19 Arenberg’s Quest

It was necessary for several reasons to remain some days in the cove. John Bedford’s strength must be restored. After the long confinement and the great excitement of his escape, he suffered from a little fever, and it was deemed best that he should lie quiet in the cabin. Phil stayed with him most of the time, while Breakstone and Arenberg hunted cautiously among the mountains, bringing in several deer. They incurred little risk in their pursuit, because the mountaineers, few in number at any time, were all drawn off by the war.

John had a splendid constitution, and, with this as a basis, good and abundant food and the delight of being free built him up very fast. On the fourth day Bill Breakstone came in with news received through the Porfirio-Catarina telegraph that the escape of John had caused a great stir at the castle. Nobody could account for it, and nobody was suspected. De Armijo was suffering from a very painful wound in the face, and would leave on the following day for the capital to receive surgical treatment.

“I’m going to see Porfirio for the last time to-morrow,” said Breakstone, “and as we have some gold left among us, I suggest that we make a purse of half of it and give it to him. Money can’t repay him and his mother for all they’ve done, but it may serve as an instalment.”

All were willing, and Breakstone departed with a hundred dollars. He reported on the day following that Porfirio had received it with great gratitude, and that, as they were now rich, he and his mother were going to buy a little house of their own among the hills.

“And now,” said Breakstone, “as John here has been gaining about five pounds a day, and is as frisky as a two year old just turned out to pasture, I think we’d better start.”

It was late in the afternoon when he said these words, and they were all present in the cabin. Three pairs of eyes turned toward Arenberg. A sigh swelled the chest of the German, but he checked it at the lips. Without saying a word he drew a little packet from the inside of his waistcoat and handed it to Phil, who was nearest.

Phil looked at it long and attentively. It was the portrait of a little boy, about seven, with yellow hair and blue eyes, a fair little lad who looked out from the picture with eyes of mirth and confidence. The resemblance to Arenberg was unmistakable. Phil passed it to Breakstone, who, after a look, passed it on to John, who in his turn, after a similar look, gave it back to Arenberg.

“Your boy?” said Breakstone.

Arenberg nodded. The others, sympathetic and feeling that they were in the presence of a great grief, waited until he should choose to speak.

“It iss the picture of my boy.” said Arenberg at last. “Hiss name is William—Billy we called him. I came to this country and settled in Texas, which was then a part of Mexico. I married an American girl, and this iss our boy. We lived at New Braunfels in Texas with the people from Germany. She died. Perhaps it iss as well that she did. It sounds strange to hear me say it, but it iss true. The Comanches came, they surprised and raided the town, they killed many, and they carried away many women and children. Ah, the poor women who have never been heard of again! My little boy was among those carried off. I fought, I was wounded three times, I was in a delirium for days afterward.

“As soon as I could ride a horse again I tried to follow the Comanches. They had gone to the Northwest, and I was sure that they had not killed Billy. They take such little boys and turn them into savage warriors, training them through the years. I followed alone toward the western Comanche villages for a long time, and then I lost the trail. I searched again and again. I nearly died of thirst in the desert; another time only luck kept me from freezing in a Norther. I saw, alas! that I could not do anything alone. I went all the way to New Orleans, whence, I learned, a great train for Santa Fé was going to start. Perhaps among the fearless spirits that gather for such an expedition I could find friends who would help me in my hunt. I have found them.”

Arenberg stopped, his tale told, his chest heaving with emotion, but no word passing his lips. Bill Breakstone was the first to speak.

“Hans,” he said, “you have had to turn aside from your quest to help in Phil’s, which is now finished, and you have done a big part; now we swear one and all to help you to the extent of our lives in yours, and here’s my hand on it.”

He solemnly gave his hand to Arenberg, who gave it a convulsive grasp in his own big palm. Phil and John pledged their faith in the same manner, and moisture dimmed Arenberg’s honest eyes.

“It will be all right, Hans, old man,” said Breakstone. “We’ll get your boy sure. About how old is he now?”

“Ten.”

“Then the Comanches have certainly adopted him. They’d take a boy at just about the age he was captured, six or seven, because he would soon be old enough to ride and take care of himself, and he’s not too old to forget all about his white life and to become a thorough Indian. That logic is good. You can rely on it, Hans.”

“It iss so! I feel it iss so!” said Arenberg. “I feel that my boy iss out there somewhere with the Comanche riders, and that we will find him.”

