"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 pa.s.sionately. "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 hoa.r.s.ely. "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."