"I do!" cried Felicia, jouncing up and down on the wagon seat between the men. She was powdered white with sand. "Charley will c'lapse when she sees me."
The horses were used to desert going. The tenderfoot drivers let them have their own way. Hackett had tried to describe certain landmarks along the route so that they could gauge the distance covered, but with small effect on Ernest and Roger. All points of the desert looked alike to them. They only knew that if they followed the trail north long enough, they would strike Prebles' late that night.
Just at sundown, however, Roger pulled in the horses. "That trail's getting awfully faint," he said.
"Sand's drifted like snow across it," agreed Ernest. "In fact, there hasn't been any trail for the last mile. But we can't miss our way. That white peak with three points is at right angles anyhow to us, as it ought to be."
Roger started the horses on, but after a short time stopped again.
"I'm not going on till we locate the trail," he announced.
"What are you going to do? Not stay here all night," protested Ernest.
"You bet I am. Ernest, we're off the track right now. We won't be able to find the trail until daylight."
Ernest's obstinate chin set. "I'm for going on."
Roger flushed in the fading light. "I'm the leader of this expedition and I say stop."