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manner of ill-at-ease, I know now, was a mighty urge to get away
from that which distressed them, and to return whence they came—
into the broader, franker places.

I knew that they were “out of the West,” and this meant—of course it
did—beyond—well, beyond the Mississippi. “The West” is a general
term, and brings to mind the buffalo days, an unpolished period of a
dim past. Therefore I did not know that this one’s bailiwick contained
five troublesome barriers across a coveted valley, where men of
three different races met and snarled at each other, as they had for
nearly four hundred years; that another’s domain included six
thousand square miles of God’s most wonderful creation, having the
Marble Cañon of the Colorado for its western fence; that four States
met in a third’s territory, while a treacherous river gave it a name
and, at times, breaking the harness he had constructed, rolled its
hissing flood through his very dooryard; that grizzlies and wild turkey
tracked the solitudes of mountain parks within sight of this one’s
home; that still another had explored a dozen dead cities, lost,
forgotten, in the silence of uncharted cañons.

No. I did not meet these men in the Smithsonian offices at

Washington; nor were they lecturers before the National Geographic
Society. They were Indian Agents.

They came to Washington, hoping for additional allotments of funds

with which to construct roads and bridges, to harness torrents, build
mills and housing, equip and maintain schools, and, what is more
important, establish [5]hospitals. Their general talk was of cement
and queer machinery, when it did not turn on gasoline and blasting-
powder. They wanted things necessary to fix civilization on the last of
the frontiers.

Indian Agents! a much-maligned class of officials, although

recognized as part of the National Government since 1796, clouded
somewhat in their efforts by the memory—fact and fiction—of the
“ration” days. They might have spoken proudly of the traditions of
their Service, a Service that has had little recognition and possesses
no chronicle other than a dry-as-dust Annual Report compiled by
unknowing clerks. The reason for these officials’ existence has
produced much sound and fury. The very title seems to have
infuriated the ablest writers of the past, and still causes some of the
present to see red. When sentimentalists—and God knows the
ignorance of them is astounding—take pen in hand to picture the
fabled glories and the believed miseries of the savage, they usually
begin by attacking those very men I met and have in mind. They
forget, if indeed they have ever known, that they are privileged to
view the savage because of these men; that the miserable actualities
of the “glorious past” would long since have engulfed the idealized
protégé but for them. Indian Agents may not vie with painters and
poets; but tubes of color, Strathmore board, dreams, and rhyming
dictionaries produce small knowledge of tuberculosis, trachoma,
smallpox, measles, syphilis—scourges of the Indian people, whose
long train of evils reach grimly down through the generations of an
ignorant and devitalized race. No one feels this so keenly as the
official who daily faces the unromantic task, charged with the duty of
alleviating the miseries of the present. Unlike the Spanish explorers,
these men have no [6]historian, and but for prejudice and libel would
probably be unknown.

Yet this one had succeeded to the task Custer left unfinished among
the unrelenting, sullen Sioux; had checked a second rebellion; had
faced and quelled and buried Sitting Bull, the last of the great savage
charlatans. That one had built a city in the pines to shelter the
children of murderer Geronimo; a third had tracked and mapped a
region few civilized men had known. Now came one who had
chained a river without an appropriation; now came another who had
fought pestilence in winter, among a superstitious people, crippled by
distances and lack of transport, without sufficient health-officers, to
learn in the end that his mortality records were lower than those of
enlightened civilization. Occasionally a fancied uprising brought one
to unpleasant notice; occasionally, too, one was killed.

These unromantic facts, having no camouflage of feathers and war

paint, nothing in them of the beating of tom-toms or the chanting of
legends, do not invite a sentimental record; and, it is true, few such
things occur in the “dude season,” when sentimentality,
accompanied by its handmaiden ignorance, takes its neurasthenic
outing in the wild.

One of them, a man whose dress spoke rather of the club and office,
invited me thus:—

“Come out with me for a leave. There are deer, and trout streams,
and a hunting-lodge up in the hills.” He was the chap who claimed to
have a census of the grizzlies. “It’ll do you good, and you look as if
you needed a bit of the outside.”

I thanked him casually, and turned aside his invitation with—

“What’s this I hear about the Chief offering you an [7]inspectorship?

That would give you some travel too, and—”

“An inspectorship! Travel!” he snorted. “Why, good God, man! I am

the boss of the Switzerland of America. I wouldn’t trade my post for a
seat in the Cabinet.”

