“Thank God!” breathed Endicott, “the dust is beginning to settle.”  He dismounted and swung the girl to the ground.  “We may as well wait here as anywhere until the air clears sufficiently for us to get our bearings.  We certainly must have passed the water-hole, and we would only be going farther and farther away if we pushed on.”

The dust settled rapidly.  Splashes of sunshine showed here and there upon the basin and ridge, and it grew lighter.  The atmosphere took on the appearance of a thin grey fog that momentarily grew thinner.  Endicott walked to the top of a low mound and gazed eagerly about him.  Distant objects were beginning to appear—­bare rock-ridges, and low-lying hills, and deep coulees.  In vain the man’s eyes followed the ridges for one that terminated in a huge broken rock, with its nearby soda hill.  No such ridge appeared, and no high, round hill.  Suddenly his gaze became rivetted upon the southern horizon.  What was that stretching away, long, and dark, and winding?  Surely—­surely it was—­trees!  Again and again he tried to focus his gaze upon that long dark line, but always his lids drew over his stinging eyeballs, and with a half-sobbed curse, he dashed the water from his eyes.  At last he saw it—­the green of distant timber.  “The Missouri—­five miles—­maybe more.  Oh God, if the horses hold out!” Running, stumbling, he made his way to the girl’s side.  “It’s the river!” he cried.  “The Missouri!”

“Look at the horses!” she exclaimed.  “They see it, too!” The animals stood with ears cocked forward, and dirt-caked nostrils distended, gazing into the south.  Endicott sprang to his slicker, and producing the flask, saturated his handkerchief with the thick red liquid.  He tried to sponge out the mouths and noses of the horses but they drew back, trembling and snorting in terror.

“Why, it’s blood!” cried the girl, her eyes dilated with horror.  “From the horse that died,” explained Endicott, as he tossed the rag to the ground.

“But, the water—­surely there was water in the flask last night!” Then, of a sudden, she understood.  “You—­you fed it to me in my sleep,” she faltered.  “You were afraid I would refuse, and that was my dream!”

“Mind over matter,” reminded Endicott, with a distortion of his bleeding lips that passed for a grin.  Again he fumbled in his slicker and withdrew the untouched can of tomatoes.  He cut its cover as he had seen Tex do and extended it to the girl.  “Drink some of this, and if the horses hold out we will reach the river in a couple of hours.”

“I believe it’s growing a little cooler since that awful wind went down,” she said, as she passed the can back to Endicott.  “Let’s push on, the horses seem to know there is water ahead.  Oh, I hope they can make it!”

“We can go on a-foot if they can’t,” reassured the man.  “It is not far.”