WATER LODE

Originally published in Mammoth Western, December 1946.

As usual, Pete Tatum was having an argument. Grimly, determinedly, and with all the energy he could muster under the withering glare of the desert sun.

The fact that he was arguing with himself in no way lessened the intensity of the quarrel.

“Dang you! I tol’ you there was nothin’ in that valley back in the hills, but you wanted to nosey around, an’ now we gotta hurry, ’cause if’n we don’t there ain’t goin’ to be enough grub an’ water to reach Red Gulch!”

The expression of such of Pete Tatum’s wrinkled, leathery features as were visible above his scraggly gray beard turned from accusing to defiant.

“It was worth a look,” he growled at his alter ego. “There might’ve been gold in the valley. An’ ’sides, you ought to be glad we got enough grub an’ water to reach Red Gulch—even if’n we do have to hurry some!”

Tatum shook his untidy gray head and looked fiercely obstinate. He wasn’t going to give in—not even to himself. He puckered his almost lipless gash of a mouth, shot a stream of tobacco juice at a cluster of cactus, and pitched back into the verbal fray.

With the melancholy patience of his kind, Jupiter the pack burro plodded at Tatum’s side. Occasionally Jupiter’s long ears twitched, as if to show a mild interest in the quarrel. Quite probably it was just a dutiful gesture, for it was certain that Jupiter had long since grown used to the endless wrangling that attended Tatum’s prospecting trips into the desert.

It was late afternoon. The sun, which had as yet lost little of its fiery intensity, was lowering itself down the parched sky toward its bedroll of distant mountains. The desert rolled away in every direction, an undulating sea of hot, dry, yellow-white sand, strewn with occasional outcroppings of bleached gray rock and dotted with numerous varieties of cactus. The taller growths, with their spiny, upflung limbs, looked curiously like grotesque green scarecrows. A thick, burned-out stillness lay over everything, as though the scene were encased in a great block of clear glass.

Tatum trudged over the sand, squabbling indefatigably. Words jumped out of him at each step of his worn leather boots. A listener might have detected the changes in his creaking, nasal voice as the strange two-in-one debate shifted sides.

The present bone of contention was argued bare without either opponent conceding defeat. It was tossed aside, and another promptly started on.

“Anyhow, you’re washed up—an’ you know it! You ain’t made a strike in years, an’ your stake at the bank is gone. You’ll have to get a job at one of the mines in Red Gulch, if’n you want to keep on eatin’.”

“’Tain’t so! I know the right folks, see? They’ll gimme a grubstake for another trip. An’ this time I’ll find somethin’. Just you wait.”

“Give you a grubstake? Why, you’ll be danged lucky if’n they don’t fetch the sheriff! Just a worthless old man, that’s what you are! A vagrant, even. No visible means of support.”

“Now you lookee here, Pete Tatum—!”

It went on. And on.

Tatum reached a group of huge boulders. He paused in their shade a moment, glancing at the sun. The spot would have been ideal in which to pitch camp for the day. But it would be quite a while yet before night closed down. It would be wisest to continue on as far as he could. His supply of food and water wouldn’t hold out to Red Gulch unless he hurried.

Tatum licked his caked lips at the thought of water. He unfastened the remaining canteen from Jupiter’s neck load and drank sparingly. He didn’t overlook Jupiter. The hardy little burro got along well enough on such moisture and nourishment as were to be found in tough, rubbery cactus leaves, but a little water now and then was always welcome. Obtaining a small pan from a canvas pack, Tatum poured into it a small but refreshing amount of the precious liquid. Jupiter drank eagerly, with grateful snuffles.

Then, with a hitch at his sagging belt and a slap on Jupiter’s hairy rump, Tatum started out again. He had left the boulders a good distance behind, when the sound of a gunshot broke the desert silence.

Tatum stopped abruptly, turning to squint in the direction from which the report had come. In another moment he glimpsed two men on horseback atop a sandy ridge less than a quarter of a mile away. As he watched, they began hurrying toward him.

The shot wasn’t repeated. It had evidently been made solely to catch his attention.

