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<h3>Chapter Twenty Nine.</h3> <h4>Desperate Straits.</h4> Chris uttered a wild whoop of delight. “Water! Water! Water!” he shouted. “Here we come!” The announcement was intended for those he had left at the camp, but the words seemed to be lost in the immensity of space. But he did not heed this, only pressed on, to halt at the end of a hundred yards for the others to come up. His pony had lowered its head as if recognising the track and started off at a canter; but Chris realised directly that the progress did not depend upon him but the mule, which at starting refused to go in advance of Ned, and stubbornly stood still, and no urging would make it move. “Come on first, Ned,” shouted Chris, as the efforts of his companion proved to be in vain. “Oh, he is a brute!” cried Ned, but he did as he was ordered, following his leader, and the mule, heavily-laden as it was, lowered its head and began to lounge along last at the regular mule pace. “Oh, but this won’t do,” cried Chris, as they came up. “I never thought of it when we were filling the barrels. It’ll take no end of time to get back like this.” He led on again in silence, seeing the trail marked plainly enough, and wonderfully straight, the animals having pretty well always stepped in their leader’s tracks. But at the end of a few minutes’ advance at a walk he turned his head to shout back— “Oh, Ned, Ned, what shall we do? Everything, you see, depends on this mule, and he’ll only keep to his regular pace. His load’s too heavy. We must run half of it away.” “What! Waste that water? No.” “But it seems so heavy.” “He wouldn’t go a bit faster if you poured away nearly all.” “I’m afraid not,” groaned Chris. “What can we do? I say, I wonder how far it is to camp. Can you guess, Ned?” The boy shook his head. “It must be,” continued Chris, as he rode on, wrenching right round in his saddle, and trusting to his mustang to follow the back trail, “just as far as the mule would walk from the time we started till daybreak this morning. Hours and hours and hours, all going so slowly, for we should have been woke up if they had broken into a fast trot. I’m afraid we must spill out some of the water.” “But I tell you that this slow wretch wouldn’t go a bit faster. He’s walking now just at the same rate as when the barrels were empty.” Chris felt that these were the words of truth, and remained silent. He would have gone behind the animal and bullied or urged it forward with blows, in spite of his late words, but he felt confident that the result would only be a stubborn fit, kicking or perhaps lying down. A short time before the boy had felt in the highest glee. Success had attended their effort, and there seemed to be nothing else to do but hurry back to the fainting sufferers with the life-giving fluid and receive their thanks and praise, while now, in addition to the bitter despair and misery, there was a fresh sensation which he connected then with a feeling of sinking that made him gaze piteously at his companion, but only to be struck with his sunken eyes and agonised aspect. “Don’t look like that, Ned,” he said. “Why, you’re worse than I am.” “I can’t help it. I feel quite ill. We shall never get back to them in time. Father looked as if he wouldn’t be able to get up again.” “So did my father. I never saw him look so dreadful before. He must be in an awful state, or else he’d have been able to take something from the medicine-chest to help him hold out longer. But there, it’s of no use to give way like this. We must get back to camp with this water. Do you hear? We must!” “Yes,” said Ned mournfully. “We must.—Chris.” “Yes?” “If I fall off my nag and can’t get up again—” “Oh, don’t talk like that. It’s idiotic.” “I can’t help it. If I fall over and lie still on the sand, I want you to promise me something.” “Then I shan’t,” cried Chris shortly. “Get out! You’re going to pretend that you’ll lie down and die, and you’re going to make your will.” “No; it wasn’t exactly that; but if you get back to them and are saved, you may have my four-bladed knife with the stone-pick and lancet in it.” “Oh, hang your old knife!” cried Chris ungraciously. “I don’t want it. Mine’s ever so much better, and doesn’t hurt your hand when you’re cutting anything. Now, no nonsense! Fancying you’re going to fall off your pony and not being able to get up again! Why, if you go on fancying such things as that in the hot sunshine, you’re pretty well sure to turn giddy and go down. Look here.” “Yes?” sighed Ned. “I feel just as bad as you do, but I don’t begin a lot of nonsense about leaving you my knife.