Range Ghost by Bradford Scott

request.
    “May have to make last what we’ve got to the other side of this scorched griddle, or back the way we came, whichever seems advisable,” he warned. “Besides, too much can make you sick, as you know well as I do.”
    Shadow snorted general disagreement to the jobation which did not seem to impress him much, but let it go at that.
    The sun crossed the zenith and slid down the western sky, and El Halcon began to grow anxious. He reckoned he was just about midway the desert, and he didn’t like the look of the southwestern sky, which hinted at wind, and wind raising the sand and alkali in blinding clouds could be deadly. The hills seemed no nearer than when he started out in their direction.
    “We should hit it soon, if we’re going to hit it at all,” he muttered. “This is getting a mite serious.”
    It was, for the blazing heat and the eternal glare were beginning to have their effect. His tongue was swelling, his eyes seemed filmed, and there was a singing in his ears—warning signs that heat prostration or sunstroke might well be in the offing, and not too far off, either.
    Then he saw something that quickened his pulses and cleared his befogged mind. Directly ahead and no great distance away was a long and wide dry wash along the edges of which grew a more abundant than average stand of mesquite. And without apparent reason, Shadow quickened his pace a little.
    “Do you smell it, feller?” Slade asked. “If you do, it’s more than I can.”
    The sides of the wash, which was much narrowerat the bottom than at the top, sloped downward at a fairly steep angle, but he discovered a place where sure-footed Shadow could negotiate the descent.
    Once at the bottom of the wash, things improved a bit, for there were places where the rushing water of flood times had hollowed out the lower banks until wide overhangs provided a grateful shade.
    Under one he dismounted, loosened the cinches a bit and gave the horse a little more of the precious water. Then he sat down with his back against the bank and rolled and smoked a cigarette, after a couple of sips from his coffee canteen.
    He smoked slowly, resting, relaxing until his pulses were back to normal and his eyes had cleared. Pinching out the butt and casting it aside, he examined the bottom of the wash. It was of hard-packed sand, much firmer than that of the surrounding desert, a phenomenon the discovery of which filled him with satisfaction.
    “Horse,” he said, “I believe it’s going to work out. I once before encountered something similar. Yes, I believe we’ll hit it. Let’s see, now.”
    Moving to the edge of the slope he studied the ground with great care. His feeling of satisfaction increased when he found, hugging the ground, a film of green, a scattering of tiny plants of the algae family, related to pond scum, plants that could not exist without moisture—which meant the existence of water they could tap.
    But where was the water? Nowhere was there a drop in sight, only the endless, weird expanse of sand and alkali. Slade straightened up, walked to where Shadow stood looking expectant, tightened the cinches and mounted.
    “Now, feller, it’s up to you,” he said. “A bunch ofcows could do it faster and easier, but I believe you can handle the chore.”
    Moving out onto the bottom of the wash, he headed the horse down it for a little distance, turned him and made a return trip. Shadow stepped out briskly, almost eagerly, it seemed, apparently knowing just what was expected of him and how to do it.
    Back and forth he plodded, back and forth, back and forth. Slowly the hard-packed sand began to sink under the steady beat of his hoofs, until he was moving in a narrow shallow trench. The pitiless sun poured down its burning rays. They flashed back from the sands. But Shadow never hesitated, back and forth, back and forth. Now the hard-packed sand was growing a trifle mushy. A few more minutes and little sparkles were oozing up into the trench,