hers, yet no sound came save only the monotonous crescendo and
diminuendo of those locust-cries coming out of nowhere and
retreating into the voids. At last, as if satisfied, the leaves
began to whisper softly again.

Away to her left lay the yellow flood of the Rio Grande, but the
woman, though tempted to swing in that direction, knew better than
to yield. At least twenty miles of barrens lay between, and she
told herself that she could never cover such a distance. No, the
water-hole was nearer; it must be close at hand. If she could only
think a little more clearly, she could locate it. Once more she
tried, as she had tried many times before, to recall the exact
point where she had shot her horse, and to map in her mind's eye
the foot-weary course she had traveled from that point onward.

Desert travel was nothing new to her, thirst and fatigue were old
acquaintances, yet she could not help wondering if, in spite of
her training, in spite of that inborn sense of direction which she
had prided herself upon sharing with the wild creatures, she were
fated to become a victim of the chaparral. The possibility was
remote; death at this moment seemed as far off as ever--if
anything it was too far off. No, she would find the water-hole
somehow; or the unexpected would happen, as it always did when one
was in dire straits. She was too young and too strong to die yet.
Death was not so easily won as this.

Rising, she readjusted the strap of the empty water-bag over her
shoulder and the loose cartridge-belt at her hip, then set her
dusty feet down the slope.