“O my God! Yes--yes! It was--a crime!” sobbed Adam, shuddering. “But, man--I swear, horrible as it was--I’m innocent! I swear that. Believe me.... I was driven--driven by wrongs, by hate, by taunts. If I’d stood them longer I’d have been a white-livered coward. But I was driven and half drunk.” “Well--well!” ejaculated Dismukes, shaking his shaggy head. “It’s bad. But I believe you an’ you needn’t tell me any more. Life is hell! I was young once.... An’ now you’ve got to hide away from men--to live on the desert--to be one of us wanderers of the wastelands?” “Yes. I must hide. And I want--I need to live--to suffer--to atone!” “Boy, do you believe in God?” asked the prospector. “I don’t know. I think so,” replied Adam, lifting his head and striving for composure. “My mother was religious. But my father was not.” “Well--well, if you believed in God your case would not be hopeless. But some men--a few out of the many wanderers--find God out here in these wilds. Maybe you will.... Can you tell me what you think you want to do?” “Oh--to go alone--into the loneliest place--to live there for years--forever,” replied Adam, with passion. “Alone. That is my way. An’ I understand how you feel--what you need. Are you goin’ to hunt gold?” “No--no.” “Have you any money?” “Yes. More than I’ll ever need. I’d like to throw it all away--or give it to you. But it--it was my mother’s.... And I promised her I’d not squander it--that I’d try to save.” “Boy, never mind--an’ I don’t want your money,” interrupted Dismukes. “An’ don’t do any fool trick with it. You’ll need it to buy outfits. You can always trust Indians to go to the freightin’ posts for you. But never let any white men in this desert know you got money. That’s a hard comparison, an’ it’s justified.” “I’m already sick with the love men have for money,” said Adam, bitterly. “An’ now to figure out an’ make good all that brag of mine,” went on Dismukes, reflectively. “I’ll need only two days’ grub to get to Yuma. There’s one sure water hole. I can give you one of my canteens, an’ Jinny, the burro that saved your life. She’s tricky, but a blamed good burro. An’ by makin’ up enough bread I can spare my oven. So, all told, I guess I can outfit you good enough for you to reach a canyon up here to the west where Indians live. I know them. They’re good. You can stay with them until the hot weather passes. No danger of any white men runnin’ across you there.” “But you mustn’t let me have all your outfit,” protested Adam. “I’m not. It’s only the grub an’ one burro.” “Won’t you run a risk--with only two days’ rations?” “Wansfell, every move you can make on this desert is a risk,” replied Dismukes, seriously. “Learn that right off. But I’m sure. Only accidents or unforeseen circumstances ever make risks for me now. I’m what they call a desert rat.” “You’re most kind,” said Adam, choking up again, “to help a stranger--this way.”