And then a rather unpleasant experience befel. I intended making for Goyder Waters; a track, it had been said, could be easily followed, and so I made but few inquiries. There was a cattle station 20 miles beyond the Goyder—perhaps I could reach even that. It was a mistake, though, to keep alongside the telegraph line—a sad mistake. For five or six miles I struggled with my burden over loose sand-hills. Surely this was not the passable track travellers had spoken of! The Macumba teamster's sketch was consulted—why, I had not been on the track at any time since leaving Charlotte Waters!
How far the sand stretched I did not know—as far as could be seen, at any rate. A fierce sun tormented me from above and blistering sand from beneath. The track must be found. I fought through the yielding sand, now pushing and again shouldering and here and there riding my bicycle, in a grim earnestness rarely experienced before. In those first half-dozen miles I had been prodigal of a precious quart of water. Now I was becoming parched beyond endurance.
Fourteen miles had been struggled over. The telegraph line had been long since lost. Was even this the track?
And Goyder Waters! What did I know of Goyder Waters? It dawned upon me now that I did not know whether to look for a rock-hole, a soakage, or a creek.
Now rough, hilly country interposes. It is still hard work, and the night is nearing. My thighs ache, and my tongue cleaves to my mouth. Yet on, doggedly on—it is the only hope.
A well! How we race towards it. No—a maddening mockery; it is a fenced-in grave!
Did he die?—
But it is dangerous to think. On, on!
At length, in the deepening haze of the twilight, the real well is seen.