The other white man was plainly an alien in the desert. He was slight, blonde, pale--a city man--with hard blue eyes set so close together that one understood instantly something of the nature of the man as well as the urgent necessity for his thick-lensed, gold-rimmed spectacles. He wore a new Panama hat, corded riding breeches and leggings. He was clean-shaven and sinfully neat. He wore no side-arms and appeared as much out of harmony with his surroundings as might a South American patriot at a Peace Conference. “I say,” he began presently, “how much further is it to this prospect hole of yours, if, indeed, you have a prospect as you represented to me a week ago?” His tone was fretful, peevish, complaining. One would readily have diagnosed the seat of his trouble. He had come prepared to ride--and he had been forced to walk. The young man frowned. He seemed on the point of swearing, but appearing to think better of it, he replied banteringly, “_Por ahi. Por ahi._” “What in blazes does that mean?” “Oh, I was just talking the language of the country--a language, by the way, toward which you seem most indifferently inclined. '_Por ahi_' means 'a considerable way,' 'a right smart piece, I reckon,' and conveys about the same relative amount of definite information as _manana._ Never having measured the distance to my prospect, I have tried for the past two days to give you an approximate idea. But in this country you must know that distance is a deceptive, 'find X' sort of proposition--so please refrain from asking me that same question every two miles. If the water holds out we'll get there; and when we get there we'll find more water, and then you may shave three times a day if you feel so inclined, I'm sorry you have a blister on your off heel, and I sympathize with you because of your prickly-heat. But it's all in the day's work and you'll survive. In the meantime, however, I suggest that you compose your restless New England soul in patience, old man, and enjoy with our uncommunicative Cahuilla friend and myself the glories of a sunrise on the Colorado desert.” “Damn the sunrise,” the other retorted. He would have damned his tormentor had he dared. “I do not wish to be insulted.” “Listen to that coyote,” replied the careless one, ignoring his companion's rising anger. “Listen to him yip-yapping over there on the ridge. There sits a shining example of bucolic joy and indifference to local annoyances. Consider the humble coyote, Boston, and learn wisdom. Of course, a coyote doesn't know a whole lot, but he does recognize a good thing when he sees it. His appreciation of a sunrise is always exuberant. Ever since that coyote's been big enough to rustle his own jack-rabbits he's howled at a lovely full moon, and if he's ever missed his sun-up cheer it's because something he ate the night before didn't agree with him.” “Sir,” snapped the irascible one, “you're a trifler. You're--you're--a--” “Say it,” soothed the student of nature.