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The Call of the Canyon

by Zane Grey

September, 1999 [Etext #1881]

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This Etext has been prepared by Bill Brewer, billbrewer@ttu.edu

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

of you. That you could come West weak and sick, and fight your way to

health, and learn to be self-sufficient! It is a splendid achievement. It

amazes me. I don't grasp it. I want to think. Nevertheless I--"

"What?" he queried, as she hesitated.

"Oh, never mind now," she replied, hastily, averting her eyes.

The day was far spent when Carley returned to the Lodge-and in spite of the

discomfort of cold and sleet, and the bitter wind that beat in her face as

she struggled up the trail--it was a day never to be forgotten. Nothing had

been wanting in Glenn's attention or affection. He had been comrade, lover,

all she craved for. And but for his few singular words about work and

children there had been no serious talk. Only a play day in his canyon and

his cabin! Yet had she appeared at her best? Something vague and perplexing

knocked at the gate of her consciousness.

CHAPTER IV

Two warm sunny days in early May inclined Mr. Hutter to the opinion that

pleasant spring weather was at hand and that it would be a propitious time

to climb up on the desert to look after his sheep interests. Glenn, of

course, would accompany him.

"Carley and I will go too," asserted Flo.

"Reckon that'll be good," said Hutter, with approving nod.

His wife also agreed that it would be fine for Carley to see the beautiful

desert country round Sunset Peak. But Glenn looked dubious.

"Carley, it'll be rather hard," he said. "You're soft, and riding and lying

out will stove you up. You ought to break in gradually."

"I rode ten miles today," rejoined Carley. "And didn't mind it--much." This

was a little deviation from stern veracity.

"Shore Carley's well and strong," protested Flo. "She'll get sore, but that

won't kill her."

Glenn eyed Flo with rather penetrating glance. "I might drive Carley round

about in the car," he said.

"But you can't drive over those lava flats, or go round, either. We'd have

to send horses in some cases miles to meet you. It's horseback if you go at

all."

"Shore we'll go horseback," spoke up Flo. "Carley has got it all over that

Spencer girl who was here last summer."

"I think so, too. I am sure I hope so. Because you remember what the ride

to Long Valley did to Miss Spencer," rejoined Glenn.

"What?" inquired Carley.

"Bad cold, peeled nose, skinned shin, saddle sores. She was in bed two

days. She didn't show much pep the rest of her stay here, and she never got

on another horse."

"Oh, is that all, Glenn?" returned Carley, in feigned surprise. "Why, I

imagined from your tone that Miss Spencer's ride must have occasioned her

discomfort. . . . See here, Glenn. I may be a tenderfoot, but I'm no

mollycoddle."

"My dear, I surrender," replied Glenn, with a laugh. "Really, I'm

delighted. But if anything happens--don't you blame me. I'm quite sure that

a long horseback ride, in spring, on the desert, will show you a good many

things about yourself."

That was how Carley came to find herself, the afternoon of the next day,

astride a self-willed and unmanageable little mustang, riding in the rear

of her friends, on the way through a cedar forest toward a place called

Deep Lake.

Carley had not been able yet, during the several hours of their journey, to

take any pleasure in the scenery or in her mount. For in the first place

there was nothing to see but scrubby little gnarled cedars and drab-looking

rocks; and in the second this Indian pony she rode had discovered she was

not an adept horsewoman and had proceeded to take advantage of the fact. It

did not help Carley's predicament to remember that Glenn had decidedly

advised her against riding this particular mustang. To be sure, Flo had

approved of Carley's choice, and Mr. Hutter, with a hearty laugh, had

fallen in line: "Shore. Let her ride one of the broncs, if she wants." So

this animal she bestrode must have been a bronc, for it did not take him

long to elicit from Carley a muttered, "I don't know what bronc means, but

it sounds like this pony acts."

Carley had inquired the animal's name from the young herder who had saddled

him for her.

"Wal, I reckon he ain't got much of a name," replied the lad, with a grin,

as he scratched his head. "For us boys always called him Spillbeans."

"Humph! What a beautiful cognomen!" ejaculated Carley, "But according to

Shakespeare any name will serve. I'll ride him or--or--"

So far there had not really been any necessity for the completion of that

sentence. But five miles of riding up into the cedar forest had convinced

Carley that she might not have much farther to go. Spillbeans had ambled

along well enough until he reached level ground where a long bleached grass

waved in the wind. Here he manifested hunger, then a contrary nature, next

insubordination, and finally direct hostility. Carley had urged, pulled,

and commanded in vain. Then when she gave Spillbeans a kick in the flank he

jumped stiff legged, propelling her up out of the saddle, and while she was

descending he made the queer jump again, coming up to meet her. The jolt

she got seemed to dislocate every bone in her body. Likewise it hurt.

Moreover, along with her idea of what a spectacle she must have presented,

it quickly decided Carley that Spillbeans was a horse that was not to be

opposed. Whenever he wanted a mouthful of grass he stopped to get it.

