The Call Of The Canyon By Zane Grey

THE CALL OF THE CANYON By Zane Grey CHAPTER I What subtle strange message had come to her out of the West? Carley Burch laid the letter in her lap and gazed dreamily through the window. It was a day typical of early April in New York, rather cold and gray, with steely sunlight. Spring breathed in the air, but the women passing along Fifty-seventh Street wore furs and wraps. She heard the distant clatter of an L train and then the hum of a motor car. A hurdy-gurdy jarred into the interval of quiet. “Glenn has been gone over a year,” she mused, “three months over a year– and of all his strange letters this seems the strangest yet.” She lived again, for the thousandth time, the last moments she had spent with him. It had been on New-Year’s Eve, 1918. They had called upon friends who were staying at the McAlpin, in a suite on the twenty-first floor overlooking Broadway. And when the last quarter hour of that eventful and tragic year began slowly to pass with the low swell of whistles and bells, Carley’s friends had discreetly left her alone with her lover, at the open window, to watch and hear the old year out, the new year in. Glenn Kilbourne had returned from France early that fall, shell-shocked and gassed, and otherwise incapacitated for service in the army–a wreck of his former sterling self and in many unaccountable ways a stranger to her. Cold, silent, haunted by something, he had made her miserable with his aloofness. But as the bells began to ring out the year that had been his ruin Glenn had drawn her close, tenderly, passionately, and yet strangely, too. “Carley, look and listen!” he had whispered. Under them stretched the great long white flare of Broadway, with its snow-covered length glittering under a myriad of electric lights. Sixth Avenue swerved away to the right, a less brilliant lane of blanched snow. The L trains crept along like huge fire-eyed serpents. The hum of the ceaseless moving line of motor cars drifted upward faintly, almost drowned in the rising clamor of the street. Broadway’s gay and thoughtless crowds surged to and fro, from that height merely a thick stream of black figures, like contending columns of ants on the march. And everywhere the monstrous electric signs flared up vivid in white and red and green; and dimmed and paled, only to flash up again. Ring out the Old! Ring in the New! Carley had poignantly felt the sadness of the one, the promise of the other. As one by one the siren factory whistles opened up with deep, hoarse bellow, the clamor of the street and the ringing of the bells were lost in a volume of continuous sound that swelled on high into a magnificent roar. It was the voice of a city–of a nation. It was the voice of a people crying out the strife and the agony of the year–pealing forth a prayer for the future. Glenn had put his lips to her ear: “It’s like the voice in my soul!” Never would she forget the shock of that. And how she had stood spellbound, enveloped in the mighty volume of sound no longer discordant, but full of great, pregnant melody, until the white ball burst upon the tower of the Times Building, showing the bright figures 1919. The new year had not been many minutes old when Glenn Kilbourne had told her he was going West to try to recover his health. Carley roused out of her memories to take up the letter that had so perplexed her. It bore the postmark, Flagstaff, Arizona. She reread it with slow pondering thoughtfulness. WEST FORK,March 25. DEAR CARLEY: It does seem my neglect in writing you is unpardonable. I used to be a pretty fair correspondent, but in that as in other things I have changed. One reason I have not answered sooner is because your letter was so sweet and loving that it made me feel an ungrateful and unappreciative wretch. Another is that this life I now lead does not induce writing. I am outdoors all day, and when I get back to this cabin at night I am too tired for anything but bed. Your imperious questions I must answer–and that must, of course, is a third reason why I have delayed my reply. First, you ask, “Don’t you love me any more as you used to?” . . . Frankly, I do not. I am sure my old love for you, before I went to France, was selfish, thoughtless, sentimental, and boyish. I am a man now. And my love for you is different. Let me assure you that it has been about all left to me of what is noble and beautiful. Whatever the changes in me for the worse, my love for you, at least, has grown better, finer, purer. And now for your second question, “Are you coming home as soon as you are well again?” . . . Carley, I am well. I have delayed telling you this because I knew you would expect me to rush back East with the telling. But- -the fact is, Carley, I am not coming–just yet. I wish it were possible for me to make you understand. For a long time I seem to have been frozen within. You know when I came back from France I couldn’t talk. It’s almost as bad as that now. Yet all that I was then seems to have changed again. It is only fair to you to tell you that, as I feel now, I hate the city, I hate people, and particularly I hate that dancing, drinking, lounging set you chase with. I don’t want to come East until I am over that, you know. . . Suppose I never get over it? Well, Carley, you can free yourself from me by one word that I could never utter. I could never break our engagement. During the hell I went through in the war my attachment to you saved me from moral ruin, if it did not from perfect honor and fidelity. This is another thing I despair of making you understand. And in the chaos I’ve wandered through since the war my love for you was my only anchor. You never guessed, did you, that I lived on your letters until I got well. And now the fact that I might get along without them is no discredit to their charm or to you. It is all so hard to put in words, Carley. To lie down with death and get up with death was nothing. To face one’s degradation was nothing. But to come home an incomprehensibly changed man–and to see my old life as strange as if it were the new life of another planet–to try to slip into the old groove–well, no words of mine can tell you how utterly impossible it was. My old job was not open to me, even if I had been able to work. The government that I fought for left me to starve, or to die of my maladies like a dog, for all it cared. I could not live on your money, Carley. My people are poor, as you know. So there was nothing for me to do but to borrow a little money from my friends and to come West. I’m glad I had the courage to come. What this West is I’ll never try to tell you, because, loving the luxury and excitement and glitter of the city as you do, you’d think I was crazy. Getting on here, in my condition, was as hard as trench life. But now, Carley–something has come to me out of the West. That, too, I am unable to put into words. Maybe I can give you an inkling of it. I’m strong enough to chop wood all day. No man or woman passes my cabin in a month. But I am never lonely. I love these vast red canyon walls towering above me. And the silence is so sweet. Think of the hellish din that filled my ears. Even now–sometimes, the brook here changes its babbling murmur to the roar of war. I never understood anything of the meaning of nature until I lived under these looming stone walls and whispering pines. So, Carley, try to understand me, or at least be kind. You know they came very near writing, “Gone west!” after my name, and considering that, this “Out West” signifies for me a very fortunate difference. A tremendous difference! For the present I’ll let well enough alone. Adios. Write soon. Love from GLEN Carley’s second reaction to the letter was a sudden upflashing desire to see her lover–to go out West and find him. Impulses with her were rather rare and inhibited, but this one made her tremble. If Glenn was well again he must have vastly changed from the moody, stone-faced, and haunted-eyed man who had so worried and distressed her. He had embarrassed her, too, for sometimes, in her home, meeting young men there who had not gone into the service, he had seemed to retreat into himself, singularly aloof, as if his world was not theirs. Again, with eager eyes and quivering lips, she read the letter. It contained words that lifted her heart. Her starved love greedily absorbed them. In them she had excuse for any resolve that might bring Glenn closer to her. And she pondered over this longing to go to him. Carley had the means to come and go and live as she liked. She did not remember her father, who had died when she was a child. Her mother had left her in the care of a sister, and before the war they had divided their time between New York and Europe, the Adirondacks and Florida, Carley had gone in for Red Cross and relief work with more of sincerity than most of her set. But she was really not used to making any decision as definite and important as that of going out West alone. She had never been farther west than Jersey City; and her conception of the West was a hazy one of vast plains and rough mountains, squalid towns, cattle herds, and uncouth ill-clad men. So she carried the letter to her aunt, a rather slight woman with a kindly face and shrewd eyes, and who appeared somewhat given to old-fashioned garments. “Aunt Mary, here’s a letter from Glenn,” said Carley. “It’s more of a stumper than usual. Please read it.” “Dear me! You look upset,” replied the aunt, mildly, and, adjusting her spectacles, she took the letter. Carley waited impatiently for the perusal, conscious of inward forces coming more and more to the aid of her impulse to go West. Her aunt paused once to murmur how glad she was that Glenn had gotten well. Then she read on to the close. “Carley, that’s a fine letter,” she said, fervently. “Do you see through it?” “No, I don’t,” replied Carley. “That’s why I asked you to read it.” “Do you still love Glenn as you used to before–“ “Why, Aunt Mary!” exclaimed Carley, in surprise. “Excuse me, Carley, if I’m blunt. But the fact is young women of modern times are very different from my kind when I was a girl. You haven’t acted as though you pined for Glenn. You gad around almost the same as ever.” “What’s a girl to do?” protested Carley. “You are twenty-six years old, Carley,” retorted Aunt Mary. “Suppose I am. I’m as young–as I ever was.” “Well, let’s not argue about modern girls and modern times. We never get anywhere,” returned her aunt, kindly. “But I can tell you something of what Glenn Kilbourne means in that letter–if you want to hear it.” “I do–indeed.” “The war did something horrible to Glenn aside from wrecking his health. Shell-shock, they said! I don’t understand that. Out of his mind, they said! But that never was true. Glenn was as sane as I am, and, my dear, that’s pretty sane, I’ll have you remember. But he must have suffered some terrible blight to his spirit–some blunting of his soul. For months after he returned he walked as one in a trance. Then came a change. He grew restless. Perhaps that change was for the better. At least it showed he’d roused. Glenn saw you and your friends and the life you lead, and all the present, with eyes from which the scales had dropped. He saw what was wrong. He never said so to me, but I knew it. It wasn’t only to get well that he went West. It was to get away. . . . And, Carley Burch, if your happiness depends on him you had better be up and doing–or you’ll lose him!” “Aunt Mary!” gasped Carley. “I mean it. That letter shows how near he came to the Valley of the Shadow–and how he has become a man. . . . If I were you I’d go out West. Surely there must be a place where it would be all right for you to stay.” “Oh, yes,” replied Carley, eagerly. “Glenn wrote me there was a lodge where people went in nice weather–right down in the canyon not far from his place. Then, of course, the town–Flagstaff–isn’t far. . . . Aunt Mary, I think I’ll go.” “I would. You’re certainly wasting your time here.” “But I could only go for a visit,” rejoined Carley, thoughtfully. “A month, perhaps six weeks, if I could stand it.” “Seems to me if you can stand New York you could stand that place,” said Aunt Mary, dryly. “The idea of staying away from New York any length of time–why, I couldn’t do it I . . . But I can stay out there long enough to bring Glenn back with me.” “That may take you longer than you think,” replied her aunt, with a gleam in her shrewd eyes. “If you want my advice you will surprise Glenn. Don’t write him–don’t give him a chance to–well to suggest courteously that you’d better not come just yet. I don’t like his words ‘just yet.’” “Auntie, you’re–rather–more than blunt,” said Carley, divided between resentment and amaze. “Glenn would be simply wild to have me come.” “Maybe he would. Has he ever asked you?” “No-o–come to think of it, he hasn’t,” replied Carley, reluctantly. “Aunt Mary, you hurt my feelings.” “Well, child, I’m glad to learn your feelings are hurt,” returned the aunt. “I’m sure, Carley, that underneath all this–this blase ultra something you’ve acquired, there’s a real heart. Only you must hurry and listen to it–or–“ “Or what?” queried Carley. Aunt Mary shook her gray head sagely. “Never mind what. Carley, I’d like your idea of the most significant thing in Glenn’s letter.” “Why, his love for me, of course!” replied Carley. “Naturally you think that. But I don’t. What struck me most were his words, ‘out of the West.’ Carley, you’d do well to ponder over them.” “I will,” rejoined Carley, positively. “I’ll do more. I’ll go out to his wonderful West and see what he meant by them.” Carley Burch possessed in full degree the prevailing modern craze for speed. She loved a motor-car ride at sixty miles an hour along a smooth, straight road, or, better, on the level seashore of Ormond, where on moonlight nights the white blanched sand seemed to flash toward her. Therefore quite to her taste was the Twentieth Century Limited which was hurtling her on the way to Chicago. The unceasingly smooth and even rush of the train satisfied something in her. An old lady sitting in an adjoining seat with a companion amused Carley by the remark: “I wish we didn’t go so fast. People nowadays haven’t time to draw a comfortable breath. Suppose we should run off the track!” Carley had no fear of express trains, or motor cars, or transatlantic liners; in fact, she prided herself in not being afraid of anything. But she wondered if this was not the false courage of association with a crowd. Before this enterprise at hand she could not remember anything she had undertaken alone. Her thrills seemed to be in abeyance to the end of her journey. That night her sleep was permeated with the steady low whirring of the wheels. Once, roused by a jerk, she lay awake in the darkness while the thought came to her that she and all her fellow passengers were really at the mercy of the engineer. Who was he, and did he stand at his throttle keen and vigilant, thinking of the lives intrusted to him? Such thoughts vaguely annoyed Carley, and she dismissed them. A long half-day wait in Chicago was a tedious preliminary to the second part of her journey. But at last she found herself aboard the California Limited, and went to bed with a relief quite a stranger to her. The glare of the sun under the curtain awakened her. Propped up on her pillows, she looked out at apparently endless green fields or pastures, dotted now and then with little farmhouses and tree-skirted villages. This country, she thought, must be the prairie land she remembered lay west of the Mississippi. Later, in the dining car, the steward smilingly answered her question: “This is Kansas, and those green fields out there are the wheat that feeds the nation.” Carley was not impressed. The color of the short wheat appeared soft and rich, and the boundless fields stretched away monotonously. She had not known there was so much flat land in the world, and she imagined it might be a fine country for automobile roads. When she got back to her seat she drew the blinds down and read her magazines. Then tiring of that, she went back to the observation car. Carley was accustomed to attracting attention, and did not resent it, unless she was annoyed. The train evidently had a full complement of passengers, who, as far as Carley could see, were people not of her station in life. The glare from the many windows, and the rather crass interest of several men, drove her back to her own section. There she discovered that some one had drawn up her window shades. Carley promptly pulled them down and settled herself comfortably. Then she heard a woman speak, not particularly low: “I thought people traveled west to see the country.” And a man replied, rather dryly. “Wal, not always.” His companion went on: “If that girl was mine I’d let down her skirt.” The man laughed and replied: “Martha, you’re shore behind the times. Look at the pictures in the magazines.” Such remarks amused Carley, and later she took advantage of an opportunity to notice her neighbors. They appeared a rather quaint old couple, reminding her of the natives of country towns in the Adirondacks. She was not amused, however, when another of her woman neighbors, speaking low, referred to her as a “lunger.” Carley appreciated the fact that she was pale, but she assured herself that there ended any possible resemblance she might have to a consumptive. And she was somewhat pleased to hear this woman’s male companion forcibly voice her own convictions. In fact, he was nothing if not admiring. Kansas was interminably long to Carley, and she went to sleep before riding out of it. Next morning she found herself looking out at the rough gray and black land of New Mexico. She searched the horizon for mountains, but there did not appear to be any. She received a vague, slow-dawning impression that was hard to define. She did not like the country, though that was not the impression which eluded her. Bare gray flats, low scrub-fringed hills, bleak cliffs, jumble after jumble of rocks, and occasionally a long vista down a valley, somehow compelling-these passed before her gaze until she tired of them. Where was the West Glenn had written about? One thing seemed sure, and it was that every mile of this crude country brought her nearer to him. This recurring thought gave Carley all the pleasure she had felt so far in this endless ride. It struck her that England or France could be dropped down into New Mexico and scarcely noticed. By and by the sun grew hot, the train wound slowly and creakingly upgrade, the car became full of dust, all of which was disagreeable to Carley. She dozed on her pillow for hours, until she was stirred by a passenger crying out, delightedly: “Look! Indians!” Carley looked, not without interest. As a child she had read about Indians, and memory returned images both colorful and romantic. From the car window she espied dusty flat barrens, low squat mud houses, and queer-looking little people, children naked or extremely ragged and dirty, women in loose garments with flares of red, and men in white man’s garb, slovenly and motley. All these strange individuals stared apathetically as the train slowly passed. “Indians,” muttered Carley, incredulously. “Well, if they are the noble red people, my illusions are dispelled.” She did not look out of the window again, not even when the brakeman called out the remarkable name of Albuquerque. Next day Carley’s languid attention quickened to the name of Arizona, and to the frowning red walls of rock, and to the vast rolling stretches of cedar-dotted land. Nevertheless, it affronted her. This was no country for people to live in, and so far as she could see it was indeed uninhabited. Her sensations were not, however, limited to sight. She became aware of unfamiliar disturbing little shocks or vibrations in her ear drums, and after that a disagreeable bleeding of the nose. The porter told her this was owing to the altitude. Thus, one thing and another kept Carley most of the time away from the window, so that she really saw very little of the country. From what she had seen she drew the conviction that she had not missed much. At sunset she deliberately gazed out to discover what an Arizona sunset was like just a pale yellow flare! She had seen better than that above the Palisades. Not until reaching Winslow did she realize how near she was to her journey’s end and that she would arrive at Flagstaff after dark. She grew conscious of nervousness. Suppose Flagstaff were like these other queer little towns! Not only once, but several times before the train slowed down for her destination did Carley wish she had sent Glenn word to meet her. And when, presently, she found herself standing out in the dark, cold, windy night before a dim-lit railroad station she more than regretted her decision to surprise Glenn. But that was too late and she must make the best of her poor judgment. Men were passing to and fro on the platform, some of whom appeared to be very dark of skin and eye, and were probably Mexicans. At length an expressman approached Carley, soliciting patronage. He took her bags and, depositing them in a wagon, he pointed up the wide street: “One block up an’ turn. Hotel Wetherford.” Then he drove off. Carley followed, carrying her small satchel. A cold wind, driving the dust, stung her face as she crossed the street to a high sidewalk that extended along the block. There were lights in the stores and on the corners, yet she seemed impressed by a dark, cold, windy bigness. Many people, mostly men, were passing up and down, and there were motor cars everywhere. No one paid any attention to her. Gaining the corner of the block, she turned, and was relieved to see the hotel sign. As she entered the lobby a clicking of pool balls and the discordant rasp of a phonograph assailed her ears. The expressman set down her bags and left Carley standing there. The clerk or proprietor was talking from behind his desk to several men, and there were loungers in the lobby. The air was thick with tobacco smoke. No one paid any attention to Carley until at length she stepped up to the desk and interrupted the conversation there. “Is this a hotel?” she queried, brusquely. The shirt-sleeved individual leisurely turned and replied, “Yes, ma’am.” And Carley said: “No one would recognize it by the courtesy shown. I have been standing here waiting to register.” With the same leisurely case and a cool, laconic stare the clerk turned the book toward her. “Reckon people round here ask for what they want.” Carley made no further comment. She assuredly recognized that what she had been accustomed to could not be expected out here. What she most wished to do at the moment was to get close to the big open grate where a cheery red- and-gold fire cracked. It was necessary, however, to follow the clerk. He assigned her to a small drab room which contained a bed, a bureau, and a stationary washstand with one spigot. There was also a chair. While Carley removed her coat and hat the clerk went downstairs for the rest of her luggage. Upon his return Carley learned that a stage left the hotel for Oak Creek Canyon at nine o’clock next morning. And this cheered her so much that she faced the strange sense of loneliness and discomfort with something of fortitude. There was no heat in the room, and no hot water. When Carley squeezed the spigot handle there burst forth a torrent of water that spouted up out of the washbasin to deluge her. It was colder than any ice water she had ever felt. It was piercingly cold. Hard upon the surprise and shock Carley suffered a flash of temper. But then the humor of it struck her and she had to laugh. “Serves you right–you spoiled doll of luxury!” she mocked. “This is out West. Shiver and wait on yourself!” Never before had she undressed so swiftly nor felt grateful for thick woollen blankets on a hard bed. Gradually she grew warm. The blackness, too, seemed rather comforting. “I’m only twenty miles from Glenn,” she whispered. “How strange! I wonder will he be glad.” She felt a sweet, glowing assurance of that. Sleep did not come readily. Excitement had laid hold of her nerves, and for a long time she lay awake. After a while the chug of motor cars, the click of pool balls, the murmur of low voices all ceased. Then she heard a sound of wind outside, an intermittent, low moaning, new to her ears, and somehow pleasant. Another sound greeted her–the musical clanging of a clock that struck the quarters of the hour. Some time late sleep claimed her. Upon awakening she found she had overslept, necessitating haste upon her part. As to that, the temperature of the room did not admit of leisurely dressing. She had no adequate name for the feeling of the water. And her fingers grew so numb that she made what she considered a disgraceful matter of her attire. Downstairs in the lobby another cheerful red fire burned in the grate. How perfectly satisfying was an open fireplace! She thrust her numb hands almost into the blaze, and simply shook with the tingling pain that slowly warmed out of them. The lobby was deserted. A sign directed her to a dining room in the basement, where of the ham and eggs and strong coffee she managed to partake a little. Then she went upstairs into the lobby and out into the street. A cold, piercing air seemed to blow right through her. Walking to the near corner, she paused to look around. Down the main street flowed a leisurely stream of pedestrians, horses, cars, extending between two blocks of low buildings. Across from where she stood lay a vacant lot, beyond which began a line of neat, oddly constructed houses, evidently residences of the town. And then lifting her gaze, instinctively drawn by something obstructing the sky line, she was suddenly struck with surprise and delight. “Oh! how perfectly splendid!” she burst out. Two magnificent mountains loomed right over her, sloping up with majestic sweep of green and black timber, to a