The air was warm with the sun imprisoned in the
pockets of the hills. High chaparral, scrub oaks, and scattered, unkempt
digger pines threw their thicket up to the very right of way. It was in
general dense, almost impenetrable, yet it had a way of breaking
unexpectedly into spacious parks, into broad natural pastures, into
bold, rocky points prophetic of the mountains yet to come. Every once in
a while the road drew one side to pause at a cabin nestling among fruit
trees, bowered beneath vines, bright with the most vivid of the commoner
flowers. They were crazily picturesque with their rough stone chimneys,
their roofs of shakes, their broad low verandahs, and their split-picket
fences. On these verandahs sat patriarchal-looking men with sweeping
white beards, who smoked pipes and gazed across with dim eyes toward the
distant blue mountains. When Welton, casually and by the way, mentioned
topographical names, Bob realized to what placid and contented
retirement these men had turned, and who they were. Nugget Creek, Flour
Gold, Bear Gulch--these spoke of the strong, red-shirted Argonauts of
the El Dorado.
Pages:
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243