had started. The man could scarcely believe his senses as he listened
in vain for the roar of it--the steady, sullen roar, that had rung in
his ears, it seemed, since the beginning of time. Thick dust filled
the air but when he turned his face toward the west no sand particles
stung his skin. Through a rift he caught sight of a low butte--a butte
that was not nearby. Alice tore the scarf from her face. "It has
stopped!" she cried, excitedly. "The storm is over!"

"Thank God!" breathed Endicott, "the dust is beginning to settle." He
dismounted and swung the girl to the ground. "We may as well wait here
as anywhere until the air clears sufficiently for us to get our
bearings. We certainly must have passed the water-hole, and we would
only be going farther and farther away if we pushed on."

The dust settled rapidly. Splashes of sunshine showed here and there
upon the basin and ridge, and it grew lighter. The atmosphere took on
the appearance of a thin grey fog that momentarily grew thinner.
Endicott walked to the top of a low mound and gazed eagerly about him.
Distant objects were beginning to appear--bare rock-ridges, and
low-lying hills, and deep coulees. In vain the man's eyes followed the
ridges for one that terminated in a huge broken rock, with its nearby
soda hill. No such ridge appeared, and no high, round hill. Suddenly
his gaze became rivetted upon the southern horizon. What was that
stretching away, long, and dark, and winding? Surely--surely it
was--trees! Again and again he tried to focus his gaze upon that long
dark line, but always his lids drew over his stinging eyeballs, and
with a half-sobbed curse, he dashed the water from his eyes. At last
he saw it--the green of distant timber. "The Missouri--five
miles--maybe more. Oh God, if the horses hold out!" Running,
stumbling, he made his way to the girl's side. "It's the river!" he