ragged tree-fringed snow area that swept up cleaner and whiter, at last to lift pure glistening peaks, noble and sharp, and sunrise-flushed against the blue. Carley had climbed Mont Blanc and she had seen the Matterhorn, but they had never struck such amaze and admiration from her as these twin peaks of her native land. “What mountains are those?” she asked a passer-by. “San Francisco Peaks, ma’am,” replied the man. “Why, they can’t be over a mile away!” she said. “Eighteen miles, ma’am,” he returned, with a grin. “Shore this Arizonie air is deceivin’.” “How strange,” murmured Carley. “It’s not that way in the Adirondacks.” She was still gazing upward when a man approached her and said the stage for Oak Creek Canyon would soon be ready to start, and he wanted to know if her baggage was ready. Carley hurried back to her room to pack. She had expected the stage would be a motor bus, or at least a large touring car, but it turned out to be a two-seated vehicle drawn by a team of ragged horses. The driver was a little wizen-faced man of doubtful years, and he did not appear obviously susceptible to the importance of his passenger. There was considerable freight to be hauled, besides Carley’s luggage, but evidently she was the only passenger. “Reckon it’s goin’ to be a bad day,” said the driver. “These April days high up on the desert are windy an’ cold. Mebbe it’ll snow, too. Them clouds hangin’ around the peaks ain’t very promisin’. Now, miss, haven’t you a heavier coat or somethin’?” “No, I have not,” replied Carley. “I’ll have to stand it. Did you say this was desert?” “I shore did. Wal, there’s a hoss blanket under the seat, an’ you can have that,” he replied, and, climbing to the seat in front of Carley, he took up the reins and started the horses off at a trot. At the first turning Carley became specifically acquainted with the driver’s meaning of a bad day. A gust of wind, raw and penetrating, laden with dust and stinging sand, swept full in her face. It came so suddenly that she was scarcely quick enough to close her eyes. It took considerable clumsy effort on her part with a handkerchief, aided by relieving tears, to clear her sight again. Thus uncomfortably Carley found herself launched on the last lap of her journey. All before her and alongside lay the squalid environs of the town. Looked back at, with the peaks rising behind, it was not unpicturesque. But the hard road with its sheets of flying dust, the bleak railroad yards, the round pens she took for cattle corrals, and the sordid debris littering the approach to a huge sawmill,–these were offensive in Carley’s sight. From a tall dome-like stack rose a yellowish smoke that spread overhead, adding to the lowering aspect of the sky. Beyond the sawmill extended the open country sloping somewhat roughly, and evidently once a forest, but now a hideous bare slash, with ghastly burned stems of trees still standing, and myriads of stumps attesting to denudation. The bleak road wound away to the southwest, and from this direction came the gusty wind. It did not blow regularly so that Carley could be on her guard. It lulled now and then, permitting her to look about, and then suddenly again whipping dust into her face. The smell of the dust was as unpleasant as the sting. It made her nostrils smart. It was penetrating, and a little more of it would have been suffocating. And as a leaden gray bank of broken clouds rolled up the wind grew stronger and the air colder. Chilled before, Carley now became thoroughly cold. There appeared to be no end to the devastated forest land, and the farther she rode the more barren and sordid grew the landscape. Carley forgot about the impressive mountains behind her. And as the ride wore into hours, such was her discomfort and disillusion that she forgot about Glenn Kilbourne. She did not reach the point of regretting her adventure, but she grew mightily unhappy. Now and then she espied dilapidated log cabins and surroundings even more squalid than the ruined forest. What wretched abodes! Could it be possible that people had lived in them? She imagined men had but hardly women and children. Somewhere she had forgotten an idea that women and children were extremely scarce in the West. Straggling bits of forest–yellow pines, the driver called the trees–began to encroach upon the burned-over and arid barren land. To Carley these groves, by reason of contrast and proof of what once was, only rendered the landscape more forlorn and dreary. Why had these miles and miles of forest been cut? By money grubbers, she supposed, the same as were devastating the Adirondacks. Presently, when the driver had to halt to repair or adjust something wrong with the harness, Carley was grateful for a respite from cold inaction. She got out and walked. Sleet began to fall, and when she resumed her seat in the vehicle she asked the driver for the blanket to cover her. The smell of this horse blanket was less endurable than the cold. Carley huddled down into a state of apathetic misery. Already she had enough of the West. But the sleet storm passed, the clouds broke, the sun shone through, greatly mitigating her discomfort. By and by the road led into a section of real forest, unspoiled in any degree. Carley saw large gray squirrels with tufted ears and white bushy tails. Presently the driver pointed out a flock of huge birds, which Carley, on second glance, recognized as turkeys, only these were sleek and glossy, with flecks of bronze and black and white, quite different from turkeys back East. “There must be a farm near,” said Carley, gazing about. “No, ma’am. Them’s wild turkeys,” replied the driver, “an’ shore the best eatin’ you ever had in your life.” A little while afterwards, as they were emerging from the woodland into more denuded country, he pointed out to Carley a herd of gray white-rumped animals that she took to be sheep. “An’ them’s antelope,” he said. “Once this desert was overrun by antelope. Then they nearly disappeared. An’ now they’re increasin’ again.” More barren country, more bad weather, and especially an exceedingly rough road reduced Carley to her former state of dejection. The jolting over roots and rocks and ruts was worse than uncomfortable. She had to hold on to the seat to keep from being thrown out. The horses did not appreciably change their gait for rough sections of the road. Then a more severe jolt brought Carley’s knee in violent contact with an iron bolt on the forward seat, and it hurt her so acutely that she had to bite her lips to keep from screaming. A smoother stretch of road did not come any too soon for her. It led into forest again. And Carley soon became aware that they had at last left the cut and burned-over district of timberland behind. A cold wind moaned through the treetops and set the drops of water pattering down upon her. It lashed her wet face. Carley closed her eyes and sagged in her seat, mostly oblivious to the passing scenery. “The girls will never believe this of me,” she soliloquized. And indeed she was amazed at herself. Then thought of Glenn strengthened her. It did not really matter what she suffered on the way to him. Only she was disgusted at her lack of stamina, and her appalling sensitiveness to discomfort. “Wal, hyar’s Oak Creek Canyon,” called the driver. Carley, rousing out of her weary preoccupation, opened her eyes to see that the driver had halted at a turn of the road, where apparently it descended a fearful declivity. The very forest-fringed earth seemed to have opened into a deep abyss, ribbed by red rock walls and choked by steep mats of green timber. The chasm was a V-shaped split and so deep that looking downward sent at once a chill and a shudder over Carley. At that point it appeared narrow and ended in a box. In the other direction, it widened and deepened, and stretched farther on between tremendous walls of red, and split its winding floor of green with glimpses of a gleaming creek, bowlder-strewn and ridged by white rapids. A low mellow roar of rushing waters floated up to Carley’s ears. What a wild, lonely, terrible place! Could Glenn possibly live down there in that ragged rent in the earth? It frightened her–the sheer sudden plunge of it from the heights. Far down the gorge a purple light shone on the forested floor. And on the moment the sun burst through the clouds and sent a golden blaze down into the depths, transforming them incalculably. The great cliffs turned gold, the creek changed to glancing silver, the green of trees vividly freshened, and in the clefts rays of sunlight burned into the blue shadows. Carley had never gazed upon a scene like this. Hostile and prejudiced, she yet felt wrung from her an acknowledgment of beauty and grandeur. But wild, violent, savage! Not livable! This insulated rift in the crust of the earth was a gigantic burrow for beasts, perhaps for outlawed men–not for a civilized person–not for Glenn Kilbourne. “Don’t be scart, ma’am,” spoke up the driver. “It’s safe if you’re careful. An’ I’ve druv this manys the time.” Carley’s heartbeats thumped at her side, rather denying her taunted assurance of fearlessness. Then the rickety vehicle started down at an angle that forced her to cling to her seat. CHAPTER II Carley, clutching her support, with abated breath and prickling skin, gazed in fascinated suspense over the rim of the gorge. Sometimes the wheels on that side of the vehicle passed within a few inches of the edge. The brakes squeaked, the wheels slid; and she could hear the scrape of the iron-shod hoofs of the horses as they held back stiff legged, obedient to the wary call of the driver. The first hundred yards of that steep road cut out of the cliff appeared to be the worst. It began to widen, with descents less precipitous. Tips of trees rose level with her gaze, obstructing sight of the blue depths. Then brush appeared on each side of the road. Gradually Carley’s strain relaxed, and also the muscular contraction by which she had braced herself in the seat. The horses began to trot again. The wheels rattled. The road wound around abrupt corners, and soon the green and red wall of the opposite side of the canyon loomed close. Low roar of running water rose to Carley’s ears. When at length she looked out instead of down she could see nothing but a mass of green foliage crossed by tree trunks and branches of brown and gray. Then the vehicle bowled under dark cool shade, into a tunnel with mossy wet cliff on one side, and close-standing trees on the other, “Reckon we’re all right now, onless we meet somebody comin’ up,” declared the driver. Carley relaxed. She drew a deep breath of relief. She had her first faint intimation that perhaps her extensive experience of motor cars, express trains, transatlantic liners, and even a little of airplanes, did not range over the whole of adventurous life. She was likely to meet something, entirely new and striking out here in the West. The murmur of falling water sounded closer. Presently Carley saw that the road turned at the notch in the canyon, and crossed a clear swift stream. Here were huge mossy boulders, and red walls covered by lichens, and the air appeared dim and moist, and full of mellow, hollow roar. Beyond this crossing the road descended the west side of the canyon, drawing away and higher from the creek. Huge trees, the like of which Carley had never seen, began to stand majestically up out of the gorge, dwarfing the maples and white-spotted sycamores. The driver called these great trees yellow pines. At last the road led down from the steep slope to the floor of the canyon. What from far above had appeared only a green timber-choked cleft proved from close relation to be a wide winding valley, tip and down, densely forested for the most part, yet having open glades and bisected from wall to wall by the creek. Every quarter of a mile or so the road crossed the stream; and at these fords Carley again held on desperately and gazed out dubiously, for the creek was deep, swift, and full of bowlders. Neither driver nor horses appeared to mind obstacles. Carley was splashed and jolted not inconsiderably. They passed through groves of oak trees, from which the creek manifestly derived its name; and under gleaming walls, cold, wet, gloomy, and silent; and between lines of solemn wide-spreading pines. Carley saw deep, still green pools eddying under huge massed jumble of cliffs, and stretches of white water, and then, high above the treetops, a wild line of canyon rim, cold against the sky. She felt shut in from the world, lost in an unscalable rut of the earth. Again the sunlight had failed, and the gray gloom of the canyon oppressed her. It struck Carley as singular that she could not help being affected by mere weather, mere heights and depths, mere rock walls and pine trees, and rushing water. For really, what had these to do with her? These were only physical things that she was passing. Nevertheless, although she resisted sensation, she was more and more shot through