Then, greatly to his surprise, he found that he didn’t want to be silent any longer. He wanted to talk, not to Snort and the tolerant Airedale, but to some one who would reply. He wanted to point out Lost Valley, far below and far away; to explain about the Ventana--how once, the oldest settlers said, it had been closed across the top of that sharp, square-cut space in the mountain’s upper edge, making a perfect _ventana_--window; he needed a looker and a listener in order that he might demonstrate how perfectly he remembered all the peaks and places the doctor and the Ranger had named to him. It was probable that he would have been moved to quote a restrained amount of poetry; the Wolcotts quoted a good deal, not to be bookish or superior, but because of their nice sense of values; people like Keats and Tennyson had said these things so handily, had brought the art of poetic expression to a fine point while the Wolcott connection was busy with the law and medicine and anthropology.... Now he recalled that the stout (and misnamed) gentleman upon the peak in Darien could be silent as long as he chose and then address his men (there was distinct mention of them in the sonnet) and receive their respectful raptures. He, however, could only address, unavailingly, a horse and a frankly bored dog, so, with swift decision, he tightened his cinch again and set off down the mountainside in the direction of Slate’s. He would change his plan, make port there, hearten himself with cheerful human intercourse and toothsome fare, and return to Post’s next day. His beasts seemed to catch his idea and approve it, and they made excellent speed. But Slate’s was deserted. No promising smoke curled out of the chimney; his hail brought no reply, but echoed hollowly against the big barn. It was evidently one of the rare occasions when the head of the house made a saddle trip over the long trail to the Post Office at Big Sur, and his wife might be far afield on some ranch matter. There was nothing for it but to push on to his headquarters at Post’s, by the long route, now; he would not reach there until well after dark.