When they started forward, they were compelled to go slowly, not only because of Blandy’s weariness, but because Polly was foot-sore, though at first she strove to conceal the fact by keeping in the rear. At the end of five or six miles, however, she found herself unable to go farther.
“Oh, I thought I’d be all right after so much rest,” she declared, out of patience with her own weakness.
Blandy was all gentle consideration. “I don’t wonder your feet hurt you,” he answered. “You ain’t used to so much walkin’. Now, just you wait.”
Off came pack-saddle, load and all. Then the saddle-blanket was replaced, with the shelter sacking on top of it, folded to make a comfortable seat. And soon Polly was mounted on the donkey. Behind her, balanced carefully, were two large canteens, a flour sack of provisions, and feed for the burro. She held the yellow umbrella over her head.
They travelled until darkness made it impossible to follow Patton’s tracks, when camp was made again.
“But if Harvey went straight to the mine,” argued Polly, “What’s the use of trailing him? Why not just go ahead?”
“For the reason that yesterday Patton had the mine located thirty mile left of where it is. S’pose he was to git the same idear again?”
Once more Blandy hunted mesquite roots. And far into the night his signal-fire lit the swells and hollows of the desert.
At break of day they took up their journey once more, with Polly riding again, and drowsing now and then as the donkey picked his way along.
It was the middle of the morning when a low cry from Blandy suddenly startled her into wakefulness. He had come short, halting the donkey, and was examining the ground.