And then that sad offer:  “Maybe I could take a turn walking, Sandersen. 
I could hold on to a stirrup and hop along some way!”

Lowrie and Quade sneered, and Sandersen retorted fiercely:  “Shut up! 
You know it ain’t possible, but I ought to call your bluff.”

He had no answer, for it was not possible.  The twisted foot was a steady torture.

In another half hour he asked for water, as they paused for Sandersen to mount, and Lowrie to take his turn on foot.  Sandersen snatched the canteen which Quade reluctantly passed to the injured man.

“Look here!” said Sandersen.  “We got to split up on this.  You sit there and ride and take it easy.  Me and the rest has to go through hell.  You take some of the hell yourself.  You ride, but we’ll have the water, and they ain’t much of it left at that!”

Sinclair glanced helplessly at the others.  Their faces were set in stern agreement.

Slowly the sun crawled up to the center of the sky and stuck there for endless hours, it seemed, pouring down a fiercer heat.  And the foothills still wavered in blue outlines that meant distance—­terrible distance.

Out of the east came a cloud of dust.  The restless eye of Sandersen saw it first, and a harsh shout of joy came from the others.  Quade was walking.  He lifted his arms to the cloud of dust as if it were a vision of mercy.  To Hal Sinclair it seemed that cold water was already running over his tongue and over the hot torment of his foot.  But, after that first cry of hoarse joy, a silence was on the others, and gradually he saw a shadow gather.

“It ain’t wagons,” said Lowrie bitterly at length.  “And it ain’t riders; it comes too fast for that.  And it ain’t the wind; it comes too slow.  But it ain’t men.  You can lay to that!”

Still they hoped against hope until the growing cloud parted and lifted enough for them to see a band of wild horses sweeping along at a steady lope.  They sighted the men and veered swiftly to the left.  A moment later there was only a thin trail of flying dust before the four.  Three pairs of eyes turned on Sinclair and silently cursed him as if this were his fault.

“Those horses are aiming at water,” he said.  “Can’t we follow ’em?”

“They’re aiming for a hole fifty miles away.  No, we can’t follow ’em!”

They started on again, and now, after that cruel moment of hope, it was redoubled labor.  Quade was cursing thickly with every other step.  When it came his turn to ride he drew Lowrie to one side, and they conversed long together, with side glances at Sinclair.

Vaguely he guessed the trend of their conversation, and vaguely he suspected their treacherous meanness.  Yet he dared not speak, even had his pride permitted.

It was the same story over again when Lowrie walked.  Quade rode aside with Sandersen, and again, with the wolfish side glances, they eyed the injured man, while they talked.  At the next halt they faced him.  Sandersen was the spokesman.