And Smith frowned at Mandeville, who rode on a yard or two.
"If we go easy, he can do the rest of the day," said Smith. "And if there's no water, why, we can get back to-morrow."
Against his judgment Hicks went with them. But, as he walked, their pace was slower. And the heat was peculiar and sickening. The wind was no longer quite steady, it came in blasts, as if they were being fanned by a red-hot fan, and its touch was scalding. To make matters worse, they were now on a piece of country, bare even of scrub, and the white ground was like a bright pan on a fire. The haze danced and shimmered until a bit of scrub looked alive against the faint blue of a far, low range to the south. And at last, in the north-west, they saw some trees. They were without visible support, for their thin trunks were not yet to be seen. They might even be a mirage.
"Is there water there?" said Tom to Hicks. And Hicks shook his head.
"It ain't likely."
They camped under those trees that night, and there was no water there—not even a dried water-hole was to be found.
The evening tea was scanty, and the talk was scantier still. The men smoked in silence, and turned in early. But Smith and the Baker, who were close together, talked a little.
"Hicks will go no further," said Smith.
"And you?" asked Mandeville.
"I'm going on," said Smith. "There is a low range out ahead, and if there isn't, it's mighty near as bad going back. That water-hole will be dry to-morrow morning, or pretty near, and if so, how will Hicks get through to the next?"