"What ails these bronchos?" grumbled Ned Rector.
"Guess they're afraid of heat prostration," replied Chunky. "Don't blame them. I'm half baked myself."
"Glad you know what ails you," laughed Ned. "You ought not to feel bad about that, seeing it's your natural condition."
As they plodded on the guide's eyes were roaming over the plain in search of telltale marks that would reveal the presence of that of which they were in most urgent need—water. The landscape, by this time, had become a white glare, and the blue flannel shirts of the Pony Riders had changed to a dirty gray as if they had been sprinkled with a cloud of fine powder.
Their hair, too, was tinged, below the rims of their sombreros, with the same grayish substance, while their faces were streaked where the perspiration had trickled down, giving them a most grotesque appearance.
"How do you like it, Chunky?" grinned Ned.
"Oh, I've seen worse in Chillicothe," answered the fat boy airily. "The dust in Main Street is worse because it's dirtier."
"Judging from the appearance of your face at this minute, I'm obliged to differ with you," interjected the Professor, his own grim, dust-stained countenance wrinkling into a half smile. "Do we take a rest at midday, guide?"
Parry shook his head.
"Think we'd better keep going. Only be worse off if we stop now. Hungry, any of you?"