and through with the wildness and savageness of this canyon. A sharp turn of the road to the right disclosed a slope down the creek, across which showed orchards and fields, and a cottage nestling at the base of the wall. The ford at this crossing gave Carley more concern than any that had been passed, for there was greater volume and depth of water. One of the horses slipped on the rocks, plunged up and on with great splash. They crossed, however, without more mishap to Carley than further acquaintance with this iciest of waters. From this point the driver turned back along the creek, passed between orchards and fields, and drove along the base of the red wall to come suddenly upon a large rustic house that had been hidden from Carley’s sight. It sat almost against the stone cliff, from which poured a white foamy sheet of water. The house was built of slabs with the bark on, and it had a lower and upper porch running all around, at least as far as the cliff. Green growths from the rock wall overhung the upper porch. A column of blue smoke curled lazily upward from a stone chimney. On one of the porch posts hung a sign with rude lettering: “Lolomi Lodge.” “Hey, Josh, did you fetch the flour?” called a woman’s voice from inside. “Hullo I Reckon I didn’t forgit nothin’,” replied the man, as he got down. “An’ say, Mrs. Hutter, hyar’s a young lady from Noo Yorrk.” That latter speech of the driver’s brought Mrs. Hutter out on the porch. “Flo, come here,” she called to some one evidently near at hand. And then she smilingly greeted Carley. “Get down an’ come in, miss,” she said. “I’m sure glad to see you.” Carley, being stiff and cold, did not very gracefully disengage herself from the high muddy wheel and step. When she mounted to the porch she saw that Mrs. Hutter was a woman of middle age, rather stout, with strong face full of fine wavy lines, and kind dark eyes. “I’m Miss Burch,” said Carley. “You’re the girl whose picture Glenn Kilbourne has over his fireplace,” declared the woman, heartily. “I’m sure glad to meet you, an’ my daughter Flo will be, too.” That about her picture pleased and warmed Carley. “Yes, I’m Glenn Kilbourne’s fiancee. I’ve come West to surprise him. Is he here. . . . Is– is he well?” “Fine. I saw him yesterday. He’s changed a great deal from what he was at first. Most all the last few months. I reckon you won’t know him. . . . But you’re wet an’ cold an’ you look fagged. Come right in to the fire.” “Thank you; I’m all right,” returned Carley. At the doorway they encountered a girl of lithe and robust figure, quick in her movements. Carley was swift to see the youth and grace of her; and then a face that struck Carley as neither pretty nor beautiful, but still wonderfully attractive. “Flo, here’s Miss Burch,” burst out Mrs. Hutter, with cheerful importance. “Glenn Kilbourne’s girl come all the way from New York to surprise him!” “Oh, Carley, I’m shore happy to meet you!” said the girl, in a voice of slow drawling richness. “I know you. Glenn has told me all about you.” If this greeting, sweet and warm as it seemed, was a shock to Carley, she gave no sign. But as she murmured something in reply she looked with all a woman’s keenness into the face before her. Flo Hutter had a fair skin generously freckled; a mouth and chin too firmly cut to suggest a softer feminine beauty; and eyes of clear light hazel, penetrating, frank, fearless. Her hair was very abundant, almost silver-gold in color, and it was either rebellious or showed lack of care. Carley liked the girl’s looks and liked the sincerity of her greeting; but instinctively she reacted antagonistically because of the frank suggestion of intimacy with Glenn. But for that she would have been spontaneous and friendly rather than restrained. They ushered Carley into a big living room and up to a fire of blazing logs, where they helped divest her of the wet wraps. And all the time they talked in the solicitous way natural to women who were kind and unused to many visitors. Then Mrs. Hutter bustled off to make a cup of hot coffee while Flo talked. “We’ll shore give you the nicest room–with a sleeping porch right under the cliff where the water falls. It’ll sing you to sleep. Of course you needn’t use the bed outdoors until it’s warmer. Spring is late here, you know, and we’ll have nasty weather yet. You really happened on Oak Creek at its least attractive season. But then it’s always–well, just Oak Creek. You’ll come to know.” “I dare say I’ll remember my first sight of it and the ride down that cliff road,” said Carley, with a wan smile. “Oh, that’s nothing to what you’ll see and do,” returned Flo, knowingly. “We’ve had Eastern tenderfeet here before. And never was there a one of them who didn’t come to love Arizona.” “Tenderfoot! It hadn’t occurred to me. But of course–” murmured Carley. Then Mrs. Hutter returned, carrying a tray, which she set upon a chair, and drew to Carley’s side. “Eat an’ drink,” she said, as if these actions were the cardinally important ones of life. “Flo, you carry her bags up to that west room we always give to some particular person we want to love Lolomi.” Next she threw sticks of wood upon the fire, making it crackle and blaze, then seated herself near Carley and beamed upon her. “You’ll not mind if we call you Carley?” she asked, eagerly. “Oh, indeed no! I–I’d like it,” returned Carley, made to feel friendly and at home in spite of herself. “You see it’s not as if you were just a stranger,” went on Mrs. flutter. “Tom–that’s Flo’s father–took a likin’ to Glenn Kilbourne when he first came to Oak Creek over a year ago. I wonder if you all know how sick that soldier boy was. . . . Well, he lay on his back for two solid weeks–in the room we’re givin’ you. An’ I for one didn’t think he’d ever get up. But he did. An’ he got better. An’ after a while he went to work for Tom. Then six months an’ more ago he invested in the sheep business with Tom. He lived with us until he built his cabin up West Fork. He an’ Flo have run together a good deal, an’ naturally he told her about you. So you see you’re not a stranger. An’ we want you to feel you’re with friends.” “I thank you, Mrs. Hutter,” replied Carley, feelingly. “I never could thank you enough for being good to Glenn. I did not know he was so–so sick. At first he wrote but seldom,” “Reckon he never wrote you or told you what he did in the war,” declared Mrs. Hutter. “Indeed he never did!” “Well, I’ll tell you some day. For Tom found out all about him. Got some of it from a soldier who came to Flagstaff for lung trouble. He’d been in the same company with Glenn. We didn’t know this boy’s name while he was in Flagstaff. But later Tom found out. John Henderson. He was only twenty-two, a fine lad. An’ he died in Phoenix. We tried to get him out here. But the boy wouldn’t live on charity. He was always expectin’ money–a war bonus, whatever that was. It didn’t come. He was a clerk at the El Tovar for a while. Then he came to Flagstaff. But it was too cold an’ he stayed there too long.” “Too bad,” rejoined Carley, thoughtfully. This information as to the suffering of American soldiers had augmented during the last few months, and seemed to possess strange, poignant power to depress Carley. Always she had turned away from the unpleasant. And the misery of unfortunates was as disturbing almost as direct contact with disease and squalor. But it had begun to dawn upon Carley that there might occur circumstances of life, in every way affronting her comfort and happiness, which it would be impossible to turn her back upon. At this juncture Flo returned to the room, and again Carley was struck with the girl’s singular freedom of movement and the sense of sure poise and joy that seemed to emanate from her presence. “I’ve made a fire in your little stove,” she said. “There’s water heating. Now won’t you come up and change those traveling clothes. You’ll want to fix up for Glenn, won’t you?” Carley had to smile at that. This girl indeed was frank and unsophisticated, and somehow refreshing. Carley rose. “You are both very good to receive me as a friend,” she said. “I hope I shall not disappoint you. . . . Yes, I do want to improve my appearance before Glenn sees me. . . . Is there any way I can send word to him–by someone who has not seen me?” “There shore is. I’ll send Charley, one of our hired boys.” “Thank you. Then tell him to say there is a lady here from New York to see him, and it is very important.” Flo Hutter clapped her hands and laughed with glee. Her gladness gave Carley a little twinge of conscience. Jealously was an unjust and stifling thing. Carley was conducted up a broad stairway and along a boarded hallway to a room that opened out on the porch. A steady low murmur of falling water assailed her ears. Through the open door she saw across the porch to a white tumbling lacy veil of water falling, leaping, changing, so close that it seemed to touch the heavy pole railing of the porch. This room resembled a tent. The sides were of canvas. It had no ceiling. But the roughhewn shingles of the roof of the house sloped down closely. The furniture was home made. An Indian rug covered the floor. The bed with its woolly clean blankets and the white pillows looked inviting. “Is this where Glenn lay–when he was sick?” queried Carley. “Yes,” replied Flo, gravely, and a shadow darkened her eyes. “I ought to tell you all about it. I will some day. But you must not he made unhappy now. . . . Glenn nearly died here. Mother or I never left his side–for a while there–when life was so bad.” She showed Carley how to open the little stove and put the short billets of wood inside and work the damper; and cautioning her to keep an eye on it so that it would not get too hot, she left Carley to herself. Carley found herself in unfamiliar mood. There came a leap of her heart every time she thought of the meeting with Glenn, so soon now to be, but it was not that which was unfamiliar. She seemed to have difficult approach to undefined and unusual thoughts, All this was so different from her regular life. Besides she was tired. But these explanations did not suffice. There was a pang in her breast which must owe its origin to the fact that Glenn Kilbourne had been ill in this little room and some other girl than Carley Burch had nursed him. “Am I jealous?” she whispered. “No!” But she knew in her heart that she lied. A woman could no more help being jealous, under such circumstances, than she could help the beat and throb of her blood. Nevertheless, Carley was glad Flo Hutter had been there, and always she would be grateful to her for that kindness. Carley disrobed and, donning her dressing gown, she unpacked her bags and hung her things upon pegs under the curtained shelves. Then she lay down to rest, with no intention of slumber. But there was a strange magic in the fragrance of the room, like the piny tang outdoors, and in the feel of the bed, and especially in the low, dreamy hum and murmur of the waterfall. She fell asleep. When she awakened it was five o’clock. The fire in the stove was out, but the water was still warm. She bathed and dressed, not without care, yet as swiftly as was her habit at home; and she wore white because Glenn had always liked her best in white. But it was assuredly not a gown to wear in a country house where draughts of cold air filled the unheated rooms and halls. So she threw round her a warm sweater-shawl, with colorful bars becoming to her dark eyes and hair. All the time that she dressed and thought, her very being seemed to be permeated by that soft murmuring sound of falling water. No moment of waking life there at Lolomi Lodge, or perhaps of slumber hours, could be wholly free of that sound. It vaguely tormented Carley, yet was not uncomfortable. She went out upon the porch. The small alcove space held a bed and a rustic chair. Above her the peeled poles of the roof descended to within a few feet of her head. She had to lean over the rail of the porch to look up. The green and red rock wall sheered ponderously near: The waterfall showed first at the notch of a fissure, where the cliff split; and down over smooth places the water gleamed, to narrow in a crack with little drops, and suddenly to leap into a thin white sheet. Out from the porch the view was restricted to glimpses between the pines, and beyond to the opposite wall of the canyon. How shut-in, how walled in this home! “In summer it might be good to spend a couple of weeks here,” soliloquized Carley. “But to live here? Heavens! A person might as well be buried.” Heavy footsteps upon the porch below accompanied by a man’s voice quickened Carley’s pulse. Did they belong to Glenn? After a strained second she decided not. Nevertheless, the acceleration of her blood and an unwonted glow of excitement, long a stranger to her, persisted as she left the porch and entered the boarded hall. How gray and barn-like this upper part of the house! From the head of the stairway, however, the big living