mmering like
a lake of salt. It was hot--good Lord! The horn of your saddle burned
your hand. That night we camped in a canyon, and the next day went
still higher up, following the course of a rutted stream that probably
ran water once in a year. Whitney wanted to turn east, and it was all
a toss-up to me; the place looked unlikely enough, anyway, although
you never can tell. I had settled into the monotony of the trip by
now and didn't much care how long we stayed out. One day was like
another--hot little swirls of dust, sweat of mules, and great black
cliffs; and the nights came and went like the passing of a sponge over
a fevered face. On the sixth day the tragedy happened. It was toward
dusk, and one of the mules, the one that carried the water, fell over
a cliff.

"He wasn't hurt; just lay on his back and smiled crossly; but the
kegs and the bags were smashed to bits. I like mules, but I wanted
to kill that one. It was quiet down there in the canyon--quiet and
hot. I looked at Whitney and he looked at me, and I had the sudden,
unpleasant realization that he was a coward, added to his other
qualifications. Yes, a coward! I saw it in his blurred eyes and the
quivering of his bloated lips--stark dumb funk. That was bad. I'm
afraid I lost my nerve, too; I make no excuses; fear is infectious.
At all events, we tore down out of that place as if death was after
us, the mules clattering and flapping in the rear. After a time I
rode more slowly, but in the morning we were nearly down at the
desert again; and there it lay before us, shimmering like a lake of
salt--three days back to water.

"The next two days were rather a blur, as if a man were walking on
a red-hot mirror that tipped up and down and tried to take his legs
from under him. There was a water-hole a little to the east of the
way we had come, and toward that I tried to head. One of the mules
gave out, and staggered and groaned, and tried to get up again. I
remember hearing him squeal, once; it was horrible. He lay there,
a little black speck on the desert. Whitney and I didn't speak to
each other at all, but I thought of those two kegs of water he had
upset. Have you ever been thirsty--mortally thirsty, until you feel
your tongue black in your mouth? It's queer what it does to you. Do
you remember that little place--Zorn's--at college? We used to sit
there sometimes on spring afternoons. It was cool and cavern-like,
and through the open door one could see the