e could not
ignore it. All the noble poetry of the ranch--the valley--seemed in his
mind to be marred and disfigured by the presence of certain immovable
facts. Just what he wanted, Presley hardly knew. On one hand, it was his
ambition to portray life as he saw it--directly, frankly, and through no
medium of personality or temperament. But, on the other hand, as well,
he wished to see everything through a rose-coloured mist--a mist that
dulled all harsh outlines, all crude and violent colours. He told
himself that, as a part of the people, he loved the people and
sympathised with their hopes and fears, and joys and griefs; and yet
Hooven, grimy and perspiring, with his perpetual grievance and his
contracted horizon, only revolted him. He had set himself the task of
giving true, absolutely true, poetical expression to the life of the
ranch, and yet, again and again, he brought up against the railroad,
that stubborn iron barrier against which his romance shattered itself to
froth and disintegrated, flying spume. His heart went out to the people,
and his groping hand met that of a slovenly little Dutchman, whom it was
impossible to consider seriously. He searched for the True Romance, and,
in the end, found grain rates and unjust freight tariffs.

"But the stuff is HERE," he muttered, as he sent his wheel rumbling
across the bridge over Broderson Creek. "The romance, the real romance,
is here somewhere. I'll get hold of it yet."

He shot a glance about him as if in search of the inspiration. By now he
was not quite half way across the northern and narrowest corner of Los
Muertos, at this point some eight miles wide. He was still on the Home
ranch. A few miles to the south he could just make out the line of wire
fence that separated it from the third division; and to the north, seen
faint and blue through the haze and shimmer of the noon sun, a long file
of telegraph poles showed the line of the railroad and marked Derrick's
northeast boundary. The road over which Presley was travelling ran
almost diametrically straight. In front of him, but at a great distance,
he could make out the giant live-oak and the red roof of Hooven's barn
that stood near it.

All about him the country was flat. In all directions he could see for
miles. The harvest was just over. Nothing but stubble remained on the
ground. With the one exception of the live-oak by Hooven's place, there
was nothing green in sight. The wheat stubble was of a dirty