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Show BY PATH AND TRAIL. 89 at least, I walked, the fierce sun beating down remorse lessly upon me. Walked, did I say? I dragged myself through hell, lor my bones were grinding in the joints, my skin was aflame and three times I vomited. I fought the cravings of my body, for if I sat down I might never arise. Not a living thing was anywhere in sight. I be lieve I would have welcomed a brood of rattlesnakes, of scorpions, of tarantulas, so deathly quiet was the air around me. ' ' Out in the lonely desert I deliberately stripped to the nude, dipped my hands in my canteen and rubbed my body. I then, as best I could, beat and shook my shirt and drawers, for I now began to suspect I was being poisoned by the copperas and arsenic in which I had dipped my clothes. J) ios, how hot the air was, how fiercely blazed the sun, how the burning sand threw out and into my face and eyes the pitiless glare and heat. " I dressed, and, taking my canteen, slowly but reso lutely set my face for the mountains, now nearing me. Once I fell, but in falling saved the water. With a pain ful effort I rose up, took a mouthful of water, and on ward I went, while the firmament was cloudless o'er my head." Don Estaban paused in his painful and fascinating narrative, took a few sips of maraschino, and said: " I will weary you no further with the story of my aw ful experience in that accursed waste of sand and heat. I reached the foothills, how I scarcely know, but I lost consciousness, not my reason, and those who' found me and cared* for me told me they thought I was dead when they lifted me from the arroyo into which I had fallen. ' ' " Did you ever get over the effects of that awful trip?" I asked. |
