But
they were saved again. Those who bore farthest to the right in their
course to the mountains, steering toward a pile of tremendous rocks,
found a little stream of good water which flowed only a short distance
and then sank into the sand. This good news spread rapidly, and all soon
gathered at the little streamlet. It was slow work getting water for
them all, but by being patient they were all filled up. Some took two
canteens of water and hurried back to Mr. Ischam, whom they found still
alive but his mouth and throat so dry and parched, and his strength so
small that he was unable to swallow a single drop, and while they waited
he breathed his last. With their hands and feet they dug away the sand
for a shallow grave, placed the body in it, covered it with his
blankets, and then scraped the sand back over again to make a little
mound over their dead comrade. Perhaps if he could have walked a mile
farther he might have lived, and but for the little trickling stream of
water from the rocks they might all be dead, so slight were the
circumstances that turned the scale to balance toward life or death.
There was so little feed for oxen that they could gain no strength, but
were much refreshed by the water and could still travel. One was killed
here, and the meat, poor as it was, gave the men new strength. They all
guessed it to be at least fifty miles to the base of the great snow
mountain before them, and what there was between no one could tell, for
there were hills and valleys between.
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