“He's going to hike on ahead to Chuckwalla Tanks and bring back some water for you, Boston” the Desert Rat explained. “He'll return about daylight, and we'll wait here until he arrives. It's dangerous, but the jacks aren't in a bad way yet. They can make it to the Tanks, even after sunrise.”
“Thanks” murmured the sufferer.
The Desert Rat grinned. “You're getting on” he commented.
“Where is Chuckwalla Tanks?” The tenderfoot sat up and stared after the figure of the departing Indian, still visible in the dim moonlight.
“In a little gorge between those low hills. You can just make out their outlines.”
“Yes, I see them. And after that the closest water is where?”
“The Colorado river—forty miles due south. But we're headed northwest and must depend on tanks and desert water-holes. It's hard to tell how close one is to water on that course. But it doesn't matter. We'll refill the kegs at Chuckwalla Tanks. There's most always water there.”
“And you say the Colorado river is forty miles due south.”
“Well, between forty and fifty.”
“Much obliged for the information, I'm sure.”