I shut my eyes and covered my face with a handkerchief.

The sand blew so thick that it filled my gloves, pebbles struck me hard enough to sting through my coat.
Fortunately, Spot kept to an easy swinging lope, which was the most comfortable motion for me.

But I began to get numb, and could hardly stick on the saddle.

Almost before I had dared to hope, Spot stopped.
Uncovering my face, I saw Jim in the doorway of the lee side of the cabin.

The yellow, streaky, whistling clouds of sand split on the cabin and passed on, leaving a small, dusty space of light.
"Shore Spot do hate to be beat," yelled Jim, as he helped me off.