It was his West that passed, unrolling there before the eye of his mind: the open, heat-scourged round of desert; the mesa, like a vast altar, shimmering purple in the royal sunset; the still, gigantic mountains, heaving into the sky from out the canyons; the strenuous, fierce life of isolated towns, lost and forgotten, down there, far off, below the horizon.

Abruptly his great poem, his Song of the West, leaped up again in his imagination.

For the moment, he all but held it.

It was there, close at hand.

In another instant he would grasp it.
"Yes, yes," he exclaimed, "I can see it all.