"What for?" asked the Baker in rather contemptuous disbelief.
But Smith did not answer.
"Shall we drink?" he asked.
And they wetted their parched throats. When the horses heard the terrible sound of pouring water, they turned their heads and whinnied pitifully.
"Poor, poor devils," said Smith. But he rode a bit harder.
Yet he gave them their pint at noon. It only aggravated their thirst, and when, after a little rest, they went on, they showed every sign of terrible distress.
That night they camped in a dry gully in a broken country. With all their searching they could find no sign of water. They rose at midnight, and travelled north-east still, having now a little over a quart of water between them.
The next night they were across the first range, and Smith's horse fell and died. They cut the throat of Mandeville's horse in the morning, for they had no water left. But they did not speak, and looked half-askance at each other. It seemed an intolerable and brutal murder.
They now walked straight ahead in a fairly timbered country. Smith kept his eyes open for any sign of a native well; but he saw nothing.
"It's all a dream, Baker," said Smith. "I could believe anything. We are where no white man ever was. No one has been within two hundred miles of this place."