the words, all she could do to understand them.
"I don't know, Peter. He's blind." Sheridan blinked at her uncertainly. Jackson croaked out a meaning "Ah!"
"Vasquez' booze," he said.
"Got to get him," managed Sheridan. He pointed to his throat. "Water?"
"In the canyon. Plenty of it. And Hollister has a cache somewhere. I think where he hid the horses last night. There is bacon—and coffee—I know." Jackson managed a cackle of approval. Sheridan whistled to the mare who limped up and he motioned for the girl to mount.
"No. She's lame. I'm not in bad shape. Now you've come."
She said it to both of them but it was meant for the man she had twice called Peter. And who had not forgotten it, despite his condition.
With due caution they entered the canyon and turned into the side ravine. Sheridan and Jackson drank and cleansed themselves of sand, then drank again in little swallows as if they were tasting nectar. The mare had had her share and fallen to nibbling grass.
"The man who says there's ennything better than water," announced Jackson presently, "is a plumb chump. The on'y trubble is it's too cheap an' plenty, an' it ain't been properly advertised. Me, I'm goin' to look for them hawsses. Incidentally, grub. Incidentally, Hollister."
Alone together, Mary Burrow outlined to Sheridan what had happened.
