They hurried forward as fast as they were able, Blandy compelling Polly to take a swallow of water every little while, but drinking none himself. Before long Patton’s trail was giving them much concern. It veered to the right for a few rods, then it veered to the left, winding crazily.
“’Fraid he was just a little off his head,” said Blandy. “Nothin’ to worry about, though. We’ll find him.”
But their concern steadily increased as they travelled. For by late afternoon, with the bowl still at some distance, they found no more footprints to follow—only two winding marks. Patton was dragging himself forward on his knees!
They came upon his hat next. An hour later, the sun glittered on something a short way in advance. It was a canteen. Its woolen covering had been torn from it in ragged bits that strewed the ground. And about the round opening were the marks of teeth.
“Hurry!” breathed Blandy.
After that, neither one spoke, but stumbled on, Blandy half-supporting Polly, both watching eagerly for a moving speck in the narrowing stretch between them and the base of the spur ahead.
At sundown, they neared the bowl. Blandy began to call: “Patton! Oh, Patton! Are you there?”
A few steps farther, he came short, putting out an arm to stop Polly.
For Patton was there, stretched flat upon his back, his arms thrown wide to either side. And beside him, with its black wings outspread, lay a great bird, claws up and feathers ruffled.