As I heard afterwards, the outfit was rounding the shoulder of the hill about five miles out when, on the ridge beyond, Mr. Jim's bright eye took note of something alive.
"A vulture only, my lord," says the segundo, "eating a dead horse."
"A quart of kittens!" says my lord, some scornful. "Call that a vulture?" and off he sailed, clattering down a slope of loose rocks. "That bird is a man-bird flapping at us for help. Segundo, you've no more range of sight than a boiled owl."
The segundo came grumbling along behind, and they curved off across the level. "That man has lost his horse," says Jim; "thirsty, I guess, and signalling for help. Go back, Terrazas, and tell the men to wait."
"Si, señor," and Terrazas rolled back to the trail.
As Jim got nearer he saw that the man on the hill had signalled nothing, but his coat tails were a-flutter in the wind. Now he came all flapping from rock to rock down the hillside. "Hello!" Jim shouted.
The stranger squatted down on a rock to wait for him, and sat wiping his face on a red handkerchief. He was dressed all in black, a sky-scout of sorts, but dusty and making signs as though he couldn't shout for thirst. Jim took his half-gallon canteen, ranged up, and dismounted. "Curious," he was thinking; "lips not swollen, tongue not black, this man ain't thirsty much!"
"My deah young friend," says the preacher between drinks, "you're the means under Heaven of my deliverance"—gulp—"from a shocking end."
"Scared you'd have to go to heaven?" asked Jim.
"I was afraid"—gulp—"that I must give up my labours in this vale of"—gulp—"for which I was found unworthy."