“They are running,” said young Klee. “They are badly scared.”
“Perhaps they go to Oraibi,” said one of the priests.
“We have sent runners to all the villages. No, they are heading for the great desert.”
They followed them out beyond all hope of water—out into the desolate sand—where the sun flamed like a flood of fire and only the sparse skunk-weed grew—and at last sharp eyes detected two dark flecks on the side of a dune of yellow sand.
“There they are!” cried Klee, the trailer.
The stern old white man spurred his horse—the soldier chief did the same—but Klee outran them all. He topped the sand dune at a swift trot, but there halted and stood immovably gazing downward.
At last he came slowly down the slope and, meeting the white man, the agent, and the soldier, he said, with a sullen, accusing face, and with bitter scorn:
“There they are; go get them; my work is done!”
With wonder in their looks the pursuers rode to the top of the hill and stood for a moment looking; then the lean hand of old Hozro lifted and pointed to a little hollow. “There they lie—exhausted!”
But Klee turned and said, “They are not sleeping—they are dead! I feel it.”