“Of course we will,” said Breakstone cheerfully. “Phil, you see that a place is registered in this company for one William Arenberg, blue eyes, light hair, fair complexion, age ten years. Meanwhile I want to tell you, John Bedford, that we were so certain of getting you, in spite of the impossible, that we brought along an extra rifle, pistol, and ammunition, and that we also have a horse for you over in the valley with the others.”

“It’s like all that you have done for me,” said John, “thorough and complete.”

They went over into the valley the next day, saddled and bridled the horses, and, well provided with food and ammunition, started for the vast plains of Northwestern Texas, on what would have seemed to others a hopeless quest, distance and space alike were so great. When they came out upon one of the early ridges John had a sudden and distinct view of the Castle of Montevideo lying below, honey-colored, huge, and threatening. A shudder that had in it an actual tinge of physical pain passed through him. One cannot forget in a moment three years between stone walls. But the shudder was quickly gone, and, in its place, came a thrill of pure joy. Freedom, freedom itself, irrespective of all other good things, still sparkled so gloriously in his veins that it alone could make him wholly happy.

They rode on over the ridge. John looked back. The Castle of Montevideo was shut from his view now forever, although he never ceased to remember the minutest detail of Cell 37 and the little patch of mountainside that could be seen from the deep loophole of a window.

But they were all joyous, Phil because he had found and rescued his brother, John because he had been found and rescued, Bill Breakstone because he had helped in great deeds ending in triumph, and Hans Arenberg because they were now engaged upon his own quest, the quest that lay next to his heart, and these comrades of his were the best and most loyal that a man could ever have for such a service. Three or four years rolled away from Hans Arenberg, the blue eyes grew brighter, the pink in his cheeks deepened, and Phil, looking at him, saw that he was really a young man. Before, he had always made upon his mind the impression of middle age.

They rode steadily toward the northwest for many days without serious adventure Once or twice they encountered small bands of Mexican guerillas, with whom they exchanged distant shots without harm, but the war was now south of them, and soon they passed entirely beyond its fringe, leaving the mountains also behind them. They met various American scouts and trappers, from whom they bought a couple of pack horses, two good rifles, and a large supply of fresh ammunition. It was explained by Bill Breakstone, who said:

The two extra horses were trained to follow, and they caused no trouble. They carried the supplies of spare arms and ammunition and also of dried venison for the intervals in which they might find no game. They also found it wise to take skin bags of water, buying the bags at a village occupied by American troops, which they passed. They found Northern Mexico almost at peace. Resistance to the Americans there had ceased practically, and in the towns buying and selling, living and dying went on as usual. They had nothing to guard against but sudden ambushes by little bands of guerillas, and they were now all so experienced and so skilled with the rifle that they feared no such trap.

It was wonderful at this time to watch John Bedford grow. He had already reached the stature and frame of a man, but when he came from the Castle of Montevideo he was a frame, and not much more. Now the flesh formed fast upon this frame, cords and knots of muscle grew upon his arms, his cheeks filled out, the prison pallor disappeared and gave way to a fine healthy brown, the creation of the Southern sun, his breath came deep and regular from strong lungs, and he duly notified Bill Breakstone that within another month he would challenge him to a match at leaping, wrestling, jumping, boxing, or any other contest he wished. They had also bought good clothes for him at one of the villages, and he was now a stalwart young man, anxious to live intensely and to make up the three years that he had lost.

Meantime, leaving the Mexican mountains and the alkali desert of the plateau behind them, they came to the Rio Grande, though farther west than their first passage. Here they stopped and looked awhile at the stream, a large volume of water flowing in its wide channel of sand. Phil felt emotion. Many and great events had happened since he saw that water flowing by the year before, and the miracle for which he hoped had been accomplished. To-day they were upon a quest other than his own, but they pursued it with an equal zeal, and he believed that all the omens and presages were in their favor.

They found a safe passage through the sandy approaches, swam the river upon their horses, and stood once more upon the soil of Texas. Phil felt that they would have little more to do with Mexicans, but that they must dare the formidable power of the Comanches, which now lay before them.

They camped that night in chaparral, where they were well concealed and built no fire. The weather was quite warm again, save for those sudden but usually brief changes of temperature that often occur in West Texas. But there was no sign of storm in the air, and they felt that their blankets would be sufficient for the night—however hot the day might be, the nights were always cool. Bill Breakstone had first beaten up the chaparral for rattlesnakes, and, feeling safe from any unpleasant interruption from that source, they spread out their blankets and lay comfortably upon them while they discussed the plan of their further march.

