Carhart frowned and gave it up. The “thirty or thirty-five miles” had apparently been the roughest sort of an estimate. Then the sun came up and beat upon them, and the sand began to radiate heat by way of an earnest of the day to follow; and then the wheels sank so deeply that the chief and Young Van tossed their reins to the guide and walked by the wagons to lend a hand now and then at the spokes. All the crazy energy of the evening was gone; men and mules were alike sullen and dispirited. Of the latter, many gave out and fell, and these were cut out and left there to die. So it went all through that blazing forenoon. They halted at twelve for lunch; but the dry bread and salt pork were hardly stimulating. Carhart again sought the guide. “Do you know yourself where the pool is?” The guide shaded his eyes and searched the horizon. “It was in a spot that looked something like this here,” he said in a weak, confidential sort of way. Carhart answered sharply, “Why don’t you say you are lost, and be done with it!” “Well, I ain’t lost exactly. I wouldn’t like to say that.” “But you haven’t the least idea where the pool is.” “Well, now, you see--” “Is there any other water on ahead?” “Oh, yes.” “Where?” “The Palos River can’t be more than a dozen miles beyond the place where we found the pool.” He had unconsciously raised his voice. A laborer overheard the remark, whipped out his knife, hacked at the harness of the nearest mule,--it would have been simpler to loosen the braces, but he was past all thinking,--threw himself on the animal’s back, and rode off, lashing behind him with the end of the reins. The panic broke loose again. Man after man, the guide among them, followed after, until only the wagons and about half the animals remained. “Come, Gus,” called the chief, “let them go.” Young Van turned wearily, mounted his panting horse, and the two followed the men. But Carhart turned in his saddle to look back at the property abandoned there in the sand. Half an hour later, Young Van’s horse stumbled and fell, barely giving his rider time to spring clear. “Is he done for?” asked Carhart, reining up. “It looks like it.” “What’s the matter--done up yourself?” “A little. I’ll sit here a minute. You go ahead. I’ll follow on foot.” “Not a bit of it. Here--can you swing up behind me?” “That won’t do. Texas can’t carry double. Go ahead; I’m all right.” But Carhart dismounted, lifted his assistant, protesting, into the saddle, and pushed on, himself on foot, leading the horse. They went on in this way for nearly an hour. Young Van found it all he could do to hold himself in the saddle. Then the horse took to staggering, and finally came to his knees. Carhart helped his assistant to the ground, pulled his hat brim down to shade his eyes, and looked ahead. A cloud of dust on the horizon, a beaten trail through the sand, here and there a gray-brown heap where a mule had fallen,--these marked the flight of his drivers and laborers.