"Dried up," whispered Pete dully.
Don said nothing. There was some coarse growth that the pack-lizard began to eat. The boy was glad of that. He had begun to worry about Gecko, but now the Iguana would be good for a longer trek than the one before them.
Pete was on his knees, clawing at the mud. The other watched him for a moment, then looked at Don inquiringly, who shook his head. "He'll only poison himself," said the boy.
The outlaw took his companion by the collar, hoisted him to his feet. "Take this," he said slowly, offering his canteen. "That mud's deadly."
Pete took the canteen and tilted it, swallowing convulsively. His companion pulled away the precious container. "That's enough," he said. "It has to last."
A wild curse ripped from Pete's lips. He snatched back the canteen and drew his gun. In a voice that was hard to recognize as human, he rasped: "Stand back—you an' the brat!"
His finger whitened on the trigger of the blaster.
And then there sounded about them a curiously soft, derisive hooting, seemingly from every point of the horizon. Pete stared wildly about him. There had risen from the sand, it seemed, ghostly shapes—tall, spindly creatures holding recognizable blowguns against their lips. The outlaw's gun lowered, and he looked at Don.
"Native Martians," said the boy. "Don't shoot—they know how to use those blowguns. They might not harm us." There was no time to say more, for the weird creatures had noiselessly advanced on them, holding spread before them what seemed to be heavy draperies.
Don hadn't even to wonder before one of the things was clapped over his head. He felt himself being picked up and carried.