They felt quite sure that, with the passage of American troops south, the Comanches had gone far to the westward. The Indians had already suffered too much from these formidable invaders to oppose their southward march. Besides, they had received definite information that both Santana and Black Panther with their bands had gone almost to the border of New Mexico. The sole question with the four was whether to search over a wide belt of territory at once, or to go straight westward until they struck the Rio Grande again.

“I favor the long trip before we begin the hunt.” said Bill Breakstone. “The chances are all in favor of the Comanches being out there. The buffalo herds, which will soon be drifting southward, are thickest in that part of the country.”

Breakstone’s logic seemed good to the others, and the next morning they began the long march through a region mostly bare but full of interest for them all. They passed a river which flowed for many miles on a bed of sand a half mile wide, and this sand everywhere was thick with salt. From the bluffs farther back salt springs gushed forth and flowed down to the river.

Then they came upon the southern edge of the Great Staked Plain of Texas, known long ago to the Spaniards and Mexicans as the Llano Estacado. John Bedford, who was a little in advance, was the first to see the southern belt of timber. It had been discovered very soon that John’s eyes were the keenest of them all. He believed himself that they had been strengthened by his long staring through the loophole at the castle in order to make out every detail of his little landscape on the far mountainside. Now he saw a faint dark line running along the horizon until it passed out of sight both to east and west. He called Breakstone’s attention to it at once, and the wise Bill soon announced that it was the southern belt of the Cross Timbers, the two parallel strips of forest growing out of an otherwise treeless country which for hundreds of miles enclose a vast plain.

“It’s the first belt,” said Bill Breakstone, “and, while it’s not as near as it looks, we’re covering ground pretty fast, and we’ll strike the timber before nightfall. How good it looks to see forest again.”

Even the horses seemed to understand, as they raised their heads, neighed, and then, without any urging from their masters, increased their pace. Phil rode up by the side of his brother John, and watched the belt of timber rise from the plain. He had often heard of this strange feature of the Texas wilds, but he had never expected to see it.

A little before nightfall they rode out of a plain, perfectly bare behind them for hundreds of miles, into the timber, which grew up in an arid country without any apparent cause, watered by no rivers or creeks and by no melting snows from mountains. Phil and John looked around with the greatest interest. The timber was of oak, ash, and other varieties common in the Southwest, but the oak predominated. The trees were not of great size, but they were trees, and they looked magnificent after the sparse cottonwoods and bushes along the shallow prairie streams that they had passed.

The foliage had already turned brown under the summer sun, but there was fresh grass within the shadow of the trees, upon which the horses grazed eagerly when they were turned loose. The four meanwhile rejoiced, and looked around, seeking a place for a camp.

“How long is this belt, Bill?” asked Phil of Breakstone.

“I don’t know, but maybe it’s a thousand miles. There’s two of them, you know. That’s the reason they call them the Cross Timbers. After you pass through this belt you cross about fifteen miles of perfectly bare plain, and then you come to the second belt, which is timbered exactly like this. One belt is about eight miles wide, the other about twelve miles wide, and, keeping an average distance of about fifteen miles apart, they run all the way from the far western edge of these plains in a southeasterly direction clean down to the Brazos and Trinity River bottoms, where they come together and merge in the heavy timber. It’s a most wonderful thing, Sir Philip of Buena Vista and Sir John of Montevideo, and it’s worthy of any man’s attention.”

“It has mine, that’s sure,” said Phil, as he walked about through the forest. “It’s an extraordinary freak of nature, but the roots of the two belts of timber must be fed by subterranean water, though it’s strange that they should run parallel so many hundreds of miles, always separated by that strip of dry country fifteen miles wide, as you say, Bill.”

“I can’t account for it, Phil,” replied Breakstone, “and I don’t try. The people who don’t believe in queer things are those who stay at home and sit by the fire. I’ve roamed all my life, and I’ve had experience enough to believe that anything is possible.”

“Look!” exclaimed Phil in delight. “Here’s our camp, just made for us!”

He pointed to a tiny spring oozing from beneath the roots of a large oak, flowing perhaps thirty yards and then losing itself beneath the roots of another large oak. It looked clear and fresh, and Phil, kneeling down and drinking, found it cold and delightful. Bill Breakstone did the same, with results equally happy.