Therefore Carley was always in the rear, a fact which in itself did not

displease her. Despite his contrariness, however, Spillbeans had apparently

no intention of allowing the other horses to get completely out of sight.

Several times Flo waited for Carley to catch up. "He's loafing on you,

Carley. You ought to have on a spur. Break off a switch and beat him some."

Then she whipped the mustang across the flank with her bridle rein, which

punishment caused Spillbeans meekly to trot on with alacrity. Carley had a

positive belief that he would not do it for her. And after Flo's repeated

efforts, assisted by chastisement from Glenn, had kept Spillbeans in a trot

for a couple of miles Carley began to discover that the trotting of a horse

was the most uncomfortable motion possible to imagine. It grew worse. It

became painful. It gradually got unendurable. But pride made Carley endure

it until suddenly she thought she had been stabbed in the side. This

strange piercing pain must be what Glenn had called a "stitch" in the side,

something common to novices on horseback. Carley could have screamed. She

pulled the mustang to a walk and sagged in her saddle until the pain

subsided. What a blessed relief! Carley had keen sense of the difference

between riding in Central Park and in Arizona. She regretted her choice of

horses. Spillbeans was attractive to look at, but the pleasure of riding

him was a delusion. Flo had said his gait resembled the motion of a rocking

chair. This Western girl, according to Charley, the sheep herder, was not

above playing Arizona jokes. Be that as it might, Spillbeans now manifested

a desire to remain with the other horses, and he broke out of a walk into a

trot. Carley could not keep him from trotting. Hence her state soon wore

into acute distress.

Her left ankle seemed broken. The stirrup was heavy, and as soon as she was

tired she could no longer keep its weight from drawing her foot in. The

inside of her right knee was as sore as a boil. Besides, she had other

pains, just as severe, and she stood momentarily in mortal dread of that

terrible stitch in her side. If it returned she knew she would fall off.

But, fortunately, just when she was growing weak and dizzy, the horses

ahead slowed to a walk on a descent. The road wound down into a wide deep

canyon. Carley had a respite from her severest pains. Never before had she

known what it meant to be so grateful for relief from anything.

The afternoon grew far advanced and the sunset was hazily shrouded in gray.

Hutter did not like the looks of those clouds. "Reckon we're in for

weather," he said. Carley did not care what happened. Weather or anything

else that might make it possible to get off her horse! Glenn rode beside

her, inquiring solicitously as to her pleasure. "Ride of my life!" she lied

heroically. And it helped some to see that she both fooled and pleased him.

Beyond the canyon the cedared desert heaved higher and changed its aspect.

The trees grew larger, bushier, greener, and closer together, with patches

of bleached grass between, and russet-lichened rocks everywhere. Small

cactus plants bristled sparsely in open places; and here and there bright

red flowers--Indian paintbrush, Flo called them--added a touch of color to

the gray. Glenn pointed to where dark banks of cloud had massed around the

mountain peaks. The scene to the west was somber and compelling.

At last the men and the pack-horses ahead came to a halt in a level green

forestland with no high trees. Far ahead a chain of soft gray round hills

led up to the dark heaved mass of mountains. Carley saw the gleam of water

through the trees. Probably her mustang saw or scented it, because he

started to trot. Carley had reached a limit of strength, endurance, and

patience. She hauled him up short. When Spillbeans evinced a stubborn

intention to go on Carley gave him a kick. Then it happened.

She felt the reins jerked out of her hands and the saddle propel her

upward. When she descended it was to meet that before-experienced jolt.

"Look!" cried Flo. "That bronc is going to pitch."

"Hold on, Carley!" yelled Glenn.

Desperately Carley essayed to do just that. But Spillbeans jolted her out

of the saddle. She came down on his rump and began to slide back and down.

Frightened and furious, Carley tried to hang to the saddle with her hands

and to squeeze the mustang with her knees. But another jolt broke her hold,

and then, helpless and bewildered, with her heart in her throat and a

terrible sensation of weakness, she slid back at each upheave of the

muscular rump until she slid off and to the ground in a heap. Whereupon

Spillbeans trotted off toward the water.

Carley sat up before Glenn and Flo reached her. Manifestly they were

concerned about her, but both were ready to burst with laughter. Carley

knew she was not hurt and she was so glad to be off the mustang that, on

the moment, she could almost have laughed herself.

"That beast is well named," she said. "He spilled me, all right. And I

presume I resembled a sack of beans."

"Carley--you're--not hurt?" asked Glenn, choking, as he helped her up.

"Not physically. But my feelings are."

Then Glenn let out a hearty howl of mirth, which was seconded by a loud

guffaw from Hutter. Flo, however, appeared to be able to restrain whatever

she felt. To Carley she looked queer.

"Pitch! You called it that," said Carley.

"Oh, he didn't really pitch. He just humped up a few times," replied Flo,

and then when she saw how Carley was going to take it she burst into a

merry peal of laughter. Charley, the sheep herder was grinning, and some of

the other men turned away with shaking shoulders.

