thirstily, wanted it desperately. Never before had it seemed so sweet. An hour earlier it had stretched before him, full of promise. The blood ran warm and riotous through every vein. He had everything to live for—health, strength, home and friends. And now the ending of all his dreams and hopes and plans was—what?

A shadow fell across him. He looked up. It was the vulture, circling lower now, as though its instinct told it of a coming feast. Dick shuddered. The air seemed suddenly to have grown deadly chill.

CHAPTER II

THE PURSUIT

Down at the ravine, stretched out at full length beneath the shade of a great tree, Bert and Tom were watching the progress of the work, as it slowly neared completion. There was more to do than was at first thought, but after making allowance for this, it seemed to drag on endlessly.

"Not much genius in that crowd, I imagine," said Bert.

"What do you mean?" asked Tom, looking up in surprise.

"Why," returned Bert, "I forget what philosopher it was—Carlyle, I think—who says in one of his books that 'genius is only an infinite capacity for hard work.' You don't see much of it straying around loose here, do you?"

"Well no," laughed Tom, "not so that you would notice it. I've just been looking at that fellow over there with a hammer. I'll bet I could take a nap in the time it takes him to drive a nail."

"They ought to have as foreman one of those husky, bull-necked fellows I've seen in some of the section gangs laying out a railroad in the Northwest," went on Bert. "Those fellows are 'steam engines in breeches.' There isn't much loafing or lying down on the job when they're around. When they speak, the men jump as though they were shot."

"Yes," answered Tom, "or perhaps a mate on a Mississippi steamboat would fill the bill. Those colored roustabouts certainly get a move on when they feel his gimlet eye boring through them."

"After all, I suppose the climate is a good deal to blame," mused Bert. "It's hard to show much ginger when you feel as though you were working in a Turkish bath."

"Right you are," responded Tom. "We fellows born and bred in a cold climate don't realize how lucky we are. It's the fight with old mother nature that brings out all that's strong and tough in a man. I guess if the old Pilgrim Fathers had landed at Vera Cruz instead of on the 'stern and rock-bound coast' of New England they'd have become lotus eaters too."

"Well, that's what we're getting to be already," said Bert with a yawn, "and if I lie here much longer I'll strike my roots into the bank."

"Sure enough," assented Tom, "here we are talking about the laziness of these fellows, but I don't see that we're wearing any medals for energy."

"Energy," drawled Bert. "Where have I heard that word before. It sounds familiar, but I wouldn't recognize it if I saw it. I don't believe there is any such thing south of the Rio Grande."

"Come, wake up," retorted Tom. "Get out of your trance. I'll tell you what I'll do. Do you see that tree up there? I'll race you to it. That is, if you give me a handicap."

"Done," said Bert, who could never resist a challenge. "How much do you want?"

"How about a hundred feet? That oughtn't to be too much for a Marathon winner to give a dub like me."

"You don't want much, do you?" laughed Bert. "Your nerve hasn't suffered from the heat. But get your lead and I'll start from scratch."

Tom, quick as a cat, was not to be despised. On more than one occasion he had circled the bases in fifteen seconds. But he was no match for the fellow who at the Olympic games had won the Marathon race from the greatest runners of the world. For a little he seemed to hold his own, but when Bert once got into his stride—that space-devouring lope that fairly burned up the ground—it was "all over but the shouting." He collared Tom fifty feet from the tree and cantered in an easy winner.

Tom had "bellows to mend" and was perspiring profusely, but to Bert it had simply been an "exercise gallop" and he had never turned a hair.

"Well, you got me all right," admitted Tom disgustedly. "I've got no license to run with you under any conditions. But at any rate the run has waked me up. I've lost some of my wind, but I've got back my self-respect. But now let's go and hunt Dick up. I wonder where he is anyway."

"Probably stretched out on a couple of seats and taking a snooze," guessed Bert. "I'll bet he's lazier even than we are, and that's saying a good deal."

"Well, let's rout him out," said Tom. "Come along."

But when they reached their section of the car, Dick was nowhere to be seen.

"Taking a snack in the buffet, perhaps," suggested Bert. "There's something uncanny about that appetite of his. I'd hate to have him as a steady boarder."

But here their search was equally unavailing. The attendant at the buffet did not remember having seen any one of his description lately.

"Great Scott," ejaculated Tom. "Where is the old rascal anyway?"

Bert bent his brows in a puzzled frown. It certainly did seem a little queer.

"He must be close by somewhere," he said slowly. "He can't have vanished into the thin air. Perhaps the porters or the train men have seen something of him."

With a growing sense of uneasiness they went from car to car, but the mystery remained unsolved until they reached the engineer.

"Sure," replied that worthy, "I know who you mean. He was talking to me alongside the engine here."

"How long ago?" asked Bert, anxiously.

"O, it must be all of two hours," was the reply. "I remember it was just a little while after the train stopped. When he left me he started up that road," pointing to the path beside the track. "Said he was going to stretch his legs a little."

"Two hours ago!" exclaimed Bert.

"And not back yet!" cried Tom.

The boys looked at each other and in their eyes a great fear was dawning.

"O, I guess he's all right," said the engineer, "though he certainly was taking chances if he went very far. Things are rather risky around here just now, and it's good dope not to get too far away from the train unless you're pretty well 'heeled' and have got some friends along."

But his last words fell upon unheeding ears. With a bound, Bert was back in the car, closely followed by Tom. They rummaged hastily in their bags until they found their Colt revolvers—the good old .45s that had done them such good service in their fight with the pirates off the Chinese coast. Not a word was spoken. There was no time for talk and each knew what was passing in the mind of the other. Dick was gone—dear old Dick—and at this very moment was perhaps in deadly peril. There were only two things to be done. If he were alive, they would find him. If he were dead, they would avenge him.

That they were taking their own lives in their hands in the effort to aid their comrade did not even occur to them. It seemed the simplest thing in the world. It was not even a problem. Not for a moment did they weigh the cost. Were they hucksters to split hairs, to measure chances, when their comrade's life hung in the balance? As for the risks—well, let them come. They had faced death before and won out. Perhaps they would again. If not—there were worse things than death. At least they could die like men.