The time wore away until the sun was at the meridian, and the heat became almost intolerable. Even the toughened old scout was compelled to shelter himself as best he could from its intolerable rays, by seeking the scant shadow of jutting points of the rock. Ned Chadmund suffered much, and the roiled and warm water in the old canteen was quaffed again, even though they were compelled to tip it more and more, until, toward the close of the day, Dick held it mouth downward, and showed that not a drop was left.
"No use of keeping it when we are thirsty," was the philosophic remark of the hunter. "It's made to drink, and we needn't stop so long as any is left; and bein' there ain't any left, I guess we'll stop. I've a mouthful or two of meat left, and we may as well surround that."
So they did; and when the sun sank down in the west, not a particle of food nor a drop of water remained to them.
"Now, Ned, my boy," said Dick, who always maintained a certain cheerfulness, no matter what the circumstances might be, "go to the lookout and tell me what you see."
The lad was absent some ten minutes, during which he carefully scanned every part of the horizon and took a peep down upon their besiegers.
"I find no sign of a living soul," he said, when he returned, "except the Apaches, and they're waiting until they can get us without fighting."
"Stay here while I take a peep."
Long and carefully Dick Morris gazed off to the west, in the direction of the mountains, and then something like a sigh escaped him, as he shook his head and muttered:
"It looks bad, it looks bad. If Tom succeeded, he ought to be in sight by this time. I see nothing of 'em, and from the way the redskins act down there, they seem to be sartin he's gone under. I don't mind for myself, for I'm ready to go any time; but I feel powerful sorry for the little fellow down there."