another sound reached him; his own horse went steadily on, feeling his
way, until he was nose against the bank, with water merely rippling
about his ankles. Keith driving feet again into the stirrups headed him
down stream, wading close in toward the shore, leaning forward over the
pommel striving to see through the gloom.

He had no doubt about Neb's pony making land, unless struck by some
driftwood, or borne to the centre of the stream by the shifting force of
the current. But if Neb had failed to retain his grip he might have
been sucked under by the surge of waters. A hundred yards below he found
them, dripping and weak from the struggle, yet otherwise unhurt. There
were no words spoken, but black and white hands clasped silently, and
then Neb crept back into the saddle, shivering in his wet clothes as the
cool night wind swept against him. Keeping close in toward shore, yet
far enough out so that the water would hide their trail, the fugitives
toiled steadily up stream, guided only by the black outline of the low
bank upon their left.

Chapter VII. In the Sand Desert

Suddenly Keith halted, bringing his pony's head sharply about, so that
the two faced one another. The wind was rising, hurling clouds of sand
into their eyes, and the plainsman held one hand before his face.

"There's no need of keeping up a water trail any longer," he said
quietly. "By all the signs we're in for a sand storm by daylight, and
that will cover our tracks so the devil himself couldn't follow them.
Got a water bag on your saddle?"

"I reck'n dis am one, sah."

Keith felt of the object Neb held forth.

"Yes, and a big one, too; fill it and strap it on tight; we've got a
long, dry ride ahead."

"Whar' yo' propose goin', Massa Jack?"

"To the 'Bar X' on the Canadian. I've worked with that outfit. They'll
give us whatever we need, and ask no questions; I don't know of anything
in between. It's going to be a hard ride, boy, and mighty little to eat
except what I saved from supper."

"How far am it to dis yere 'Bar X'?"

"A hundred and fifty miles as the crow flies, and sand all the way,
except for the valley of Salt Fork. Come on now, and keep close, for
it's easy to get lost in these sand hills."

Keith had ridden that hundred and fifty miles of sandy desolation
before, but had never been called upon to make such a journey as this
proved to be. He knew there was little to fear from human enemies, for
they were ridin