“Got me as I came over the bluff,” the Brown’s Park man explained. “I was lucky at that. The Utes made a good gather that time. Outa four of us they collected two an’ put me out of business. Howcome they not to get you?”
“Shot my horse,” explained Bob. “I ducked into the willows.”
It was hot in the willows. They were a young growth and the trees were close. The sun beat down on the thicket of saplings and no breeze penetrated it.
Houck panted. Already fever was beginning to burn him up.
“Hotter’n hell with the lid on,” he grumbled. “Wisht I had some water.” He drew out a flask that still had two fingers of whiskey in it, but he had resolution enough not to drink. This would not help him. “Reckon I better not take it,” he said regretfully.
Bob took the bandanna handkerchief from his throat and soaked one end of it in the liquor. “Bathe yore head,” he advised. “It’ll cool it fine.”
As the day grew older and the sun climbed the sky vault the heat increased. No breath of air stirred. The wounded man had moments of delirium in which he moaned for water.
There was water, cool and fresh, not fifty yards from them. He could hear the rushing river plunging toward the Pacific, the gurgling of the stream as it dashed against boulders and swept into whirlpools. But between Bob and that precious water lay a stretch of sandy wash which the Blanco covered when it was high. One venturing to cross this would be an easy mark for sharpshooters from the camp.
It seemed to him that the firing was now more distant. There was a chance that none of the Utes were still in the camp. Fever was mounting in Houck. He was in much distress both from thirst and from the pain of the wounds. Bob shrank from the pitiful appeals of his high-pitched, delirious voice. The big fellow could stand what he must with set jaws when he was sentient. His craving found voice in irrational moments while he had no control over his will. These were increasing in frequency and duration.
Dillon picked up the flask. “Got to leave you a while,” he said. “Back soon.”