When they halted, each scanned the desert. Then, “You’re right,” Blandy admitted gravely. “That blamed burro must a-strayed. I never did like the little cuss. He had a bad look in one eye.”
She raised an anxious face to his. “The donkey isn’t to blame,” she declared. “Harvey’s left us.”
“No! Why? Sore about your comin’?”
“He told me to come.”
Blandy strode over to the packs. And a first glimpse told him that Polly was right. Feed and provisions were missing, and all but one of the uncached canteens.
“Jeff!” Polly had followed him, and she spoke in a frightened whisper. “Don’t drink any of this water till you’ve given the donkey some.”
Blandy stared down at her. “Why not?” he asked, perplexed.
“Don’t—don’t ask me, Jeff.”
His face went grim with understanding. “I guess I understand,” he said.
The canteen that Patton had left behind him was thoroughly shaken and the donkey was given a generous drink. Then Blandy left the camp to gather mesquite roots. When he returned, a half-hour later, the little animal was resting, head swagged low. But while Blandy was watching him, the shaggy head came up and the donkey brayed—loud and long, after which he fell to yawning, ears flopped to either side lazily. Plainly the water had done him no harm.