he mine
we were lookin' for.... That's sure----How we got it you'll never know.
But we got it. And here's where the real story begins again. We were
miles out in the Gila Desert and if ever there's a Hell on earth, it's
there. Sand, rocks, rocks and sand and the sun. It was Hell with the
cover off and no mistake! No water within a hundred miles.

"Now, this is where the fine Eyetalian hand of Mike McGuire shows
itself. We were rich. Any fool with half an eye could see that. The
place was lousy--fairly lousy! It was ours----," Coast's brow darkened
and his eyes glittered strangely as a darting demon of the past got
behind them. "Yes--_ours_. _Sacre bleu!_ Any man who went through what
we did deserved it, by G----! We were rich. There was plenty enough for
two, but McGuire didn't think so. And here's what he does to me. In the
middle of the night while I'm asleep he sneaks away as neat as you
please, with the horses and the pack-mules and the water, leavin' me
alone with all the money in the world, and a devourin' thirst, more than
a hundred miles from nowhere."

"Murder," muttered Peter.

Coast nodded. "You bet you. Murder. Nothin' less. Oh, he knew what _he_
was about all right. And I saw it quick. Death! That's what it meant.
Slow but sure. Hadn't I seen the bones bleaching all along the trail? He
left me there to die. He thought I would die. _Dios!_ That thirst!"
Coast reached for the pitcher and splashed rather than poured a glass of
water which he gulped down avidly. "There was nothin' for it but to try
afoot for Tucson, which was due east. Every hour I waited would of made
me an hour nearer to bein' a mummy. So I set out through the hot sand,
the sun burnin' through me, slowly parchin' my blood. My tongue swelled.
I must of gone in circles. Days passed--nights when I lay gaspin' on my
back, like a fish out of water, tryin' to suck moisture out of dry
air.... Then the red sun again--up over the edge of that furnace,
mockin' at me. I was as good as dead and I knew it. Only the mummy of
me, parched black, stumbled on, fallin', strugglin' up again, fallin' at
last, bitin' at the sand like a mad dog...."

"Horrible," muttered Peter.

"It was. I reckon I died--the soul of me, or what was left of it. I came
to life under the starlight, with a couple of 'greasers' droppin' water
on my tongue. They brought me around, but I was out of my head for a
week. I couldn't talk the lingo anyhow. I just went with 'em like a
chi