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vladislav sogan
THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE ALKALI
THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE ALKALI
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Parry was a splendid type of the plainsman of the great West. Tall, straight, clear-eyed, his bronzed cheeks fairly glistening in the sunlight, he would have attracted attention anywhere. At present, he sat on his pony motionless, the broad sombrero tilted upward above his forehead as he peered into the amber haze that hung over the western horizon.
"Yes, we shall reach the desert soon enough. We are heading for the Newark Valley now, and should be there in time to make camp this afternoon, providing the weather is satisfactory," announced Parry, more to himself than to the others.
"Weather—weather?" stammered Professor Zepplin. "What's the matter with the weather?"
"One hundred in the shade. Isn't that matter enough?" grunted Stacy.
"How do you know, Chunky? You haven't seen any shade to-day," demanded Ned Rector. "There isn't a patch of shade as large as a man's hand in this whole country, so far as I have been able to observe."
"And still less in the country we are about to enter," added the guide.
Tad Butler, however, had been observing the guide keenly. Though the lad had asked no questions, he had caught a note of anxiety in the tone, as well as in the apprehensive glances that Parry kept continually casting to the westward. The guide, catching Tad's inquiring look, smiled and nodded.
"You should always keep your eyes on the weather in this country, especially when on the alkali," he told the boy after the party had started on again.
"Why more there than elsewhere, Mr. Parry?"
"Because storms here are frequently attended with no little peril. You'll see some of them, no doubt, before we reach the end of our journey, and you will wish you hadn't."
"But there's no sign of storm now," protested Tad.
"Perhaps not to you, young man. Do you see that haze settling down like a fog on the western horizon?"
"Yes, I've been looking at it—a golden fog."
The guide smiled grimly.
"I wouldn't call it exactly golden. I should call it fiery," said the guide.
"Has it any particular meaning?"
"Yes, we shall reach the desert soon enough. We are heading for the Newark Valley now, and should be there in time to make camp this afternoon, providing the weather is satisfactory," announced Parry, more to himself than to the others.
"Weather—weather?" stammered Professor Zepplin. "What's the matter with the weather?"
"One hundred in the shade. Isn't that matter enough?" grunted Stacy.
"How do you know, Chunky? You haven't seen any shade to-day," demanded Ned Rector. "There isn't a patch of shade as large as a man's hand in this whole country, so far as I have been able to observe."
"And still less in the country we are about to enter," added the guide.
Tad Butler, however, had been observing the guide keenly. Though the lad had asked no questions, he had caught a note of anxiety in the tone, as well as in the apprehensive glances that Parry kept continually casting to the westward. The guide, catching Tad's inquiring look, smiled and nodded.
"You should always keep your eyes on the weather in this country, especially when on the alkali," he told the boy after the party had started on again.
"Why more there than elsewhere, Mr. Parry?"
"Because storms here are frequently attended with no little peril. You'll see some of them, no doubt, before we reach the end of our journey, and you will wish you hadn't."
"But there's no sign of storm now," protested Tad.
"Perhaps not to you, young man. Do you see that haze settling down like a fog on the western horizon?"
"Yes, I've been looking at it—a golden fog."
The guide smiled grimly.
"I wouldn't call it exactly golden. I should call it fiery," said the guide.
"Has it any particular meaning?"
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