“It was day before yesterday I run across you,” began Dismukes, after a comfortable pull at his pipe. “My burro Jinny has the best eyes of the pack outfit. When I seen her ears go up I got to lookin’ hard, an’ presently spied you staggerin’ in a circle. I’d seen men do that before. Sometimes you’d run, an’ again you’d wag along, an’ then you’d fall an’ crawl. I caught you an’ had to tie you with my rope. You were out of your head. An’ you looked hard--all dried up--tongue black an’ hangin’ out. I thought you were done for. I poured a canteen of water over your head an’ then packed you over here where there’s wood an’ water. You couldn’t make a sound, but all the same I knew you were ravin’ for water. I fed you water a spoonful at a time, an’ every little while I emptied a canteen over you. Was up all night with you that night. You recovered awful slow. Yesterday I’d not have gambled much on your chances. But to-day you came round. I got you to swallow some soft grub, an’ I guess you’ll soon be pretty good. You’ll be weak, though. You’re awful thin. I’m curious about how much you weighed. You look as if you might have been a husky lad.” “I was,” whispered Adam. “Hundred and eighty-five--or ninety.” “So I thought. You’ll not go over one hundred an’ twenty now. You’ve lost about seventy pounds.... Oh, it’s a fact! You see, the body is ’most all water, an’ on this desert in summer a man just dries up an’ blows away.” “Seventy--pounds!” exclaimed Adam, incredulously. But when he glanced at his shrunken hands he believed the incomprehensible fact. “I must be skin--and bones.” “Mostly bones. But they’re long, heavy bones, an’ if you ever get any flesh on them you’ll be a darned big man. I’m glad they’re not goin’ to bleach white on the desert, where I’ve seen so many these last ten years.” “You saved my life?” suddenly queried Adam. “Boy, there’s no doubt of that,” returned the other. “Another hour would have finished you.” “I--I thank you.... But--so help me God--I wish you hadn’t,” whispered Adam, poignantly. Dismukes spent a strange gaze upon Adam. “What’s your name?” he asked. Adam halted over the conviction that he could never reveal his identity; and there leaped to his lips the name the loquacious Regan had given him. “Wansfell,” he replied. Dismukes averted his gaze. Manifestly he divined that Adam had lied. “Well, it’s no matter what a man calls himself in this country,” he said. “Only everybody an’ everythin’ has to have a name.” “You’re a prospector?” “Yes. But I’m more a miner. I hunt for gold. I don’t waste time tryin’ to sell claims. Years ago I set out to find a fortune in gold. My limit was five hundred thousand dollars. I’ve already got a third of it--in banks an’ hid away safe.” “When you get it--your fortune--what then?” inquired Adam, with thrilling curiosity. “I’ll enjoy life. I have no ties--no people. Then I’ll see the world,” replied the prospector, in deep and sonorous voice.