“Do something!” said Sinclair, groaning.

The three looked at him, at the dead horse, at the white-hot desert, at the distant, blue mountains.

“What the devil can we do?  You’ve spoiled all our chances, Sinclair.”

“Ride on then and forget me!  But tie up that foot before you go.  I can’t stand it!”

Silently, with ugly looks, they obeyed.  Secretly every one of the three was saying to himself that this folly of Sinclair’s had ruined all their chances of getting free from the sands alive.  They looked across at the skull of the steer.  It was still there, very close.  It seemed to have grown larger, with a horrible significance.  And each instinctively put a man’s skull beside it, bleached and white, with shadow eyes.  Quade did the actual bandaging of Sinclair’s foot, drawing tight above the ankle, so that some of the circulation was shut off; but it eased the pain, and now Sinclair sat up.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “mighty sorry, boys!”

There was no answer.  He saw by their lowered eyes that they were hating him.  He felt it in the savage grip of their hands, as they lifted him and put him into Quade’s saddle.  Quade was the largest, and it was mutely accepted that he should be the first to walk, while Sinclair rode.  It was accepted by all except Quade, that is to say.  That big man strode beside his horse, lifting his eyes now and then to glare remorselessly at Sinclair.

It was bitter work walking through that sand.  The heel crunched into it, throwing a strain heavily on the back of the thigh, and then the ball of the foot slipped back in the midst of a stride.  Also the labor raised the temperature of the body incredibly.  With no wind stirring it was suffocating.

And the day was barely beginning!

Barely two hours before the sun had been merely a red ball on the edge of the desert.  Now it was low in the sky, but bitterly hot.  And their mournful glances presaged the horror that was coming in the middle of the day.

Deadly silence fell on that group.  They took their turns by the watch, half an hour at a time, walking and then changing horses, and, as each man took his turn on foot, he cast one long glance of hatred at Sinclair.

He was beginning to know them for the first time.  They were chance acquaintances.  The whole trip had been undertaken by him on the spur of the moment; and, as far as lay in his cheery, thoughtless nature, he had come to regret it.  The work of the trail had taught him that he was mismated in this company, and the first stern test was stripping the masks from them.  He saw three ugly natures, three small, cruel souls.

It came Sandersen’s turn to walk.

“Maybe I could take a turn walking,” suggested Sinclair.

It was the first time in his life that he had had to shift any burden onto the shoulders of another except his brother, and that was different.  Ah, how different!  He sent up one brief prayer for Riley Sinclair.  There was a man who would have walked all day that his brother might ride, and at the end of the day that man of iron would be as fresh as those who had ridden.  Moreover, there would have been no questions, no spite, but a free giving.  Mutely he swore that he would hereafter judge all men by the stern and honorable spirit of Riley.