Miles upon miles in the distance, across those primeval reaches,
the faint blue peaks and domes and ridges of the mountains ranked--an
uncounted sentinel host. The darker masses of the timbered hillsides,
with the varying shades of pine and cedar, the lighter tints of oak
brush and chaparral, the dun tones of the open grass lands, and the
brighter note of the valley meadows' green were defined, blended and
harmonized by the overlying haze with a delicacy exquisite beyond all
human power to picture. And in the nearer distances, chief of that army
of mountain peaks, and master of the many miles that lie within their
circle, Granite Mountain, gray and grim, reared its mighty bulk of cliff
and crag as if in supreme defiance of the changing years or the hand of
humankind.
In the heart of that beautiful land upon which, from the summit of the
Divide, the stranger looked with such rapt appreciation, lies Williamson
Valley, a natural meadow of lush, dark green, native grass. And, had the
man's eyes been trained to such distances, he might have distinguished
in the blue haze the red roofs of the buildings of the Cross-Triangle
Ranch.
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