n rose higher and higher, crossed the zenith and traveled toward
the River Range. Roger, with dogged thoroughness, followed the trail
suggested by Dick. He was numb with fear. Remotely he recalled that
somehow he had been expecting this to be a decisive day in his history
but it was only a fleeting memory. Every sense that he possessed was
concentrated on finding Felicia. At noon, he ate and drank something,
then lay down in the shade of a canyon to sleep for an hour or so, with
Peter standing like a little gray bodyguard beside him. At three he was
plodding on his way again, around cactus thicket, up and down washouts,
over rockheaps, talking to Peter when the silence became unendurable, or
his voice refused to rise longer with Felicia's name. He could with
difficulty urge his body on through the burning heat. What then of a
tender little girl? In this summer sun of the desert a man without water
for twenty-four hours would die. What of Felicia?

By sun down he had covered several miles on either side of the ranch. He
was covered with dust and his lips were cracking in spite of his free
use of the canteen. He was tired to the very bones of him. The hot sand
had blistered his feet. The cholla had torn his hands. When the sudden
blackness of night descended, he determined to rest once more until the
moon rose. He did not think that he was more than a mile from the ranch,
but as there was still plenty of food and water, and as he was within
ear-reach of possible gun-shots, there was no point in going home for
the few hours' rest. He removed Peter's pack, gave him some oats and a
mouthful of water, then started a tiny fire of greasewood twigs. It was
very hot but Roger had seen several rattlers during the day and the idea
of lying down in utter darkness did not appeal to him.

Yet, he did not sleep after all. He sat, wide-eyed, feeding the tiny
blaze, trying to develop some new theory on the little girl's sudden
disappearance. He had been pondering this for an hour when there came
the sound of footsteps stumbling through the sand. He jumped trembling
to his feet.

"Felicia! Oh, Felicia!" he cried.

"No! No! It's Charley!" a hoarse voice answered and in a moment Charley
appeared within the tiny circle of firelight. She was disheveled and
pale, and evidently very, very tired, but still outwardly composed.

"Sit down and rest," said Roger. "Here, I've been sitting on Peter's
pack blanket. There's room for us both, I guess