to lie
at last asleep on a desert peak: these peaks still unsmirched by the
hand of man; still fresh from the hand of God.

It was with this thought that Roger finally fell asleep while the moon
sank behind the far horizon, the night wind rose and Peter searched for
herbage in the rock crevices.

The next day was a long one. Roger found no trace of a trail and by
mid-afternoon, the last of the water was gone. When this fact was
established, the heat seemed worse and Dick's many stories of men who
had thirsted to death in the ranges began to haunt Roger. He noticed
that Peter's little legs were hourly more unsteady and his heart ached
for the little chap. He ate sparingly that evening, giving Peter the
larger share. The food was like dry sawdust in his parched mouth. He
slept uneasily, waking from dreams of running water to toss for an hour
before sleep came again.

With the first streak of dawn he was up and on. Going was slow, for now
the real torture of desert thirst was on him and he knew that unless he
found water that day, buzzards would be circling over him on the morrow.
By ten o'clock his tongue was swelling and he seemed to have ceased to
sweat, and Peter leaned panting against the rocks in the shade of which
Roger paused to rest. After a half hour, Roger rose to his feet. The
morning had been breathless but as he rose, a little hot gust of air
blew up from the canyon below.

Instantly Peter raised his head and sniffed. The gust increased to a
breeze. With ears lapped forward the burro tottered to the canyon edge
and began feebly to pick his way downward.

Roger watched him for a moment. Then, "I don't know what you've
discovered, old man," he said thickly, "but what's good enough for you,
is good enough for me," and he followed weakly after him.

There was considerable rolling and scrambling done by both Peter and
Roger before they reached bottom. When Roger finally scrambled panting
to his feet, face burning, ears ringing, he found that they were in a
narrow valley thick grown with scrub oak. Peter had rolled the last ten
feet, and when he brought up against a barrel cactus, he could not rise
until Roger had pottered over and pulled weakly on his bridle. Then he
walked shakily across the canyon, Roger close behind him. A little pool
reflecting the sky and the fern-like leaves of the mesquite that
bordered it lay at the base of the great brown rock.

Roger, as he drank, had vague recollections of warn