—Such stuff!” “It isn’t stuff,” sighed Ned. “I’m horribly ill now. So faint and strange.” “Have some water. I’ll get some out.” “No, no, no; I’ve had enough. I don’t feel a bit parched and thirsty now, for the water seems to have gone right into me from my wet clothes.” “The same here,” said Chris, after a glance over his shoulder to see if his pony was keeping to the return trail, and being convinced that he was. “I could talk like you, for I never felt so ill before. I say, how one’s things are drying in the sunshine! I’ve quite done dripping.” “Yes; but, Chris, I haven’t told you all I was going to say.” “And you needn’t. You were going to say that I might have your German silver pocket-comb too.” “I wasn’t,” said Ned reproachfully. “But you may, and everything else I’ve got, for I shall never want them again.” “Yes, you will, stupid. Oh, I say, don’t be such a Molly.” Ned shook his head. “Won’t you listen to me?” he said piteously. “Why, of course I will, old chap. I’m only talking like this because I want you to be plucky. Ned, you’re not going to lie down and die. You can’t—you shan’t. I’ve felt like this for the last half-hour, but I won’t let myself believe that it’s all through the despair and misery we feel.” “But it is, Chris. I’m glad I came with you, though,” said the poor fellow sadly. “So am I, and it was very jolly and chummy of you. Just like you, Ned. We’ve often had rows, but we always made it up again, and I never liked you any the less. Never half so much as I did when you came trotting after me to look for this water.” “I like to hear you say that,” said Ned, smiling faintly. “If you get safe back I want you to think still in this way after I’ve gone.” “After you’ve gone!” cried Chris passionately. “Oh, if we’d only plenty of time and weren’t so faint, I should like to have the worst row with you that we ever tried to fight out. You’re not going to lie down and die. It would be absurd after we’ve got the water, and—” Ned started and bent forward, holding on to the pommel of his saddle with both hands to steady himself, for as he rode almost backwards Chris suddenly clutched at nothing and nearly fell from his seat. “There, there!” panted Ned. “Oh, don’t fall, Chris! One of us is enough. You mustn’t fall and lie there, because I want you to do something for me.” “Yes,” said Chris softly, and with a wild-eyed stare at his companion. “I want you to tell father that I held out to the last, and tried hard to do my duty as he told me to always.” “Yes—yes,” sighed Chris hoarsely. “I’ll—I’ll tell him, if I get back to camp. But oh, Ned, it is so hard now, when we’ve got the water. All the strength has gone from me. I say, tell me, if we both fall out of our saddles and lie there, do you think that the ponies will go on to the camp?” “No; I’m sure they won’t. They’ll stop beside us, looking down in our faces with their big, patient eyes. They won’t stir for ever so long.” “Oh!” groaned Chris faintly. “And we shall have got the water for nothing.” “No,” said Ned. “The ponies will stop, but the mule won’t; he’ll keep right on along the back trail, and they’ll get the water after all.” “Ah!” sighed Chris, with a bright light coming into his eyes. “Then it won’t have been for nothing.” “What are you doing?” said Ned, more strongly, as he saw his comrade begin to unfasten the knotted silk kerchief about his neck. “Going to tie this to the chain. Father will know it’s mine, and that it means good-bye, and—” The effort was too much. The giddiness from which he was suffering mastered him, and he fell over sidewise on to the fast-heating sand, but with his left foot fast in the stirrup-iron, while the pony kept on a few feet before stopping short and turning to gaze down in his rider’s face. “Chris! Chris!” cried Ned, checking his pony as he closed up, while the mule went tramping on with its heavy load as if nothing whatever was the matter. To the last speaker’s wonder and horror, as the excitement of his comrade’s mishap drove his own sufferings into the background, Chris raised himself a little and extricated his foot from the stirrup, before hauling himself up by the leather, to stand steadying himself by the saddle, laughing the while what sounded to Ned like a wild, hysterical laugh that was to be his last. “Chris!” he cried. “It’s all right,” gasped the boy, struggling to grow calm. “That tumble has knocked the faintness out of me. I know now—what’s—what’s the matter with us both.” “Chris!” rang out again. “I know, I tell you—I felt a little while ago—oh, so ill, as if something was coming on and we were both going to die. But I know now. Can’t you see, Ned?” There was no answer. “Then I’ll tell you. What did you have to eat yesterday?” “Eat? I couldn’t eat, only drink that little drop of water.” “And I couldn’t, and didn’t have above half a meal the night before. Then we’ve been through so much ever since, and drunk all that water, and the sun’s been beating down on us.” “What!” cried Ned, staring. “You mean it’s because we’re so hungry?” “Why, of course it is. Now, tumble off your pony and lie down and die if you dare!” “Chris!” “That’s it, I tell you, and you know it is. Oh dear, I feel so light-headed, and so empty and faint, and nothing else the matter with me at all, only that I’m so miserable because we can’t get on faster.” Ned sat staring and thinking hard, but he said no word in contradiction of his companion’s theory. And there they stayed for quite ten minutes, Ned seated in his saddle, Chris standing resting against his, and with his pony pressing against him as if to keep him upright. “Look at old Skeeter’s brother,” said Chris, at last. “He must be his brother, because he’s so like him.” Ned looked in the same direction as his companion, to see that the mule had gone plodding on along the trail, flapping one ear to keep off the flies, and looking as if nothing would prevent it from going straight back to the camp. “I say, you feel better now, don’t you?” said Chris suddenly. “I feel very ill and weak and giddy.” “That’s