"Come on, then," he answered with a surly look at David. "Come on and ride, while the rest of us get along the best way we can."
"He can't help it," she urged in an angry whisper. "You talk as if he was doing it on purpose."
David slid off his horse and made for the wagon with reeling steps. The other man followed muttering.
"Help him," she called. "Don't you see he can hardly stand?"
At the wagon wheel Daddy John hoisted him in with vigorous and ungentle hands. Crawling into the back the sick man fell prone with a groan. Courant, who had heard them and turned to watch, came riding up.
"What is it?" he said sharply. "The mules given out?"
"Not they," snorted Daddy John, at once all belligerent loyalty to Julia and her mates, "it's this d—d cry baby again," and he picked up the reins exclaiming in tones of fond urgence:
"Come now, off again. Keep up your hearts There's water and grass ahead. Up there, Julia, honey!"
The long team, crouching in the effort to start the wagon, heaved it forward, and the old man, leaping over the broken sage, kept the pace beside them. Courant, a few feet in advance, said over his shoulder:
"What's wrong with him now?"