The men, suddenly grown nervous, followed her out of the house. Apparently there was nothing, far or wide, on the desert, save the sweeping clouds of white, like drifting snow.
“My God! he wouldn’t tackle that!” said Slivers.
“I hear some one out in the kitchen now,” said Tate. “It must be him.”
Sally ran to see. It was only the dog. She darted forth once more.
“Not there!” she said. “But surely Barney wouldn’t—There! There!”
Her cry rang out so shrilly that even Slivers started. She was pointing stiffly. The men all stared at the storm of dust. For one brief second the swirling clouds were reft, revealing, far out eastward, in the dead-land of white, a small dark object—the form of a man.
One poignant sob was the only sound that Sally made, as she ran toward the stable.
“Good Lord! it’s him!” said Adams. “Was he heading back this way?”
“I think he was,” answered Catherwood.
“He couldn’t—do anything—else,” stammered Slivers.