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Page 14
southern Cahuilla tribe, had asked local Mojave Indians for waterbut there was none. This year was one of severe drought, and the Indians who made the desert their home could not help the white travelers, even had they wanted to.
Abby pulled on her boots without lacing them, then slipped out from beneath the wagon and stood. A wind blew through her blue flannel nightgown, rippling the cascade of long, pale brown hair that she wore pinned up during the day, and making her shiver. Abby had thought deserts to be hot, yet she had felt cold every night.
She considered taking a sip of water from their precious, dwindling supplyjust enough to wet her lips. But that might deprive others. Besides, tasting it would add to her guilt. She, of all people on the wagon train, should be able to find waterfor she frequently had visions. If only she could control them . . . but over the years that had proven impossible. And none of the herbs and medicines she used could cure thirst.
She thought about trying to get back to sleep. Maybe she could again escape her discomfort. But she was wide-awake. If she lay back down and told herself to think of anything but her thirst, all she would think about would be . . . her thirst.
She looked around in the faint light from the crescent moon. The inside of the circle of wagons was quiet. The only movement she saw was near the main campfire in the center. Lighted from behind by the fire's dying embers, two men on watch sat whispering, heads together.

 
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