Tatum realized after several minutes that something was wrong with the mounts of the two riders. They were staggering and swaying drunkenly as they approached over the sand. All tired out, Tatum decided. Or half dead from thirst. He thought in sudden apprehension of his water supply—insufficient for his own frugal needs.

One of the two horses suddenly stumbled and fell, throwing its rider to the sand. It didn’t get up again, but lay where it had fallen, not moving. The remaining rider didn’t check his progress or in any other way offer aid. Without so much as a glance at his thrown companion, he continued on toward Tatum. The man who had been thrown struggled to his feet and followed at a shambling run, cursing in rage and chagrin.

“I don’t like this,” Tatum muttered to himself. “Nope, I don’t like it atall. These gents don’t ’pear worth sharin’ water with—’specially when you ain’t got a lot of it.”

He shrugged as his other half considered the matter and formed a different opinion.

“These gents are outta their heads from thirst, that’s all. Can’t ’zactly blame ’em for actin’ that way. ’Sides, Pete Tatum, don’t you try dodgin’ the fact that you should always share water with folks in the desert who ain’t got any.”

In another few minutes the mounted man reached Tatum, jumping to the sand even before his now completely exhausted horse had come to a full stop.

“Water!” he gasped. “Gotta have water!”

Tatum looked the man over carefully. The other was just over average height, lean almost to skinniness, but with a suggestion of quick, wiry strength. His whisker-stubbled face was just a bit too narrow, his eyes set just a bit too closely on either side of his long, sharp nose. His clothing, travel-stained and dusty, hardly seemed the clothing of a man who lives and makes his living near the desert. Twin six-guns hung at each hip, thonged down and slanted back in the fashion of one accustomed to using them not only often but quickly.

Tatum digested what he saw—and found he had a bitter taste in his mouth. He said slowly:

“I ain’t got enough water to last the three of us very long, stranger, so you’ll have to go mighty easy on it.”

The other nodded slightly, slate-gray eyes lidded. He rubbed the back of a hand across his cracked lips.

“I heard you, old timer. Now suppose you rustle the water.”

Filled with vague misgivings, Tatum unfastened the canteen, uncorked it, and turned with the intention of handing it to the other. He was given no chance to complete the gesture, for the container was abruptly snatched from his hand. In another instant the stranger had its mouth buried between his lips and was gulping greedily at its contents.

Tatum watched jealously, counting the gulps. Anxiety mounted inside him as the other showed no indication of letting up. Unable to control himself any longer, Tatum reached out and pulled the canteen away.

There was a whirl of movement. Blinking dazedly, Tatum found himself staring into the barrels of the stranger’s twin six-guns. The other was slightly crouched, slate-gray eyes wide open now, hard and cold as chilled steel.

Tatum swallowed nervously. “Sorry I had to do that, stranger, but like I tol’ you, this is all the water I got. We have to be mighty careful with it.”

The frigid, deadly glare faded from the other’s eyes. He nodded distantly and holstered his guns.

“Guess you’re right, old timer—but I don’t take to bein’ treated tough-like, savvy? We’ll get along fine, if you’ll just remember that.” The thin, sharp-nosed man turned to gaze toward his approaching comrade. The other had slowed to a walk, and now was staggering noticeably as he came forward.

“Damn you, Slade,” the latecomer snapped, between panting breaths. “Whyn’t you gimme a hand back there?”

The sharp-nosed man lifted his spare shoulders and let them drop. “Use your head, Bull. My horse couldn’t have carried the two of us.”

Bull wasn’t much taller than Slade, but his big-boned, heavy body made him seem huge by comparison. He had fleshy, blunt features burned red by the sun, and deep-set, small blue eyes. The lower part of his face was bristly with the beginnings of a straw-colored beard. Like Slade, he wore six-guns holstered at his broad hips, but his deliberate, plodding movements suggested that he had little if any of Slade’s speed at draw. Only a brief study of Bull’s thick, dull countenance was necessary to show that Slade was the leader of the two.

Bull turned his scowling gaze at Tatum, running the tip of his tongue over his lips. He grunted impatiently: “Ain’t you got no manners? Shake the lead outta your pants and hand that water bottle over.”

