e of the reddish iron bore a projecting mass of fierce spikes
and thorns. The huge barrel-shaped cacti, and thickets of slender
dark-green rods with bayonet points, and broad leaves with yellow
spines, drove Hare and his sore-footed fellow-travellers to the lava.

Hare thought there must be an end to it some time, yet it seemed as
though he were never to cross that black forbidding inferno. Blistered
by the heat, pierced by the thorns, lame from long toil on the lava, he
was sorely spent when once more he stepped out upon the bare desert.
On pitching camp he made the grievous discovery that the water-bag had
leaked or the water had evaporated, for there was only enough left for
one more day. He ministered to thirsty dog and horse in silence, his
mind revolving the grim fact of his situation.

His little fire of greasewood threw a wan circle into the surrounding
blackness. Not a sound hinted of life. He longed for even the bark of
a coyote. Silvermane stooped motionless with tired head. Wolf stretched
limply on the sand. Hare rolled into his blanket and stretched out with
slow aching relief.

He dreamed he was a boy roaming over the green hills of the old farm,
wading through dewy clover-fields, and fishing in the Connecticut River.
It was the long vacationtime, an endless freedom. Then he was at the
swimming-hole, and playmates tied his clothes in knots, and with shouts
of glee ran up the bank leaving him there to shiver.

When he awakened the blazing globe of the sun had arisen over the
eastern horizon, and the red of the desert swathed all the reach of
valley.

Hare pondered whether he should use his water at once or dole it out.
That ball of fire in the sky, a glazed circle, like iron at white heat,
decided for him. The sun would be hot and would evaporate such water as
leakage did not claim, and so he shared alike with Wolf, and gave the
rest to Silvermane.

For an hour the mocking lilac mountains hung in the air and then paled
in the intense light. The day was soundless and windless, and the
heat-waves rose from the desert like smoke. For Hare the realities were
the baked clay flats, where Silvermane broke through at every step;
the beds of alkali, which sent aloft clouds of powdered dust; the deep
gullies full of round bowlders; thickets of mesquite and prickly thorn
which tore at his legs; the weary detour to head the canyons; the climb
to get between two bridging mesas; and always the haunting presence of