manifest. He saw in the leagues of tumbling divides stretching to purpling distances creation of Genesis fresh from the Hand that labored. All the heaving world below him and the pure depths of the sky rimmed over it seemed vibrant with the vitality of God. Only man was vile.
Uncle Alf turned his horse to the downward trail. From the depths of his chest came rumbling a song. Head back, eyes staring raptly at the blazing ball of the sun, the evangelist sent a great voice booming out into the silence:
That heavenly music! what is it I hear!
The notes of the harpers ring sweet on my ear.
And see, soft unfolding, them portals of gold;
The King all arrayed in his beauty behold!
Oh, give me—oh, give me the wings of a dove!
Let me hasten my flight to them mansions above.
As Uncle Alf took the dip down to the lower plain he saw far off a moving spot against the brown. It was, perhaps, twenty miles away. It was moving toward him on the trail to Sioux Pass. The wilderness preacher urged his mount into a canter, for he was expecting to spend the night at a ranch on the upper reaches of Teapot, and the sun already was riding the rim of the Broken Horns behind him.
