"Curious thing that, Wayland! Notice the antics of the mule? Always see that in a range bred beast, centuries of ham stringing."
The Ranger did not answer. The sand was no longer heaving in waves. It was running, sliding like the glossy surface of the sea. The throb of his temples, the slide of the sand, the lakes of light, light and crystal pools, that ran away as you came up, all brought visions of water. The dust cloud on the sky line dipped and disappeared behind a ridge of rolling sand.
There was the drowsy swash of saddle leather and the padded chug of dragging feet and the hum, the hypnotic hum, of the heat that drowsed from delirium to sleep.
"I think," said Wayland, "this seems a pretty good jumping-off place for a rest."
The afternoon was waning. They were under shelter of a sand bank from the wind and sun.
"A think, Wayland, this is nearly my jumping off place altogether."
Matthews spoke feebly. On pretense of steadying the fagged broncho, the Ranger helped him to dismount. Then, Wayland unsaddled and drew the water bag from the pack trees. He handed it over to the old man. Matthews pushed it aside: "Keep it for yourself to-morrow. If y' find no spring, y'll need the water to-morrow; but A'll take y'r flask of brandy if y' don't mind?"
"That's a fool thing to take in the heat, sir."
"'Tis if y' intend to live, Wayland; but A'm at the end of this Trail. A'd like a bit strength t' tell y' a thing or two before . . . as we rest! Don't waste any water on flap jacks."
The mule lay rolling in the sage brush. The two horses stood with lowered heads chacking on the bit and pawing. Wayland saw the brandy flush mount to the purplish pallor of the old man's face.