Meanwhile--Trixy. It was cruel not to be able to end her suffering. What had become of the gun? It was in his hand when he toppled over the edge of the platform, and must have fallen with him. So it could not be far away, though perhaps buried out of sight. He began patiently to inspect every square foot of the ground around him, as far as he could trust his eyes to see clearly, separating the space into imaginary segments of a circle, and scrutinizing each of them until he had set apart every tuft of grass from every other tuft, and every stone from its neighbors. Minute after minute, with dogged perseverance, he kept himself at this exhausting task until the sweat was rolling down, his face, and his eyes burned deep in his head. Then suddenly something leaped inside of him,--some nerve that was quicker than thought in its response to vision. "Ah!" The gun lay against a stone, its muzzle upward, at a distance of about forty feet, beyond and somewhat to the left of Trixy. It would take some crawling; and that would hurt. But when he had fixed the gun's position in his mind, so that he might not miss it, he set his teeth together, and started. No great distance, after all, is forty feet. That is to say, no great distance after you've covered it. And the pain did not matter now. He lay on the ground again, flattened out, panting and gazing up at the blue sky. The sweat stood in big cold drops on his face; and he trembled as if stricken with ague. He could not shoot in that condition; he must rest, and wait. But the thirst was torture now. After a time, he turned himself half around in order to face Trixy, and rested his right elbow on the ground, with the gun up in the air. "Good-by, Trixy!" he said softly. But wait! How many shots left? He examined the revolver. Two! For an instant he was stricken again with dread. Then his left hand felt for the belt at his waist; and he laughed nervously. What a state he was in! There were cartridges to burn! The gun came slowly down to an aim, then waved in his hand as he pulled the trigger. "Hell!" he muttered. He tried again, pulling himself together, and gritting his teeth. The second report rang out, and echoed high among the rocks. The mare's head fell, her body quivered, one hind foot kicked out; and she was gone. Oh, yes! He could hit good horses! But not Sunnysides. He ejected the exploded cartridges, and filled the chambers with fresh ones; then lay back and rested again, the gun still clutched in his hand. And why did he wait? To get strength, for one thing. He wanted to sit up to do it, since he could not stand. And then--there was another trouble. Four times before he had tried to do it, and something had happened,--something different and utterly unexpected each time had checked him. It had not so much mattered then, because he could afford to wait. But now--