His life had been like--like the
stretching waste of sky that yawned above the desert, as cold, hard,
and unsympathetic.
He saw a shadow; looked upward to see the Mexican eagle winging its
slow way overhead, and the sneer on his lips grew. It was a prophecy,
perhaps. At least the sight of the bird gave him an opportunity to
draw a swift and bitter comparison. He was like the eagle. Both he
and the bird he detested were beset with a constitutional
predisposition to rend and destroy. There was this difference between
them: The bird feasted on carrion, while he spent his life stifling
generous impulses and tearing from his heart the noble ideals which his
latent manhood persisted in erecting.
For two hours he sat on the hill, watching. He saw the sun sink slowly
toward the remote mountains, saw it hang a golden rim on a barren peak;
watched the shadows steal out over the foothills and stretch swiftly
over the valley toward him. Mystery seemed to awaken and fill the
world. The sky blazed with color--orange and gold and violet; a veil
of rose and amethyst descended and stretched to the horizons,
enveloping the mountains in a misty haze; purple shafts shot from
distant canyons, mingling with the brighter colors--gleaming,
shimmering, ever-changing. Over the desert the colors were even more
wonderful, the mystery deeper, the lure more appealing.
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