"Shore Spot do hate to be beat," yelled Jim, as he helped me off.
I stumbled into the cabin and fell upon a buffalo robe and lay
there absolutely spent. Jones and Frank came in a few minutes
apart, each anathematizing the gritty, powdery sand.

All day the desert storm raged and roared. The dust sifted
through the numerous cracks in the cabin burdened our clothes,
spoiled our food and blinded our eyes. Wind, snow, sleet and
rainstorms are discomforting enough under trying circumstances;
but all combined, they are nothing to the choking stinging,
blinding sandstorm.

"Shore it'll let up by sundown," averred Jim. And sure enough the
roar died away about five o'clock, the wind abated and the sand
settled.

Just before supper, a knock sounded heavily o the cabin door. Jim
opened it to admit one of Emmett's sons and a very tall man whom
none of us knew. He was a sand-man. All that was not sand seemed
a space or two of corduroy, a big bone-handled knife, a prominent
square jaw and bronze cheek and flashing eyes.

"Get down--get down, an' come in, stranger, said Frank cordially.

"How do you do, sir," said Jones.

"Colonel Jones, I've been on your trail for twelve days,"
announced the stranger, with a grim smile. The sand streamed off
his coat in little white streak. Jones appeared to be casting