"What was the queerest thing you've ever seen in the desert, Mack?" asked Enoch, when they had sobered down.
Mack sat in silence for a time. "That's hard to judge," he said finally. "Once, in the Death Valley country, I saw a blind priest riding a burro fifty miles from anywhere. He had no pack, just a canteen. He said he was doing a penance and if I tried to help him, he'd curse me. So I went off and left him. And once I saw a fat woman in a kimono and white satin high heeled slippers chasing her horse over the trackless desert. Lord!"
"Was that any queerer sight than Just Smith chasing Pablo this morning?" demanded Curly.
"Or than Field tying a stone to Mamie's tail to keep her from braying to-night?" asked Enoch.
"You're improving!" exclaimed Curly, "Dignity's an awful thing to take into the desert for a vacation."
"Let's go to bed," suggested Mack, and in the fewest possible minutes the camp was at rest.
The trail for the next two days grew rougher and rougher, while the brilliancy of color in rock and sand increased in the same ratio as the aridity. Enoch, pounding along at the rear of the parade, hour after hour, was still in too anguished and abstracted a frame of mind to heed details. He knew only that the vast loveliness and the naked austerity of the desert were fit backgrounds, the first for this thought of Diana, the second for his bitter retrospects.
Mid-morning on the third day, after several hours of silent trekking,
Curly turned in his saddle:
"Just, have you noticed the mirage?" pointing to the right.
Far to the east where the desert was most nearly level appeared the sea, waters of brilliant cobalt blue lapping shores clad in richest verdure, waves that broke in foam and ran softly up on quiet shores. Upon the sea, silhouetted against the turquoise sky were ships with sails of white, of crimson, of gold. Then, as the men stared with parted lips, the picture dimmed and the pitiless, burning desert shimmered through.