Russ’s gloomy prediction almost came true during the hot weeks that followed, hot weeks without so much as a tiny cloudlet appearing in that matchless blue of sky. The young grass that had sprung up from the moisture of the rain on the night when they had driven their first shipment of cattle down into town, had already shriveled. The mesas that in other years had been flowered meadows, knee deep in gramma grass, were now one with the desert, yellow and dry, except for the tender green of the mesquite. Raquel stood at the edge of the alamo grove, looking out over the desert. Above her head the young leaves of the alamos were shiny and green. Raquel looked up to them admiringly. “You-all just go on a-diggin’ for water till you get it, don’t you, old trees? I wonder how deep those great old roots of yours go. The same with that mesquite out yonder. The most of that little bush is down under ground, nosin’ maybe forty feet to keep those pretty little leaves green like that. [Illustration: RAQUEL RODE OVER SOUTH TO A WINDMILL] “I wish grass could help itself that way!” She spoke mournfully, for in the past two weeks the last of the small water holes had disappeared. And the big reservoirs were low. Not a breath of wind strong enough to turn the windmill had there been in weeks. And now the little shiny leaves overhead hung motionless. Jami and Georgie had gone out to drive up the straggling cattle that were coming in for water. Raquel’s forethought in regard to the tank in the grove had proved wise, for quite a pool had survived in the deep shade of the trees. Now, as she watched, a straggling line of cattle came up the slight incline that set the grove off from the desert, and broke clumsily into a run as they saw the water they had been smelling so long. They plunged down into it, burying heads and shoulders in its heavenly wetness. One old cow was so exhausted that she could not rise from her knees and would have drowned on the spot if Raquel had not shouted for help to pull her out. That afternoon Raquel rode over south to a windmill, now idle but still dripping a few drops that in the course of hours would fill a small trough. Here stood a line of patient cows licking the drops as fast as they fell. This had always been one of the best wells. Raquel was miserable as she saw the thirst-tormented creatures waiting there so patiently. Formerly there had been back of the shack near the windmill a small pipe line leading down from one of those tiny springs in a _cañoncito_ above. Remembering this, Raquel tore up to the spot. She was riding the pinto, who had become her inseparable companion, and who followed at her heels the moment she dismounted. Rummaging under the dead grass and leaves she soon found the end of the pipe, but not a drop oozed from its dust-clogged mouth. It was choked, that was clear.