im with the lariat, whereupon he gave another toss of his
horns, and then returned to the herd.

"It was that darned white nag," said Jones. "Frank, it was wrong to put
an inexperienced man on Spot. For that matter, the horse should never
be allowed to go near the buffalo."

"Spot knows the buffs; they'd never get to him," replied Frank. But the
usual spirit was absent from his voice, and he glanced at me soberly. I
knew I had turned white, for I felt the peculiar cold sensation on my
face.

"Now, look at that, will you?" cried Jones. "I don't like the looks of
that."

He pointed to the herd. They stopped browsing, and were uneasily
shifting to and fro. The bull lifted his head; the others slowly
grouped together.

"Storm! Sandstorm!" exclaimed Jones, pointing desert-ward. Dark yellow
clouds like smoke were rolling, sweeping, bearing down upon us. They
expanded, blossoming out like gigantic roses, and whirled and merged
into one another, all the time rolling on and blotting out the light.

"We've got to run. That storm may last two days," yelled Frank to me.
"We've had some bad ones lately. Give your horse free rein, and cover
your face."

A roar, resembling an approaching storm at sea, came on puffs of wind,
as the horses got into their stride. Long streaks of dust whipped up in
different places; the silver-white grass bent to the ground; round
bunches of sage went rolling before us. The puffs grew longer,
steadier, harder. Then a shrieking blast howled on our trail, seeming
to swoop down on us with a yellow, blinding pall. I shut my eyes and
covered my face with a handkerchief. The sand blew so thick that it
filled my gloves, pebbles struck me hard enough to sting through my
coat.

Fortunately, Spot kept to an easy swinging lope, which was the most
comfortable motion for me. But I began to get numb, and could hardly
stick on the saddle. Almost before I had dared to hope, Spot stopped.
Uncovering my face, I saw Jim in the doorway of the lee side of the
cabin. The yellow, streaky, whistling clouds of sand split on the cabin
and passed on, leaving a small, dusty space of light.

"Shore Spot do hate to be beat," yelled Jim, as he helped me off. I
stumbled into the cabin and fell upon a buffalo robe and lay there
absolutely spent. Jones and Frank came in a few minutes apart, each
anathematizing the gritty, powdery sand.

All day the desert storm raged and roared. The dust sifted through the
numerous cracks in