Placing his hands to his mouth, funnel-wise, he sent a long, shrill cry vibrating out through the storm. Another and another he gave till he was hoarse, but there was no reply.
"Guess I was dreaming after all," remarked Wandering William retiring once more to his blanket.
A sickly yellow light struggling through the sand-laden air heralded the day. But the wind had died down and the particles still held in suspension were rapidly thinning out of the air.
Roy thrust his head from under his saddle like a turtle from its shell.
His lips were dry and cracked, his eyes smarted, his skin was irritated with the sand. The whole world seemed to have turned to sand. It was everywhere.
"Peggy!"
A similar turtle-like head projected from the other saddle. Poor Peggy, she would positively have screamed if she had known the appearance she presented. Her hair was tousled, her eyes red with irritation of the sand, and her lips dry and cracked like Roy's.
"Is—is it all over, Roy?" she asked a bit quaveringly.
"I think so. The wind has died down, and look, the ponies have gotten to their feet. I guess they know."
"Wasn't it awful. I never thought we should live through it."