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In
an
instant
he
was
the
poet
again
,
his
nerves
tingling
,
alive
to
every
sensation
,
responsive
to
every
impression
.
The
desire
of
creation
,
of
composition
,
grew
big
within
him
.
Hexameters
of
his
own
clamoured
,
tumultuous
,
in
his
brain
.
Not
for
a
long
time
had
he
“
felt
his
poem
,
”
as
he
called
this
sensation
,
so
poignantly
.
For
an
instant
he
told
himself
that
he
actually
held
it
.
It
was
,
no
doubt
,
Vanamee
’
s
talk
that
had
stimulated
him
to
this
point
.
The
story
of
the
Long
Trail
,
with
its
desert
and
mountain
,
its
cliff
-
dwellers
,
its
Aztec
ruins
,
its
colour
,
movement
,
and
romance
,
filled
his
mind
with
picture
after
picture
.
The
epic
defiled
before
his
vision
like
a
pageant
.
Once
more
,
he
shot
a
glance
about
him
,
as
if
in
search
of
the
inspiration
,
and
this
time
he
all
but
found
it
.
He
rose
to
his
feet
,
looking
out
and
off
below
him
.
As
from
a
pinnacle
,
Presley
,
from
where
he
now
stood
,
dominated
the
entire
country
.
The
sun
had
begun
to
set
,
everything
in
the
range
of
his
vision
was
overlaid
with
a
sheen
of
gold
.
First
,
close
at
hand
,
it
was
the
Seed
ranch
,
carpeting
the
little
hollow
behind
the
Mission
with
a
spread
of
greens
,
some
dark
,
some
vivid
,
some
pale
almost
to
yellowness
.
Beyond
that
was
the
Mission
itself
,
its
venerable
campanile
,
in
whose
arches
hung
the
Spanish
King
’
s
bells
,
already
glowing
ruddy
in
the
sunset
.
Farther
on
,
he
could
make
out
Annixter
’
s
ranch
house
,
marked
by
the
skeleton
-
like
tower
of
the
artesian
well
,
and
,
a
little
farther
to
the
east
,
the
huddled
,
tiled
roofs
of
Guadalajara
.
Far
to
the
west
and
north
,
he
saw
Bonneville
very
plain
,
and
the
dome
of
the
courthouse
,
a
purple
silhouette
against
the
glare
of
the
sky
.
Other
points
detached
themselves
,
swimming
in
a
golden
mist
,
projecting
blue
shadows
far
before
them
;
the
mammoth
live
-
oak
by
Hooven
’
s
,
towering
superb
and
magnificent
;
the
line
of
eucalyptus
trees
,
behind
which
he
knew
was
the
Los
Muertos
ranch
house
—
his
home
;
the
watering
-
tank
,
the
great
iron
-
hooped
tower
of
wood
that
stood
at
the
joining
of
the
Lower
Road
and
the
County
Road
;
the
long
wind
-
break
of
poplar
trees
and
the
white
walls
of
Caraher
’
s
saloon
on
the
County
Road
.
But
all
this
seemed
to
be
only
foreground
,
a
mere
array
of
accessories
—
a
mass
of
irrelevant
details
.
Beyond
Annixter
’
s
,
beyond
Guadalajara
,
beyond
the
Lower
Road
,
beyond
Broderson
Creek
,
on
to
the
south
and
west
,
infinite
,
illimitable
,
stretching
out
there
under
the
sheen
of
the
sunset
forever
and
forever
,
flat
,
vast
,
unbroken
,
a
huge
scroll
,
unrolling
between
the
horizons
,
spread
the
great
stretches
of
the
ranch
of
Los
Muertos
,
bare
of
crops
,
shaved
close
in
the
recent
harvest
.
Near
at
hand
were
hills
,
but
on
that
far
southern
horizon
only
the
curve
of
the
great
earth
itself
checked
the
view
.
Adjoining
Los
Muertos
,
and
widening
to
the
west
,
opened
the
Broderson
ranch
.
The
Osterman
ranch
to
the
northwest
carried
on
the
great
sweep
of
landscape
;
ranch
after
ranch
.
Then
,
as
the
imagination
itself
expanded
under
the
stimulus
of
that
measureless
range
of
vision
,
even
those
great
ranches
resolved
themselves
into
mere
foreground
,
mere
accessories
,
irrelevant
details
.
Beyond
the
fine
line
of
the
horizons
,
over
the
curve
of
the
globe
,
the
shoulder
of
the
earth
,
were
other
ranches
,
equally
vast
,
and
beyond
these
,
others
,
and
beyond
these
,
still
others
,
the
immensities
multiplying
,
lengthening
out
vaster
and
vaster
.