With trembling fingers, Tatum uncorked the canteen again, wincing as it was jerked a second time from his grasp. Bull was raising it to his mouth, when Slade spoke.

“Take it easy on the water, Bull. It’s all this old timer has. It’ll have to last us until we reach a place where there’s more.”

Bull nodded sullenly, but once he started pouring the water down his throat, it took another order from Slade, sharp-edged this time, to make him stop. Bull started to hand the canteen back to Tatum, but Slade reached for it.

“I’ll take care of this from now on.”

Tatum was about to indignantly object, but a glance at Slade’s determined, hard face changed his mind. At the other’s gesture, he handed over the cork.

Slade turned to Bull and began speaking curtly. “We’ll have to shoot the horses. There’s ain’t enough water for them, and they’re too far gone anyhow. You go back and take care of yours, Bull. And bring back your rifle and bedroll. You’ll be needing them.”

“Orders!” Bull muttered. “Allus orders.” But he turned and began to trudge toward his fallen mount.

Slade turned to his own mount, standing nearby, head low in utter exhaustion. He began removing the articles fastened to its back, a pair of bulging saddlebags, a rifle, a bedroll, and finally the saddle. Then he led the horse a short distance away. Moving back several feet, he pulled out one of his guns. Two quick reports thundered into the stillness. The horse thudded heavily to the sand.

Slade walked back to Tatum, stuffing fresh shells into his gun. His narrow features were expressionless. He asked:

“Where you headin’ for, old timer?”

“Red Gulch,” Tatum admitted grudgingly.

“A town, is it?”

Tatum nodded. “Minin’ town.”

“Any water between here and Red Gulch?”

“Mebbe.”

“What do you mean?”

Tatum turned his head and spat a stream of tobacco juice to hide the sudden, sly expression that had crossed his face. “Mebbe—if’n we run across somebody who has some water to spare.”

“How far’s Red Gulch?”

Tatum had his slyness well under control now. He gestured vaguely toward the south.

“Plenty far, stranger. ’Bout three days steady walkin’.”

Slade produced a tobacco sack and papers, and began to roll a cigarette. He said slowly:

“I like to know just where I’m goin’, and just how to get there. Mind explainin’ how you reach Red Gulch?”

Tatum pushed back his flop-brimmed hat, scratched his matted gray thatch, and looked uncertain. “Shucks, stranger, in the desert you either know where you’re goin’ or you don’t. Gotta know the country. Just you follow me, an’ you’ll get there.”

Slade said nothing further. He sat down on the saddle he had removed from his horse and smoked his cigarette, looking thoughtful.

Tatum glanced up at the sky. Two buzzards were circling high in the air. They were waiting, he knew. Waiting for the men to leave. Then they would come down and gorge themselves on dead horseflesh.

Tatum considered the buzzards somberly. He wasn’t overlooking the possibility that he might become buzzard fodder himself. The chances that the three of them would reach Red Gulch on the present supply of water were mighty slim. Tatum had deliberately held back from Slade the information as to how to find the town. Slade and Bull were tough hombres. He couldn’t take the risk, once they knew how to find Red Gulch alone, that they would kill him so there would be one less with whom to share the water.

Tatum jumped startledly as a shot broke the silence. That would be Bull, finishing off his horse. Several minutes later, the big man appeared, trudging toward them over the sand, the rifle and bedroll slung under one arm.

Slade looked at Jupiter, then at Tatum. “How long will your burro hold out?”

“He’ll hold out, all right,” Tatum insisted in sudden anxiety. “Ol’ Jupe is a tough critter.”

“Then you’d better get rid of some of your stuff, so’s Bull an’ me can load our things on it,” Slade said.

Reluctantly, Tatum removed his prospecting equipment. The remaining articles were necessary and couldn’t be abandoned. Slade and Bull piled their belongings atop Jupiter—with the exception of Slade’s saddlebags—and after Tatum had once more secured the lashings, they started off.

At a gulley, partly enclosed at one end by upright slabs of basalt, Slade finally called a stop. The sun was well on its way toward setting.

