The Last of the Plainsmen 



After lunch we entered upon the seventy-mile 

 stretch from the Little to the Big Colorado. 



Imagination had pictured the desert for me as a 

 vast, sandy plain, flat and monotonous. Reality 

 showed me desolate mountains gleaming bare in the 

 sun, long lines of red bluffs, white sand dunes, and 

 hills of blue clay, areas of level ground in all, a 

 many-hued, boundless world in itself, wonderful and 

 beautiful, fading all around into the purple haze of 

 deceiving distance. 



Thin, clear, sweet, dry, the desert air carried a 

 languor, a dreaminess, tidings of far-off things, and 

 an enthralling promise. The fragrance of flowers, 

 the beauty and grace of women, the sweetness of 

 music, the mystery of life all seemed to float on that 

 promise. It was the air breathed by the lotus-eaters, 

 when they dreamed, and wandered no more. 



Beyond the Little Colorado, we began to climb 

 again. The sand was thick; the horses labored; the 

 drivers shielded their faces. The dogs began to limp 

 and lag. Ranger had to be taken into a wagon ; and 

 then, one by one, all of the other dogs except Moze. 

 He refused to ride, and trotted along with his head 

 down. 



Far to the front the pink cliffs, the ragged mesas, 

 the dark, volcanic spurs of the Big Colorado stood 

 up and beckoned us onward. But they were a far 



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