They went on over the hills, Mead keeping a fairly straight course toward the mountains, and constantly running his eye along the ground in front of them. Twice he saw faint depressions in the sand, partly obliterated, but enough to make him think they were on the right track. At last, in a wide, sandy arroyo, he paused before a track in the farther edge of the sand which turned up the canyon.

"What time was it when you lost him?" he asked.

"Just at sunset. I remember, because the red was on the mountains and the sky was very brilliant."

"Then by the time he had traveled this far it was dark and this wide sandy streak was lighter and brighter than the hill up there, covered with bushes. Come on!"

Mead rushed up the canyon, almost on the run, his eye catching a toe-print here, a heel track there, a sunken pebble in one spot, a crushed blade of gra.s.s beside the sand in another. The young men who had gone out first had been through this arroyo the night before, when the moonlight did not show the faint trail. Since sunrise the searching parties had gone farther toward the north, covering ground which the other party had left untouched, for every one believed, since the failure of the first expedition, that the child must have turned in that direction and tried to go home.

Mead and Marguerite followed the winding of the arroyo for a mile or more, and at last, where it headed and the ground was covered by a thicker growth of bushes, the little tracks climbed the hill. By that time they were well beyond the farthest point toward the mountains which any one else believed the child could have reached, and there were no footprints of previous searchers to perplex their eyes or blot out such traces as they might find. From the top of the hill they saw the great body of men again scattering out over the mesa, and knew that they had been disappointed.

It was some minutes before Mead found any indication of the trail on the hill. Then the child seemed to have wandered about in the dark without purpose. For a long time he had kept to the top of the hill, going backward and forward and circling about, and at last following its crest toward the mountains.

"This must have been after the moon rose," Mead said, "and while it was still so low that only the top of the hill was light."

After a time the track turned down the hillside again, and the man and the girl followed, eagerly scanning the ground for the faint traces of the child's feet. Slowly and carefully they walked along, sometimes able to follow the trail without difficulty for long distances, and again keeping it only by the greatest care. Marguerite noticed that Mead looked for it always toward the south, and asked him why he did it.

"Because the moon was considerably past the full and shone more from the south, and he would have kept his face toward it."

Up and down the hills they went and along the arroyos, the trail sometimes heading straight for the mountains, and again turning toward the south, sometimes following the sandy watercourse beds and sometimes the hilltops, and again crossing them at varying angles.

Once they lost it entirely, and searched over a wide area in vain, until Marguerite found a shred of brown linen hanging upon the th.o.r.n.y limb of a mesquite bush.

"This is from his dress!" she exclaimed.

About the same time Mead saw a number of dog-like tracks, all going in the same direction, and a sickening fear rose in him so great that he scarcely dared sweep with his eyes the arroyo into which they were descending. He did not let Marguerite see that he had noticed anything unusual, and she followed him silently, wondering how he could trace the trail so rapidly. For he knew that he need not stop to look for the child's footprints. He could follow swiftly, almost on the run, the plain trail of the dog-like tracks down the sandy arroyo.

Presently she saw him stoop and pick up something from the ground. He turned and held out to her a large yellow chrysanthemum. She ran to him and seized it eagerly.

"Yes, I picked it as we were leaving home yesterday. He wanted it and I gave it to him. And he clung to it all this way! I wonder what made him drop it finally!"

Mead did not tell her of the fear that probably had relaxed the little muscles and sent the weary feet flying over the sand. He could think of no word of encouragement to say, for he felt no hope in his heart.

But her face had lighted with the finding of the flower and she seemed to feel almost as though it were a call from the child. She pressed the yellow bloom to her face and thrust it into her bosom. Then she dropped upon her knees and hid her face in her hands. Mead felt that she was praying, and impulsively he took off his hat and bent his head, but his eyes still swept the arroyo in front of them. As they went on he noticed that the child's tracks had been almost obliterated. Here and there a toe print, pressed deeply into the sand, showed that the little one had been running. At last Mead stopped beside a large flat stone. The child's footprints showed plainly beside it. And the dog-like tracks ranged in a half circle six or eight feet distant.

"He must have sat down here to rest," said Mead, hoping she would not notice the other tracks. But she saw them and looked at him with sudden fear in her eyes. A single word shaped itself upon her whitening lips.

"Coyotes?"

He nodded, saying, "I have been watching their tracks for the last mile."

She threw her hands to her head with a despairing gesture. He moved toward her, filled with the yearning to take her in his arms and comfort her. But he remembered that she was to be married to Albert Wellesly and his hands dropped to his sides. He turned to examine the ground about the stone and saw in the sand many little holes and scratches. He noticed, too, some pebbles in front of the coyote tracks.

"Look!" he exclaimed. "The brave little man! He threw stones at the coyotes and kept them off! He must have had a stick, too, for see these little holes in the sand. He probably stood up and thrust the stick toward them."

"Could he keep them off so that they would not attack him?"

"Yes, I think he could. As long as--as he kept moving they would only follow him."

A little farther on they found many deep impressions of the child's feet close together, as if he had been jumping, and after that the coyote tracks disappeared.

"He must have jumped at them and shouted and thrust out his stick,"

said Mead, "and frightened them away. He might have done that after he found he could drive them back. And this was probably after daybreak, when they would be less likely to follow him. We can't be so very far behind him now, for he would be tired and could not walk fast."

"Come, hurry! Let us go on!" urged Marguerite,

He looked at her doubtfully. Her face was drawn and white under her sunbonnet, notwithstanding her long walk in the hot sun, and dark rings circled her eyes.

"Have you strength to go farther? Hadn't you better wait here?"

