Yet it was not long until dawn began to turn the desert grey, gradually
revealing its forlorn desolation. Westcott lifted his head, and gazed
about with wearied eyes, smarting still from the whipping of the
sand-grit. On every side stretched away a scene of utter desolation,
unrelieved by either shrub or tree--an apparently endless ocean of
sand, in places levelled by the wind, and elsewhere piled into
fantastic heaps. There were no landmarks, nothing on which the mind
could concentrate--just sand, barren, shapeless, ever-changing form,
stretching to the far horizons. The breeze slackened somewhat as the
sun reddened the east, and the ponies threw up their heads and whinnied
slightly, increasing their speed. Westcott saw the marshal arouse
himself, straighten in the saddle, and stare about, his eyes still dull
and heavy.
"One hell of a view, Jim," he said disgustedly, "but I reckon we can't
be a great ways from that spring. We've been ridin' right smart."
"It's not far ahead; the ponies sniff water. Did you ever see anything
more dismal and desolate?"
"Blamed if I see how even a Mex can run cattle through here.
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