“What is it?” she asked.
“Here’s a man’s tracks and a burro’s, crossin’ this trail at right angles, and goin’ west. They’re fresher’n the ones we been follerin’.”
“Harvey’s?”
“Shore.”
“What’ll we do, Jeff?”
“Strike out after him. He’s makin’ for that wrong spur!”
They turned aside, and started off in the new direction.
During the remainder of the morning, they were headed almost due west. But at noon Patton’s footprints led him toward the north-west, then toward the north—directly away from Searles.
Shortly after noon, they made an alarming discovery. It was Patton’s donkey, stretched lifeless on the baked ground. Away from the carcass a grey wolf-form raced, and was lost in the grey of sand and sage.
“Short of water,” said Blandy, and shook his head.