But out in front of him was the infinite stretch of death, far sweeps of wind-furrowed sand burning under a sun made sullen red by the clouds of fine dust in the air.

Sparsely over the dull surface grew the few shrubs that could survive the heat and dryness,--stunted, unlovely things of burr, spine, thorn, or saw-edged leaf,--all bent one ways by the sand blown against them,--bristling cactus and crouching mesquite bushes.
In the vast open of the blue above, a vulture wheeled with sinister alertness; and far out among the dwarfed growing things a coyote skulked knowingly.

The weird, phantom-like beauty of it stole upon him, torn as he was, while he looked over the dry, flat reaches.

It was a good place to die in, this lifeless waste languishing under an angry sun.

And he knew how it would come.