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RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE
the Utah border. Ten years! Oh, Bern, look, so you will never forget!"
Slumbering, fading purple fire burned over the undulating sage ridges. Long streaks and bars and shafts and spears fringed the far western slope. Drifting, golden veils mingled with low, purple shadows. Colors and shades changed in slow, wondrous transformation.
Suddenly Venters was startled by a low, rumbling roar—so low that it was like the roar in a sea-shell.
"Bess, did you hear anything?" he whispered.
"No."
"Listen! . . . Maybe I only imagined— Ah!"
Out of the east or north, from remote distance, breathed an infinitely low, continuously long sound—deep, weird, detonating, thundering, deadening—dying.
