The shrill shout died away upon the air and left profound stillness behind it. Gray could no longer hear the faintest sound of the horse's hoofs. Either the rider had stopped to listen to his call or had gone on beyond hearing. Gray moistened his baked and blistered lips, and then again shouted. The shout again died away, leaving intense stillness behind it. But this time the stillness only lasted for a moment. There came a faint answering cry, far-off and indistinct, but unmistakably the cry of a human voice.
Gray once more hurried forward. The ground was growing rougher; it was broken up into hillocks, and his progress was less rapid. After a time he stopped and called again, and again heard the answering call. He was no longer alone in the wilderness; friendly help was near.
The moon rose as Gray hurried on, rose in full splendour, making the plain almost as light as day. Gray looked in vain for what he had hoped to see—the outline of horse and rider against the pale silvery glow of the sky. There was no horse anywhere to be seen; there was nothing to be seen but the low bushes and the bunches of dry grass, and the great circle of the desert against the horizon. But as Gray stared round him, refusing to believe the evidence of his own eyes, the shout came again—came with a mocking ring in it that made Gray's blood run suddenly cold. He knew the voice now: it was Lumley's voice. But it was as cruel and mocking as ever. Gray's dream of help from him vanished like a breath as he heard it.
He stumbled on across the sand hillocks, and presently could discern a huddled figure on the ground, with its back propped up against a hillock. The moonlight was full on the haggard blistered face that looked up at Gray with twitching lips.
"Welcome, partner," were Lumley's first words. "You didn't expect to see me again, did you now?"
Gray made no answer. He was too far gone in despair to have even a flicker of curiosity as to how Lumley came to be lying there. But Lumley proceeded to enlighten him. He thrust forward his foot, from which he had cut away the boot, and Gray could see that it was discoloured and badly swollen.
"I owe that to your cursed horse," he said, in a sulky, vindictive tone. "Just as I'd hit upon the track again, too."
Gray cast a wide glance over the moonlit plains before he spoke. But no horse was visible.
"He flung you, I suppose?" he said, in a quiet, expressionless tone. "I could have warned you not to play any tricks with him. Where is your own horse?"
The absence of vindictiveness from Gray's manner puzzled Lumley. He stared up at him, wondering what it meant.