head was stretched out straight, her eyes, though half-glazed, were wide open, and her nostrils were distended and quivering.
She smelt water, and she was going towards it. It might be near or far, but as long as she could put one hoof before the other she would stagger on in that direction, swerving neither to right nor left till she reached the water, or dropped dead in her tracks.
Tom Burrows knew this, and that was why he had tied himself to the saddle. The mule was the better animal now, and her instinct had to take the place of the human reason that had failed. If she reached the water he would reach it, if not—well, it would do her no injury if he had to cut her throat to gain strength enough to struggle on a little
farther.
This was, so far, the end of his expedition, and the outcome of his hopes. Poor little Shirty's body had, more than a week ago,
