H. Bedford-Jones and W. C. Robertson

“ This valley had two entrances, and this southern entrance was guarded by a single Mongol. As Kilgore had explained, the office of guardian was hereditary. Except for this one man, those of the tribe never ventured into the valley of the whirling sands.
Severn stared as a lone Sikh advanced, unarmed and openly, in the new light of day. The Sikh held his turban-ring over one wrist. Ahead of him appeared nothing but rock.
“A play for primitive curiosity,” said Kilgore, low-voiced, from his position beside Severn. “If it wins—we win. Few men have seen a Sikh turban-ring at work. Watch.” ”

“ A stalwart Sikh came up and saluted Kilgore.
“Sahib, this is the place of whirling sands, of which you told us? Good. Do these sands swallow up men?”
“Like flies,” said Kilgore grimly. “We march by the eastern rim of the valley, risaldar. If we have luck we shall get through.”
“Wah, Guru!” exclaimed the Sikh. “Then we wet our turbans here.”
He gave an order. The Sikhs sprang into activity, tearing from their long turbans strips of cloth for the noses of men and animals—the leather head-bags had been left with the camels. The wet cloths would substitute. Kilgore turned to Severn. ”

“ Such men as the Darkan priests, who kept in full touch with the outside world by means of their novitiates, might easily have heard of the projected expedition; all magic aside, they might have learned of it through natural sources of information. A conviction oppressed Severn's mind that Kilgore had committed a fatal error—but it was not his to speak of it now.
Time dragged. The party made slow progress along the eastern edge of the valley and presently even Severn was eying the sand-spouts uneasily. Large and small, those whirling vortices moved with an incredible speed. ”