They were west of the Sabine, but only God knew where.

For three days, their stolid oxen had plodded up a blazing valley as flat and featureless as a dead sea. Molten glare singed their eyelids an angry crimson; suffocating air sapped their strength and strained their nerves to snapping; dust choked their throats and lay like acid in their lungs. And the valley stretched endlessly out ahead, scorched and baked and writhing in its heat, until it vanished into the throbbing wall of fiery orange brown haze.

Ben Prime extended his high-stepped stride until he could lay his goad across the noses of the oxen. ``Hoa-whup!'' he commanded from his raw throat, and felt the pain of movement in his cracked, black burned lips.

He removed his hat to let the trapped sweat cut rivulets through the dust film upon his gaunt face. He spat. The dust thick saliva came from his mouth like balled cotton. He moved back to the wheel and stood there blowing, grasping the top of a spoke to still the trembling of his played-out limbs. The burning air dried his sweat soaked clothes in salt edged patches.

He cleared his throat and wet his lips. As cheerfully as possible, he said, ``Well, I guess we could all do with a little drink.''

He unlashed the dipper and drew water from a barrel. They could no longer afford the luxury of the canvas sweat bag that cooled it by evaporation. The water was warm and stale and had a brackish taste. But it was water. Thank the Lord, they still had water!