the wind was coming down through the mountain passes and sweeping
across the wide miles of desert, gathering the sand as it came.
Swiftly the golden mist extended over their heads, a thick, yellow
fog, through which the sun shone dully with a weird, unnatural
light. Then the stinging, blinding, choking blast was upon them with
pitiless, savage fury. In a moment all signs of the trail were
obliterated. Over the high edges of the drift the sand curled and
streamed like blizzard snow. About the outfit it whirled and eddied,
cutting the faces of the men and forcing them, with closed eyes, to
gasp for breath.

Of their own accord the mules stopped and Texas shouted to Mr.
Worth: "It ain't no use for us to try to go on, sir. There ain't no
trail now, and we'd jest drift around."

As far from the lee of a drift as possible, all hands--under the
desert man's direction--worked to rig a tarpaulin on the windward
side of the wagon. Then, with the mules unhitched and securely tied
to the vehicle, the men crouched under their rude shelter. The
Irishman was choking, coughing, sputtering and cursing, the engineer
laughed good-naturedly at their predicament, and Abe Lee grinned in
sympathy, while Texas Joe accepted the situation grimly with the
forbearance of long experience. But Jefferson Worth's face was the
same expressionless gray mask. He gave no hint of impatience at the
delay; no uneasiness at the situation; no annoyance at the
discomfort. It was as though he had foreseen the situation and had
prepared himself to meet it. "How long do you figure this will last,
Tex?" he asked in his colorless voice.

"Not more than three days," returned the driver. "It may be over in