Stupor followed, a merciful stupor that descended upon man and beast alike, and that ended only with the reviving of sundown and the awakened torments of thirst and thickened tongues. Now Steven was keenly normal except for the swollen, burning lining of his mouth. “Keep it shut, my lad. Keep it shut,” St. Vrain kept reminding him. He would go to the very mountains for water. With Pierre, then, and two of the trappers, José and Marcel, Steven set out almost due south. They had not traveled so far as he feared they must before they came to the bed of a stream. Dry! Dry as a bone! Sand Creek indeed! But Pierre, kneeling in the arroyo, dug a small hole into which water welled slowly. It was incredible. They threw themselves flat and pressed their cracked lips to the fluid, cool even as it rose from the sun-caked earth; swelling from some inner stream jealously absorbed by the thirsty sands. They filled the canteens, let the mules suck their fill--a slow process--and as the stream continued to well they wet their shirts. Marcel, a native of New Mexico, remained to guard the spot while the others drove the mules back with the precious canteens, and upon their return St. Vrain and a number of the _arrieros_ drove a bunch of mules over the caked earth to the watering-spot. Everyone who could walk visited the little spring. Just in time to escape the flooding moonlight they returned. And then for a few hours the caravan lay still in the white light, like a part of the desert dunes among which they cowered. Before dawn they were again moving across the caked sands, almost due north. “If we could keep going,” said St. Vrain, “we’d make the Arkansas by midnight. But I’m afraid it will be another day before we can do it.” It depended upon whether the animals could stand the lack of water. It had now been nearly forty-eight hours since they had drunk their fill at the Arkansas; the small amount taken at the tiny spring would merely tide them over for the time being. As the sun rose over that high desert the caravan moved with a forced speed across the cracked earth. Desperation drove them on. A tender chivalry rose in Steven for the girl, who was again looking out between the flaps in the wagon that followed his own. Why, she was driving the mules herself! Women needed to be attended; girls needed to be offered a glass of water when it was hot. But there was none. “Am I becoming light-headed again?” Steven reflected, angrily. The sun had risen; he handed the reins to a driver and, jumping down from his seat, strode back to the wagon following, doffed his wide hat, and asked, “Is there anything I can do, ma’m’selle, to be of service to you?”