"Laugh, you wild and woolly Westerners!" ejaculated Carley. "It must have

been funny. I hope I can be a good sport. . . . But I bet you I ride him

tomorrow."

"Shore you will," replied Flo.

Evidently the little incident drew the party closer together. Carley felt a

warmth of good nature that overcame her first feeling of humiliation. They

expected such things from her, and she should expect them, too, and take

them, if not fearlessly or painlessly, at least without resentment.

Carley walked about to ease her swollen and sore joints, and while doing so

she took stock of the camp ground and what was going on. At second glance

the place had a certain attraction difficult for her to define. She could

see far, and the view north toward those strange gray-colored symmetrical

hills was one that fascinated while it repelled her. Near at hand the

ground sloped down to a large rock-bound lake, perhaps a mile in

circumference. In the distance, along the shore she saw a white conical

tent, and blue smoke, and moving gray objects she took for sheep.

The men unpacked and unsaddled the horses, and, hobbling their forefeet

together, turned them loose. Twilight had fallen and each man appeared to

be briskly set upon his own task. Glenn was cutting around the foot of a

thickly branched cedar where, he told Carley, he would make a bed for her

and Flo. All that Carley could see that could be used for such purpose was

a canvas-covered roll. Presently Glenn untied a rope from round this,

unrolled it, and dragged it under the cedar. Then he spread down the outer

layer of canvas, disclosing a considerable thickness of blankets. From

under the top of these he pulled out two flat little pillows. These he

placed in position, and turned back some of the blankets.

"Carley, you crawl in here, pile the blankets up, and the tarp over them,"

directed Glenn. "If it rains pull the tarp up over your head--and let it

rain."

This direction sounded in Glenn's cheery voice a good deal more pleasurable

than the possibilities suggested. Surely that cedar tree could not keep off

rain or snow.

"Glenn, how about--about animals--and crawling things, you know?" queried

Carley.

"Oh, there are a few tarantulas and centipedes, and sometimes a scorpion.

But these don't crawl around much at night. The only thing to worry about

are the hydrophobia skunks."

"What on earth are they?" asked Carley, quite aghast.

"Skunks are polecats, you know," replied Glenn, cheerfully. "Sometimes one

gets bitten by a coyote that has rabies, and then he's a dangerous

customer. He has no fear and he may run across you and bite you in the

face. Queer how they generally bite your nose. Two men have been bitten

since I've been here. One of them died, and the other had to go to the Pasteur Institute

with a well-developed case of hydrophobia."

"Good heavens!" cried Carley, horrified.

"You needn't be afraid," said Glenn. "I'll tie one of the dogs near your

bed."

Carley wondered whether Glenn's casual, easy tone had been adopted for her

benefit or was merely an assimilation from this Western life. Not

improbably Glenn himself might be capable of playing a trick on her. Carley

endeavored to fortify herself against disaster, so that when it befell she

might not be wholly ludicrous.

With the coming of twilight a cold, keen wind moaned through the cedars.

Carley would have hovered close to the fire even if she had not been too

tired to exert herself. Despite her aches, she did justice to the supper.

It amazed her that appetite consumed her to the extent of overcoming a

distaste for this strong, coarse cooking. Before the meal ended darkness

had fallen, a windy raw darkness that enveloped heavily like a blanket.

Presently Carley edged closer to the fire, and there she stayed,

alternately turning back and front to the welcome heat. She seemingly

roasted hands, face, and knees while her back froze. The wind blew the

smoke in all directions. When she groped around with blurred, smarting eyes

to escape the hot smoke, it followed her. The other members of the party

sat comfortably on sacks or rocks, without much notice of the smoke that so

exasperated Carley. Twice Glenn insisted that she take a seat he had fixed

for her, but she preferred to stand and move around a little.

By and by the camp tasks of the men appeared to be ended, and all gathered

near the fire to lounge and smoke and talk. Glenn and Hutter engaged in

interested conversation with two Mexicans, evidently sheep herders. If the

wind and cold had not made Carley so uncomfortable she might have found the

scene picturesque. How black the night! She could scarcely distinguish the

sky at all. The cedar branches swished in the wind, and from the gloom came

a low sound of waves lapping a rocky shore. Presently Glenn held up a hand.

"Listen, Carley!" he said.

Then she heard strange wild yelps, staccato, piercing, somehow infinitely

lonely. They made her shudder.

"Coyotes," said Glenn. "You'll come to love that chorus. Hear the dogs bark

back."

Carley listened with interest, but she was inclined to doubt that she would

ever become enamoured of such wild cries.

"Do coyotes come near camp?" she queried.

"Shore. Sometimes they pull your pillow out from under your head," replied

Flo, laconically.

Carley did not ask any more questions. Natural history was not her favorite

study and she was sure she could dispense with any first-hand knowledge of

desert beasts. She thought, however, she heard one of the men say, "Big

varmint prowlin' round the sheep." To which Hutter replied, "Reckon it was

a bear." And Glenn said, "I saw his fresh track by the lake. Some bear!"

The heat from the fire made Carley so drowsy that she could scarcely hold

up her head. She longed for bed even if it was out there in the open.