“Yes, this was made for us,” he said, confirming Phil’s words. “There are not many such springs that I ever heard of in the Cross Timbers, and our luck holds good.”

They called the others, who drank, and after them the horses. It was an ideal place for a camp, and they felt bo secure that they lighted a fire and cooked food, venison, and steaks of antelope and deer that they had shot by the way.

“It might be a good idea,” said Breakstone, “to rest here in the shade a part of to-morrow. All of us have been riding pretty hard, and you know, Hans, old man, that if you go too fast you are not strong enough to do what you must do when you get there.”

It was Arenberg whose feelings were now consulted most, and, when they looked at him for an answer, he nodded assent.

Hence they took some of their supplies from the pack horses, and made themselves more comfortable on the grass about the little spring. Lengthy scouting, done by Arenberg and Breakstone, showed that there was no danger from Comanche, Lipan, or any other Indian tribes, and they could take their rest without apprehension. They also dared to build a fire for the cooking, a luxury which they enjoyed much, but which was usually dangerous in the Indian country. Fallen and dry timber was abundant, and when they had cooked a plentiful supply of venison and buffalo strips they fell to and ate with the appetite which only life under the stars can give. By and by Bill Breakstone gazed at John in admiration. But John took no notice. He ate steadily on, varying the course with an occasional tin cup of water.

“Sir John Falstaff,” said Bill Breakstone, “I’ve read a lot about you in Shakespeare, and on two or three memorable occasions I have played you. You have been renowned two hundred and fifty years for your appetite, and I want to tell you right now that your fame isn’t up to the real thing by half. Say, Sir John, they didn’t give you much to eat in that Castle of Montevideo, did they?”

“Tortillas, frijoles, tamales, tortillas, frijoles, tamales,” replied John in a muffled voice, as he reached for another delicate piece of fried deer.

“Go right on,” said Bill Breakstone, “I’ve no wish to stop you. Make up for all the three years that you lost.”

John, taking his advice, stuck to his task. Although imprisonment had greatly wasted him, it had never impaired his powerful and healthy constitution. Now he could fairly feel his muscles and sinews growing and the new life pouring into heart and lungs.

After supper they lay upon their blankets in a circle, with their feet to the fire, and spoke of the land that stretched beyond the two belts of trees, the Great Staked Plain.

“We’ll find it hot,” said Breakstone, “and parts of it are sandy and without water, but we should get through to the Rio Grande, especially as we have, besides the sand, a big region of buffalo grass, and then the land of gramma grass, in both of which we can find plenty of game. Game and water are the things for which we must look. But we won’t talk of trouble now. It’s too fine here.”

They spent the next day and the following night among the trees, and were fortunate enough to find in the oaks a number of fine wild turkeys which abounded in all parts of the Southwest. They secured four, and added them to their larder. The next day they rode through the belt, and across the twelve miles of bare country into the second belt, which was exactly like the first, with the oak predominating.

“Makes me think of the rings of Saturn.” said Phil, as they entered the timber once more.

But they passed the night only in the inner belt, and emerged the next morning upon the great plain that ran to the Rocky Mountains.

“Now,” said Bill Breakstone, “we leave home and its comforts behind.”

Phil felt the truth of his words. He understood now why the Bible put so much value upon wood and water. To leave the belt of trees was like going away from a wooded park about one’s house in order to enter a bleak wilderness. It was very hot after they passed from the shade, and before them stretched the rolling plains once more, without trees, reaching the sky-line, and rolling on beyond it without limit. The sun was pouring down from a high sky that flamed like brass. Bill Breakstone caught the look on Phil’s face and laughed.

“You hate to give up an easy place, don’t you, Phil?” he said. “Don’t deny it, because I hate it just as much as you do. Arenberg alone forgets what lies before us, because he has so much to draw him on.”

Arenberg was too far ahead to hear them. He always rode in advance now, and the place was conceded to him as a right. They passed through a region of gramma grass which stood about three feet in height, and entered a stretch of buffalo grass, where little clumps of the grass were scattered over the brown plain.

“It doesn’t look as if great buffalo herds could be fed on tufts like that,” said Phil.

“But they can be,” said Bill Breakstone. “It looks scanty, but it’s got some powerfully good property in it, because cattle as well as buffalo thrive on it as they do on nothing else. We ought to see buffalo hereabouts.”

