In the dusk a pack-horse crested a low-lying sand-ridge, put up its
head and sniffed, pushed forward eagerly, its nostrils twitching as
it turned a little more toward the north, going straight toward the
water-hole. The pack was slipping as far to one side as it had
listed to the other half an hour ago; in the restraining rope there
were a dozen intricate knots where one would have amply sufficed.
The horse broke into a trot, blazing its own trail through the
mesquite; a parcel slipped; the slack rope grew slacker because of
the subsequent readjust-ment; half a dozen bundles dropped after
the first. A voice, thin and irritable, shouted 'Whoa ' and the man
in turn was briefly outlined against the pale sky as he scrambled
up the ridge. He was a little man and plainly weary; he walked as
though his boots hurt him; he carried a wide, new hat in one hand;
the skin was peeling from his blistered face. From his other hand
trailed a big handkerchief. He was perhaps fifty or sixty. He
called 'Whoa ' again, and made what haste he could after his horse.
General
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