That is the way they talked, and a few of them undoubtedly meant it.

A large bulky man, with a face like a piece of granite, twisted a crude
silver ring on his finger as he extended a similar invitation in an
entirely different way. He was a slow-speaking fellow, of few words
and those of a definite, precise character.
“You’d like it,” he finished, sighing. “The Navajo country is a great
place—a great place—”

He seemed at loss for words to picture his meaning, and I know now
why language failed him.

Said a third, for whom I had unraveled the genealogy of a much

intermarried Indian family, and who was grateful:—

“Why, you’re just the lad for me. All you’ll have to do is ride fences,
armed with a hammer and a pocketful of staples” (I think he really
said “steeples,”) “—and there’s quarters for you; twelve hundred a
year too. You’ll get a lot of dope for stories. That place fairly drips
’em. What say? I can fix it with the Chief?”

After having had the courtesy to thank them one and all, I leaned
back in the swivel-chair and laughed. While they were present I
good-humoredly laughed with them, and later, at them. You see, in
the Office I was known as the Scribe, ever since that time when the
boss of Indian Territory had rushed in, mad as a hornet, waving a
copy of Harper’s Weekly, and declaring that the essential guts of an
article therein had been stolen from his confidential [8]files. And while
I had purloined them with the Chief’s permission, I realized it was a
fine thing for me not to have lived in the Indian Territory.

While I might spend odd time writing stories of heroic unwashed

cowpunchers battling Dante-nosed cayuses across the vasty early-
morning range, with the frost nipping down the alkali dust, and a
pale-rose tone on the distant range of hills, I knew also that they did
it for forty dollars the month and grub off the wheel. I was then and
am to this day aware that cowmen give little thought to either the
vasty sweep of the broad spaces or to the rose tones. And I was
perfectly able to fake the western landscape, where a man’s a man
an’ a’ that, without removing myself more than five blocks from a
café and a steak à la Bordelaise. I had placed one hundred stories in
New York, and a hundred more on the stocks, without smelling an
Indian camp or subjecting myself to the grave and anxious possibility
of getting—well, inhabited, to say the least of it. I assumed that the
dapper fellow was more of a clerk than a ranger; that the slow-
moving granite-faced individual truly reflected the somber aridity of
his monotonous desert; and the fact that the third had said “steeples”
proved to me that I could never respect him as chief.

“No!” I decided, with a grin. “The Borax mule-team couldn’t drag me

into that life.” And I too meant it.

But—I was brutally launched out of this effete complacency and

pitched into the great Navajo Desert country without disturbing a
single mule. I scrapped for money to purchase the once-despised
“critters” to enable my existence therein. And I have been proud of
my mules since.

Without seeming to be missed by those to whom I had [9]thought my

going would be tragedy, without causing a ripple among those few
with whom I found myself, the Wheel turned over, and the vast
immutable Desert received me with as much inscrutable kindness as
it offers anyone. I had prepared the chute myself, and having
greased it thoroughly, slipped and plunged down it, as has many a
better man without sliding any further than his grave.

“See the Chief, and get a berth in the West. Live out o’ doors, rough
it, live on milk and eggs, and don’t come home until I agree to it. You
are two leaps ahead of the lion, and you’ll beat him yet.”

It was the cruel frankness of friendship. I had romped the city streets
with the doctor, attended the same schools, appeared on the same
stage as promoter of histrionic wares; in short, he had been the
leader of my gang. I could recall the local excitement aroused by his
first cane, and had carried his messages to his first girl. He knew
how many times I had been thrashed, and had once turned the trick
himself. There was no need for professional bluff between us.

Next day, perhaps a trifle groggy, I got to my feet in a more

determined spirit, to prepare for the six-months’ battle. The Chief
was very kind.

“Why not take a superintendency?” he suggested. “There’s one

vacant, down in Rainbow Cañon. That’s the Grand Cañon country,
you know. Wonderful place, one of the rarest spots on earth.”

