Nomad made the search, but did not find a single article of personal property.
“Ther ’Paches hev gone through his pockets ahead o’ us,” said Nomad. “But hyar’s somethin’, Buffler.”
Nomad picked up a canteen from Bascomb’s side, and shook it. The canteen was nearly full. There was also a canvas bag within reach of Bascomb’s hand which was found to contain jerked venison, and a few corn-cakes.
“How d’ye account fer ther water an’ ther chuck, Buffler?” inquired Nomad. “Think ther ’Paches left ’em hyar so’st Bascomb’s sperrit could hev somethin’ ter live on while goin’ ter ther happy huntin’-grounds?”
“No,” reflected the scout. “More than likely, Nick, the Apaches saw that Bascomb could not live. After stripping him of what few articles he had upon his person, the reds abandoned him—left him in this hole in the hill to die alone. The water and food were left beside him to keep the spark of life in his body as long as possible.”
“Waal, no loss without some gain,” growled the trapper. “We kin use ther water and ther grub mighty handy. Hev a drink, Dell?”
At first the girl drew back from the offered canteen with an expression of horror on her face; then, shrugging her shoulders and making a virtue of necessity, she swallowed some of the water.
“Good girl!” exclaimed the scout. “The water and food are here, and we might just as well drink and eat as to leave it to the desert-rats.”
The scout likewise drank, and Nomad helped himself last. Then, returning to the daylight in front of the cavern, they parceled out the jerked venison and the corn-cakes and made a hasty meal.
“What next, Buffler?” asked Nomad, priming his pipe and borrowing a match from the scout. “Ef we’re at ther end o’ Bascomb’s trail, I reckons we’re close ter ther end o’ our own; hey?”