They lost the count of time. They
dared not sleep, for that would have meant being buried alive.
The could only crouch close to the leaning rock, shake off the sand,
blindly dig out their packs, and every moment gasp and cough and
choke to fight suffocation.
The storm finally blew itself out. It left the prospectors heavy
and stupid for want of sleep. Their burros had wandered away, or
had been buried in the sand. Far as eye could reach the desert
had marvelously changed; it was now a rippling sea of sand dunes.
Away to the north rose the peak that was their only guiding mark.
They headed toward it, carrying a shovel and part of their packs.
At noon the peak vanished in the shimmering glare of the desert.
The prospectors pushed on, guided by the sun. In every wash
they tried for water. With the forked peach branch in his
hands Warren always succeeded in locating water. They dug,
but it lay too deep. At length, spent and sore, they fell and
slept through that night and part of the next day. Then they
succeeded in getting water, and quenched their thirst, and filled
the canteens, and cooked a meal.
The burning day found them in an interminably wide plain, where
there was no shelter from the fierce sun. The men were exceedingly
careful with their water, though there was absolute necessity of
drinking a little every hour. Late in the afternoon they came
to a canyon that they believed was the lower end of the one in
which they had last found water.
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