Down in the gorge there was never-failing sweet water, grass all the year round, cool, shady retreats, deer, rabbits, turkeys, fruit, and miles and miles of narrow-twisting, deep canon full of broken rocks and impenetrable thickets.

The scream of the panther was heard there, the squall of the wildcat, the cough of the jaguar.

Innumerable bees buzzed in the spring blossoms, and, it seemed, scattered honey to the winds.

All day there was continuous song of birds, that of the mocking-bird loud and sweet and mocking above the rest.
On clear days--and rare indeed were cloudy days--with the subsiding of the wind at sunset a hush seemed to fall around the little hut.
Far-distant dim-blue mountains stood gold-rimmed gradually to fade with the shading of light.
At this quiet hour a man climbed up out of the gorge and sat in the westward door of the hut.

This lonely watcher of the west and listener to the silence was Duane.