Gray saw the cypresses in the same moment.
"Trees!" he cried eagerly—for where trees grew water must be near.
"You're a pretty fellow to go bush-riding," grumbled Lumley. "They ain't trees—not real ones, so to speak. They're clouds."
And Gray saw for himself how misty the dark outlines were; and even as he looked he saw the mirage disappear. But he marked the point in the horizon at which the mirage had appeared, and was astonished to see Lumley suddenly turn his horse in a totally different direction.
"Surely it would be better to go that way. There must be water near."
"Go by yourself, then," snarled Lumley, over his shoulder; "and a good riddance too."
He rode sulkily on and Gray followed him. When they had gone a few miles Clay's horse gave a stumble, and Clay sprang off.
"He's dead beat," he said. "We'll rest here."
"But—-" Gray began, and then he stopped. What was the use of speaking? He was forced to trust to Lumley's guidance.
They lay down on the baked scorched soil, hobbling their horses that they might not wander far. Gray flung himself on the sand, face downwards, careless of the hot sun that poured upon him. Lumley went a few paces off to a bed of polygonum, the gloomy leafless bramble of the wilderness. He scooped out a hollow in the sand below the bramble and lay down there in the tiny oasis of shadow he had thus obtained. Unseen of Gray he took a bottle he had secreted in his pocket and drank the few drops remaining in it, then corked it and put it back. Then he turned upon his side and slept.