could hear the gurgle and plash of the tiny cascade.
The marshal knew it was not real, that it was only a desert mirage, another trick--perpetrated by Nature, this time--to steal the last vestige of his sanity. He set his jaw savagely, and soon--as he had known it would--the vision vanished, leaving only the old desolation. He staggered on, frequently falling from sheer weakness, but always, after a time, rising to continue the fight. A great stain of crimson on the western horizon told him that the sun was sinking, and the air was already cooler. In the effort to retain his reason, he tried to keep his mind from the one thing his whole body cried out for. It was in vain; pictures of cool running streams into which he plunged insistently presented themselves, and the sound of the waterfall he had seen in the mirage was perpetually in his ears. With leaden feet he stumbled on and fell, a sharp pain stabbing his wrist. In the gathering gloom he saw that he had dropped close to a queer green growth, shaped like a cask, and defended by fierce spikes. It was a bisnaga, or barrel cactus.
Had he been able to utter a sound it would have been one of joy, for this fortunate find might mean life. Raising himself to his knees, he cut off the top of the cactus, and slicing out a portion of the pithy interior crushed it greedily against his swollen lips and tongue. The liquid so obtained was pure and slightly sweet. Repeating the operation until the plant was exhausted, he felt new energy stealing into his veins. Unfortunately, the cactus was a very small one, and though he searched diligently he could not discover another. Reinvigorated in some degree by this relief to his torture he pursued his way. Though there was no wind, it was now intensely cold. The moon came up and threw a softening silver radiance over the harshness of the desert. To the desperately worn man plodding through it, the sand seemed a malignant devil which clutched his ankles and held them. Each step was now an achievement, for his strength was gone. During twelve hours he had drunk less than half a pint of cactus-juice, and this in a land where a man needed two gallons of water per day. Moreover, for a great part of that time he had taxed his body to the uttermost. Weaving blindly onwards he fell again, made a last attempt to rise, and then lay supine...
CHAPTER XVI
The marshal awoke to a pleasant feeling of warmth and found that he was covered with a blanket and lying beside a fire of dead mesquite branches. Pete, with an anxious face, was kneeling over him, a canteen in his hands. Green made a feeble grab at it.
'No, yu don't,' the deputy grinned. 'That stuff's wuss'n whisky for yu just now, an' a damn sight more precious in this corner o' hell. Yu gotta be spoon-fed, fella, yet awhile.'
Though he would have sold his soul for one deep drink, the sufferer submitted, knowing that the other was right. At the end of an hour he could sit up and use his tongue again, but he was still utterly played out. From behind a hummock of sand Black Feather now appeared and flung an armful of twigs on the fire.
'How'd yu find me?' the invalid enquired.
'Yu gotta thank the Injun for that,' Pete told him. 'Fact is, we didn't do no searchin' for rustled cattle; I played a hunch an' we followed yu 'bout an hour after; when we met yore hoss I knowed somethin' was wrong. We picked up the trail at the Old Mine. How the hell that copper-coloured cuss followed it I dunno, but he did, an' I'm bettin' we come just in time.'
'That's whatever,' the marshal agreed, and held out his hand to the redskin. 'I'm mighty obliged to yu,' he added.
Black Feather took the hand timidly. 'White man my brother,' he said in his low, husky tone. 'My fault he here.'
'Shucks!' Green said disgustedly. 'My own damn stupidity. They played me for a sucker an' won--this time. Black Feather big chief; he trail bird in the air an' fish in river, huh?'
The Indian smiled at this extravagant tribute to his powers.
Water, warmth, and food gradually restored the marshal's strength, but the red rim of the sun was rising above the horizon before he was able to stand. Helped by the others, he mounted the Indian's horse, its owner electing to walk, and they set out. By this time he had managed to tell the full story; on the redskin it produced no visible effect, but the deputy was furious.
'By God!' he said. 'If I find the fella that wrote that invite I'll make him curse his mother for bringin' him into the world. Who d'yu reckon it might be?'
