"Now," said Lew, with a sigh of relief, "we go straight down. We should come to the brook flowing from the spring in a few minutes. We'll have to make it soon or I'll die of thirst."
They started down the slope. The fire had swept over the summit and the way before them was like the area they had just crossed. But they were now going down-hill and it was far easier to force their way. A few yards at a time they advanced, now held back by a fallen log or turned aside by dense entanglements of prostrate trunks.
Presently Lew gave a cry. "Do you see that big stone like an altar, Charley?" he called, turning the light on a great rock. "That's the stone where we made our fire the last time we were here. It stands within twenty-five feet of the brook."
"Thank goodness!" answered Charley. "My back is about broken. This pack weighs a ton! And I'll die if I don't get water soon."
Recklessly they pushed forward, almost running in their eager haste.
"Here we are," exulted Lew, a moment later. "Here's the brook."
Before him he could dimly make out the depression in the earth where the stream ran. He dropped his pack and ran forward, then threw himself flat in the darkness and felt in the stream bed for a pool deep enough to drink from. His fingers touched only dry sand and stones.
"The light, Charley," he panted. "Bring the light, quick."
His comrade flung his own pack on the earth and ran forward to the bank of the stream. He turned his light downward and flashed it right and left along the bed of the brook. There was no answering sparkle of light. The bed of the brook was not even moist. The spring had gone dry.