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and dispersed to their dwellings. They seemed to be utterly without curiosity;
the warriors put aside their bows and lay down to sleep; the old squaw
hurried off to pick up her bundle of fuel; even the papooses were silent and
stupid. It was a race lower than the Hottentots or the Australians. Short,
meagre, badly built, excessively ugly, they were nearly naked, and their slight
clothing was rags of skins. Thurstane tried to buy food of them, but either
they had none to spare or his buttons seemed to them of no value. Nor could
he induce any one to accompany him as a guide.

“Do ye think Godamighty made thim paple?” inquired Sweeny.

“Reckon so,” replied Glover.

“I don't belave it,” said Sweeny. “He'd be in more rispactable bizniss.
It's me opinyin the divil made um for a joke on the rest av us. An' it's me
opinyin he made this whole counthry for the same rayson.”

“The priest 'll tell ye God made all men, Sweeny.”

“They ain't min at all. Thim crachurs ain't min. They're nagurs, an' a
mighty poor kind at that. I hate um. I wish they was all dead. I've kilt
some av um, an' I'm goin' to kill slathers more, God willin'. I belave it's part
av the bizniss av white min to finish off the nagurs.”

Profound and potent sentiment of race antipathy! The contempt and hatred
of white men for yellow, red, brown, and black men has worked all over earth,
is working yet, and will work for ages. It is a motive of that tremendous tragedy
which Spencer has entitled “the survival of the fittest,” and Darwin, “natural
selection.”

The party continued to ascend the cañon. At short intervals branch cañons
exhibited arid and precipitous gorges, more and more gloomy with twilight. It
was impossible to choose between one and another. The travellers could never
see three hundred yards in advance. To right and left they were hemmed in by
walls fifteen hundred feet in height. Only one thing was certain: these altitudes
were gradually diminishing; and hence they knew that they were mounting
the plateau. At last, four hours after leaving Diamond Creek, wearied to
the marrow with incessant toil, they halted by a little spring, stretched themselves
on a scrap of starveling grass, and chewed their meagre, musty supper.

The scenery here was unearthly. Barring the bit of turf and a few willows
which had got lost in the desert, there was not a tint of verdure. To right and
left rose two huge and steep slopes of eroded and ragged rocks, tortured into every
conceivable form of jag, spire, pinnacle, and imagery. In general the figures
were grotesque; it seemed as if the misshapen gods of India and of China and
of barbarous lands had gathered there; as if this were a place of banishment
and punishment for the fallen idols of all idolatries. Above this coliseum of
monstrosities rose a long line of sharp, jagged needles, like a vast chevaux-de-frise,
forbidding escape. Still higher, lighted even yet by the setting sun, towered
five cones of vast proportions. Then came cliffs capped by shatters of
tableland, and then the long, even, gleaming ledge of the final plateau.

Locked in this bedlam of crazed strata, unable to see or guess a way out of
it, the wanderers fell asleep. There was no setting of guards; they trusted to
the desert as a sentinel.

At daylight the blind and wearisome climbing recommenced. Occasionally
they found patches of thin turf and clumps of dwarf cedars struggling with the
rocky waste. These bits of greenery were not the harbingers of a new empire
of vegetation, but the remnants of one whose glory had vanished ages ago, swept
away by a vandalism of waters. Gradually the cañon dwindled to a ravine, narrow,

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sinuous, walled in by stony steeps or slopes, and interlocking continually
with other similar chasms. A creek, which followed the chasm, appeared and
disappeared at intervals of a mile or so, as if horrified at the face of nature and
anxious to hide from it in subterranean recesses.

The travellers stumbled on until the ravine became a gully and the gully a
fissure. They stepped out of it; they were on the rolling surface of the table-land;
they were half a mile above the Colorado.

Here they halted, gave three cheers, and then looked back upon the northern
desert as men look who have escaped an enemy. A gigantic panorama of
the country which they had traversed was unrolled to their vision. In the foreground
stretched declining tablelands, intersected by numberless ravines, and
beyond these a lofty line of bluffs marked the edge of the Great Cañon of the
Colorado. Through one wide gap in these heights came a vision of endless
plateaux, their terraces towering one above another until they were thousands
of feet in the air, the horizontal azure bands extending hundreds of miles northward,
until the deep blue faded into a lighter blue, and that into the sapphire of
the heavens.

“It looks a darned sight finer than it is,” observed Glover.

“Bedad, ye may say that,” added Sweeny. “It's a big hippycrit av a
counthry. Ye'd think, to luk at it, ye could ate it wid a spoon.”

Now came a rolling region, covered with blue grass and dotted with groves
of cedars, the earth generally hard and smooth and the marching easy. Striking
southward, they reached a point where the plateau culminated in a low ridge,
and saw before them a long gentle slope of ten miles, then a system of rounded
hills, and then mountains.

“Halt here,” said Thurstane. “We must study our topography and fix on
our line of march.”

“You'll hev to figger it,” replied Glover. “I don't know nothin' in this
part o' the world.”

“Ye ain't called on to know,” put in Sweeny. “The liftinant 'll tell ye.”

