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 yellow; the ground, parched, cracked, and dry, of a cheerless brown.

By the roadside the dust lay thick and grey, and, on either hand, stretching on toward the horizon, losing itself in a mere smudge in the distance, ran the illimitable parallels of the wire fence.