The possibility was
remote; death at this moment seemed as far off as ever--if
anything it was too far off. No, she would find the water-hole
somehow; or the unexpected would happen, as it always did when one
was in dire straits. She was too young and too strong to die yet.
Death was not so easily won as this.
Rising, she readjusted the strap of the empty water-bag over her
shoulder and the loose cartridge-belt at her hip, then set her
dusty feet down the slope.
Day died lingeringly. The sun gradually lost its cruelty, but a
partial relief from the heat merely emphasized the traveler's
thirst and muscular distress. Onward she plodded, using her eyes
as carefully as she knew how. She watched the evening flight of
the doves, thinking to guide herself by their course, but she was
not shrewd enough to read the signs correctly. The tracks she
found were old, for the most part, and they led in no particular
direction, nowhere uniting into anything like a trail. She
wondered, if she could bring herself to drink the blood of a jack-
rabbit, and if it would quench her thirst. But the thought was
repellent, and, besides, she was not a good shot with a revolver.
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