When Rhoda awoke it was to see DeWitt leaning against the rock heap, his lips swollen, his eyes uncertain.
Weak and dizzy herself, she rose and laid her hand on John's, every maternal instinct in her stirring and speaking in her gray eyes.
"Come, dear boy, we mustn't give up so easily."
John lifted the little hand to his cheek.
"I won't give up," he said uncertainly. "I'll take care of you, honey girl!"
"Come on, then!" said Rhoda. "You see that queer bunch of cholla yonder? Let's get as far as that before we stop again!"
With a great effort, DeWitt gathered himself together and, fixing his eyes on the fantastic cactus growth, he plodded desperately through the sand. At the cholla bunch, Rhoda pointed to a jutting lavender rock.
"At that we'll rest for a minute. Come on, John!"
John's sick eyes did not waver but his trembling legs described many circles in their journey to the jutting rock. Distances were so many times what they seemed that Rhoda's little scheme carried them over a mile of desert before DeWitt sank to his knees.
"I'm a sick man," he said huskily as he fell in a limp heap.