“Pletty soon,” grunted the Chinaman, who, despite his fragile frame, seemed tireless and entirely devoid of hunger or thirst. However, shortly after noon, when they had reached a spot where a great rock impended above the trail, while below their feet the chasm sloped down to unknown depths, the blue-bloused figure stopped short in its tireless walk and waited for the boys to come up.
“Pletty good spling here,” he said, diving off into the brush with the canteen. “Me catchum watel.”
“All right, catch all you want of it,” cried Jack, flinging himself exhaustedly on a bed of fern at the side of the rough path. The Chinaman was soon back with the water. He lit a fire and skillfully made tea. With a tin cup each of the refreshing stuff, the boys soon felt better. From the bag they lunched on salt beef, crackers and cheese, and dried apricots. As might be expected, by mid-afternoon their thirst was once more raging.
“How far is it to the ranch?” inquired Tom, for the dozenth time, as they pluckily plodded along. Not for worlds would they have let that silent, fatigueless Chinaman have perceived that they were almost worn out.
“Plitty soon we cross canyon. Ranchee him not far then,” was the response.
“Nothing for it but to stick,” muttered Tom grittily. “But, oh, what wouldn’t I give for a drink of water. I’m as dry—as dry—as those dried apricots.”
“Pooh!” retorted Jack. “They were fairly dripping with moisture compared to the way I feel.”
All at once, a few rods farther, a distant rumbling sound down in the canyon, and off to the right, was borne to their ears. Both lads listened a minute and then gave a joyous whoop.
It was water,—a considerable river, apparently. Anyhow, it was real water, no doubt of that. As they listened, they could hear it gurgling and splashing as it dashed along.
“Hi there, Fu!” hailed Jack, adopting the Chinaman’s own lingo. “We go catchum water way down in canyon.”