Part 13

“So you ‘ve been leaving a last message,” he said; “I ‘m afraid it’s not much good. Who ‘s likely to pass this way?”

“It’s only a chance, of course,” said Helm, “but--well--I ‘d like them, if possible, to know I ‘d thought of them.”

“And a woman, too,” laughed Anderson cynically, “if we get out of this you ‘ll learn, I expect, just about how little value she sets on your care for her.”

“You ‘ve been unlucky,” said the younger man gently; “there are women who--but there, I don’t suppose we’ll come through. Anyhow, it’s time we started.

“Well--well, keep your faith and I’ll keep mine. Perhaps here and there, there may be a woman worth caring about, but they ‘re few and far between.”

“Don’t you want to say anything?” asked Helm.

“Who? I? No. Who is there to care a straw whether I leave my carcase to the crows or not? There’s only the boy, and he’s too young to understand. But, I say, you might have mentioned the name of the station,” and taking the stick from Helm’s hand, he walked out on the salt and wrote;

LOST

“Please let them know at Yerlo,” and signed his name, “James Anderson.”

“There’s my last will and testament,” he said. “Come on now.”

Helm went up to the horses.

“It’s no go,” he said. “My poor old beggar’s done.”

“I expected it, old chap. We’ll have to foot it; mine’s only a shade better than yours. Clearly we’ll have to leave yours behind. Mine can carry the pack a little farther, but I really don’t think he can carry me.”

It was still very hot, but the shadows of the boxwood trees had grown longer, and there was just a promise of the coming night in the air. They must walk, for they had only the one horse now, and it did not seem likely he could hold out long. The other had lain down to die, and whether this one could crawl on under the slender pack was a question Anderson asked himself more than once. That he could carry either of them was out of the question. They put a blanket or two on his back, their pistols, and the empty waterbags, and then it seemed cruelty to force the poor beast to move, but necessity knows no law, and they started slowly on their hopeless journey round the salt-pan, Anderson leading the way, Helm following with the horse. So slowly they went, and their only hope lay in speed. Helm looked back a little sadly at the dying horse, which had made an effort to rise, as if in mute protest against being left.

“Poor old beggar,” he said, “wouldn’t it be kinder to put him out of his misery?”

“Oh, give him a chance for his life,” said Anderson. “I ‘ve known horses to recover in the most wonderful way. After he ‘s had a spell he may find water for himself; anyhow, we ‘ll give him the chance.”

It was a blessed relief when the sun sank beneath the horizon; the night was still and hot, but the wind dropped at sundown, and the men found it easier to walk in the dark. The crows had followed them as long as it was day, but they, too, left as soon as the darkness fell. They were unaccustomed to walking, and it would have been hard work under the most favourable circumstances; as it was, it was cruel. They did not talk much, for what had they to say? An hour or two, and the moon rose, a full moon, red and fiery, and as she rose slowly to the zenith, silvering as she rose, the plain grew light as day. Every little stick and stone, every little grass blade, was clearly outlined, the low ridge which they were leaving behind, the ridge where they had found their worst fears realized, loomed large behind them, while the salt-pan to their left stretched away one great lake of glittering white, which it seemed to Helm they could never round.

“How long, Anderson,” he asked, “before we can hope to reach the other side?”

“Not before morning, man. I don’t see we can do it before morning.”

Then they plodded on a little further, neither liking to be the first to give in, though their mouths were parched, and burning thirst was consuming them. But still they walked steadily on till more than half the night was gone; at last Helm flung himself down on the ground.

“I must rest,” he said, “if I die for it;” and Anderson sat down quietly beside him.

Then sleep, merciful sleep, came to them in their weariness, and they slept till the first faint streaks of dawn began to appear in the eastern sky. It was a dreary, hopeless waking, the salt lake was behind them now, and all around was the plain, bare hard earth in some places, patches of grass in others, not a living thing visible, even the crows had gone, and, though the foul birds had filled Helm with a shrinking horror, their absence was still more terrible, for did it not show that they were plunging farther and farther into the desert, farther and farther from the water without which they could not live out another day. The sun rose higher and higher, till the full force of his rays seemed more than they could bear, and yet the nearest shade was miles away, a line of trees or scrub dim on the horizon.

Neither mentioned the significance of the absence of the crows, though both were thinking of it, but at last Helm said,

“The trees, let’s go for the trees. This is past bearing.”

But Anderson shook his head.

“They ‘re clean out of the way, man,” he said sadly. “Try to hold out a little longer. The old horse is keeping up wonderfully. I never thought he ‘d hold out so long.”

“He’s very nearly at his last gasp,” said Helm, and they relapsed into silence again.

On, and on, and on, the thirst was so bad now they could hardly speak to one another, still they pushed on under the burning rays of the almost vertical sun, every step it seemed must be their last. Was it really only last night they discovered they were lost, only last night? Another mile, and another, and the heat grew unbearable, and Helm, without a word, turned to the left, and made for the trees. Anderson paused a moment, and then followed him, though to him it was giving up the struggle. If they turned out of the path which led to the only water they knew of, turned into this pathless wilderness, what possible chance was there for them, and yet how could they stand this terrible heat any longer?