In the dead silence of the midnight hours he heard them breathing
nearer on the desert wind--nature's voices of motherhood, whispers
of God, peace in the solitude.
IV
There came a morning when the sun shone angry and red through a
dull, smoky haze.
"We're in for sandstorms," said Cameron.
They had scarcely covered a mile when a desert-wide, moaning, yellow
wall of flying sand swooped down upon them. Seeking shelter in
the lee of a rock, they waited, hoping the storm was only a squall,
such as frequently whipped across the open places. The moan
increased to a roar, and the dull red slowly dimmed, to disappear
in the yellow pall, and the air grew thick and dark. Warren slipped
the packs from the burros. Cameron feared the sandstorms had
arrived some weeks ahead of their usual season.
The men covered their heads and patiently waited. The long hours
dragged, and the storm increased in fury. Cameron and Warren wet
scarfs with water from their canteens, and bound them round their
faces, and then covered their heads. The steady, hollow bellow of
flying sand went on. It flew so thickly that enough sifted down
under the shelving rock to weight the blankets and almost bury
the men. They were frequently compelled to shake off the sand
to keep from being borne to the ground. And it was necessary
to keep digging out the packs. The floor of their shelter gradually
rose higher and higher. They tried to eat, and seemed to be grinding
only sand between their teeth.
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