Presently Flo called her: "Come. Let's walk a little before turning in."

So Carley permitted herself to be led to and fro down an open aisle between

some cedars. The far end of that aisle, dark, gloomy, with the bushy

secretive cedars all around, caused Carley apprehension she was ashamed to

admit. Flo talked eloquently about the joys of camp life, and how the

harder any outdoor task was and the more endurance and pain it required,

the more pride and pleasure one had in remembering it. Carley was weighing

the import of these words when suddenly Flo clutched her arm. "What's

that?" she whispered, tensely.

Carley stood stockstill. They had reached the furthermost end of that

aisle, but had turned to go back. The flare of the camp fire threw a wan

light into the shadows before them. There came a rustling in the brush, a

snapping of twigs. Cold tremors chased up and down Carley's back.

"Shore it's a varmint, all right. Let's hurry," whispered Flo.

Carley needed no urging. It appeared that Flo was not going to run. She

walked fast, peering back over her shoulder, and, hanging to Carley's arm,

she rounded a large cedar that had obstructed some of the firelight. The

gloom was not so thick here. And on the instant Carley espied a low, moving

object, somehow furry, and gray in color. She gasped. She could not speak.

Her heart gave a mighty throb and seemed to stop.

"What--do you see?" cried Flo, sharply, peering ahead. "Oh! . . . Come,

Carley. Run!"

Flo's cry showed she must nearly be strangled with terror. But Carley was

frozen in her tracks. Her eyes were riveted upon the gray furry object. It

stopped. Then it came faster. It magnified. It was a huge beast. Carley had

no control over mind, heart, voice, or muscle. Her legs gave way. She was

sinking. A terrible panic, icy, sickening, rending, possessed her whole

body.

The huge gray thing came at her. Into the rushing of her ears broke

thudding sounds. The thing leaped up. A horrible petrifaction suddenly made

stone of Carley. Then she saw a gray mantlelike object cast aside to

disclose the dark form of a man. Glenn!

"Carley, dog-gone it! You don't scare worth a cent," he laughingly

complained.

She collapsed into his arms. The liberating shock was as great as had been

her terror. She began to tremble violently. Her hands got back a sense of

strength to clutch. Heart and blood seemed released from that ice-banded vise.

"Say, I believe you were scared," went on Glenn, bending over her.

"Scar-ed!" she gasped. "Oh--there's no word--to tell--what I was!"

Flo came running back, giggling with joy. "Glenn, she shore took you for a

bear. Why, I felt her go stiff as a post! . . . Hal Ha! Hal Carley, now how

do you like the wild and woolly?"

"Oh! You put up-a trick on me!" ejaculated Carley. "Glenn, how could you? .

. . Such a terrible trick! I wouldn't have minded something reasonable. But

that! Oh, I'll never forgive you!"

Glenn showed remorse, and kissed her before Flo in a way that made some

little amends. "Maybe I overdid it," he said. "But I thought you'd have a

momentary start, you know, enough to make you yell, and then you'd see

through it. I only had a sheepskin over my shoulders as I crawled on hands

and knees."

"Glenn, for me you were a prehistoric monster--a dinosaur, or something,"

replied Carley.

It developed, upon their return to the campfire circle, that everybody had

been in the joke; and they all derived hearty enjoyment from it.

"Reckon that makes you one of us," said Hutter, genially. "We've all had

our scares."

Carley wondered if she were not so constituted that such trickery alienated

her. Deep in her heart she resented being made to show her cowardice. But

then she realized that no one had really seen any evidence of her state. It

was fun to them.

Soon after this incident Hutter sounded what he called the roll-call for

bed. Following Flo's instructions, Carley sat on their bed, pulled off her

boots, folded coat and sweater at her head, and slid down under the

blankets. How strange and hard a bed! Yet Carley had the most delicious

sense of relief and rest she had ever experienced. She straightened out on

her back with a feeling that she had never before appreciated the luxury of

lying down.

Flo cuddled up to her in quite sisterly fashion, saying: "Now don't cover

your head. If it rains I'll wake and pull up the tarp. Good night, Carley."

And almost immediately she seemed to fall asleep.

For Carley, however, sleep did not soon come. She had too many aches; the

aftermath of her shock of fright abided with her; and the blackness of

night, the cold whip of wind over her face, and the unprotected

helplessness she felt in this novel bed, were too entirely new and

disturbing to be overcome at once. So she lay wide eyed, staring at the

dense gray shadow, at the flickering lights upon the cedar. At length her

mind formed a conclusion that this sort of thing might be worth the

hardship once in a lifetime, anyway. What a concession to Glenn's West! In

the secret seclusion of her mind she had to confess that if her vanity had

not been so assaulted and humiliated she might have enjoyed herself more.

It seemed impossible, however, to have thrills and pleasures and

exaltations in the face of discomfort, privation, and an uneasy

half-acknowledged fear. No woman could have either a good or a profitable

time when she was at her worst. Carley thought she would not be averse to

getting Flo Hutter to New York, into an atmosphere wholly strange and

difficult, and see how she met situation after situation unfamiliar to her.

