Polly covered her eyes. “Oh, poor little thing!” she whispered. “Jeff, give mine a good drink.”
He came to stand beside her. “Polly,” he said, “I can’t. And if we’re goin’ to keep follerin’ this trail and locate Patton, this little animal”—he laid a hand on the donkey’s neck—“has got to go.”
“Are we short of water?”
“There’s a good deal left. But I ain’t give the donkey a swaller since yesterday noon. We got to be savin’. It’s likely that Patton’ll need water bad.”
Soon the tracks they were following turned due east.
“He run outen water,” Blandy explained gravely. “He’s headed back to the bowl.”
But when they, too, turned about to start back, their burro abruptly stopped, and refused to be coaxed or urged forward.
“Yas, git down,” said Blandy as Polly prepared to dismount. “And go on for about a quarter of a mile. I’ll bring the things.”
She obeyed, fairly running to escape the sound of the dreaded pistol-shot. When he came trudging up to her, carrying a canteen and the provisions sack, she was seated in a heap, her face hid in her hands.
“There! There!” he said consolingly. “We had to leave him.”