Hare would have stayed up as late as any of them, but August’s saying to him, “Get to bed:  to-morrow will be bad!” sent him off to his blankets, where he was soon fast asleep.  Morning found him well, hungry, eager to know what the day would bring.

“Wait,” said August, soberly.

They rode out of the gray pocket in the ridge and began to climb.  Hare had not noticed the rise till they were started, and then, as the horses climbed steadily he grew impatient at the monotonous ascent.  There was nothing to see; frequently it seemed that they were soon to reach the summit, but still it rose above them.  Hare went back to his comfortable place on the sacks.

“Now, Jack,” said August.

Hare gasped.  He saw a red world.  His eyes seemed bathed in blood.  Red scaly ground, bare of vegetation, sloped down, down, far down to a vast irregular rent in the earth, which zigzagged through the plain beneath.  To the right it bent its crooked way under the brow of a black-timbered plateau; to the left it straightened its angles to find a V-shaped vent in the wall, now uplifted to a mountain range.  Beyond this earth-riven line lay something vast and illimitable, a far-reaching vision of white wastes, of purple plains, of low mesas lost in distance.  It was the shimmering dust-veiled desert.

“Here we come to the real thing,” explained Naab.  “This is Windy Slope; that black line is the Grand Canyon of Arizona; on the other side is the Painted Desert where the Navajos live; Coconina Mountain shows his flat head there to the right, and the wall on our left rises to the Vermillion Cliffs.  Now, look while you can, for presently you’ll not be able to see.”

“Why?”

“Wind, sand, dust, gravel, pebbles—­watch out for your eyes!”

Naab had not ceased speaking when Hare saw that the train of Indians trailing down the slope was enveloped in red clouds.  Then the white wagons disappeared.  Soon he was struck in the back by a gust which justified Naab’s warning.  It swept by; the air grew clear again; once more he could see.  But presently a puff, taking him unawares, filled his eyes with dust difficult of removal.  Whereupon he turned his back to the wind.

The afternoon grew apace; the sun glistened on the white patches of Coconina Mountain; it set; and the wind died.

“Five miles of red sand,” said Naab.  “Here’s what kills the horses.  Getup.”

There was no trail.  All before was red sand, hollows, slopes, levels, dunes, in which the horses sank above their fetlocks.  The wheels ploughed deep, and little red streams trailed down from the tires.  Naab trudged on foot with the reins in his hands.  Hare essayed to walk also, soon tired, and floundered behind till Naab ordered him to ride again.  Twilight came with the horses still toiling.

“There! thankful I am when we get off that strip!  But, Jack, that trailless waste prevents a night raid on my home.  Even the Navajos shun it after dark.  We’ll be home soon.  There’s my sign.  See?  Night or day we call it the Blue Star.”