t 
 
 1 
 
o 
 
When a desert man drifts into a strange town 
 he takes no letters of introduction and there's 
 no one to vouch for him. Over his after-dinner 
 cigareet in the Mesa Hotel office, he drops a 
 casual remark as to the trail by which he entered 
 town and the name of the last town he left, and 
 the ice begins to melt. Mutual friends are dis 
 covered, reminiscences follow, and he is identi 
 fied. 
 
 Howdy, Stranger! I come from the town 
 o' Golden Spur, on the edge of that Desert over 
 yonder. 
 
THE LAND 
 WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 SKETCHES OF THE AMERICAN DESERT 
 
 ^^^ e, L. > 
 
 ORVILLE H. LEONARD \ 2 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 SHERMAN, FRENCH & COMPANY 
 1917 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1917 
 SHERMAN, FRENCH 5r COMPANT 
 
30 
 Bancroft Library 
 
 TO THE WILL-O'-THE-WISP OF THE DESERT 
 
 AND 
 TO THOSE WHO FOLLOW HIS LIGHT 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 DO YOU REMEMBER 3 
 
 OVER THE CIGAREETS 
 
 THE GREASER 9 
 
 A DEAL IN LEATHER . . 14 
 
 REVERSION . . ..... . . . 18 
 
 A NEVADA IDYL . . . , . . . . 24 
 
 BOOTLEG . ... . . i * . . 28 
 
 RECONCILIATION .... v. . . . 31 
 
 His BEST BELOVED SON ...... 37 
 
 A SKINNER'S DAY . . . .' . . 44 
 
 ASPIRATION . . . . . . . ^ . 51 
 
 THE SKINNER ...... .'= . 53 
 
 ON AND OFF THE TRAIL 
 
 CIVILIZATION . . . . ... . . 57 
 
 DAWN ........... 60 
 
 COMPENSATION ........ 62 
 
 A DESERT GARDEN . ...... 64 
 
 SURVIVAL OF THE UNFIT . ... . . .68 
 
 IGNORANCE ......... 71 
 
 PATIENCE . . . . 74 
 
 THROUGH A WINDOW . ... . . . 76 
 
 VARIETY , . . . . . . . . .77 
 
 FRIENDS OF MINE 
 
 THE FORTY-NINESS . 81 
 
 A MISSOURI MEERSCHAUM . '. . . . 85 
 
 PINON . . . . . . v . . . 88 
 
 FOR SHERIFF ... 92 
 
 THAT COUNTRY OVER THERE .\ . . . 101 
 
 THE MINER . , 105 
 
PAGE 
 
 GOPHER HOLES . 108 
 
 LOST OPPORTUNITY . . . . . . . 112 
 
 PROSPECTIN' '...'. 114 
 
 DRY COLORS 
 
 AL DESIERTO 119 
 
 A DESERT DAY ........ 121 
 
 A DESERT NIGHT ....... 124 
 
 THIRST . . . . . .... . 126 
 
 THE PAINT-BOX f . . 128 
 
 HANGMAN'S TREE ....... 129 
 
 TALKING WATER AND WHISPERING 
 WIND 
 
 RUNNING WATER 135 
 
 THE RECKLESS DESERT WIND t- . . . 137 
 
 A MESSAGE . 138 
 
 THE WOOING WIND 140 
 
 THE WIND IN THE SAGE . . . . .142 
 WHAT THE WIND WHISPERED . . . .145 
 
 DESERT SPECIMENS 
 
 I'M GOING TO THAT COUNTRY OVER THERE 149 
 THE BARK OF THE COYOTE . . . . .152 
 DESERT CHILDREN ....... 154 
 
 GOBS AND HOBGOBS 
 
 THE INDIAN AND THE PRINCESS . . . .159 
 
 MOUNTAIN Music . . . . . . . 163 
 
 NIMROD ..... . . . . . . 165 
 
 DESERT WITCHCRAFT ...... 168 
 
 WILL-O'-THE-WISP , 170 
 
PINE AND CHAPARRAL pAOK 
 
 GROWING PAINS 175 
 
 PINES 176 
 
 A MAGIC PLUME 178 
 
 A SILVER SUNSET 180 
 
 HEAT 183 
 
 GOLD 185 
 
 NIGHT 189 
 
 A SANITARIUM 191 
 
 SUNSHINE HILL . 193 
 
 WHERE THE GULCHES RUN WITH RAIN 
 
 DROUGHT . ... 197 
 
 A MINER'S LAMENT . ....*. 199 
 
 CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE . ... . 200 
 
 A TOAST . 203 
 
SALUTATIONS 
 
PREFACE 
 
 Stranger, I ain't no naturalist 
 
 An' I ain't no poet, either, 
 
 But, by the great horned toad o' the desert, 
 
 I ain't no liar, neither. 
 
 O' course, I follered the Will-o'-the-Wisp, 
 An' I heered the fairies sing. 
 Didn't I see the Injun shoot, 
 An' his hawk with a broken wing? 
 
 In the mountains I've seen the dawnin' 
 An' felt somethin' inside me swell, 
 Jist like flowers a-bloomin' 
 Deep down in my ole think-well. 
 
 So I reckon that the desert 
 
 Is both Hell an' Paradise. 
 
 It all depends on the way you look, 
 
 An' the focus o' your eyes. 
 
 There's a whole lot more o' beauty 
 In the world than we mostly git, 
 Because we're jist plain worryin' 
 Or tryin' to raise our bet. 
 
So when the world looks blackest 
 Jist ride by yourself a spell, 
 An', p'rhaps, if you hunt fer beauty 
 'Twon't seem quite so much like Hell. 
 
 But, Stranger, we'll quit moralizin'. 
 
 Here's my final yell. 
 I couldn't a-done this book alone, 
 So I told these yarns to Elisabeth Bowen- 
 
 Say, ain't she done it well 1 
 
A HIGH SIGN TO THE READER AT THE 
 CROSSING OF THE TRAILS 
 
 Howdy! I've just pulled my freight from 
 the Desert and I'm hitting the trail for That 
 Country Over There. 
 
 News of the Desert? Some. 
 
 Already I am missing it I did not realize 
 how much of desert air I had inhaled till after I 
 had left it. Here is some of it expelled in 
 short, quick gasps. 
 
 Stranger, you'd be surprised at some of the 
 things that go on in the Desert, for there's a 
 bunch of shacks here and there on its edge where 
 there's comedy and tragedy, thrift and laziness, 
 just as there is anywhere else. And the Will- 
 o'-the-Wisp is there. Many I've seen pursuing 
 him eagerly, determinedly. Besides, I've fol 
 lowed him myself. And in the desert moun 
 tains the Indian fairies live I can hear them 
 singing even now. Nonsense? Look here, 
 Stranger, once when I told a grave and matter- 
 of-fact engineer that I had heard the fairies 
 singing in the mountains, he nodded understand- 
 ingly and said he had heard them, also. There 
 are too few fairies nowadays they have 
 
mostly been killed off or run out into the wild 
 spots, where you have to go to find them. It's 
 always the open season on fairies. 
 
 There's one thing the Desert does for a man 
 it makes him feel so infernally small, except 
 when he's lit up, and then he feels bigger there 
 than anywhere else, for he has more room to 
 ramp round in. He feels small because he has 
 a great, big, empty world to lose himself in, and 
 by depending upon himself he finds he amounts 
 to just what he can do with his two hands. And 
 the Desert helps a chap to look on the little 
 things of life in a bigger way. And there's an 
 other thing; a man gets a chance to take him 
 self aside and talk to himself, and that's a thing 
 we don't do any too much, except old Desert 
 Rats, and they talk to themselves all the time. 
 There are no signs of warning in the Desert, no 
 morals and no messages. I reckon a real mes 
 sage is an illuminating thought, but, Stranger, 
 if you find by chance a single one along this 
 trail, it will not be painted on a rock. It lies, 
 my Desert, east of the Sierras, in The Land 
 Where The Sunsets Go. There may be hotter 
 deserts, but all of desert life seems centered 
 there, even to the Desert Rats. Oh, yes, I know 
 a desert is supposed to hold no living thing, but 
 even in Death Valley there are fleas ! 
 
 Stranger, if you're an old timer in the Desert 
 and these whiffs of desert air bring you one 
 
bright memory of a vivid, blazing day gone 
 by, or if you are from the crowded places and 
 you feel a touch of warm, clean desert wind for 
 a moment on your cheek, that will be bueno. 
 
 ORVILLE H. LEONARD 
 January 1917 
 California 
 
DESERT MONOTONY 
 
 'Tis but a jump from hottest hell 
 
 To where the high snow flies. 
 
 'Tis but a step from a poison well 
 
 To where sweet water lies. 
 
 And in the desert they both may dwell 
 
 'Twixt dawn and the next sunrise. 
 
 Leave for a time, O my brother, 
 Your ledgers and profits and things. 
 Come away from the city's smother 
 To the land where the air has wings, 
 And you'll find in this land, or another, 
 The calm that wide solitude brings. 
 
 And grimness may ride close beside you 
 
 Out here where the desert winds blow, 
 
 And hunger and thirst may betide you, 
 
 And profit may follow you slow, 
 
 But there'll bloom all the soul that's inside you 
 
 In The Land Where The Bright Sunsets Go. 
 
DO YOU REMEMBER? 
 
DO YOU REMEMBER? 
 
 Do you remember your infant self when you 
 were a lad of five, when it seemed that your 
 Daddy was made of pelf and the biggest, finest 
 being alive? And do you remember how long 
 the day when your Daddy told you at breakfast 
 time that he would bring you some longed-for 
 treasure when he came home at night, and how 
 you lived in the happy thought, crossed with 
 fears that he might forget? How the speeding 
 minutes stretched out to years and your eager 
 thoughts, 'twixt hopes and fears, wondered, " Is 
 it night yet? " And do you remember how 
 bright the world, though lamps were lighted and 
 pink clouds curled where the sun had said Good 
 Night, when a wonderful being came striding in 
 like a god, or Davy Crockett, with a teasing, 
 whimsical smile on his face, but his hand in his 
 deep coat pocket, and do you believe the prom 
 ise of Heaven could bring to you the joy that 
 you felt when you knew that your Daddy'd re 
 membered, when you were a little boy ? Or how, 
 in nighty and bare of foot, you stood at the old 
 stair-head listening in darkness and misery to 
 the laughter and music down below, for you had 
 been sent to bed? If you can remember all this, 
 3 
 
4 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 do you think that the uttermost pains of Hell 
 could more than equal what you suffered when 
 you looked down that old stair-well? And do 
 you remember the lights and shadows, the days 
 that were gladsome or blue but whichever the 
 kind, they would last forever, and that you cer 
 tainly knew? 
 
 And do you remember your beautiful sweet 
 heart when you were the ripe age of seven and 
 she was just three days older, how the whole bot 
 tom dropped out of Heaven when she turned 
 on you the cold shoulder and smiled on a boy 
 of eleven? 
 
 And do you remember when Sam was the 
 marshal and you were the desperado, how he 
 chased you over the desert hot till he lost you 
 in a tornado, and how, from the cover of sand, 
 you shot him with a sling-shot gun and a pebble- 
 ball, and when you had grazed his head and 
 " got 'im," you didn't like blood at all? 
 
 You have heard fierce tales of desert carnage, 
 of lives that were bright and sad, but the desert 
 was fiercer, its men were bolder, to you when a 
 little lad. And do you remember the wild, bad 
 bronco that you had roped on the plains, what 
 a bold buckaroo you pictured yourself as you 
 pulled hard on the reins, and how, as you 
 roweled with home-made spurs and gave him 
 command to " steady," you saw him not as 
 your own meek pony, and that he had been 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 5 
 
 gentled already? And when, with a child's 
 small shovel and pick, you placered the brook 
 for gold, and found in the dark old swimming 
 hole a rusty gun, its usefulness done, do you 
 remember the joy untold it gave to you, little 
 Shiner? More than gold to any miner! Do 
 you remember the heights and depths you 
 reached in one short day's span, how you ran 
 the whole gamut of joys and fears when you 
 were a little man? 
 
 It is sweet sometimes to recall those days 
 with their bright, high lights, their shadows, 
 too, for love was about you to keep those shad 
 ows from stretching across the blue. But how 
 deep they looked, how dense that shadow, how 
 white that light, for life was all misery or all 
 joy when you were a little boy. 
 
 And do you remember how, as a man, you 
 wandered afar and saw strange things, how 
 lying under the desert star you felt the pull of 
 the homing strings ? For you'd seen the desert 
 of boyhood dreams and, over the mountains, a 
 softer clime where grew big pines, where flowed 
 swift streams down gulches where the nugget 
 gold held an alloy you never dreamed that it 
 could hold, for you were sure all gold was pure 
 when you were a little boy. 
 
OVER THE CIGAREETS 
 
THE GREASER 
 
 Far above my little shack, perched on the 
 very verge of an old mine dump, I could hear his 
 mules' bells tinkling long before he came into 
 clear vision round a jutting ridge, and high 
 above the tinkling of those bells, could hear the 
 tones of his soft southern voice, urging, plead 
 ing, swearing, to keep them moving, keep them 
 in the trail, for a mule will climb either up or 
 down, and never heed his heavy load, to munch 
 some juicy tuft of grass that his sharp eyes 
 have spied. The packer bore a good, round 
 English name, Horace Older, and to all the 
 mines in those wild, lonely mountains he packed 
 pinon pine for fuel on the backs of his little 
 mules. The steep and shaly canon slopes form 
 mighty sounding boards, and so I know he's 
 coming before he drives into sight six little 
 mules, each with his pinon load, and the packer 
 behind on his old white mare. 
 
 The desert has its voices, like the sea, but 
 they are different. I have lain upon a sandy 
 beach, no human form in sight for miles, which 
 ever way the eye might turn, and heard foot- 
 9 
 
10 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 steps and faint, whispering sounds footsteps 
 that never came. But in the desert mountains 
 I hear music, perhaps the music of the spheres, 
 who knows? And surely if it ever might be 
 heard, 'twould be in those clear, high spaces. 
 To me it seems that one who lives alone in these 
 wild hills, with rocks and brush, with sun for 
 company by day, and sky that's very clear and 
 close by night, grows something new within him 
 self, that comes unbidden, unannounced, that 
 makes him over new. He may not know it at 
 the time, but when he goes back to his kind, he's 
 never quite the same. 
 
 But here's my packer almost at my door, and 
 I have gone wool-gathering while I watched his 
 train wind slowly down the narrow curving trail, 
 each mule with its wooden burden. That wood 
 is packed from far across the range, from its 
 farther side where stunted pinons grow, grip 
 ping their hardy roots into the steep rock slope. 
 
 Horace brings the last mule to a stop in the 
 space beside the shack and climbs out of his sad 
 dle with a sigh of relief. His large, round, 
 laughing black eyes are set in a full-moon face. 
 A thick lock of jet black hair always threatens 
 one eye, and a close cropped black mustache 
 shades his full red Mexican lips that speak bet 
 ter English than those of many of his Saxon 
 brothers. His anatomy, above his belt, is try 
 ing to escape its bounds, for he looks fat and 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 11 
 
 pudding-soft, but he will ride the trail by day 
 and night for weeks on end. He is gladly wel 
 comed, for he is always good company and 
 brings the news of every solitary prospector, 
 every desert happening. After beans and cof 
 fee we sit on the bench outside with our pipes 
 and gaze on the floor of the desert, three thou 
 sand feet below. Across that shifting waste of 
 sand, upon its farther rim, a tiny oasis of green 
 glows vividly beneath the mountains' steep gray 
 walls. It is the City of Pifion Pine. 
 
 Horace's mother was a Mexican, his father 
 was a Briton. His sense of humor is keen, and 
 none of the vengefulness or sulkiness of his race 
 has ever blossomed in him he is all sun and 
 laughter, and he speaks even of his own family's 
 wrongs at white men's hands with the dispas 
 sionate speech of a cool spectator. His pas 
 sionate speech is all saved up for " those damn 
 mules," but if you see him with his foot against 
 the belly of a sulky mule, a cinch strap in both 
 hands, a stream of lurid talk in two languages 
 coming from his lips, his hat in the sand, and his 
 black, coarse hair hanging down in his eyes, 
 if you see him thus, and speak to him, he an 
 swers with a genial smile and a flash of all his 
 strong, white teeth. He loves a shot of hooch, 
 and when he's all shot up, his squaw will beat 
 him and throw him out of the tepee to sleep it 
 off in the sand. He draws no knife under such 
 
12 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 punishment, but is meek and acquiescent and 
 tells about it later with a sheepish grin. 
 
 When the pipes were going strong, he pointed 
 across the desert to that spot of vivid color, 
 set like a green wafer in the yellow sand. 
 
 " That spot's where I was born, and Mexi 
 cans were thick then in this desert, though it's 
 only forty years ago. Americans were new in 
 the country and when, one day, a white man was 
 killed, a Mexican was accused. Then they got 
 together a Vigilance Committee and decreed 
 that the Mexicans must all leave town, by 
 noon, the day following the decree, there must 
 not be a single Mexican left in it. I was a lad 
 of ten, and my mother ran a little bakery across 
 from the big saloon. The Mexicans lay low, 
 kept out of the way all they could that night, 
 but three Mexicans were walking down the street 
 when there was a shot, and the Vigilantes 
 poured out. They saw the Mexicans and 
 chased them up to my mother's door which was 
 on a level with the street. The Mexicans threw 
 themselves against the door, burst it in, then 
 shut and barricaded it. And then the bullets 
 flew. They came splitting through the door 
 panels, and we threw ourselves flat on the floor, 
 so the bullets went over our heads, all but one 
 the one that killed my little sister. Later in 
 the night my people left the town. The Mexi 
 cans all hit the trails for the desert in a hurry 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 13 
 
 and by midnight there wasn't one of 'em left in 
 Pinon Pine. 
 
 " The decree took effect at noon of the next 
 day, but at sunup, Steve Ridley, one of the 
 Vigilantes, rode out into the desert with a forty- 
 five in each hand. He rode for miles away from 
 Pinon Pine until he met the last three Mexi 
 cans walking along through the deep sand with 
 all the household stuff they could carry all 
 that they had left from the homes they were 
 driven out of and Steve Ridley shot 'em all 
 dead as they tramped ahead of him. 
 
 " He lives now on a big desert ranch he owns, 
 ten miles from Pinon Pine, and is very much re 
 spected." 
 
A DEAL IN LEATHER 
 
 He was not desert born nor bred, but in those 
 sunny, rocky hills where once the placer miner 
 set all the world agog. There the cattle browse 
 amid the brush, where once stood thick-sown 
 pines ; there the great day of the rocker and the 
 sluice-box has gone by, for the rancher and the 
 cattleman are minting surer gold. And Jerry 
 was a cattleman, and at his birth I'm sure he 
 was " all dressed " in leather chaps and jingling 
 Mexican spurs. There, in his own home land, 
 I met him and felt an instant liking for the 
 little buckaroo. 
 
 You know those gray eyes with a touch of 
 green in them that can look so sober and so 
 devilish? Jerry's eyes were like that, and they 
 could look dangerous. He was small, slender, 
 active, and the most generous heart alive. 
 There are some people who seem to take a cer 
 tain character from their very names, and there 
 are fewer who give their names a meaning of 
 their own, despite all our previous associations 
 connected with those names. Jerry was of 
 these. 
 
 I was riding with him on one of his horses to 
 14 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 15 
 
 help him bring up a mare from the pasture be 
 low town. The poor animal had cut her foreleg 
 badly with barbed wire and we were going to 
 take her where she could be treated near home. 
 
 " That damn bronco you're ridin' don't walk 
 as he does when I'm on him. Hoocha ! " 
 
 He gave the cowboy cry and brought his 
 quirt down across my horse's withers, grinning 
 wickedly as the spirited animal danced me over 
 the road. Just then an old fellow passed us 
 riding an old gray mule. 
 
 " Notice that ole cuss ? That's ole man 
 Jackson who used to keep store down to Ulano 
 when I was a youngster. Me an' my pardner, 
 Pete Galligan, was herdin' cattle out in the hills, 
 a long way from Ulano, an' one day Pete was 
 goin' to the City an', as I needed a new pair 
 o' boots, I give Pete the money an' asked him ter 
 bring me back a pair, which he done. Along in 
 the fall, when my cow-punchin' was over fer the 
 season, I come in ter Ulano an' asked Jackson 
 fer my store bill, cause I'd just been paid off 
 fer the season an' wanted ter settle up my bills 
 before any o' them poker sharps down ter the 
 saloon pried my roll loose. Jackson took a 
 long time ter make out my bill, fer the damn ole 
 cuss was slow as the Devil, but finally he handed 
 it ter me an' I looked it over careful. 
 
 "< That's all right, Mr. Jackson,' says I, 
 6 all but that pair o' boots. I ain't had none 
 
16 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 o' you, I know, 'cause I been up in the hills all 
 season, an' Pete brought me a pair from the 
 City an' I paid him fer 'em.' 
 
 " ' It's down on the bill, ain't it? ' says he. 
 
 " ' Yes, it's on the bill, but I ain't had 'em.' 
 
 " ' Well, my book is got you charged with a 
 pair o' boots, an' it wouldn't be down there if 
 you hadn't got 'em.' 
 
 " ' But I tell you I ain't been near this town, 
 an' the only boots I got is what Pete brung me.' 
 
 " ' Can't help that. The book says you had 
 'em.' 
 
 " Well,' I says, ' here, I'll pay my bill, all 
 but fer them boots, but I'll be damned if I pay 
 fer them.' 
 
 " So I paid him and he receipted, on account. 
 
 " 'Bout a week later, as my Dad was drivin' 
 by the store, ole Jackson come out an' says, 
 
 " ' Say, Mr. Howard, that boy o' yourn don't 
 pay his bills.' 
 
 "'He don't, eh? What about it ?' 
 
 " ' Well, he got a pair o' boots in here I 
 know, 'cause it's down on my book an' now 
 he says he won't settle fer 'em.' 
 
 " ' I'll see to it,' says Dad. 
 
 " When he come home, him an' me had a 
 set-to, an' it resulted in my payin' Jackson's 
 bill, but I was pretty sore. 
 
 " A little after that I was in the store with 
 Tom Laden, who was buyin' a lot o' stuff, over- 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 17 
 
 alls, sacks, grub, and a pair o' boots. 'Bout 
 the time Jackson had finished waitin' on Tom, 
 another customer come in, an' the ole man went 
 behind the counter ter make change fer him. 
 Tom was puttin' on his new boots, fer his others 
 was pretty well wore out. 
 
 " ' How much was them boots, Jerry? ' 
 "'That's all right, Tom,' says I. 'They 
 was $4.50, but I paid fer 'em some time ago. 
 You just walk up ter the counter an' pay fer 
 the other stuff, an' ole Jackson won't never see 
 them boots.' 
 
 " Tom done it, an' the ole man never see his 
 feet, 'cause he was behind the counter, so he 
 took the money fer the other things Tom 
 bought, an' we beat it. Course, / didn't get 
 my money back, but I made the ole sun of a 
 gun ante up fer them boots. Damn his hide! 
 I wouldn't be sittin' comf'table in the saddle 
 now if I hadn't squared that deal." 
 
