superstitions. A hunch might make him journey five hundred miles; a
snort of his horse could make him give up the trail and turn back.

But Hal Sinclair was the antidote for Sandersen. He was still a boy at
thirty--big, handsome, thoughtless, with a heart as clean as new snow.
His throat was so parched by that day's ride that he dared not open his
lips to sing, as he usually did. He compromised by humming songs new
and old, and when his companions cursed his noise, he contented himself
with talking softly to his horse, amply rewarded when the pony
occasionally lifted a tired ear to the familiar voice.

Failure and fear were the blight on the spirit of the rest. They had
found no gold worth looking at twice, and, lingering too long in the
search, they had rashly turned back on a shortcut across the desert.
Two days before, the blow had fallen. They found Sawyer's water hole
nearly dry, just a little pool in the center, with caked, dead mud all
around it. They drained that water dry and struck on. Since then the
water famine had gained a hold on them; another water hole had not a
drop in it. Now they could only aim at the cool, blue mockery of the
mountains before them, praying that the ponies would last to the
foothills.

Still Hal Sinclair could sing softly to his horse and to himself; and,
though his companions cursed his singing, they blessed him for it in
their hearts. Otherwise the white, listening silence of the desert
would have crushed them; otherwise the lure of the mountains would have
maddened them and made them push on until the horses would have died
within five miles of the labor; otherwise the pain in their slowly
swelling throats would have taken their reason. For thirst in the
desert carries the pangs of several deaths--death from fire,