“Helm, old man, we ‘ve lost the track!”
“Don’t be a howling idiot, man. Lost! how could we be lost? Why, there’s the track right ahead, and pretty fresh too.”
But Anderson flung himself off his horse on to the dry crisp grass, and covered his face with his hands.
“I’ll tell you,” reiterated his mate, leaning forward in his saddle and shading his eyes, “I see hoof-marks quite plain. Why, they might have been made yesterday!”
“They were made yesterday,” groaned the other, hopelessly. “Don’t you see, my dear fellow, we made them ourselves.”
“What!”
Helm raised his head and swore a passionate oath, then sprang from his horse, stooped over the faint track, ran wildly along it for a few yards, turned back, and again cried out that the other was playing some ghastly joke off on him.
“It’s too bad, Anderson, too bad. Get up, man, and don’t be a fool. Come on, there ‘s very likely water on the other side of that ridge. You’ll feel better after you’ve had a good drink.”
“That’s the ridge we passed last night, I tell you. Water—oh, yes, there’s water there, but it’s as salt as the sea.”
“The salt-pan! No, by heaven, no, I won’t believe that. That’s miles behind us!”