veling in the right direction, they had not yet sighted it. The
cow-puncher knew, though he did not tell his young companions so, that
they should long since have spied its outlines. Of the real
seriousness which their position might shortly assume, the boys had as
yet, little idea. Coyote Pete was not the one to alarm them unless he
was convinced it was really necessary.

Suddenly, Jack, who had been riding a little in advance of the rest,
gave an exclamation and pointed upward at the sun.

"Say, what's the matter with the sun?" he exclaimed.

"Sun spots, I suppose," put in Ralph Stetson jokingly.

"I see what you mean," spoke up the professor; "it has turned quite
red, and there seems to be a haze overcasting the sky."

"It's getting oppressive, too," put in Walt Phelps. "What's up, Pete?"

The cow-puncher had, indeed, for some time been noticing the same
phenomenon which had just attracted their notice, but he had hesitated
to draw their attention to it. Now, however, he spoke, and his voice
sounded grave for one of Pete's usually lively temperament.

"It means that ole Mar'm Desert is gettin' inter a tantrum," he
grunted, "and that we're in an almighty fix," he added to himself.

"Is it going to rain?" inquired Ralph Stetson, as it grew rapidly
darker.

"Rain?" grunted Pete. "Son, it don't rain here enough to cover the
back uv a dime, even if you collect all the water that fell in a year.
No, siree, what's comin' is a heap worse than rain."

"An electric storm?" queried the professor.

"No, sir--a sand storm," rejoined the cow-puncher bluntly.

CHAPTER II.

THE SAND STORM.

As he spoke, a queer, moaning sort of sound, something like the low,
distant bellow of a steer in pain, could be heard. The air seemed
filled with it. Coming from no definite direction, it yet impregnated
the atmosphere. The air, too, began noticeably to thicken, until the
sun, from a pallid disc--a mere ghost of its former blazing self--was
blotted out altogether. A hot wind sprang up and swept witheringly
about the travelers.

"Ouch!" exclaimed Ralph Stetson suddenly. "Something stung me!"

"That's the sand, son," said Coyote Pete. "The wind's commencin' ter
drive it."

"Is it going to get any worse?" inquired the professor anxiously.

"A whole lot, afore it gits any better," was the disconcerting reply.

"What'll we do, Pete?" asked Jack, turning to the cow-puncher.

It had now grown so dark that he co