“Good place to pitch camp,” Slade explained tersely. “It’ll be gettin’ dark soon.”

On orders from Slade, Bull grumblingly helped Tatum gather a load of brushwood for a fire. Slade sat and watched, the saddlebags close at his side. Realization came to Tatum that Slade was jealously careful of those saddlebags. He began to wonder what could possibly be inside them that required such protection.

When enough fuel had been gathered, Tatum set about cooking a meal of flapjacks and bacon. He used his own supplies. Slade and Bull seemed to have exhausted theirs—if they had brought any along on their trip across the desert at all. Tatum decided they hadn’t. He already was certain that they were completely unfamiliar with desert country. What had prompted them to cross it in the first place was a mystery.

As Tatum performed the familiar task of cooking, he forgot momentarily that he was no longer alone. He struck up an argument with himself, while he fried the bacon and mixed the flapjack batter.

Slade and Bull watched him in puzzled surprise for some seconds. Then they glanced at each other significantly.

“Desert crazy,” Slade breathed.

Presently Tatum recollected himself sufficiently to bring up the question of coffee. Slade vetoed the idea on the basis that too much water would be consumed in boiling.

They settled down to eat, helping themselves directly from the cook pans. Slade and Bull devoured the food voraciously. Each time Tatum reached for a flapjack or a strip of bacon, it was to find the hands of Slade and Bull already there before him. The food was gone even before he was able to blunt the edge of his appetite.

Slade uncorked the water canteen and took several slow gulps. Then he handed it to Bull, who despite Slade’s watchful gaze, managed to swallow more than Slade had done. Bull gave the canteen back to Slade. The other corked it and placed it carefully behind his back.

Tatum stared. “Ain’t…ain’t you gonna gimme none?”

Slade glanced at Tatum from beneath lidded eyes. “You’ll get water in the morning, old timer. We gotta go easy on it, you know.”

“B-but that’s my water, d-dang it!” Tatum sputtered in outrage.

“Nothin’ wrong with me takin’ care of it for you, is there?” Slade placed a lean hand on the walnut butt of a six-gun.

Tatum thought it over. “Guess not.” He fell silent, staring into the fire. The desert night pressed in all around, deep and still.

Slade and Bull unslung their bedrolls and stretched out near the basalt slabs. After a moment Tatum followed suit, aware of Slade’s watchful gaze. Settling himself along the gulley wall some distance from the others, he pulled his shapeless hat down over his eyes and to all outward appearances promptly fell asleep. He even snored after a few minutes. But he had never been more widely awake at any time in his life.

Evidently assured that Tatum was deep in slumber, Slade and Bull began speaking in low tones.

“The nearest town is Red Gulch, according to what the old cuss told me,” Slade said. “It’s a minin’ town. No water on the way, ’ceptin’ what we got.”

“How far’s it?” Bull asked.

“’Bout three days away. The old cuss don’t know ’zactly how far or where it is, but he knows how to get there.”

Bull emitted a throaty curse. “That means we gotta share the water with him until—”

“Until we’re near enough to find it alone,” Slade finished. “We can’t take any chances he might do some talkin’.”

“Think we’ll be able to reach Red Gulch?” Bull inquired, after a short silence.

“If we’re mighty careful with the water. We’ll be plenty thirsty when we get there—but we’ll be alive.”

“I don’t like it!” Bull growled. “We should’ve stayed up north an’ not tried crossin’ the desert in the first place.”

“What else could we do?” Slade demanded. “That posse was gettin’ too close for comfort. It was the only way to throw them off.”

“Maybe—but I shouldn’t’ve let you talk me into pullin’ that bank job. Robbery ain’t so bad—but killin’ a sheriff and two deputies is too much.”

“It was me or them,” Slade pointed out calmly. “What you cryin’ about, Bull? Once we get over the border into Mexico, we’ll live like kings with the bank money.” Slade patted the saddlebags at his side. “Twenty-five thousand dollars, Bull—think of it!”

With a terrific effort, Tatum forced himself to keep snoring. Bank robbers! Twenty-five thousand in loot! The knowledge burned in his mind like a flame.