“I think,” hesitated Thurstane, “that we are about fifty miles north of
Cactus Pass, where we want to strike the trail.”

“And I'm putty nigh played out,” groaned Glover.

“Och! you howld up yer crazy head,” exhorted Sweeny. “It 'll do ye iver
so much good.”

“It's easy talkin',” sighed the jaded and rheumatic skipper.

“It's as aisy talkin' right as talkin' wrong,” retorted Sweeny. “Ye've no
call to grunt the curritch out av yer betthers. Wait till the liftinant says die.”

Thurstane was studying the landscape. Which of those ranges was the
Cerbat, which the Aztec, and which the Pinaleva? He knew that, after leaving
Cactus Pass, the overland trail turns southward and runs toward the mouth of
the Gila, crossing the Colorado hundreds of miles away. To the west of the
pass, therefore, he must not strike, under peril of starving amid untracked
plains and ranges. On the whole, it seemed probable that the snow-capped line
of summits directly ahead of him was the Cerbat range, and that he must follow
it southward along the base of its eastern slope.

“We will move on,” he said. “Mr. Glover, we must reach those broken
hills before night in order to find water. Can you do it?”

“Reckon I kin jest about do it, 's the feller said when he walked to his own
hangin',” returned the suffering skipper.

The failing man marched so slowly and needed so many halts that they were

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five hours in reaching the hills. It was now nightfall; they found a bright little
spring in a grassy ravine; and after a meagre supper, they tried to stifle their
hunger with sleep. Thurstane and Sweeny took turns in watching, for smoke
of fires had been seen on the mountains, and, poor as they were, they could not
afford to be robbed. In the morning Glover seemed refreshed, and started out
with some vigor.

“Och! ye'll go round the worrld,” said Sweeny, encouragingly. “Bones
can march furder than fat anny day. Yer as tough as me rations. Dried
grizzly is nothin' to ye.”

After threading hills for hours they came out upon a wide, rolling basin,
prettily diversified by low spurs of the encircling mountains and bluish green
with the long grasses known as pin and grama. A few deer and antelopes,
bounding across the rockier places, were an aggravation to starving men who
could not follow them.

“Why don't we catch some o' thim flyin' crachurs?” demanded Sweeny.

“We hain't got no salt to put on their tails,” explained Glover, grinning more
with pain than with his joke.

“I'd ate 'em widout salt,” said Sweeny. “If the tails was feathers, I'd ate
'em.”

“We must camp early, and try our luck at hunting,” observed Thurstane.

“I go for campin' airly,” groaned the limping and tottering Glover.

“Och! yees ud like to shlape an shnore an' grunt and rowl over an' shnore
agin the whole blissid time,” snapped Sweeny, always angered by a word of discouragement.
“Yees ought to have a dozen o' thim nagurs wid their long
poles to make a fither bed for yees an' tuck up the blankets an' spat the pilly.
Why didn't ye shlape all ye wanted to whin yees was in the boat?”

“Quietly, Sweeny,” remonstrated Thurstane. “Mr. Glover marches with
great pain.”

“I've no objiction to his marchin' wid great pain or annyway Godamighty
lets him, if he won't grunt about it.”

“But you must be civil, my man.”

“I ax yer pardon, Liftinant. I don't mane no harrum by blatherin'. It's a
way we have in th' ould counthry. Mebbe it's no good in th' arrmy.”

“Let him yawp, Capm,” interposed Glover. “It's a way they hev, as he
says. Never see two Paddies together but what they got to fightin' or pokin'
fun at each other. Me an' Sweeny won't quarrel. I take his clickatyclack for
what it's worth by the cart-load. 'Twon't hurt me. Dunno but what it's good
for me.”

“Bedad, it's betther for ye nor yer own gruntin',” added the irrepressible
Irishman.

By two in the afternoon they had made perhaps fifteen miles, and reached
the foot of the mountain which they proposed to skirt. As Glover was now
fagged out, Thurstane decided to halt for the night and try deer-stalking. A
muddy water-hole, surrounded by thickets of willows, indicated their camping
ground. The sick man was cached in the dense foliage; his canteen was filled
for him and placed by his side; there could be no other nursing.

“If the nagurs kill ye, I'll revenge ye,” was Sweeny's parting encouragement.
“I'll git ye back yer scallup, if I have to cut it out of um.”

Late in the evening the two hunters returned empty. Sweeny, in spite of his
hunger and fatigue, boiled over with stories of the hairbreadth escapes of the
“antyloops” that he had fired at. Thurstane also had seen game, but not
near enough for a shot.

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“I didn't look for such bad luck,” said the weary and half-starved young fellow,
soberly. “No supper for any of us. We must save our last ration to make
to-morrow's march on.”

“It's a poor way of atin' two males in wan,” remarked Sweeny. “I niver
thought I'd come to wish I had me haversack full o' dried bear.”

