"Worse!" groaned Emma. "I shall expire, I know I shall."
The mountains, for which they were heading, were looming larger now, and looked cool and inviting compared to the heat of their present position.
"What is that smoke?" asked Grace Harlowe, as they neared the range, pointing to a thin spiral of vapor rising from the mountains.
"I reckon it's in our camp. Ping should have chow ready by the time we get there."
"You intend to go on this evening, do you not?" asked Grace.
"Yes. You said you were in a hurry to get to the desert."
"I shouldn't put it that way, Mr. Lang, but I am rather eager to get into the real phase of our journey, and eager to know what the desert is like. I have a feeling that I shall love it."
"Some do—some hate it," replied the guide thoughtfully.
"Do you hate it?" questioned the Overland Rider.
"I love it," murmured Hi Lang after a brief silence. "Little woman, I love the white sands, the burning heat of the day, the deadly, sweet silence of the night when all the stars come down so close you can almost reach out and touch them. I love the dead odor, and then—"