He lay motionless, pretending to sleep. Slade and Bull talked a while longer. Then there was the rustling of blankets as the two settled themselves for slumber. Silence fell.

Tatum’s agitated thoughts crystallized into a plan. Slade and Bull were worn out. Once they slept, nothing less than an earthquake would be able to waken them. If Tatum could stealthily obtain the water canteen, he could reach Red Gulch and tell the sheriff there about the two. There was certain to be a reward for the bank money, and this would furnish him with a new stake for further prospecting trips. As for Slade and Bull, they wouldn’t have enough strength left to put up a fight when the sheriff and his men came after them.

Clutching the plan eagerly in the palm of his mind, Tatum waited. The fire burned down to a few sullenly glowing embers. The breezes of night blew their cold breath over the desert. Slade and Bull lay quietly, breathing with the steady regularity of sleep.

Finally, assured that the two outlaws slept soundly enough for the success of his plan, Tatum pulled his blankets aside and crept toward Slade. He discovered that Slade lay almost touching one of the basalt slabs, with Bull on the other side of him. It was an awkward position for Tatum’s intentions. To reach the water canteen between Slade and the slab, he would have to reach precariously over both men. There wasn’t enough space between them for him to approach Slade alone.

Bracing one foot against a rock imbedded in the sand and stepping carefully over Bull with the other, Tatum reached for the water canteen behind Slade. With infinite care, he began working it loose from where the outlaw’s back pressed it against the slab.

The rock gave under the pressure of his weight, rolled aside. His boot slid through the loose sand.

Tatum crashed down atop Slade and Bull.

The two awoke with mingled exclamations of alarmed surprise. As Tatum began frantically to wriggle free, the outlaws recovered from their shock and in another moment pinned Tatum helplessly between them.

“You, eh?” Slade grunted. He released Tatum and stood up. At a gesture to Bull, Tatum was hauled roughly to his feet.

Slade studied Tatum grimly. “All right, old timer, just what were you up to?”

“I…I just wanted a drink of water,” Tatum stammered. “Woke up an’ was powerful thirsty.”

“Sure that’s all you wanted?” Slade demanded. “Sure you didn’t have any ideas of taking the water and leaving me an’ Bull?”

“Course not!” Tatum insisted. “I wouldn’t do a thing like that. Just wanted a drink of water, like I tol’ you.”

“Even if it’s true, old timer, I don’t think I better take any more chances with you.” With no warning change of expression in his narrow face, Slade abruptly swung a fist. The blow caught Tatum on the side of the jaw, and he plunged into unconsciousness as though a trapdoor had gaped suddenly beneath him.

Slade obtained the loose lashings from Jupiter’s pack load, and securely bound Tatum’s arms and legs. Then he and Bull lay down once more and wrapped themselves in their blankets.

“The old coot must’ve been awake all the time,” Slade said after some seconds. “Waited until we were sleepin’ before he tried that trick of his.”

Bull’s response was grim-toned. “That means he heard what we was talkin’ about a while back. Slade… He knows about the money—an’ the killin’s.”

Slade nodded bleakly. “We’ll remember that when the time comes. Right now, let’s try to get some sleep.”

* * * *

Slade was up shortly before dawn. He shook Bull awake, and then turned his attention to Tatum. He was untying Tatum’s bonds when the old prospector muttered and opened his eyes.

“Shake a leg!” Slade ordered. “It’s time for breakfast. We got to get movin’ before the sun gets hot.”

Tatum climbed slowly to his feet, leaden with despair. He had failed. The realization tore at him.

Dejectedly, Tatum set about making breakfast. When the meal was over, Slade and Bull drank from the canteen. Tatum was pointedly ignored. He gazed bitterly at Slade.

“No water for me, huh?”

“Not after that dodge you tried to pull last night,” Slade snapped. “Now shut up an’ get movin’.”

Jupiter’s load was fastened, and shortly they set out, Tatum and the burro in front, and Slade and Bull bringing up the rear. The sun began climbing a ladder in the sky, wiping the night shadows one by one from the desert floor. Slowly and perceptibly, the air grew warmer.

