Hour after hour of the long night dragged by. They had left the sand
hills behind three miles before they reached Dry River and now the
wide, level reaches of the thinly covered plain, forbidding and
ghostly under the stars, seemed to stretch away on every side into
infinite space. Involuntarily all the members of the little party,
except Texas Joe, strained their eyes looking into the blank, silent
distance for lights, and, as they looked, they turned their heads
constantly to listen for some sound of human life. But in all that
vast expanse there was no light save the light of the stars; in all
that silent waste there was no sound save the occasional call of the
coyote, the plaintive, quivering note of the ground-owls, the
muffled fall of the mules' feet in the soft earth, and the dull
chuck, creak, and rumble of the wagon with the clink of trace chains
and the squeak of straining harness leather. And always it was as
though that dreadful land clung to them with heavy hands, matching
its strength against the strength of these who braved its silent
threat, seeking to hold them as it held so many others. The men
spoke rarely and then in low tones. The baby in the Seer's arms
slept. Only Texas, and perhaps his team, knew how they kept the
dimly marked trail that led to life. Perhaps Texas himself did not
know.

At daybreak they halted for a brief rest and for breakfast. The
child ate with the others, but still clung to the engineer, and
while asking often for "mamma," seemed to trust her big protector
fully. From the shelter of his arms she even smiled at the efforts
of Texas, Pat and the boy to amuse and keep her attention from her
loss. From Jefferson Worth she still shrank in fear and the others
wondered at the pain in that gray face as all his efforts to win a
smile or a kind look from the baby were steadily repulsed.