The girl toiled on after him, sometimes falling far behind and again catching up and walking by his side. The slumbrous heat of the October day filled the clear, dry air and the sun shone fiercely, unveiled by a single vaporous cloud. Marguerite's mouth was dry and her throat was parched and all her body called for water. She thought of the thirst and the hunger that must be tormenting the little thing that had been wandering over those sun-flooded hills, with neither food nor drink nor sight of friendly face, for so many hours, and the agony of the thought seemed more than she could endure. Sharp, lightning-like pains cracked through her brain, and a dizzy, chaotic whirl filled her head. She put her hands to her forehead and stopped short on the hillside, the fear flying through her mind that she might be going mad. Mead saw her and came quickly to her side, alarmed by her white, tense face and the wild look of agony in her eyes. Her lips were pale and dry. "Do not stop!" she pleaded. "It is nothing but a little headache. Don't stop a minute for me. Five minutes may mean the difference between life and death for my little boy. Hurry on, and I will come close behind you." The fear of delaying her companion gave her fresh strength and she went on beside him. In the next arroyo they found a footprint deeply marked in a bed of sand. As Mead glanced at it he saw some grains of sand fall down from the rim of the depression. He called Marguerite's attention to them. "We must be close behind him," he said, "or that sand would not still be trembling on the edge like that." "If we only had some water for him!" said Marguerite. "He will need it so badly." Mead thought that the child would probably be beyond the need of human aid when they should find him, but he merely answered: "Yes, I ought to have thought of it, but we started so hurriedly." His only hope was that they might be in time to save the little worn body from the coyotes. The trail crossed the arroyo and essayed the hill. It was steep and had been too much for the child's ebbing strength. The track went down into the valley again and part way up the other side, then back and across the arroyo, and took the hill once more at a long slant. They lost the trail there and walked about for a few minutes, searching the ground closely for signs of the little feet. Marguerite went on to the top of the hill, and Mead, glancing toward her, saw her standing stiff and still as if turned to stone, holding a little forward her tightly clasped hands. She gave a low cry and he sprang to her side. A moving splotch of red showed above a clump of greasewood half way down the hill. Then a tottering little figure in a torn and ragged linen kilt moved slowly down the hillside, lifting its feet wearily, but still going on.