When Paul Carhart, a long while later, parted the bushes and stood out in relief on the bank, leaning on a shrub for support, he saw a strange spectacle. For a quarter of a mile, up and down the channel, were mules, some drinking, some rolling and kicking some lying out flat and motionless. Near at hand, hanging from every bush, were shirts and trousers and stockings; at the edge of the bank was a long, irregular line of boots and shoes. And below, on the broad reach of sand, laughing, and bantering, and screaming like schoolboys, half a hundred naked men stood in a row, stooping with hands on knees, while a dozen others went dancing and high-stepping and vaulting over them. They were playing leap-frog. Carhart walked across to the upstream side of the mules and drank. Then, after filling two canteens, he returned to the bank and sat down in such small shade as he could find. It was at this moment that the men caught sight of him. The game stopped abruptly, and for a moment the players stood awkwardly about, as schoolboys would at the appearance of the teacher. Then, first one, and another, and a group of two or three more, and finally, all of them, resumed their simple clothing, and sat down along the bank to await orders. The panic was over. Now the chief roused himself. “Here, you two!” he cried. “Take these canteens and the freshest mules you can find, and go back to Mr. Vandervelt. Ride hard.” And almost at the word, eager, responsive, the men he had addressed were off. * * * * * As soon as the worst of the shakiness passed out of his legs, Carhart rose. His next task was to get the mules back to the wagons, and bring them on to the river in order to fill the barrels, and this promised a greater expenditure of time and strength than he liked to face. But there was no alternative, it seemed, so he caught a mule, mounted it, and rode back. And the men trailed after him, riding and walking, in a line half a mile long. Carhart found Young Van sitting up, too weak to talk, supported by the two men whom he had sent back. “How is he?” asked the chief. “It’s hard to say, Mr. Carhart,” replied one of the men. “He don’t seem quite himself.” Carhart dismounted, felt the pulse of the young man, and then bathed his temples with the warmish water. “Carry him over into the shade of that wagon, boys,” he said. “Here, I’ll give you a hand.” The earth, even beneath the wagon, was warm, and Carhart and the two laborers spread out their coats before they laid him down. The chief poured a little water on his handkerchief, and laid it on Young Van’s forehead. And then, when Carhart had got to his feet and was looking about, holding down his hat-brim to shade his eyes, an expression of inquiry, which had come into his face some little time before, slowly deepened. “Boys,” he said, “what’s become of the mules that were left here?”