With all the cheap, stagy melodrama thrown to one side to make room for the march of that bigger drama, an epic of the range land that would be at once history, poetry, realism! Luck's cigar went out while he sat there and wove scene after scene of that story which should breathe of the real range land as it once had been.

It could be done--that picture.

Months it would take in the making, for it would swing through summer and fall and winter and spring.

With the trail-herd going north that picture should open--the trail-herd toiling over big, unpeopled plains, with the riders slouched in their saddles, hat brims pulled low over eyes that ached with the glare of the sun and the sweep of wind, their throats parched in the dust cloud flung upward from the marching, cloven hoofs.

Months it would take in the making,--but sitting there with the green tail-lights switching through cuts and around low hills and out over the level, Luck visioned it all, scene by scene.