Even as caravans had perished in the great Sahara so had the American desert claimed its victims.
All gazed upon the scene spread before them with a profound impression of the importance of this fact.
Frank Reade, Jr., did not fear the desert with the Steam Horse, for he felt that at full speed he could quickly cross it.
Yet he gazed upon the sandy waste with deep interest.
The Comanches had gone from sight beyond the horizon long since.
“Well,” said Frank, drawing a deep breath, “here we are in the desert, and it is somewhere in this region that Bert Mason is located. I would like to know just where.”
“Begorra, it can’t be out yonder in that pile av sand, Misther Frank,” said Barney.
“No, Barney!” agreed Frank. “It probably is not there.”
“I jes’ tole yo’ dat if dar am any livin’ man in dis yer paht ob de worl’ he am ober yonder ways,” declared Pomp.
The darky pointed to a distant range of hills, to the southward of the depression of the Great Basin.