“I can’t be any drier than I am now,” responded the bony lad.
Meanwhile, Tanker Ike had been anxiously scanning the horizon. He appeared worried, and Jack, seeing this, asked him:
“Do you think we ought to be at the river now?”
“We ought to, yes, but we’re not,” was his answer. “I’m afraid I’ve gotten off the trail. I don’t see any familiar landmarks, yet I was sure I took the right route.”
He called a halt and consulted with Mexican Pete. That individual was of the same opinion as Ike—that they were on the wrong trail.
“Well, there’s no help for it,” said the plainsman. “We’ll have to go back a ways. I’m sorry, boys. It’s my fault. It’s the first time I ever did a thing like that.”
“Oh, mistakes will happen,” said Jack, and he tried to speak cheerfully, but his voice was husky and his throat was parched.
They turned around, the horses seeming unwilling to retrace their steps, and they were beginning to get restive, as were the mules.
“The last of the water,” announced Tanker Ike at dusk that evening, when they halted for a short meal. “We’ll have to push on with all speed to-night. If we don’t find water in the morning——”
He did not finish, but they all knew what he meant.