114 



THE AMERICAN MUSEUM JOURNAL 



We now discovered that our scant 

 supply of water was exhausted and 

 although we wished to continue the hunt 

 we realized that to get farther from camp 

 without water would be risky indeed. 

 The guide had assured us that there 

 would be plenty of opportunity to get 

 water on our route but we knew that it 

 was five hours back to water, the way we 

 had come, and five hours without water 

 in the middle of the day would mean 

 torture. It is said that in that region 

 thirty hours without water means death 

 to the native and twelve hours is the 

 white man's limit. The guide assured 

 us that if we would continue on an hour 

 longer we would find water. After four 

 hours of hard hot marching we arrived 

 at a hole in the ground where some time 

 there had been water but not a drop now 

 and after a little digging at the bottom 

 of the hole the natives declared there was 

 no hope. Our trail for the last hour had 

 been under a pitiless noonday sun along 

 a narrow valley shut in on either side 

 by steep rocky hills, while we faced a 

 veritable sand storm, a strong hot wind 

 that drove the burning sand into our 

 faces and hands. The dry well was the 

 last straw. 



The guides said there was one more 

 hole about an hour away and they would 

 go and see if there was water there. 

 They with the gun-bearers started out, 

 while we off -saddled the mules and using 

 the saddles for pillows and the saddle 

 blankets to protect our faces from the 

 driving sand, dozed in the scant shade of 

 a leafless thorn tree. 



At four o'clock the boys returned — 

 no water. D. and I received the report, 

 looked at one another and returned to 

 our pillows beneath the saddle blankets. 

 A little later a continued prodding in the 

 ribs from my gun-bearer brought me to 

 attention again as he pointed out an 

 approaching caravan consisting of sev- 



eral camels and a couple of natives. 

 Each of the natives carried a well-filled 

 goatskin from his shoulders and realiz- 

 ing that these goatskins probably con- 

 tained milk, I knew that our troubles 

 were nearly over. I instructed the gun- 

 bearer to make a bargain for part of the 

 milk and covered my head again to 

 escape the pelting of the sand and 

 waited. 



We were both in a semi-comatose 

 state and I paid no further attention to 

 proceedings until I was again prodded 

 by the gun-bearer who was now greatly 

 excited. He pointed to the receding 

 camels while he jabbered away to the 

 effect that the natives would not part 

 with any of the plentiful supply of milk. 

 The white men might die for all they 

 cared. 



When I had come to a realization of 

 the situation, there seemed to be only 

 one solution to the affair — a perfectly 

 natural solution — precisely the same as 

 if they had stood over us with their 

 spears poised at our hearts. I grabbed 

 my rifle and drew a bead on one of the 

 departing men and called to D. to get up 

 and cover the other. I waited while 

 D. was getting to an understanding 

 of the game and then when he was 

 ready and I was about to give the word 

 the natives stopped, gesticulating wildly. 

 The gun-bearer who had been shouting 

 to them told us not to shoot, that the 

 milk would come, and it did. Milk! 

 Originally milked into a dung-lined 

 smoked chattie, soured and carried in a 

 filthy old goatskin for hours in the hot 

 sun. But it was good. I have never 

 had a finer drink. 



An hour before sundown, greatly 

 refreshed, we started back to camp. 

 Just at dusk the shadowy forms of five 

 asses dashed across our path fifty yards 

 away and we heard a bullet strike as we 

 took a snap at them. One began to lag 



