beneath his mount. The huge strength of Quade sufficed to budge the
writhing mustang. Lowrie and Sandersen drew Sinclair's pinioned right
leg clear and stretched him on the sand.

It was Lowrie who shot the horse.

"You've done a brown turn," said Sandersen fiercely to the prostrate
figure of Sinclair. "Four men and three hosses. A fine partner you are,
Sinclair!"

"Shut up," said Hal. "Do something for that foot of mine."

Lowrie cut the boot away dexterously and turned out the foot. It was
painfully twisted to one side and lay limp on the sand.

"Do something!" said Sinclair, groaning.

The three looked at him, at the dead horse, at the white-hot desert, at
the distant, blue mountains.

"What the devil can we do? You've spoiled all our chances, Sinclair."

"Ride on then and forget me! But tie up that foot before you go. I
can't stand it!"

Silently, with ugly looks, they obeyed. Secretly every one of the three
was saying to himself that this folly of Sinclair's had ruined all
their chances of getting free from the sands alive. They looked across
at the skull of the steer. It was still there, very close. It seemed to
have grown larger, with a horrible significance. And each instinctively