But for two days after entering this short grass region they saw not a single buffalo. Antelope, also, were invisible, and they began to be worried about their supplies of food. Both Breakstone and Arenberg believed that there were hunting parties of Indians farther westward, and they kept a sharp watch for such dangerous horsemen. Fortunately they had been able to find enough water for their horses in little pools and an occasional spring, and the animals retained their strength. Finally they encamped one evening by the side of a prairie stream so slender that it was a mere trickle over the sand. It also contained a slight taste of salt, but not enough to keep both men and horses from drinking eagerly.

After supper Phil took his rifle and walked up the little stream. It had become a habit with the four, whenever they camped, to look about for game. But they had been disappointed so often that Phil’s quest now was purely mechanical. Still he was alert and ready. The training of the wilderness compelled any one with wisdom to acquire such quantities quickly. He walked perhaps half a mile along the brook, which was edged here and there with straggling bushes, and at other points with nothing at all. It was twilight now, and suddenly something huge and brown rose up among a cluster of the dwarf bushes directly in Phil’s path. In the fading light it loomed monstrous and misshapen, but Phil knew that it was a lone bull buffalo, probably an old and evil-tempered outcast from the herd. He saw that the big brute was angry, but he was a cool hunter now, and, taking careful aim, he planted a bullet near the vital spot. The buffalo, head down, charged directly at him, but he leaped to one side and, as the mortally stricken beast ran on, he reloaded and sent in a second bullet, which promptly brought him to earth.

Still practicing that wilderness caution which never allows a man’s rifle to remain unloaded, he rammed home a third bullet, and then contemplated his quarry, an enormous bull, scarred from fights and undoubtedly tough eating. But Phil was very happy. It was in this case not the pride of the hunter, but the joy of the commissary. Tough though this bull might be, there was enough of him to feed the four many a long day.

While he was standing there he heard the sound of running feet, and he knew that it was the others coming to the report of his shots. Bill Breakstone first hove into view.

“What is it, Phil?” he cried, not yet seeing the mountain of buffalo that lay upon the ground.

“Nothing much,” replied Phil carelessly, “only I’ve killed a whole buffalo herd while you three lazy fellows were lying upon the ground playing mumble peg, or doing something else trivial. I’ll get you trained to work after awhile.”

Breakstone saw the buffalo and whistled with delight. The four set to work, skinned him, and then began to cut off the tenderest parts of the meat for drying. This was a task that took them a long time, but fortunately the night was clear, with a bright moon. Before they finished they heard the howling of wolves from distant points, and Phil occasionally caught slight glimpses of slender dark forms on the plain, but he knew they were prairie wolves that would not dare to attack, and he went on with his work.

“They’ll have a great feast here when we leave with what we want,” said Bill Breakstone. “They’re not inviting creatures, but I’m sorry for ’em sometimes, they seem so eternally hungry.”

After the task was finished, three went back for the horses to carry their food supply, and Phil was left to guard it. He was tired now, and he sat down on the ground with his rifle across his knee. The moon came out more brightly, and he saw well across the prairie. The slender, shadowy forms there increased in numbers, and they whined with eagerness, but the boy did not have the slightest fear. Nevertheless, he was glad they were not the great timber wolves of the North. That would have been another matter. At last he took a piece of the buffalo that his comrades and he would not use and flung it as far as he could upon the prairie.

There was a rush of feet, a confused snarling and fighting, and then a long death howl. In the rush some wolf had been bitten, and, at the sight of the blood, the others had leaped upon him and devoured him.

Phil, who understood the sounds, shuddered. He had not meant to cause cannibalism, and he was glad when his comrades returned with the horses. They spent two days jerking the buffalo meat, as best they could in the time and under the conditions, and they soon found the precaution one of great wisdom, as they did not see any more game, and, on the second day afterward, entered a region of sand. The buffalo grass disappeared entirely, and there was nothing to sustain life. This was genuine desert, and it rolled before them in swells like the grassy prairie.

The four, after going a mile or so over the hot sand, stopped and regarded the gloomy waste with some apprehension. It seemed to stretch to infinity. They did not see a single stalk or blade of vegetation, and the sand looked so fine, or of such small grain, to Phil that he dismounted, picked up a handful of it, and threw it into the air. The sand seemingly did not fall back, but disappeared like white smoke. He tried it a second and a third time, with the same result in each case.

“It’s not sand,” he said, “it’s just dust.”

“Dust or sand,” said Bill Breakstone, “we must rush our way through it, and I’m thinking that we’ve got to make every drop of water we have in the bags last as long as possible.”