REVERSION 
 
 On a shaly slope, far up the mountain, there 
 lies a lonely grave. The brilliant sunlight 
 bathes it ever, save when night shuts in, and then 
 the stars come down so close they seem almost 
 to touch the rude cross, made of two thin 
 boards, where his head rests. Just above it a 
 gozzan crops, that capped, he used to swear, a 
 ledge of wealth untold. A foot over his head, 
 a little zigzag trail leads to a seepage well set 
 in the bottom of a narrow canon, a scant half 
 mile above. Beneath his feet, a quarter-mile 
 below, the canon winds, bathed ever in black 
 shadow, and high above the trail that skirts his 
 grave, the steep old ore grade runs around a 
 bend, then over a high saddle, flanked by two 
 mighty buttes, to the fierce and savage land be 
 yond. From the slopes of those high buttes, 
 the tops of lofty ranges, like the crests of giant 
 petrified waves, melt into the far distance. Be 
 yond that melting distance lies Death Valley, 
 crouching and waiting, silent, terrible. The 
 hawks by day fly far above, the coyotes yap at 
 night, and rattlers coil, and lizards sleep in the 
 sunny glare on that little mound of sand and 
 18 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 19 
 
 that is all of life. And over all, a parching sun, 
 and everywhere, just rocks and sand and desert 
 weeds and brush. In Mexico he worked mines 
 to their owners' glad relief, and other places 
 knew him to his credit but he always came 
 back. He spent his life to hold this land where 
 he is laid away. He gave up all the other lands 
 he owned to hold this one bare tract, and lived 
 alone in the big redwood bunkhouse, his nearest 
 neighbor many miles away, except for three ig 
 norant miners lately come. 
 
 That bunkhouse was his pride. When the 
 mines were booming in the good old days, its 
 every finished stick was packed on mule back 
 from the western coast. Chemist, scientist, and 
 scholar, this land of beauty in its very desola 
 tion had claimed Aymer's love and, therefore, 
 his attendance. Trips to the cities of either 
 coast, on carefully hoarded money, had been 
 of no avail, for it was in that bitter time, that 
 time of fasting and distress for miners when 
 wildcat mining schemes had sent investors' 
 money glimmering " no more for them." So 
 he came back and lived here all alone, upon one 
 meal a day, and he was eighty then. On his 
 nearest neighbor, many miles away, he had laid 
 one last request, that should he be found dead 
 upon his claims, they'd bury him upon the 
 sunny slope. So there he is today. 
 
 Miners are superstitious, and they say that 
 
20 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 at dusk they've seen his tall gray ghost walking 
 about the trails, or in the doorway of his old 
 redwood bunkhouse. They say he beckons 
 them, to tell them where to dig to find the pre 
 cious minerals that he ever swore were there. 
 We found in his rough pine board desk the lit 
 tle diary which he kept from day to day, giving 
 the petty details of the lonely man, with all his 
 time to spend. 
 
 " Today I mended the north trail, that last 
 week's storm had gullied out." 
 
 " Today I found a piece of float and assayed 
 it. It went $53.26 per ton. Tomorrow I am 
 going to follow it up/' 
 
 " Last night, I spent all night in patching up 
 the back wall of the kitchen. The storm had 
 washed big bowlders down against it, broken it 
 through, and water was pouring in. Patched the 
 wall, went out and deflected the water into the 
 canon, repaired the roof where the rain had ripped 
 some shingles off. At dawn I went to bed." 
 
 " This morning, an hour after dawn, with my 
 glasses I saw Pete and Frenchy at the collar of 
 their shaft. It is a long way from here, but, at 
 that distance, I can see a smile on a man's face 
 with these glasses. They were acting queerly and 
 seemed hurried, which is strange for them. After 
 looking all around, they shouldered two heavy 
 looking sacks and took the upper trail that leads 
 into the desert, seven miles above the canon road 
 that leads to Piute Springs. I did not see their 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 21 
 
 Indian partner, Pancho. Strange tomorrow I 
 am going over to investigate, for drills and single 
 jacks were scattered all about. They left them 
 so, and I do not like the looks I saw upon their 
 brutal faces. I would go today, but I am feeling 
 strangely weak. Why did Pete and Frenchy take 
 the trail to Malapai Canon? It holds no living 
 thing and opens on to the desert, where there is 
 no town, not even a single dobe shack. It troubles 
 me, this matter." 
 
 And then, next day, we found him, sitting be 
 fore his little redwood table. Everything in 
 that bunkhouse was of redwood even the 
 shingles dripped blood when it rained. His 
 brown old face was resting on his arms, and al 
 most touching them, the untasted bowl of por 
 ridge that he would never eat. We buried him 
 where he wished to lie. And then we found that 
 diary and when we came to that last entry we 
 hunted up his windlass rope and started for the 
 shaft of those three Desert Rats. Their wind 
 lass was still over the shaft, but no windlass 
 rope was on it, as we could see from Aymer's 
 house with his powerful foreign glasses. And I 
 found out why no rope was there when I reached 
 that hole and was let down slowly by my friend 
 on the rope that we had brought. Their rope 
 was lying in snaky loops at the bottom of the 
 hole, and something else was lying there, face 
 down, with a big rock on its back. It was 
 
22 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 Pancho, breathing, but far gone. I bound him 
 to the rope and we hauled him up to daylight 
 and laid him gently by the collar of the shaft. 
 With fiery whiskey, forced between his lips, we 
 brought him back to consciousness for a mo 
 ment. He had lain in that hole for a day and 
 a night and part of another day with a broken 
 back, but the one flash of clear vision, which 
 seems to come to all of us just before death, was 
 his, and he opened his big black eyes and looked 
 with keenly seeing glance around the shaft 
 mouth. 
 
 " See ! no rock near edge. Pete 
 
 an' French drop rock kill me 
 
 get my share thirty thousan* 
 dollar." 
 
 Both the Indian and Mexican in him combined 
 their wills to name his enemies and their deed 
 with one last straining effort of his breath, for 
 then he died. 
 
 We left Pancho where he lay and took the 
 trail to Malapai Canon. We had one gun be 
 tween us and I, my heavy quirt, but none of 
 these was needed, for where the trail dips down 
 a short, steep slope of shifting shale into the 
 canon bed, we found Frenchy lying upon his 
 back, a big hole in his chest. His sack was gone 
 and he was past all help, so we pushed on, not 
 up the canon, for it ran for miles that way, then 
 brought up short against a sheer rock wall. 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 23 
 
 No, we headed down the canon toward the des 
 ert, and then we saw a laden sack upon the 
 rock, and then beyond a bend, a mile below, we 
 saw a crumpled heap, and in its hand that other 
 sack was clutched but Pete was dead. His 
 wound was in his back. We never knew that 
 story save what those pictures told. 
 
 Later, we left with Pancho's squaw, in Piute 
 Springs, those sacks. 
 
 We buried Pancho on his claim, not far from 
 that deep shaft, and as we rode down the canon 
 bed, after our gruesome duties done, we halted 
 for a moment to look back before a jutting but 
 tress of the canon wall should blot that picture 
 out. Aymer's rugged gozzan loomed above his 
 little cross, and Pancho's cross was there, but 
 lower down. The lizards darted among the 
 rocks, while sharp and crackling, like derisive 
 laughter, came the yapping of a coyote from 
 behind old Aymer's shack. 
 
 The desert had come again into its own. 
 
A NEVADA IDYL 
 
 It was in a land so thirsty that in freighting 
 a barrel of whiskey twenty-five miles over the 
 desert, seven-eighths of the alcohol was replaced 
 with water curious changes take place in the 
 desert albeit the whiskey did not belong to 
 the freighter ; in a land where Indian women go 
 bathing in the lakes, when there are any, in na 
 ture's garb, quite unashamed, and care not for 
 the white man's eye ; in a land where the Hang 
 man's Tree supported some fifteen human beings 
 by the neck for the good and safety of the state 
 no longer ago than when we were boys : a savage 
 land where nature so quickly wrests her own 
 from struggling man that where forty years ago 
 dwelt five thousand souls, where twenty saloons 
 kept open house all night, where music, dancing, 
 drunkenness, sudden wealth, and sudden death 
 ran riot, there is nothing left to tell the tale. 
 No vestige even of the saloons, shacks, or other 
 human activities ; only the coyote who lurks 
 ever upon the fringe of human habitation and 
 barks and yaps at night, whose eerie chatter 
 sounds like savage laughter, " I am only a dog, 
 but I have outlived you; you were transients, 
 24 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 25 
 
 but this is my home, and I've come back into my 
 own." 
 
 Only a mile from this scene, in the shadow of 
 the bunkhouse, Lew McManus, with an Irish 
 name, but a Mormon heart, squatted on his 
 heels, his weak, good-natured face bearing a 
 reminiscent smile. Too weak for a dangerous 
 bad man and really too good at heart, he was 
 only an inconsequent Desert Rat. At one time 
 a precocious horse thief, then he became, after 
 the sheriff had let up on him, a cow-puncher, 
 rancher, miner, and finally a locator of claims 
 in the vicinity of mines where a boom might 
 some day start. The desert is full of such 
 dreamers, and how they all live, God only knows ! 
 He had a desert-bred wife, and two small chil 
 dren camped nearby waiting for Dad to bring 
 home some dinner, and while they waited, he 
 squatted on his heels and told me. 
 
 " I was in a saloon over in Nevayda one time. 
 The room was plumb full an' there was a big 
 bulldawg there what belonged ter the barkeep. 
 This here barkeep was some proud of that there 
 pup an' claimed that he could jest naturally 
 lick anything he ever come acrost. Well, while 
 we was all standin' an' settin' 'round, drinkin', 
 chewin' the rag, an' some playin' cards, in comes 
 a Dago with a monkey. The little cuss warn't 
 more'n ten or twelve inches long, an' soon as he 
 come in, the bulldawg begun ter show signs of 
 
26 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 bein' right onfriendly. Barkeep warns the 
 Dago, and says he, 
 
 " ' Ginney, watch out fer your monk, er my 
 dawg will eat him up.' 
 
 " Says the Dago, ' Dog no eata da monk. 
 Monk licka da dog quick ! ' 
 
 "Well, Sir, the fellers settin' an' standin' 
 'round heerd this, an' in them days money was 
 easy when it come ter a game or any kind of a 
 showdown, so they arranged ter put the money 
 agin the dawg. Mr. Dago he showed willin', 
 but says he, 
 
 " ' My monk, he fighta with two little stick 
 that alia right?' 
 
 " They all agreed ter let the monk have his 
 two little sticks they was only a few inches 
 long, like two little drumsticks an' after the 
 barkeep had put up his fifty dollars on his 
 dawg, they all stood back an' brought the dawg 
 an' monk inter the middle of the ring. Well, 
 Sir, the minute that little cuss seen that bull 
 pup, he gives one spring, landin' right behind 
 the dawg's head, between his head and shoulders, 
 an' with one of them little drumsticks in each 
 hand he begun ter beat that pup's skull so fast 
 jest like he was beatin' a drum that them 
 little sticks looked like the spokes of a racin' 
 sulky in action. That there hound acted like 
 he'd discovered a hornet's nest inside his skull, 
 fer he run 'round like the Devil was after him, 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 37 
 
 knockin' men over, under tables, in circles, with 
 the monk stickin' tight ter his neck, an' them 
 two little sticks goin' like mad. The bulldawg 
 couldn't reach Mr. Monk with his teeth, an', 
 anyway, I reckon he was too dazed ter map out 
 a plan of action. Well, Sir, in about two min 
 utes there warn't no more fight left in that there 
 dawg than in this here doodle-bug I jest put my 
 hoof on, an' when they clawed that little monk 
 off the dawg's back, he had them little sticks 
 gripped tight, an' his little eyes was snappin' 
 like a rattlesnake's. 
 
 " The Dago got his fifty all right. Yes, Sir, 
 yer see some funny things piroutin' 'round this 
 here country." 
 
BOOTLEG 
 
 If you take some plain wood alcohol and add 
 a generous dose of water in which cigar stumps 
 have been stewed till it's rich and brown, then 
 add a little pepper to give it the proper tang, 
 the result is bootleg whiskey, which is supplied 
 you as a favor in districts that are dry. It is 
 a very simple receipt and there are a dozen 
 more, but this will serve as a sample of the home 
 distiller's art. More accidents, murders, 
 broken health, and death from the desert heat 
 are chargeable to this deadly stuff than we can 
 ever know, and yet its makers can always count 
 on their victims' sure support. 
 
 *.... 
 
 He stumbled into the desert town, for he could 
 not stand upright, leading one little burro, while 
 another trailed behind. He was a big and 
 husky man, but his heavy shoulders drooped, his 
 eyes were narrowed to a slit, his tongue was 
 swollen till it filled his mouth, and when he 
 spied the wooden trough where the desert horses 
 drink, he kneeled against it and plunged his 
 head in the tepid water till we had to pull him 
 28 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 29 
 
 away. And when he could speak for gasping 
 breath, his thickened tongue mumbled out, 
 
 " Go hunt up Jack. I left him out in the 
 desert about twelve mile. When we hit the 
 desert below the pass, we'd a little water left. 
 That lasted about to Soda Springs, but we 
 couldn't fill up there, so we hiked along, an' 
 pretty soon we must have missed the trail. An' 
 then we got kinder loco an' our tongues begun 
 ter swell, but I kep 5 a tol'able rein on me, fer 
 Jack went ravin' wild an' he cussed the sand an' 
 cussed the sky an' damned the blazin' sun an' 
 shook his two fists at the air an' cussed an' 
 cussed an' cussed. An' then he run ter his 
 burro an' hunted through his pack till he found 
 a bottle o' bootleg that he'd hid out from me. 
 He tilted that bottle till it stood straight up, 
 an' drunk an' drunk an' drunk, an' as soon as he 
 had drawed his breath, he tilted it some more. 
 I had jist enough senses left ter leave the damn 
 stuff be, an' I tried to make him quit it, too, but 
 'twarn't no manner o' use. He'd got that bot 
 tle at Poison Springs, an' he'd jist come off a 
 spree. An' then the burros broke away, and 
 down in that hot sand Jack was a settin', 
 drinkin' an' singin' little foolish songs. I 
 couldn't carry him, nary foot. I could only 
 walk, myself, an' I thinks I'll hit the trail some- 
 wheres an' send back ter bring him in." 
 
 He had forgotten, when he told his tale, that 
 
30 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 he'd led his burro in, his partner's following 
 on behind but perhaps he did not know. 
 
 " An' I wandered all that afternoon, an' all 
 one hellish night, a stumblin', crawlin', fallin' 
 down, an' all this hell of a day. I didn't know 
 where I was at, I jist follered my nose, an' hiked. 
 I wasn't keepin' ter no beat trail, plumb instinct 
 brung me here, an' poor ole Jack is out there 
 yet, so you jist find him pronto." 
 
 A dozen horsemen saddled quick and took to 
 the desert floor, tracking the miner's weaving 
 steps till they saw in the distance a darker hud 
 dle against the yellow sands. When they rode 
 close, they saw a man beneath a big sage-bush. 
 He lay on the flat of his big, broad back, his 
 blackened face to the sky, while high in the air 
 two big buzzards floated lazily. His right hand 
 clutched an empty bottle he had drunk his 
 last bootleg. 
 
RECONCILIATION 
 
 The talk was on sudden death. 
 
 He was an old miner, my nearest neighbor in 
 the mountains overlooking the desert, and 
 though his tall figure was slightly bent, his wide- 
 open, steady, steel-gray eye a sharpshooter's 
 eye was youthful in its keenness of vision, 
 withal it had a look of childlike wonderment at 
 times, and ever a kindly humor. 
 
 " There was a young feller I knew back in 
 Coloraydo he'd shot a feller who'd swore ter 
 kill him, an' when this bad hombre run fer his 
 Winchester, this young feller I'm speakin' of 
 run faster, got ter his first an' pumped seven 
 bullets inter this other feller at close range 
 not more'n thirty foot. One bullet would a 
 done the work, but this young friend o' mine was 
 so excited that he didn't know what he was 
 doin'. O' course, he got off on the plea o' 
 self-defense, which was right, but after that, at 
 night, he'd sit on the edge o' his bunk, lookin' 
 down sorrowful like, an' when I'd ask him how 
 things come, he'd tell me, 
 
 " ' I can't seem to git the thought out o' my 
 mind that I've killed a man, even if 'twas in self- 
 defense.' 
 
 31 
 
32 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 " Then I tells him, What you want ter do, 
 Ed, is to git out o' this house where the thing 
 happened an' where you're all the time livin' 
 over it an' seein' him 'round. You want ter git 
 out where they's people an' fergit it.' 
 
 " He went, but I don't know how it ever come 
 out with him. 
 
 " I seen enough an' I don't never want ter use 
 my gun if I can git out o' it, fer it's a awful 
 thing ter feel that a man might be livin' this min 
 ute but fer you, even when it was a question o' 
 self-defense. I was some hot-headed myself 
 when I was a kid, but I don't never want ter 
 draw a gun no more, though I was ready and 
 willin' ter in them days. 
 
 " One time I was out on a prospectin' an 9 
 fishin' trip with a chum o' mine named Weston, 
 up near Buffalo, in Coloraydo. One day we 
 come across a deserted cabin. 'Twas full o' 
 grub an' in fine shape, but the fire had been 
 dead fer days an' we could see no one was livin' 
 there. We built a fire an' helped ourselves ter 
 what we needed, fer we'd left our outfit below 
 an' was some hungry. We did that way in 
 them days, when we found a shack on the trail 
 an' nobody home. All any one asked was fer 
 the stranger ter leave things clean an' ship 
 shape. We had a good square meal, then we 
 pulled out. 
 
 " Weston's uncle, a feller named The Hender- 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 33 
 
 son, who lived up the gulch 'bout one or three 
 miles above this here shack, was a pretty hard 
 nut, an' it seems he'd bought the outfit we found 
 in the empty shack from two fellers who'd 
 stocked it up an' then pulled out ahead o' time. 
 Henderson had tracked us ter the cabin, an' 
 the next time he sees Weston he accuses him an' 
 me o' takin' this here grub which he'd bought. 
 Weston tells me about it an', bein' young an' 
 hot-headed, I says ter him, 
 
 " ' Damn him, I ain't goin' ter let no man 
 call me a thief, an' when I sees him, he's goin' 
 ter eat them words.' 
 
 " An' Weston, bein' my pardner, says, ' O' 
 course. Me, too.' For The, bein' his uncle, 
 didn't make no difference ter Jim. 
 
 " In them days I was skinner, bull-whacker, 
 any ole thing, an' my nearest neighbor, ole Jeff 
 Prouty, says ter me a few days later, 
 
 " ' Jack, I got a load o' cedar posts I got ter 
 git ter town. When you go ter town will you 
 whack them bulls o' mine in, them a snakin' them 
 cedar posts? ' 
 
 " Sure,' says I. 
 
 " The next day I went, whackin' Jeff's ox 
 team, the wagon piled high with cedar, an' goin' 
 through the woods I was walkin' alongside the 
 team. The day was hot an' I took my coat off 
 an' throwed it on the high seat, leavin' my Smith 
 an' Wesson in the side pocket o' it, when The 
 
34 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 Henderson come towards me, drivin' a team o' 
 little mules he had. 
 
 " ' Hold on, I want ter speak ter you,' I says 
 when he'd drew up close. So he stops. 
 
 " ' Did you,' I says, ' say ter Jim Weston 
 that him an' me stole anything from you ? ' 
 
 " ' Yes,' he says, ' I said them words.' 
 
 " * Then,' I says, * you're a damn liar, an' you 
 git down fer I'm goin' ter lick you.' 
 
 " He climbed down quick, fer he was a 
 scrapper, but he pulled out a long knife as he 
 come, an' me with my gun in my coat pocket on 
 the wagon seat! But I was pretty quick in 
 them days an' I hadn't more'n seen that knife 
 when I'd flipped my coat over the wheel an' had 
 my hand in the pocket, but the damn gun had 
 slipped through a hole in the linin'. I didn't 
 wait ter dig it out, but brought it away linin' 
 an' all an' had him covered when he come round 
 in front o' his mule team he was comin' some, 
 too, with his knife raised, but when he seen he 
 was covered he says, 
 
 " ' Oh, well, you've got the drop on me, all 
 right. O' course, with a gun you got a unfair 
 advantage at this distance.' 
 
 " ' Yes,' says I, 'an' when you come at me with 
 a knife, seein' I had no gun on me, 'twarn't 
 nothin' unfair in that advantage, I reckon? 
 Tell you what I'll do I'll meet you anywhere 
 you say an' you can use any gun you like, an' 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 35 
 
 we'll have our friends there ter see fair play.' 
 
 " He agreed ter that an' we met in a big sa 
 loon in Denver. He had a bunch o' his friends 
 at his back an' I had mine, an' he had his gun 
 handy, likewise me. While we was glarin' at 
 each other, all too willin' to start the business 
 o' drillin' holes, one o' his friends, with more 
 sense than common, got him by the pistol arm 
 an' begins ter argue. 
 
 " ' The,' says he, ' with two such shots as you 
 two fellers is, one o' you is sure ter drop, mebbe 
 both, an' you're married an' got kids ter think 
 about. I don't know what this muss is all 
 about, but 'tain't right.' 
 
 " Then one o' my friends asks me what it's all 
 about, an' I tells him. 
 
 " ' Hell, I know Jack here didn't steal nothin' 
 from nobody, an' it's up ter Henderson ter 
 apologize.' 
 
 "'That goes with me,' I says. ' If The 
 apologizes, there ain't no quarrel.' 
 
 " After some talky talk The kind o' grins an' 
 says, ' Well, I reckon mebbe you ain't no thief, 
 after all, Jack, so I take back them words.' 
 
 " ' O. K.,' says I. ' An' since you've taken 
 them back, The, they'll need washin' down an' 
 drownin', so the drinks is on me all round.' 
 
 " We had 'em. But I reckon them words 
 needed more o' the washin' down process, fer 
 The said it was his turn ter do some sluicin', an' 
 
36 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 the last I c'n remember, The was slappin' me on 
 the shoulder, grippin' my hand, an' proclaimin' 
 that I was the only honest man an' that he'd 
 trust me with untold gold. 
 
 " I reckon 'twarn't no very edifyin' sight, but 
 they do speak o' that night yit as one o' the 
 events o' that day, us bein' all lit up, which was 
 some better than havin' daylight let inter us 
 violent. 
 
 " Even in these days o' peace an' softness 
 when a man ain't hardly let ter pack a gun, it's 
 handy ter have it round, fer when you need it, 
 you need it jist as bad as in them days," and he 
 gripped the shiny butt lovingly. 
 
 For Jack still carries his old long-barreled 
 Smith and Wesson. 
 
HIS BEST BELOVED SON 
 
 West from the desert over the mountains 
 many, many miles there is a land that has lain 
 asleep since the early mining days. There the 
 manzanita and the chaparral replace the desert 
 cactus and its rounded gray-green sage. There 
 tall, dark pines grow in small clumps, where 
 once were mighty forests. There, too, deep 
 rocky gulches cut all the brush-clad hills 
 through which the swift roaring floods pour in 
 the rainy time, but for eight or nine months 
 in the year one crosses them dry-shod. Then 
 they are dry as a lava bed and the desert is 
 scarcely hotter, for it is a semi-arid land. 
 There, too, crawl the tarantula, the scorpion, 
 and the lizard, but the lizard is small and slaty- 
 gray, not the desert lizard of every size, nor 
 with its brilliant coloring. It is a cattle coun 
 try, in a way, and in one place and another a 
 patch of noble forest yields its logs, but the 
 great, old mines that filled the land with eager, 
 searching men seem dead. Though now inert 
 these many years, perchance they are but sleep 
 ing. 
 
 It is not a farming land, though here and 
 37 
 
38 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 there a flat, a little swale, or narrow bench will 
 grow green things to giant size, and big, deli 
 cious fruits. All up and down, the steep gulch 
 slopes are sown with dark green pines, with now 
 and then a bull pine bearing its feathery bluish 
 needles. There the deer play by the roadside 
 and at night the wildcat calls and, in the deeper 
 forest, the mountain lion prowls. No, it is not 
 a rancher's land, yet it holds the charm of wild 
 and rugged beauty that ranches could not give. 
 