And so Carley's mind drifted on until at last she succumbed to drowsiness.

A voice pierced her dreams of home, of warmth and comfort. Something sharp,

cold, and fragrant was scratching her eyes. She opened them. Glenn stood

over her, pushing a sprig of cedar into her face.

"Carley, the day is far spent," he said, gayly. "We want to roll up your

bedding. Will you get out of it?"

"Hello, Glenn! What time is it?" she replied.

"It's nearly six."

"What! . . . Do you expect me to get up at that ungodly hour?"

"We're all up. Flo's eating breakfast. It's going to be a bad day, I'm

afraid. And we want to get packed and moving before it starts to rain."

"Why do girls leave home?" she asked, tragically.

"To make poor devils happy, of course," he replied, smiling down upon her.

That smile made up to Carley for all the clamoring sensations of stiff,

sore muscles. It made her ashamed that she could not fling herself into

this adventure with all her heart. Carley essayed to sit up. "Oh, I'm

afraid my anatomy has become disconnected! . . . Glenn, do I look a

sight?" She never would have asked him that if she had not known she could

bear inspection at such an inopportune moment.

"You look great," he asserted, heartily. "You've got color. And as for your

hair--I like to see it mussed that way. You were always one to have it

dressed--just so. . . . Come, Carley, rustle now."

Thus adjured, Carley did her best under adverse circumstances. And she was

gritting her teeth and complimenting herself when she arrived at the task

of pulling on her boots. They were damp and her feet appeared to have

swollen. Moreover, her ankles were sore. But she accomplished getting into

them at the expense of much pain and sundry utterances more forcible than

elegant. Glenn brought her warm water, a mitigating circumstance. The

morning was cold and thought of that biting desert water had been trying.

"Shore you're doing fine," was Flo's greeting. "Come and get it before we

throw it out."

Carley made haste to comply with the Western mandate, and was once again

confronted with the singular fact that appetite did not wait upon the

troubles of a tenderfoot. Glenn remarked that at least she would not starve

to death on the trip.

"Come, climb the ridge with me," be invited. "I want you to take a look to

the north and east."

He led her off through the cedars, up a slow red-earth slope, away from the

lake. A green moundlike eminence topped with flat red rock appeared near at

hand and not at all a hard climb. Nevertheless, her eyes deceived her, as

she found to the cost of her breath. It was both far away and high.

"I like this location," said Glenn. "If I had the money I'd buy this

section of land--six hundred and forty acres--and make a ranch of it. Just

under this bluff is a fine open flat bench for a cabin. You could see away

across the desert clear to Sunset Peak. There's a good spring of granite

water. I'd run water from the lake down into the lower flats, and I'd sure

raise some stock."

"What do you call this place?" asked Carley, curiously.

"Deep Lake. It's only a watering place for sheep and cattle. But there's

fine grazing, and it's a wonder to me no one has ever settled here."

Looking down, Carley appreciated his wish to own the place; and immediately

there followed in her a desire to get possession of this tract of land

before anyone else discovered its advantages, and to hold it for Glenn. But

this would surely conflict with her intention of persuading Glenn to go

back East. As quickly as her impulse had been born it died.

Suddenly the scene gripped Carley. She looked from near to far, trying to

grasp the illusive something. Wild lonely Arizona land! She saw ragged

dumpy cedars of gray and green, lines of red earth, and a round space of

water, gleaming pale under the lowering clouds; and in the distance

isolated hills, strangely curved, wandering away to a black uplift of earth

obscured in the sky.

These appeared to be mere steps leading her sight farther and higher to the

cloud-navigated sky, where rosy and golden effulgence betokened the sun and

the east. Carley held her breath. A transformation was going on before her

eyes.

"Carley, it's a stormy sunrise," said Glenn.

His words explained, but they did not convince. Was this sudden-bursting

glory only the sun rising behind storm clouds? She could see the clouds

moving while they were being colored. The universal gray surrendered under

some magic paint brush. The rifts widened, and the gloom of the pale-gray

world seemed to vanish. Beyond the billowy, rolling, creamy edges of

clouds, white and pink, shone the soft exquisite fresh blue sky. And a

blaze of fire, a burst of molten gold, sheered up from behind the rim of

cloud and suddenly poured a sea of sunlight from east to west. It trans-

figured the round foothills. They seemed bathed in ethereal light, and the

silver mists that overhung them faded while Carley gazed, and a rosy flush

crowned the symmetrical domes. Southward along the horizon line,

down-dropping veils of rain, just touched with the sunrise tint, streamed

in drifting slow movement from cloud to earth. To the north the range of

foothills lifted toward the majestic dome of Sunset Peak, a volcanic

upheaval of red and purple cinders, bare as rock, round as the lower hills,

and wonderful in its color. Full in the blaze of the rising sun it flaunted

an unchangeable front. Carley understood now what had been told her about

this peak. Volcanic fires had thrown up a colossal mound of cinders burned

forever to the hues of the setting sun. In every light and shade of day it

held true to its name. Farther north rose the bold bulk of the San

Francisco Peaks, that, half lost in the clouds, still dominated the desert

scene. Then as Carley gazed the rifts began to close. Another

transformation began, the reverse of what she watched. The golden radiance

of sunrise vanished, and under a gray, lowering) coalescing pall of cloud

the round hills returned to their bleak somberness, and the green desert

took again its cold sheen.