The next day was a terrible one. Already half famished, their only food for
the twenty-four hours was about four ounces apiece of bear meat, tough, ill-scented,
and innutritious. Glover was so weak with hunger and his ailments
that he had to be supported most of the way by his two comrades. His temper,
and Sweeny's also, gave out, and they snarled at each other in good earnest, as
men are apt to do under protracted hardships. Thurstane stalked on in silence,
sustained by his youth and health, and not less by his sense of responsibility.
These men were here through his doing; he must support them and save them
if possible; if not, he must show them how to die bravely; for it had come to
be a problem of life and death. They could not expect to travel two days longer
without food. The time was approaching when they would fall down with
faintness, not to rise again in this world.

In the morning their only provision was one small bit of meat which Thurstane
had saved from his ration of the day before. This he handed to Glover,
saying with a firm eye and a cheerful smile, “My dear fellow, here is your breakfast.”

The starving invalid looked at it wistfully, and stammered, with a voice full
of tears, “I can't eat when the rest of ye don't.”

Sweeny, who had stared at the morsel with hungry eyes, now broke out, “I
tell ye, ate it. The liftinant wants ye to.”

“Divide it fair,” answered Glover, who could hardly restrain himself from
sobbing.

“I won't touch a bit av it,” declared Sweeny. “It's the liftinant's own
grub.”

“We won't divide it,” said Thurstane. “I'll put it in your pocket, Glover.
When you can't take another step without it, you must go at it.”

“Bedad, if ye don't, we'll lave yees,” added Sweeny, digging his fists into his
empty stomach to relieve its gnawing.

Very slowly, the well men sustaining the sick one, they marched over rolling
hills until about noon, accomplishing perhaps ten miles. They were now on a
slope looking southward; above them the wind sighed through a large grove of
cedars; a little below was a copious spring of clear, sweet water. There they
halted, drinking and filling their canteens, but not eating. The square inch of
bear meat was still in Glover's pocket, but he could not be got to taste it unless
the others would share.

“Capm, I feel 's though Heaven 'd strike me if I should eat your victuals,”
he whispered, his voice having failed him. “I feel a sort o' superstitious 'bout
it. I want to die with a clear conscience.”

But when they rose his strength gave out entirely, and he dropped down
fainting.

“Now ate yer mate,” said Sweeny, in a passion of pity and anxiety. “Ate
yer mate an' stand up to yer marchin'.”

Glover, however, could not eat, for the fever of hunger had at last produced
nausea, and he pushed away the unsavory morsel when it was put to his lips.

“Go ahead,” he whispered. “No use all dyin'. Go ahead.” And then he
fainted outright.

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“I think the trail can't be more than fifteen miles off,” said Thurstane, when
he had found that his comrade still breathed. “One of us must push on to it
and the other stay with Glover. Sweeny, I can track the country best. You
must stay.”

For the first time in this long and suffering and perilous journey Sweeny's
courage failed him, and he looked as if he would like to shirk his duty.

“My lad, it is necessary,” continued the officer. “We can't leave this man
so. You have your gun. You can try to hunt. When he comes to, you must
get him along, following the course you see me take. If I find help, I'll save
you. If not, I'll come back and die with you.”

Sitting down by the side of the insensible Glover, Sweeny covered his
face with two grimy hands which trembled a little. It was not till his officer
had got some thirty feet away that he raised his head and looked after him.
Then he called, in his usual quick, sharp, chattering way, “Liftinant, is this soldierin'?”

“Yes, my lad,” replied Thurstane with a sad, weary smile, thinking meantime
of hardships past, “this is soldiering.”

“Thin I'll do me dooty if I rot jest here,” declared the simple hero.

Thurstane came back, grasped Sweeny's hand in silence, turned away to hide
his shaken face, and commenced his anxious journey.

There were both terrible and beautiful thoughts in his soul as he pushed on
into the desert. Would he find the trail? Would he encounter the rare chance
of traders or emigrants? Would there be food and rest for him and rescue for
his comrades? Would he meet Clara? This last idea gave him great courage;
he struggled to keep it constantly in his mind; he needed to lean upon it.

By the time that he had marched ten miles he found that he was weaker than
he had supposed. Weeks of wretched food and three days of almost complete
starvation had taken the strength pretty much out of his stalwart frame. His
breath was short; he stumbled over the slightest obstacles; occasionally he
could not see clear. From time to time it struck him that he had been dreaming
or else that his mind was beginning to wander. Things that he remembered
and things that he hoped for seemed strangely present. He spoke to people
who were hundreds of miles away; and, for the most part, he spoke to them pettishly
or with downright anger; for in the main he felt more like a wretched,
baited animal than a human being.

It was only when he called Clara to mind that this evil spirit was exorcised,
and he ceased for a moment to resemble a hungry, jaded wolf. Then he would
be for a while all sweetness, because he was for the while perfectly happy. In
the next instant, by some hateful and irresistible magic, happiness and sweetness
would be gone, and he could not even remember them nor remember her.

Meantime he struggled to command himself and pay attention to his route.
He must do this, because his starving comrades lay behind him, and he must
know how to lead men back to their rescue. Well, here he was; there were
hills to the left; there was a mountain to the right; he would stop and fix it all
in his memory.

He sat down beside a rock, leaned his back against it to steady his dizzy
head, had a sensation of struggling with something invincible, and was gone.