“You can’t make time and take any of the pack animals, John,” the Colonel was saying. “Yet that water hole may be dry, or all green scum not fit to drink, at this time of the year. Ten gallons a day is the very least the horses can make out on. If you fill up at that tank you can push along and reach Canyon Cheyo by evening of the second day. I have only two water bags. Five gallons each. You’ll have to sling them to Scotty’s saddle bags, for he is the lightest. You can carry two quart canteens each, using all our spare ones. See that they are well-corked, for they will be half rations at the best. No use striking for the San Juan. It is really as far up there as over the desert to Red Valley.” “You leave it to me, Colonel,” broke in Big John, emphatically. “I don’t want no pack horse totin’ water. I’ll rig them bags, an’ we’ll roll our freight outer here an’ squeeze the dern water out of that desert if we have to!” The boys made up their own rolls and saddle bags with a sense of the seriousness of their undertaking. To cross that desert without either packing or wagoning an ample supply of water was no joke. If all went well and they kept a good pace, they could make what water they could carry do. If stopped anywhere, any way, by a sandstorm, for instance--it made them thirsty just to think of it! As they filed out of camp Scotty rode the Colonel’s big roan, for he could easily carry the boy’s weight and the extra eighty pounds of water in the canvas bags. The rest of the party were loaded up with bags of oats in addition to their own outfits. At the ferry the old-timers shook their heads when the water bags and canteens were filled for their dash. It couldn’t be done--that was certain as death! But there was too much at stake to turn back. They alone could solve Major Hinchman’s Indian troubles, and they weren’t going back on the Colonel’s old army chum, no matter what the risk.