He made a cache of feed and provisions, and buried two of the large canteens; then stretched himself with his head in the shade of the yellow umbrella, and was soon snoring. Patton did not lie down, but sat, brooding, a canteen in his hand. And, presently, after making certain that Polly’s breathing was deep and regular, he rose cautiously. Some distance away were the burros, standing with lowered heads and long ears flopped to either side. Patton stole in their direction. And when he reached the animals, set to packing one. He was soon done. With a last glance toward shelter and umbrella, he set off northward at a good gait. The atmosphere was unusually clear. It was this that had made the mountains seem such a short distance away. Patton had carefully marked the position of the right spur. He tramped forward determinedly, though by noon the ground under his feet fairly scorched his shoes. The afternoon dragged its length in moments that seemed, each more unendurably hot than the last, and with lakes glimmering from near-by hollows, he drank at every rod. Sunset came at last, bringing a welcome coolness. Now half of his journey alone was done. He stopped to feed the burro and satisfy his own hunger, after which he hurried on. The sun was standing high over the mountains the next day when, fagged, but triumphant, Patton began the ascent of the gentle, beach-like slope that stretched between him and the base of the spur he sought. The range that rose ahead of him showed not even a growth of stunted sage upon its ruffled side. For here the massive barrier was like a burned-out kiln, brick-red, cinder-black and ashen-grey. He skirted it for an hour or more, the donkey at a trot. Suddenly, ahead of him, a great, black bird rose from the ground with a harsh cry and an awkward flapping of its wings. Patton ran forward. There was the bowl, as round as if it had been fashioned by deft hands, and nearly full of water. Patton had swallowed the last mouthful of his canteen supply early that morning. Now, he sank to his knees, bent his head and almost buried his face in the pool. His thirst satisfied, he climbed the slope beyond. Ten minutes of hot toiling, and he came upon Blandy’s location-notice, scrawled on a soiled scrap of paper, and tacked to a crooked mesquite stake. He tore up the notice, and jerked the stake loose. Then, white, for all the effort of climbing, he stooped and pressed both palms against the outcropping of quartz at his feet, his fingers into its crevices. It was as if he were clutching prey. “It’s all here!--all here!” he said aloud, huskily.