And no matter where he went, nor into how familiar country he rode, the shapes of illusion offered always variety. One day the Chiricahuas were a tableland; next day a series of castellated peaks; now an anvil; now a saw tooth; and rarely they threw a magnificent suspension bridge across the heavens to their neighbours, the ranges on the west. Lakes rippling in the wind and breaking on the shore, cattle big as elephants or small as rabbits, distances that did not exist and forests that never were, beds of lava along the hills swearing to a cloud shadow, while the sky was polished like a precious stone--these, and many other beautiful and marvellous but empty shows the great desert displayed lavishly, with the glitter and inconsequence of a dream. Senor Johnson sat on his horse in the hot sun, his chin in his band, his elbow on the pommel, watching it all with grave, unshifting eyes. Occasionally, belated, he saw the stars, the wonderful desert stars, blazing clear and unflickering, like the flames of candles. Or the moon worked her necromancies, hemming him in by mountains ten thousand feet high through which there was no pass. And then as he rode, the mountains shifted like the scenes in a theatre, and he crossed the little sand dunes out from the dream country to the adobe corrals of the home ranch. All these things, and many others, Senor Johnson now saw for the first time, although he had lived among them for twenty years. It struck him with the freshness of a surprise. Also it reacted chemically on his mental processes to generate a new power within him. The new power, being as yet unapplied, made him uneasy and restless and a little irritable. He tried to show some of his wonders to Parker. "Jed," said he, one day, "this is a great country." "You KNOW it," replied the foreman. "Those tourists in their nickel-plated Pullmans call this a desert. Desert, hell! Look at them flowers!" The foreman cast an eye on a glorious silken mantle of purple, a hundred yards broad. "Sure," he agreed; "shows what we could do if we only had a little water." And again: "Jed," began the Senor, "did you ever notice them mountains?" "Sure," agreed Jed. "Ain't that a pretty colour?" "You bet," agreed the foreman; "now you're talking! I always, said they was mineralised enough to make a good prospect." This was unsatisfactory. Senor Johnson grew more restless. His critical eye began to take account of small details. At the ranch house one evening he, on a sudden, bellowed loudly for Sang, the Chinese servant. "Look at these!" he roared, when Sang appeared. Sang's eyes opened in bewilderment. "There, and there!" shouted the cattleman. "Look at them old newspapers and them gun rags! The place is like a cow-yard. Why in the name of heaven don't you clean up here!" "Allee light," babbled Sang; "I clean him." The papers and gun rags had lain there unnoticed for nearly a year. Senor Johnson kicked them savagely.