For hours they traveled toward
its head, and, long after night had set, found what they sought.
Yielding to exhaustion, they slept, and next day were loath to
leave the waterhole. Cool night spurred them on with canteens
full and renewed strength.
Morning told Cameron that they had turned back miles into the
desert, and it was desert new to him. The red sun, the increasing
heat, and especially the variety and large size of the cactus plants
warned Cameron that he had descended to a lower level. Mountain
peaks loomed on all sides, some near, others distant; and one, a
blue spur, splitting the glaring sky far to the north, Cameron
thought he recognized as a landmark. The ascent toward it was
heartbreaking, not in steepness, but in its league-and-league-long
monotonous rise. Cameron knew there was only one hope--to make
the water hold out and never stop to rest. Warren began to weaken.
Often he had to halt. The burning white day passed, and likewise
the night, with its white stars shining so pitilessly cold and bright.
Cameron measured the water in his canteen by its weight. Evaporation
by heat consumed as much as he drank. During one of the rests, when
he had wetted his parched mouth and throat, he found opportunity to pour
a little water from his canteen into Warren's.
At first Cameron had curbed his restless activity to accommodate
the pace of his elder comrade. But now he felt that he was losing
something of his instinctive and passionate zeal to get out of
the desert.
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