For nearly a day he had found no water. His lips were fevered, his tongue unduly large and as dry as parchment. There was but the fragment of one crumbling and greasy tortilla left in his pocket.
He dared not eat it, faint though he was, lest it add to his already unbearable thirst.
He noted, too, that he was lurching and reeling in his walk. It appeared to him that the buzzards that floated above him had begun to take a new and personal interest in his movements. They were more numerous than on earlier days, and they seemed to follow him; flying very low.
So had he seen them track a sick cavalry horse.
Before him, as dusk fell, rose a low ridge. Beyond it, evidently, was a dip in the rolling ground, and beyond that rose a higher ridge.
At sight of the two prospective climbs, Brinton’s heart turned sick within him. Then he set his teeth and breasted the first rise. After an interminable time he gained its low summit and stood, panting loudly, to rest.
In the gulch just below he saw a fire twinkling through the gloom. Brinton took a step forward. His awkward foot trod on a rolling stone.
Losing his balance and too weak to recover it, he pitched helplessly forward, fell headlong, and rolled down the steep little slope.
As he lay at the bottom, breathless and half-stunned, unseen hands lifted him none too gently to his feet. A glare of light was in his eyes.
He stood there, swaying, blinking, supported by the two men who had picked him up.