Yorgh stared, feeling the prickle of rising hairs on his neck. The moan of rising wind made him shiver. At least, he told himself it was the wind. It sounded uncomfortably like a wailing spirit. Any skins or leather padding on the seat had long since crumbled. Only sand-scoured bones and metal remained. Except-- Something gleamed from the small deposit of sand remaining about the feet of the skeleton. Yorgh reached out cautiously and touched the end of a whitish metal cylinder as thick as his thumb. It was loose enough to pull out. He did, and it lay in his palm, about six inches long. Yorgh could see no mark of any kind on the surface. He wondered if it would stand sharpening as a spearhead. "Must have been one of the Old Ones," he muttered uneasily. "It is said they had strange and wonderful powers. I wonder if this was one of the wagons that skimmed over the ground with nothing pulling them, as are told of in the legends." He had been turning the cylinder over in his hands as he considered. One end moved beneath his fingers and the opposite extreme abruptly flashed a bluish green light at him. "Gaaghk!" choked Yorgh, and flung the thing from him. It arched over the edge of the hollow, and its flight was followed by the thud of hooves as the wolly scampered away. The growing wind was again raising stinging flurries of sand. "Ho! Come back here, you knob-headed idiot!" roared the man, scrambling up the side of the hole to give chase. * * * * * The animal, stung by the flying sand, ran faster. Yorgh stooped, groping for a stone to throw ahead of it, so as to turn it back in his direction. His fingers grasped upon something hard, but the shape felt wrong and he looked down. It was the white metal cylinder. I never should have touched it, he thought. Naturally, it would have a curse on it. I must put it back! Glancing over his shoulder, he saw there would be little time. Sand was heaping up again all along the gully. But the wolly had disappeared up a slope to the surface of the desert. "I'll come right back!" said Yorgh aloud, with an uneasy feeling that there just might be someone to hear him. He thrust the object into the leather pouch on his belt beside his bronze knife, and ran up the slope with long-legged strides, even in the sliding sand. The wolly was out of sight. The moan of wind rose to a shriek from the blackening sky. Yorgh staggered blindly ahead. Once, peering between his fingers, he thought he caught a glimpse of the animal, but a gust whirled him around and he lost the direction. He floundered onward, wishing he had stayed in the gully. Then he remembered the company he would have had, and wondered if the Old One had been trapped by a similar false hope of shelter there. With fumbling fingers, Yorgh unslung the cloak that hung behind his shoulder and wrapped it about his head. It gave some relief, and he plodded forward, afraid to stop in one spot.