"No, no! I can go on! Come, let's hurry!" and she moved forward.

"Then lean on my arm. That will help you some."

"No, thank you. I might keep you back. You go on and follow the trail as fast as you can and I will come behind. Don't stop a minute for me."

The trail left the arroyo and climbed the hill again and from its summit they could see the crowd of people far toward the north scattering out over the mesa and dotting the hills beyond the mountain road. A banner of smoke lay low against the northern horizon, while across the distance came the faint whistle of an approaching train. A vague remembrance came into Marguerite's mind that there was to have been trouble in the town, a battle and bloodshed, after the pa.s.sing of that train, and that she had been anxious on her father's account. But that all seemed years ago, and the remembrance of it quickly pa.s.sed.

The trail wandered on, keeping to the hilltops for some time. Mead told Marguerite that the boy had been cold in the early morning and had stayed on the hilltops because it was warmer there when the sun first rose. Then the trail went up and down again, sometimes over the hills and sometimes following the arroyos, sometimes turning on itself and going back, and sometimes circling about in long curves, facing by turns all points of the compa.s.s. Along arroyos, and on hillsides that were comparatively barren and sandy it was easily followed. At other times Mead lost it entirely and they would wander about, searching the ground closely. Once Marguerite found the faint track of the shoe when Mead was going away in another direction, and she called him back delightedly. For long distances he would spring rapidly along a trail so faint that it was only by close scrutiny she could see anything, his mind unconsciously marking the distance from one trace to where the next should be, his eye skimming the ground and his quick sight catching the crushed flower stem, the sunken pebble, the broken blade of gra.s.s, the tiny depression of heel or toe that marked the way.

The girl toiled on after him, sometimes falling far behind and again catching up and walking by his side. The slumbrous heat of the October day filled the clear, dry air and the sun shone fiercely, unveiled by a single vaporous cloud. Marguerite's mouth was dry and her throat was parched and all her body called for water. She thought of the thirst and the hunger that must be tormenting the little thing that had been wandering over those sun-flooded hills, with neither food nor drink nor sight of friendly face, for so many hours, and the agony of the thought seemed more than she could endure. Sharp, lightning-like pains cracked through her brain, and a dizzy, chaotic whirl filled her head.

She put her hands to her forehead and stopped short on the hillside, the fear flying through her mind that she might be going mad. Mead saw her and came quickly to her side, alarmed by her white, tense face and the wild look of agony in her eyes. Her lips were pale and dry.

"Do not stop!" she pleaded. "It is nothing but a little headache.

Don't stop a minute for me. Five minutes may mean the difference between life and death for my little boy. Hurry on, and I will come close behind you."

The fear of delaying her companion gave her fresh strength and she went on beside him. In the next arroyo they found a footprint deeply marked in a bed of sand. As Mead glanced at it he saw some grains of sand fall down from the rim of the depression. He called Marguerite's attention to them.

"We must be close behind him," he said, "or that sand would not still be trembling on the edge like that."

"If we only had some water for him!" said Marguerite. "He will need it so badly."

Mead thought that the child would probably be beyond the need of human aid when they should find him, but he merely answered: "Yes, I ought to have thought of it, but we started so hurriedly." His only hope was that they might be in time to save the little worn body from the coyotes. The trail crossed the arroyo and essayed the hill. It was steep and had been too much for the child's ebbing strength. The track went down into the valley again and part way up the other side, then back and across the arroyo, and took the hill once more at a long slant. They lost the trail there and walked about for a few minutes, searching the ground closely for signs of the little feet. Marguerite went on to the top of the hill, and Mead, glancing toward her, saw her standing stiff and still as if turned to stone, holding a little forward her tightly clasped hands. She gave a low cry and he sprang to her side. A moving splotch of red showed above a clump of greasewood half way down the hill. Then a tottering little figure in a torn and ragged linen kilt moved slowly down the hillside, lifting its feet wearily, but still going on.

"Paul! Paul! My darling!" A ringing call broke from Marguerite's lips and she rushed down the hill at a pace which even Mead's running strides could barely equal. The boy heard her cry, turned, swayed on trembling legs, and fell to the ground. She s.n.a.t.c.hed the child to her breast and pressed her face to his. He smiled faintly and wearily, and his parched, cracked lips whispered, "some drink!" and then his eyes closed and his head fell back upon her arm. The gladness in her face froze into terror and she turned to Mead in despairing appeal.

"Is he dead?" she whispered.

The man bent one ear to the child's heart.

"No, he is not dead, nor dying. His heart seems to be beating naturally, but feebly. If we only had some water!"

She held the child toward him, speaking rapidly: "Take him in your arms and run to where the others are. Doctor Long is there, and somebody will have water."

He looked at her anxiously. "But you?" he exclaimed.

She answered with a sharp insistence in her tones, leaning toward him, the words flying from her lips:

"Take him and run, run! Never mind me. I will come behind you. Go, go quickly!"

He cradled the unconscious child in his arms, running with long strides up hill and down, aiming a straight course toward the bulk of the searching party, which he could see from the hilltops, a mult.i.tude of moving dots straggling back into the hills where he and Marguerite had first followed the footprints. As he ran, his mind went back over the winding trail they had followed, and he calculated that the child had traveled not less than a dozen miles since sunset of the night before. He glanced over the hills at the crowds beyond and thought it must be some four or five miles to the nearest one. He saw a single horseman off to his left who seemed much nearer, but he decided it would be safer to run straight for the greater number, lest the man might turn about and ride away without seeing him. But the horseman presently came in his direction and soon Mead saw that the man was looking toward him. He waved his hat and halloed, and the man evidently saw and understood, for he spurred his horse into a gallop.