For an hour they endured the tortures of hell and then,
when the storm had passed, raised their heads and cursed Creation.
Their bodies burned as though they had been shot with fine needles and
their clothes were meshes where once was tough cloth. Even their shoes
were perforated and the throat of each ached with thirst.
Hopalong fumbled at the canteen resting on his hip and gargled his
mouth and throat, washing down the sand which wouldn't come up. His
friends did likewise and then looked around. After some time had
elapsed the loss of their pack horse was noticed and they swore again.
Hopalong took the lead in getting his horse ready for service and then
rode around in a circle half a mile in diameter, but returned empty
handed. The horse was gone and with it went their main supply of food
and drink.
Frenchy scowled at the shadow of a cactus and slowly rode toward the
northeast, followed closely by his friends. His hand reached for his
depleted canteen, but refrained-water was to be saved until the last
minute.
"I'm goin' to build a shack out here an' live in it, I am!" exploded
Hopalong in withering irony as he dug the sand out of his ears and
also from his sixshooter. "I just nachurally dotes on this, I do!"
The others were too miserable to even grunt and he neatly severed
the head of a Gila monster from its scaly body as it opened it
venomous jaws in rage at this invasion of its territory.
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