The
whole
gigantic
sweep
of
the
San
Joaquin
expanded
,
Titanic
,
before
the
eye
of
the
mind
,
flagellated
with
heat
,
quivering
and
shimmering
under
the
sun
’
s
red
eye
.
At
long
intervals
,
a
faint
breath
of
wind
out
of
the
south
passed
slowly
over
the
levels
of
the
baked
and
empty
earth
,
accentuating
the
silence
,
marking
off
the
stillness
.
It
seemed
to
exhale
from
the
land
itself
,
a
prolonged
sigh
as
of
deep
fatigue
.
It
was
the
season
after
the
harvest
,
and
the
great
earth
,
the
mother
,
after
its
period
of
reproduction
,
its
pains
of
labour
,
delivered
of
the
fruit
of
its
loins
,
slept
the
sleep
of
exhaustion
,
the
infinite
repose
of
the
colossus
,
benignant
,
eternal
,
strong
,
the
nourisher
of
nations
,
the
feeder
of
an
entire
world
.
Ha
!
there
it
was
,
his
epic
,
his
inspiration
,
his
West
,
his
thundering
progression
of
hexameters
.
A
sudden
uplift
,
a
sense
of
exhilaration
,
of
physical
exaltation
appeared
abruptly
to
sweep
Presley
from
his
feet
.
As
from
a
point
high
above
the
world
,
he
seemed
to
dominate
a
universe
,
a
whole
order
of
things
.
He
was
dizzied
,
stunned
,
stupefied
,
his
morbid
supersensitive
mind
reeling
,
drunk
with
the
intoxication
of
mere
immensity
.
Stupendous
ideas
for
which
there
were
no
names
drove
headlong
through
his
brain
.
Terrible
,
formless
shapes
,
vague
figures
,
gigantic
,
monstrous
,
distorted
,
whirled
at
a
gallop
through
his
imagination
.
He
started
homeward
,
still
in
his
dream
,
descending
from
the
hill
,
emerging
from
the
canyon
,
and
took
the
short
cut
straight
across
the
Quien
Sabe
ranch
,
leaving
Guadalajara
far
to
his
left
.
He
tramped
steadily
on
through
the
wheat
stubble
,
walking
fast
,
his
head
in
a
whirl
.
Never
had
he
so
nearly
grasped
his
inspiration
as
at
that
moment
on
the
hilltop
.
Even
now
,
though
the
sunset
was
fading
,
though
the
wide
reach
of
valley
was
shut
from
sight
,
it
still
kept
him
company
.
Now
the
details
came
thronging
back
—
the
component
parts
of
his
poem
,
the
signs
and
symbols
of
the
West
.
It
was
there
,
close
at
hand
,
he
had
been
in
touch
with
it
all
day
.
It
was
in
the
centenarian
’
s
vividly
coloured
reminiscences
—
De
La
Cuesta
,
holding
his
grant
from
the
Spanish
crown
,
with
his
power
of
life
and
death
;
the
romance
of
his
marriage
;
the
white
horse
with
its
pillion
of
red
leather
and
silver
bridle
mountings
;
the
bull
-
fights
in
the
Plaza
;
the
gifts
of
gold
dust
,
and
horses
and
tallow
.
It
was
in
Vanamee
’
s
strange
history
,
the
tragedy
of
his
love
;
Angele
Varian
,
with
her
marvellous
loveliness
;
the
Egyptian
fulness
of
her
lips
,
the
perplexing
upward
slant
of
her
violet
eyes
,
bizarre
,
oriental
;
her
white
forehead
made
three
cornered
by
her
plaits
of
gold
hair
;
the
mystery
of
the
Other
;
her
death
at
the
moment
of
her
child
’
s
birth
.
It
was
in
Vanamee
’
s
flight
into
the
wilderness
;
the
story
of
the
Long
Trail
,
the
sunsets
behind
the
altar
-
like
mesas
,
the
baking
desolation
of
the
deserts
;
the
strenuous
,
fierce
life
of
forgotten
towns
,
down
there
,
far
off
,
lost
below
the
horizons
of
the
southwest
;
the
sonorous
music
of
unfamiliar
names
—
Quijotoa
,
Uintah
,
Sonora
,
Laredo
,
Uncompahgre
.
It
was
in
the
Mission
,
with
its
cracked
bells
,
its
decaying
walls
,
its
venerable
sun
dial
,
its
fountain
and
old
garden
,
and
in
the
Mission
Fathers
themselves
,
the
priests
,
the
padres
,
planting
the
first
wheat
and
oil
and
wine
to
produce
the
elements
of
the
Sacrament
—
a
trinity
of
great
industries
,
taking
their
rise
in
a
religious
rite
.
