She stirred, and achieved a faint smile.
"It's terribly hot. The sun strikes through," she replied. "Can't we let some air in?"
"The dust would smother you."
"Are we nearly there?"
"Getting on farther every minute," he replied, cheerfully.
Again the smothering alkali rose and the dust cloud crawled.
Four hours later the traveller called Jim collapsed face downward. The oxen stopped. Gates lifted the man by the shoulders. So exhausted was he that he had not the strength nor energy to spit forth the alkali with which his fall had caked his open mouth. Gates had recourse to the water keg. After a little he hoisted his companion to the front seat.
At intervals thereafter the lone human figure spoke the single word that brought his team to an instantaneous dead stop. His first care was then the woman, next the man clinging to the front seat, then the oxen. Before starting he clambered to the top of the wagon and cast a long, calculating look across the desolation ahead. Twice he even further reduced the meagre contents of the wagon, appraising each article long and doubtfully before discarding it. About mid-afternoon he said abruptly:
"Jim, you've got to walk."
The man demurred weakly, with a touch of panic.