Conflicting thoughts milled through Tatum’s mind as he plodded over the sand. Uppermost was the idea of circling aimlessly until the water was gone and Slade and Bull died of thirst. But that would mean sacrificing himself as well. Tatum didn’t intend to cash in his chips any sooner than was absolutely necessary.

He couldn’t however, side-step the knowledge that Slade and Bull would kill him or leave him behind to die of thirst once they were able to find Red Gulch alone. He had to prevent that. Somehow he had to find a way to trick the two.

Tatum’s steps led him inexorably in the direction of the town—nearer to his own death—while he pondered the problem facing him. As the miles unwound slowly underfoot, he came no closer to a solution. It seemed that only a miracle could save him.

The sun reached its zenith, blazing down mercilessly. The progress of the group slowed to a listless crawling pace, and at last Slade called a halt. He and Bull drank once more from the canteen.

Tatum watched wistfully. He already felt the growing ravages of thirst.

Slade glanced speculatively at Tatum and shook the canteen. Its answering gurgles showed it to be about half filled.

“You ain’t gonna give him a drink, are you?” Bull demanded. “We ain’t got enough for ourselves.”

“The old timer will have to have some water if he’s goin’ to take us to Red Gulch,” Slade pointed out. “Can’t let him cash in on us.” He glanced at Tatum again. “We’re goin’ in the right direction, ain’t we? Sure you ain’t tryin’ to lose me an’ Bull?”

Tatum shook his head emphatically. “I don’t aim to cut my own throat at the same time, stranger.”

“Keep goin’ in the right direction, an’ you’ll get water,” Slade promised. “Try to lose me an’ Bull, an’ you’ll be the first to cash in, savvy?” At Tatum’s nod of understanding, Slade handed him the canteen. “Here—an’ take it easy.”

The water was like a life-giving-elixir to Tatum. He felt renewed strength flow into him. Handing the canteen back to Slade, a sudden thought struck him. He asked:

“What about Jupiter?”

“He’ll have to get along on his own. Men is more important than burros, old timer.”

They rested for a while. After another meal of flapjacks and bacon, the trio started out again. Heat devils danced over the sand as the sunlight reached its afternoon intensity. The steps of the men once more grew laborious and plodding.

Step after dragging step. Minutes that seemed like hours; hours that seemed like days. The sun, beating down at them with bright, hot hands. The desert, rolling away and away in dry, dreary vistas of sand, rock, and cactus.

Evening came at last, and with it food and rest. Tatum fell almost immediately into exhausted slumber. He had been forced by Slade and Bull into a pace far beyond the ability of his aging muscles.

In the afternoon of the second day, Slade called a halt in the shadows of a rocky ravine. By now Tatum was too weak to do any cooking. He sat sprawled against a rock, eyes covered with a dull film, thin chest rising and falling quickly with a shallow, irregular breathing. His lips were as dry, cracked, and brittle as old parchment. The pace set by the two outlaws had taken its final toll. Tatum had been given water from time to time—but not as much as his exertions required.

Slade ill-naturedly took over the task of cooking. Barely enough flour and bacon were left for the meal. Tatum was ignored when Slade and Bull finally gathered about the fire to eat. He was ignored again when the canteen was passed around.

Slade shook the canteen before he corked it, listening with anxious intentness. His slate-gray eyes grew bleak.

The rest did Tatum good. The dullness gradually faded from his eyes, and his breathing became more regular. His mind cleared. He looked around him slowly, lingeringly, knowing it was the end.

A movement caught his notice as a small object emerged from behind a rock some twenty feet away. It was a desert tortoise. Blinking its lidded eyes, it remained there for a moment, gazing curiously at the three men.

Tatum pointed incredulously, his body shaking in sudden excitement. “Water!” he gasped. “Water!”

Slade and Bull stared from the tortoise to Tatum. Their glances met. Slade tapped a forefinger meaningfully against his temple.

