Any skins or leather padding on the seat had long since crumbled. Only sand-scoured bones and metal remained. Except—
Something gleamed from the small deposit of sand remaining about the feet of the skeleton. Yorgh reached out cautiously and touched the end of a whitish metal cylinder as thick as his thumb. It was loose enough to pull out. He did, and it lay in his palm, about six inches long.
Yorgh could see no mark of any kind on the surface. He wondered if it would stand sharpening as a spearhead.
"Must have been one of the Old Ones," he muttered uneasily. "It is said they had strange and wonderful powers. I wonder if this was one of the wagons that skimmed over the ground with nothing pulling them, as are told of in the legends."
He had been turning the cylinder over in his hands as he considered. One end moved beneath his fingers and the opposite extreme abruptly flashed a bluish green light at him.
"Gaaghk!" choked Yorgh, and flung the thing from him.
It arched over the edge of the hollow, and its flight was followed by the thud of hooves as the wolly scampered away. The growing wind was again raising stinging flurries of sand.
"Ho! Come back here, you knob-headed idiot!" roared the man, scrambling up the side of the hole to give chase.
The animal, stung by the flying sand, ran faster. Yorgh stooped, groping for a stone to throw ahead of it, so as to turn it back in his direction. His fingers grasped upon something hard, but the shape felt wrong and he looked down.