The heat was ghastly; on their faces alkali dust, plastered with sweat, caked in the stubble of two days' growth; their eyes were red-rimmed and swollen.

Boland, bruised and racked and cramped, suffered agonies.
It was ten in the morning when Joe touched Pete's arm: "_Que cosa ?_" He pointed behind them and to the north, to a long, low-lying streak of dust.
"Trouble, Don Hooaleece?
I think so--yes." They had no spyglass; but it was hardly needed.

The dust streak followed them, almost parallel to their course.

It gained on them.

They changed their gait from a walk to a trot.