"Look at the poor baste," said Pat. "'Tis near dead he is wid
thirst." He leaped to the ground and started toward the water barrel
in the rear of the wagon.

"Hold on, Pat," said the colorless voice of Jefferson Worth. And his
words were followed by the report of Texas Joe's forty-five.

The Irishman turned to see the strange horse lying dead on the sand.
"Fwhat the hell--" he demanded hotly, but Texas was eyeing him
coolly, and something checked the anger of the Irishman.

"You don't seem to sabe," drawled the man of the desert, replacing
the empty shell in his gun. "There ain't hardly enough water to
carry us through now, an' we may have to pick up this other outfit."

No one spoke as Pat climbed heavily back to his seat.

For two miles the tracks of the strange horse were visible, then
they were blotted out by the sand that had filled them. "He made
that much since the blow," was Texas' slow comment. "How far we are
from where he started is all guess."

As they pushed on, all eyes searched the country eagerly and before
long they found the spot for which they looked. A light spring wagon
with a piece of a halter strap tied to one of the wheels was more
than half-buried by the sand in the lee of a high drift. There was a
small water keg, empty, with its seams already beginning to open in
the fierce heat of the sun, a "grub-box," some bedding and part of a
bale of hay-nothing more.