Bland righted it, but Johnny held his breath at the way the ground had jumped up at them.
Ahead, and a little to one side, three riders went creeping up a slope.
They seemed to be heading toward Sinkhole Camp, and Johnny signaled Bland to keep off, and so avoid scaring the horses.

But the slight detour cost them precious feet of altitude while the nearest sandy stretch was yet far off.
The earth was rising with incredible swiftness to meet them.

The nearest landing Johnny could think of was farther over, across Sinkhole Creek.

He did not believe they could make it, but he headed for it desperately, and felt Bland yielding to his control.
Rocks, brush, furrowed ditches; rocks, brush.

Ahead, they could see the irregular patch of yellow that was sand.