He threw the cinch ropes free from the mule, pulled out the sacks of flour and bacon and coffee. "Here we are." He drew out the only can of beans and punctured the end with his knife.
"If you will satisfy your thirst with that juice, I'll catch the trickle down the rock while we rest; but you must never drink this alkali sink stuff."
Leaving the horses nuzzling the muddy pool, the Ranger stuck his jack knife into a crevice of the ledge and hung the small kettle where it would catch the drip. Matthews was examining the tracks.
"Not more than an hour or two old, an' A'm thinking, Wayland, we've fooled them out of water!"
"They'll keep to the shelter of the cutway long as this dust storm lasts."
Wayland was following down the tracks.
The sun had sunk behind the silver strip of mountain reddening the heat lakes and the Desert air. Across the mesas, the silt dust and sand drift still whirled in fitful gusts; but the air no longer carried the scorch of burning oil. The sky that had blazed all day in fiery brass darkened and closed near to earth, a throbbing thing of the Desert night brooding over life: a oneness of space rimmed round by the red sky line.
"Hullo," exclaimed Wayland, pointing to the bank. "We are not so far behind: there is the freshly opened cache."
Where the cutway caved to a hollow lay a hole littered with empty cans and canvas bags.
"Not much value left, eh? Hold on, Wayland, this might be useful."
Matthews had picked up a skin water bag. It was full of tepid water.