dunes, and hills of blue clay, areas of level ground--in all, a
many-hued, boundless world in itself, wonderful and beautiful,
fading all around into the purple haze of deceiving distance.

Thin, clear, sweet, dry, the desert air carried a languor, a
dreaminess, tidings of far-off things, and an enthralling
promise. The fragrance of flowers, the beauty and grace of women,
the sweetness of music, the mystery of life--all seemed to float
on that promise. It was the air breathed by the lotus-eaters,
when they dreamed, and wandered no more.

Beyond the Little Colorado, we began to climb again. The sand was
thick; the horses labored; the drivers shielded their faces. The
dogs began to limp and lag. Ranger had to be taken into a wagon;
and then, one by one, all of the other dogs except Moze. He
refused to ride, and trotted along with his head down.

Far to the front the pink cliffs, the ragged mesas, the dark,
volcanic spurs of the Big Colorado stood up and beckoned us
onward. But they were a far hundred miles across the shifting
sands, and baked day, and ragged rocks. Always in the rear rose
the San Francisco peaks, cold and pure, startlingly clear and
close in the rare atmosphere.

We camped near another water hole, located in a deep,
yellow-colored gorge, crumbling to pieces, a ruin of rock, and
silent as the grave. In the bottom of the canyon was a pool of
water, covered with green scum. My thirst was effectually
quenched by the mere sight of it. I slept poorly, and lay for
hours watching the great stars. The silence was painfully