He cleansed his mouth with a small quantity. He took a long but carefully controlled draught. He replenished the dipper and handed it to his young wife riding the hurricane deck. She took it grudgingly, her dark eyes baleful as they met his.

She drank and pushed back her gingham bonnet to wet a kerchief and wipe her face. She set the dipper on the edge of the deck, leaving it for him to stretch after it while she looked on scornfully.

``What happens when there's no more water?'' she asked smolderingly.

She was like charcoal, he thought -- dark, opaque, explosive. Her thick hair was the color and texture of charcoal. Her temper sparked like charcoal when it first lights up. And all the time, she had the heat of hatred in her, like charcoal that is burning on its under side, but not visibly.

A ripple ran through the muscles of his jaws, but he kept control upon his voice.

``There must be some water under there.'' He tilted his homely face toward the dry bed of the river. ``We can get it if we dig,'' he said patiently.

``And add fever to our troubles?'' she scoffed. ``Or do you want to see if I can stand fever, too?''

``We can boil it,'' he said.

Her chin sharpened. ``We're lost and burning up already,'' she bit out tensely. ``The tires are rattling on the wheels now. They'll roll off in another day. There was no valley like this on your map. You don't even know where we're headed.