“How did he escape?” asked Lanky.
“Why, the brute jest turned right through his self, jest clean wrong side out like a sock, and run the other way.”
“And that was the last you saw of him?”
“Oh, we used to see him occasionally, as we knowed by his long legs bein’ on the other side; but when winter come, he caught cold and died. And that’s what you’ll do, Lanky, if you set there by the coals and shiver. You’d better git a little shut-eye before you stand guard.”
WIND AND WEATHER
The day had been blustery enough, and Lanky’s eyes were red from the sand’s having cut into his eyeballs. There was still dust in the air, but at twilight the wind had subsided, and Lanky was experiencing that feeling of intense relief that comes when the sandstorm is over.
During the day there had been little talk. Lanky had most of the time ridden within normal hailing distance of Red Wallace; but conversation would have been difficult, and neither he nor Red had been in the mood for it. At noon each man swallowed his beans and bacon as rapidly as he could. Even then, he consumed a considerable quantity of sand.
The old-timers were sitting expectantly around the fire. Their experience with tenderfeet told them that Lanky would open the conversation, and that the topic would be the wind.
“Terrible day we had,” he observed. “How much sandstorm weather are we likely to have?”
“Son,” replied Red, “what you’ve seen today is the gentle zephers of spring. You ain’t seen a real sandstorm.”