The Last of the Plainsmen 



as their fathers had crossed the plains fifty years 

 before, on the trail to Utah. 



All morning we made good time, and as we 

 descended into the desert, the air became warmer, the 

 scrubby cedar growth began to fail, and the bunches 

 of sage were few and far between. I turned often 

 to gaze back at the San Francisco peaks. The snow 

 capped tips glistened and grew higher, and stood 

 out in startling relief. Some one said they could be 

 seen two hundred miles across the desert, and were 

 a landmark and a fascination to all travelers thither 

 ward. 



I never raised my eyes to the north that I did not 

 draw my breath quickly and grow chill with awe and 

 bewilderment with the marvel of the desert. The 

 scaly red ground descended gradually; bare red 

 knolls, like waves, rolled away northward; black 

 buttes reared their flat heads; long ranges of sand 

 flowed between them like streams, and all sloped 

 away to merge into gray, shadowy obscurity, into 

 wild and desolate, dreamy and misty nothingness. 



&quot; Do you see those white sand dunes there, more 

 to the left? &quot; asked Emmett. &quot; The Little Colorado 

 runs in there. How far does it look to you? &quot; 



&quot; Thirty miles, perhaps,&quot; I replied, adding ten 

 miles to my estimate. 



&quot; It s seventy-five. We ll get there day after 



12 



