" Mile after mile the horses drifted before the
wind, heads hung low and ears drooping. In vain the Texan tried to
pierce the impenetrable pall of flying dust for a glimpse of a familiar
landmark. "We ought to be hittin' that long black ridge, or the soda
hill by now," he muttered. "If we miss 'em both--God!"
The half-breed pushed his horse close beside him: "We mus' got to camp,"
he announced with his lips to the Texan's ear. "De hosses beginnin' to
shake."
"How far can they go?"
"Camp now. Beside de cut-bank here. Dem hoss she got for res' queek or,
ba Goss, she die."
Tex felt his own horse tremble and he knew the half-breed's words were
true. With an oath he swung into the sheltered angle of the cut-bank
along which they were travelling. Bat jerked the pack from the
lead-horse and produced clothing and blankets, dripping wet from the
saturation he had given them in the poison spring. While the others
repeated the process of the previous camp, Bat worked over the horses
which stood in a dejected row with their noses to the base of the
cut-bank.
"We'll save the water an' make tomatoes do," announced the Texan, as with
his knife he cut a hole in the top of a can. "This storm is bound to let
up pretty quick an' then we'll hit for the waterhole. It can't be far
from here.
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