soil, often fine as flour, irritating, alkaline. Toward twilight little puffs of wind sent this dust into erratic whirlwinds, devil-dances of the desert, threatening to rise into a simoon, blowing the tiny grains into their bloodshot eyes. The big butte seemed as far off as ever though the eastern side of it was in deep shadow. It looked like the hulk of a stranded steamer, a strange simile for that waterless plain, yet it occurred to three of them, at least, for there was a suggestion of superstructure, and a chimney of rock that came into view as they travelled showed like a funnel. The prow was toward the west to which they travelled, guided by the sun and the southern rim of the mesa, which was marked by a purple void. The stony prow flamed in the sunset as they struggled along, looking vainly for some place to shelter them against the biting cold that would come with the dark. Chance of finding fuel there was none. They hoped only for a depression in the sand where they might huddle like sheep and last out the night.
Healy, in his madness, had gone into the lead, though they hardly noticed this. Each of the other three was secretly wondering how much longer they could keep on, doggedly plowing along step after step, halting, limping, staggering toward safety; afraid of the stop that must finally come; afraid of the lowering vitality of the night, mentally rather than physically conscious of the others' presence, as if they had been phantoms.
So long as Healy did not demand assistance it was
