He refilled his canteen, took a long drink from the Tank, grunted an
"_Adios, senor,_" and departed up the draw at the swift dog-trot
which is typical of the natural long-distance runner.

The Desert Rat gazed after him. "God bless your crude untutored soul,
you best of mozos" he murmured. "You have one virtue that most white
men lack--you'll stay put and be faithful to your salt. And now, just
to be on the safe side, I'll make my will and write out a detailed
account of this entire affair--in case."

For half an hour he scribbled haltingly in an old russet-covered note-
book. This business attended to, he crawled into the meager shade of a
_palo verde_ tree and fell asleep. When he awoke an hour or two
later and looked down the draw to the open desert, he saw that another
sandstorm was raging.

"That settles it" he soliloquized contentedly. "The trail is wiped out
and the best Indian on earth can't follow a trail that doesn't exist,
But that wretched little bandit is out in this sandstorm, and the jacks
will stampede on him and he'll pay _his_ bill to society--with
interest. When the wind dies down the pack outfit will drift back to
this water-hole, and when Old Reliable finds out that the trail is
lost, _he'll_ drift back too. Anyhow, if the burros don't show
we'll trail _them_ by the buzzards and find the packs. Ah, you
great mysterious wonderful desert, how good you've been to me! I can
sleep now--in peace."

He slept. When he awoke again, he discovered to his surprise that he
had been walking in his sleep. He had an empty canteen over his
shoulder and he was bareheaded. His head ached and throbbed, his tongue