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ALKALI DUST
BY CHARLES M. HORTON
TAKEN FROM "METROPOLITAN MAGAZINE," JUNE 1906
It was a black, moonless night--a night that creates fear in the heart. I stood for a moment, listening for a sign of life. Not even the soft sigh of the wind greeted my ear. The heaven, a great, impenetrable dome, seemed within touch of my hand. I removed my hat and swished it through the air. The noise fell as a relief to my ears. I took a step forward, and the sand grated beneath me. Another step; then another. Welcome was the sound. Again I stood motionless, my head bared; and again the oppressive silence. The darkness seemed to creep upon me--to close about me in suffocating folds. I clinched my fists and strode rapidly forward--one, two, three steps. Again I listened; not a movement was heard. I was alone on the plain; alone in the great world--the last being to go before my Maker, to shrink, cowering--
"Hullo, stranger! Any tobacco? I guess I'm hurt. Unhorsed this morning; the mare handed me one before she left. Been crawling all day for shade. Strike a match, will you? God, but it's a night!"
Strange; but without a cringe, I stopped and turned. The rapid beating of my heart slumped to normal, and I put forth a careful foot in the direction of the voice. It fell short. I advanced the other; there was a constrained groan.
"Careful, friend--my hip. Oh, it's all right! Why in blazes don't you strike that match? Got any?"
I struck a light. Poor fellow! His hip undoubtedly was broken. It lay stretched away from his body, and he was on his back. A leg of his trousers had been tom away and the limb lay exposed. His track, made in crawling through the dus