"Wasn't it fine, Carley?" asked Glenn. "But nothing to what you will

experience. I hope you stay till the weather gets warm. I want you to see a

summer dawn on the Painted Desert, and a noon with the great white clouds

rolling up from the horizon, and a sunset of massed purple and gold. If

they do not get you then I'll give up."

Carley murmured something of her appreciation of what she had just seen.

Part of his remark hung on her ear, thought-provoking and disturbing. He

hoped she would stay until summer! That was kind of him. But her visit must

be short and she now intended it to end with his return East with her. If

she did not persuade him to go he might not want to go for a while, as he

had written--"just yet." Carley grew troubled in mind. Such mental

disturbance, however, lasted no longer than her return with Glenn to camp,

where the mustang Spillbeans stood ready for her to mount. He appeared to

put one ear up, the other down, and to look at her with mild surprise, as

if to say: "What--hello--tenderfoot! Are you going to ride me again?"

Carley recalled that she had avowed she would ride him. There was no

alternative, and her misgivings only made matters worse. Nevertheless, once

in the saddle, she imagined she had the hallucination that to ride off so,

with the long open miles ahead, was really thrilling. This remarkable state

of mind lasted until Spillbeans began to trot, and then another day of

misery beckoned to Carley with gray stretches of distance.

She was to learn that misery, as well as bliss, can swallow up the hours.

She saw the monotony of cedar trees, but with blurred eyes; she saw the

ground clearly enough, for she was always looking down, hoping for sandy

places or rocky places where her mustang could not trot.

At noon the cavalcade ahead halted near a cabin and corral, which turned

out to be a sheep ranch belonging to Hutter. Here Glenn was so busy that he

had no time to devote to Carley. And Flo, who was more at home on a horse

than on the ground, rode around everywhere with the men. Most assuredly

Carley could not pass by the chance to get off Spillbeans and to walk a

little. She found, however, that what she wanted most was to rest. The

cabin was deserted, a dark, damp place with a rank odor. She did not stay

long inside.

Rain and snow began to fall, adding to what Carley felt to be a

disagreeable prospect. The immediate present, however, was cheered by a cup

of hot soup and some bread and butter which the herder Charley brought her.

By and by Glenn and Hutter returned with Flo, and all partook of some

lunch.

All too soon Carley found herself astride the mustang again. Glenn helped

her don the slicker, an abominable sticky rubber coat that bundled her up

and tangled her feet round the stirrups. She was glad to find, though, that

it served well indeed to protect her from raw wind and rain.

"Where do we go from here?" Carley inquired, ironically.

Glenn laughed in a way which proved to Carley that he knew perfectly well

how she felt. Again his smile caused her self-reproach. Plain indeed was it

that he had really expected more of her in the way of complaint and less of

fortitude. Carley bit her lips.

Thus began the afternoon ride. As it advanced the sky grew more

threatening, the wind rawer, the cold keener, and the rain cut like little

bits of sharp ice. It blew in Carley's face. Enough snow fell to whiten the

open patches of ground. In an hour Carley realized that she had the hardest

task of her life to ride to the end of the day's journey. No one could have

guessed her plight. Glenn complimented her upon her adaptation to such

unpleasant conditions. Flo evidently was on the lookout for the

tenderfoot's troubles. But as Spillbeans, had taken to lagging at a walk,

Carley was enabled to conceal all outward sign of her woes. It rained,

hailed, sleeted, snowed, and grew colder all the time. Carley's feet became

lumps of ice. Every step the mustang took sent acute pains ramifying from

bruised and raw places all over her body.

Once, finding herself behind the others and out of sight in the cedars, she

got off to walk awhile, leading the mustang. This would not do, however,

because she fell too far in the rear. Mounting again, she rode on,

beginning to feet that nothing mattered, that this trip would be the end of

Carley Burch. How she hated that dreary, cold, flat land the road bisected

without end. It felt as if she rode hours to cover a mile. In open

stretches she saw the whole party straggling along, separated from one

another, and each for himself. They certainly could not be enjoying

themselves. Carley shut her eyes, clutched the pommel of the saddle, trying

to support her weight. How could she endure another mile? Alas! there might

be many miles. Suddenly a terrible shock seemed to rack her. But it was

only that Spillbeans had once again taken to a trot. Frantically she pulled

on the bridle. He was not to be thwarted. Opening her eyes, she saw a cabin

far ahead which probably was the destination for the night. Carley knew she

would never reach it, yet she clung on desperately. What she dreaded was

the return of that stablike pain in her side. It came, and life seemed

something abject and monstrous. She rode stiff legged, with her hands

propping her stiffly above the pommel, but the stabbing pain went right on,

and in deeper. When the mustang halted his trot beside the other horses

Carley was in the last extremity. Yet as Glenn came to her, offering a

hand, she still hid her agony. Then Flo called out gayly: "Carley, you've

done twenty-five miles on as rotten a day as I remember. Shore we all hand

it to you. And I'm confessing I didn't think you'd ever stay the ride out.

