Lenore realized then that she would have to confide in Jake or run the risk of having violence done to Nash. So she nodded wisely at the cowboy and winked mischievously, and, taking advantage of Anderson's entering the car, she whispered in Jake's ear: "I'm finding out things. Tell you—later."
The cowboy looked anything but convinced; and he glanced with narrowed eyes at Nash as that worthy hurried back to the car.
With a lurch and a leap the car left Palmer behind in a cloud of dust. The air was furnace-hot, oppressive, and exceedingly dry. Lenore's lips smarted so that she continually moistened them. On all sides stretched dreary parched wheat-fields. Anderson shook his head sadly. Jake said: "Ain't thet too bad? Not half growed, an' sure too late now."
Near at hand Lenore saw the short immature dirty-whitish wheat, and she realized that it was ruined.
"It's been gettin' worse, Jake," remarked Anderson. "Most of this won't be cut at all. An' what is cut won't yield seedlings. I see a yellow patch here an' there on the north slopes, but on the most part the Bend's a failure."
"Father, you remember Dorn's section, that promised so well?" asked Lenore.
"Yes. But it promised only in case of rain. I look for the worst," replied Anderson, regretfully.
"It looks like storm-clouds over there," said Lenore, pointing far ahead.
Through the drifting veils of heat, far across the bare, dreamy hills of fallow and the blasted fields of wheat, stood up some huge white columnar clouds, a vivid contrast to the coppery sky.
"By George! there's a thunderhead!" exclaimed Anderson. "Jake, what do you make of that?"