'Ain't a notion,' the marshal admitted. 'Moraga sprung the trap, but I'm figurin' he didn't bait it. He speaks our lingo pretty good, but that don't mean he can write it.'
'Leeson?' Barsay suggested.
Green shook his head. 'Them mistakes was made a-purpose,' he said. 'Good writin' an' bad spellin' don't usually go together.'
After a short silence, Barsay spoke again: 'See here, Jim, I got an idea. I'll get back to town an' not let on yu've been found. Mebbe somebody'll give us a pointer.'
'It's certainly a chance,' Green allowed. 'Yu see, nobody in town oughta know what's become o' me.'
So when they had got clear of the desert and over the Border, the marshal and Black Feather struck out for the Box B ranch, and the deputy took the trail for Lawless. The evening found him in the bar of the Red Ace. He had already decided on his plan of action. Remembering his friend's dictum that a man in liquor may learn more than a sober one, he had resolved to try it out. Draping himself against the bar, he swallowed several drinks in rapid succession and then turned a scowling face on the company.
''Lo, Pete, how they treatin' yu?' asked the store-keeper jovially.
'Mighty seldom--yu'll never have a better chanct,' the deputy told him.
Loder laughed and ordered liquor. 'What's come o' the marshal--ain't seen him all day?' he went on.
In a voice that could be heard all over the room Barsay related his own version of the mysterious missive, adding that, becoming uneasy, he had followed the marshal to the appointed spot only to discover the ample evidence of an ambush. The story gained him the attention of most present. Suddenly he darted a finger at Leeson.
'Ask that fella,' he said. 'Mebbe he can tell yu somethin'.'
He watched the man closely as he spoke and noted the look of blank amazement. 'What yu gittin' at?' Leeson protested. 'How should I know anythin' of it?'
Pete, in fact, saw that he did not, but he had to justify his charge. 'Huh! Yu tried to bump him off two-three days ago,' he growled.
'I told yu it was a mistake,' the 88 man explained quickly, for the statement produced a murmur from several.
'Shore was, an' one more o' the same'll be yore last,' Pete threatened.
He poured himself another drink, took a mouthful, spat it out and turned wrathfully on the bartender: 'Ain't yu never goin' to get some decent liquor?' he asked belligerently. 'That stuff would poison a hawg.'
'What's the trouble, Jude?' The saloon-keeper's spare, stooping figure injected itself into the group.
'Barsay's on the prod 'bout the nose-dye,' the bartender explained.
Raven's sneering gaze swept the deputy. 'Too strong for him, seemin'ly,' he said.
The deputy cackled. 'That's an insult to me an' a compliment to the dope yu call whisky,' he said, with a slight stagger. 'What I wanna know is what yu done with the marshal?'
The saloon-keeper's face was wooden. 'Yo're either drunk or loco,' he replied, and appealed to one of the bystanders: 'What: the hell's he mean?' He heard the story with apparent indifference, but Pete, lolling against the bar, saw an expression in the narrowed eyes which might have been satisfaction.
'Looks like he's met up with Moraga,' he commented. 'I warned him the Mexican was bad medicine, but yu can't tell the marshal anythin'. I guess we won't see him no more.'
Bar say nodded his head stupidly and fumbled with his glass.
'How'd yu know it was the Mexican?' he queried.
'I don't--I'm guessin',' Raven replied. 'Green has twisted his tail two-three times, an' Greasers ain't a forgivin' sort.' His' lips suddenly split in a feline grin: 'Anyways, what yu belly-achin' about? Don't yu want his job?'
Pete blinked at him owlishly. 'Hell's bells! I hadn't thought o' that.'
So ludicrous was his expression that the onlookers laughed aloud, and Raven was quick to seize the opportunity. 'Set 'em up, Jude,' he cried. 'We'll drink to the marshal.'
'The new one?' someone questioned.
