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."