Matt made no reply. He could not trust himself to speak. The cowboy picked up the water-canteen and tried to drink, but the canteen was empty.
"I'm goin' ter the spring, bub," he remarked, starting for the door. "It ain't fur, an' I'll be back in a few minits. I'm dryer'n the desert o' Sahary, an' I reckon you wouldn't mind havin' a drink neither."
With that he left the room and vanished around the wall of the hut. Matt could hear his thin-soled, high-heeled boots crunching the sand as he moved away.
It was then that something happened which fairly took Matt's breath. A face appeared in the door—a swarthy face set sharply in lines that suggested a fierce strain and failing strength. Two gleaming black eyes looked in at the boy on the floor. The next moment a dusty form staggered into the room, reeled across the floor to Matt and went down on its knees.
"Clipperton!" whispered Matt, scarcely knowing whether he was awake or dreaming.
Without a word Clipperton began cutting at the ropes with a jack-knife. Slash, slash. It was quickly done, the severed coils falling from Matt's wrists and ankles.
"Come!" breathed Clipperton huskily. "Time is short. The man will be back."
Matt was groggy on his feet. Clipperton, none too steady himself, contrived to support him to the door. Once outside they started hurriedly across the bare hills, Matt speechless with the wonder of it all.