“If one had time to warn others of what was about to happen unexpectedly, very few people would have accidents,” laughed Mrs. Vernon.
In a few minutes the horses got upon their feet, shook themselves thoroughly, and then waited to proceed on the trail.
Another halfhour’s climb and they all reached the top of the peak. After leaving the timber-line, the riders found the scrub bushes grew scraggier and shorter, and finally the top of the peak was left as bare and craggy as any volcanic formation. From the top of one of these crags, Tally peered across an expanse of what looked like a rolling sea, but it was grey instead of blue-green.
When Mr. Gilroy saw this sea of sand, he quickly adjusted his glasses and gazed silently for a long time.
“Well, Tally, what do you make it out to be?” asked he.
“Him Bad Land—but I not know him in our way,” returned the guide, apologetically.
“That’s what I think about him—very bad land,” chuckled Mr. Vernon, shading his eyes with both hands and staring down at the desert.
“What does that mean, Uncle? Do we have to cross it?” asked Julie.
“Either cross it, or go back the way we climbed and try to go around it—that means several days wasted on back-trailing.”
“I can just discern the tiny thread of a trail that winds a way across that desert to the other side. We can easily follow the track and do it in one afternoon,” said Mr. Gilroy.