The horses were saddled and they rode up the canyon looking eagerly from side to side in an effort to recognize the trail by which they must have come down into this pretty little valley. But a morning’s search discovered no place where it was possible to ascend. Many an easy slope made a promising beginning, only to end against a cliff or a jumble of insurmountable rock. Shortly after noon they came to the canyon’s end. It was a cul-de-sac, closed by insurmountable cliffs, over which leaped the little stream in a lacy waterfall a hundred feet above their heads. It was discouraging. They must ride out then through the other end of the canyon, where the little stream meandered forth into the desert and was swallowed up by the thirsty sands. And so night found them, these two young adventurers, making their way over a brilliantly moonlit waste--quite alone--lost on a Mexican desert. CHAPTER XIV HIDING “You find the water for us, _pintito mio_.” Raquel spoke with an effort at lightness, but in her heart she was praying. There was very little water left in the canteen. Just a warm swallow gurgled when she shook it. All day, even during that unbearable noon hour when the swifts and the homed toads remain motionless, they had kept moving steadily across the cracked and blistered spaces. They moved as in a dream, but vaguely conscious of their burning shoulders, their pinching stomachs, aware only of great thirstiness. It seemed as if all the moisture were being sucked from their bodies. The dryness was greater than anything they had ever known even in their worst times of drouth. They had allowed themselves to be led astray by two mirages. Once to their left they had distinctly seen the green line of trees that means a river bed, and had hastened confidently in that direction only to find after an hour that the green had disappeared completely. Then there was a house surrounded by alamos. It vanished before their eyes. Perhaps Paintbrush saw the house too, for he quickened his pace when Raquel turned in that direction, and shied when it seemed to be wiped away from before them, leaving only the ashen white sky. Again they had seen a windmill. That was in the afternoon. But there could be no windmills here, Raquel knew, so she forcibly kept Georgie from riding towards it. Paintbrush had gone obediently toward the green trees because Raquel had guided him in that direction. That was enough for him. But he reared with impatience when Raquel turned aside after Georgie, to pull him back from seeking windmills. The pinto’s sharp senses gave him no promise of water in that quarter. And now he pricked up his ears as if he had completely understood Raquel’s words. She threw the reins loose upon the wild horse’s neck. His pace quickened to a smooth amble.