“Yes,” he said, “he has pulled out once for all. Started two or three hours ago on a trail we can’t pick up yet.”
They drew back a little and sat down heavily on a ledge of stone, for the sight of the huddled figure in the tattered duck troubled them. It was a minute or two before either of them spoke.
“Heart trouble of some kind,” said the surveyor. “If not, it isn’t going to matter.”
He looked around at his companion with a little wave of his hand which seemed to deprecate the mention of the subject.
“He can’t tell us now where that lode is.”
Weston said nothing for a minute. After all, there was so little that could be said. Then he stretched himself wearily.
“There is something to be done, but I don’t feel quite equal to it yet, and I’m parched with thirst. Willows grow only where there’s water.”
“These,” said Devine, “look kind of sickly. You can see quite a few of them have dried up; but it’s a sure thing they had water to start them. Wish I knew how to strike it. It’s most three days since I had what one could call a drink.”
“Did you ever hear of water-finding?”
“Yes,” answered Devine. “I’ve read a little about the old country. Kind of old English charlatanry, isn’t it?”