By
mid-afternoon the chaparral had disappeared and only the cactus
remained--the ocotilla, covered with a million flowers, wave upon wave
of crimson flame, against the yellow earth. Violet-veiled mountains
appeared in the west, marking the southern trend of the Colorado. The
air was suffocating. The train-created wind was like a blast from a
furnace; yet with the electric fans whirring, with blinds drawn and
windows closed to keep the withering air _out_, it seemed a little
less uncomfortable in the car, in spite of the unvitalized air, than
under the scorching sun.
We were beside the Colorado at last. I had a good view of the stream
below, as we crossed the bridge--the Colorado in flood, muddy,
turbulent, sweeping onward like an affrighted thing,--repulsive, yet
with a fascination for me, born of an intimate acquaintance with the
dangers of this stream. The river had called again! The heat was
forgotten, the visions of the coast faded, for me the train could not
reach Needles, ten miles up the river, quickly enough.
With my brother, I had followed this stream down to Needles, through a
thousand miles of canyon. I had seen how it carved its way through the
mountains, carrying them on, in solution, toward the ocean. At last I
would see what became of all these misplaced mountains. I would see
the tidal bore as it swept in from the Gulf. I had heard there were
wild hogs which burrowed through the cane-brake. It may be that I
would learn of a vessel at some port down on the Mexican coast, which
I might reach and which would take me around the Lower California
Peninsula.
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