With a sudden burst of strength, Tatum climbed to his feet. Obtaining a blanket with frantic haste from Jupiter’s pack load, he hobbled toward the rock. The tortoise had ducked back out of sight at Tatum’s cry, and now was trying to scuttle away to safety. But with frenzied speed, Tatum pounced upon it, whipping the creature into the folds of the blanket.

He was gathering the ends of the blanket together, when his gaze fell upon another tortoise several yards away, frozen into inactivity by the sheer wonder of this unusual break in the monotony of its placid desert existence. After a short chase, Tatum caught this one also, and it went into the blanket with the other.

The effort proved too much for Tatum. He slumped down on the sand, heart pounding dangerously, the breath coming raggedly through his lips.

“Crazy!” Bull muttered in disgust. “Plumb crazy!”

Slade got up and went over to Tatum. “What was the idea, old timer?”

Tatum looked up at Slade, grinning foolishly. “Water,” he mumbled. “A regular lode.” Then: “You’re crazy, Pete Tatum! What you doin’, talkin’ like a demented idjit?”

An argument developed that lasted for some seconds. Slade listened, shaking his head. At last, with a grimace of impatience, he turned away. He grunted:

“Time to start movin’.”

They left the relative shelter of the ravine and struck out once more into the furnace-like glaring expanse of the desert. Tatum clutched at his blanket, muttering and cackling to himself as he staggered uncertainly along. Jupiter plodded slowly at his side, head low, ears drooping like wilted leaves.

Less than an hour later, Tatum fell limply to the sand. Bull jerked him to his feet, but had to hold him up to keep him from falling again.

Tatum shook his head. “Can’t make it,” he husked. “I’m done for.”

Motioning for Bull to lower the old prospector to the sand, Slade uncorked the water canteen. “Look, old timer, you’d like a drink, wouldn’t you?” Tatum’s eyes fixed upon the canteen as though it were an object of the most intense fascination. He tried to speak, but could only nod.

“Before I give you a drink,” Slade said, “I want you to tell me where Red Gulch is, an’ how far from here.” Tatum got out words with an effort. “Straight ahead…like we was goin’. Can’t…can’t miss it. You’ll make it, late tomorrow…if you push along steady.”

Slade nodded and stood up. He corked the canteen. “That’s all I want to know.” He gestured to Bull. “All right, let’s get movin’.”

Bull said, “You gonna leave the old coot here?”

Slade nodded curtly. “We’ll find the town alone, now.”

Bull dropped a big hand to the butt of a six-gun. “We oughtta finish him off. Can’t take no chances.”

“He’s already finished,” Slade pointed out. “Red Gulch is a day off. Without water, he’ll never make it.”

Bull finally shrugged. Slade turned to where Jupiter squatted in the sand, and prodded the burro with a boot. Jupiter tried to rise, but fell back weakly. The animal seemed as far gone as Tatum.

Slade gave up. He and Bull piled their belongings into their blankets, and slung these sack fashion over their backs. Without so much as a backward glance at Tatum, they started out. The old prospector dwindled into the distance that Slade and Bull put behind them. He lay very quietly under the fiery sun.

The two outlaws reached Red Gulch in the evening of the third day. The last of the water had given out that morning, and they were barely able to stagger into the little mining town. They slaked their thirst at a pump over a horse trough. Later they ate and obtained a room at Red Gulch’s only hotel. They slept until late the following morning.

Slade and Bull wasted little time thereafter. Mexico was only a short distance away now, and Slade was in a hurry to get over the border. They began their preparations for leaving, purchasing horses, new clothes, and the equipment and supplies they would need.

* * * *

In the afternoon they were finished. Checking out of the hotel, they started for the stable where they had left the horses. They were resplendent in their new finery, well fed, and smoking cigars. Slade carried the bulging saddlebags. He spoke eagerly to Bull of the things they would do when they reached Mexico.

Halfway to the stable, a knot of men moved from one side of the street and into their path. The leader of the group was a tall man with flaming red hair. He had a sheriff’s badge pinned to one pocket of his faded flannel shirt. At his side was an all-too-familiar figure.

Slade and Bull stared in utter disbelief.

It was Pete Tatum.