how I feel,” said Chris, “and I’m afraid to try and get up into the saddle again. I know I shall go down bang.” “No, no, don’t,” cried Ned excitedly. “Here, I’ll get on the other side, and take hold of your hand.” “Shan’t I pull you down too?” “No,” said Ned, speaking more strongly; “I won’t let you.” “Catch hold, then,” cried Chris, as his comrade urged his nag alongside that of Chris, and then as they joined hands, the latter raised his left foot to the stirrup, sprang up, and dropped into the saddle with a sigh of relief. “Well done us!” he panted. “Who’d ever have thought that being half starved would make two fellows feel like that?” “It was awful, wasn’t it?” “Not so horrible as thinking about them all dying for want of water. Oh, Ned, Ned, Ned, can’t we get one barrel on your or my pony and ride on fast?” “No,” said Ned decisively. “We couldn’t hold it on, and we couldn’t go fast.” “And we couldn’t fasten the other on the mule’s back. Is there nothing else we could do?” “I can’t see anything but going right on. Let’s catch up to the mule now and keep on talking so as to forget about being so faint. I say, how fast one’s clothes dry!” “Yes,” said Chris; “and how cool one feels in spite of the sun coming down as if it would roast us. Do you know why it is?” “No,” replied Ned. “I’ll tell you, then. Father told me once. He said it was one of the laws of physics.” “I say, don’t talk about physic now.” “Who was talking about physic, stupid? I said physics—natural science. Father said that in evaporation a feeling of coolness always comes on. That’s what we feel now as the water in our clothes evaporates. He showed me how to cool water by filling a bottle and wrapping it in flannel, then keeping it wet and standing it in the sun.” “Yes, I knew that made it cooler, but I didn’t know it had anything to do with evaporation. Then the water in the barrels must be nice and cool.” “Nay, not it,” said Chris sharply. “That’s getting warm, because the outside of the barrels is not kept wet.—Well, old Skeeter’s brother, how are you getting on?” he cried, as they rode up one on either side of the mule, the only answer being the cocking of one ear in the speaker’s direction, the other at Ned. “Let’s give up worrying about it, Chris,” said Ned at last. “We can do nothing else but keep on as we are, only hoping and praying that they’re all lying down trying to sleep till we come. It’s impossible to get on any faster.” “Quite,” said Chris despairingly. “I will hope and feel sure that all will turn out as it should. It must. It shall. I say, how long have we been coming since we started?” “I don’t know, and I can’t think,” was the reply. “I say, I can’t see the lake now,” cried Chris. “It’s all hidden by the thick hot haze that has closed in.” “Can you see the beautiful country and the mountains there still?” “No; nothing but the thick, hot, transparent mist and the sand and sage-brush everywhere, behind, just as it is now in front. I say, how well old muley keeps to the trail! I wish it wasn’t so hazy; we should see the tent perhaps then.” Ned turned off the conversation at a tangent, for the sight of a clump of stones gave him a subject full of interest. “Stones and rocky bits, with little heathery-like bushes. I say, Chris, keep a good lookout. Isn’t this the sort of country for rattlesnakes?” “Ugh!” ejaculated Chris. “I say, how horrible if the mule were to step on one of the nasty reptiles now.” “We should have to fit the barrels on one of the ponies then, and take turns at walking. But let’s try and guide them more away from the heath.” They tried, but the mule resisted their efforts at once and showed a stern determination to keep to the trail, while the ponies backed it up on either side. Then the conversation dropped, was resumed again twice, but in vain at last, for the heat and exertion were telling upon the poor lads now to a terrible extent. Their eyes grew wild and bloodshot, the faintness came on with increased force and refused to be exorcised, with each brain swimming at first a little, then more and more, till a heavy stupefying state of torpor supervened, and it was no longer the riders that directed their four-footed friends, but the latter leading them on and on hour after hour. Though the boys could not realise the fact, the sun had crossed the meridian and was slowly beginning to descend, when there was a sudden arousing from the torpor-like state, brought about by the mule coming to a standstill with its legs spread-out widely, hanging its head, while its drooping ears and starting eyes told plainly enough that it was suffering acutely from heat and exhaustion, its eyes seeming to say mutely— “The burden is too heavy, masters; if I stir another foot I must drop.” “Can we do something—open one of the barrels and soak a handkerchief to hold it to the poor thing’s mouth?” said Chris loudly—he meant it to be, but it was only a hoarse, harsh sound which came from his lips, while when he descended from his saddle to step towards the barrel nearest to him, it suddenly seemed to fade away into the haze through which they had been passing, and in his effort to catch it poor Chris fell headlong to the ground and lay staring blankly upwards at Ned. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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