They rode on for several hours, and the very softness of the sand made the going the worst that they had ever encountered. The feet of the horses sank deep in it, and they began to pant with weariness, but there was no relief. The vertical sun blazed down with a fiery splendor that Phil hitherto would have believed impossible. The whole earth shimmered in the red glare, and the rays seemed to penetrate. All of them had broad brimmed hats, and they protected their eyes as much as possible. The weariness of the horses became so great that after awhile the riders dismounted and walked by the side of them. Two hours of this, and they stopped in order that Breakstone might take the direction with a little compass that he carried in a brass box about two inches in diameter. He had made the others buy the same kind, but they had not yet used them.

“This is the best kind of compass to put in your baggage on such a trip as this,” he said, “and it says that we’re going straight on in the way we want to go. Come, boys, the more sand we pass the less we have in front of us.”

They staggered bravely on, but the glare seemed to grow. The whole sky was like a hot, brassy cover that held them prisoners below. It scarcely seemed possible to Phil that trees, green grass, and running water had ever existed anywhere. A light wind arose, but, unlike other winds that cool, this wind merely sent the heat against their faces in streams and currents that were hotter than ever. It also whirled the fine sand over them in blinding showers. Acting on the advice of Breakstone, they drew up their horses in a little circle, and stood in the center, shielding their eyes with their hands. Peering over his horse’s back, Phil saw hills of sand four or five feet high picked up and carried away, while hills equally high were formed elsewhere. Ridges disappeared, and new ridges were formed. The wind blew for about two hours, and then the four, covered with sand, resumed their march, noting with joy that the sun was now sinking and the heat decreasing. The very first shadows brought relief, but the greatest solace was to the eye. Despite the protection of hand and hat-brims, they were so burnt by the sand and glare that it was a pain to see. Yet the four were so weary of mind and body that they said nothing, as they trudged on until the edge of the sun cut into the western plain on the horizon. Phil had never before seen such a sun. He had not believed it could be so big, so glaring, and so hot. He was so glad now that the earth was revolving away from it that he raised his clenched hand and shook his fist in its very eye.

“Good-by to you,” he exclaimed. “And I was never before so glad to see you go!”

Phil spoke in such deadly earnest that Bill Breakstone, despite his aching muscles and burning throat, broke into laughter.

“You talk as you feel, Phil,” he said, “but it’s no good to threaten the sun. It’s just gone for a little while, and it will be back again to-morrow as bright and hot as ever.”

“But while it iss gone we will be glad.” said Arenberg.

Down dropped the shadows, deeper and deeper, and a delicious coolness stole over the earth. It was like a dew on their hot eyeballs, and the pain there went swiftly away. A light wind blew, and they took the fresh air in long, deep breaths. They had been old three or four hours ago, now they were young again. The horses, feeling the same influence, raised their lowered heads and walked more briskly.

The shadows merged into the night, and now it was actually cold. But they went on an hour or more in order to find a suitable place for a camp. They chose at last a hollow just beyond a ridge of sand that seemed more solid than usual. On the slope grew a huge cactus with giant arms, the first that they had seen in a long time.

“Here we rest,” said Bill Breakstone. “What more could a man ask? Plenty of sand for all to sleep on. No crowding. Regular king’s palace. Water in the water-bags, and firewood ready for us.”

“Firewood,” said John Bedford. “I fail to see it.”

Breakstone pointed scornfully to the huge cactus.

“There it is, a whole forest of it,” he said. “We break down that cactus, which is old and dry, and it burns like powder. But it will burn long enough to boil our coffee, which we need.”

But they took a good drink of water first, and gave another to every one of the horses. Then they chopped down the giant cactus and cut it into lengths. As Breakstone had said, it burned with a light flame and was rapidly consumed, leaving nothing but thin ashes. But they were able to boil their coffee, which refreshed them even more than the food, and then they lay on their blankets, taking a deep, long rest. The contrast between night and day was extraordinary. The sun seemed to have taken all heat with it, and the wind blew. They could put on coats again, draw blankets over their bodies, and get ready for delicious sleep. They knew that the sun with all its terrors would come back the next day, but they resolved to enjoy the night and its coolness to the full.

The wind rose, and dust and sand were blown across the plain, but it passed over the heads of the four who lay in the narrow dip between the swells, and they soon fell into a sleep that built up brain and muscle anew for the next day’s struggle.

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