30 A BOOK-LOVER S HOLIDAYS 



and greasewood. At the foot of the mountain 

 we stopped for a few minutes at an outlying 

 cow-ranch. There was not a tree, not a bush 

 more than knee-high, on the whole plain round 

 about. The bare little ranch-house, of stone 

 and timber, lay in the full glare of the sun; 

 through the open door w r e saw the cluttered 

 cooking-utensils and the rolls of untidy bedding. 

 The foreman, rough and kindly, greeted us 

 from the door; spare and lean, his eyes blood 

 shot and his face like roughened oak from the 

 pitiless sun, wind, and sand of the desert. After 

 we had dismounted, our shabby ponies moped 

 at the hitching-post as we stood talking. In 

 the big corral a mob of half-broken horses were 

 gathered, and two dust-grimed, hard-faced cow- 

 punchers, lithe as panthers, were engaged in 

 breaking a couple of wild ones. All around, 

 dotted with stunted sage-brush and greasewood, 

 the desert stretched, blinding white in the sun 

 light; across its surface the dust clouds moved 

 in pillars, and in the distance the heat-waves 

 danced and wavered. 



During the afternoon we shogged steadily 

 across the plain. At one place, far off to one 

 side, we saw a band of buffalo, and between 

 them and us a herd of wild donkeys. Otherwise 

 the only living things were snakes and lizards. 



