The girl threw off the blanket and stared into the whirl of opaque dust.  “The storm is still raging,” she murmured.  “Oh, Winthrop, do you know that I dreamed it was all over—­that we were riding between high, cool mountains beside a flashing stream.  And trout were leaping in the rapids, and I got off and drank and drank of the clear, cold water, and, why, do you know, I feel actually refreshed!  The horrible burning thirst has gone.  That proves the control mind has over matter—­if we could just concentrate and think hard enough, I don’t believe we would ever need to be thirsty, or hungry, or tired, or cold, do you?”

The man smiled grimly, and shook his head:  “No.  If we could think hard enough to accomplish a thing, why, manifestly that thing would be accomplished.  Great word—­enough—­the trouble is, when you use it, you never say anything.”

Alice laughed:  “You’re making fun of me.  I don’t care, you know what I mean, anyway.  Why, what’s the matter with that horse?”

“He died—­got weaker and weaker, and at last he just rolled over dead.  And that is why we have to hurry and make a try for the water-hole, before the others play out.”

Endicott noticed that the Texan was nowhere in sight.  He pressed his lips firmly:  “It’s better that way, I guess,” he thought.

“But, that’s your horse!  And where are the others—­Tex, and Bat, and the pack-horse?”

“They pulled out to hunt for the water-hole—­each in a different direction.  You and I are to keep together and drift with the wind as we have been doing.”

“And they gave us the best of it,” she breathed.  Endicott winced, and the girl noticed.  She laid her hand gently upon his arm.  “No, Winthrop, I didn’t mean that.  There was a time, perhaps, when I might have thought—­but, that was before I knew you.  I have learned a lot in the past few days, Winthrop—­enough to know that no matter what happens, you have played a man’s part—­with the rest of them.  Come, I’m ready.”

Endicott tied the scarf about her face and assisted her to mount, then, throwing her bridle reins over the horn of his saddle as the Texan had done, he headed down the coulee.  For three hours the horses drifted with the storm, following along coulees, crossing low ridges, and long level stretches where the sweep of the wind seemed at times as though it would tear them from the saddles.  Endicott’s horse stumbled frequently, and each time the recovery seemed more and more of an effort.  Then suddenly the wind died—­ceased to blow as abruptly as it had started.  The man could scarcely believe his senses as he listened in vain for the roar of it—­the steady, sullen roar, that had rung in his ears, it seemed, since the beginning of time.  Thick dust filled the air but when he turned his face toward the west no sand particles stung his skin.  Through a rift he caught sight of a low butte—­a butte that was not nearby.  Alice tore the scarf from her face.  “It has stopped!” she cried, excitedly.  “The storm is over!”