room presented a cheerful contrast. There were warm colors, some comfortable rockers, a lamp that shed a bright light, and an open fire which alone would have dispelled the raw gloom of the day. A large man in corduroys and top boots advanced to meet Carley. He had a clean-shaven face that might have been hard and stern but for his smile, and one look into his eyes revealed their resemblance to Flo’s. “I’m Tom Hutter, an’ I’m shore glad to welcome you to Lolomi, Miss Carley,” he said. His voice was deep and slow. There were ease and force in his presence, and the grip he gave Carley’s hand was that of a man who made no distinction in hand-shaking. Carley, quick in her perceptions, instantly liked him and sensed in him a strong personality. She greeted him in turn and expressed her thanks for his goodness to Glenn. Naturally Carley expected him to say something about her fiance, but he did not. “Well, Miss Carley, if you don’t mind, I’ll say you’re prettier than your picture,” said Hutter. “An’ that is shore sayin’ a lot. All the sheep herders in the country have taken a peep at your picture. Without permission, you understand.” “I’m greatly flattered,” laughed Carley. “We’re glad you’ve come,” replied Hutter, simply. “I just got back from the East myself. Chicago an’ Kansas City. I came to Arizona from Illinois over thirty years ago. An’ this was my first trip since. Reckon I’ve not got back my breath yet. Times have changed, Miss Carley. Times an’ people!” Mrs. Hutter bustled in from the kitchen, where manifestly she had been importantly engaged. “For the land’s sakes!” she exclaimed, fervently, as she threw up her hands at sight of Carley. Her expression was indeed a compliment, but there was a suggestion of shock in it. Then Flo came in. She wore a simple gray gown that reached the top of her high shoes. “Carley, don’t mind mother,” said Flo. “She means your dress is lovely. Which is my say, too. . . . But, listen. I just saw Glenn comin’ up the road.” Carley ran to the open door with more haste than dignity. She saw a tall man striding along. Something about him appeared familiar. It was his walk–an erect swift carriage, with a swing of the march still visible. She recognized Glenn. And all within her seemed to become unstable. She watched him cross the road, face the house. How changed! No–this was not Glenn Kilbourne. This was a bronzed man, wide of shoulder, roughly garbed, heavy limbed, quite different from the Glenn she remembered. He mounted the porch steps. And Carley, still unseen herself, saw his face. Yes–Glenn! Hot blood seemed to be tingling liberated in her veins. Wheeling away, she backed against the wall behind the door and held up a warning finger to Flo, who stood nearest. Strange and disturbing then, to see something in Flo Hutter’s eyes that could be read by a woman in only one way! A tall form darkened the doorway. It strode in and halted. “Flo!–who–where?” he began, breathlessly. His voice, so well remembered, yet deeper, huskier, fell upon Carley’s ears as something unconsciously longed for. His frame had so filled out that she did not recognize it. His face, too, had unbelievably changed–not in the regularity of feature that had been its chief charm, but in contour of cheek and vanishing of pallid hue and tragic line. Carley’s heart swelled with joy. Beyond all else she had hoped to see the sad fixed hopelessness, the havoc, gone from his face. Therefore the restraint and nonchalance upon which Carley prided herself sustained eclipse. “Glenn! Look–who’s–here!” she called, in voice she could not have steadied to save her life. This meeting was more than she had anticipated. Glenn whirled with an inarticulate cry. He saw Carley. Then–no matter how unreasonable or exacting had been Carley’s longings, they were satisfied. “You!” he cried, and leaped at her with radiant face. Carley not only did not care about the spectators of this meeting, but forgot them utterly. More than the joy of seeing Glenn, more than the all– satisfying assurance to her woman’s heart that she was still beloved, welled up a deep, strange, profound something that shook her to her depths. It was beyond selfishness. It was gratitude to God and to the West that had restored him. “Carley! I couldn’t believe it was you,” he declared, releasing her from his close embrace, yet still holding her. “Yes, Glenn–it’s I–all you’ve left of me,” she replied, tremulously, and she sought with unsteady hands to put up her dishevelled hair. “You–you big sheep herder! You Goliath!” “I never was so knocked off my pins,” he said. “A lady to see me–from New York! . . . Of course it had to be you. But I couldn’t believe. Carley, you were good to come.” Somehow the soft, warm took of his dark eyes hurt her. New and strange indeed it was to her, as were other things about him. Why had she not come West sooner? She disengaged herself from his hold and moved away, striving for the composure habitual with her. Flo Hutter was standing before the fire, looking down. Mrs. Hutter beamed upon Carley. “Now let’s have supper,” she said. “Reckon Miss Carley can’t eat now, after that hug Glenn gave her,” drawled Tom Hutter. “I was some worried. You see Glenn has gained seventy pounds in six months. An’ he doesn’t know his strength.” “Seventy pounds!” exclaimed Carley, gayly. “I thought it was more.” “Carley, you must excuse my violence,” said Glenn. “I’ve been hugging sheep. That is, when I shear a sheep I have to hold him.” They all laughed, and so the moment of readjustment passed. Presently Carley found herself sitting at table, directly across from Flo. A pearly whiteness was slowly warming out of the girl’s face. Her frank clear eyes met Carley’s and they had nothing to hide. Carley’s first requisite for character in a woman was that she be a thoroughbred. She lacked it often enough herself to admire it greatly in another woman. And that moment saw a birth of respect and sincere liking in her for this Western girl. If Flo Hutter ever was a rival she would be an honest one. Not long after supper Tom Hutter winked at Carley and said he “reckoned on general principles it was his hunch to go to bed.” Mrs. Hutter suddenly discovered tasks to perform elsewhere. And Flo said in her cool sweet drawl, somehow audacious and tantalizing, “Shore you two will want to spoon.” “Now, Flo, Eastern girls are no longer old-fashioned enough for that,” declared Glenn. “Too bad! Reckon I can’t see how love could ever be old-fashioned. Good night, Glenn. Good night, Carley.” Flo stood an instant at the foot of the dark stairway where the light from the lamp fell upon her face. It seemed sweet and earnest to Carley. It expressed unconscious longing, but no envy. Then she ran up the stairs to disappear. “Glenn, is that girl in love with you?” asked Carley, bluntly. To her amaze, Glenn laughed. When had she heard him laugh? It thrilled her, yet nettled her a little. “If that isn’t like you!” he ejaculated. “Your very first words after we are left alone! It brings back the East, Carley.” “Probably recall to memory will be good for you,” returned Carley. “But tell me. Is she in love with you?” “Why, no, certainly not!” replied Glenn. “Anyway, how could I answer such a question? It just made me laugh, that’s all.” “Humph I I can remember when you were not above making love to a pretty girl. You certainly had me worn to a frazzle–before we became engaged,” said Carley. “Old times! How long ago they seem! . . . Carley, it’s sure wonderful to see you.” “How do you like my gown?” asked Carley, pirouetting for his benefit. “Well, what little there is of it is beautiful,” he replied, with a slow smile. “I always liked you best in white. Did you remember?” “Yes. I got the gown for you. And I’ll never wear it except for you.” “Same old coquette–same old eternal feminine,” he said, half sadly. “You know when you look stunning. . . . But, Carley, the cut of that–or rather the abbreviation of it–inclines me to think that style for women’s clothes has not changed for the better. In fact, it’s worse than two years ago in Paris and later in New York. Where will you women draw the line?” “Women are slaves to the prevailing mode,” rejoined Carley. “I don’t imagine women who dress would ever draw a line, if fashion went on dictating.” “But would they care so much–if they had to work–plenty of work–and children?” inquired Glenn, wistfully. “Glenn! Work and children for modern women? Why, you are dreaming!” said Carley, with a laugh. She saw him gaze thoughtfully into the glowing embers of the fire, and as she watched him her quick intuition grasped a subtle change in his mood. It brought a sternness to his face. She could hardly realize she was looking at the Glenn Kilbourne of old. “Come close to the fire,” he said, and pulled up a chair for her. Then he threw more wood upon the red coals. “You must be careful not to catch cold out here. The altitude makes a cold dangerous. And that gown is no protection.” “Glenn, one chair used to be enough for us,” she said, archly, standing beside him. But he did not respond to her hint, and, a little affronted, she accepted the proffered chair. Then he began to ask questions rapidly. He was eager for news from home–from his people–from old friends. However he did not inquire of Carley about her friends. She talked unremittingly for an hour, before she satisfied his hunger. But when her turn came to ask questions she found him reticent. He had fallen upon rather hard days at first out here in the West; then his health had begun to improve; and as soon as he was able to work his condition rapidly changed for the better; and now he was getting along pretty well. Carley felt hurt at his apparent disinclination to confide in her. The strong cast of his face, as if it had been chiseled in bronze; the stern set of his lips and the jaw that protruded lean and square cut; the quiet masked light of his eyes; the coarse roughness of his brown hands, mute evidence of strenuous labors–these all gave a different impression from his brief remarks about himself. Lastly there was a little gray in the light-brown hair over his temples. Glenn was only twenty-seven, yet he looked ten years older. Studying him so, with the memory of earlier years in her mind, she was forced to admit that she liked him infinitely more as he was now. He seemed proven. Something had made him a man. Had it been his love for her, or the army service, or the war in France, or the struggle for life and health afterwards? Or had it been this rugged, uncouth West? Carley felt insidious jealousy of this last possibility. She feared this West. She was going to hate it. She had womanly intuition enough to see in Flo Hutter a girl somehow to be reckoned with. Still, Carley would not acknowledge to herself that his simple, unsophisticated Western girl could possibly be a rival. Carley did not need to consider the fact that she had been spoiled by the attention of men. It was not her vanity that precluded Flo Hutter as a rival. Gradually the conversation drew to a lapse, and it suited Carley to let it be so. She watched Glenn as he gazed thoughtfully into the amber depths of the fire. What was going on in his mind? Carley’s old perplexity suddenly had rebirth. And with it came an unfamiliar fear which she could not smother. Every moment that she sat there beside Glenn she was realizing more and more a yearning, passionate love for him. The unmistakable manifestation of his joy at sight of her, the strong, almost rude expression of his love, had called to some responsive, but hitherto unplumbed deeps of her. If it had not been for these undeniable facts Carley would have been panic-stricken. They reassured her, yet only made her state of mind more dissatisfied. “Carley, do you still go in for dancing?” Glenn asked, presently, with his thoughtful eyes turning to her. “Of course. I like dancing, and it’s about all the exercise I get,” she replied. “Have the dances changed–again?” “It’s the music, perhaps, that changes the dancing. Jazz is becoming popular. And about all the crowd dances now is an infinite variation of fox-trot.” “No waltzing?” “I don’t believe I waltzed once this winter.” “Jazz? That’s a sort of tinpanning, jiggly stuff, isn’t it?” “Glenn, it’s the fever of the public pulse,” replied Carley. “The graceful waltz, like the stately minuet, flourished back in the days when people rested rather than raced.” “More’s the pity,” said Glenn. Then after a moment, in which his gaze returned to the fire, he inquired rather too casually, “Does Morrison still chase after you “Glenn, I’m neither old–nor married,” she replied, laughing. “No, that’s true. But if you were married it wouldn’t make any difference to Morrison.” Carley could not detect bitterness or jealousy in his voice. She would not have been averse to hearing either. She gathered from his remark, however, that he was going to be harder than ever to understand. What had she said or done to make him retreat within himself, aloof, impersonal, unfamiliar? He did not impress her as loverlike. What irony of fate was this that held her there yearning for his kisses and caresses as never before, while he watched the fire, and talked as to a mere acquaintance, and seemed sad and far away? Or did she merely imagine that? Only one thing could she be sure of at that moment, and it was that pride would never be her ally. “Glenn, look here,” she said, sliding her chair close to his and holding out tier left hand, slim and white, with its glittering diamond on the third finger. He took her hand in his and pressed it, and smiled at her. “Yes, Carley, it’s a beautiful, soft little hand. But I think I’d like it better if it were strong and brown, and coarse on the inside–from useful work.” “Like Flo Hutter’s?” queried Carley. “Yes.” Carley looked proudly into his eyes. “People are born in different stations. I respect your little Western friend, Glenn, but could I wash and sweep, milk cows and chop wood, and all that sort of thing?” “I suppose you couldn’t,” he admitted, with a blunt little laugh. “Would you want me to?” she asked. “Well, that’s hard to say,” he replied, knitting his brows. “I hardly know. I think it depends on you. . . . But if you did do such work wouldn’t you be happier?” “Happier! Why Glenn, I’d be miserable! … But listen. It wasn’t my beautiful and useless hand I wanted you to see. It was my engagement ring.” “Oh!