 It was in this country we were hunting him, 
 the sheriff, the old cattleman, and I, and the cat 
 tleman was telling me the story. Nature had 
 given the cattleman a tall, strong body, but an 
 accident at birth had twisted and deformed it, 
 but not his heart which was big and generous. 
 Nor had it spoiled his laugh which was ever 
 ready and joyous. His horses, his time, and his 
 money were ever at the call of those who needed 
 them. He could see a cow hidden in the chami- 
 sal where I could see only a blur, and so he was 
 a valuable member of the party. 
 
 " It was about thirty-five years ago he first 
 come here an' opened a general store on one side 
 o' the street, an' a fine saloon on the other. 
 Niels Andersen is a Dane, o' course, as his name 
 shows, but he talks jist like you an' me. His 
 life has told on him, but he's still a husky feller, 
 an' in them days he was some man! His blue 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 39 
 
 eyes could snap like the Devil when he was 
 drunk, an' be the softest, gentlest eyes you ever 
 saw when he was right, but they got, mostly, 
 ter snappin' like the Devil, fer he got ter sam- 
 plin' too much o' his stock over ter the saloon, 
 an' the worst o' it was that when he got drunk 
 he always wanted ter kill some one one o' his 
 best friends, fer choice. 
 
 " Ter this day, him an' his old chum, Ike 
 Jamieson, don't speak, fer he pulled a gun on 
 Jamieson in his store one day when Ike was 
 in there buyin' something, an' if Ike hadn't got 
 ter his gun hand pronto an' taken his gun away, 
 there'd been doin's right then. Ole Jed Bran- 
 some, the sheriff, didn't want ter do nothin', fer 
 he was a good feller with everybody in the 
 County, an' Andersen an' him was friends, An 
 dersen bein' a prominent citizen, as you might 
 say. It got worse an' worse, though, an' one 
 evening, 'bout dusk, Andersen come through the 
 door o' his store, a forty-five in each hand, firm' 
 as he come. He nicked the door-post jist be 
 hind the ear of a feller standin' there Hell ! 
 no, he didn't know the cuss, he was jist shootin'. 
 Then he wheeled round an' fired up an' down 
 the street. Jed comes up ter Bill Minturn 
 Bill was a friend o' Andersen's an' a big, power 
 ful feller, too and Jed says, 
 
 " ' Bill, I don't want ter arrest Niels an' get 
 
40 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 him in disgrace, an' make any fuss. You git 
 him in a corner somewhere an' take them guns 
 away from him, will you? ' 
 
 " So Bill coaxes Niels ter go over ter the 
 dance-hall, an' that's a new idea ter Andersen 
 so he goes along, delighted with the doin' some 
 thing. As they goes in the door, Niels first, 
 Bill come up close behind him, pins both arms 
 ter his sides, an' then another friend took his 
 guns away. Mad! He was ready ter kill the 
 whole town. He got about half sober next day, 
 but he was broodin' and ugly, an' I reckon back 
 som'ers in his mind was the drunken notion that 
 he'd been took advantage of by his friends when 
 they wheedled his hardware outer him. 
 
 " Now Niels was jist about all o' a man when 
 he was sober, an' his wife was the sweetest, big 
 blue-eyed woman you'd meet in a week, an' she 
 jist worshipped Niels, only fer that wicked 
 drunken temper o' his, an' Lord knows it was 
 a plenty. She couldn't do nothin' ter make him 
 quit, an' she couldn't do nothin' with him, 
 neither, when he was on the war-path. 
 
 " Well, this day after his little fireworks 
 play, he was in his saloon, broodin' like, an' 
 there was three-five fellers in there drinkin', 
 when Mrs. Andersen come across from the store 
 ter speak ter him about somethin'. You know, 
 pardner, how a crazy idea will come ter the 
 front pronto in a drunk's brain? It did then. 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 41 
 
 No sooner he see his wife come in them swing 
 doors than Niels whips out his two heavy forty- 
 fives. One o' them he throws on the bunch that 
 was drinkin', an' yells, * Git inter that corner, 
 you damn coyotes, an' face this way, han's up,' 
 and he kept his gun playin' back an' forth over 
 'em like lightnin'. And then he turns to Min 
 nie and yells, ' Pull up your skirts an' dance, 
 damn you, too! I'll show you all I'm boss in 
 my own shanty, anyhow.' 
 
 " Well, sir, that big, handsome, home-bred 
 Indiana girl, with a look o' pain and humiliation 
 in her blue eyes, pulled her skirts up ter her 
 knees an' danced before that corner full o' cow- 
 punchers, their han's reachin' fer the ceilin' an' 
 their eyes goggled, mostly on account o' Niels' 
 gun, an' when she couldn't stand up no more, 
 he drove her out at the end o' his gun, an' the 
 held-up bunch after her. 
 
 " The last o' her boys was born soon after 
 too soon, a long ways too soon. When Niels 
 woke up an' all he'd done come back on him, he 
 cried like a baby an' went down on his knees ter 
 her. That was his last rampage, but the mis 
 chief was done. An' Minnie Andersen growed 
 thin an' faded. You know the dead look she al 
 ways has on her face, an' her whole body acts 
 listless like an' sort o' don't care a damn. 
 
 " Now, they talk about God's mercy and kind 
 ness, so it don't seem jist square that a man's 
 
42 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 weaknesses should be handed down ter a inno 
 cent kid ain't that right? Karl Andersen, 
 you savvy, was the youngest boy him that 
 was born soon after that dancin' an' gun party 
 an' he's a right husky, upstandin', powerful 
 boy, an' he's got his mother's big, fearless, 
 steady blue eyes, but well, they don't look 
 jist right. 
 
 " Niels has a heap o' friends here who don't 
 hold nothin' agin' him on account o' the past, 
 fer there's one fine thing about our little town 
 an' this whole Country, too. No matter what 
 man or woman has done, if they turn their faces 
 ter the front and tries ter keep 'em there, the 
 past is clean forgot, and that is what it ought 
 ter be, fer I reckon we're all of us little igno 
 rant children learnin' by mistakes." 
 
 The cow-horse senses anything strange in the 
 brush before his rider sees it, and our horses 
 were pricking their ears forward and stepping 
 high. As we rounded a clump of manzanitas 
 the object of our two days' search stood over a 
 little pool, his broad shoulders and tall, power 
 ful frame reflected in the water. He was talk 
 ing to his image, and when he heard the thud 
 of hoofs and jingle of bits he straightened up 
 and met our eyes. In his large blue eyes was 
 the mournful look one sees sometimes in the eyes 
 of a dog. He had run away from home, and 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 43 
 
 for two days and nights had tramped without 
 either rest or food. 
 
 His name is Karl Andersen, and he is a hope 
 less epileptic. 
 
A SKINNER'S DAY 
 
 The ten-mule team comes clanking in in the 
 yellow afterglow hauling a heavy wagon bear 
 ing a load of ore. They walk fetlock-deep in 
 finest dust that swirls above and around the 
 skinner, and so he rides in a veiling cloud tinged 
 by the evening light. His wagon he leaves be 
 side a car to which its ore is to be transferred, 
 for the only train leaves town at dawn. Then 
 his unhitched mules with chains a- jingle go 
 scuffling wearily through the dust to the big cor 
 ral on the edge of town. 
 
 After the heavy harness is stripped from 
 dusty, sweat-streaked backs, they crowd to the 
 wooden drinking-trough while the skinner ap 
 portions to each mule his share of barley and 
 hay. Then gates are clicked, and the tired 
 skinner, after a sousing at the tap, comes to the 
 hotel dining-room, where at a long and narrow 
 table he eats a silent meal. Then a wait in a 
 throng of his desert friends while the mail is 
 handed out, then the news is greedily scanned, 
 then the Imperial Bar Room swallows him. 
 There he finds his night cronies seated about a 
 large round table, gambling absorbedly for 
 small stakes. He joins them and plays until 
 44 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 45 
 
 nine o'clock, when he leaves them for the night. 
 Then up in the morning at four o'clock to get 
 his breakfast in the empty hotel dining-room, 
 collect the mail, look over his wagon for weak 
 ened parts, then the mules are hitched, the har 
 ness scanned for any worn or weakened spots, 
 then his team rumbles noisily out of town, the 
 jolt of his empty wagon greeting the waking 
 ears of a later riser here and there. 
 
 Up through the gently sloping desert plods 
 slowly the panting team, the heavy yellow sand 
 pouring in cascades from the wagon wheels, and 
 then low hills are reached, the road still wind 
 ing upward along a sandy slope with high, 
 brush-studded waves of sand enfolding it to 
 right and left, and then a tiny canon engulfs 
 the struggling team, and then a deeper one, its 
 sides of yellow broken porphyry holding no sin 
 gle blade of grass in any of their crevices. 
 Above, it narrows to a deep dark cut of purple 
 granite, black with shadow, verdureless and 
 lifeless, like a picture by Dore. That cut is the 
 lower gateway to a bare and rock-strewn hill 
 hemmed all about with mountain walls, purple, 
 yellow, gray. Still up the road winds, through 
 another gate, this time of hard blue limestone 
 seamed with veins of white, then out through 
 this higher gateway to another bare steep slope, 
 but only bare of rocks, for the joshua-tree, the 
 cactus, and the sage-bush flourish there. 
 
46 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 On to this desert pasture open the mouths of 
 draws and canons that through the countless 
 ages the upper floods have cut. Into the black 
 est, deepest, coldest of those canon mouths, the 
 skinner's team has wound, and there, just out of 
 sight around its lower bastion, his blacksnake 
 cracks like a pistol shot, for he is only half way 
 up and his mules are wearying. Six hours to 
 go eight miles, for he is bound for a mine on a 
 steep bare slope lying below the snow, and the 
 skinner walks those miles. With his rawhide 
 hanging over his shoulder, with both hands 
 gathering rocks that he throws at any mule he 
 sees who isn't pulling his pound, the skinner's 
 face is beginning to redden, his language is 
 warming up, for, though the time is but mid- 
 morning, the hot desert sun is chasing the shad 
 ows out of the night-cooled canon, and it tries 
 his temper to see one mule doing the work of 
 two, and it tries it more when a well aimed rock 
 thrown at the ribs of the laggard mate, bounds 
 off with the sound of rock on bone, the mule 
 never even flicking his tail to acknowledge a 
 center shot. 
 
 It is almost true, what I've often heard, that 
 you cannot hurt a mule. Rocks and black- 
 snakes he minds but little, and when he deems 
 that his energies have been used as much as they 
 should, right there he quits till, in his own mind, 
 he is recuperated. Some of us good Americans 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 47 
 
 with our hustle and rush and overwork would 
 not be demeaning ourselves to learn from the 
 good American mule, for he'll work like a 
 mule, but will take it slow, without nervous 
 hurry or fuss, and wih 1 last twice as long as a 
 powerful horse very much larger than he. No 
 one may fathom the mulish mind, but perchance 
 as he stands, clean limbed and sound, after 
 thirty hard-working years, and sees a worn-out 
 horse go by, his throat-splitting bray is the 
 laugh of contempt the wise has for the fool, for 
 he is as sound as a bell at thirty, that horse 
 broken down at ten. No, maybe one " can't 
 kill a damn mule," but the mule has a voice in 
 that, and in that voice he tells himself, " I will 
 save my strength for a future need, for I see 
 hard work ahead." 
 
 But the skinner has reached the mine at last, 
 and while his mules with their nose-bags on are 
 swishing their ratty tails, he eats with the 
 miners a hearty dinner in their big boarding- 
 house. The news of the town he brings to them 
 and takes back mining news. Then the sacks 
 of ore are loaded on his heavy, wide-tired 
 wagon, and with a parting adios he starts down 
 the mountain side, while the whine and shriek of 
 brake on tire fills all the canon bed. He is rid 
 ing the big nigh wheeler now, one hand holding 
 a thin stout line that runs to the leaders' heads, 
 
48 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 the other grasping his brake. Sometimes his 
 wagon bumps off the grade, overturning and 
 dumping out its load of heavy ore sacks that lie 
 scattered about the steep incline ; then he must 
 right the upturned wagon, and load it a second 
 time. Sometimes the canon road's so blocked 
 with snow he cannot get up ; then he leaves his 
 wagon stuck in the snow and takes the trail for 
 town, to come back when the road is open. 
 Meanwhile the mules he has taken back are eat 
 ing their heads off at his expense. Sometimes 
 when struggling up the grade he will see a cloud 
 burst threatening in the mountains high above ; 
 then every living thing must leave the road that 
 follows the canon bed, for that is the cloud 
 burst's watercourse. He must unhitch his 
 mules, leave his wagon, and take to the canon 
 slopes, only to find, when the flood has passed, 
 that his wagon is buried in mud and stones and 
 loaded with boulders from the flood that has 
 rolled over it. And sometimes his brake snaps 
 in a dangerous spot; and then he curses 
 mules no more. 
 
 His face is burned to a bright, brick red, his 
 eyes are crinkled up from squinting into the 
 desert sun, his hair is none too thick, but his 
 mustache makes up for that for he doesn't get 
 time to shave. The tiny cigarette he smokes is 
 buried in its shade. His voice is low and his 
 speech is gentle when he is with his friends. 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 49 
 
 No fiery words escape his lips, no oaths, nor any 
 violence, save when he's skinning mules. Then 
 he's a raging demon, and the vilest names he 
 flings at them, blood curdling oaths and bitter 
 est curses he hurls at their wagging ears. 
 
 The purple wall goes sheerly up till, twenty 
 feet above its base, it overhangs the road, upon 
 whose other side there stands a giant boulder, 
 purple, too, bastioning the narrow road from 
 the deep gorge below. So narrow is that canon 
 track between that sheer wall and that rock, 
 that wagon hubs will almost graze its sides, 
 and just below that narrow portal the road 
 drops at a dizzy slant, then vanishes around a 
 point. The rocks are purple and the purple 
 dust is deep upon the road. But for a little 
 while at noon, a sword flash drops down from 
 the sun to cut the gloom, then all is purple dark 
 again. There dusk comes quickly in mid-after 
 noon, and all the nameless terrors of the moun 
 tains of the desert seem centred in that spot. 
 It is The Devil's Gate. 
 
 The skinner came bumping down the grade 
 and he was cursing lustily. He had to pass 
 through the Devil's Gate for it lies on the only 
 road between the mines far up the mountain side 
 and the town and station far below, and as he 
 swung around to the Gate, a purple dust cloud 
 billowed ahead, enveloped, and followed him. 
 
50 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 while the brake shoes clamping the heavy wheels 
 were whining against the tires. The skinner 
 was riding the big nigh wheeler when his leaders 
 squeezed through the narrow pass and dropped 
 down the purple road below. He was barking 
 curses at the leaders when the overstrained 
 brakes broke and the massive wagon with its 
 heavy load ran on to the wheelers with crush 
 ing force, then plowed its way to the very heart 
 of writhing bodies and thrashing legs, a 
 grim, relentless Juggernaut, till halted in the 
 choked-up way, while the death screams of ten 
 powerful mules cut through the purple gloom. 
 And then the Gate was very still the skin 
 ner would curse no more. 
 
 High up the opposite canon wall, above the 
 shadowed gorge, a jutting spire of stone stood 
 up. It was the favorite lookout of a big brown 
 hawk who rose with a beat of powerful wings 
 and mounted to the blue, for strange, new 
 sounds assailed his ears from the shadowed road 
 below. Then from the line of blue above, a 
 dusky-plumaged buzzard came floating down 
 the canon with lazy, but sure, intent to perch 
 upon the eyrie of the hawk. With bright sharp 
 eyes and folded wings he waited, the patience of 
 the ages in his pose. 
 
ASPIRATION 
 
 There was no earth, there was no sky, nor any 
 air between; naught but a swirl of bitter dust 
 that filled the mouth and ears and eyes of the 
 young Desert Rat. Too young he was to read 
 the signs, so a sand-storm in the desert was his 
 fate. Six burros he had started with, six bur 
 ros he had lost, for they had drifted before the 
 storm and were never seen again. Since their 
 packs held his water and all his grub, his 
 clothes, and his mining tools, a bare human 
 atom he was left in the midst of a howling waste. 
 His eyes were filled with burning sand, but there 
 was naught for eyes to see ; his feet were heavy 
 in yielding sand, but there was nowhere for feet 
 to go ; and his throat, as well as his mouth, was 
 full of the hot and gritty dust, but there was no 
 water to ease his throat if the dust had not been 
 there. First he was gripped with wild despair, 
 then came dull apathy, then a benumbed wak 
 ing sleep, and after long hours he dropped to 
 his knees and crawled through the sand, with 
 head bowed down like any desert thing. 
 
 Where a moist spot shows in the desert, the 
 51 
 
52 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 blowing sand will stick and grow and pile upon 
 itself till a big sand-dune is formed. When the 
 poor blinded, crawling thing met one of those 
 big dunes, with gripping fingers and bleeding 
 knees he crawled through cascades of sliding 
 sand, like a wounded snake, to the top. His 
 tongue was swollen. It filled his mouth and 
 protruded between his lips till he could not even 
 mutter, but he had one conscious thought, " I 
 must keep alive till I reach the top, so they will 
 see my bones, and since I must surely die today, 
 I will die as high as I can." 
 
 The fierce storm ended, the wind died down, 
 the shifting, driving sand was still, as though 
 the desert had done its worst and had stopped 
 to catch its breath. And still was the lifeless, 
 crumpled form that lay on that dune of sand. 
 Then the moon peeped over the desert's rim, 
 throwing its clear, soft radiance on cones and 
 ridges and waves of sand, while, but a short 
 stone's throw from that big sand-dune, a desert 
 surveyor's fire winked red beneath the moon-. 
 
THE SKINNER 
 
 The time is evening, and the hills are blue- 
 black all about. Upon the desert's farther rim, 
 a band of yellow light, and rising from the 
 desert floor, a tiny puffed-up cloud of dust 
 comes rolling ever close. 'Tis nothing but a 
 smoky cloud. There's never a thing in sight, 
 save that ever growing ball of dust, expanding 
 as it nears. Across the road a coyote runs and 
 scuttles into the brush. Even the lizards do 
 not stir, for it is that hour 'twixt day and night 
 when the wind of the desert is still, when the day 
 has ceased to breathe, when night is stretching 
 her arms aloft ere opening starry eyes. The 
 hush of evening settles down, and still that cloud 
 comes on, over the brush and the malapai; 
 across the cracked, dry bed of an ancient lake 
 that ages back had been fed by long dried 
 streams ; through deep gullies and over bumps ; 
 still keeping the twisting road, till a couple of 
 galloping mules spring out of the rolling yellow 
 cloud, and another pair, and another, until 
 twelve big mules flash by, then the skinner, 
 standing up in his seat and leaning against the 
 lines, while his blacksnake coils and whistles and 
 cracks. For one brief flashing space his face 
 53 
 
54 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 gleams with wild fury against the dying light 
 and then he is by and out of sight, and the 
 dust cloud rolls behind. 
 
 Then, after a week had gone, I saw him in a 
 hospital. 
 
 Ten miles along, after he flashed by, the 
 wagon-tongue broke and he was pulled down 
 off his box and dragged through a big sage 
 brush that tore his eyes till the lids swelled shut 
 and stripped his hands of flesh to the bone. So 
 he had to drop the lines. He wandered that 
 night and for four long days in a hot and aim 
 less hell, till a Desert Rat discovered him and 
 led him to a town. 
 
 He had hauled ore to a distant town, and 
 was bringing back supplies. He left there with 
 two bottles that were empty when he passed. 
 
 And the rest is a story that is told. He wijl 
 never see again. 
 
ON AND OFF THE TRAIL 
 
CIVILIZATION 
 
 We call it the desert, yet it is filled with 
 varied forms of life, life which is throbbing, 
 vital, but no kin to the life exotic to it that 
 of humanity. The human touch on its edges 
 and in little spots we call oases only intensifies 
 its own independent life and charm and terror, 
 and man recognizes its power when he decrees 
 that any wanderer shall have the right to stop 
 a desert train for water. The human dramas 
 on its borders, which to us loom so big, seem 
 insignificant when we are enveloped in its brood 
 ing strength. 
 
 The desert dead ? Not so the side-winder 
 stirs beside the sandy track; the road-runners, 
 in pairs, scuttle ahead of my horse, seemingly 
 taking pride in winning a race against him ; it is 
 the coyote's home; and the sky is sometimes 
 black with wild ducks who have left the shore 
 of some undrinkable lake. And color, surely, 
 is a part of life. Not twice will the same hues 
 assail the eye. The cactus flower bears the 
 color of the rose. The greasewood and the 
 sage-brush look different, and the color of the 
 57 
 
58 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 skies at dawn and dusk never seems the same 
 two days together. 
 
 The desert whispered to itself before man 
 ever trod it, but now it takes his accent, for be 
 neath a leaning sign-post at the end of an old 
 worn track, lie the bleaching bones of a horse, 
 and far along on the selfsame trail is an empty 
 whiskey bottle. Poor weapon with which to 
 fight you, Desert ! 
 
 And you have your own forms of tiny insect 
 life that burrow in your sands, and you are 
 framed in wild and savage beauty, for where the 
 winter snows of the Sierras are poured upon 
 your glittering yellow bosom, the creeks that 
 carry those clear icy waters are banked with 
 cottonwoods and tall green grasses, while on 
 your other side lie other mountains, stern and 
 cold and dead, that hold the treasures of a thou 
 sand cities within their gloomy canons. The 
 tiny holes and puny tracks that man has made 
 upon those mighty ridges are but as ants' work 
 in a dusty road, and in the space of one man's 
 little life the monuments to human evolution of 
 brain and high endeavor will all be gently, 
 surely, wiped away. This is not done by you 
 in savage anger, but slowly and inexorably, yet 
 surely as the drifting of your sands and 
 yet not quite. 
 
 There is one trivial thing outlasts man's 
 nobler monuments; a thing of interest to the 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 59 
 
 burro's eye, a keen reminder of some vanished 
 camp, a symbol of man's economic art, per 
 chance the savior of some desert wanderer's life 
 an old tomato can ! 
 
DAWN 
 
 The cold, stark body of those grim, bleak 
 mountains shows gray and brown against a 
 clear blue sky ; by day, its dazzling blue a 
 menace in its sameness, but when the night has 
 blown its candles out, when against a sky of 
 purple and of gray, huge rosy clouds are pil 
 lowed above the taller buttes, whose topmost 
 edges only are tipped with purest gold, then 
 those mountains show no longer grim and bleak, 
 but soft with velvet shadows, blue-black shading 
 into green. The broad, flat desert, miles below, 
 is still in dusky shadow, save where the sun is 
 climbing over a saddle further down, sending 
 one long, golden lance quivering across its gray- 
 ness. Beyond that lower desert, the ramparts 
 of the gray Sierras rise, their snowy peaks 
 bathed all in rosy light, while yet all's dusk 
 below. 
 
 The sounds of night have fled, the coyote is 
 asleep, while day still lingers o'er the rosy 
 images of sweet, unfinished dreams, and for a 
 precious moment the whole wide world is still. 
 The hush, the silence, the suspended life of a 
 primeval world hold for a single breath, while 
 60 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 61 
 
 birth, creation, all life's purest forms are blos 
 soming anew as in the earth's first dawn. 
 
 There is a bit of cotton rope holds back my 
 cabin door, its end frayed out. A tiny hum 
 ming-bird, bearing the hues of midnight and the 
 dawn, of high noon and of dusk, upon his bril 
 liant iridescent body, poises in the first bright 
 shaft of level sun from over the lowest peak, 
 and darts his sharp bill into that frayed out 
 floss, gathering down to remake last night's 
 bed. 
 
 And then I know 'tis day. 
 
