trudging along with his long staff, eyes bent on the ground, behind his
six burros. He had been seen about ten miles farther north, traveling
south, the day before.

Hiram loped on, and now reached a strip of the right-of-way where camps
were few and far between. The desert was dryer here than in the
vicinity of Ragtown, and greasewood and whispering yuccas gave place to
low sage and the shimmering dry lakes, which lure thirsting men on to
their doom with their mocking resemblance to the life-saving water the
wanderer craves.

Always, it seemed, there was somewhere within the range of Hiram's
vision one of those weird whirlwinds sweeping along. Often they were
so far away they seemed motionless, and looked like brown funnel-shaped
pillars, wrong end up, supporting the turquoise sky. Again, they were
close--sometimes six or seven in sight at once--as they spun like huge
tops, sucking up everything loose in their path, and whirling it round
and round with stupefying rapidity.

At last one of them overtook the horse and rider, and the mare stopped
short, thrusting her head between her front legs and tucking in her
flowing tail. Hiram had time only to grab his hat and throw himself
forward along the mare's neck; the next instant it seemed as if a
million tugging hands had hold of him and were trying to whirl him into
the heavens and carry him, like a garment whipped from a clothesline,
into mysterious distances.

When it had passed he sat erect once more and dug the dirt from his
ears and eyes, trying to follow the twister's progress as it sped
drunkenly on to find other victims.

Then it was that Hiram saw the pack train, not far distant over the
desert, making ready to receive the coming whirlwind. The burros, wise
little animals that they are, had huddled together, tails outward,
heads down; and in the center of them Hiram saw a man just stooping for
the protection of their bodies. Next instant the group vanished--was
swallowed up by the wind demon.

When the old man looked up after the onslaught, Hiram was riding upon
him. The prospector stood trying to stare at him from the center of
his pack train, wiping his watering eyes and sand-stained mouth.

"Hello, there!" called Hiram. "It spoke to us in passing, too. How do
you like 'em?"

"I got to like 'em," returned the old man. "I eat 'em--breakfast,
dinner, and supper. Grub don't taste good any more 'less a twister's
passed over it and seasoned it