about him. To the right of him, beyond the village, blooming like an
oasis from the irrigation afforded by the artesian wells, rose the
mountains, the foothills green and dimpled, the slopes with their massed
shadows of pines and oaks climbing upward and gashed with deep purple
cañons, and above them the great white, solemn peaks, austere and
stately guardians of the desert which stretched away and away, its
illimitable distances lost at last in the horizon line.

Hanson, of the far west, was used to magnificent scenic effects, but the
desert that sparkled like the gold of man's eternal quest, that lay with
its sentinel hills enfolded and encompassed in color, colors that
seemed as if some spinner of the sunset courts wove forever fresh
combinations and sent these ethereal tapestries out to float over the
wide spaces of the wilderness--this caused him to catch his breath and
exclaim.

It was truly a sight to take any man's breath away; but even such a view
could only arrest Hanson's interest temporarily. He was hungry, and the
station agent, a weedy youth, was making a noisy closing up.
Intentionally noisy, for when one is the agent of a small desert
station, the occasional visitor is apt to whet one's curiosity to razor
edge.

Roused by these sounds, and by his growing hunger, which the cool purity
of the air only augmented, Hanson turned to the boy.

"Where's a place to stay?" he asked.

"There ain't but one," replied the youth; "the San Gorgonio hotel. You
walk right up this street until you come to it, on the left side. It's