Only the strange, silent life that, through long years, the desert had taught to endure its hardships was there--the lizard, horned-toad, lean jack-rabbit, gaunt coyote, and their kind. Only the hard growth that the ages had evolved dotted the floor of the Basin in the near distance--the salt-bush and greasewood, with here and there clumps of mesquite. And over it all--over the strange hard life, the weird, constantly shifting scenes, the wondrous, ever-changing colors--was the dominant, insistent, compelling spirit of the land; a brooding, dreadful silence; a waiting--waiting--waiting; a mystic call that was at once a threat and a promise; a still drawing of the line across which no man might go and live, save those master men who should win the right. After a while the engineer, pointing, said: "The line of the Southwestern and Continental must follow the base of those hills away over there--is that right, Texas?" "That'll be about it," the driver answered. "I hear you're goin' through San Antonio Pass, an' that's to the north. Rubio City lies about here--" he pointed a little south of east. "Our road runs through them sand hills that you can see shinin' like gold a-way over there. Dry River Crossin' is jest beyond. You can see Lone Mountain off here to the south. Hit'll sure be some warm down there. Look at them dust-devil's dancin'. An' over there, where you see that yellow mist like, is a big sand storm. We ain't likely to get a long one this time o' the year. But you can't tell what this old desert 'll do; she's sure some uncertain. La Palma de la Mano de Dios, the Injuns call it, and I always thought that--all things considerin'--the name fits mighty close. You can see hit's jest a great big basin." "The Hollow of God's Hand." repeated the Seer in a low tone. He lifted his hat with an unconscious gesture of reverence. The Irishman, as the engineer translated, crossed himself. "Howly Mither, fwhat a name!" Jefferson Worth spoke. "Drive on, Texas." And so, with the yellow dust-devils dancing along their road and that yellow cloud in the distance, they moved down the slope--down into The King's Basin--into La Palma de la Mano de Dios, The Hollow of God's Hand. "Is that true, sir?" asked Abe of the Seer. "Is what true, son?" "What Texas said about the ocean." "Yes it's true. The lowest point of this Basin is nearly three hundred feet below sea level. The railroad we are going to build follows right around the rim on the other side over there. This slope that we are going down now is the ancient beach." Then, while they pushed on into the silence and the heat of that dreadful land, the engineer told the boy and his companions how the ages had wrought with river and wave and sun and wind to make The King's Basin Desert.