The engineer bent to examine the still form for some sign of life.

"It ain't no use, sir," said Texas. "She's gone." He had lifted the
canteen and was holding it upside down. With his finger he touched
the mouth of the vessel and held out his hand. The finger was wet.
"You see," he said, "when her men-folks didn't come back she started
with the kid an' what water she had. But she wouldn't drink none
herself, an' the hard trip in the heat and sand carryin' the baby,
an' findin' the water hole dry was too much for her. If only we had
known an' come on, instead of huntin' back there where it wasn't no
use, we'd a-been in time."

As the little party--speechless at the words of Texas--stood in the
twilight, looking down upon the lifeless form, a chorus of wild,
snarling, barking yowls, with long-drawn, shrill howls, broke on the
still air. It was the coyotes' evening call. To the silent men the
weird sound seemed the triumphant cry of the Desert itself and they
started in horror.

Then from the dusky shadow of the high bank farther up the wash came
another cry that broke the spell that was upon them and drew an
answering shout from their lips as they ran forward.

"Mamma! Mamma! Barba wants drink. Please bring drink, mamma. Barba's
'fraid!"

Jefferson Worth reached her first. Close under the bank, where she
had wandered after "mamma" lay down to sleep, and evidently just
awakened from a tired nap by the coyotes' cry, sat a little girl of
not more than four years. Her brown hair was all tumbled and tossed,