Tatum pointed. “That’s them, sheriff!”

With a grave nod, the tall man strode forward, thumbs hooked casually in his gun belt. “I’d like a look at them saddlebags, boys. Pete Tatum, here tells me you robbed a bank somewhere up north. If it ain’t true—”

Snarling, Slade went for his guns. An instant later, panic giving him a swiftness that he ordinarily lacked, Bull went for his also.

The tall man whirled to one side, moving very fast, yet with a deliberate, machine-like precision. His guns cleared leather as he moved, and their thunder blended with that from the guns of Slade and Bull in a roar like a string of firecrackers going off.

Silence came abruptly, a silence underscored by powder smoke and italicized by the smell of cordite. The tall man stood swaying a little. Blood was beginning to well from a crease in his shoulder. A bullet had knocked his hat off, and a hole showed in his flannel shirt at the waist where another had passed harmlessly through the slack cloth.

Bull lay sprawled on his side in the dust of the street, staring up at the sky with eyes that no longer saw. A grimace of surprise and pain was frozen on his heavy face. Just over the bridge of his blunt, thick nose was something that hadn’t been there before—something that looked oddly like a black button sewed on with crimson threads.

Slade was on his knees, clutching intently at his chest, as though he sought to keep something incalculably precious imprisoned there. But his fingers couldn’t hold back the flood of life that leaked inexorably away, from the two bullet holes near his heart. His face was white, shocked, incredulous. In another moment he toppled over into the dust. He lay there, and then his eyes, moving slowly over the semi-circle of faces before him, found Tatum.

“You!” he whispered. “You did this! But…but how? You should have died of thirst without water, back there.”

Tatum shook his slovenly gray head. His bewhiskered features were solemn.

“I had water, all right—enough for Jupiter an’ me, both. Found a regular water lode.”

Slade closed his eyes a moment, clutching a little tighter at his chest. Then he looked at Tatum again.

“I…I don’t get it. What’s this water lode? Where’d you find it?”

“Remember the two desert tortoises I caught?” Tatum asked rhetorically. “Well, they was my water lode. If you knew the desert ’stead of bein’ a stranger from up north, you’d of known that desert tortoises got a bladder under their shells that hold nearly a pint of good, clear water. With the two I caught, Jupiter an’ me had plenty of water to reach Red Gulch on. I had desert tortoises in mind when you asked me if’n there was water ’tween Red Gulch and where we met, but the way you was actin’ up at the time, I thought it best not to say anythin’. ’Sides, desert tortoises is where you find ’em, and I didn’t think I was goin’ to be lucky. ’Nother thing, I just played like I was cashin’ in, so’s you’d leave me behind an’ give me a chance to get at the water bladders.”

Slade’s lips were curled bitterly. A sudden spasm twisted his face as Tatum finished. Then it relaxed, and a blankness crept into it. His hands fell away from his chest. His eyes closed. Slade didn’t move again.

Holstering his guns, the sheriff bent to pick up his hat and the fallen saddlebags. He nodded in grim confirmation as he opened and peered into them. Then he turned to the crowd behind him, calling for volunteers to carry away the bodies of Slade and Bull. He got plenty of help.

The sheriff was turning to follow the procession, when Tatum plucked detainingly at his sleeve.

“You…you think there’ll be a reward, sheriff?”

The other grinned slightly. “There’s bound to be. This is a lot of money, Pete. You’ll get what’s comin’ to you, don’t worry. If you hadn’t used your head like you did, those two coyotes would of got clean away.”

Later, after he had explained every-thing to the satisfaction of a mob of curious Red Gulch townsfolk, Tatum used his newly-won prestige to obtain on credit a fresh supply of bacon and flour. Then, with his water canteen full, he started out with Jupiter for the edge of town to make camp for the night.

He was content. With the reward money furnishing a new stake at the bank, there would be more prospecting trips—a lot of them, in fact. And he’d make a strike. He was sure of that.

As he walked along with Jupiter at his side, he tried to strike up a quarrel with himself. The effort proved a complete failure.

For once Pete Tatum was completely at peace with Pete Tatum.