“Yes, sir, he’s liable to be. But I hope he isn’t.”
“So do I,” agreed Mr. Duff. “That country certainly spells Desolation with a capital ‘D.’”
“I told you before that a jack-rabbit always makes his will and kisses his family good-by, when he starts in from the edge of that country,” reminded Sol.
“Do you expect to build a railroad right through, general?” queried General Rawlins. “No easier route?”
“None that’s short and of the proper grades. The mountains block us off, north and south. This is the natural highway for the rails, I think. The Central Pacific will have just as bad a desert, in western Nevada, until we meet them. If we can bring up our water from behind, while we’re building, we’ll put the rails across, and sink wells to supply the engines and stations. I’ll be glad to find that the Percy Browne surveys are the best for the railroad. The iron track through, by the trail that he discovered, will be an eternal monument to his memory.”
Down they all went, into the basin. It was rougher and even larger than it had seemed from above. There were many bare red-rock ridges, cutting the surface—many smaller basins between, white with alkali and nasty scum; many strange pedestals and figures carved by wind and sand; but no water except in poisonous stagnant pools.
It was no place for George Stanton, or any other human being.
This first evening they made dry camp. The rocks and gravel were growing redder; and where after storms the water had soaked into the soil it left red washes of caked mud. A weird, glowing landscape this was, as if blasted by a wizard’s spell.
In the morning the general, Engineer Appleton and Sol rode to the top of a rock rise, to survey around. The general peered long through his glasses—handed them to Mr. Appleton, and Mr. Appleton peered. Sol squinted.
They turned their horses and came in at a gallop.