“No, you'll not die. No such luck. And there isn't any more water. However, you've been spoiled in the raising, so I suppose we'll have to defer to you--particularly since it's my fault that we're short of water. What can't be cured must be endured, and I can't let you die.” He spoke to the Indian, who took two canteens and departed into the night. “He's going to hike on ahead to Chuckwalla Tanks and bring back some water for you, Boston” the Desert Rat explained. “He'll return about daylight, and we'll wait here until he arrives. It's dangerous, but the jacks aren't in a bad way yet. They can make it to the Tanks, even after sunrise.” “Thanks” murmured the sufferer. The Desert Rat grinned. “You're getting on” he commented. “Where is Chuckwalla Tanks?” The tenderfoot sat up and stared after the figure of the departing Indian, still visible in the dim moonlight. “In a little gorge between those low hills. You can just make out their outlines.” “Yes, I see them. And after that the closest water is where?” “The Colorado river--forty miles due south. But we're headed northwest and must depend on tanks and desert water-holes. It's hard to tell how close one is to water on that course. But it doesn't matter. We'll refill the kegs at Chuckwalla Tanks. There's most always water there.” “And you say the Colorado river is forty miles due south.” “Well, between forty and fifty.” “Much obliged for the information, I'm sure.” He straightened suddenly and drew back his arm. The Desert Rat saw that he was about to hurl a large smooth stone, and simultaneously he dodged and reached for his gun. But he was a fifth of a second too slow. The stone struck him on the side of the head, rather high up, and he collapsed into a bloody heap. On the instant the footsore man from Boston developed an alacrity and definiteness of purpose that would have surprised the Desert Rat, had he been in condition to observe it. He seized the gad which the mozo had dropped, climbed upon the lightest laden burro and, driving the others before him, set off for Chuckwalla Tanks. The Indian had disappeared by this time, and there was little danger of overtaking him; so with the two low hills as his objective point, the Easterner circled a mile out of the direct course which he knew the Indian would take, and when the dawn commenced to show in the east he herded the pack-animals down into a swale between two sand-dunes. With remarkable cunning he decided to scout the territory before proceeding further; hence, as soon as there was light enough to permit of a good view, he climbed to the crest of a high dune and looked out over the desert. As far as he could see no living thing moved; so he drove the pack train out of the swale and headed for the gorge between the hills. The thirsty burros broke into a run, hee-hawing with joy as they sniffed the water, and within a few minutes man and beasts were drinking in common at Chuckwalla Tanks.