"I'll do it!" cried Mark.
"I'll go along!" added Bob. "Si, you can stay with the outfit. If we find any water we'll come back. And anyway, we'll be back by morning, water or no water."
So it was arranged, and Maybe Dixon said he would go forward with the two boys. No time was lost in starting and they set off at a smart pace, considering how they had been traveling since early morning.
At this point the trail was a broad one—that is, there were a dozen paths to follow, taken by different pioneers, all in search of water on their journey westward. As a consequence, they soon reached a point where nobody was in sight.
"We don't want to get lost," said Bob. "We haven't even got a compass to steer by."
"I think I can remember the trail," said Dixon. "That is, if we don't turn around too many times."
Mark was carrying the shotgun,—in hopes of seeing some small game that he might bring down. Maybe Dixon was armed with a rifle, a weapon he had not used since leaving Independence.
"It's queer we don't meet many Indians," said Mark, as they trudged along. So far they had only met a handful of the red men and these had been little more than beggars.
"I guess they don't want to live in such a dry country as this," answered the former sailor boy. "We may meet them in the mountains."
"Maybe we'll meet 'em when we don't want to," said Dixon, and then he put up his hand. "Look there!" he said, softly.