With the morning they were again on the way, the sun at their backs. Noon found them resting, though the journey was resumed later on. When once more the sun went down its glow showed them trees in the near distance, the presence of which they had not been able to detect before, on account of the shimmer of the sun’s torrid rays on the shining sand.
It was the consensus of opinion among the men that they were now close to the western extremity of the desert, and they decided to keep on moving far into that night if necessary, in order to reach the timber that promised them water, and shelter from the terrible sun.
Before midnight they arrived at the trees and had hardly made their way among them when some of the weary men sank to the ground, unable to continue further. Camp was made on the spot, and the remainder of the night was spent in refreshing slumber.
While the desert had been left behind, they now had a new source of trouble. Water they could obtain as often as they needed it, but their food supplies had fallen very low, nor were the hunters able to find game, though they searched early and late for signs of deer or bear; anything, in fact, that could be eaten.
“If this sort of thing keeps on,” Roger grumbled, when he and Dick were returning from an unsuccessful search for game, “there’s only one resort left to us, and that is to feed on horse flesh. I’d hate to come to it; but, rather than starve to death, I believe I’d try it.”
Dick laughed at hearing this confession.
“And yet, when we were among the Sioux,” he remarked merrily, “you threw up your hands in horror at the thought of eating baked dog, which the Indians esteem a great delicacy, so that they seldom have it except when they want to make a great feast. How do you feel about that now, Roger?”
“To be honest with you, Dick, I’ve changed my mind somehow. Those were days when we always had plenty to eat; but now the rations have become so scanty that we feel half starved most of the time. Yes, I believe that if I was asked to sit down to a feast of baked dog, I’d accept, and with thanks.”
“Well, there’s nothing like hunger to serve as sauce at a meal,” laughed Dick. “And, when I tell them at home how you were cured of some of your nice notions about the kind of food you long for, they will think it quite a joke.”
“We’re in a bad fix as it goes,” resumed Roger; “with some of the men half sick from their sufferings on this long trip, little to eat in camp, and a slim prospect of getting anything from now on. Perhaps, after coming so far, none of us will live to see that wonderful ocean.”