They had debated this fiercely once, the ponies standing dejectedly, tails to the storm, Neb arguing that the wind still blew from the south, and Keith contending it had shifted into the westward.

The white man won his way, and they staggered on uncertain, the negro grasping the first pony's tail to keep from being separated from his companion.

Some instinct of the plains must have guided them, for at last they dragged themselves out from the desert, the crunching sand under foot changing into rock, and then to short brittle grass, at which the ponies nibbled eagerly.

The slope led gradually downward, the animals scenting water, and struggling to break away.

Swaying in their saddles, the riders let them go, and they never stopped until belly deep in the stream, their noses buried.