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Bransford of Rainbow Range
Bransford of Rainbow Range Originally Published under the title of Bransford in Arcadia or The Little Eohippus
PROLOGUE
I
The long fall round-up was over. The wagon, homeward bound, made camp for the last night out at the Sinks of Lost River. Most of the men, worn with threescore night-guards, were buried under their tarps in the deep sleep of the weary; sound as that of the just, and much more common.
By the low campfire a few yet lingered: old-timers, iron men, whose wiry and seasoned strength was toil-proof – and Leo Ballinger, for whom youth, excitement and unsated novelty served in lieu of fitness.
The “firelighters,” working the wide range again from Ancho to Hueco, from the Mal Pais to Glencoe, fell silent now, to mark an unstaled miracle.
The clustered lights of Rainbow’s End shone redly, near and low. Beyond, above, dominant, the black, unbroken bulk of Rainbow Range shut out the east. The clear-cut crest mellowed to luminous curves, feathery with far-off pines; the long skyline thrilled with frosty fire, glowed, sparkled – the cricket’s chirp was stilled; the slow, late moon rose to a hushed and waiting world.
On the sharp crest she paused, irresolute, tiptoe, quivering, rosily aflush. Above floated a web of gossamer. She leaped up, spurning the black rim; glowed, palpitant, through that filmy lace – and all the desert throbbed with vibrant light.
Cool and sweet and fresh, from maiden leagues of clean, brown earth the desert winds made whisper in grass and fragrant shrub; yucca, mesquite and greasewood swayed – so softly, you had not known save as the long shadows courtesied and danced.
Leo flung up his hand. The air was wine to him. A year had left the desert still new and strange. “Gee!” he said eloquently.
Headlight nodded. “You’re dead right on that point, son. If Christopher K. Columbus had only thought to beach his shallops on the sundown side of this here continent he might have made a name for himself. Just think how much different, hysterically, these United States – ”
“This United States,” corrected Pringle dispassionately. Their fathers had disagreed on the same grammatical point.
Headlight scowled. “By Jings! ‘That this United Colonies are, and of right ought to be, free and independent States,’” he quoted. “I was goin’ to give you something new to exercise your talons on. You sit here every night, ridin’ broncs and four-footin’ steers, and never grab a horn or waste a loop, not once. Sure things ain’t amusin’. Some variety and doubtful accuracy, now, would develop our guessin’ gifts.”