if he hoped to signal help that might chance to pass on the river.
A foot at a time, a yard at a time, he made his way down into the
sand. His fingers dug into the footprints of the mysterious gun-
woman. He approved of their size. They were small and narrow,
scarcely longer than the palm and fingers of his hand--and they
were made by shoes instead of moccasins.

It seemed an interminable time to him before he reached his pack.
When he got there, a pendulum seemed swinging back and forth
inside his head, beating against his skull. He lay down with his
pack for a pillow, intending to rest for a spell. But the minutes
added themselves one on top of another. The sun slipped behind
clouds banking in the west. It grew cooler, while within him he
was consumed by a burning thirst. He could hear the ripple of
running water, the laughter of it among pebbles a few yards away.
And the river itself became even more desirable than his medicine
case, or his blankets, or his rifle. The song of it, inviting and
tempting him, blotted thought of the other things out of his mind.
And he continued his journey, the swing of the pendulum in his
head becoming harder, but the sound of the river growing nearer.
At last he came to the wet sand, and fell on his face, and drank.

After this he had no great desire to go back. He rolled himself
over, so that his face was turned up to the sky. Under him the wet
sand was soft, and it was comfortingly cool. The fire in his head
died out. He could hear new sounds in the edge of the forest
evening sounds. Only weak little twitters came from the wood
warblers, driven to silence by thickening gloom in the densely
canopied balsams and cedars, and frightened by the first low hoots
of the owls. There was a crash not far distant, probably a