It was high noon in the desert, but there was no dazzling sunlight. Over the earth hung a twilight, a yellow-pink softness that flushed across the sky like the approach of a shadow, covering everything yet concealing nothing, creeping steadily onward, yet seemingly still, until, pressing low over the earth, it took on changing color, from pink to gray, from gray to black--gloom that precedes tropical showers. Then the wind came--a breeze rising as it were from the hot earth--forcing the Spanish dagger to dipping acknowledgment, sending dust-devils swirling across the slow curves of the desert--and then the storm burst in all its might. For this was a storm--a sand-storm of the Southwest. Do…
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