Spillbeans is the meanest nag we've got and he has the hardest gait."

CHAPTER V

Later Carley leaned back in a comfortable seat, before a blazing fire that

happily sent its acrid smoke up the chimney, pondering ideas in her mind.

There could be a relation to familiar things that was astounding in its

revelation. To get off a horse that had tortured her, to discover an almost

insatiable appetite, to rest weary, aching body before the genial warmth of

a beautiful fire--these were experiences which Carley found to have been

hitherto unknown delights. It struck her suddenly and strangely that to

know the real truth about anything in life might require infinite

experience and understanding. How could one feel immense gratitude and

relief, or the delight of satisfying acute hunger, or the sweet comfort of

rest, unless there had been circumstances of extreme contrast? She had been

compelled to suffer cruelly on horseback in order to make her appreciate

how good it was to get down on the ground. Otherwise she never would have

known. She wondered, then, how true that principle Plight be in all

experience. It gave strong food for thought. There were things in the world

never before dreamed of in her philosophy.

Carley was wondering if she were narrow and dense to circumstances of life

differing from her own when a remark of Flo's gave pause to her

reflections.

"Shore the worst is yet to come." Flo had drawled.

Carley wondered if this distressing statement had to do in some way with

the rest of the trip. She stifled her curiosity. Painful knowledge of that

sort would come quickly enough.

"Flo, are you girls going to sleep here in the cabin?" inquired Glenn.

"Shore. It's cold and wet outside," replied Flo.

"Well, Felix, the Mexican herder, told me some Navajos had been bunking

here."

"Navajos? You mean Indians?" interposed Carley, with interest.

"Shore do," said Flo. "I knew that. But don't mind Glenn. He's full of

tricks, Carley. He'd give us a hunch to lie out in the wet "

Hutter burst into his hearty laugh. "Wal, I'd rather get some things anyday

than a bad cold."

"Shore I've had both," replied Flo, in her easy drawl, "and I'd prefer the

cold. But for Carley's sake--"

"Pray don't consider me," said Carley. The rather crude drift of the

conversation affronted her.

"Well, my dear," put in Glenn, "it's a bad night outside. We'll all make

our beds here."

"Glenn, you shore are a nervy fellow," drawled Flo.

Long after everybody was in bed Carley lay awake in the blackness of the

cabin, sensitively fidgeting and quivering over imaginative contact with

creeping things. The fire had died out. A cold air passed through the room.

On the roof pattered gusts of rain. Carley heard a rustling of mice. It did

not seem possible that she could keep awake, yet she strove to do so. But

her pangs of body, her extreme fatigue soon yielded to the quiet and rest

of her bed, engendering a drowsiness that proved irresistible.

Morning brought fair weather and sunshine, which helped to sustain Carley

in her effort to brave out her pains and woes. Another disagreeable day

would have forced her to humiliating defeat. Fortunately for her, the

business of the men was concerned with the immediate neighborhood, in which

they expected to stay all morning.

"Flo, after a while persuade Carley to ride with you to the top of this

first foothill," said Glenn. "It's not far, and it's worth a good deal to

see the Painted Desert from there. The day is clear and the air free from

dust."

"Shore. Leave it to me. I want to get out of camp, anyhow. That conceited

hombre, Lee Stanton, will be riding in here," answered Flo, laconically.

The slight knowing smile on Glenn's face and the grinning disbelief on Mr.

Hutter's were facts not lost upon Carley. And when Charley, the herder,

deliberately winked at Carley, she conceived the idea that Flo, like many

women, only ran off to be pursued. In some manner Carley did not seek to

analyze, the purported advent of this Lee Stanton pleased her. But she did

admit to her consciousness that women, herself included, were both as deep

and mysterious as the sea, yet as transparent as an inch of crystal water.

It happened that the expected newcomer rode into camp before anyone left.

Before he dismounted he made a good impression on Carley, and as he stepped

down in lazy, graceful action, a tall lithe figure, she thought him

singularly handsome. He wore black sombrero, flannel shirt, blue jeans

stuffed into high boots, and long, big-roweled spurs.

"How are you-all?" was his greeting.

From the talk that ensued between him and the men, Carley concluded that he

must be overseer of the sheep hands. Carley knew that Hutter and Glenn were

not interested in cattle raising. And in fact they were, especially Hutter,

somewhat inimical to the dominance of the range land by cattle barons of

Flagstaff.

"When's Ryan goin' to dip?" asked Hutter.

"Today or tomorrow," replied Stanton.

"Reckon we ought to ride over," went on Hutter. "Say, Glenn, do you reckon

Miss Carley could stand a sheep-dip?"

