e before, the man on the lip of the gulch
knew that he was watching a cattle stampede. Under the impact of the
galloping hoofs the ground upon which he stood quaked.

A cry diverted his attention. From the bed of the sandy wash a man had
started up and was running for his life toward the canyon walls. Before he
had taken half a dozen steps the avalanche was upon him, had cut him down,
swept over him.

The thud of the hoofs died away. Into the open desert the stampede had
passed. A huddled mass lay motionless on the sand in the track of the
avalanche.

A long ragged breath whistled through the closed lips of the tenderfoot.
He ran along the edge of the rock wall till he found a descent less sharp,
lowered himself by means of jutting quartz and mesquit cropping out from
the crevices, and so came through a little draw to the canyon.

He dropped on a knee beside the sprawling, huddled figure. No second
glance was needed to see that the man was dead. Life had been trampled out
of him almost instantly and his features battered beyond any possible
recognition. Unused to scenes of violence, the stranger stooping over him
felt suddenly sick. It made him shudder to remember that if he could have
found a way down in the darkness he, too, would have slept in the warm
sand of the dry wash. If he had, the fate of this man would have been
his.

Under the doubled body was a canteen. The trembling fingers of the
tenderfoot unscrewed the cork. Tipping the vessel, he drank avidly. One
swallow, a second, then a few trickling drops. The canteen had been almost
empty.

Uncovering, he stood bareheaded before the inert body and spoke gently in
the low, soft voice one instinctively uses in the presence of the dead.

"Friend, I couldn't save your life, but your water has saved mine, I
reckon. Anyhow, it gives me another chance to fight for it. I wish I could
do something for you ... carry a message to your folks and tell them how
it happened."

He dropped down again beside the dead man and rifled the pockets. In them
he found two letters addressed in an illiterate hand to James Diller,
Cananea, Sonora, Mexico. An idea flashed into his brain and for a moment
held him motionless while he worked it out. Why not? This man was about
his size, dressed much like him, and so mutilated that identification was
impossible.

From his own pocket he took a leather bill book and a monogrammed
cigarcase. With a sharp stone he scarred the former. The