Axles under, they stuck fast.
When Jean and Lite came loping leisurely down the hill, the two women were fraying perfectly good gloves trying to pull "rabbit" brush up by the roots to make firmer foothold for the wheels.

Robert Grant Burns was head-and-shoulders under the car, digging badger-like with his paws to clear the front axle, and coming up now and then to wipe the perspiration from his eyes and puff the purple out of his complexion.
Pete Lowry always ducked his head lower over the jack when he saw the heaving of flesh which heralded these resting times, so that the boss could not catch him laughing.

Lee Milligan was scooping sand upon the other side and mumbling to himself, with a glance now and then at the trail, in the hope of sighting a good samaritan with six or eight mules, perhaps.

Lee thought that it would take about that many mules to pull them out.
The two riders pulled up, smiling pityingly, just as well-mounted riders invariably smile upon stalled automobilists.

This was not the first machine that had come to grief in that hollow, though they could not remember ever to have seen one sunk deeper in the sand.
"I guess you wouldn't refuse a little help, about now," Lite observed casually to Lee, who was most in evidence.
"We wouldn't refuse a little, but a lot is what we need," Lee amended glumly.