His pack animals should be somewhere ahead of him, he thought groggily, and began stumbling along through the brush-covered sand dunes that bordered Furnace Lake for miles.
And then he saw again the light, shining up there just under the crest of the ridge.

He was glad the car had escaped, but he reflected that the tricky winds of the desert seldom sweep a large area.

Their diabolic fury implies a concentration of force that must of necessity weaken as it flows out away from the center.

Up there on the ridge they may not have experienced more than a steady blow.
He walked slowly because of his bruises, and many times he made small detours, thinking that a blotch of shadow off to one side might be his pack train.

But always a greasewood mocked him, waving stiff arms at him derisively.