It was the white metal cylinder.
I never should have touched it, he thought. Naturally, it would have a curse on it. I must put it back!
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw there would be little time. Sand was heaping up again all along the gully. But the wolly had disappeared up a slope to the surface of the desert.
"I'll come right back!" said Yorgh aloud, with an uneasy feeling that there just might be someone to hear him.
He thrust the object into the leather pouch on his belt beside his bronze knife, and ran up the slope with long-legged strides, even in the sliding sand. The wolly was out of sight.
The moan of wind rose to a shriek from the blackening sky.
Yorgh staggered blindly ahead. Once, peering between his fingers, he thought he caught a glimpse of the animal, but a gust whirled him around and he lost the direction. He floundered onward, wishing he had stayed in the gully. Then he remembered the company he would have had, and wondered if the Old One had been trapped by a similar false hope of shelter there.
With fumbling fingers, Yorgh unslung the cloak that hung behind his shoulder and wrapped it about his head. It gave some relief, and he plodded forward, afraid to stop in one spot.
Something jarred his shoulder roughly. Yorgh reached out, but his wild grab did not find the wooly fur of his mount.
"The trees!" he gasped in relief.