–Well?” he went on, slowly. “I’ve never had it off since you left New York,” she said, softly. “You gave it to me four years ago. Do you remember? It was on my twenty-second birthday. You said it would take two months’ salary to pay the bill.” “It sure did,” he retorted, with a hint of humor. “Glenn, during the war it was not so–so very hard to wear this ring as an engagement ring should be worn,” said Carley, growing more earnest. “But after the war–especially after your departure West it was terribly hard to be true to the significance of this betrothal ring. There was a let-down in all women. Oh, no one need tell me! There was. And men were affected by that and the chaotic condition of the times. New York was wild during the year of your absence. Prohibition was a joke.–Well, I gadded, danced, dressed, drank, smoked, motored, just the same as the other women in our crowd. Something drove me to. I never rested. Excitement seemed to be happiness–Glenn, I am not making any plea to excuse all that. But I want you to know–how under trying circumstances–I was absolutely true to you. Understand me. I mean true as regards love. Through it all I loved you just the same. And now I’m with you, it seems, oh, so much more! . . . Your last letter hurt me. I don’t know just how. But I came West to see you–to tell you this–and to ask you. . . . Do you want this ring back?” “Certainly not,” he replied, forcibly, with a dark flush spreading over his face. “Then–you love me?” she whispered. “Yes–I love you,” he returned, deliberately. “And in spite of all you say–very probably more than you love me. . . . But you, like all women, make love and its expression the sole object of life. Carley, I have been concerned with keeping my body from the grave and my soul from hell.” “But–clear–you’re well now?” she returned, with trembling lips. “Yes, I’ve almost pulled out.” “Then what is wrong?” “Wrong?–With me or you,” he queried, with keen, enigmatical glance upon her. “What is wrong between us? There is something.” “Carley, a man who has been on the verge–as I have been–seldom or never comes back to happiness. But perhaps–“ “You frighten me,” cried Carley, and, rising, she sat upon the arm of his chair and encircled his neck with her arms. “How can I help if I do not understand? Am I so miserably little? . . . Glenn, must I tell you? No woman can live without love. I need to be loved. That’s all that’s wrong with me.” “Carley, you are still an imperious, mushy girl,” replied Glenn, taking her into his arms. “I need to be loved, too. But that’s not what is wrong with me. You’ll have to find it out yourself.” “You’re a dear old Sphinx,” she retorted. “Listen, Carley,” he said, earnestly. “About this love-making stuff. Please don’t misunderstand me. I love you. I’m starved for your kisses. But–is it right to ask them?” “Right! Aren’t we engaged? And don’t I want to give them?” “If I were only sure we’d be married!” he said, in low, tense voice, as if speaking more to himself. “Married!” cried Carley, convulsively clasping him. “Of course we’ll be married. Glenn, you wouldn’t jilt me?” “Carley, what I mean is that you might never really marry me,” he answered, seriously. “Oh, if that’s all you need be sure of, Glenn Kilbourne, you may begin to make love to me now.” It was late when Carley went up to her room. And she was in such a softened mood, so happy and excited and yet disturbed in mind, that the coldness and the darkness did not matter in the least. She undressed in pitchy blackness, stumbling over chair and bed, feeling for what she needed. And in her mood this unusual proceeding was fun. When ready for bed she opened the door to take a peep out. Through the dense blackness the waterfall showed dimly opaque. Carley felt a soft mist wet her face. The low roar of the falling water seemed to envelop her. Under the cliff wall brooded impenetrable gloom. But out above the treetops shone great stars, wonderfully white and radiant and cold, with a piercing contrast to the deep clear blue of sky. The waterfall hummed into an absolutely dead silence. It emphasized the silence. Not only cold was it that made Carley shudder. How lonely, how lost, how hidden this canyon! Then she hurried to bed, grateful for the warm woolly blankets. Relaxation and thought brought consciousness of the heat of her blood, the beat and throb and swell of her heart, of the tumult within her. In the lonely darkness of her room she might have faced the truth of her strangely renewed and augmented love for Glenn Kilbourne. But she was more concerned with her happiness. She had won him back. Her presence, her love had overcome his restraint. She thrilled in the sweet consciousness of her woman’s conquest. How splendid he was! To hold back physical tenderness, the simple expressions of love, because he had feared they might unduly influence her! He had grown in many ways. She must be careful to reach up to his ideals. That about Flo Hutter’s toil-hardened hands! Was that significance somehow connected with the rift in the lute? For Carley admitted to herself that there was something amiss, something incomprehensible, something intangible that obtruded its menace into her dream of future happiness. Still, what had she to fear, so long as she could be with Glenn? And yet there were forced upon her, insistent and perplexing, the questions–was her love selfish? was she considering him? was she blind to something he could see? Tomorrow and next day and the days to come held promise of joyous companionship with Glenn, yet likewise they seemed full of a portent of trouble for her, or fight and ordeal, of lessons that would make life significant for her. CHAPTER III Carley was awakened by rattling sounds in her room. The raising of sleepy eyelids disclosed Flo on her knees before the little stove, ill the act of lighting a fire. “Mawnin’, Carley,” she drawled. “It’s shore cold. Reckon it’ll snow today, worse luck, just because you’re here. Take my hunch and stay in bed till the fire burns up.” “I shall do no such thing,” declared Carley, heroically. “We’re afraid you’ll take cold,” said Flo. “This is desert country with high altitude. Spring is here when the sun shines. But it’s only shinin’ in streaks these days. That means winter, really. Please be good.” “Well, it doesn’t require much self-denial to stay here awhile longer,” replied Carley, lazily. Flo left with a parting admonition not to let the stove get red-hot. And Carley lay snuggled in the warm blankets, dreading the ordeal of getting out into that cold bare room. Her nose was cold. When her nose grew cold, it being a faithful barometer as to temperature, Carley knew there was frost in the air. She preferred summer. Steam-heated rooms with hothouse flowers lending their perfume had certainly not trained Carley for primitive conditions. She had a spirit, however, that was waxing a little rebellious to all this intimation as to her susceptibility to colds and her probable weakness under privation. Carley got up. Her bare feet landed upon the board floor instead of the Navajo rug, and she thought she had encountered cold stone. Stove and hot water notwithstanding, by the time she was half dressed she was also half frozen. “Some actor fellow once said w-when you w-went West you were c-camping out,” chattered Carley. “Believe me, he said something.” The fact was Carley had never camped out. Her set played golf, rode horseback, motored and house-boated, but they had never gone in for uncomfortable trips. The camps and hotels in the Adirondacks were as warm and luxurious as Carley’s own home. Carley now missed many things. And assuredly her flesh was weak. It cost her effort of will and real pain to finish lacing her boots. As she had made an engagement with Glenn to visit his cabin, she had donned an outdoor suit. She wondered if the cold had anything to do with the perceptible diminishing of the sound of the waterfall. Perhaps some of the water had frozen, like her fingers. Carley went downstairs to the living room, and made no effort to resist a rush to the open fire. Flo and her mother were amused at Carley’s impetuosity. “You’ll like that stingin’ of the air after you get used to it,” said Mrs. Hutter. Carley had her doubts. When she was thoroughly thawed out she discovered an appetite quite unusual for her, and she enjoyed her breakfast. Then it was time to sally forth to meet Glenn. “It’s pretty sharp this mawnin’,” said Flo. “You’ll need gloves and sweater.” Having fortified herself with these, Carley asked how to find West Fork Canyon. “It’s down the road a little way,” replied Flo. “A great narrow canyon opening on the right side. You can’t miss it.” Flo accompanied her as far as the porch steps. A queer-looking individual was slouching along with ax over his shoulder. “There’s Charley,” said Flo. “He’ll show you.” Then she whispered: “He’s sort of dotty sometimes. A horse kicked him once. But mostly he’s sensible.” At Flo’s call the fellow halted with a grin. He was long, lean, loose jointed, dressed in blue overalls stuck into the tops of muddy boots, and his face was clear olive without beard or line. His brow bulged a little, and from under it peered out a pair of wistful brown eyes that reminded Carley of those of a dog she had once owned. “Wal, it ain’t a-goin’ to be a nice day,” remarked Charley, as he tried to accommodate his strides to Carley’s steps. “How can you tell?” asked Carley. “It looks clear and bright.” “Naw, this is a dark mawnin’. Thet’s a cloudy sun. We’ll hev snow on an’ off.” “Do you mind bad weather?” “Me? All the same to me. Reckon, though, I like it cold so I can loaf round a big fire at night.” “I like a big fire, too.” “Ever camped out?” he asked. “Not what you’d call the real thing,” replied Carley. “Wal, thet’s too bad. Reckon it’ll be tough fer you,” he went on, kindly. “There was a gurl tenderfoot heah two years ago an’ she had a hell of a time. They all joked her, ‘cept me, an’ played tricks on her. An’ on her side she was always puttin’ her foot in it. I was shore sorry fer her.” “You were very kind to be an exception,” murmured Carley. “You look out fer Tom Hutter, an’ I reckon Flo ain’t so darn above layin’ traps fer you. ‘Specially as she’s sweet on your beau. I seen them together a lot.” “Yes?” interrogated Carley, encouragingly. “Kilbourne is the best fellar thet ever happened along Oak Creek. I helped him build his cabin. We’ve hunted some together. Did you ever hunt?” “No.” “Wal, you’ve shore missed a lot of fun,” he said. “Turkey huntin’. Thet’s what fetches the gurls. I reckon because turkeys are so good to eat. The old gobblers hev begun to gobble now. I’ll take you gobbler huntin’ if you’d like to go.” “I’m sure I would.” “There’s good trout fishin’ along heah a little later,” he said, pointing to the stream. “Crick’s too high now. I like West Fork best. I’ve ketched some lammin’ big ones up there.” Carley was amused and interested. She could not say that Charley had shown any indication of his mental peculiarity to her. It took considerable restraint not to lead him to talk more about Flo and Glenn. Presently they reached the turn in the road, opposite the cottage Carley had noticed yesterday, and here her loquacious escort halted. “You take the trail heah,” he said, pointing it out, “an’ foller it into West Fork. So long, an’ don’t forget we’re goin’ huntin’ turkeys.” Carley smiled her thanks, and, taking to the trail, she stepped out briskly, now giving attention to her surroundings. The canyon had widened, and the creek with its deep thicket of green and white