own
bucking. The others forgot to look for the results of Lowrie's shot.
They reined their horses away from the pitching broncho disgustedly.
Sinclair was a fool to use up the last of his mustang's strength in
this manner. But Hal Sinclair had forgotten the journey ahead. He was
rioting in the new excitement cheering the broncho to new exertions.
And it was in the midst of that flurry of action that the great blow
fell. The horse stuck his right forefoot into a hole.

To the eyes of the others it seemed to happen slowly. The mustang was
halted in the midst of a leap, tugged at a leg that seemed glued to the
ground, and then buckled suddenly and collapsed on one side. They heard
that awful, muffled sound of splintering bone and then the scream of
the tortured horse.

But they gave no heed to that. Hal Sinclair in the fall had been pinned
beneath his mount. The huge strength of Quade sufficed to budge the
writhing mustang. Lowrie and Sandersen drew Sinclair's pinioned right
leg clear and stretched him on the sand.

It was Lowrie who shot the horse.

"You've done a brown turn," said Sandersen fiercely to the prostrate
figure of Sinclair. "Four men and three hosses. A fine partner you are,
Sinclair!"

"Shut up," said Hal. "Do something for that foot of mine."

Lowrie cut the boot away dexterously and turned out the foot. It was
painfully twisted to one side and lay limp on the sand.

"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 savag