COMPENSATION 
 
 There is a grim gray rampart that I know, 
 its jagged ridge sharp cut against the sky, 
 while over all its mighty height and breadth, 
 broods stark, dead desolation. From miles 
 away it gazes over lower peaks upon the yellow, 
 hot, and dusty desert that seems, by contrast, 
 teeming with quick life. No eagle wheels above 
 that steep, gray wall, nor hawk nor buzzard 
 circles in the blue. No earth, no weed, nor any 
 desert growth finds lodgment in a crevice of its 
 rock. Even the lizard shuns its steep, bare 
 slope. The coyote circles round with slinking 
 glance, nor breaks its deathlike silence with his 
 multi-echoing bark. It holds not even life 
 enough to please a hermit ghost. 
 
 And yet, when day is fading, and it stands 
 out purple-black against the rosy clouds of 
 dusk, it holds a certain beauty in its gloomy 
 loneliness. Then, when the evening has closed 
 in and velvet night comes forth, it towers a 
 weird and mighty shape against the paler sky. 
 And in the stillest watches of the night, when 
 all wild nature's throbbing in its sleep, the 
 frosty, glittering stars stoop low to kiss its 
 62 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 63 
 
 stony brow, for, though its foot is covered deep 
 in sharp edged shifting shale, its lofty head 
 rears proudly up to mingle with the brilliant 
 spheres that lower mountains may not reach 
 and mocks at desolation. 
 
A DESERT GARDEN 
 
 There is a tiny canon in the desert mountains 
 that opens out above on to a rock-strewn tree 
 less slope. Its sides are bare and rocky, with 
 here and there a sage-bush or a dying Joshua- 
 tree, but in the narrow tunnel of that canon 
 bed, a veritable garden blooms, for the sunlight 
 shines there ever since it opens to the west. 
 
 They are not giant growths, so there is more 
 room in which to crowd the flora of the desert, 
 and in that narrow space is all the story of a 
 desert life. Struggling up through beds of 
 thin, sharp, slaty shale that tinkles with the 
 sound of broken glass when trod upon, there 
 sprouts the pale geranium, its brilliant scarlet 
 faded to a paler red in the fierce desert sun. 
 There sprouts the desert holly, too, with leaves 
 of frosty, pale gray-green and berries like pallid 
 strawberries, not glowing with the brilliant red 
 of colder eastern climes. There is the desert 
 palm the joshua-tree, with lance-like spines 
 and stunted trunk that in the dusk a desert 
 horse will look at twice, so much it seems a si 
 lent, watching guard, a desert sentinel. The 
 gnarled and sturdy pinon pine is there, its 
 64 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 65 
 
 twisted trunk and writhing arms seeming to tell 
 a tale of stress and storm and agony, and yet 
 that cannot be since it was born misshapen, and 
 the fiercely sweeping desert winds had naught to 
 do with its deformities, for close beside it stands 
 a straight-stemmed, long-leaved pine, full 
 grown, but only sapling high, whose slender 
 straightness and whose graceful branching 
 those winds have failed to mar. There grows 
 the mountain mahogany with its rich wine-red 
 heart. And under foot, round cactus balls 
 looking like porcupines on guard, their lovely 
 delicate pink blooms rivaling the rose. There, 
 too, the greasewood flourishes, man-high, with 
 feathery foliage of a cedar green, whose 
 branches furnish fuel for the desert bred, and 
 hiss and sputter like burning grease when they 
 are set aflame. There are tiny tufts of bunch- 
 grass and high clumps of desert weeds. 
 
 And there's the sage, the noble desert sage 
 of purple, green, and gray. Where water 
 comes seldom, or never, it sturdily flings its 
 branches out, and is as much of the desert a 
 part, as its sun, or its sands, or its burned-out 
 rock. At dawn the bronco's parched throat is 
 wet by the moisture that stands on its pale green 
 leaves; at evening its branches help to heat 
 his rider's bacon and sour dough, and, standing 
 as high as a mounted man, it will afford life- 
 giving shade where other shade is none. But 
 more than that, the sage does double service to 
 
66 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 the eye, for it breaks the stretch of blazing 
 light with darker spots of a restful hue, and 
 when the sun is sinking beneath the desert's 
 far, straight rim, sending long shafts of mel 
 low fire to touch the rounded bodies of the sage 
 with the light of pure enchantment, it is then 
 they glow like balls of sunny light above the 
 darkening desert floor that already has grown 
 shadowed, for in that eerie, brooding hush the 
 burning blaze of day relents and sends forth 
 farewell glances of softest, kindly gold. Brave 
 growth that looks the fierce sun in the eye and 
 stands up proudly where all else would perish or 
 live a meager, cowering life beneath his burning 
 glance ! 
 
 But that's in the flat desert. In my canon 
 garden the sage communes with goodly com 
 pany, and holds high wassail when the winter 
 rains pour rushing torrents down the canon 
 beds. For the Desert Gardener lets his garden 
 go a long, long time unwatered, then, like a boy 
 with a new watering-can, He'll sometimes drown 
 His thirsty garden out. 
 
 The lizards flash in that garden green and 
 gray that buried garden, that sunken gar 
 den, all walled about with high bare slopes 
 and the sun is hot, though the air is soft and 
 very, very still. There are no birds in that 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 67 
 
 garden, though the hawk and his buzzard cousin 
 fix their bright eyes upon it from the blue sky 
 above. Even the insects dwell not there; no 
 busy whirr is ever heard, no cheerful hum, no 
 chirr, nor scrape of wing. 
 
 But every spot upon this earth holds some 
 especial gift, and in my desert garden there 
 dwells, not deathlike stillness, but the stillness 
 of a world unborn. There dwells profoundest 
 peace. 
 
SURVIVAL OF THE UNFIT 
 
 Man has come and man has gone and he has 
 left this land more desolate than when God 
 made it at the first. A shaly road winds into 
 the brooding shadows of a deep-cleft canon. 
 As nature fashioned it, it would be grim, but 
 man has made it tragic, for upon one side of 
 that rough trail an old adobe arrastre still 
 prevails o'er desert sun and fierce cloudburst 
 and swift and sudden slides of rock from the 
 steep walls above. Across from the old ar 
 rastre, perched upon its little dump, stands a 
 miner's roofless hut of stone, brush covering the 
 floor. Still farther on, is a wide, deep hole, its 
 nearer edge brushing the very trail that hole 
 was dug to drink from, and beneath its shallow 
 depth of poison water lies a human skeleton. 
 Then out through the canon's upper end, 
 spreads a brushy, rock-strewn flat where only 
 an old slag dump betrays the life of a former 
 day. The flat backs up against a steep gray 
 wall, two tunnel mouths like eye sockets glaring 
 from out its face of rough, gray stone. Na 
 ture, where man has never pitched his tent, is 
 wild and awesome, sometimes grim and cruel, 
 
 and sometimes sad and tragic, but there is no 
 68 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 69 
 
 sadness in her face, there is no tragedy like to 
 that she shows on her broad countenance where 
 man has struggled and failed and died, leaving 
 his puny monuments behind. 
 
 Then, leaving that gray, steep slope behind 
 and taking the canon road down to the flat, one 
 reads a different chapter in man's book of past 
 endeavor, for here, no rough and dangerous 
 steeps, but beneath a burning sun a rough road 
 deep in sand that runs through little desert 
 towns and out across wide sandy wastes. At 
 one point on its way this road says Howdy to 
 a big stone house, adjoining it, a large stone 
 walled corral. Before the house, an old well- 
 hole, now half choked up and dry as desert dust. 
 The ruined road house, the long corral wall 
 are built of black volcanic rock, the burned-out 
 malapai flung on the desert floor, long ages 
 gone, by some then active crater miles away. 
 Close to that ruined road house, silent now, 
 where thirty years ago a hundred horses milled 
 in its corral, there is a small round knoll, a little 
 island in the desert sea, covered with sage-brush, 
 with one big flat stone, a deep hole in its center 
 where the squaws were wont for ages past to 
 grind their meal, using a smooth and oblong 
 stone for pestle, and, indeed, they camp there 
 yet, whenever their wandering fortunes bring 
 them near. 
 
 If man's struggles and ruined monuments do 
 
70 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 bring but sadness to wild nature's face, his top 
 most art in dress grafted upon her rough- 
 clothed native race were enough to make her 
 rugged face crack into a grim smile. I was 
 lost one day in a wild and gloomy canon lighted 
 by sunshine only at high noon. 'Twas here, 
 thought I, the very earth was made rough hewn, 
 nor has been ever polished since, when looking 
 up its bed I saw three Indians riding down. 
 The rear was brought up by a half grown boy. 
 In the center rode a fat, old squaw dressed in a 
 bright print gown, while in the lead, a small, 
 old Indian, his deep brown leathery face, 
 wrinkled and cross-wrinkled by age and daz 
 zling sun, beamed genially at me from beneath 
 the brim of a high-crowned old plug hat which 
 he wore with conscious pride and dignity as 
 though it were fitter than his old war-bonnet. 
 
IGNORANCE 
 
 Far in the desert shines a golden glory. On 
 one side, looking close, but miles from it, rise 
 lofty mountains, gray, implacable, and bare 
 unto their summits, save for snow that caps 
 them ever, and on beyond that misty sun-shot 
 nimbus, the desert, silent, brush-strewn, vast. 
 
 Across the desert from those gray rock walls, 
 but at its upper end, far from that golden glory, 
 rise other mountains, copper-purple, black, 
 slashed with deep canons widening to a flat that 
 slopes to the desert bed. The only roads into 
 those black, rough hills run up the canon 
 slashes. My old cow-pony picks his careful 
 way down this kind nature's roadway, for even 
 in the desert is she kind, at times, if one but give 
 her smile for smile. Her smile is always bril 
 liant. When the canon walls fan out to left 
 and right, giving a wide look down that sandy 
 waste, my golden glory's there. 'Tis not the 
 sun gilding a certain spot through rifted, pur 
 ple clouds. It looks to my pleased eyes more 
 like a sunny fire, its licking flames softened by 
 mists of distance to one bright golden glow, a 
 delicate mist like sun smoke all around it. The 
 rocks about are somber, the sky is gray or pur- 
 71 
 
72 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 pie-dark yet there it shines, my fairy fire. 
 
 I do not know what causes it I do not 
 want to know. The names of flowers give no 
 added pleasure in their beauty, nor why they 
 grow, nor how, could add to my delight. I am 
 quite sure that science could not aid me with a 
 long, learned explanation of it, and if it could I 
 should not thank it much, for as it is I love 
 that fairy fire, a sunny spot in a wide burned-up 
 flat. It glows less golden in the golden sun, 
 just as a bonfire pales at broad midday. So 
 when I ride out from the canon's shadow and see 
 that sun-dust in a blank, still world, my spirit 
 lifts, my pony pricks his ears and steps more 
 lightly. The very smell of sand he loves, of 
 course, yet I know not but he has had instilled 
 into his wise old head some of his master's fancy. 
 
 There are some men who will account for al 
 most everything upon this big, strange earth. 
 But did you ever think how dreadful it would be 
 to know it all? To trace earth's mighty layers, 
 through all the countless ages, to her very 
 heart ? To hear the tongue of prehistoric man, 
 or, possibly, his jabber? Or yet, still further 
 back, to know and see reptilian life acrawl in 
 fetid slime? Or, pray, would you wish to see 
 and know those creatures back at the beginning 
 when this world was formed from what? 
 When all's explained and all's experienced, life 
 is a finished book, no romance left, delight, nor 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 73 
 
 hidden joy. No, give me my sunny fire in the 
 desert, nor tell me whence it came. Oh, Thou 
 Great Universe, I beg of Thee, yield not too 
 many secrets unto me, nor make me overwise, for 
 then should I be sad forevermore. 
 
PATIENCE 
 
 A wide and lonely flat that to the eye looks 
 limitless. Though to that eye it seems to 
 stretch unbroken to the line where earth meets 
 heaven, yet is it seamed and gashed with fluted 
 hollows, draws, arroyos, hid from the glance 
 that cuts across their edges to the clear horizon 
 far away, as a pebble skips the crests of dancing 
 waves, nor takes account of wave-troughs in be 
 tween. The western sky is filled with rosy 
 clouds merged to a flaming yellow where it 
 meets the distant earth, that shows up black 
 and sinister against that yellow glow. No hills 
 loom up athwart that far, free view ; no water's 
 there ; no growth of grass, no tree ; nothing but 
 earth and sky and stilly promise of the coming 
 night. Over the sage-brush, greasewood, cac 
 tus spires, there hangs the last light of the dy 
 ing sun, transparent, tarnished gold. On the 
 black earth, that water's vital kiss would cause 
 to blush and blossom into beauty, crawls the 
 snake, while up from the nearest ridgy hollow, 
 out on to the flat, a big, lean steer with droop 
 ing head weaves slowly, painfully, while on his 
 sunken, bony back a buzzard calmly rides. 
 
 Days ere the cattleman's keen eye had known 
 
 74 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 75 
 
 his animal was doomed, the buzzard's instinct 
 sensed the truth ; thereafter left him never, but, 
 perched upon the steer's ridged spine or on a 
 jutting, bony hip, with folded wings is waiting. 
 The dying beast, too sick to heed, too weak to 
 make protest, finally stumbles to his knees, then 
 plows the black earth with his nose, and with a 
 low moan settles down to lie supine, but with 
 erected horns. The buzzard, biding his time to 
 strike, moves forward, perching carefully upon 
 one long sharp horn. Then from the sky, now 
 turned to palest green, comes circling down from 
 some mysterious height the big bird's mate, 
 lighting with swift, sure drop upon the other 
 horn. 
 
 No move they make. With folded wings at 
 rest they watch the big, gaunt steer breathe out 
 his life, but perched upon his wide-spread curv 
 ing horns, they're waiting, waiting, waiting. 
 
THROUGH A WINDOW 
 
 From the high peaks the soft white flakes are 
 driving, and though I am standing ankle-deep 
 in snow, from far below smiles up at me the 
 silent, yellow desert, shining with alluring 
 golden light, and ringed about my darkly storm 
 ing mountains, it lies, a sunny circle, on its 
 flat floor far below, as the sun shines through a 
 knot-hole in a darkened room and paints a 
 golden disk upon its shadowed floor. It is like 
 looking from the outer cold and darkness 
 through a window into warmth and cheery light. 
 
 And though it beckons warmly with its still 
 and distance radiance, holding out fair promise 
 and vivid, bright allure, like many a golden 
 vision, looking lovely from far heights, when I 
 draw near with out-stretched hand, it scorches, 
 burns, and sears. 
 
 76 
 
VARIETY 
 
 Old Nature is a conjuror and delights in 
 playing tricks. She loves to bring out colors 
 that we didn't know she had, like a mother draw 
 ing treasure from an unguessed secret pocket to 
 delight her children's eyes. 
 
 There is a red, red road I know that runs 
 between tall, close grown pines, their dark green 
 boughs its canopy. When I emerge at sunset 
 from that cool and fragrant tunnel, its floor 
 slashed with long bars of sunny light, I know 
 not what the distant view will give, for it is ever 
 new. I have seen from near that tunnel's mouth 
 the distant mountains all a mass of golden rose, 
 no hint of colors of an hour gone; and I have 
 seen those hills a mass of varied shades, from 
 deepest green of nearest crests, to purple, blue, 
 then blue-gray, till the country over there is 
 melted with the sky; and then, again, it is a 
 sea of sage-green billows, with red and yellow 
 gashes running from their topmost crests, a 
 brilliant sky above; and yet again, ridge after 
 ridge of those same hills is buried clean in snowy 
 white, a cold blue flawless sky above. I never 
 know how those far hills will greet me, nor what 
 appeal their changeful moods may make. 
 77 
 
78 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 The desert, too, with its cyclopean mountains 
 is wrapped at dawn and evening in soft veils of 
 mystery. Those jagged peaks and ridges that 
 in the clear, hot light of desert day are sternly 
 stamped against a burning sky, at dawn are 
 changed to misty, gracious lines of purple 
 beauty edged with rose, and then they seem to 
 hold an unnamable promise and a bright allure. 
 At dusk they show blue-black with a still air of 
 brooding mystery. Their lines are softened, as 
 at dawn, but now they loom as somber shadows 
 of the great unknown, nor do they urge and 
 beckon as in the waking day. 
 
 And there is a desert Will-o'-the-Wisp that 
 flashes in the pearl-gray dawn and in the velvet 
 blackness of the night, upon the desert floor. 
 It is the light of Ah Hee's fire, that cooks us 
 at dawn the far-brought and often the far-flung 
 egg, and at evening the " T bone " steak, 
 
FRIENDS OF MINE 
 
THE FORTY-NINESS 
 
 Hemming the desert on the west there rises a 
 huge rampart, gray and cold, that hides from 
 desert eyes the gentler, grassy, tree-clad hills 
 where the placer country lies. And to that 
 placer country came the Argonauts in 1849. 
 
 She was tall for a girl and, though slender, 
 gave promise of future roundness. Her mouth 
 was rather wide and humorous, her color bril 
 liant, her hair blue-black, and her eyes were vio 
 let, but laughing. I don't know why, but I 
 always associate violet eyes with seriousness. 
 Hers, however, were like violets that held the 
 reflected sunlight of the sky above them. And 
 then she had dimples. I mention them because, 
 perhaps, they helped her through it all. And 
 I mention her first because she counted and 
 counts the most, but there was, also, her hus 
 band. She was only eighteen and he was three 
 years older the correct Victorian ages for 
 marrying, I believe, though they had been mar 
 ried a year. He was a nice boy with kind, 
 brown eyes, and just after the '49 excitement 
 he went West and she would not be left behind. 
 They both hailed from a birthplace of sail 
 ors, therefore it was a trip around Cape Horn 
 81 
 
S3 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 and so up the western coast to the Golden Gate 
 and then, as quickly as could be, to the nearest 
 land of promise. 
 
 That nearest land of promise was a pine clad 
 mountain land where the snow lay deep in the 
 winter, where the gulches roared with the rains, 
 yet over the lofty mountains to the east there 
 lay a hot and glittering yellow waste where all 
 the gold was sand. No eastern miners came 
 there until later to search its bordering hills for 
 gold, for it looked, and was, a grim, forbidding 
 land. 
 
 She lived in a canvas house, this gently bred 
 eastern girl. She could see the tarantulas 
 crawling on the walls, she learned to keep a 
 sharp eye abroad for rattlers, she found that 
 the Digger Indians were cowards, for she drove 
 away twenty of them with an empty forty-five, 
 and in that little canvas shack she gave birth 
 to her two girls, with no woman near, no doctor. 
 There were floods one winter in that valley where 
 her big brown-eyed hunter sluiced the golden 
 sands, and he rescued a Chinaman from being 
 swept away, one day, but the drenching he got 
 killed him the Chinaman survived. 
 
 So Sally Everett was left in a narrow gulch 
 beside a rapid mountain river, where the sloping 
 canon walls ran steeply up, where the shadows 
 left late in the day and came back again early. 
 There was a little flat beside the stream where 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 83 
 
 her small canvas house stood with some others 
 and that was all. No, not quite all, for moun 
 tain lions and wildcats came to the edge of the 
 timber, deer and bears sometimes crossed the 
 flat, the birds sang at her, the little singing 
 stream made music, and she had the worshipful 
 devotion of every man in camp, and while dress 
 was rough and life simple, the earliest camps 
 brought into their circle the brains, the educa 
 tion, and the fine manliness of their day. 
 
 But the two little girls were growing bigger 
 and so she must go back across the Isthmus 
 this time for school is the rod of a tyrant to a 
 dutiful mother. Whither that beckons she must 
 follow. When she reached home, the little buck 
 skin sack, filled with gold-dust when she left the 
 camp, was almost empty of the coins for which 
 she had exchanged it. Her family was poor. 
 She would not be a burden to them, and those 
 little mouths must be fed, so she went to work. 
 A second time she loved and married, and then 
 her young soldier husband answered that first 
 stern call for volunteers in the days of '61, even 
 as the other had responded to the mad call of 
 gold. So he went, and had his fortunes all to 
 make when he came back. Then followed years 
 of pinching and privation, and other children 
 came to be a worry and a comfort, also a gen 
 erous spur to new endeavor. Her brood grew 
 up and scattered to the four corners of this 
 
84 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 stronger, greater America. To the scenes of 
 her early life of hardship one son has returned, 
 equipped with all the knowledge that modern 
 science gives, with machinery and money to 
 trace the source of that old golden flood. His 
 wife he leaves behind, for despite the sixty odd 
 years gone, the living's still too primitive, the 
 country is too rough. 
 
 When Sally Everett speaks of '49 there's a 
 sparkle in her bright old eyes: and when she 
 hears the martial music of the tense days of '61 
 the color flames in her still smooth cheeks and 
 those violet eyes are suffused with unshed tears. 
 The strong and valiant spirit of the Forty- 
 niner's wife still looks from her eyes and life 
 is good and there remains much gold to find. 
 And so she smiles. For she still has those 
 dimples. 
 
A MISSOURI MEERSCHAUM 
 
 I sing not the song of the cigarette nor the 
 fragrant Cuban leaf, but the song of the Mis 
 souri Meerschaum, the good old corn-cob 
 pipe. 
 
 In a land where distance is measured by the 
 time it takes to consume " six cigareets an' a 
 couple o' quids," tobacco is surely King. If the 
 cigarette is the populace, the cigar the haute 
 noblesse, then the old Missouri Meerschaum is 
 guide, counselor, and friend. Its long thin stem 
 tells a dreamy tale of brooding, reedy marshes 
 where wide sheets of quiet water lie in unruffled 
 sleep, and its bowl recalls fair memories of the 
 land where the sweet corn grows. 
 
 The cigarette is a dainty thing, but it reaches 
 and twists the nerves ; the cigar is a delicate lux 
 ury that doesn't grow in the wilds ; and the quid 
 well, as Lincoln said on a time when speaking 
 of something else, " For people who like that 
 sort of a thing, that's the sort of thing they'd 
 like." Though I know many men enjoy the 
 quid, and some of my good friends chew, yet I'm 
 sure that the quid doesn't comfort them as my 
 warm old friend does me. I tell it my troubles 
 and my joys, it stays with me day and night, 
 85 
 
86 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 and the visions I see in its curling smoke are 
 good and passing fair, and I am the peer of 
 any one when talking to my pipe. 
 
 With many strange moods it has sympa 
 thized, it has steadied me, betimes, and has 
 burned itself to its very heart to give me of its 
 best, and every time that my mood lights up, it 
 responds with a steady glow, burning fragrant 
 incense to its loyalty to me, not with the scented, 
 dizzying black perique from the Orient, nor yet 
 the leaf from Connecticut, nor that from the 
 Philippine Islands, but with the fragrant 
 steadiness of good Virginia plug. 
 
 When the night shuts down, when shades are 
 drawn and the lamp of evening lit, thoughts 
 kindly, weird, elusive, bright, arise with the curl 
 ing smoke, and in its blue wreaths crystallize the 
 ideas born of day. A non-smoker has prophe 
 sied that in some awful years, a smoker will be 
 a Pariah, a hermit shunned and scorned and 
 forced to live far from his kind, whom the fumes 
 of his pipe can never reach. Now be that day 
 far distant, long after my day is sped, though 
 I know a place far, far from men in a clean and 
 empty desert land, where with my corn-cob pipe 
 alight and atop a lonely mountain peak, I may 
 play volcano to desire's topmost bent. 
 
 When, after my life's day has closed, I go still 
 further up, I pray I may be segregated on some 
 lonely cloud and permitted to smoke my pipe in 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 87 
 
 peace, so that I promise solemnly to let no blue 
 smoke cloud approach the ladies' filmy drap 
 eries upon adjoining clouds. But if, alas 1 my 
 future life is planned for down below, the to 
 bacco there would be too dry to smoke with any 
 zest, and then, besides and even worse, the fumes 
 of sulphur always spoil the flavor of a pipe. 
 That would be Hell. 
 
