He stood on the edge of the cliff and thought bitterly that even the bighorn were against him. The big sheep had left a well-worn trail along the ridge of the mountains which he had been able to follow even in the predawn light, and such a trail should have led to water. Instead, it came to this cliff and ended, sign of bighorn going off in all directions. It was a trick, Ben thought. Like Madec, they were playing with him; killing him. Without water there was no contest. All Madec had to do was wait out the few remaining hours. For the first time Ben felt a deep, almost paralyzing fear. It was not the sharp, mouth-drying fear he’d felt walking away from Madec and expecting the bullet to slam into him. This fear was deep inside him, a huge, dark fear; a foreboding. And then when the first light of the sun touched the ground at the base of the cliff he saw the catch basin. A small one, a hollowed area in the rock perhaps ten feet across and, he guessed, not more than three or four feet deep.
