CHAPTER XI
THE LIQUOR OF VASQUEZ
For the last few miles Sheridan and Jackson had traveled on their uttermost reserves. The mare, untroubled by the fears that beset the men of what they might find at their journey's end, was in far better shape, yet she was on her last legs, tormented by thirst, her swollen tongue lolling from the jaws from which Sheridan had removed the bit. She had shared with the men the last of their water. Jackson promised a stream and green feed in the canyon and it seemed as if the mare knew this and brisked up as the walls of the Painted Rocks were lit by the rising sun and loomed higher and closer. Neither of the men was recognizable. Their haggard faces were caked with the desert dust that had fallen away from the lines graved deeply overnight, down which the sweat had coursed. Their features were grey, grim masks of resolve. Sheridan, gripping the rifle, showed his set teeth between his blistered lips, lawful murder stamped upon his features.
They did not look at each other. What hope was left in the bottom of their souls was dregs. They feared to stir it up. There was no need for speech, since they knew, and dreaded, each the other's thoughts. Once Jackson glanced up to where two buzzards wheeled above the canyon but he averted
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