let's defer the argument and _vamoose._ Giddap, you hairy little
desert birds. Crack along out o' this."

But following the dictates of his nature, when Fortune smiled and bade
him "take a chance," the Desert Rat had already delayed too long his
departure from the Baby Mine. The supply of water still left in the
kegs was so meager that with any other man the situation would have
given rise to grave concern. As it was, however, all that troubled the
Desert Rat was what he was going to do with the man from Boston when
that inconsistent and avaricious individual should "peter out." More
than once, in his pursuit of the rainbow, the Desert Rat had known what
it was to travel until he couldn't travel another yard; then to jump up
and travel ten miles more--to water! He did not know the extent of his
own strength, but whatever might be its limitations he knew that the
Cahuilla was good for an equal demonstration of endurance. But the man
from Boston! He was quickly read. The Desert Rat gave him until
midnight that night, but he wilted at ten o'clock.

"A sore heel, a mean soul and no spunk have killed more men than
whisky" the Desert Rat commented whimsically, 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.