Then, abruptly, the pictures faded. Far below him on the yellow, sun-blasted floor, a fleck of shadow had moved. It appeared suddenly from the sand, moved erratically, staggeringly, for a hundred feet, then vanished as if something had blotted it out--and Dean Rawson knew that it was the shadow of a man. * * * * * The road widened beyond the turn. He had intended to swing around; he had wanted only to take a clear picture of the place with him. But now the big car's gears wailed as he took the downgrade in second, and the brakes, jammed on at the sharp curves, added their voice to the chorus of haste. "Confounded desert rats!" Rawson was saying under his breath. "They'll chance anything--but imagine crossing country like that! And he hasn't a burro--he's got only the water he can carry in a canteen!" But even the canteen was empty, he found, when he stopped the car in a whirl of loose sand beside a prone figure whose khaki clothes were almost indistinguishable against the desert soil. Before Rawson could get his own lanky six feet of wiry length from the car, the man had struggled to his feet. Again the little blot of shadow began its wavering, uncertain, forward movement. He was a little shorter than Rawson, a little heavier of build, and younger by a year or two, although his flushed face and a two days' stubble of black beard might have been misleading. Rawson caught the staggering man and half carried him to the shadow of the car, the only shelter in that whole vast cauldron of the sun. From a mouth where a swollen tongue protruded thickly came an agonized sound that was a cry for, "Water--water!" Rawson gave it to him as rapidly as he dared, until he allowed the man to drink from the desert bag at the last. And his keen eyes were taking in all the significant details as he worked. The khaki clothes earned a nod of silent approval. The compact roll that had been slung from the younger man's shoulders, even the broad shoulders themselves, and the square jaw, unshaved and grimy, got Rawson's inaudible, "O. K.!" But the face was more burned than tanned. * * * * * He introduced himself when the stranger was able to stand. "I'm Rawson, Dean Rawson, mining engineer when I'm working at it," he explained. "I'm bound north. I'll take you out of this. You can travel with me as far as you please." The dark-haired youngster was plainly youthful now, as he stood erect. His voice was recovering what must have been its usual hearty ring. "I'm not trying to say 'thank you,'" he said, as he took Rawson's hand. "I was sure sunk--going down for the last time--taps--all that sort of thing! You pulled me out--the good old helping hand. Can't thank a fellow for that--just return the favor or pass it on to someone else. And, by the way--you won't believe it--but my name is Smith."