The Long Chance | Page 7

as he pulled the weak
brother out of a cluster of catclaw. "Boston, you're an awful nuisance
--you are, for a fact. You've had water three times to our once, and yet

you go to work and peter out with Chuckwalla Tanks only five miles
away. Why, I've often covered that distance on my hands and knees.
Come, now, buck up. Hang on to the rear cross of one of the pack
saddles and let the jack snake you along."
"I can't, I'm exhausted. I'll die if I don't have a drink."
"No, you'll not die. No such luck. And there isn't any more water.
However, you've been spoiled in the raising, so I suppose we'll have to
defer to you--particularly since it's my fault that we're short of water.
What can't be cured must be endured, and I can't let you die."
He spoke to the Indian, who took two canteens and departed into the
night.
"He's going to hike on ahead to Chuckwalla Tanks and bring back
some water for you, Boston" the Desert Rat explained. "He'll return
about daylight, and we'll wait here until he arrives. It's dangerous, but
the jacks aren't in a bad way yet. They can make it to the Tanks, even
after sunrise."
"Thanks" murmured the sufferer.
The Desert Rat grinned. "You're getting on" he commented.
"Where is Chuckwalla Tanks?" The tenderfoot sat up and stared after
the figure of the departing Indian, still visible in the dim moonlight.
"In a little gorge between those low hills. You can just make out their
outlines."
"Yes, I see them. And after that the closest water is where?"
"The Colorado river--forty miles due south. But we're headed
northwest and must depend on tanks and desert water-holes. It's hard to
tell how close one is to water on that course. But it doesn't matter. We'll
refill the kegs at Chuckwalla Tanks. There's most always water there."
"And you say the Colorado river is forty miles due south."

"Well, between forty and fifty."
"Much obliged for the information, I'm sure."
He straightened suddenly and drew back his arm. The Desert Rat saw
that he was about to hurl a large smooth stone, and simultaneously he
dodged and reached for his gun. But he was a fifth of a second too slow.
The stone struck him on the side of the head, rather high up, and he
collapsed into a bloody heap.
On the instant the footsore man from Boston developed an alacrity and
definiteness of purpose that would have surprised the Desert Rat, had
he been in condition to observe it. He seized the gad which the mozo
had dropped, climbed upon the lightest laden burro and, driving the
others before him, set off for Chuckwalla Tanks. The Indian had
disappeared by this time, and there was little danger of overtaking him;
so with the two low hills as his objective point, the Easterner circled a
mile out of the direct course which he knew the Indian would take, and
when the dawn commenced to show in the east he herded the
pack-animals down into a swale between two sand-dunes. With
remarkable cunning he decided to scout the territory before proceeding
further; hence, as soon as there was light enough to permit of a good
view, he climbed to the crest of a high dune and looked out over the
desert. As far as he could see no living thing moved; so he drove the
pack train out of the swale and headed for the gorge between the hills.
The thirsty burros broke into a run, hee-hawing with joy as they sniffed
the water, and within a few minutes man and beasts were drinking in
common at Chuckwalla Tanks.
The man permitted them to drink their fill, after which they fell to
grazing on the short grass which grew in the draw. While he realized
the necessity for haste if he was to succeed in levanting with the gold,
the tenderfoot had been too long a slave to his creature comforts to face
another day without breakfast. He abstracted some grub from one of the
packs and stayed the pangs of hunger. Then he bathed his blistered feet,
filled the water kegs, rounded up his pack train and departed up the
draw. After traveling a mile the draw broadened out into the desert, and
the man from Boston turned south and headed for the Rio Colorado. He

was walking now and appeared to have forgotten about his blistered
heel, for at times he broke into a run, beating the burros, screaming
curses at them with all the venom of his wolfish soul, for he was
pursued now by the fragments of his conscience. His attack upon the
Desert Rat had been the outgrowth of a sudden murderous impulse,
actuated fully