It was fitting and proper that the desert, as a whole, had no name: the
spinning earth itself has none. Inconsiderable nooks and corners were
named, indeed--Crow Flat, the Temporal, Moonshine, the Rincoñada. It
should rather be said, perhaps, that the desert had no accepted name.
Alma Mater, Lungs called it. But no one minded Lungs.

Mr. Stanley Mitchell woke early in the Blue Bedroom to see the morning
made. He threw back the tarpaulin and sat up, yawning; with every line of
his face crinkled up, ready to laugh for gladness.

The morning was shaping up well. Glints of red snapped and sparkled in
the east; a few late stars loitered along the broad, clean skies. A jerky
clatter of iron on rock echoed from the cliffs. That was the four hobbled
horses, browsing on the hillside: they snuffed and snorted cheerfully,
rejoicing in the freshness of dawn. From a limestone bluff, ten feet
behind the bed, came a silver tinkle of falling water from a spring,
dripping into its tiny pool.

Stan drew in a great breath and snuffed, exactly as the horses snuffed
and from the same reason--to express delight; just as a hungry man smacks
his lips over a titbit. Pungent, aromatic, the odor of wood smoke alloyed
the taintless air of dawn. The wholesome smell of clean, brown earth, the
spicy tang of crushed herb and shrub, of cedar and juniper, mingled with
a delectable and savory fragrance of steaming coffee and sizzling,
spluttering venison.

Pete Johnson sat cross-legged before the fire. This mess of venison was
no hit-or-miss affair; he was preparing a certain number of venison
steaks, giving to each separate steak the consideration of an artist.