The sun is getting pretty low, and no signs of human habitation anywhere
about; but the wheeling is excellent, and the termination of the
lake-like level is observable in the distance ahead in favor of low
hills. Between my present position and the hills the prospect is that of
continuous level ground. Imagine my astonishment, then, at shortly
finding myself standing on the bank of a stream about thirty yards wide,
its yellow waters flowing sluggishly along twenty feet below the surface
of the desert. The abrupt nature of its banks, and an evidently
unpleasant habit of becoming unfordable after a rain, tell the story of
the abandoned trail I have been following. Whether three feet deep or
thirty, the thick, muddy character of its moving water refuses to reveal,
as, standing on the bank, I ruefully survey the situation.
No time is to be lost in idle speculation, unless I want to stretch my
supperless form on the barren, brown bosom of mother earth, and dream the
dreary visions conjured up by the clamorous demands of unsatisfied
nature; for the sun has well-nigh sunk below the horizon. Clambering down
the almost perpendicular bank I succeed, after several attempts, in
discovering a passage that can be forded, and so, wrapping my clothing,
money, revolver, etc.
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