“Hell, yes!” Broome was launched again on the stream of his troubles. He resumed the narrative, sprinkling it liberally with oaths. He had started out with a full equipment and a good bronco, and the creature had “died on him,” a week before, in the desert.
“You should have had a burro,” Gard said.
“So they said. But I stuck to the idee of a bronc. I ain’t no walkist.”
“He didn’t last but three weeks,” he added, “an’ when he croaked the damned buzzards was on ’im before I got out o’ sight.”
“Where were you going when you struck the quicksand?” the other asked.
“Tryin’ to strike the railroad, afoot,” was the reply. “It’s me fer ridin’ when I can. I said I wan’t no walkist. I got turned ’round. I kep’ lightin’ load, an’ my grub gin out. Then I run out o’ water.” He gave a shuddering gulp, and continued:
“I run round a lot, lookin’ fer’t, till I got in the quicksand. That was just before you hollered, I guess. But them buzzards was Johnny on the spot the minute I was down. I most went mad with ’em.”
“Didn’t you have a gun?” Gard asked. “Why didn’t you fire it?”
“Gun? You bet yer life I had a gun. I fired all my am-nition an’ then I fergit what. I guess I threw the damned thing away. I got dotty, havin’ no water.”
“And there was good water within twenty feet of you,” Gard said, musingly.