The fierce rays of
the sun had nearly evaporated every vestige of the recent rainfall,
and in twenty-four hours more the mud would be baked earth.
Vic, consumed with thirst and suffering in the extreme heat, waded
into the mud and rolled in it until she was the color of a fresh
adobe, and was, in consequence, made to ride thereafter in disgrace on
the driver's foot-board.
We had intended to pass the night at the Hole, but want of water
compelled us to move on. Very gloomy and doubtful of the outcome, we
left the Hole-in-the-Plain. We were toiling slowly up a slope, nearly
a dozen miles on this third stage of the desert route, when a
horseman overtook us, who proved to be Mr. Gray. He slowed up,
listened to my account of our perplexities, and after saying many
hopeful and cheering things, telling us that Tyson's Wells were now
not far ahead, he galloped swiftly away in the darkness.
At midnight the road ascended to a considerably higher level and
became suddenly hard and smooth. The driver urged the team into a
series of brief and spasmodic trots, which lasted a couple of hours,
when we again descended to a lower level, where the wearily slow gait
was resumed.
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