‘Here we turn,’ he explained.  ’Not so far that way, maybe two hours, we find more water.  Then we go that way,’ and he indicated that they must bear off a little to the south, ’and more water.  Then we sleep in shade.  Then at night, not too far, see your place.’

It came about that all that Kish Taka had predicted was so.  They found water; they spent the long day in the shade of some stunted trees; they ate all but a few scraps of their food; they went on again at sundown.  In the pink flush of another dawn they stood together on the uplands back of Last Ridge and saw before them and below them the green of Desert Valley.  In the foreground, a thin wisp of smoke arose from the spot where the Longstreets were camped.

‘Kish Taka go back now.’  The Indian stood, arms folded across his gaunt chest, eyes hard on Howard’s.  ’Back to the Bad Lands to sit down.  Soon Kish Taka’s dog comes and with him a man.  And while he waits, Kish Taka will make many stones piled up on his brother.’

He swung on his heel to go.  But Howard caught at his arm.

‘Wait,’ he said.  ’Two things!  One, where that fire is are two people.  An old man and a girl.  They are my friends, Kish Taka.’

Kish Taka nodded.

‘My frien’s,’ he said simply.

‘The other thing,’ said Howard.  ’Kish Taka, hungry, killed my calves.  He left gold.  When again Kish Taka is hungry, let him kill as many calves as he pleases.  But let him keep his gold.’

Again the Indian nodded.  And this time Howard let him go.

The Indian went back toward the Bad Lands, swift, silent, and in a little was lost in the distance.  He did not once turn.  Howard withdrew his eyes and sent them questing down toward the wisp of smoke.  His thoughts were wandering.  And last they winged to Jim Courtot.

‘Jim Courtot,’ he muttered under his breath, as though the man were with him, and as he saw fancied visions of things to be, ’I have it in my heart to be almost sorry for you.’

Then he shrugged, filled his lungs with the fresh clean cool air which rose up across the miles from his own pastures and set his feet into the trail that would lead home—­by way of the Longstreets.  Now he walked eagerly.  In half an hour he had made his way down to the flat upon which the canvas shanty stood.  He came on, the fatigue gone from a stride that was suddenly buoyant; there was a humorous glint in his eyes as he counted upon surprising them; he would just say, casually, that he had dropped in, neighbour-style, for breakfast.

Then he saw Helen, her upturned, laughing face rosy with the newly-risen sun.  Before her, looking down into her eyes, was John Carr.  Howard came abruptly to a dead halt.  They saw him, and Helen called something to him.  Again he came on, but the joyous spring had gone out of his stride and he realized in a dull, strange fashion that for the first time in his life he was not glad to see his old friend.