A look of horror and shame went over the face of the Irishman, his
form shook like a leaf and his trembling hands could scarcely hold
the canteen. "My Gawd! bhoys," he cried, "fwhat's this I was doin'?"
Then he burst suddenly upon Tex with: "Why the hell don't ye shoot,
domn ye? A baste like me is fit for nothin' but to rot in this Gawd-
forsaken land!"

The fierce rage of the man at his own act was pitiful. Texas dropped
his gun into the holster and turned his face away. Jefferson Worth
held out a cup. "Give the little one some water, Pat," he said, in
his cold, exact way.

With shaking hands the Irishman poured a little into the cup and,
screwing the cap back on the canteen, he returned it to its place.
Then with a groan he bowed his face in his great, hairy hands.

Just before sun-down they climbed up the ancient beach line to the
rim of the Basin and the Mesa on the east. Halting here for a brief
rest and for supper, they looked back over the low, wide land
through which they had come. All along the western sky and far to
the southward, the wall-like mountains lifted their purple heights
from the dun plain, a seemingly impassable barrier, shutting in the
land of death; shutting out the life that came to their feet on the
other side. To the north the hills that rim the Basin caught the
slanting rays of the setting sun and glowed rose-color, and pink,
and salmon, with deep purple shadows where canyons opened, all
rising out of drifts of silvery light. To the northwest two distant,
gleaming, snow-capped peaks of the Coast Range marked San Antonio
Pass. To the west Lone Mountain showed dark blue against the purple