As he continued to stumble forward, the dots assumed the shape of trees and hills. He laughed contemptuously and began to remonstrate with himself, repeating: "It's a mirage, or I'm out of my head." He began to be worried, saying over and over: "That's a bad sign, very bad. I mustn't lose control of myself. I must stick to him--stick to him until he dies of old age. Bucky Greenfield! Well, he won't get out of this either. If the department could only know!" The nearer he drew to life, the more indignant he became. He arrived thus at the edge of trees and green things. "Why don't they go?" he said angrily. "They ought to, now. Come, I think I'm keeping my head remarkably well." All at once a magnificent idea came to him--he would walk through the mirage and end it. He advanced furiously against an imaginary tree, struck his forehead, and toppled over insensible. VII Frawley returned to consciousness to find himself in the hut of a half-breed Indian, who was forcing a soup of herbs between his lips. Two days later he regained his strength sufficiently to reach a ranch owned by Englishmen. Fitted out by them, he started at once to return to El Paso; to take up the unending search anew. In the late afternoon, tired and thirsty, he arrived at a shanty where a handful of Mexican children were lolling in the cool of the wall. At the sound of his approach a woman came running to the door, shrieking for assistance in a Mexican gibberish. He ran hastily to the house, his hand on his pistol. The woman, without stopping her chatter, huddled in the doorway, pointing to the dim corner opposite. Frawley, following her glance, saw the figure of a man stretched on a hasty bed of leaves. He took a few quick steps and recognized Greenfield. At the same moment the bundle shot to a sitting position, with a cry: "Who's that?" Frawley, with a quick motion, covered him with his revolver, crying: "Hands up. It's me, Bucky, and I've got you now!" "Frawley!" "That's it, Bucky--Hands up!" Greenfield, without obeying, stared at him wildly. "God, it is Frawley!" he cried, and fell back in a heap. Inspector Frawley, advancing a step, repeated his command with no uncertain ring: "Hands up! Quick!" On the bed the distorted body contracted suddenly into a ball. "Easy, Bub," Greenfield said between his teeth. "Easy; don't get excited. I'm dying." "You?" Frawley approached cautiously, suspiciously. "Fact. I'm cashin' in." "What's the matter?" "Bug. Plain bug--the desert did the rest." "A what?" "Tarantula bite--don't laugh, Bub." Frawley, at his side, needed but a glance to see that it was true. He ran his hand over Greenfield's belt and removed his pistol. "Sorry," he said curtly, standing up. "Quite keerect, Bub!" "Can I do anything for you?" "Nope." Suddenly, without warning, Greenfield raised himself, glared at him, stretched out his hands, and fell into a passionate fit of weeping. Frawley's English reserve was outraged.