I thanked him for the confidence, knowing that Rainbow Cañon was
no place for an invalid. That Agency is nearly always vacant. New
superintendents negotiate the trail but twice—ignorantly, going in,
and wisely, [10]coming out for ever. Even sure-footed mules have
been known to miscalculate at Suicide Corner, and it is claimed that
the bones of one such beast, entangled in the wires of his last
burden,—a cottage piano,—still furnish a mystic Æolian effect when
the wind sweeps below the place where he faltered. The last
superintendent had spent forty-eight hours in a tree, evading flood-
waters that threatened to carry him on a personally conducted tour
through the Grand Cañon itself. I had arranged his relief by
telegraphing the nearest offices adjacent to his tree, a mere matter
of miles, up and down; and I had no great confidence that anyone
would so rapidly arrange mine in similar circumstances. No! Rainbow
Cañon sounded good, quite poetical, indeed; but none of it for one
who required rest and as little exercise as possible.

So, in accord with my request and at my own valuation, based on my

inexperience, I was formally transferred as a clerk to an Indian
Agency that sits astride the Santa Fe trail—the modern trail
connecting the ancient city of Santa Fe with the Pacific, along which
pioneers wended in the forties.

One week later I had left Washington to make the trek of two
thousand five hundred miles to the Painted Desert and—to me—a
most desolate siding on the banks of the Little Colorado River in
Arizona. [11]
[Contents]
II
 ACROSS THE PLAINS

Yet one could not but reflect upon the weariness of those who passed by there in old
days at the foot’s pace of oxen, painfully urging their teams, and with no landmark but
that unattainable evening sun for which they steered, and which daily fled them by an
equal stride. They had nothing, it would seem, to overtake; nothing by which to reckon
their advance; no sight for repose or encouragement; but, stage after stage, only the
dead green waste under foot and the mocking, fugitive horizon.—Stevenson: Across
the Plains

In the early days, those adventurous times when men pulled out of St. Louis of
an early morning, and the dust of a long train of wagons and outriders arose;
when they followed the Arkansas across to the Cimarron and Wagon Mound;
when they warily entered the Indian country and somehow existed through the
long dusty days and the longer nervous nights before sighting Santa Fe and
safety in a foreign land, I suppose most of them felt the extraordinary vastness
of the West. Certainly they knew its sterile immensity after a few weeks on that
perilous road. Later, when they began seeking the Coast and the Pacific, leaving
Santa Fe to plunge down La Bajada trail to follow the valley of the Rio Grande,
to skirt the fields of the mysterious Pueblos, to risk thirst and ambush in the arid
lands of the Navajo and Apache, to dare the flooded rivers and that brazen
furnace, the Mohave Desert, all to reach the painted paradise of golden
California, they surely became alive to the wonderful expanse of [12]that
southwestern empire first called New Spain—the Land of the Conquistadores!

A magic stage having magic scenes, bathed in glorious sunshine; a place of

enchantment, where the rainbow colors linger on the cliffs and never leave the
skies; an ancient garden of the gods, dreamily expecting that the gods will yet
return; presenting ever its sphinx-like riddle; promising everything and yielding
nothing but its lure. Once you have felt its sorcery, the spell is never broken.

Speaks the old-timer, “The Desert’ll get yeh”; and he doesn’t add anything about
watching-out. The pioneers eluded or fought off wandering war-parties, but the
Desert got them nevertheless.
 WALPI, THE PUEBLO OF THE CLOUDS

THE VALLEY AND ITS HEADLANDS

There is one point in Arizona where, between the Santa Fe Railway and central
Utah, three hundred miles as the crow flies and a weary five hundred by the
trails, there is nothing of civilization other than a few isolated trading-posts and a
solitary Indian Agency, set in a terraced cañon, eighty miles from a telegraph
key. As my train passed this point in 1910, I did not dream that for more than
eight years I should direct that Indian Agency and its chain of scattered desert
stations, supplying all of progress that the country had, maintaining all of law
and order that its half-wild people knew, isolated, lonely, well-nigh forgotten.

