"These are fresh footsteps we're following, aren't they?" he asked.

"Yes. It isn't that. He went this way all right. But the tenaja's
gone dry."

"How can you tell that?"

"No fresh sign of animals going this way. Must have been dry for
weeks. Our mining friends have taken what little water there was
and left young Hoff to die of thirst," said the other grimly.
"Well, that explains the empty canteen all right."

He turned and renewed his quick progress, leaping from boulder to
boulder, between narrowing walls of gray-white rock. Just as
Average Jones was spent and almost ready to collapse the leader
checked.

"Hark!" he whispered.

Above the beating of the blood in his ears, Jones heard an
irregular, insistent scuffing sound. He crouched in silence while
the captain crept up to a ledge and cautiously peered over, then
went forward in response to the other's urgent beckoning. They
looked down into a rock-basin of wild and curious beauty. To this
day Average Jones remembers the luminous grace and splendor of a
Matilija poppy, which, rooted between two boulders, swayed gently in
the white moonlight above a figure of dread. The figure, naked from
the waist up, huddled upon the hard-baked mud, digging madly at the
earth. A sharp exclamation broke from Average Jones. The digger
half-rose, turned, collapsed to his knees, and pointed with bleeding