They tried running on the rim, without water and with the hot wind blowing the same direction they were going. The machine lasted four miles, and then quit in the middle of a sand drift, with the most infernal finality in its death surge. Bob got out and looked at the stalled car hopelessly. The boiling wind surged over the hot dust and smote him witheringly. The driven sand almost suffocated him. It was twenty-five miles at least to the river, twenty more to possible assistance. He looked at his watch--it was five minutes after one. Six hours before the sun would set, and until then walking would be suicide. He climbed back into the machine, and sank limply into the shaded corner of the seat. Six hours of this--it would be torture; and there would be one long night of walking to reach water; another day of waiting for night--without food--and again a long, staggering walk before they reached a human habitation. Two days and nights of delay--then it would be too late! CHAPTER XXIX There are times when torture of the body heals the suffering of the mind, and times when mental agony blots out physical pain. But there are other times when the two run together. It was so with Bob as they toiled doggedly through that long night across the desert toward the river. He kept his course by the North Star, and lost little distance by getting off the compass. It was just daylight when they reached the river. The stream was bank full--midsummer is high water for the Colorado--and was very muddy. But its water was more beautiful than jasper seas to those four men. After they had drunk and cooled themselves in it, they crawled under a clump of willows beside the road to rest through the day. Bob had just stretched out on his back and covered his face with a handkerchief, ready to sleep, when a chuck-chuck and a grinding noise came down the road. He was up instantly, and so were the three Mexicans. "A machine!" they exclaimed. Relief! They would not have to walk that other twenty miles. The deep chug of the engine indicated a powerful machine pulling heavily. It was coming rather slowly. The road was hidden by miles of rank wild hemp; but directly the machine came round a curve. It was a motor truck loaded high with cotton bales! Bob's heart beat quick. They were in time to save at least part of it, after all. The captain bristled. Here was work to do, authority to display. He stepped into the middle of the road, put his hand on his gun, and gave a ringing call to halt. The Mexican driver came to a sudden stop. He knew _el capitan_. And whatever faults may be attributed to the governor of Baja California, all admits he is a governor. When he speaks in person or by messenger there is never any hesitancy about obedience. The captain read his orders to the chauffeur and commanded him to turn round. The four climbed on, and the truck started back.