Anderson directed us. I was to climb over the ridge before us
and search in the ravine on the other side. Schwartz was to
explore up the beach to the left, and Denton to the right.
Anderson said he would wait for Billy Simpson, who had overslept
in the darkness of the cubbyhole, and who was now paddling
ashore. The two of them would push inland to the west until a
high hill would give them a chance to look around for greenery.
We started at once, before the sun would be hot. The hill I had
to climb was steep and covered with chollas, so I didn't get
along very fast. When I was about half way to the top I heard a
shot from the beach. I looked back. Anderson was in the small
boat, rowing rapidly out to the vessel. Denton was running up
the beach from one direction and Schwartz from the other. I slid
and slipped down the bluff, getting pretty well stuck up with the
cholla spines.
At the beach we found Billy Simpson lying on his ace, shot
through the back. We turned him over, but he was apparently
dead. Anderson had hoisted the sail, had cut loose from the
anchor, and was sailing away.
Denton stood up straight and tall, looking. Then he pulled his
belt in a hole, grabbed my arm, and started to run up the long
curve of the beach.
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