The Mormons, prone, dark, blanketed figures, lay on the sand.
Jones was crawling into his bed. I walked a little way from the
dying fire, and faced the north, where the desert stretched,
mysterious and illimitable. How solemn and still it was! I drew
in a great breath of the cold air, and thrilled with a nameless
sensation. Something was there, away to the northward; it called
to me from out of the dark and gloom; I was going to meet it.

I lay down to sleep with the great blue expanse open to my eyes.
The stars were very large, and wonderfully bright, yet they
seemed so much farther off than I had ever seen them. The wind
softly sifted the sand. I hearkened to the tinkle of the cowbells
on the hobbled horses. The last thing I remembered was old Moze
creeping close to my side, seeking the warmth of my body.

When I awakened, a long, pale line showed out of the dun-colored
clouds in the east. It slowly lengthened, and tinged to red. Then
the morning broke, and the slopes of snow on the San Francisco
peaks behind us glowed a delicate pink. The Mormons were up and
doing with the dawn. They were stalwart men, rather silent, and
all workers. It was interesting to see them pack for the day's
journey. They traveled with wagons and mules, in the most
primitive way, which Jones assured me was exactly as their
fathers had crossed the plains fifty years before, on the trail
to Utah.

All morning we made good time, and as we descended into the
desert, the air became warmer, the scrubby cedar growth began to
fail, and the bunches of sage were few and far between. I turned
often to gaze back at the San Francisco peaks. The snowcapped