Only one who has lived thus removed from the turmoil and petty vanity of cities,
apart from careless crowds, unreached by artificiality, can fully realize the
brooding mystery, the savage beauty, the power and cruelty of the Desert. One
must penetrate its solitudes, stand atop the world to view dead or enchanted
cities, pause on the naked brink of chasms leaning over faery valleys, to know
[13]the grandeur of this silent country. One must grow weary on its heavy trails,
feel its hunger, shrink in its bitter cold, and thirst for the water of the precious
hidden springs. Fairly to hear its ominous hush at blazing noon-time, to view the
scarlet glory of its sunsets, to stand under its velvet dome at night, lighted by the
burning stars, is to have caught a secret from the universe. To have watched
Orion’s flaming signal through that crystal atmosphere, to have loved the placid
jewels of the Pleiades, is to have received the Desert’s blessing, which is
contentment—if not peace. One must spend whole days crossing its sun-baked
emptiness, carry-on through the chill of twilight, feel the menace of its dark, and
see its wondrous moon burst from black cedars on a mesa edge. One must
have known the sigh of the night wind in the brush, heard the chatter of jackals
in the snow, felt the sandstorm’s acid lash, and stopped, spellbound, at the
sibilant warning of its gliding Indian god. Then to have seen the drifting red-
bellied rain-clouds that the Snake priests pray for, the crisp rending lightning at
their pouches, the wild strength of arroyos after cloud-bursts, and the deluge of
the swift midsummer rains, ending in the soft radiance of double rainbows! One
must live as a hermit in the Desert to find its heart.

And only one who has done this may somehow feebly understand those
bronzed people of whom the desert genii have made fatalists—the solemn,
dreaming Indian of the waste lands, whether the Hopi of the mesa heights and
kivas, the Pueblo in his mediæval towns, or the Navajo, chanting in his lonely,
hidden camp. These know all the splendors, feel all the menace and the
mystery, and call the Desert home. Timid, yet uncaring, ever bent on placating
some unseen demon, trusting in songs [14]and sorceries, they go their Oriental
ways on a vast Occidental stage. The desert spell has touched them, every one.

That which is normal elsewhere cannot find its kindred in the Desert. Here the
scale was made by giants. Nothing is small save those who enter it without
respect. Left to it, crumbling, dust-covered, ancient, are the massive properties
of splendid prehistoric plays. Its geology, a mosaic of the mesas, an open book
in the shattered cañons, speaks of the twilight before Babylon. The shepherds
on Chaldean hills were like its people of to-day. In this land, so strangely similar
to His, one thinks of Christ in Judæa, at a time when cliff-dwellers, curious half-
human pygmies, fought over this unknown continent and honeycombed its
enormous cañon walls, as unmindful of their Divine contemporary as their
descendants are. Here one may view the remnants of a civilization still in
decadent being, clinging to the pueblos that have little changed since the
thirteenth century, when Genghis Khan dominated their Mongol brothers, and
rude gentlemen of England gathered at Runnymede to sign the Charter, the
spirit of which now rules them too.

One comes, like Crusoe, upon historic footprints, younger signs,—not quite four
hundred years old,—the first white man’s record in the valley of the Rio Grande,
and may trace them across the Desert and through the cañons to the Crossing
of the Fathers. The dramatic entry of the Spanish marks a page as colorful and
as stirring as any in history. Seeking new lands and treasure, they came from
the South. One can picture their departure from Compostela in February 1540, a
long train of adventurers making a new crusade. Romancists and friars,
mercenaries, captains, Spanish braves. At their [15]head, the great Conquistador.
Swords and crosses beat against the savage desert shields; litanies sounded
above the savage desert chants. Their gestures were of bravado, yet upon their
lips were the Ave and the Sanctus. They struggled for a legend, found Cibola but
a fable, yet were not discouraged. Supermen these, not to have feared the
desert gods, not to have quailed before the sinister welcome of the empty desert
spaces. From the Sangre de Christos to that awesome Cañon of the West they
marched and countermarched, they prayed and fought, leaving their record
deep in great El Morro, on the King’s Road to Acoma.

Then the days of the Mission Fathers; the revolt of 1680; the massacre of the
padres; the red calendar of the now drowsy pueblos along the Rio Grande. After
that, a long silence in the Desert, broken only by sound of tom-toms and wild
exultant chants, until the coming of De Vargas to reclaim this empire for his king.
Then the Mission bells were hung, those very bells that sound at Acoma and
San Felipe to this day.

But De Vargas waived the kingdom of the Farther West. Until the treaty with the
Navajo in 1868, little more than solitude or bitter foray touched the heart of the
Enchanted Empire of which I write. Three hundred years of Spanish steel and
ritual were drifted down into sand and silence. One marks this chapter but a
desert dream. Later civilization and progress moved north and south around it.
The building of the frontier posts assured a pathway to the Coast and nothing
more. “Fort Defiance” explains this desert challenge. And while the great Civil
War was crashing in the East, Kit Carson made his desert raids, carried ruthless
war into the cañon strongholds, to break the nomads who, desert-trained, keep
their secrets still. [16]

To have been thrust, a sickly tenderfoot, into this environment, to have observed
the aftermath of these periods, to have known the desert people intimately, to
have followed Coronado’s trails, and to have had in charge quite nearly all that
Spain controlled in 1600, perhaps will serve as a reason for this notebook.

