II
It happened so strangely, so quickly, that Con gave himself no time
to think. They had been trailing a caribou, just for sport, for the
hunting season was closed, and Con struck into the wrong trail on the
return journey. Thinking to overtake the others, he worked his cayuse
hard, galloping on and on until the hills and canyons began to look
unfamiliar. Feeling that he was lost, he fired his gun, once, twice.
Far down in the valley came a response, so he loped down the winding
trail until he suddenly came upon a little shack surrounded by fields
of alfalfa, and a few cattle grazing along a creek.
As he neared the ranch a shot was fired from the shack window, he jerked
his animal up shortly, and was about to wheel and gallop back, when a
pitiful groan reached his ears, and a man's voice begged: "Water, water,
for the love of heaven bring me water!" Then, unfamiliar as Con was to
Western life, instinct told him that the revolver shot was meant to call
him to some one's aid.
"Coming," he shouted, slipping from his saddle, "buck up, I'll fetch
water," but before he could enter the door, a terrible, repulsive face
was lifted to the window, and the man almost shrieked:
"Don't come in, don't, I say; just hand me some water from the creek.
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