PINON 
 
 He was one of Nevada's Native Sons. His 
 sire was as black as night and large for a desert 
 horse, and his proud neck had never been caught 
 in the cowboy's circling rope. His mother was 
 a blooded bay, and brought to his fiery desert 
 blood the breeding of the East. She had been 
 lured away from a rancher's field by that lordly 
 desert chief, and no art could tole her home 
 again, for the Arab in her blood responded to 
 the desert's call and she knew the ways of 
 men. And so when the herd went into the hills 
 when the grass began to spring, her colt was 
 born upon a flat and grassy mountain bench, 
 and not in the sheltered stable where she had 
 spent her youth. 
 
 And so he ran with his mother, and so he grew 
 in strength. He learned to step over shelving 
 rock without slipping a quarter inch, he learned 
 to avoid the poison springs, and where sweet 
 water ran, and he learned to drink all he could 
 hold when he came to a water hole. He learned 
 to run from a loud sharp sound that came from 
 the back of a distant horse who would not join 
 his herd, for following one such loud report he 
 saw a playfellow stumble, fall, and never rise 
 88 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 89 
 
 again. He learned to swerve from a rattler's 
 coil as swift as a flash of light, but most of all, 
 he learned to flee from a strange shape with a 
 rope that followed him fast and followed him 
 far, and though ever he got away, from behind 
 some boulder or rocky bend it would suddenly 
 dash again, until one hot and fateful day, far 
 from his usual range, a cool, dark canon drew 
 him on until he found himself in a box, all 
 smooth, sheer walls ahead. Then turning 
 around with a startled snort, sensing his human 
 foe, he looked down the steep-walled canon bed 
 up which he had lightly stepped, and saw three 
 shapes against the light, and each shape had a 
 rope. His satin skin was quivering and his nos 
 trils panting wide, but he stood backed up 
 against the wall and glared with laid back ears. 
 
 Three circling swift ropes caught him, and 
 then he reared with an angry scream, and then 
 he went to his knees another young, wild, free 
 thing was caught to be the slave of man. But 
 I wonder if he counted and treasured up his re 
 venge ? For before he could be trusted, he had 
 killed exactly three of those hated shapes with 
 long coiled ropes who had ridden him at the 
 first. 
 
 He was not very large, nor very small, but 
 would dance with two hundred pounds, with a 
 big, round barrel and short, flat back and a tail 
 that swept the ground, and his color between the 
 
90 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 black and red of his sire and his dam. His flat 
 knees tapered to rounded hoofs, but his beauty 
 was his head ; wide, showing brain, between the 
 eyes, with little pointed ears that never in all 
 his life laid flat after he'd killed those three, and 
 a large, full sparkling eye that would see a fly 
 light on his back as quick as it would the road 
 ahead. 
 
 He had ridden range in Nevada one hundred 
 miles to the day ; he had trailed a lady's skirts 
 on his back and carried her safe and well; he 
 had been a desert packer's mount and captained 
 a string of mules ; he had snaked mine timbers 
 where wheels could not go, and worked on a 
 miner's whim; yet today, at the age of twenty- 
 five, he will climb in one hour a steep rough trail 
 that another horse climbs in two. A bronco is 
 not a jumping horse from his sires he may 
 have learned that landing all fours on a heap 
 of rocks is not good for the desert-bred. So 
 he slides down the side of a gully, or wash, and 
 climbs up the further side, or takes one long, 
 slow step across, if the gully be not too wide; 
 but when Pinon comes to a gully he clears it, 
 light as a bird, and shakes his handsome head 
 when he alights, as I've seen a hunter do. 
 
 Now here is the strangest thing of all when 
 you recall his youth, for when you head him 
 for the herd, his tail plumes out and his head 
 goes up and his ears point straight ahead, his 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 91 
 
 eyes are bright and he wheels like light, and 
 works without rein or spur; for the keenest joy 
 in life he knows is when he bears you upon his 
 back to help you corral his kind. 
 
FOR SHERIFF 
 
 The summer was at its height. The pri 
 maries were to be held the latter part of August 
 and the fight for the election of a new sheriff 
 was waxing hot. From a monetary standpoint 
 it was the most desirable elective office to be 
 contested, since the salary was big for the 
 desert, the perquisites considerable, the work 
 light, as the country was at peace. Only once 
 in a great while was the sheriff called upon to 
 chase a horse thief, his duties being largely 
 those of an undertaker presiding over the fu 
 neral obsequies of defunct mines ; but when he 
 was called upon to fulfil the strenuous duties of 
 his office, the trail would take him over wild and 
 gloomy spaces and sometimes across the deserts 
 of another state. But this was seldom. 
 
 In the space of a few short days I was more 
 visited by would-be county officials than in years 
 before. Down the desert they rode from the 
 county town, up through the rough, wild coun 
 try bordering those level sands, scouring the 
 flats, the canons, the ridges to find, interview, 
 persuade, the desert rancher and the lone miner, 
 a visit to whose shacks might entail a deviation 
 of many miles from the main traveled road, for 
 92 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 93 
 
 in this desert land every vote would count. 
 They visited every big and little mine in the 
 hope of swaying the boss by specious promises, 
 and his men by genial talk and big cigars. My 
 own little mine was high on a steep, rocky slope, 
 miles above the desert, but there I met them all. 
 Ranchers and miners they were, some of them 
 men who had held petty office, and they mounted 
 the steep and winding canon road to the ledge 
 where the office and bunkhouse stood, their lean 
 and rangy desert horses hardly puffing after the 
 eight mile uphill climb. 
 
 The first to honor me was Jim Lorgan. His 
 lips dripped civic virtue, but his mustache was 
 long and drooping, the kind that seems to sug 
 gest an alcohol-dipped brush. After proffering 
 the inevitable, the electoral cigar, Jim held forth 
 upon the subject of his visit. 
 
 " I'm a runnin' fer sheriff o' this here county, 
 an' there's five o' us in the race, so it'll be some 
 fight, fer bootleggin' is goin' ter be a strong 
 issue. Now, I ain't aimin' ter say nothin' agin 
 any other candidate, fer that ain't the way ter 
 win, by knockin' the other feller, an' I don't in 
 tend ter bring no personal things into this here 
 campaign. Shelton Corliss, him as is Sheriff 
 now, is in the race agin, he's one o' us five. / 
 ain't got nothin' agin' Shelton. He's a pretty 
 good feller, though some do say that he'd orter 
 had Tom Halliday arrested fer bootleggin', even 
 
94 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 if Tom did marry Corliss's sister, fer everybody 
 knows that you could go into Tom's Hotel on 
 the aidge o' the desert at Sandyville and get a 
 shot o' hooch any time, an' Corliss's brother 
 helpin' Tom about the Hotel as handy man, with 
 a whiskey nose on him the color o' a desert 
 geranium. But, as I say, Shelton's all right, 
 an' I ain't agoin' ter knock. I believe in livin' 
 by the law, an' I'm goin' ter enforce it if I'm 
 'lected." 
 
 After much more of the same in praise of 
 the other four, Lorgan left. Corliss must have 
 been on his trail for it was only a couple of 
 hours later that the Sheriff turned into my 
 mine trail. Six feet four he stood, and all in 
 proportion to his inches, with a massive featured 
 face smooth shaven, a wide brimmed pearl-gray 
 Stetson shading his big close-cropped head, 
 coatless, his vest hanging open, and blue-over- 
 alled. 
 
 " I haven't met you, but I heard o' you, and 
 I've come ter ask you ter vote for my reelection 
 at the primaries. I'm aimin' ter keep personali 
 ties out o' my fight for Sheriff. Course, I know 
 I got enemies, but I don't want ter get elected 
 again by throwin' any slurs at anybody. But, 
 now, there's Jim Lorgan. He was my deputy 
 for awhile, and now he's runnin' against me. 
 Jim's not such a bad feller, but in this dry dis 
 trict, Jim run a bootleg joint when he was 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 95 
 
 deputy sheriff, and they do say that he punishes 
 a good deal of his own bootleg." 
 
 While I had him there, I meant to find out the 
 story from his own lips, a story reciting that 
 Corliss had taken advantage of his position as 
 sheriff to assault outrageously a local store 
 keeper about half his size. 
 
 " It ain't any such thing as that report says, 
 fer Bill Robinson and I have always been good 
 friends. We was doin' some business together 
 and there was some dispute between us about 
 the money settlement o' that same business. I 
 was in Bill's one day, when he got some abusive, 
 claimin' I hadn't handed over all the cash due 
 him on the deal. I wasn't say in' much, when 
 Bill come up close ter me, still talkin' wild, and 
 actin' like he was goin' ter land on me. It was 
 in his store, and we was both in back near the 
 safe, and I just put up my hand it was flat 
 open and pushed his face away. I was some 
 surprised when he went down all in a heap, and 
 I ain't seen him since. I heard that he was in 
 bed four days, and went around his store with 
 his head all bandaged up fer two weeks, but I 
 don't see how one push could 'adone that. And 
 I don't most usually carry any gun, neither, 
 and hadn't one on then. 
 
 " Now, this question o' bootleggin' is a big 
 issue in this campaign, and if I'm elected, I in 
 tend ter enforce the law, as I have been doin', no 
 
96 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 matter who is guilty. Yes, even if it was my 
 own brother doin' it, I'd haul him over the 
 coal*." 
 
 He left, riding on to a bigger camp beyond, 
 and the next morning, Sam Applegate said, 
 " Howdy," tied his horse to a ring set in the 
 corner of my bunkhouse, seated himself on the 
 long bench before the door, and opened fire. 
 
 " Reckon you've been pestered some these days 
 by want-to-be sheriffs? Well, here's another 
 one. I ain't never done nothin' in politics, me 
 bein' a rancher, but I hold that it's a office that 
 hadn't orter have nothin' to do with politics, an' 
 this bootleggin's got ter stop. There's a lot o' 
 talk goin' back and forth among the candidates, 
 some knockin', I tell you, but I ain't indulgin' in 
 none. Shelton Corliss is a good feller, but he's 
 held the job three terms, and that orter be 
 enough, besides, though I won't say his brother's 
 a bootlegger, he hangs 'round awful close ter 
 a feller what is, helps him in fact. Don't you 
 guess the sheriff is onto that? You betcher! 
 Jim Lorgan, now, he's all right, but he don't 
 make no bones about biddin' for the bootleg 
 vote, an' them bootleggers knows they can keep 
 up their trade if he gits in Jim's a good feller, 
 though but / ain't tyin' myself up by beggin' 
 them cusses ter vote f er me. No, Sir " 
 
 His talk was interrupted by the sight of a 
 new arrival, riding along the ore road towards 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 97 
 
 the bunkhouse, and there was a stiff, strained 
 silence as the newcomer alighted. Applegate 
 reckoned he'd be " pullin' his freight," as he had 
 a long ride ahead of him, but he'd see me again 
 on his way back. 
 
 The new arrival was short and stout, and 
 wore canvas leggings over good store trousers. 
 He was spectacled and his head showed slightly 
 bald when he took off his stiff straw hat to mop 
 his forehead. 
 
 " Whew, that's some climb ! My name's 
 Hiram Brown, and I'm running for sheriff 
 against this bunch of Desert Rats. It's a bus 
 iness proposition and should be handled in a 
 business way. There should be no mutual re 
 criminations in a political campaign. Bootleg 
 ging in this county has become a curse and I 
 pledge my word to put it out of business if you 
 give me your vote at the primaries, and I'm 
 elected. My opponents don't like me because 
 they know I know 'em," and his small black eyes, 
 pinched curved nose, and hard mouth gave him 
 the look of a bird of prey as he got out this 
 speech. 
 
 I had heard of Hi Brown. He owned stores 
 in different towns in the county and he used in 
 decent haste and took much pleasure in annex 
 ing claims and ranches for any little bill that 
 could not be paid on the dot. The reason for 
 such failure to pay mattered not to Hiram. I 
 
98 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 happened to know that he sold certain liquids 
 and fiery extracts in large quantities to known 
 bootleggers on the quiet, nor was he over curi 
 ous about the reason for such large purchases of 
 those fiery liquids so long as he got a stiff cash 
 price for them. In a " dry " country, a con 
 scientious storekeeper refuses to sell such sup 
 plies when he has reason to suspect that they 
 are being put to illicit use. Hiram left as 
 briskly as he came, saying as he got quickly 
 into his saddle, 
 
 " I'll hope for your vote at the primaries, Sir. 
 This county needs to be cleaned up and I have 
 certain means that I can bring to bear to run it 
 right." 
 
 He climbed to his saddle as he'd climb a tree, 
 nor mounted with the cowboy's easy swing, then 
 rode on like a sack of meal, but busily. 
 
 The fifth aspirant was yet to call on me, and 
 I looked for his coming with interest for I'd 
 heard much of him. Next morning, when the 
 desert lay below all bathed in early sunshine, 
 when the purple canon shadows were changing 
 to their daytime hues of gray-green brush and 
 brownish porphyry, a big, but dainty stepping 
 desert horse turned from the wagon road into 
 the trail that led up to my shack, where he 
 halted dead at a gentle pull on the heavy Span 
 ish bit. His rider dismounted with a swing that 
 was all spring and strength. Pulling the reins 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 99 
 
 over his horse's head, he tied him to the ground, 
 then paused for a moment beside him to stroke 
 the powerful, arching neck, to stroke the fore 
 head between two eyes that were wide and full 
 and bright. After a final pat and a low-toned 
 word, he turned with his hand outstretched. A 
 tall, lean frame that showed strength and grace 
 was his, and a lean, tanned face, gray eyes that 
 held a whimsical light, a good square chin, and 
 a laughing mouth that was swept by a light 
 mustache. He was clad in conventional desert 
 dress : blue overalls over heavy boots high heeled 
 and heavily spurred and an open throated flan 
 nel shirt beneath an unbuttoned vest. Those 
 vests ! They are always open, but worn on the 
 hottest days, and are as much of a horseman's 
 dress in the desert as his hat. They hold his 
 cigareet papers, his matches, tobacco, pipe, and 
 perhaps that's why they are so loved. 
 
 " Howdy, Friend," he drawled to me, in a 
 pleasant boyish voice. " I reckon you're filled 
 up with sheriffs, but I'm out to play the game 
 with the rest. My name is Archie Hamilton, 
 an' my friends just made me run. I never 
 ain't did no politics, but I reckon I could try, 
 an' I know the country from A to Z, an' all 
 the bad hombres, too." Then with a whimsical 
 smile he added, as he looked at me. " Maybe 
 that ain't no recommend. 
 
 " They're makin' bootleg the slogan, an' o' 
 
100 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 course that there's O. K., but Hell! we've all 
 made it or drunk the stuff or winked at them as 
 did, an' I been no better than all the rest, but, 
 friend, I'll tell you this," and his laughing eyes 
 were serious now, with a deep and earnest glow, 
 " I got a young wife an' a little kid, an' I prom 
 ised Jean when I married her that I would cut 
 out the booze, an' I ain't had a shot o' hooch 
 since then, though I was a Hellion once. You 
 don't know me, so I tell you this to let you know 
 that what I promise, I aim to do, an' if I am 
 elected to this here job an' take the oath as 
 sheriff well, I ain't never broke my word." 
 
 He didn't offer me a cigar for that he had 
 my silent thanks but sat on the bench beside 
 my door, looking musingly down over canon 
 walls to the yellow desert far below. 
 
 " Say, Pard, you're clost to Heaven here. 
 Ain't this one o' God's own days ! " Then with 
 a self-amused chuckle at his own seriousness, 
 " My rivals all got the start o' me an' I got a 
 great big job ahead, so I reckon I'll hit the 
 trail. I hope our trails will cross in town, an' 
 whether I'm sheriff or punchin' cows, I'll sure be 
 glad to see you there." 
 
 With a firm handclasp and adios he was in 
 his saddle and up the trail, riding along at a 
 shuffling jog, rolling a cigareet. 
 
 And I knew where my vote would go. 
 
THAT COUNTRY OVER THERE 
 
 A mauve colored burro in a purple canon 
 whose steep wall spires are tipped with fire, 
 piercing the pearl and gray of dawn. The 
 burro was driven up the canon road by a man 
 not old, but bent, yet his step was springy, his 
 air was free, and his glance was searching, keen, 
 from a pair of steady, clear gray eyes that 
 noted everything. His overalls were blue can 
 vas, light blue his summer shirt, and he fitted 
 into the landscape as much as the joshua-trees, 
 even his light gray Stetson lent a harmonious 
 note. His burro was laden with two months' 
 grub and cooking and mining tools. He had 
 but a dollar to his name, but that was more 
 than he could use, for he was bound for a place 
 where the coin of man will not buy anything. 
 He was somewhat of a carpenter, and a black 
 smith for all his needs, and he carried spare 
 shoes for his burro, which he knew how to fix 
 himself, a cook was he of the very best, and a 
 pretty good laundryman, a seamster, too, 
 though his sewing ran more to strength than 
 delicacy. In the dark of the morning, at three 
 o'clock, at the town on the desert's edge, he had 
 101 
 
102 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 eaten his bacon and sour dough, for he must 
 be up in the hills before the desert wakes to 
 heat. 
 
 Of all the men our country breeds, the pros 
 pector is best trained for domestic life, yet the 
 thing which forced that training is the thing 
 which makes him homeless the thought that 
 he'll yet make his stake in that country over 
 there. Then the lure of the desert gets into 
 his blood and the waste places swallow him. 
 
 There's a little town of a hundred souls set 
 down in a sandy flat, its houses little plain 
 board shacks, with a small hotel and a big 
 freight shed and a gambling hall, of course. 
 And that is all, for the sandy wastes hem it in 
 on every side, with ramparts of barren hills 
 beyond, their high buttes topped with snow. 
 When the stark and deadly loneliness gets on 
 their burning nerves, they have sweet dreams, 
 these wanderers, of trees and gurgling brooks. 
 Then they hie them forth to greener scenes, and 
 leave the little town, saying they've had enough 
 of it and are never coming back, yet they come 
 and come and come again. " The desert's got 
 'em," is what we say, yet one cannot define its 
 charm. There it lies sleeping its hot, still 
 sleep, but very much alive. 
 
 Love of gold? 'Tis the joy of finding it and 
 of seeing a camp of thousands grow where he 
 first struck his pick, for the prospector is really 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 103 
 
 a pioneer. He takes the trail ahead of the 
 great army of enterprise that will follow later 
 on, and, like all army skirmishers, he draws no 
 general's pay. And the glory when he strikes it 
 ridi in some wild, unheard-of spot! To pass 
 through a crowded, big saloon, and at tables 
 and at the bar to have men nod at him and say, 
 " There goes the feller that made the strike that 
 started the town o' Golden Spur." And it wor 
 ries him not and he does not care he feels, 
 rather, a prideful glow if in that same room, 
 a few years later, he hears men whisper between 
 their drinks, " There goes that feller that sold 
 his claims in Golden Spur for a cool half mil 
 lion cash. He made things hum and in just 
 two years he'd blown every damn cent in." 
 
 But now he tramps up the canon road, on 
 into the purple gloom. His heart and his feet 
 and his purse are light, though he has ahead of 
 him a journey that would daunt the heart of the 
 stoutest city man, for if he grow ill or break a 
 bone, he'll be thirty miles from aid, and will have 
 to trust to the luck of the prospector to find 
 water at his need. 
 
 Where is he going? He knows not, quite, but 
 desert miners in frequent gossips have told of 
 districts here and there where he has never been, 
 and in his dreams he sees a glowing prospect 
 they've passed by. It matters not where his 
 feet may lead him, so it be to a land that's new, 
 
104 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 for ever his mind sees a golden promise in the 
 country he has not seen. There's a misty cloud 
 on the mountain ridge over which a new trail 
 dips, in the shape of a beckoning finger, and his 
 spirit obeys the call. So he talks to himself in 
 a cheerful way and pulls hard on his pipe, for 
 after brave dreams he is headed at last for that 
 country over there. 
 
THE MINER 
 
 His home is a one room canvas shack, its 
 frame, thin scantlings and small pine poles that 
 sometimes break with the weight of snow upon 
 its canvas roof. His stove is a flimsy sheet-iron 
 affair, and he gathers his wood from day to day. 
 His fuel is pinon pine and brush, for nothing 
 but these and Joshua-trees will grow on those 
 steep rock slopes. For water to drink and for 
 other use, he has none but melted snow which 
 stays where it drifted, in a tunnel mouth, white 
 and cold until late in July. That is his pre 
 cious reservoir, and he melts it at his need. His 
 two burros scarce can keep the trail, so narrow 
 and rough it is, but he drives them ten miles to 
 the town once a month to stock up with beans, 
 tobacco, coffee, flour, sugar, tea, and salt, then 
 drives them home over dangerous trails some 
 times knee-deep in snow, and in places snow- 
 slides have buried the trail from ten to twenty 
 feet. He is tall and walks with a clumping 
 tread from wearing hob-nailed boots. His 
 wrist is leather-strapped from a break it sus 
 tained once in a mine. He is not old, he is not 
 young, but his eye is blue and clear. The 
 whole long year he digs alone and rarely sees 
 105 
 
106 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 a soul. He wants no partner in his toil, for he 
 knows there's a fortune in his claims if only the 
 man with money will come to purchase at his 
 price. 
 
 Scarce wider than his burro's tread, the nar 
 row shelf in the mountain slope winds down to 
 his lonely little house, and there it abruptly 
 stops, for he lives at the end of the trail. The 
 hills rise steeply all about the bowl where his 
 cabin stands and patches of snow cling to them 
 for eight months in the year. From the top of 
 the trail above his shack, wild mountain ranges 
 roll away till the haze of distance merges them 
 with the far horizon's misted rim. His house 
 stands at the bottom of a well of lofty hills, so 
 the winds that forever tear across the ridges 
 high above are never felt at the bottom of his 
 well. And he is truth personified. 
 
 It is a wild and lonely spot, so lonely and so 
 wild it holds a secure sense of safe retreat, and 
 he has grown to love it. He does not hate his 
 kind, his hand is open, and his purse, to every 
 man who needs. All the gossip of wild places he 
 gives and takes at every cabin on his way from 
 town. His mining is as primitive as in days 
 long gone by, his tools, a single jack and hand- 
 drill, his equipment, a windlass and a wooden 
 bucket. Truly, the Forty-niner was hardly 
 more the pioneer than he, for then men came in 
 droves, and these, now lonesome, cold, and rocky 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 107 
 
 hills were full of human life. But he lives all 
 alone and with no more necessities than they, 
 although his gun is of more modern pattern. 
 He writes but rarely, reads the papers avidly, 
 and devours the melodrama in cheap magazines. 
 And he's a very child, but, also, he's a man. 
 
GOPHER HOLES 
 
 So dark, so close, so very, very still ! so 
 dark a candle will but faintly light a tiny space ; 
 so close the air, that candle can barely keep 
 alight ; so still that all the vital energies athrob 
 far, far above upon the busy earth, seem puny, 
 meaningless, and matter not at all. For I am 
 two hundred feet down under ground and a 
 hundred feet away from the shaft, at the end 
 of a narrow drift, while all the earth above 
 seems waiting to crush that tunnel in, and that 
 flickering candle seems the only link with the life 
 above. There's a long slim ladder, its narrow 
 treads wire-nailed, to hold my weight will 
 they hold it safely, I wonder, until I reach the 
 top? In the roof of the old abandoned drift a 
 mighty boulder, smooth and long, looks loose 
 and about to fall will it start when I pass 
 under it and flatten me like a cake? And the 
 glug of a chunk of heavy quartz dropped into 
 the black sump water has an ominous, threaten 
 ing sound, while boyhood tales of underground 
 horrors flock to the memory. 
 
