His
efforts only forced him down--down--always down!
Carolyn June's own feet were in the sand. She threw herself from the
saddle--as far to one side and ahead of the horse as she could. With her
weight removed perhaps Old Blue could get out. Anyway it was death to
stay on the horse. Perhaps alone she could escape--she was lighter--the
sand might hold her up--by moving rapidly surely she could go that short
twenty-five feet to the firm ground ahead of her. At the first step she
sank half-way to her thigh. She fell forward thinking to crawl on her
hands and knees. Her arms went into the mass to the shoulder.
Silently--without a word--but with horrible fear gripping her heart she
fought the sand. She sank deeper--slowly--steadily--surely. The hellish
stuff closed about her body to the waist. If she only had
something--anything--solid to hold to! She took off her hat, grasped the
edges of the brim, reached her arms out and tried to use the frail disk
of felt for a buoy. It held a moment then gradually settled below the
surface of the shifting, elusive substance. Again and again she lifted
the hat free from the sand and sought to place it so it would bear a
part at least of her weight.
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