Dick in the Desert. Otis James
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must be four miles from the camp," Mr. Stevens said, speaking with difficulty because of his parched and swollen tongue.
"I should say so; but I went toward the west, and after travelling until noon struck across this way, so have no idea of the distance."
"I shall die for lack of water, Dick, even though the wound does not kill me."
"How shall I get it, daddy?" the boy cried piteously. "I can't leave you here alone, and I don't believe there's a drop nearer than where we are camped."
"You must leave me, Dick; for you can do no good while staying here, and the thought that help is coming, even though there may be many hours to wait, will give me strength. Can you find your way to the camp and back after nightfall?"
"I'll do it somehow, daddy! I'll do it!"
"Then set out at once, and bring one of the horses back with you. I should be able to ride four miles, or even twice that distance, since it is to save my life."
"But you'll keep up a brave heart, daddy dear, won't you? Don't think you are going to die; but remember that mother and I, and even little Margie, will do all we can to pull you through."
"I know it, Dick, I know it. You are a good lad – far better than I have been father; and if it should chance that when you come back I've gone from this world, remember that you are the only one to whom the mother and baby can look for protection."
"You know I'd always take care of them; but I am going to save you, daddy dear. People have gotten over worse wounds than this, and once you are at the camp we will stay in Buffalo Meadows till it is possible for you to ride. I'll look out for the whole outfit, and from this on you sha'n't have a trouble, except because of the wound."
"Give me your hand, my boy, and now go; for strong as may be my will, I can't stand the loss of much more blood. God bless you, Dick, and remember that I always loved you, even though I never provided for you as a father should have done."
Dick hastily cleared the mist from his eyes, and without speaking darted forward in the direction where he believed the wagon would be found, breaking the sage-brush as he ran in order that he might make plain the trail over which he must return.
CHAPTER II.
A LONELY VIGIL
It was not yet dark when Dick arrived within sight of the wagon, and shouted cheerily that those who were so anxiously awaiting his coming might know he had been fortunate in the search.
As soon as his voice rang out, startlingly loud because of the almost oppressive stillness, Mrs. Stevens appeared from beneath the flap of the canvas covering, and an expression of most intense disappointment passed over her face as she saw that Dick was alone.
"It's all right, mother!" he cried, quickening his pace that she might the sooner be relieved from her suspense. "It's all right!"
"Did you find your father?"
"Yes; an' I've come back for one of the horses. He's been hurt, an' can't walk."
"Thank God he is alive!" she cried, and then for the first time since the previous evening she gave way to tears.
Dick did all he could toward comforting her without making any delay in setting out on the return journey.
While he filled the canteen with fresh water he repeated what his father had bidden him to say; and when his mother asked concerning the wound, he spoke as if he did not consider it serious.
"Of course it's bad, for he thinks one of the bones has been splintered; but I don't see why he shouldn't come 'round all right after a spell. We've known of people who had worse hurts and yet got well."
"But they were where at least something of what might be needed could be procured, while we are here in the desert."
"Not quite so bad as that, mother dear. We have water, and I should be able to get food in plenty. After I've supplied the camp, I'm goin' on foot to Antelope Spring, where we can buy whatever daddy may need."
"Across the desert alone!"
"A boy like me ought to be able to do it, and" —
"Your father hasn't a penny, Dick dear."
"I know that, mother; but I'll sell my rifle before he shall suffer for anything. Now don't worry, and keep up a good heart till I come back."
"Can't I be of some assistance if I go too?"
"You'd better stay here with Margie. Father and I can manage it alone, I reckon."
Then Dick set about catching one of the horses; and as he rode the sorry-looking steed up to the wagon, his mother gave him such articles from her scanty store as the wounded man might need.
"You're a good boy, Dick," she said, as he stooped over to kiss her; "and some day you shall have your reward."
"I'll get it now, mother, if I see you looking a little more jolly; and indeed things ain't quite so bad as they seem, for I can pull our little gang through in great shape, though I'm afraid after it's been done I sha'n't be able to get you and Margie the new outfit I promised."
"We should be so thankful your father is alive as not to realize that we need anything else."
"But you do, just the same, whether you realize it or not; an' I'll attend to everything if I have time enough. Don't trouble yourself if we're not back much before morning, for I reckon daddy can't stand it to ride faster than a walk."
Then, without daring to stop longer, lest he should betray some sign of weakness, Dick rode away, waving his hand to Margie, who was looking out of the rear end of the wagon, but giving vent to a sigh which was almost a sob when they could no longer see him.
Young though he was, Dick understood full well all the dangers which menaced. Although he had spoken so confidently of being able to "pull the gang through," he knew what perils were before them during the journey across the desert; and it must be made within a reasonably short time, otherwise they might be overtaken by the winter storms before arriving at their old home.
The beast he rode, worn by long travelling and scanty fare, could not be forced to a rapid pace; and when night came Dick was hardly more than two miles from the wagon.
He could have walked twice the distance in that time; but the delay was unavoidable, since only on the horse's back could his father be brought into camp.
When it was so dark that he could not see the broken sage-brush which marked the trail, it was necessary he should dismount, and proceed even at a slower pace; but he continued to press forward steadily, even though slowly, until, when it seemed to him that the night was well-nigh spent, he heard a sound as of moaning a short distance in advance.
"I've come at last, daddy. It's been a terrible long while, I know; but it was the best I could" —
He ceased speaking very suddenly as he stood by the side of the sufferer, whom he could dimly see by the faint light of the stars.
From the broken and uprooted sage-brush around him, it was evident the wounded man had, most likely while in a delirium of fever, attempted to drag himself on in the direction of the camp, and had ceased such poor efforts only when completely exhausted.
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