horses and stood looking out across the mesa while his sorrel mare, Goldie, nuzzled and gently poked at him in protestation at this unshaded, unwatered halt.
Below him the plain unrolled far to the south where it blent with the horizon. To east and west faint violet outlines of sawtooth ranges showed. On the wide level, cactus and greasewood, soapweed and gramma grass and mesquite fought it out for existence and the right of reproduction. Ghost Creek meandered through the midst of it, a series of blue, sky-reflecting pools, strung on a silver thread, redeeming the mesa from complete surrender to the desert. There were times when the creek was a raging torrent, cutting viciously through the soft, powdery oil, and there were times, when it was most needed, that Ghost Creek proved its name and became a phantom stream, a wraith that mocked the parched cattle, drifting helplessly down to the alkali-rimmed bogholes where their scattered skeletons would lie, after the buzzards and coyotes had feasted on their shriveled carcasses.
Arid and hot lay Chico Mesa, desolate and inhospitable. Yet, ten miles distant, where the low buildings of the Circle S showed in the clear atmosphere, there were cottonwoods and willows and certain squares of alfalfa that looked like sections of bright green carpet. Sheridan had sunk for water and found it in the subterranean reservoirs of treacherous Ghost Creek. His gasoline pump supplied him with enough for limited irrigation and the experiment quickened his imagination as to what could be done
