B. M. Bower,
The Trail of the White Mule — Chapter 1
(1922)
“ The telephone rang and the Little Woman excused herself and went into the hall, closing the door softly behind her.I'm not greatly given to reminiscence, but while I sat and watched the flames of civilization licking tamely at the impregnable iron bark of the gas logs, the eyes of my memory looked upon a picture:Desert, empty and with the mountains standing back against the sky, the great dipper uptilted over a peak and the stars bending close for very friendliness. The licking flames of dry greasewood burning, with a pungent odor in my nostrils when the wind blew the smoke my way. ”
