushed. He had a childish pride
in his skill with weapons.

"All right, kid. Get ready!"

He brought a Colt smoothly into his hand and balanced it dexterously,
swinging it back and forth between his eyes and the target to make
ready for a snap shot.

"Ready!" cried Hal Sinclair excitedly.

Lowrie's gun spoke first, and it was the only one that was fired, for
Sinclair's horse was gun-shy indeed. At the explosion he pitched
straight into the air with a squeal of mustang fright and came d