The excessively difficult walking and the thickness of the air tired me, so I plumped myself down to rest, and used my note-book as a means to conceal from the tireless Nielsen that I was fatigued.  Always I found this a very efficient excuse, and for that matter it was profitable for me.  I have forgotten more than I have ever written.

Rather overpowering, indeed, was it to sit on the floor of Death Valley, miles from the slopes that appeared so far away.  It was flat, salty, alkali or borax ground, crusted and cracked.  The glare hurt my eyes.  I felt moist, hot, oppressed, in spite of a rather stiff wind.  A dry odor pervaded the air, slightly like salty dust.  Thin dust devils whirled on the bare flats.  A valley-wide mirage shone clear as a mirror along the desert floor to the west, strange, deceiving, a thing both unreal and beautiful.  The Panamints towered a wrinkled red grisly mass, broken by rough canyons, with long declines of talus like brown glaciers.  Seamed and scarred!  Indestructible by past ages, yet surely wearing to ruin!  From this point I could not see the snow on the peaks.  The whole mountain range seemed an immense red barrier of beetling rock.  The Funeral Range was farther away and therefore more impressive.  Its effect was stupendous.  Leagues of brown chocolate slopes, scarred by slashes of yellow and cream, and shadowed black by sailing clouds, led up to the magnificently peaked and jutted summits.

Splendid as this was and reluctant as I felt to leave I soon joined Nielsen, and we proceeded onward.  At last we reached the white winding plain, that had resembled a frozen river, and which from afar had looked so ghastly and stark.  We found it to be a perfectly smooth stratum of salt glistening as if powdered.  It was not solid, not stable.  At pressure of a boot it shook like jelly.  Under the white crust lay a yellow substance that was wet.  Here appeared an obstacle we had not calculated upon.  Nielsen ventured out on it and his feet sank in several inches.  I did not like the wave of the crust.  It resembled thin ice under a weight.  Presently I ventured to take a few steps, and did not sink in so deeply or make such depression in the crust as Nielsen.  We returned to the solid edge and deliberated.  Nielsen said that by stepping quickly we could cross without any great risk, though it appeared reasonable that by standing still a person would sink into the substance.

“Well, Nielsen, you go ahead,” I said, with an attempt at lightness.  “You weigh one hundred and ninety.  If you go through I’ll turn back!”

Nielsen started with a laugh.  The man courted peril.  The bright face of danger must have been beautiful and alluring to him.  I started after him—­caught up with him—­and stayed beside him.  I could not have walked behind him over that strip of treacherous sink-hole.  If I could have done so the whole adventure would have been meaningless to me.  Nevertheless I was frightened.  I felt the prickle of my skin, the stiffening of my hair, as well as the cold tingling thrills along my veins.