Too considerate of his pony to push the animal hard, Bob now made but slow progress. His canteens were empty and his throat already becoming parched. The horse, too, needed water. This, then, began to be a more important consideration than a steady march toward the ranch-house.
From the top of a high hill he finally saw through his field-glass a line of scrubby willows crossing a valley. Their presence suggested a watercourse.
“By Jingo, I believe it’s the creek!” he cried, hopefully. “Hooray!”
After a long, arduous descent he reached the trees, finding that a narrow creek coursed its way between their overhanging branches toward a wide gash in the hills beyond.
“Ah, this is a fine sight!” exclaimed the Rambler, enthusiastically.
Rarely had clear, sparkling water held such a delightful appeal. The very air seemed filled with its fresh, pleasant odor. The pony neighed and tugged hard to pull away from his restraining hands.
“No, no, old chap,” whispered Bob. “You must rest a bit and cool off first.”
How delightful it was to wash his face and hands in the stream and drink the cool, refreshing liquid! And then, having satisfied nature’s cravings, he began to figure out his position.
“Yes, sir, I believe this is the very creek,” he decided, at length, “but miles beyond the place where the gorge pushed me aside.” He glanced at the sun. His brow clouded over. “I’ll never make it to-night,” he exclaimed, with finality. “So what’s the use of exhausting this pony any more? No, sir—I won’t do it.”
Some distance further along, near the base of the hill, he discovered an inviting little depression, and in the middle of this built a fire. Then, while the coffee-pot simmered on a bed of red-hot coals and frying bacon sent off a pleasant aroma, he reflected on the many mysterious things which had happened, and on the ill-luck which had attended all their efforts to solve them.