 But that is all at the outset, for the old miner 
 loves the earth's dark caves and is never so 
 happy nor so much at home as when he is bur- 
 108 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 109 
 
 rowing underground on the trail of the hidden 
 pocket. Yet take away the interest that lies in 
 the game of hide-and-seek for gold, the glitter of 
 achievement, the excitement of the chase, and 
 earth's dark, threatening bosom would lure him 
 with no magnet of attraction, for men are surely 
 not by nature gophers. They are not built that 
 way, for proudly upheld heads and straight, 
 upstanding spines were surely never given them 
 to hold forever at a groveling angle. 
 
 But ever will be some to whom the earth call 
 is a strong command that may not be denied, 
 and the old mine gopher was surely one of these, 
 though he came not West in the beginning to 
 delve in darkness deep in Mother Earth. His 
 coming was the outgrowth of the yearning of 
 the pioneer to blaze a trail where all was new 
 and wild, and to reach back close to all those 
 sincere things that still held the unspoiled fresh 
 ness of creation's dewy dawn. His very 
 thoughts of the giant pines, of the wild, fierce 
 beasts of prey, were sweet imaginings to him 
 wherein he pictured a clear, clean corner of 
 Mother Nature's old cracked mirror, where she 
 still could see her face, and so he came, too, with 
 the spirit of the boy who longs to slip the lead 
 ing-strings of home, and pines to go adventur 
 ing. 
 
 The quest of gold was but an excuse for his 
 love of the primitive, for when he made a goodly 
 
110 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 strike, he went not back to an ordered life, but 
 spent his stake with a largeness born of the 
 open air, keeping only enough for a couple of 
 burros and a prospector's kit. He never hears 
 from his family and his kin he has forgot, for a 
 shut-in life on an ordered scale would choke his 
 desert breath. 
 
 A bed for the night in a disused shack is all 
 the home he craves, with his burros browsing 
 among the cans on the dump outside its door, 
 or singing their desert music while he talks to 
 himself inside; or, if it be summer, he's well 
 content to spread his blankets beneath the stars, 
 with plenty of wood and water near. 
 
 His brother is an eminent judge who knows 
 not the feel of the desert wind, and the old mine 
 gopher might have a home with him, but he 
 prefers the sand for his bed and his burros for 
 company. 
 
 The man who sunk that mining shaft with 
 its drifts and ladder and inky sump was such a 
 miner, and when he struck rich ore in the shaft 
 he sold the claim for a good round sum, and hit 
 the trail with never a care till his money went 
 and his grub gave out, then he dug again, in 
 other men's mines, until he had saved a little 
 stake. 
 
 In the cool of a lovely desert dawn the sandy 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 111 
 
 hummocks crowned with sage showed gray 
 against a sky of pearl, and rounding a hummock 
 ahead of me two little burros plodded near, 
 herded along by a tall old man. His gray mus 
 tache swept his bronzed cheeks, his bright gray 
 eyes were full of life, and he stepped like a boy 
 on a camping trip. Those burros and their 
 burdens were the whole of that little stake. 
 
 " Howdy," he sang out to me. " This coun 
 try's too plumb full o' holes. I heard of a 
 country way up yonder where a feller's a chance 
 ter make a stake, an' where he don't stand ter 
 break a laig at every step in a gopher hole." 
 With an adios he left me and I heard his bur 
 ros' tinkling bells long after they had dropped 
 from sight beyond the big sand dunes. Our 
 trails have never crossed since then, but I hope 
 he has not had to dig in another man's gopher 
 hole. 
 
LOST OPPORTUNITY 
 
 I'm a sad old mule with long, long ears, 
 An' I've said goodbye to my prime. 
 When I think of the pullin', dusty years 
 I reckon I've wasted time. 
 I mind when my skinner bent his head 
 To fix my heavy chain trace. 
 I wish to cactus I'd kicked him dead, 
 Planted my foot in his face. 
 For after his blacksnake done its worst, 
 He doubled a heavy chain 
 An' flogged my back till it like to burst, 
 Then cussed me again an' again. 
 My nine big mates was willin' to pull, 
 But on the wheel was I. 
 I didn't budge, just stood like a fool, 
 But the devil was in my eye. 
 I didn't sing, but I like to died 
 When that skinner sat on a rock and cried. 
 They was tears o' rage, an' I knew his plight, 
 For he'd lose his pay if he didn't make 
 The ore train that left that night, 
 Seven miles to the waitin' train 
 Down a steep an' rocky road. 
 I waited till all the light was gone, 
 Then I started to pull the load. 
 My mate on the wheel started up with me, 
 112 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 113 
 
 My mates ahead got into their collars, 
 My skinner jumped off his rock in glee, 
 For he still might save his dollars. 
 So he grabs up the reins, slams down his brake, 
 An' we groaned an' creaked down the mountain 
 side. 
 
 We're a mile from the station when the train 
 
 pulls out, 
 
 An' the words of that skinner was balm to me. 
 I couldn't make out what 'twas all about, 
 But he raved at my hellish deviltry. 
 All 'cause I paid him back for the pain 
 He gave with that doubled iron chain. 
 An' that is a sample of what I got 
 When I helped haul loads over deserts hot, 
 An' many a skinner has just missed death 
 When he's beat me until he has lost his breath. 
 Now I'm laid up here with a busted leg 
 In a dusty, hot corral, 
 To watch my fool kin draggin' by 
 With droopin' head an' sleepy eye. 
 I've heard, in the distant, busy city 
 Even a mule they treat with pity, 
 That they don't follow the Desert rule, 
 " He ain't nothin' only a damn ole mule." 
 O ten years in alfalfa I would give 
 For one kick at the skinners that I've let live. 
 So I'm wishin' for kicks that never will be 
 An' regrettin' lost opportunity. 
 
114 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 PROSPECTIN' 
 
 I'm off f er the hills 
 On a fishin' trip, 
 An' I've paid my bills. 
 Now here's a tip 
 
 If I hear a lisp from the Will-o'-the-Wisp, 
 That mean little devil, I'll sure get level, 
 Fer I'm jist goin' fishin'. 
 Adios ! 
 
 If he shows his glim 
 While I'm on my way 
 I'll laugh at him, 
 Fer I aim ter stay 
 In a shady spot where it ain't so hot, 
 An' where I'm told there ain't no gold, 
 Fer I'm jist goin' fishin'. 
 Adios ! 
 
 I'll lay in the shade 
 Of a cottonwood, 
 Where game's a plenty 
 An' fishin's good, 
 
 Fer I aim ter sorter stick ter water, 
 An' loaf an' rest like all possest, 
 Fer I'm jist goin' fishin'. 
 Adios ! 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 113 
 
 Hello, Ole Timer! 
 I jist got back, 
 An' nary a damn thing 
 In my sack. 
 
 Fishin' ? Hell ! I ain't had a smell 
 O' fish or water, an' I jist orter 
 A-gone a fishin'. 
 Dammit ! 
 
 On the aidge o' the Desert 
 I struck some float, 
 An' it looked so good 
 That it got my goat. 
 So I hunted round over miles o' ground 
 Ter locate the ledge on the Desert's aidge, 
 When I orter been fishin'. 
 Dammit ! 
 
 Now my grub is gone 
 An' my hands is sore, 
 My shoes is worn 
 An' my pants is tore, 
 My burro's sick an' I lost my pick, 
 An' I ain't got a red ter feed my head, 
 When I orter be eatin' fish. 
 Dammit ! 
 
 That float may a-rolled 
 From the skinner's load, 
 
116 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 But it showed big gold 
 
 Right by the road, 
 
 IAn' I didn't know how fur I'd go, 
 
 Fer the outcrop might pop inter sight 
 
 Any minute, an* that beats fishin'. 
 
DRY COLORS 
 
AL DESIERTO 
 
 Oh, for a brain that's dipped in fire, 
 And a pen like a lava flow, 
 Then I'd make you feel to my heart's desire 
 The Land Where The Sunsets Go. 
 
 Oh, for a mind with understanding 
 To lay the wild wastes bare, 
 No need for your lonely wandering, 
 My pen could take you there. 
 
 You'd read in riots of color, you'd see 
 Black hills against blue sky lined. 
 You'd feel its fathomless mystery 
 And the sweep of its mighty wind. 
 
 But I cannot tell, for would you feel 
 Its mystery, you must go 
 To ride its mountains and fierce hot sands, 
 And live in its vivid glow. 
 
 Then ho, for the blazing deserts bare ! 
 
 I would that my words could give 
 
 A sense of the brooding death that's there, 
 
 And the hidden lives that live. 
 119 
 
120 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 Would language be easy, I wonder, 
 And its tongue more sweetly heard 
 Could we crowd a world of impressions 
 Into one luminous word? 
 
 But no word can paint its splendor 
 
 Nor its grim menace tell, 
 
 For the desert to some is the hand of God, 
 
 And some men call it Hell. 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 121 
 
 A DESERT DAY 
 
 The sun is glinting on far mountain snows. 
 A freight team's coming from the distant town. 
 I see a long dust column where it crawls, 
 For it moves miles below me, far, far down, 
 When the wind blows up the canon in the 
 morning. 
 
 A thin, blue smoke thread trails a tiny train 
 Crawling across the desert with its load. 
 I hear no toot, nor panting steam refrain. 
 At dawn, it bears the mail away each day, 
 When the wind blows up the canon in the 
 morning. 
 
 After the train has gone, the desert sleeps. 
 Even the skinner's dust cloud is no more, 
 For swallowed in the canon, up it creeps. 
 Sand cedars frame the red-roofed town in green, 
 When the wind blows up the canon in the 
 morning. 
 
 Then far below my shack, perched high above 
 The canon road, the long, slow team drags up 
 The steep and rocky road, nor seems to move. 
 The skinner's blacksnake cracks like pistol shot, 
 While the canon wind is still at sleepy noontime. 
 
122 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 In that silence the wagon's creaks and groans, 
 Mingled with curses flung at straining mules, 
 Come up to me, for words, and, even, tones 
 Are heard a half mile in those quiet hills, 
 When the canon wind is still at sleepy noontime. 
 
 On the desert's edge, beyond the town, inclines 
 A long, steep, gray-green mountain topped with 
 
 snow, 
 
 While at its timber line, huge, straggling pines 
 Are stippled black against the lower snows 
 When the canon wind awakes in afternoontime. 
 
 Black swarms of ducks fly quacking to their rest 
 Beside the big, dark, brooding soda lake. 
 A band of yellow light dies in the west. 
 Against it, snowy peaks show purple-gray, 
 When the wind blows down the canon in the 
 evening. 
 
 The desert's one gray blur. A darker blur 
 Upon it is the town. Its lights shine out. 
 Then nearer, jagged canon walls show dark 
 Against the quickly paling sky of dusk, 
 When the wind blows down the canon in the star 
 light. 
 
 I know the train is in. I see its light 
 Moving along the now black desert floor, 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 123 
 
 While on beyond, towers that mighty wall. 
 'Tis purple dark from foot to snow-capped 
 
 peaks. 
 
 Grim, silent hills about me loom up black. 
 The stars break forth in frosty scintillance, 
 So close they seem suspended just above 
 The higher buttes behind me to the east. 
 The air's so still upon the higher hills 
 It seems to be alive, with held-in breath. 
 And then a coyote howls and yaps, and then 
 The wind roars down the canon for 'tis nightfall. 
 
124 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 A DESERT NIGHT 
 
 It is evening in the desert 
 
 And the blazing day is dead. 
 
 It is evening in the desert. 
 
 Though the flaming sun has sped, 
 
 He leaves some flickering embers 
 
 From his fires that burned so bright, 
 
 And shadows steal o'er the desert floor 
 
 To herald the coming night. 
 
 The Will-o'-the-Wisp is dancing, 
 
 But the sunset hides his light. 
 
 It is dusky in the desert, 
 
 In the west is a yellow glow. 
 
 It is dusky in the desert 
 
 When the winds begin to blow. 
 
 Mountain peaks cut the purple sky 
 
 In a black and jagged heap, 
 
 When a sigh breathes out of the stillness 
 
 That wakes its brooding deep. 
 
 Then the soft wind sways the sage-brush 
 
 And the sand stirs in its sleep. 
 
 Darkness broods in the desert, 
 The sand gleams dimly gray. 
 Darkness broods in the desert, 
 Under the stars' cold ray. 
 Then I feel like a lonely waif afloat 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 125 
 
 On an ocean without a tide. 
 
 Then thoughts troop, weird and ghostly, 
 
 That the bright day has defied, 
 
 And my soul walks alone in the silence, 
 
 For even the wind has died. 
 
 The moon is lighting the desert 
 
 From over the mountains' rim. 
 
 The moon is lighting the desert 
 
 With a light that is silver-dim, 
 
 And the sand is a sea of silver 
 
 That fades mysteriously 
 
 Into the luminous moon-mist 
 
 Beyond which the shadows lie. 
 
 Then my spirit dreams in the moonlight, 
 
 For the darkness has gone from me. 
 
126 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 THIRST 
 
 Below those snowy peaks that hem my gaze 
 I know full well cool rivulets course down 
 To moisten thirsty valleys far below, 
 Where cattle graze knee-deep in rich, sweet 
 
 grass. 
 Though they loom close, viewed through my 
 
 burning eyes, 
 
 Thirst and starvation lie 'twixt them and me. 
 The sand is hot and deep. 
 
 And, on the other hand, rise bare rock walls. 
 No snow is there, but grim, dead loneliness 
 Where man must pack the food and drink he 
 
 needs. 
 
 The dwelling-place of buzzard and coyote. 
 And all the deadly creatures of the wild 
 Lurk in those gloomy canons. 
 Here, at my feet, a horse's skeleton, 
 Embedded in the sand for many years, 
 Tells how my pony and myself may fare. 
 There, where the desert meets the sky ahead, 
 The vista is a glare of glowing brass 
 Misted across with heat. 
 
 No water's nearer than those icy peaks. 
 There is no shade within a hundred miles, 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 127 
 
 Nor any growing thing to feed upon. 
 My belt is tightened to its final hole, 
 The water in my canteen is all gone, 
 My little horse is lame. 
 
 I know a shady, woodland road back home, 
 Flanked on one side by swiftly flowing water; 
 The other side, a tree-grown mountain slope. 
 Beside the road, beneath that leafy slope 
 Roofed with young saplings casting grateful 
 
 shade, 
 A big, deep spring wells, dark and cold and 
 
 pure, 
 
 That used to bead my cup with icy sweat 
 But " That way madness lies." 
 
128 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 THE PAINT-BOX 
 
 There's the blinding white of the alkali, 
 
 There's the cindery black of the malapai. 
 
 The great gray Sierra wall behind 
 
 The round brown hills that are sharp defined. 
 
 There are hills of purple, hills of blue, 
 
 Hills of a brilliant copper hue. 
 
 There's the slaty brown clay merged with red, 
 
 Crisscrossed with cracks of the old lake bed. 
 
 There's the dazzling yellow of the sands 
 
 With a gray-green splash where the sage-brush 
 
 stands. 
 
 The sparkling turquoise of the lake 
 Where even a duck no drink dare take. 
 A flash of all colors here and there, 
 For lizards are any and everywhere. 
 A flame of red at the touch of dawn, 
 A flame of yellow when day has gone, 
 And ever the pitiless blue sky. 
 
 Then God shuts the lid of His paint-box tight, 
 His colors all buried in blue-black night, 
 While through holes in the cover the stars' 
 
 bright glance 
 Lends to the darkness a dim romance. 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 129 
 
 HANGMAN'S TREE 
 
 Where water will not run nor flower bloom 
 
 Man may not live but for a single day. 
 
 Such land holds earth's purse she gives but to 
 
 those 
 Who dare her wildest moods. 
 
 A mountain saddle lies between two peaks, 
 While just beyond that saddle is a flat, 
 And on that flat and on the slopes nearby 
 There dwell five thousand men. 
 
 On one side, sloping to the desert floor 
 Through canons deep, there winds a rough, 
 
 steep road; 
 
 While on the other, rocky ridge on ridge 
 Billows away to the East. 
 
 In that rough town thrive twenty-five saloons, 
 Red-shirted miners bringing them their trade. 
 For the fierce, fevered life and that keen air 
 Beget a raging thirst. 
 
 Across the hot road a big spider crawls 
 Whose sting will run swift poison through the 
 
 veins. 
 
 The scorpion seeks the dampest spot he knows. 
 The busy town is still 
 
130 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 For it is day. The gophers in their holes 
 Are not more busy than those red-clad men 
 Delving and sweating in earth's mighty breast, 
 Fighting to reach her heart. 
 
 At night the stars that seem to touch those 
 
 peaks 
 
 Above that saddle, look on different scenes, 
 For lights blaze out from twenty-five wide doors 
 Toward which the whole town flocks. 
 
 A babel of mixed sounds floats on the night, 
 Of faro, poker, pedro, and the dance, 
 The fiddles' scrape, the shuffling of feet, 
 All fused in one loud din. 
 
 And then a shot, and then a sudden hush, 
 Then angry voices raised in strident speech, 
 And women's screams and men's deep, cursing 
 
 tones, 
 And then a crowd pours out. 
 
 Bedraggled women and big, drunken men 
 And cripples, dogs, and children but a few, 
 All headed for that big pine on the slope 
 From which a rope hangs down. 
 
 In that crowd's center walks a scowling one. 
 His hat is off, his hair disordered, wild. 
 His hands are tied behind him, and his look 
 Is sullen, scowling, black. 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 131 
 
 He curses them while they secure the noose, 
 He curses them with his last choking breath. 
 And then a fusillade of shots, and then 
 Deep silence over all. 
 
 A roaring wind one furious, wild night 
 Fanned into flame a little vagrant spark. 
 Five thousand souls were homeless, and the hills 
 Were as they e'er had been. 
 
 A canon dark where sun shines but at noon, 
 A big, old pine upon its nearer slope. 
 Nature has guarded what grew by its will 
 Even the rope has gone. 
 
 A saddle in the hills where coyotes lurk, 
 An old slag pile, but not a soul in sight. 
 No miners' shack to humanize the scene. 
 The desert has come back. 
 
TALKING WATER AND WHISPER 
 ING WIND 
 
RUNNING WATER 
 
 I remember the rich clad hills so softly curved 
 
 and green, 
 And the lovely, sleepy valley with a white house 
 
 here and there, 
 And I mind how the clean gray beeches hung 
 
 over the ravine 
 With its rippling, singing rivulet that flowed so 
 
 crystal clear. 
 
 A covered bridge bestrode the creek, its tunnel 
 of deep shade 
 
 A breath of coolness when the sun was beating 
 upon the road. 
 
 On its rattling planks, the hollow rhythm my 
 horse's hoof-beats made 
 
 Was music, but more was the liquid roar as be 
 neath me the water flowed. 
 
 There was another, a broader, stream where 
 the road ran through a ford, 
 
 Where the water tinkled gently in its pebbly, 
 sandy bed. 
 
 With a cool brocade of sun and shade its shal 
 low bed is floored, 
 
 135 
 
136 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 While I hear the liquid slish and plunge of 
 my horse's splashing tread. 
 
 Beside that road was a welling spring, deep and 
 dark and cool. 
 
 Bright cresses edged the tiny stream that over 
 flowed its cool, green lip. 
 
 I hear the plash of the startled frog as he dives 
 into its pool, 
 
 And the spring's soft, liquid gurgle and its 
 soothing drip, drip, drip. 
 
 When the parched and blazing desert speaks to 
 
 me in fevered strain, 
 Dreams of shade and dewy moisture for that 
 
 fevered voice atones. 
 Then the organ notes of ocean surges beat upon 
 
 my brain 
 And the lilt of running water as it purrs among 
 
 the stones. 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 137 
 
 THE RECKLESS DESERT WIND 
 
 The sand is deep and the sage grows high, 
 No water there is in sight. 
 The only rock is black malapai, 
 Dead mountains to left and right. 
 
 The single sign of man's habitance 
 Is an empty whiskey jug. 
 The only insect my eye can see 
 Is a toiling doodle-bug. 
 
 Now blow, you wind, o'er the desert wild, 
 Blow out all thoughts of men, 
 And sweep by me with a clean, dry rush, 
 Till I feel like a boy again. 
 
 I shout wild things with no ear to hear, 
 While the wind spins the sands upcurled, 
 As I gallop fast toward their yellow rim, 
 For I'm at the end of the world. 
 
 There's never a thought can make me pause, 
 Nor a sight that my eyes light on, 
 Though I see in the sand the dry, white bones 
 Of a human skeleton. 
 
 Then I'll laugh today though there's hell to pay 
 When this reckless mood is past. 
 For the wind's deep hum is telling me, 
 " The desert's got you at last." 
 
138 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 A MESSAGE 
 
 I start with a little drip, drip, drip, 
 On slopes of eternal snow, 
 Then I grow to a flowing rivulet, 
 When I dash through the gorge below. 
 
 My ice cold veins are the runnels 
 That flow under frozen crust, 
 And the icy springs from lower slopes 
 That feed my hurrying lust. 
 
 I jump, I shout, and I foam, and dance 
 Like a wild, mad thing at play, 
 But I cannot linger, for swelling veins 
 Are speeding me on my way. 
 
 Through gulches dark, over jagged rocks 
 I follow my destiny, 
 And I roar to the pines as I flash by, 
 And they whisper back to me, 
 
 " Take some of our peace to your desert, 
 And take it a memory green; 
 Take some of our shade to your desert 
 Along with your cold canteen." 
 
 I jostle the rocks as I growl along 
 And I spray the miner's shack, 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 139 
 
 As I bear on my black and rippling flood 
 The forest's broken wrack. 
 
 I am kissed by the sun and tossed by the wind, 
 I am robbed by human things, 
 But ever I con in my memory 
 The song that the big pine sings, 
 
 For I'm bound for the yellow desert 
 So bright and barren, so wild and bare, 
 And my pace is slowed to a sluggish glide 
 Ere I sink my cool flood there. 
 
 Oh, I'm gentle in the desert, 
 Just before my race is run, 
 As I liquidly lap my message 
 To the ear of the thirsty one. 
 
 Drink it down with me, O Desert Man, 
 'Twill make my life blood sweet. 
 Drink it down with me, that message, 
 'Twill make your drink complete. 
 
 " I bring still peace to your desert, 
 I bring it a memory green, 
 I bring you the vision of cool, pine shade, 
 And I bring you a cold canteen." 
 
140 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 THE WOOING WIND 
 
 She stands sturdy and strong through all his 
 
 wooing, 
 Though her plumes are slender, her branches 
 
 slim. 
 
 Never hiding, though storms are brewing, 
 When he wrenches in rage to her undoing, 
 After speeding to her from the desert's rim. 
 The wind is wooing the Desert Belle 
 
 The walls of their house are the mountains 
 
 high, 
 
 And the desert floor their bed, 
 The blue of heaven their canopy. 
 And he woos her, with many a gentle sigh, 
 At dawn, when the sun shows red. 
 The wind is wooing the Desert Belle 
 
 He never need call, for he's ever nigh. 
 
 He heaps up the sand about her feet 
 
 To keep them warm when he's roaring by, 
 
 For his is not always a gentle sigh, 
 
 His caresses not always sweet. 
 
