s wavering eyes that puzzled his companion. At length he
raised himself wearily to his feet. After all, the needs of the body
would not be denied, and, as Devine had said, before they set about
the task that awaited them they must drink.

"Well," he said hoarsely, "I'm going to cut a fork."

He smashed back through the undergrowth toward the pines, unlashed the
ax from the horse's back, and, though he was never afterward sure
whether he cut it from a young fir or a bush of juniper, Devine came
upon him some time later trimming a forked twig with a short stem
where the two slender branches united. The surveyor glanced at it and
smiled.

"Any water that ran into this hollow must have come from the range,"
he said. "We'll try close beneath it and give the thing a show."

They did as he suggested, and his expression was sardonically
incredulous when Weston proceeded along the foot of the hillside,
where the ground was a little clearer, with a branch of the fork
clutched in each hand. The pointed stem was directed almost
horizontally in front of him, and it remained in that position for
about twenty minutes, when he lowered it with a gesture of
discouragement.

"Felt nothing yet?" Devine inquired eagerly. "There's a kind of hollow
yonder running into the thicket."

Weston made no answer, but he turned in among the willows, and for
half an hour or so they stumbled and floundered among the clinging
branches. Still there was no deflection of the fork, and when at
length they stopped again, gasping and dripping with perspiration,
Devine laughed rather grimly.

"Oh, give it a rest; I guess that's what it wants," he said. "I'll
hang on for another half-hour, and then I'm going prospecting on my
own account. We've got to strike water."

That, at least, was evident. They were parched with thirst and it was
very hot. No breath of air seemed to enter that dense thicket, and a
cloud of tormenting flies hung about them. Weston's head was throbbing
with the heat, and his sight seemed dazed. Both of them were dusty,
ragged, grim of face, and worn with travel, and the longing for even a
few drops of muddy liquid was becoming almost insupportable.

It was only by a strenuous effort that Weston went on again. He felt
scarcely capable of further exertion, but he could not overcome the
horrible bodily craving that seemed to grow stronger with every
pulsation of his fevered blood, and he plodded on into the thicket
very wearily. At