"It's a bad business this," he said in answer to the worry she dared
not express. "The animals can't hold out much longer."
"What are we to do? There's only a little water left in one of the
casks."
"Low's goin' to strike across for the other trail. He's goin' after
supper, and he says he'll ride all night till he gets it. He thinks if
he goes due that way," pointing northward, "he can strike it sooner
than by goin' back."
They looked in the direction he pointed. Each bush was sending a
phenomenally long shadow from its intersection with the ground. There
was no butte or hummock to break the expanse between them and the
faint, far silhouette of mountains. Her heart sank, a sinking that
fatigue and dread of thirst had never given her.
"He may lose us," she said.
The old man jerked his head toward the rock.
"He'll steer by that, and I'll keep the fire going till morning."
"But how can he ride all night? He must be half dead now."
"A man like him don't die easy. It's not the muscle and the bones,
it's the grit. He says it's him that made the mistake and it's him
that's goin' to get us back on the right road.
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