Just as the early Spanish found it necessary to dominate and rule this kingdom
of the Desert clans, so do the Indian Agents who govern it to-day. A Government
post here, another one hundred miles away, mark all of civilization that one can
find, held against the obliterating fingers of the hungry, unchanging Desert. Here
is the last frontier, an area of fifty thousand square miles, having fifty thousand
Indian inhabitants and few indeed of other men.

For the most part the native people are pagan barbarians, having savage
customs, jealously guarding their secret mysteries, slow to obey, but quick to
resent interference, feeling all the power of their isolation.
 A NAVAJO FLOCK AND ITS SHEPHERDS

CAÑON DE CHELLY, SEEN FROM THE RIM

Where the Navajo retreated before Kit Carson in 1863. The earliest records mention it as a
Navajo stronghold. The cliff-dwellers held it before them. There are places where its rock walls
tower 1000 feet.

As late as 1911 a troop of United States cavalry was breaking camp at a point in
Keams Cañon, of the Moqui Reservation, not a mile from where Kit Carson, with
his New Mexican volunteers, made his camp in August 1863, during that famous
march to Cañon de Chelly. Ostensibly this modern troop had acted as an escort
to another famous Colonel of the older frontier Army—that gentleman who has
out-talked so many Indian tribes, with his sign-weaving fingers if his words
sound strange to them, with men of the plainest diction when all else fails.
Actually it had served as a show of force, trooping in frontier fashion against a
band of unreconstructed rebels of the hills. A bloodless campaign of thirty days
was ending. Washington orders, irrevocable, called to other troubles on the
[17]Border. The support lent to the Indian Agent, still a pallid tenderfoot, was
about to be withdrawn. He ventured to remark that the serenity of the moment
might be followed by untoward proceedings, once the uncombed native learned
that the soldiers had departed. He asked for military advice, knowing full well
that he would get no civil consolation.

Until then there had been a great show of tactful diplomacy between the two
Governmental representatives; the one of war counseling peace, and the
supposed civilian who had ventured close to war. The Colonel spoke, for the first
time without regard to the gentle traditions of the Interior Department:—

“Young man! you have an empire to control. Either rule it, or pack your trunk!”

And there is another reason for the telling. Probably no other section of Indian
country is more visited than is the Painted Desert, where the Snake gods have
such influence. From June to October comes a host, packing cameras and
notebooks and sketching-blocks, attired in weird garments, big with questions,
and expecting to find hotels. Most of them wish to rough it smoothly, and are
easily annoyed. They seek the natural wonders of the Empire, and especially
the religious “dances” of the Indian people, chief of which is the annual Hopi
Snake Dance. A strange crowd, having more of enthusiasm than sense,
staggering under theories, swelled with importance and criticism, generously
stuffed by guides.

A library has been written and vocabularies have been exhausted in their efforts
to explain the beauties and the thrills. Canvas sufficient to tent a city has been
spoiled by those who would capture the delicate and elusive Desert charm.
Historians and ethnologists have recorded [18]and traced; antiquaries have
uncovered and restored. The museums of the East are filled with looted
treasure, while the files at Washington drip complaints. (“Oblige me by referring
to the files.”) And the Indian as a savage—and a little-understood savage at that
—has been idealized. And those who do not observe this view—berated.

But not a word has been printed, and few spoken without a sneer, regarding
those of the United States Indian Service who keep watch and ward in the
remote places: those who govern and protect, educate and guide; those who
have kept the Indian living, that he may be sketched and analyzed and gaped at.
This work extends beyond the dude season, through the lonely, bitter winters,
embracing at times contagion-camps among an unreasoning, often
unappreciative, and occasionally defiant population.

