But here in the vastness of the unforgiving desert, he grew cold; he hesitated, even while he felt drawn to move forward. No, he had not choice. He must go to Red Lake.
As Shefford started his horse down the sandy trail, he checked the way ahead. It was the month of April, and the waning sun quickly lost its heat and brightness. Long shadows crept down the slope ahead of him and the sparse sage turned a deep gray. He watched the lizards shoot like brown streaks across the sand, leaving their slender tracks; he heard the rustle of pack-rats as they darted into their brushy homes; his horse startled at the cry of a low-sailing hawk.
Like ocean waves the slope rose and fell. Its hollows were choked with sand, its ridge-tops showing scant growth of sage and grass and weed.
