That evening, when they made camp, a heavy mass of clouds hung over
the top of No Man's Mountains and the long Coast Range that walled
in the Basin. Texas Joe, watching these clouds, said nothing; but
when Pat threw on the ground the water left in his cup after
drinking, the plainsman opened upon him with language that startled
them all.

The next day, noon found them in the first of the sand hills. There
was no sign of vegetation here, for the huge mounds and ridges of
white sand, piled like drifts of snow, were never quite still.
Always they move eastward before the prevailing winds from the west.
Through the greater part of the year they advance very slowly, but
when the fierce gales sweep down from the mountains they roll
forward so swiftly that any object in their path is quickly buried
in their smothering depths.

In the middle of the afternoon Texas climbed to the top of a huge
drift to look over the land. The others saw him stand a moment
against the sky, gazing to the northwest, then he turned and slid
down the steep side of the mound to the waiting wagon.

"She's comin'!" he remarked, laconically, "an' she's a big one. I
reckon we may as well get as far as we can."

A few minutes later they saw the sky behind them filling as with a
golden mist. The atmosphere, dry and hot, seemed charged with
mysterious, terrible power. The very mules tossed their heads
uneasily and tugged at the reins as if they felt themselves pursued
by some fearful thing. Straight and hard, with terrific velocity,