him with a shot in the base of the brain lest his terrific
roarings should attract his mate or others of their kind.

Then the two men turned and looked at one another. "Where is
Lieutenant Bradley?" asked Sinclair. They walked to the fire.
Only a few smoking embers remained. A few feet away lay
Bradley's rifle. There was no evidence of a struggle. The two
men circled about the camp twice and on the last lap Brady
stooped and picked up an object which had lain about ten yards
beyond the fire--it was Bradley's cap. Again the two looked
questioningly at one another, and then, simultaneously, both
pairs of eyes swung upward and searched the sky. A moment later
Brady was examining the ground about the spot where Bradley's cap
had lain. It was one of those little barren, sandy stretches
that they had found only upon this stony plateau. Brady's own
footsteps showed as plainly as black ink upon white paper; but
his was the only foot that had marred the smooth, windswept
surface--there was no sign that Bradley had crossed the spot
upon the surface of the ground, and yet his cap lay well
toward the center of it.

Breakfastless and with shaken nerves the two survivors plunged
madly into the long day's march. Both were strong, courageous,
resourceful men; but each had reached the limit of human nerve
endurance and each felt that he would rather die than spend
another night in the hideous open of that frightful land.
Vivid in the mind of each was a picture of Bradley's end, for
though neither had witnessed the tragedy, both could imagine almost
precisely what had occurred. They did not discuss it--they did
not even mention it--yet all day long the thing was uppermost in