Luck’s cigar went out while he sat there and wove scene after scene of that story which should breathe of the real range land as it once had been.  It could be done—­that picture.  Months it would take in the making, for it would swing through summer and fall and winter and spring.  With the trail-herd going north that picture should open—­the trail-herd toiling over big, unpeopled plains, with the riders slouched in their saddles, hat brims pulled low over eyes that ached with the glare of the sun and the sweep of wind, their throats parched in the dust cloud flung upward from the marching, cloven hoofs.  Months it would take in the making,—­but sitting there with the green tail-lights switching through cuts and around low hills and out over the level, Luck visioned it all, scene by scene.  Visioned the herd huddled together in the night while the heavens were split with lightning, and the rain came down in white-lighted streamers of water.  Visioned the cattle humped in the snow, tails to the biting wind, and the riders plodding with muffled heads bent to the drive of the blizzard, the fine snow packing full the wrinkles in their sourdough coats.

It could be done.  He, Luck Lindsay, could do it; in his heart he knew that he could.  In his heart he felt that all of these months—­yes, and years—­of picture-making had been but a preparation for this great picture of the range.  All these one-reel pioneer pictures had been merely the feeble efforts of an apprentice learning to handle the tools of his craft, the mental gropings of his mind while waiting for this, his big idea.  His work with the Indians was the mere testing and trying of certain photographic effects, certain camera limitations.  He felt like an athlete taught and trained and tempered and just stepping out now for the big physical achievement of his life.

He grew chilled as the night advanced, but he did not know that he was cold.  He was wondering, as a man always wonders in the face of an intellectual birth, why this picture had not come to him before; why he had gone on through these months and years of turning out reel upon reel of Western pictures, with never once a glimmering of this great epic of the range land; why he had clung to his Indians and his one-reel Indian pictures with now and then a three-reel feature to give him the elation of having achieved something; why he had left them feeling depressedly that his best work was in the past; why he had looked upon real range-men as a substitute only for those lean-bodied bucks and those fat, stupid-eyed squaws and dirty papooses.

With the spell of his vision deep upon his soul, Luck sat humiliated before his blindness.  The picture he saw as he stared out across the moonlit plain was so clean-cut, so vivid, that he marvelled because he had never seen it until this night.  Perhaps, if the dried little man had not talked of the old range—­