it?"

"Yes," replied Weston, quietly, "I'm sure."

Once more Devine seized the shovel, but in a moment he flung it down
suddenly, with a sharp, glad cry.

"It's sluicing out!"

Weston rose and strode to the edge of the hole. There was a little
water in the bottom of it, and this spread rapidly until it crept up
about his comrade's boots. In one place he could see a frothing,
bubbling patch with an edge that was crystal clear. Then Devine
stooped and, filling his wide hat, held it up to him dripping.

"We're through with one trouble, anyway," he announced exultantly.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE LODE

Weston, sitting down on the pile of gravel, took the hat from his
comrade, and the trickle from the brim of it splashed refreshingly
upon his hot and grimy face when he tilted it to drink. It was
shapeless, greasy, and thick with dust, and few men who fare daintily
in the cities would have considered it a tempting cup. That, however,
did not occur to Weston, but another thought flashed into his mind as
he glanced toward the undergrowth behind which the man who had led
them there lay. He lowered the hat a moment and rose wearily.

"A few drops of this might have saved our partner," he said. "Now he
has gone on; may the trail he has taken be a smooth and easy one."

Then he drank, standing, a deep, invigorating draught, which seemed to
cool his fevered blood and put new life in him. He gasped for a moment
or so, and drank again, and then, flinging wide the splashes upon hot
earth and leaves, sat down heavily. As he fumbled for his pipe,
Devine, who had drunk in the meanwhile, turned to him.

"No," he said reflectively, "I don't quite think you're right. It
wasn't thirst that brought Grenfell to his end. He had more water than
either of us--you saw to that--and, though it wouldn't have been
pleasant, you and I could have held out another day."

"What was it then?" asked Weston.

"The strain of the journey on a played-out constitution, and, as I
think I suggested, the effect of excitement on a diseased heart. The
man was under a high tension the last day or two. It's a sure thing he
had something on his mind. After all, I guess it was a delusion."

Weston said nothing, but lay still with his pipe in his hand. There
was before him a task from which he shrank, but he was worn-out and
could not nerve himself to undertake it yet, and in the meanwhile he
thought of his dead comrade with a certain regretful tenderness