To further education among those who do not want it, to advance medication
among fatalists, to attain some show of morals among an insensible and
unmoral people, to demand respect and win affection from suspicious aliens, to
rule absolutely without an army, and, above all, to keep sane and just without
society, call for all of any man’s ingenuity and resourcefulness, and should
arouse something other than blatant criticism from those who boast intelligence.
Having accomplished these things, every one, I am proud of the record; and I
shall not fail to acknowledge my full indebtedness to those faithful men and
women of the Service who made my efforts possible of success—employees,
traders, missioners, not forgetting those few from among the heathen who gave
their loyalty and confidence. They too have felt the sneers and insults of the
multitude; and the grudging appreciation of an equally [19]insensible Bureau
nearly three thousand miles away is small reward. Many valued employees have
grown old in this Service without a syllable of commendation from Washington.
And I have prompted at least one Commissioner of Indian Affairs to
acknowledge his feeble debt to a dying physician—dying on his feet, still nobly
making the rounds.

When I left Washington, in 1910, I had no idea that such a future work would
extend my little vacation into the years. Six months out o’ doors, and either I
should be reëstablished at the old stand, pounding the old typewriter, or I should
have attended a ceremony that is final but not interesting to the subject thereof.
A simple calendar; not the first, however, to stand revision.

Morning brought Chicago, to me a grim and sinister city, and a day spent in its
galleries and clubs; then the train again, and its long crawl across level, heated
Kansas. Excellent living on a diner, and came the thought that wherever this
railroad wended would follow good food, which I required, and service of the
best. Vain and soon-to-be-exploded vision! The railroad carries food and service;
the West sees it go by. In the Desert one has desert fare.

The contrast was outside the windows; on the third morning this contrast
became acute. Instead of hamlets, farms, and country lanes, there was now the
grayish-green of the sage, broken by stunted cedars on the slopes, with an
overtone of brown as the soil reflected light. There was no indication of complete
aridity, so one could not think of this as a desert. Scant vegetation lived from the
brush of the foreground to the timbered blue of the distant ranges. They did not
appear as lofty mountains, although [20]many peaks lifted against a calm blue
sky. Beyond the little telegraph points, the occasional adobes of section crews,
and water tanks, the landscape held not a sign of habitation. In the middle
distance were strange formations of crumbling shale, banded with the spectral
white of gypsum: queer piles such as might have been designed by some
sardonic humorist. Now straying cattle, gaunt as the hills, blanket Indians idling
at a station, or a ranger on a shabby mount, were the only things of life. Over all
the golden haze of New Mexico, moistened by the mists of the Rio Grande.

But later in the day this blue-toned view began to change. The sky grew clearer,
the distance more intimate and revealing. Everything snapped into the brilliancy
of sharp relief. Where had been isolated buttes, now ran barricades of rock,
wind-worn, pinnacled, and domed, while the cold tones—blue and silver—of the
river country warmed to the dry saffrons and parched reds of sun-baked Arizona,
the Land of Little Rain. One could, as the old-timer sings, “see farther and see
less” than on any other stage of the world.

Just at sunset the train slowed into a weather-browned, dust-covered town, its
main street along the tracks and little else in sight. It was Sunday and the
season of the wind. A swirling fog screened everything as the cars stopped.
There is nothing more forlorn than a Southwest town of a Sunday in the windy
season. A long rank of stores and saloons displayed false fronts, innocent of
paint. A few starved trees waved crippled branches, and were most piteous.
Flapping awnings, flying leaves, waste paper, sand, and cinders filled the air.
When the wind ceased howling for a moment, there fell a deadly silence. It
seemed to me as if that place must have been as it was [21]for a thousand years,
drowsing in the red-gold sunset, abandoned, overlaid by the itinerant dust of all
the ages. A clatter of hoofs, a shot, a crash of glass, and a man or two by
Remington would have completed the picture.

A little to the north of it was Poverty Flat. To the east was the drying bed of the
Little Colorado, a mile in width, lined by withered cottonwoods, and possessing
scarcely enough liquid to demand a foot-bridge. In the west, a thing of splendor,
reared the beautiful San Francisco range, snow-crowned, radiant, the sun
searing down into its ancient craters. Elsewhere, everywhere, stretched the
Desert, sterile, barren, robing now in the purplish-brown shades of early dusk. Its
unlimited expanse, silent, desolate, suggested something of foreboding,
something of waiting menace.

Thank God! there was one of those splendid railroad hotels at hand. I hurried
into it, a little of civilization such as I knew, glad to shut out the night that
advanced across that empty plain, swallowing as it came the masses of the
Moqui Buttes and all the strange upland country that a year later I was to call
home. [22]
[Contents]
III