Hope flared high in the hearts of the perishing fugitives--only to flicker and die out again in utter despair. The black patch was water--a tiny spring that seeped from a horizontal crevice between the stratas of rock--but its trickle was spread out in a paper-thin sheet down the sloping lower ledges. At their foot it vanished in the dry sand of the canon bed. They could cool their swollen tongues and so obtain temporary relief from their suffering. But they could not suck up enough water to quench their terrible thirst. Nor could they collect in the canteen even a gill of water to take with them. Lennon, however, was an engineer. Even while hope fled from him, his eyes were peering around with the scrutiny of a trained observer and thinker. His roving gaze fixed upon a bank a little way out from the canon mouth. He staggered down to it and came back with a handful of dry clay. This he spread out upon the least tilted of the wet ledges. By patting and scraping he soon had a little ball that kneaded like putty in his eager fingers. Carmena already had perceived his purpose and was hurrying to fetch a heaping hatful of the dry clay. Before many minutes they had built a little concave dam, in which the down-seeping water slowly but steadily collected. When at last they had quenched their thirst Lennon took his rifle and went to sit under a shady ledge where he could look out into the Basin. Carmena lingered at the spring to water the pony and fill the canteen. She then gave all the cornmeal to the beast and brought slices of raw bacon to share with Lennon. He clasped the hand in which she held out his first slice. "So we made it, after all. Good work?" "Yes, we made it, Jack!" she exulted. "Close shave--but worth the risk. I know now for sure you're a man, a real man!" Her glowing eyes brought a deeper red into Lennon's sunburnt face. "I'm still pretty much of a tenderfoot," he protested. "And there's this game arm. I'd rather run than fight." The girl smiled. "That's all right till you get back the use of your hand. But it won't hurt to show those bronchos the range of your rifle. They're coming a bit too fast to suit us." Lennon stared out across the open plain. Rather more than a mile away a dozen or more riders were loping along the trail of the fugitives. The sights slid up on Lennon's rifle. He put the butt to his left shoulder and rested the barrel across a rock. The first bullet raised a puff of dust a little to the left of the Indians. The second must have shrieked close over their heads. They wheeled their ponies and scattered out in fanlike formation. Lennon's fourth shot caught one of the ponies broadside. The beast tumbled over and lay motionless. Its rider dashed behind a cactus. The rest of the Apaches wrenched their ponies about and raced to get back beyond range. They had not bargained on a rifle that could shoot so far. A renegade prefers to kill without risk to himself.