 The wind is wooing the Desert Belle 
 
 His fingers he twines in her feathery hair, 
 
 He dances about to catch her eye, 
 
 He hums in glee when she speaks him fair 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 141 
 
 So seldom she does that he might despair, 
 Her sage-plumed head she rears so high, 
 Were it not that he holds her rooted there. 
 The wind is wooing the Desert Belle 
 
 He wafts to her kisses when days are still, 
 He murmurs low to her in the night. 
 He has builded about her a little hill, 
 Scooping the desert sands until 
 He has raised her to greater height. 
 The wind is wooing the Desert Belle 
 
 Oh, he is a patient, persistent wooer 
 For thousands of years he's sighed , 
 But though he is wealthy and she is poor, 
 Though he's tied her fast and has her sure, 
 She will never be his bride. 
 The wind is wooing the Desert Belle 
 
 For she looks at his soft approach askance, 
 And she smiles at his ceaseless murmuring. 
 Though she never refuses to join his dance, 
 Yet she sways away with her gray-green glance, 
 For she is a sage old thing. 
 The wind is wooing the Desert 
 
142 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 THE WIND IN THE SAGE 
 
 'Tis the breath of dawn, then early morn, and 
 still 
 
 As still as death, 
 With the desert gray as a form of clay until 
 
 It draws its breath, 
 When so faint a sigh sweeps the alkali 
 
 'Twould scarce flutter a fairy page. 
 The Desert Wind is whispering to the Sage. 
 
 Through a canon cleft in the desert wall, shoots 
 
 One long shaft of sun. 
 Drawn away the cloak of gray. That shaft 
 
 salutes 
 
 The desert day, begun. 
 Now sharp the line of steep incline that in the 
 
 dawn 
 
 The eye could not engage. 
 The Desert Wind is whispering to the Sage 
 
 The dazzling white of the alkali, like snow, 
 
 Makes blue spots dance 
 Before my eyes, and the sands are aglow 
 
 With the risen sun's advance, 
 Thin spirals of sand are swirling, blowing, 
 
 Whirling in a rage. 
 The Desert Wind is whispering to the Sage 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 143 
 
 The air is hot and still, the lizards sleep, 
 
 The sand's a yellow glare. 
 Even the coyote ventures not to creep 
 
 From his dark, rocky lair. 
 There is no shade in all that desert waste 
 
 Save in its mountain vassalage. 
 The Desert Wind is whispering to the Sage 
 
 Then fall black shadows on the desert floor 
 
 Like giant pools of ink, 
 That lengthen ever as the sun sinks lower 
 
 Beyond the mountains' brink, 
 Until the valley floor is filled with shade, 
 
 And then 'tis evening dusk. 
 The Desert Wind is whispering to the Sage 
 
 The grim walls rise on either hand huge, shad 
 owy blurs 
 
 Against a purple sky. 
 The yellow dies out in the west and then there 
 
 purrs 
 
 Across the waste, a sigh. 
 Then ghostly desert voices breathe as they have 
 
 done 
 
 Through all creation's age. 
 The Desert Wind is whispering to the Sage 
 
144 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 The Will-o'-the-Wisp is a nuisance. 
 
 He's always about at night, 
 
 He hasn't a sense of honor, 
 
 He's just a malicious sprite. 
 
 When he saw what the wind was doing 
 
 He danced with insane delight, 
 
 Then lurked 'neath a sand-dune to watch the 
 
 wooing, 
 
 After hiding his lurid light. 
 And when the night wind faintly stirred 
 This is what he heard 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 145 
 
 WHAT THE WIND WHISPERED 
 
 Over blazing sands I have sped to you 
 
 From my home on the world's edge dim. 
 
 I have sailed down swiftly from out the blue, 
 
 I have swooped from the mountains' rim. 
 
 I have lurked behind dunes like a lean coyote 
 To play with you hide-and-seek. 
 I've watched you as high in the sky I float 
 Or swirled in the desert reek. 
 
 When the spirit expands in the budding night 
 I bring you, at dusk, my softest sigh, 
 For the sun has gone, the desert's brooding, 
 And there's only you and I. 
 
 Then I sink to rest by your slender side, 
 As the whisper of dusk I bring 
 To the sand and the sky. There is naught be 
 side, 
 For the desert is slumbering. 
 
 Have you heard what I've whispered to you 
 
 through the years 
 And couldn't you ever guess? 
 Bend low, O Sage, and incline your ears 
 In our desert loneliness 
 
146 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 And I'll breathe it to you on the twilight air 
 With my shyest, light caress, 
 " I love to blow through your feathery hair 
 And to play with your gray-green dress." 
 
DESERT SPECIMENS 
 
I'M GOING TO THAT COUNTRY 
 OVER THERE 
 
 O the gold I've found and squandered 
 
 In the many lands I've wandered 
 
 Is enough to make of me a millionaire. 
 
 But I've had my fun and spent it, 
 
 And I never will repent it. 
 
 Now I'm going to That Country Over There. 
 
 Oh, of pictures I've a brainful. 
 
 Some are glad and some are painful, 
 
 Some are funny, some enough to raise the hair. 
 
 Now I'll paint some brand-new pages, 
 
 For I'm going where the sage is 
 
 In that glowing, torrid Country Over There. 
 
 There I'll start out with my burro. 
 
 Ne'er a plant and ne'er a furrow 
 
 Will greet me, for there are no ranches there. 
 
 Only prospectors and freighters 
 
 And a few old second-raters, 
 
 Who swap stories in That Country Over There. 
 
 But I'll leave those Rats behind me 
 Where they'll never, never find me, 
 149 
 
150 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 For I know a canon wild and deep and fair. 
 Fair, because the sun's not broiled it, 
 Fair, because man has not spoiled it, 
 Though it's in that burning Country Over 
 There. 
 
 There I'll find the rich gold, pronto, 
 
 And I'll prospect where I want to, 
 
 And I'll eat and sleep out in the desert air. 
 
 And I'll make to no man payment, 
 
 For I'll be the only claimant 
 
 In that free, wild desert Country Over There. 
 
 No use is there for doctor's pill, 
 
 A man keeps well if heat don't kill. 
 
 He gets what he likes, if he likes country bare. 
 
 The nights are chill and deadly still, 
 
 But a man can smoke and think his fill 
 
 In that quiet, restful Country Over There. 
 
 The sun will rise in purple skies 
 
 And glitter all day in burning eyes, 
 
 There's never a thing will shade its burning 
 
 glare. 
 
 Never that thought my plan debarred, 
 I and my jacks are iron hard. 
 We'll live and thrive in That Country Over 
 
 There. 
 
 Then, Ah Sing, hurry up the mush, 
 I and my jacks will hit the brush 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 151 
 
 When the dawning lights above the canon flare. 
 
 Say adios to all the men, 
 
 For if I don't show up again 
 
 I've hit That Farther Country Over There. 
 
152 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 THE BARK OF THE COYOTE 
 
 I can live without food and drink for days, 
 I can feed where you would hunger and die, 
 I can run like the wind and beat your bronc, 
 For the desert shade am I. 
 
 Just out of your sight I love to chatter 
 When the stars shine out and you've gone to 
 
 bed, 
 
 For I want you to know that I hover near, 
 Watching you work and waiting. 
 
 This desert is mine and I lived in it 
 Before you ever were born to the world. 
 Before you ever could know it was here, 
 My race had prowled it alone. 
 
 My home is the peak and the sliding shale 
 And the cavern dark where I house my young, 
 And the canon bed where is deepest shade, 
 And the whole wide desert world. 
 
 I have seen you come, I have seen you go, 
 I have picked my meal from your dead men's 
 
 bones. 
 
 I was here before you, and when you left 
 I topped your ruins and laughed. 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 153 
 
 For I love the rocks and the burning sands, 
 And I hate you with a burning hate. 
 I fear you living, I laugh at you dead, 
 But I will outlive you here. 
 
 And the keenest joy that I know about 
 Is to watch you leaving with dragging steps 
 From your ruined labors, where I am crouched, 
 And yap at your sure defeat. 
 
154 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 DESERT CHILDREN 
 
 Their shirts are of blue denim, 
 Their chaps are long and wide, 
 And shiny, battered gun butts peep 
 From the pockets at their side. 
 Their hats are high-crowned, pointed, 
 And their spurs, magnificent. 
 Their movements are disjointed, 
 And their talk, profanely eloquent. 
 
 For they are trying mightily 
 One small boy and his pal 
 To rope the desert broncos 
 In the livery corral. 
 
 Those broncos might be tamely caught 
 
 At any time of day, 
 
 But they prefer to rope them 
 
 In the good old cowboy way, 
 
 For the sandy desert road runs close 
 
 Where cowboy once chased Indian. 
 
 Though there's no brush, they need those chaps, 
 
 And they rope their broncs " like Daddy done." 
 
 For of all the aspirations 
 That breed in the desert sun, 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 153 
 
 Theirs is the desert yearning 
 To be a son of a gun. 
 
 He wears no Indian breech-clout, 
 
 Nor leggins, buckskin-fringed, 
 
 But blue and greasy overalls, 
 
 And his face is copper-tinged. 
 
 He crouches behind a big sand-dune, 
 
 For he is the chief of a raiding band. 
 
 His squaw mother's greasy skinning knife 
 
 Is clutched in his small brown hand. 
 
 For he sees his paleface enemies 
 
 Preparing to mount and ride, 
 
 So he will ambush and scalp them, both, 
 
 At the bend in the Divide. 
 
 Beside him his cayuse crouches, 
 
 With his long and ragged coat. 
 
 What though the paleface calls him 
 
 " Half collie and half coyote "? 
 
 He will mount and ride in a minute 
 
 And the wind will race with his flying feet. 
 
 His little fat body's as still as a cat's, 
 
 As he visions his enemy's rout complete. 
 
 For he is a mighty warrior, 
 As he crouches in the sand, 
 Leading his tribe to victory 
 Lord of that desert land. 
 
156 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 These are the men of tomorrow, 
 That ever look back in their play, 
 Touching with glamour heroic 
 The story of yesterday. 
 
GOBS AND HOBGOBS 
 
THE INDIAN AND THE PRINCESS 
 
 He sleeps, that feathered warrior. 
 His head forms a mountain crest, 
 The last stern, Indian barrier 
 Between the East and the West. 
 
 Above his mighty, war-plumed head 
 The Sleeping Beauty lies. 
 Only the cloud caps kiss her brow, 
 Only the sun, her eyes. 
 
 Only the eagle swoops above 
 Their silent, massive heads. 
 The only fires that warm them 
 Are the sunsets' flaming reds. 
 
 When the gods were young he stole her 
 From a distant, fair-haired race, 
 And they camped for the night on the shoulder 
 Of that lofty mountain place. 
 
 Then he slept at her feet in the sunset, 
 His stern, set face to the skies, 
 And he was a mighty medicine man 
 So he sealed with sleep her eyes. 
 159 
 
160 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 No fairy prince will awaken 
 With a kiss that sleeping one. 
 That Chief no Manitou will beckon, 
 For the days of the gods are done. 
 
 So eagles float and scream and wheel 
 Above his cold, proud head. 
 No more to Manitou he'll kneel, 
 For the Indian Chief is dead. 
 
 And his captive sleeps forever, 
 A deep and dreamless sleep, 
 Since he is dead who could sever 
 The charm of her slumber deep. 
 
 Now the Indian fairy dances 
 
 On the brow of his stern, still head, 
 
 For lightsome spirit fancies 
 
 May live when the body's dead. 
 
 Now the stars bend from above her 
 To shine on her shaded eyes. 
 And though she will sleep forever, 
 From her brow sweet thoughts arise. 
 
 A cool wind blows o'er the desert 
 From her lofty mountain peak, 
 And though she is deeply sleeping, 
 I dream that I hear her speak. 
 
THE LAXD WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 161 
 
 " You fashion me as a woman 
 From snow and rocks and clods, 
 For the mind that weaves the fairies 
 Is the mind that makes the gods. 
 
 " Yet all the gods of Olympus 
 Are not so great as I, 
 For I'll still sleep on my mountain 
 When all the gods shall die. 
 
 " For my rock-ribbed mountain reaches 
 Far down into the earth, 
 And never will be riven 
 Until a new world's birth, 
 
 " You see me, as all humans do, 
 As clothed in human guise, 
 But never will you see me true 
 Until with clearer eyes." 
 
 
 
 I rubbed my eyes and there uprose 
 A mighty mountain, grim and torn, 
 That had pierced dawning skies of rose 
 Since first creation's morn, 
 
 And long before that later morn, 
 When were created gods and men. 
 Since race of man had not been born, 
 Of course, there were no fairies then. 
 
162 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 I sighed. But in the sunset glow 
 Just as I turned to leave, 
 A fairy jigged on the Chieftain's brow, 
 And I saw her bosom heave. 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 163 
 
 MOUNTAIN MUSIC 
 
 It is not the song of the mountain-lark 
 
 With his plaintive cheep and call, 
 It is not the whir of a humming-bird 
 
 As he bores to the heart of a flower, 
 It is not the hum of a desert insect 
 
 Lodged in the canon wall, 
 But the tinkling ring of fairy bells 
 
 As they sound the still noon hour. 
 
 They ring at noon when the sun's ablaze 
 
 And the canon winds are still, 
 When the hawk is drowsing on his eyrie, 
 
 And the coyote's hidden deep, 
 When the shimmering heat in waves floats up 
 
 From sage and rocky hill, 
 When the midday hush is on the world, 
 
 And the mountains are asleep. 
 
 The desert fairy folds his wings 
 
 When the Southern Cross appears, 
 And goes to bed like an Indian 
 
 When night her curtain fells. 
 But through the livelong desert day 
 
 There's a-ringing in my ears 
 Of husky elfin voices and the chime 
 
 Of crystal bells. 
 
164 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 The tiniest cactus needle-points form barbs 
 
 For their long bow shafts. 
 Their arrows rest in a quiver made from 
 
 A little flower pod. 
 Their war-bonnet feathers are fashioned from 
 
 The fluff that the light air wafts. 
 With moccasins made from the skins of seeds 
 
 Their dusky feet are shod. 
 
 O search for them not in the moonlight 
 
 Nor in folds of the hills at night, 
 For they are not like the fairies 
 
 That glamoured our childhood days. 
 The desert elves sport only in the 
 
 Broad and blazing light, 
 Then kindle their camp-fires in the dusk, 
 
 And sleep with the sun's last rays. 
 
 And so if you take the mountain trails 
 
 That up from the desert run, 
 And your horse, looking down the canon, 
 
 Snorts and halts and pricks his ears 
 And gazes with starting eyeballs where 
 
 There is naught but desert sun, 
 You may know that the mountain fairies' song 
 
 Is the ringing sound he hears. 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 165 
 
 NIMROD 
 
 Bright is the vision, though rarest, 
 When my dreaming eyes are blest 
 With a sight of the Indian fairies 
 Who dwell in the hiUs of the West. 
 But few are the fortunate humans 
 To be their invisible guest. 
 
 Yet once, as I followed a desert trail 
 
 Up into a canon wild, 
 
 From my eyes fell the grown up scales 
 
 And I was as a little child 
 
 Who lives in a visionary world, 
 
 By fairy dreams beguiled. 
 
 My mind for one sweet half-hour 
 
 Was free from all human woes. 
 
 No mortal care had power, 
 
 No thoughts of duty rose. 
 
 Elfin joy was my dower 
 
 In that land where the sage-brush grows. 
 
 I swung along up the canon bare 
 Through a realm that we all must leave, 
 And I found no portal, no sentry there, 
 No warder, in helm and greave, 
 For it is freer than realms less fair 
 That Kingdom of Make-Believe. 
 
166 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 My eyes lost their human glances, 
 And a bright, new world upreared, 
 Bathed in soft amber lances 
 Of a sun that was dreamy, weird. 
 Then, trooping, came elfin fancies 
 And the fairy folk appeared. 
 
 At my feet knelt a dusky fairy 
 Who a shaft on his bowstring held ; 
 In his ant hill shelter, lurking, wary, 
 A strange air beast beheld. 
 He did not heed my coming 
 For I had been fairy-belled. 
 
 His bow was a needle of pinon pine 
 
 With a woven web for string. 
 
 His scalp feathers, iridescent, fine, 
 
 Were plucked from a humming-bird's wing. 
 
 A breech-clout, woven of spider's twine, 
 
 Was his only covering. 
 
 When his bowstring sped the tiny shaft 
 I could hear its humming twang 
 Then down the road, a skinner laughed 
 And his curling blacksnake sang. 
 Vanished my hunter at human sound, 
 Though a bell-like shout still rang. 
 
 Then back came the sunlight swiftly, 
 Hot, white, and glittering. 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 167 
 
 Still I heard at my feet, though faintly, 
 A war song, triumphing. 
 And down at my feet a tarantula-hawk 
 Thrashed about with a broken wing. 
 
168 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 DESERT WITCHCRAFT 
 
 I don't say that I'm locoed an' I don't claim 
 
 that I ain't 
 Fer a-sayin' I'll stick ter the desert till I climb 
 
 the Golden Stairs. 
 But the way they hugged the house at home 
 
 jist makes a feller faint, 
 An' the feel of a good horse under me is bet- 
 
 ter'n rockin' chairs. 
 
 I hiked the hills like all possessed when I first 
 
 come from back home. 
 Ole timers called me nutty, but I didn't mind 
 
 their jeers, 
 Fer I was keen fer the ring o' gold an' the city's 
 
 noisy hum. 
 Now the mountain fairies' music is a-ringin' in 
 
 my ears. 
 
 So I've kind o' lost all love o' gold but the fun 
 
 o* huntin' it. 
 
 An' when I git home letters written implorin'ly 
 Fer me ter come home, I tell 'em I ain't struck 
 
 it yit, 
 But it's the desert Will-o'-the-Wisp that is 
 
 a-keepin' me. 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 169 
 
 I don't know much 'bout heaven, but I reckon ef 
 
 I goes, 
 I'll want a tol'able big corral an' a man's size 
 
 sleepin' cage. 
 An' I'll tell the tally man at the gate he c'n 
 
 have my eyes an' nose 
 Ef he's goin' ter rope an' tie me out o' sight an* 
 
 smell o' sage. 
 
 They're sleepin' soft in the good ole home an' 
 
 a-wishin' fer me there, 
 An' I hone ter see fruit blossoms in May an* 
 
 ter hear the crunch o' snow, 
 An' I want ter smell the Atlantic an' breathe its 
 
 salty air, 
 But the wind o' the desert has wrapped me 
 
 round an' won't never let me go. 
 
170 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 WILL-O'-THE-WISP 
 
 I know that across those mountains 
 Lies a country about like this, 
 And I know that poisoned fountains 
 Fringe the way, and the rattlers' hiss 
 Is sibilant on that blistering trail, 
 
 And the sand is like the sea, 
 But the Will-o'-the-Wisp of the desert 
 
 Is a-beckoning to me. 
 
 I know that others both skilled and bold 
 Have taken this trail before, 
 Hunting long for the yellow gold, 
 Only to come back worn and sore 
 That is, if they ever came back at all 
 
 And though all this I know, 
 When the Will-o'-the-Wisp of the desert calls 
 
 I pack my jack and go. 
 
 The cactus grows and flaunts its rose 
 Beside the trail my burro takes. 
 The hot day comes, the hot day goes, 
 Desert night wind the whole world shakes. 
 Then a dancing light in the velvet dark 
 
 Afar on the waste I see, 
 And I know that the desert Will-o'-the-Wisp 
 
 Is flashing his light at me. 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 171 
 
 His elfin light is of fancy made. 
 
 Yet he jeers at me like a clown 
 
 By flashing scenes of liquid shade 
 
 On the noon sky, but upside down, 
 
 For he carries slides with his lantern by day 
 
 To tease me maliciously. 
 
 Though I know he's the Will-o'-the-Wisp, yet I 
 swear 
 
 That he's holding a cup to me. 
 
 He has no form, he has no face, 
 He has only a dancing light 
 To lure me on from place to place 
 To every place but the right. 
 Though I stumble and faint and burn with 
 thirst, 
 
 I follow hopefully, 
 For the Will-o'-the-Wisp of the desert 
 
 Is waving his light to me. 
 
PINE AND CHAPARRAL 
 
GROWING PAINS 
 
 With her smooth egg-shaped stone pestle 
 poised in her sinewy brown hand, with the 
 evening meal half-mortared on the squaw rock 
 where she sat, while her lord and master lolled 
 beside a little twinkling fire, she gazed on the 
 clear, soft western sky shading from rose up 
 to the deepest azure, and the sharp silhouettes 
 of branching trees, their limbs and leaves a 
 graceful tracery stamped black against the dy 
 ing light, gave birth in her primitive, misty 
 brain to a delicate idea. With finest sinew, be 
 fore the fire, she copied the dainty pattern she 
 saw in the sunset glow. 
 
 She was beaten next day by her irate man, 
 for she had forgotten his dinner in copying na 
 ture's laciness. 
 
 But art had advanced a step. 
 
 175 
 
PINES 
 
 They are strong, those pines. Their soft 
 and low-toned converse is the pent up quietness 
 of force, and even when some raging fire, sweep 
 ing the country with a devastating flame, has 
 laid them low, straightway they spring again. 
 Their shade is dark and cool, their every 
 whisper music, their quiet green a blessed thing 
 to hot sun-smitten eyes, and the aid they give 
 to man is far beyond all computation in a 
 land where other forests do not thrive. They 
 are not cheerful in a common way ; their looks 
 are somber, and their shade too deep. But 
 there is a quiet, a reposeful peace beyond light 
 joy, and when you seek for that, the pines 
 stretch forth their shadowed arms to fold you 
 closely in. The bed they offer is the softest, 
 given of their best; their shelter of the closest, 
 when winter storms assail. Their breath is 
 sweet to tired lungs, and where no other tree 
 will grow, they rear their dark green shoulders 
 up above the gray-green chaparral saving the 
 country from the stain of being but a waste of 
 brush. Where an old placer dump would lie 
 an ugly scar on nature's face, springs up a 
 176 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 177 
 
 clump of quiet straight brown boles holding 
 aloft thick plumes of long green needles, crown 
 ing an erstwhile bare and rocky mound with 
 shafts of sylvan beauty. They are not pretty 
 far too big for that. Their steadfastness, 
 their calm, unswerving growth, will shame all 
 littleness, and where the giants of that mighty 
 race rear their proud tops in lofty majesty, 
 drinking in sunlight from the blue above to 
 ward which they are advancing by just grow 
 ing, or where they stand like warriors of old 
 against the fiercest blows, there weakness may 
 not comfortably dwell, nor aught of littleness. 
 
178 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 A MAGIC PLUME 
 
 A plume of long-leaved pine. 
 
 How it brings the pine trees to these tired eyes 
 
 of mine ! 
 
 How they towered, straight and tapering, 
 Like a mighty, still brigade, 
 Or like pillars in a temple, 
 With their carpet of brown shade. 
 
 A piny, long-leaved plume. 
 
 How it opens into forest aisles the close walls of 
 
 this room ! 
 
 I can see that tall shaft rearing 
 This green broom into the blue, 
 And I see it shrink and quiver 
 As they cut its great heart through. 
 
 A polished dark green crest 
 
 That raised its long-leaved needles sharply 
 
 dark against the West, 
 And stilled the sough and swish below, 
 When the stars came forth to sing. 
 So proud 'twould scarcely sway to hear 
 The lower winds' whispering. 
 
 O sturdy piny broom ! 
 
 The sight of your dark greenness my clouded 
 thought illumes, 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 179 
 
 And you sweep away the cobwebs 
 With your needles long and fine, 
 For you breathe the living spirit 
 Of the strong, aspiring pine. 
 
