“The Mormons!” I faltered.
“No! Leggins! Moccasins! They are Indians. We must leave right away before they see us.”
With our stuff she ran, I ran, for the mules. We worked rapidly, bridling and saddling while the fog rose with measured steadiness.
“Hurry!” she bade.
The whole desert was a golden haze when having packed we climbed aboard—she more spry than I, so that she led again.
As we urged outward the legs, behind, had taken to themselves thighs. But the mist briefly eddied down upon us; our mules’ hoofs made no sound appreciable, on the scantily moistened soil; we lost the legs, and the voices, and pressing the pace I rode beside her. 274
“Where?” I inquired.
“As far as we can while the fog hangs. Then we must hide in the first good place. If they don’t strike our trail we’ll be all right.”
The fog lingered in patches. From patch to patch we threaded, with many a glance over shoulder. But time was traveling faster. I marked her searching about nervously. Blue had already appeared above, the sun found us again and again, and the fog remnants went spinning and coiling, in last ghostly dance like that of frenzied wraiths.
Now we came to a rough outcrop of red sandstone, looming ruddily on our right. She quickly swerved for it.