Ever since nine in the morning, after a long night march, they had
sought such shade as the burning rocks might afford, scooping up the
tepid water from the natural tanks at the bottom of the cañon and
thanking Providence it was not alkali. The lieutenant commanding, a
tall, wiry, keen-faced young fellow, had made the rounds of his camp
at sunset, carefully picking up and scrutinizing the feet of his
horses and sending the farrier to tack on here and there a starting
shoe. Gaunt and sunburned were his short-coupled California chargers,
as were their tough-looking riders; fetlocks and beards were uniformly
ragged; shoes of leather and shoes of iron showed equal wear. A
bronze-faced sergeant, silently following his young chief, watched him
with inquiring eyes and waited for the decision that was to condemn
the command to another night march across the desert, or remand them
to rest until an hour or so before the dawn.

"How far did you say it was to Ceralvo's, sergeant?"

"About twenty-two miles, west."

"And to Moreno's?"

"About fifteen, sir; off here." And the sergeant pointed out across
the plain, lying like a dun-colored blanket far towards the southern
horizon.

"We can get barley and water at both?"

"Plenty, sir."

"The men would rather wait here, I suppose, until two or three