"Yes," came from Maybe Dixon, in a hoarse whisper. "Si, for the love of heaven, give me some water! I am dying of thirst!"
The boy understood, and running outside he made for the nearest mountain stream and came back with a cup of water. He made three trips before Maybe Dixon's thirst was satisfied. Then he got more water, washed the cut on the forehead, and bound it up with a handkerchief.
"What does this mean?" he asked.
"Are they gone?" asked the old miner.
"Yes."
"How did you get here?"
"I came up on the mountain, looking for you."
"Good boy, Si! Have you a pistol?"
"Yes."
"Let me have it."