In Dos Hermanos County, except on the slopes and summits of the Dos Hermanos Peaks, the average yearly rainfall is but twenty-four inches. And more than twenty-one of those twenty-four inches fall between November and April. Late May had arrived. The level ground--most of it little better than hardpan--was beginning to dry to the consistency of friable clay. The lower foothills were losing the last of their verdure and beginning to assume their summer coat of khaki tan. True, in such lowlands as the Ova, the occasional waterholes, and like receptacles for rainfall, sometimes on wet years kept enough green grass alive to serve as temporary grazing ground for sheep; before the utter drouth of summer sent the sheep men to the government land high in the mountains, with their flocks, in search of grass to carry the livestock through until late autumn. But this was not a wet year. Joel Fenno saw the arid sweep of ground; broken, perhaps a mile ahead of him, by an irregular ring of yellowish green. Here, by all signs, should be a waterhole. True, no shade was near it. But it might offer a chance to bathe his hot face and wrists in moderately cool water. The increasing heat of the day made this seem more and more desirable. Fenno headed for the waterhole. His tired pony plodded along over the uneven ground with head adroop. Treve had moved from Pancho’s right side, to his left; seeking such tiny patch of shade as the mustang’s moving body might afford. The air hung dead and stifling. The sun blazed down in a copper glare from the pitilessly hot sky. Nature seemed dead and blistering. Joel’s tough skin sweated drippingly. It was the hottest day, thus far, of the year; and the weatherwise man knew it was the first of at least three scorchingly hot days. He was not minded to continue the ride any farther than he must. It would be well to do what he had come to do, and then turn back toward the ranch. This was as good a spot as any for his purpose. Here, at intervals, patches of soft and easily-diggable sand cropped out through the hardpan and rock. It would be easy enough to gouge a space deep enough to bury the body of a dog. Yes, and it would be best to do so, before getting any nearer to the waterhole. The presence of water might well attract other wayfarers,--men who might investigate a newly heaped mound of sand, in the dead level. The burial would better be here, a mile on the hither side of the waterhole and on a trackless bit of ground. Joel Fenno halted his mustang, and glanced around to make certain he had the wide sweep of swooningly arid country to himself. In that pitilessly clear atmosphere, his keen old eyes could have descried any moving object, many miles away. Treve, still keeping in the shadow of the pony, stopped and looked inquiringly up at the man. It had been a long and fast and steady ride, under the sickeningly hot sun glare and over the ever-hotter hardpan. The dog was glad for a rest.