CHAPTER FORTY
They had taken less than a dozen steps when first Bourne, then Destry came to a halt, hands pressed into eyes, breathing growing strained.
“What is it?” said one of the others, a cowboy called Rudy Malone. He groped forward. There was one torch amongst them. Malone had tried in vain to hold them all up before they went any deeper. The need for more light was now painfully apparent.
“I don’t feel too good,” said another cowboy, Johnny Ayres, stumbling towards a nearby rock. He fell down and immediately vomited.
“Destry,” said Malone. “We need to go back, get more water. We ain’t prepared for this.”
“You shut your damned hole,” snapped Destry, swinging on the much older man. “You go back if you want but we is going on.” He pressed both hands against the sides of his skull