had sheered to the left. On her right the canyon wall appeared to be lifting higher–and higher. She could not see it well, owing to intervening treetops. The trail led her through a grove of maples and sycamores, out into an open park-like bench that turned to the right toward the cliff. Suddenly Carley saw a break in the red wall. It was the intersecting canyon, West Fork. What a narrow red-walled gateway! Huge pine trees spread wide gnarled branches over her head. The wind made soft rush in their tops, sending the brown needles lightly on the air. Carley turned the bulging corner, to be halted by a magnificent spectacle. It seemed a mountain wall loomed over her. It was the western side of this canyon, so lofty that Carley had to tip back her head to see the top. She swept her astonished gaze down the face of this tremendous red mountain wall and then slowly swept it upward again. This phenomenon of a cliff seemed beyond the comprehension of her sight. It looked a mile high. The few trees along its bold rampart resembled short spear-pointed bushes outlined against the steel gray of sky. Ledges, caves, seams, cracks, fissures, beetling red brows, yellow crumbling crags, benches of green growths and niches choked with brush, and bold points where single lonely pine trees grew perilously, and blank walls a thousand feet across their shadowed faces–these features gradually took shape in Carley’s confused sight, until the colossal mountain front stood up before her in all its strange, wild, magnificent ruggedness and beauty. “Arizona! Perhaps this is what he meant,” murmured Carley. “I never dreamed of anything like this. . . . But, oh! it overshadows me–bears me down! I could never have a moment’s peace under it.” It fascinated her. There were inaccessible ledges that haunted her with their remote fastnesses. How wonderful world it be to get there, rest there, if that were possible! But only eagles could reach them. There were places, then, that the desecrating hands of man could not touch. The dark caves were mystically potent in their vacant staring out at the world beneath them. The crumbling crags, the toppling ledges, the leaning rocks all threatened to come thundering down at the breath of wind. How deep and soft the red color in contrast with the green! How splendid the sheer bold uplift of gigantic steps! Carley found herself marveling at the forces that had so rudely, violently, and grandly left this monument to nature. “Well, old Fifth Avenue gadder!” called a gay voice. “If the back wall of my yard so halts you–what will you ever do when you see the Painted Desert, or climb Sunset Peak, or look down into the Grand Canyon?” “Oh, Glenn, where are you?” cried Carley, gazing everywhere near at hand. But he was farther away. The clearness of his voice had deceived her. Presently she espied him a little distance away, across a creek she had not before noticed. “Come on,” he called. “I want to see you cross the stepping stones.” Carley ran ahead, down a little slope of clean red rock, to the shore of the green water. It was clear, swift, deep in some places and shallow in others, with white wreathes or ripples around the rocks evidently placed there as a means to cross. Carley drew back aghast. “Glenn, I could never make it,” she called. “Come on, my Alpine climber,” he taunted. “Will you let Arizona daunt you?” “Do you want me to fall in and catch cold?” she cried, desperately. “Carley, big women might even cross the bad places of modern life on stepping stones of their dead selves!” he went on, with something of mockery. “Surely a few physical steps are not beyond you.” “Say, are you mangling Tennyson or just kidding me?” she demanded slangily. “My love, Flo could cross here with her eyes shut.” That thrust spurred Carley to action. His words were jest, yet they held a hint of earnest. With her heart at her throat Carley stepped on the first rock, and, poising, she calculated on a running leap from stone to stone. Once launched, she felt she was falling downhill. She swayed, she splashed, she slipped; and clearing the longest leap from the last stone to shore she lost her balance and fell into Glenn’s arms. His kisses drove away both her panic and her resentment. “By Jove! I didn’t think you’d even attempt it!” he declared, manifestly pleased. “I made sure I’d have to pack you over–in fact, rather liked the idea.” “I wouldn’t advise you to employ any such means again–to dare me,” she retorted. “That’s a nifty outdoor suit you’ve on,” he said, admiringly. “I was wondering what you’d wear. I like short outing skirts for women, rather than trousers. The service sort of made the fair sex dippy about pants.” “It made them dippy about more than that,” she replied. “You and I will never live to see the day that women recover their balance.” “I agree with you,” replied Glenn. Carley locked her arm in his. “Honey, I want to have a good time today. Cut out all the other women stuff. . . . Take me to see your little gray home in the West. Or is it gray?” He laughed. “Why, yes, it’s gray, just about. The logs have bleached some.” Glenn led her away up a trail that climbed between bowlders, and meandered on over piny mats of needles under great, silent, spreading pines; and closer to the impondering mountain wall, where at the base of the red rock the creek murmured strangely with hollow gurgle, where the sun had no chance to affect the cold damp gloom; and on through sweet-smelling woods, out into the sunlight again, and across a wider breadth of stream; and up a slow slope covered with stately pines, to a little cabin that faced the west. “Here we are, sweetheart,” said Glenn. “Now we shall see what you are made of.” Carley was non-committal as to that. Her intense interest precluded any humor at this moment. Not until she actually saw the log cabin Glenn had erected with his own hands had she been conscious of any great interest. But sight of it awoke something unaccustomed in Carley. As she stepped into the cabin her heart was not acting normally for a young woman who had no illusions about love in a cottage. Glenn’s cabin contained one room about fifteen feet wide by twenty long. Between the peeled logs were lines of red mud, hard dried. There was a small window opposite the door. In one corner was a couch of poles, with green tips of pine boughs peeping from under the blankets. The floor consisted of flat rocks laid irregularly, with many spaces of earth showing between. The open fireplace appeared too large for the room, but the very bigness of it, as well as the blazing sticks and glowing embers, appealed strongly to Carley. A rough-hewn log formed the mantel, and on it Carley’s picture held the place of honor. Above this a rifle lay across deer antlers. Carley paused here in her survey long enough to kiss Glenn and point to her photograph. “You couldn’t have pleased me more.” To the left of the fireplace was a rude cupboard of shelves, packed with boxes, cans, bags, and utensils. Below the cupboard, hung upon pegs, were blackened pots and pans, a long-handled skillet, and a bucket. Glenn’s table was a masterpiece. There was no danger of knocking it over. It consisted of four poles driven into the ground, upon which had been nailed two wide slabs. This table showed considerable evidence of having been scrubbed scrupulously clean. There were two low stools, made out of boughs, and the seats had been covered with woolly sheep hide. In the right-hand corner stood a neat pile of firewood, cut with an ax, and beyond this hung saddle and saddle blanket, bridle and spurs. An old sombrero was hooked upon the pommel of the saddle. Upon the wall, higher up, hung a lantern, resting in a coil of rope that Carley took to be a lasso. Under a shelf upon which lay a suitcase hung some rough wearing apparel. Carley noted that her picture and the suit case were absolutely the only physical evidences of Glenn’s connection with his Eastern life. That had an unaccountable effect upon Carley. What had she expected? Then, after another survey of the room, she began to pester Glenn with questions. He had to show her the spring outside and the little bench with basin and soap. Sight of his soiled towel made her throw up her hands. She sat on the stools. She lay on the couch. She rummaged into the contents of the cupboard. She threw wood on the fire. Then, finally, having exhausted her search and inquiry, she flopped down on one of the stools to gaze at Glenn in awe and admiration and incredulity. “Glenn–you’ve actually lived here!” she ejaculated. “Since last fall before the snow came,” he said, smiling. “Snow! Did it snow?” she inquired. “Well, I guess. I was snowed in for a week.” “Why did you choose this lonely place–way off from the Lodge?” she asked, slowly. “I wanted to be by myself,” he replied, briefly. “You mean this is a sort of camp-out place?” “Carley, I call it my home,” he replied, and there was a low, strong sweetness in his voice she had never heard before. That silenced her for a while. She went to the door and gazed up at the towering wall, more wonderful than ever, and more fearful, too, in her sight. Presently tears dimmed her eyes. She did not understand her feeling; she was ashamed of it; she hid it from Glenn. Indeed, there was something terribly wrong between her and Glenn, and it was not in him. This cabin he called home gave her a shock which would take time to analyze. At length she turned to him with gay utterance upon her lips. She tried to put out of her mind a dawning sense that this close-to-the-earth habitation, this primitive dwelling, held strange inscrutable power over a self she had never divined she possessed. The very stones in the hearth seemed to call out from some remote past, and the strong sweet smell of burnt wood thrilled to the marrow of her bones. How little she knew of herself! But she had intelligence enough to understand that there was a woman in her, the female of the species; and through that the sensations from logs and stones and earth and fire had strange power to call up the emotions handed down to her from the ages. The thrill, the queer heartbeat, the vague, haunting memory of something, as of a dim childhood adventure, the strange prickling sense of dread–these abided with her and augmented while she tried to show Glenn her pride in him and also how funny his cabin seemed to her. Once or twice he hesitatingly, and somewhat appealingly, she imagined, tried to broach the subject of his work there in the West. But Carley wanted a little while with him free of disagreeable argument. It was a foregone conclusion that she would not like his work. Her intention at first had been to begin at once to use all persuasion in her power toward having him go back East with her, or at the latest some time this year. But the rude log cabin had checked her impulse. She felt that haste would be unwise. “Glenn Kilbourne, I told you why I came West to see you,” she said, spiritedly. “Well, since you still swear allegiance to your girl from the East, you might entertain her a little bit before getting down to business talk.” “All right, Carley,” he replied, laughing. “What do you want to do? The day is at your disposal. I wish it were June. Then if you didn’t fall in love with West Fork you’d be no good.” “Glenn, I love people, not places,” she returned. “So I remember. And that’s one thing I don’t like. But let’s not quarrel. What’ll we do?” “Suppose you tramp with me all around, until I’m good and hungry. Then we’ll come back here–and you can cook dinner for me.” “Fine! Oh, I know you’re just bursting with curiosity to see how I’ll do it. Well, you may be surprised, miss.” “Let’s go,” she urged. “Shall I take my gun or fishing rod?” “You shall take nothing but me,” retorted Carley. “What chance has a girl with a man, if he can hunt or fish?” So they went out hand in hand. Half of the belt of sky above was obscured by swiftly moving gray clouds. The other half was blue and was being slowly encroached upon by the dark storm-like pall. How cold the air! Carley had already learned that when the sun was hidden the atmosphere was cold. Glenn led her down a trail to the brook, where he calmly picked her up in his arms, quite easily, it appeared, and leisurely packed her across, kissing her half a dozen times before he deposited her on her feet. “Glenn, you do this sort of thing so well that it makes me imagine you have practice now and then,” she said. “No. But you are pretty and sweet, and like the girl you were four years ago. That takes me back to those days.” “I thank you. That’s dear of you. I think I am something of a cat. . . . I’ll be glad if this walk leads us often to the creek.” Spring might have been fresh and keen in the air, but it had not yet brought much green to the brown earth or to the trees. The cotton-woods showed a light feathery verdure. The long grass was a bleached white, and low down close to the sod fresh tiny green blades showed. The great fern leaves were sear and