For an hour they endured the tortures of hell and then, when the storm had passed, raised their heads and cursed Creation.

Their bodies burned as though they had been shot with fine needles and their clothes were meshes where once was tough cloth.

Even their shoes were perforated and the throat of each ached with thirst.
Hopalong fumbled at the canteen resting on his hip and gargled his mouth and throat, washing down the sand which wouldn't come up.

His friends did likewise and then looked around.

After some time had elapsed the loss of their pack horse was noticed and they swore again.