Carter counseled a halt until morning, and Sanderson yielded. After a
camping ground had been selected Carter and Sanderson rode ahead to
inspect Devil's Hole.
The place was well named. It was a natural basin between some jagged
and impassable foothills, running between a gorge at each end. Both
ends of the basin constricted sharply at the gorges, resembling a wide,
narrow-necked bottle.
A thin stream of water flowed on each side of a hard, rock trail that
ran straight through the center of the basin, and on both sides of the
trail a black bog of quicksand spread, covering the entire surface of
the land.
Halfway through the basin, Sanderson halted Streak on the narrow trail
and looked at the treacherous sand.
"I've seen quicksand, _an'_ quicksand," he declared, "but this is the
bogs of the lot. If any steers get bogged down in there they wouldn't
be able to bellow more than once before they'd sink out of sight!"
"There's a heap of them in there," remarked Carter.
It was an eery place, and the echo of their voices resounded with
ever-increasing faintness.
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