ragged, and they rustled in the breeze. Small gray sheath-barked trees with clumpy foliage and snags of dead branches, Glenn called cedars; and, grotesque as these were, Carley rather liked them. They were approachable, not majestic and lofty like the pines, and they smelled sweetly wild, and best of all they afforded some protection from the bitter wind. Carley rested better than she walked. The huge sections of red rock that had tumbled from above also interested Carley, especially when the sun happened to come out for a few moments and brought out their color. She enjoyed walking on the fallen pines, with Glenn below, keeping pace with her and holding her hand. Carley looked in vain for flowers and birds. The only living things she saw were rainbow trout that Glenn pointed out to her in the beautiful clear pools. The way the great gray bowlders trooped down to the brook as if they were cattle going to drink; the dark caverns under the shelving cliffs, where the water murmured with such hollow mockery; the low spear-pointed gray plants, resembling century plants, and which Glenn called mescal cactus, each with its single straight dead stalk standing on high with fluted head; the narrow gorges, perpendicularly walled in red, where the constricted brook plunged in amber and white cascades over fall after fall, tumbling, rushing, singing its water melody–these all held singular appeal for Carley as aspects of the wild land, fascinating for the moment, symbolic of the lonely red man and his forbears, and by their raw contrast making more necessary and desirable and elevating the comforts and conventions of civilization. The cave man theory interested Carley only as mythology. Lonelier, wilder, grander grew Glenn’s canyon. Carley was finally forced to shift her attention from the intimate objects of the canyon floor to the aloof and unattainable heights. Singular to feel the difference! That which she could see close at hand, touch if she willed, seemed to, become part of her knowledge, could be observed and so possessed and passed by. But the gold-red ramparts against the sky, the crannied cliffs, the crags of the eagles, the lofty, distant blank walls, where the winds of the gods had written their wars–these haunted because they could never be possessed. Carley had often gazed at the Alps as at celebrated pictures. She admired, she appreciated–then she forgot. But the canyon heights did not affect her that way. They vaguely dissatisfied, and as she could not be sure of what they dissatisfied, she had to conclude that it was in herself. To see, to watch, to dream, to seek, to strive, to endure, to find! Was that what they meant? They might make her thoughtful of the vast earth, and its endless age, and its staggering mystery. But what more! The storm that had threatened blackened the sky, and gray scudding clouds buried the canyon rims, and long veils of rain and sleet began to descend. The wind roared through the pines, drowning the roar of the brook. Quite suddenly the air grew piercingly cold. Carley had forgotten her gloves, and her pockets had not been constructed to protect hands. Glenn drew her into a sheltered nook where a rock jutted out from overhead and a thicket of young pines helped break the onslaught of the wind. There Carley sat on a cold rock, huddled up close to Glenn, and wearing to a state she knew would be misery. Glenn not only seemed content; he was happy. “This is great,” he said. His coat was open, his hands uncovered, and he watched the storm and listened with manifest delight. Carley hated to betray what a weakling she was, so she resigned herself to her fate, and imagined she felt her fingers numbing into ice, and her sensitive nose slowly and painfully freezing. The storm passed, however, before Carley sank into abject and open wretchedness. She managed to keep pace with Glenn until exercise warmed her blood. At every little ascent in the trail she found herself laboring to get her breath. There was assuredly evidence of abundance of air in this canyon, but somehow she could not get enough of it. Glenn detected this and said it was owing to the altitude. When they reached the cabin Carley was wet, stiff, cold, exhausted. How welcome the shelter, the open fireplace! Seeing the cabin in new light, Carley had the grace to acknowledge to herself that, after all, it was not so bad. “Now for a good fire and then dinner,” announced Glenn, with the air of one who knew his ground. “Can I help?” queried Carley. “Not today. I do not want you to spring any domestic science on me now.” Carley was not averse to withholding her ignorance. She watched Glenn with surpassing curiosity and interest. First he threw a quantity of wood upon the smoldering fire. “I have ham and mutton of my own raising,” announced Glenn, with importance. “Which would you prefer?” “Of your own raising. What do you mean?” queried Carley. “My dear, you’ve been so steeped in the fog of the crowd that you are blind to the homely and necessary things of living. I mean I have here meat of both sheep and hog that I raised myself. That is to say, mutton and ham. Which do you like?” “Ham!” cried Carley, incredulously. Without more ado Glenn settled to brisk action, every move of which Carley watched with keen eyes. The usurping of a woman’s province by a man was always an amusing thing. But for Glenn Kilbourne–what more would it be? He evidently knew what he wanted, for every movement was quick, decisive. One after another he placed bags, cans, sacks, pans, utensils on the table. Then he kicked at the roaring fire, settling some of the sticks. He strode outside to return with a bucket of water, a basin, towel, and soap. Then he took down two queer little iron pots with heavy lids. To each pot was attached a wire handle. He removed the lids, then set both the pots right on the fire or in it. Pouring water into the basin, he proceeded to wash his hands. Next he took a large pail, and from a sack he filled it half full of flour. To this he added baking powder and salt. It was instructive for Carley to see him run his skillful fingers all through that flour, as if searching for lumps. After this he knelt before the fire and, lifting off one of the iron pots with a forked stick, he proceeded to wipe out the inside of the pot and grease it with a piece of fat. His next move was to rake out a pile of the red coals, a feat he performed with the stick, and upon these he placed the pot. Also he removed the other pot from the fire, leaving it, however, quite close. “Well, all eyes?” he bantered, suddenly staring at her. “Didn’t I say I’d surprise you?” “Don’t mind me. This is about the happiest and most bewildered moment–of my life,” replied Carley. Returning to the table, Glenn dug at something in a large red can. He paused a moment to eye Carley. “Girl, do you know how to make biscuits?” he queried. “I might have known in my school days, but I’ve forgotten,” she replied. “Can you make apple pie?” he demanded, imperiously. “No,” rejoined Carley. “How do you expect to please your husband?” “Why–by marrying him, I suppose,” answered Carley, as if weighing a problem. “That has been the universal feminine point of view for a good many years,” replied Glenn, flourishing a flour-whitened hand. “But it never served the women of the Revolution or the pioneers. And they were the builders of the nation. It will never serve the wives of the future, if we are to survive.” “Glenn, you rave!” ejaculated Carley, not knowing whether to laugh or be grave. “You were talking of humble housewifely things.” “Precisely. The humble things that were the foundation of the great nation of Americans. I meant work and children.” Carley could only stare at him. The look he flashed at her, the sudden intensity and passion of his ringing words, were as if he gave her a glimpse into the very depths of him. He might have begun in fun, but he had finished otherwise. She felt that she really did not know this man. Had he arraigned her in judgment? A flush, seemingly hot and cold, passed over her. Then it relieved her to see that he had returned to his task. He mixed the shortening with the flour, and, adding water, he began a thorough kneading. When the consistency of the mixture appeared to satisfy him he took a handful of it, rolled it into a ball, patted and flattened it into a biscuit, and dropped it into the oven he had set aside on the hot coals. Swiftly he shaped eight or ten other biscuits and dropped them as the first. Then he put the heavy iron lid on the pot, and with a rude shovel, improvised from a flattened tin can, he shoveled red coals out of the fire, and covered the lid with them. His next move was to pare and slice potatoes, placing these aside in a pan. A small black coffee-pot half full of water, was set on a glowing part of the fire. Then he brought into use a huge, heavy knife, a murderous-looking implement it appeared to Carley, with which he cut slices of ham. These he dropped into the second pot, which he left uncovered. Next he removed the flour sack and other inpedimenta from the table, and proceeded to set places for two–blue-enamel plate and cup, with plain, substantial-looking knives, forks, and spoons. He went outside, to return presently carrying a small crock of butter. Evidently he had kept the butter in or near the spring. It looked dewy and cold and hard. After that he peeped under the lid of the pot which contained the biscuits. The other pot was sizzling and smoking, giving forth a delicious savory odor that affected Carley most agreeably. The coffee-pot had begun to steam. With a long fork Glenn turned the slices of ham and stood a moment watching them. Next he placed cans of three sizes upon the table; and these Carley conjectured contained sugar, salt, and pepper. Carley might not have been present, for all the attention he paid to her. Again he peeped at the biscuits. At the edge of the hot embers he placed a tin plate, upon which he carefully deposited the slices of ham. Carley had not needed sight of them to know she was hungry; they made her simply ravenous. That done, he poured the pan of sliced potatoes into the pot. Carley judged the heat of that pot to be extreme. Next he removed the lid from the other pot, exposing biscuits slightly browned; and evidently satisfied with these, he removed them from the coals. He stirred the slices of potatoes round and round; he emptied two heaping tablespoonfuls of coffee into the coffee-pot. “Carley,” he said, at last turning to her with a warm smile, “out here in the West the cook usually yells, ‘Come and get it.’ Draw up your stool.” And presently Carley found herself seated across the crude table from Glenn, with the background of chinked logs in her sight, and the smart of wood smoke in her eyes. In years past she had sat with him in the soft, subdued, gold-green shadows of the Astor, or in the sumptuous atmosphere of the St. Regis. But this event was so different, so striking, that she felt it would have limitless significance. For one thing, the look of Glenn! When had he ever seemed like this, wonderfully happy to have her there, consciously proud of this dinner he had prepared in half an hour, strangely studying her as one on trial? This might have had its effect upon Carley’s reaction to the situation, making it sweet, trenchant with meaning, but she was hungry enough and the dinner was good enough to make this hour memorable on that score alone. She ate until she was actually ashamed of herself. She laughed heartily, she talked, she made love to Glenn. Then suddenly an idea flashed into her quick mind. “Glenn, did this girl Flo teach you to cook?” she queried, sharply. “No. I always was handy in camp. Then out here I had the luck to fall in with an old fellow who was a wonderful cook. He lived with me for a while. . . . Why, what difference would it have made–had Flo taught me?” Carley felt the heat of blood in her face. “I don’t know that it would have made a difference. Only–I’m glad she didn’t teach you. I’d rather no girl could teach you what I couldn’t.” “You think I’m a pretty good cook, then?” he asked. “I’ve enjoyed this dinner more than any I’ve ever eaten.” “Thanks, Carley. That’ll help a lot,” he said, gayly, but his eyes shone with earnest, glad light. “I hoped I’d surprise you. I’ve found out here that I want to do things well. The West stirs something in a man. It must be an unwritten law. You stand or fall by your own hands. Back East you know meals are just occasions–to hurry through–to dress for–to meet somebody–to eat because you have to eat. But out here they are different. I don’t know how. In the city, producers, merchants, waiters serve you for money. The meal is a transaction. It has no significance. It is money that keeps you from starvation. But in the West money doesn’t mean much. You must work to live.” Carley leaned her elbows on the table and gazed at him curiously and admiringly. “Old fellow, you’re a wonder. I can’t tell you how proud I am