A SILVER SUNSET 
 
 From clear, pale blue of hot and normal day, 
 the pine clad western hills are backed by haze 
 of luminous silver gray that shades up to the 
 zenith. No yellow color's there, no rose, no 
 blue, but all the earth is bathed in spectral 
 light, more near akin to ghostly early moon 
 light than to the tarnished gold of dying day. 
 The silver-gray behind those western hills is 
 slowly changing to the palest yellow, through 
 which no ray of the descending sun pierces to 
 earth. Then, just above that yellowish gray 
 band, a field of deepest azure shows where, on 
 wonted days, that azure would be hidden by 
 gold and flaming red. Above the azure field 
 are long, thin clouds of silver-gray, of amber, 
 amethyst. Above them, rosy clouds, as if the 
 sun, failing to reach the earth, would paint 
 his farewell on the sky. Where, on another 
 day, the flaming sunset colors fill the west, 
 that field of deepest azure takes their place 
 to drop a cool, blue curtain down between 
 the sun's glance and the sleeping world, leav 
 ing it but one fiery line of light above the 
 180 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 181 
 
 hills; and peeping above the curtain of deep 
 azure that has shut out the long, thin clouds 
 above those few small, rosy clouds shading 
 that line of fiery light that outlined all the 
 western hills are shafts of luminous creamy 
 cloud against the deep blue just above, like the 
 glow from heaven's footlights thrown upon its 
 azure curtain. 
 
 Then night comes down. The line of fiery 
 light above the hills dies suddenly and all is 
 darkest blue, while through the needle meshes 
 of a twisted pine the sickle of a clear young 
 moon appears. It is a silver sunset. 
 
 The sun god's evening adios is breathed 
 sometimes in silver upon the desert's western 
 rim, luminous gray and deepest blue taking the 
 place of gold and flaming red. This I have 
 heard, and it may be true, but I have never seen 
 it there. The silver sunset that I saw was from 
 a hill behind an old, old mining town, far from 
 my golden desert, and farther to the west. 
 Perhaps who knows ? while I was looking 
 at blue and silver, the desert sky was glowing 
 with red and gold. 
 
 My silver sunset was weird and unusual, 
 revolutionary, shocking one's mental tide into 
 new channels, and it seemed to me as I watched 
 that strange, new thing, that the mighty force 
 ruling the night and day, that brings the light 
 
182 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 and shrouds the world in shadow, is sentient, 
 with changing human moods and, wearying with 
 the monotony of its unchanging laws, it played 
 with silver sunsets for a day. 
 
HEAT - 
 
 There is a heat so great that it seems still. 
 'Tis not the noontide summer's sweating heat 
 when the sun's kisses make the spring com 
 plete, when faint winds sometimes stir, and 
 when the grass drips dew at dawn, when birds 
 have mated and are very busy, and when the 
 wood-dove's tuneful call brings a soft abate 
 ment to the torrid day's discomfort; but when 
 the roads the color of crushed strawberries 
 are fetlock-deep in finest dust, when the 
 fences are all painted with its powdered, pink 
 ish red, and when the leaves are bronzed and 
 drooping with their dusty burdens, when broad 
 flats and upland clearings flash with the tar- 
 weed's glowing gold, when yellowish brown is 
 all the grass, crisped by long months of blister 
 ing sun without a drop of rain, when the very 
 air seems burned and the sky glows like a 
 bright blue flame, and only the pine rears a tall, 
 proud head that's darkly green and cool. 
 Then the birds' and insects' voices are all mute, 
 all but the fat quail's laughing call that breaks 
 the waiting hush. 'Tis all a brown and red 
 
 and yellow world, and with my elfin ears I hear 
 183 
 
184 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 the crisp and crackle of burned, sapless growth, 
 as if all nature but awaits a spark to flare its 
 universe. 
 
 The choking air is still as death. Beyond a 
 chaparral crowned hill a tall white column 
 shoots straight up against the blazing blue, 
 then spreads a blue-black thundercloud of smoke 
 across the ridge, while dragon's tongues of 
 glowing flame play along the hills' long curve, 
 against that ever darkening cloud, like foot 
 lights to a tragedy. Then gray-blue clouds of 
 smoky mist shot through with hazy sun fill 
 all the hollows and the deep gulch beds and 
 spread like gliding ghosts until the whole earth's 
 veiled. 
 
 Now birds are screaming, chattering, their 
 homes are burning up, the brush is breaking 
 where the frenzied deer are trampling through, 
 and startled rabbits scurry past, while a hawk 
 cuts across my vision, its talons clutching a 
 smothered quail. For that ominous hush is 
 broken the universe has flared. 
 
GOLD 
 
 A little shack stood in the gulch on the bank 
 of a dried-up creek, the tarweed all about it 
 glowing golden in the late September sun. In 
 front of the shack, ankle-deep in dust, ran a 
 road that was pinkish-red, and it ran from a 
 dead town, miles away, till it lost itself in the 
 hills. Sloping up from the road, across from 
 the house, was a hill that was dark with pines, 
 while across the gulch was a steeper hill that 
 bore only rocks and brush. Up the gulch, 
 where it took a sudden turn, the hills seemed 
 to shut it in, and down the gulch, between the 
 hills, a lovely vista lay, for the folding hills 
 from green to blue melted softly into the sky. 
 In the old creek bed, the seepage water lay 
 in silent pools, with alders arching over them, 
 keeping them dark and cool. Across the road 
 from the little shack, beneath the dark pine 
 slope, a long flat stretches down the gulch, like 
 a huge step in the hill. 
 
 On that big hill step, years ago stood a 
 
 little tented town, and today, if you dig in the 
 
 dusty road, you will find old, smooth-worn 
 
 coins, some of them bearing strange mottoes, 
 
 185 
 
186 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 some of them oval in shape, and if you pan 
 the dust of the road you will get a little gold, 
 for they sometimes spilled dust from the buck 
 skin sack which answered for miner's purse. 
 At five o'clock in the afternoon of the longest 
 summer day, the gulch lies deep in shadow, the 
 frogs begin to croak, and the gray mist steals 
 across the flat like the ghost of that tented 
 town. 
 
 The shack was just one big square room, its 
 sides, broad redwood boards, pine shakes for 
 roof. A dobe fireplace, at one end, was topped 
 with a big tin pipe. Inside, a fireboard hid 
 from view its ancient blackened throat. Not 
 so picturesque, but warmer, there stood in one 
 corner a modern air-tight stove. On a small, 
 square home-made table was a little coal-oil 
 lamp, and a cracker box for cupboard, nailed 
 to the redwood wall, held all his few utensils. 
 In one corner, piled newspapers ran from rot 
 ting floor to roof they dated to the '60's 
 and had been carefully preserved. On a rudely 
 fashioned framework rested an ancient, rusty 
 spring, and on the faded quilts that padded 
 this, an old, old miner lay. 
 
 The miner now wears heavy shoes and long 
 blue overalls ; his overalls were tucked into knee- 
 high cowhide boots. The miner now goes 
 shaven clean, and his hair, too, is cropped close ; 
 this miner's long beard swept his breast, and 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 187 
 
 his hair was shoulder-long. His friends had 
 long since passed away, or gone to the County 
 Home, but he had lived there sixty years and 
 had sworn he'd die in the hills. The old Forty- 
 niner was keeping his word, for he was dying 
 now. Even the manner of his speech was that 
 of a bygone day, as he turned to speak to the 
 kindly neighbor who attended to his last wants. 
 " I reckon I'm leavin', Miss Lawton, an' I 
 don't know as I keer, fer the boys has left me 
 plumb alone, an' I'm ready ter jine their camp. 
 I've tore up earth fer sixty year, an' I'm pore 
 as when I come, fer I jist lived in '49 an' the 
 lively years arter that. I was quick on the 
 trigger in them ole days, an' the feller what 
 covered me, he had ter be quick, I tell ye now. 
 Ye'll find some specimints under my bunk I 
 tooken from my claims they'll likely pan 
 right smart o' gold, an'll give ye a little stake. 
 They's all I got fer sixty year o' grubbin' in 
 the ground. I'm honin' ter heft my forty- 
 five, ter feel its good ole grip, but arter I 
 throwed it on the cuss that jumped my richest 
 claim, and the damn gun plumb missed fire, I 
 chucked it in the crick. It done good sarvice 
 in its day when I was a Vigilante, but I ain't 
 never drawed it in no low-down quarrel yit. 
 I placered an' gophered fer sixty year, an' 
 I ain't got nary dust I made it, God, I 
 found it ! but whiskey and cards come high, an' 
 
188 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 flour fifty dollars a sack, an' us boys all hit 
 the pace but I placered an' tunneled fer 
 sixty year, an' I ain't got left one buckskin 
 sack o' the good ole yellow gold " 
 
 The neighbor softly closed the door and left 
 him lying silent there, for his golden dream was 
 done. But in through the open window the 
 slowly sinking sun threw a kindly golden 
 blanket over his wasted frame of the gold 
 that never pinches out. 
 
NIGHT 
 
 The breathing silence of the night holds a 
 mysterious strength. The pines are standing 
 straight and black against the darkened sky ; 
 the hills against it, green by day, are black and 
 shadowy. The same birds nestle in the trees, 
 but they are quiet, hidden, and all the stars 
 that through the day have kept their place 
 unseen, are lighted now. No single thing is 
 changed, all things are as they were, save 
 that the recreative, silent mind of night has 
 waked. The sleeping night 1 'Twere better 
 far to say the sleeping day. By day all nature 
 steadily works out the scheme that night has 
 planned. The day means action, but the night 
 means force. 
 
 Have you not stood at night in some still 
 spot, your face turned to the sky, and felt the 
 throb of mighty forces beat upon your brain; 
 felt, too, the lift of inspiration, the spirit's 
 clearer view, as though the slumbering mind of 
 day had opened eyes refreshed, to draw its cur 
 tains, light its lamps, and wake to clarity of 
 thought, to burning intellect, to dreams that 
 189 
 
190 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 are more vivid than broad daylight's waking 
 life wake to strong, resistless impulse, or to 
 still inspired emotion that is the germ of 
 thought* 
 
A SANITARIUM 
 
 There is a land I know whose every task is 
 deferred to maiiana. No energy is there, no 
 enterprise, and yet in its own sphere it is 
 working out great nature's plan in the finest 
 of all ways. Dry gulches paved with boulders 
 green are shadowed by willow and water oak 
 and by dark, lofty pine. There the mountain 
 quail will jeer in the sunny light of noon, the 
 mountain lion cry at dusk, and the coyote bark 
 at night, while the gentle wood-dove's cease 
 less call and the owl's mournful " too whoo," 
 add a touch of gentler meaning to the voices 
 of the hills. There the mines have all been 
 abandoned and the rancher cannot thrive, and 
 where man placered years ago, the wild has 
 come again. The hills are velvet green with 
 brush, where they are not dark with pine, the 
 sagging, weather-worn gray shacks are empty 
 and silent now, but the sun shines gladly all 
 the time and the sky is ever blue and the men 
 that are left all help each other, for they are 
 mighty few. 
 
 In the crowded haunts of men, they say, is 
 the place where a man belongs, to measure his 
 strength with his fellows, to give and take good 
 191 
 
192 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 blows ; but the clearest brain and the strongest 
 arm are brought to the fight by those who come 
 from where still nature has armed them with 
 her strength, not by murdering beautiful feath 
 ered things nor the furred ones of the wilds, but 
 the strength that is born of silence and of self- 
 reliant thought. Each one of us needs to draw 
 aside and talk to his soul a spell in God's wide 
 room where the walls are green or gray or 
 purple dark, and the ceiling, a blaze of sunny 
 blue, or a darkened, starry sky, while the tap 
 in his bath is running ever the ceaseless song 
 of the brook. A herd of cattle shambles by 
 wrapped in a cloud of dust, the lizards flash in 
 the sun, and the blue clad cowboy riding be 
 hind dwells in that big room, too. Through 
 a cleft in the hills a single tree shines with the 
 sun's gold splendor, while the rest of the gulch 
 is evening dark. The vista beyond a red, red 
 road, arched over with big dark pines, shows 
 waves of green hills, fold on fold, with blue 
 beyond, then snow. 
 
 What are the sights that make men pause and 
 talk to their souls in peace? I cannot tell, for 
 I do not know. But it seems to me that a long, 
 long look into that big, still room brings to 
 the eye a wider vision, and the whisper of good 
 borne on the breeze that sighs through its open 
 door is wafted straight from the peace and 
 strength that abide in its varied beauty. 
 
SUNSHINE HILL 
 
 It rears a noble, rounded curve against the 
 northern sky, its breast green velvet with 
 chaparral, its ridge laced deep with pines, and 
 a patch in its chaparral here and there shows 
 sun-dried, yellow grass. The first flash of sun 
 down the gulch in the morning will kiss it a 
 cheery Good Day, and at dusk, when the hills 
 are in deep green shadow and the beds of the 
 gulches are black, its patches of bleached grass 
 shine like gold and its chaparral looks a golden 
 green, for the sun shines there still, not with a 
 blazing radiance, as in the flashing heat of day, 
 but with soft, mellow, red-gold light a ten 
 der, loving, lingering light, as though 'twere 
 loth to leave. And when the sun has slipped 
 away, since go it must at last, when the shin 
 ing breast of the hill is clothed in dusky green- 
 black shadow, one pine stands forth on its dark 
 ening slope, a torch of vivid light. It is the 
 sun's farewell. 
 
 Men call that Sunshine Hill. When all the 
 country is drenched with rain, when the hills 
 about have a gloomy look, 'tis the only smiling 
 thing in sight, for the sunlight seems to have 
 pierced its heart and warmed it through and 
 193 
 
194 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 through until it gives forth a cheery glo* 
 through mist or driving rain. Compared with 
 its generous, vital glow, the gleam of the pre 
 cious yellow metal that lies deep hid in its smil 
 ing bosom is but a dull and tawdry thing. 
 When the slopes and gulches about are dark, 
 when the sun has slipped from its highest crest, 
 he lights that pine as a torch and sign that he 
 will come again, and I hear him say in his sunny 
 way, as he finally slips from sight, 
 
 " Remember, I'm shining somewhere now, and 
 whatever stands betwixt you and me, I'll come 
 again to shine on you. And so, my friend, 
 Good Night." 
 
WHERE THE GULCHES RUN WITH 
 RAIN 
 
DROUGHT 
 
 The silent hills capped with tall, scraggy pines 
 And bearded o'er with brushwood, look upon 
 The sleeping, sunny valley, 
 Through which the road, beside the dried up 
 
 creek, 
 
 Meanders lazily till where two slopes 
 Drop down to meet it, overlap, and hide 
 Its gleaming, dusty ribbon. 
 The horses switch their tails beneath the trees. 
 The hogs root where they find a spot that's 
 
 green. 
 
 Hot haze is over all. 
 
 The sheriff throbs by in his swift machine, 
 Answering grim and most unwelcome calls. 
 No more for him the bronco, 
 No heavy forty-fives hang from his belt, 
 No rifle's strapped behind his saddle flap, 
 But in his side coat pocket 
 A black and shining deadly automatic, 
 Which he ne'er uses save to put a hole 
 Through quail or scuttling rabbit. 
 And when the sheriff's gone, the tiny draft 
 He made in passing and the swirls of dust 
 Add to the throbbing heat. 
 197 
 
198 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 The gum drips in the heat from sweating pines. 
 The cattle are all quiet, and the dogs 
 With lolling tongues are still. 
 The dull red gashes in the mountain slopes 
 Run down to meet the rising yellow waves of 
 
 sun-parched grass. 
 
 The gulches are all dry, and the main creek, 
 That in its freshet time will float a horse, 
 Can now be crossed dry-shod. 
 And in the coolest spot in all the town 
 Around a table used for cards, sit six 
 Who play at poker glumly. 
 
 There's the teamster come to shoe his mules. 
 The cowman, too, to have his saddle stiched. 
 Their throats are dry with dust. 
 
 And there's the miner come to buy his grub, 
 And there's the millman, he who crushes ore. 
 Quartz dust is choking them. 
 
 There is the drummer from a far-off town, 
 And, last, the keeper of this large, bare place 
 The Palace Sample Room. 
 
 Behind the bar, from well-nigh empty shelves, 
 Soft drinks smile down on them with wicked 
 
 grin. 
 
 They are the saddest men in all the world, 
 For the damn town is dry. 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 199 
 
 A MINER'S LAMENT 
 
 The drivin' rain 
 Beats on the pane. 
 An' through the roof, 
 Not high aloof, 
 The water makes 
 Its way 'tween shakes 
 That air too dry 
 Ter close the sky. 
 The pine trees roar 
 Outside my door. 
 The wind sweeps round 
 With swishin' sound, 
 An', in its lull, 
 The gulches full 
 Go roarin' by 
 With voices high. 
 Out of reason 
 This wet season. 
 'Tain't yet due 
 Fer a month or two, 
 An' all this wet 
 Gives me regret 
 My wood ain't cut 
 Fer the winter yet. 
 
200 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE 
 
 Down in the gulch is a patch of shadow 
 
 At the foot of a spreading water oak 
 
 Where an icy flowing spring wells up. 
 
 Here gather the insect folk. 
 
 The water-soaked earth is inky black 
 
 In the narrow trough that the spring has made. 
 
 The sunlight filtering through the leaves 
 
 Weaves a black and gold brocade. 
 
 Here's where the fading sunlight throws 
 
 His farewell lance of golden light. 
 
 Here's where the watercresses grow, 
 
 Edging the spring with green leaves bright. 
 
 Here buzzes the busy yellow jacket 
 
 And assorted flies with their thousand eyes 
 
 Given to them to watch their foes, 
 
 Since they form the food of a multitude. 
 
 And the bee will come with his drowsy hum, 
 
 And as soft as a sigh, a butterfly, 
 
 And the water-bugs zigzag on the pool, 
 
 While big blue dragon-flies flash by. 
 
 They are hovering all in the sun's last lance. 
 
 As they buzz and dart and drone and float, 
 
 Or drift like a lightsome feather, 
 
 Their song I can hear with a straining ear, 
 
 They are singing it all together, 
 
THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 201 
 
 " We will work and play through our little day 
 And we'll follow the sun till the day is done." 
 
 When the lance of golden light has gone 
 
 And the lingering sun has set, 
 
 The cricket and the katydid 
 
 Dance a vocal minuet, 
 
 And as they scrape and argue together 
 
 It seems I can hear them say, 
 
 " Those foolish day things fly about 
 
 And go to bed when the light's put out. 
 
 They don't know the way to live just right, 
 
 For the time to be up and about is night." 
 
 Bancroft Library 
 
 An Alabama woodchuck sat on the fence. 
 
 His long and powerful beak 
 
 He slowly wiped on the topmost rail. 
 
 Then I thought I heard him speak, 
 
 " That was a fine dinner. I feel pretty good. * 
 
 Those bugs that fly through the sunny day 
 
 Were nice and hot, and that yellow j acket 
 
 Had just the right tang of the pepper-pot. 
 
 The honey on that big bee was sweet, 
 
 While that cricket and katydid, cool dessert, 
 
 Just made my meal complete." 
 
 He scratched his beautiful crimson head, 
 
 Then he worked his beak with complacent air. 
 
 When a lurking rancher, hunting him, 
 
 Found him and shot him there. 
 
 " Dog-gone yer hide, I've hunted ye 
 
202 THE LAND WHERE THE SUNSETS GO 
 
 Fer two hours an' a half, 
 
 An' ye sit there with yer belly full o' apples 
 
 On my orchard fence an 5 laff. 
 
 After spilin' my apples on every tree 
 
 Ye're as round as an apple yerself, ye be. 
 
 With yer sassy, laffin', impudent air 
 
 Ye're as fat an' well fed as a millionaire. 
 
 I've watched ye fer two months past, 
 
 An' I've wasted the mornin' a huntin' ye, 
 
 But, darn ye, I got yer at last ! " 
 
 
 
 He had been one of the apple thugs 
 But this time, alas ! it was only bugs. 
 
A TOAST 
 
A TOAST 
 
 Here's to the care-free cowboy 
 With spurs six inches long, 
 Here's to his chaps of Angora, 
 Here's to his made-up song! 
 
 Here's to his little bronco 
 Who carries him through the brush. 
 Here's to the Palace Bar Room 
 Where his cash goes when he's flush! 
 
 Here's to the young homesteader 
 Who's clearing his land of rock. 
 Here's to his mortgage at the store 
 On land and buildings and stock! 
 
 Here's to the manzanitas 
 
 And the land whereon they grow. 
 
 Here's to eternal sunshine, 
 
 Here's to eternal snow, 
 
 Here's to the blazing desert, 
 
 Here's to the mountains cold, 
 
 Here's to the sunny land so new, 
 
 And here's to its pines so old! 
 205 
 
ADIOS 
 
WHERE THE TRAILS PART 
 
 Sometimes at the crossing of the trails, a 
 fellow wanderer, riding a different road, will 
 give and get the High Sign and pass on. 
 
 Stranger, you have ridden a little way with 
 me and I have shown you what my eyes have 
 seen upon this trail. And if, at the next cross 
 ing, your bridle hand is itching to swing your 
 horse's head into that faint trail, so little used, 
 and if you hear at its far end a tiny fairy 
 song, why, then, you are no stranger, but my 
 brother. Don't, however, go following the 
 Will-o'-the-Wisp. You'll get off the trail if 
 you do. 
 
 Is my bronco's name Pegasus? Not by a 
 damn sight! He bucks sometimes, but not so 
 bad as that. He's just a little ornery son of 
 a gun, an' his name's Will-o'-the-Wisp. I call 
 him Bill for short. 
 
 Adios 
 
 209 
 
INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A TOAST . . 203 
 
 AL DESIERTO 119 
 
 ASPIRATION 51 
 
 BARK OF THE COYOTE, THE 152 
 
 BOOTLEG 28 
 
 CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE 200 
 
 CIVILIZATION 57 
 
 COMPENSATION 62 
 
 DAWN 60 
 
 DEAL IN LEATHER, A 14 
 
 DESERT CHILDREN 154 
 
 DESERT DAY, A . . . 121 
 
 DESERT GARDEN, A 64 
 
 DESERT NIGHT, A ' . 124 
 
 DESERT WITCHCRAFT . . . . . . .168 
 
 Do You REMEMBER? 3 
 
 DROUGHT 197 
 
 FOR SHERIFF 92 
 
 FORTY-NINESS, THE 81 
 
 GOLD . . 185 
 
 GOPHER HOLES 108 
 
 GREASER, THE 9 
 
 GROWING PAINS 175 
 
 HANGMAN'S TREE 129 
 
 HEAT . . .183 
 
 His BEST BELOVED SON 37 
 
 IGNORANCE 71 
 
 I'M GOING TO THAT COUNTRY OVER THERE 149 
 INDIAN AND THE PRINCESS, THE . . . .159 
 
 LOST OPPORTUNITY 112 
 
 MAGIC PLUME, A 178 
 
 MESSAGE, A 138 
 
 MINER'S LAMENT, A 199 
 
 MINER, THE 105 
 
PAQK 
 
 MISSOURI MEERSCHAUM, A 85 
 
 MOUNTAIN Music 163 
 
 NEVADA IDYL, A . . 24 
 
 NIGHT 189 
 
 NIMROD 165 
 
 PAINT-BOX, THE 128 
 
 PATIENCE . 74 
 
 PINES 176 
 
 PINON 88 
 
 PROSPECTIN' 114 
 
 RECKLESS DESERT WIND, THE . . . .137 
 
 RECONCILIATION ........ 31 
 
 REVERSION . . . . . .... . 18 
 
 RUNNING WATER . . * . .... 135 
 
 SANITARIUM, A 191 
 
 SILVER SUNSET, A . . , ..... 180 
 SKINNER'S DAY, A . . . . .- . . . 44 
 SKINNER, THE . . . . . . . . . 53 
 
 SUNSHINE HILL 193 
 
 SURVIVAL OF THE UNFIT 68 
 
 THAT COUNTRY OVER THERE 101 
 
 THIRST 126 
 
 THROUGH A WINDOW 76 
 
 VARIETY 77 
 
 WHAT THE WIND WHISPERED . . . . .145 
 
 WHERE THE TRAILS PART ...... 209 
 
 WIND IN THE SAGE, THE . . . . . .142 
 
 WILL-O'-THE-WISP . . . . . . . . 170 
 
 WOOING WIND, THE 140