WATER
All round him for miles each way the water-holes had gone dry. The
little cañon stream still wound down its shaded course, disappearing in
a patch of sand at the cañon's mouth, so the prospector felt secure.
None had ridden out to look for him through that furnace of burning sand
that stretched between the hills and the desert town.
The stream dwindled slowly, imperceptibly.
One morning the prospector noticed it, and immediately explored the
creek clear to its source--a spurt of water springing from the roof of a
grotto in the cliff. Such a supply, evidently from the rocky heart of
the range itself, would be inexhaustible.
A week later he awoke to find the creek-bed dry save in a few
depressions among the rocks. He again visited the grotto. The place was
damp and cool, glistening with beads of moisture, but the flow from the
roof-crevice had ceased. Still he thought there must be plenty of water
beneath the rocks of the stream-bed. He would dig for it.
Another week, and he became uneasy. The stream had disappeared as though
poured into a colossal crevice. A few feet below the gravel he struck
solid rock. He tried dynamite unsuccessfully. Then he hoarded the
drippings from the grotto crevice till he had filled his canteen.
Carefully he stowed his gold in a chamois pouch and prepared to leave
the cañon. His burro had strayed during the week of drought--was
probably dead beside some dry water-hole.
The prospector set out to cross the range in the light of the stars.
Fearful that he might be seen, panic warped his reasoning. He planned to
journey south along the foothills, until opposite the desert town and
then cross over to it. If he approached from such a direction, no one
would guess his original starting-place. He knew of an unfailing
water-hole two days' journey from the cañon. This water-hole was far out
of his way, but his canteen supply would more than last till he reached
it.
Then Fate, the fate that had dogged his every step since first he
ventured into the solitudes, closed up and crept at his heels. He became
more morose and strangely fearful. His vision, refined by the wasting of
his body, created shadows that lay about his feet like stagnant pools,
shadows where no shadows should be.
Ominous was his fall as he crossed an arroyo. The canteen, slung over
his shoulder, struck a sharp point of rock that started one of the
seams. The leak was infinitesimal. The felt cover of the canteen
absorbed the drip, which evaporated. When he arrived at the water-hole,
_that_ was dry. His canteen felt strangely light. He could not remember
having used so much water. He changed his plan. He struck straight from
the hills toward the railroad. He knew that eventually he would, as he
journeyed west, cross it, perhaps near a water-tank.
Toward the blinding afternoon of that day he saw strange lakes and pools
spread out upon the distant sand and inverted mountain ranges stretching
to the horizon.
Fate crept closer to his heels, waiting with the dumb patience of the
desert to claim the struggling, impotent puppet whose little day was all
but spent.
He stumbled across the blazing bars of steel that marked the railroad.
His empty canteen clattered on the ties as he fell. He got to his knees
and dragged himself from the track. He laughed, for he had thwarted Fate
this once; he would not be run over by the train. He lay limp, wasted,
scarcely breathing.
Serenely Fate crouched near him, patient, impassive....
He heard a man speak and another answer. He felt an arm beneath his
head, and water.... Water!
He drank, and all at once his strength flamed up. It was not water they
gave him; it was merely the taste of it--a mockery. He wanted more ...
all!
He lurched to his feet, struggling with a bearded giant that held him
from his desire--to drink until he could drink no more--to die drinking
the water they had taken from him even as they gave it. He fought
blindly. Fate, disdaining further patience, arose and flung itself about
his feet. He stumbled. A flash wiped all things from his vision and the
long night came swiftly.