As he stood, he leaned upon his weapon for support, and yet histall figure and the massive framework of his bones suggesteda wiry and vigorous constitution. His gaunt face, however, andhis clothes, which hung so baggily over his shrivelled limbs,proclaimed what it was that gave him that senile and decrepitappearance. The man was dying—dying from hunger and fromthirst.
He had toiled painfully down the ravine, and on to this littleelevation, in the vain hope of seeing some signs of water. Nowthe great salt plain stretched before his eyes, and the distant beltof savage mountains, without a sign anywhere of plant or tree,which might indicate the presence of moisture. In all that broadlandscape there was no gleam of hope. North, and east, and westhe looked with wild questioning eyes, and then he realized thathis wanderings had come to an end, and that there, on that barrencrag, he was about to die. “Why not here, as well as in a featherbed, twenty years hence,” he muttered, as he seated himself in theshelter of a boulder.
Before sitting down, he had deposited upon the ground hisuseless rifle, and also a large bundle tied up in a grey shawl, whichhe had carried slung over his right shoulder. It appeared to besomewhat too heavy for his strength, for in lowering it, it camedown on the ground with some little violence. Instantly therebroke from the gray parcel a little moaning cry, and from it thereprotruded a small, scared face, with very bright brown eyes, andtwo little speckled, dimpled fists.
“You’ve hurt me!” said a childish voice, reproachfully.
“Have I, though?” the man answered penitently, “I didn’t go forto do it.” As he spoke he unwrapped the grey shawl and extricateda pretty little girl of about five years of age, whose dainty shoesand smart pink frock with its little linen apron all bespoke amother’s care. The child was pale and wan, but her healthy armsand legs showed that she had suffered less than her companion.
“How is it now?” he answered anxiously, for she was still rubbingthe tousy golden curls which covered the back of her head.
“Kiss it and make it well,” she said, with perfect gravity, shovingthe injured part up to him. “That’s what mother used to do.
Where’s mother?”
“Mother’s gone. I guess you’ll see her before long.”
“Gone, eh!” said the little girl. “Funny, she didn’t say good-bye; she‘most always did if she was just goin’ over to Auntie’s for tea, and nowshe’s been away three days. Say, it’s awful dry, ain’t it? Ain’t there nowater, nor nothing to eat?”
“No, there ain’t nothing, dearie. You’ll just need to be patientawhile, and then you’ll be all right. Put your head up agin me likethat, and then you’ll feel bullier. It ain’t easy to talk when your lipsis like leather, but I guess I’d best let you know how the cards lie.
What’s that you’ve got?”
“Pretty things! fine things!” cried the little girl enthusiastically,holding up two glittering fragments of mica. “When we goes backto home I’ll give them to brother Bob.”
“You’ll see prettier things than them soon,” said the manconfidently. “You just wait a bit. I was going to tell you though—you remember when we left the river?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Well, we reckoned we’d strike another river soon, d’ye see. Butthere was somethin’ wrong; compasses, or map, or somethin’, andit didn’t turn up. Water ran out. Just except a little drop for thelikes of you and—and——”
“And you couldn’t wash yourself,” interrupted his companiongravely, staring up at his grimy visage.
“No, nor drink. And Mr. Bender, he was the fust to go, and thenIndian Pete, and then Mrs. McGregor, and then Johnny Hones,and then, dearie, your mother.”
“Then mother’s a deader too,” cried the little girl dropping herface in her pinafore and sobbing bitterly.
“Yes, they all went except you and me. Then I thought therewas some chance of water in this direction, so I heaved you overmy shoulder and we tramped it together. It don’t seem as thoughwe’ve improved matters. There’s an almighty small chance for usnow!”
“Do you mean that we are going to die too?” asked the child,checking her sobs, and raising her tear-stained face.
“I guess that’s about the size of it.”
“Why didn’t you say so before?” she said, laughing gleefully. “Yougave me such a fright. Why, of course, now as long as we die we’llbe with mother again.”
“Yes, you will, dearie.”
“And you too. I’ll tell her how awful good you’ve been. I’ll betshe meets us at the door of Heaven with a big pitcher of water,and a lot of buckwheat cakes, hot, and toasted on both sides, likeBob and me was fond of. How long will it be first?”
“I don’t know—not very long.” The man’s eyes were fixedupon the northern horizon. In the blue vault of the heaven therehad appeared three little specks which increased in size everymoment, so rapidly did they approach. They speedily resolvedthemselves into three large brown birds, which circled over theheads of the two wanderers, and then settled upon some rockswhich overlooked them. They were buzzards, the vultures of thewest, whose coming is the forerunner of death.
“Cocks and hens,” cried the little girl gleefully, pointing at theirill-omened forms, and clapping her hands to make them rise. “Say,did God make this country?”
“Of course He did,” said her companion, rather startled by thisunexpected question.
“He made the country down in Illinois, and He made theMissouri,” the little girl continued. “I guess somebody else madethe country in these parts. It’s not nearly so well done. They forgotthe water and the trees.”
“What would ye think of offering up prayer?” the man askeddiffidently.
“It ain’t night yet,” she answered.
“It don’t matter. It ain’t quite regular, but He won’t mind that,you bet. You say over them ones that you used to say every nightin the waggon when we was on the Plains.”
“Why don’t you say some yourself ?” the child asked, withwondering eyes.
