For a moment, consciousness battled with that nightmare that had been seething through the girl’s brain and finally won. Her eyes opened wide. A half smile slowly crossed her face. Whatever might have inspired her terror, the girl evidently recognized in Ross a friend.
Her lips, dry and parched, moved with difficulty, but Ross saw that they framed the word “Water!”
Lifting her head, he dampened the girl’s lips from the cup and then allowed her to drink her fill. But weakness still held sway over her body, and she sank back on the blankets, exhausted. Her eyes closed again.
“Don’t try to talk,” advised Ross. “You just lie there and rest until I fix something for you. Then you can tell me about this thing.”
For once in his life, Ross was glad that he had taken another man’s advice. When he had started his desert pilgrimage an old prospector had advised him to include a few cans of soup in his outfit. Ross had demurred, seeing no use in packing superfluous weight, but the old desert rat had insisted.
Ross had included the soup. So far, he had had no use for it, but now it was to show its worth.
Collecting a few dry sticks from the stubby willows that grew around the pool, Ross soon had a tiny fire going. Opening a can of soup, he heated it over the fire and carried a cup of it to the girl.
“Oh, that’s so good!” she murmured after she had drained the cup. “Thank you.”
“Do you feel like talking?” asked Ross.
For a moment the girl regarded him with frank eyes. Then she shook her head wearily.