This was spoken in a low tone, scarcely intended for Carley, but she had

keen ears and heard distinctly. Not improbably this sheep-dip was what Flo

meant as the worst to come. Carley adopted a listless posture to hide her

keen desire to hear what Glenn would reply to Hutter.

"I should say not!" whispered Glenn, fiercely.

"Cut out that talk. She'll hear you and want to go."

Whereupon Carley felt mount in her breast an intense and rebellious

determination to see a sheep-dip. She would astonish Glenn. What did he

want, anyway? Had she not withstood the torturing trot of the

hardest-gaited horse on the range? Carley realized she was going to place

considerable store upon that feat. It grew on her.

When the consultation of the men ended, Lee Stanton turned to Flo. And

Carley did not need to see the young man look twice to divine what ailed

him. He was caught in the toils of love. But seeing through Flo Hutter was

entirely another matter.

"Howdy, Lee!" she said, coolly, with her clear eyes on him. A tiny frown

knitted her brow. She did not, at the moment, entirely approve of him.

"Shore am glad to see you, Flo," he said, with rather a heavy expulsion of

breath. He wore a cheerful grin that in no wise deceived Flo, or Carley

either. The young man had a furtive expression of eye.

"Ahuh!" returned Flo.

"I was shore sorry about--about that--" he floundered, in low voice.

"About what?"

"Aw, you know, Flo."

Carley strolled out of hearing, sure of two things--that she felt rather

sorry for Stanton, and that his course of love did not augur well for

smooth running. What queer creatures were women! Carley had seen several

million coquettes, she believed; and assuredly Flo Hutter belonged to the

species.

Upon Carley's return to the cabin she found Stanton and Flo waiting for her

to accompany them on a ride up the foothill. She was so stiff and sore that

she could hardly mount into the saddle; and the first mile of riding was

something like a nightmare. She lagged behind Flo and Stanton, who

apparently forgot her in their quarrel.

The riders soon struck the base of a long incline of rocky ground that led

up to the slope of the foothill. Here rocks and gravel gave place to black

cinders out of which grew a scant bleached grass. This desert verdure was

what lent the soft gray shade to the foothill when seen from a distance.

The slope was gentle, so that the ascent did not entail any hardship.

Carley was amazed at the length of the slope, and also to see how high over

the desert she was getting. She felt lifted out of a monotonous level. A

green-gray leaguelong cedar forest extended down toward Oak Creek. Behind

her the magnificent bulk of the mountains reached up into the stormy

clouds, showing white slopes of snow under the gray pall.

The hoofs of the horses sank in the cinders. A fine choking dust assailed

Carley's nostrils. Presently, when there appeared at least a third of the

ascent still to be accomplished and Flo dismounted to walk, leading their

horses. Carley had no choice but to do likewise. At first walking was a

relief. Soon, however, the soft yielding cinders began to drag at her feet.

At every step she slipped back a few inches, a very annoying feature of

climbing. When her legs seemed to grow dead Carley paused for a little

rest. The last of the ascent, over a few hundred yards of looser cinders,

taxed her remaining strength to the limit. She grew hot and wet and out of

breath. Her heart labored. An unreasonable antipathy seemed to attend her

efforts. Only her ridiculous vanity held her to this task. She wanted to

please Glenn, but not so earnestly that she would have kept on plodding up

this ghastly bare mound of cinders. Carley did not mind being a tenderfoot,

but she hated the thought of these Westerners considering her a weakling.

So she bore the pain of raw blisters and the miserable sensation of

staggering on under a leaden weight.

Several times she noted that Flo and Stanton halted to face each other in

rather heated argument. At least Stanton's red face and forceful gestures

attested to heat on his part. Flo evidently was weary of argument, and in

answer to a sharp reproach she retorted, "Shore I was different after he

came." To which Stanton responded by a quick passionate shrinking as if he

had been stung.

Carley had her own reaction to this speech she could not help hearing; and

inwardly, at least, her feeling must have been similar to Stanton's. She

forgot the object of this climb and looked off to her right at the green

level without really seeing it. A vague sadness weighed upon her soul. Was

there to be a tangle of fates here, a conflict of wills, a crossing of

loves? Flo's terse confession could not be taken lightly. Did she mean that

she loved Glenn? Carley began to fear it. Only another reason why she must

persuade Glenn to go back East! But the closer Carley came to what she

divined must be an ordeal the more she dreaded it. This raw, crude West

might have confronted her with a situation beyond her control. And as she

dragged her weighted feet through the cinders, kicking, up little puffs of

black dust, she felt what she admitted to be an unreasonable resentment

toward these Westerners and their barren, isolated, and boundless world.

"Carley," called Flo, "come--looksee, as the Indians say. Here is Glenn's

Painted Desert, and I reckon it's shore worth seeing."

To Carley's surprise, she found herself upon the knob of the foothill. And

when she looked out across a suddenly distinguish able void she seemed

struck by the immensity of something she was unable to grasp. She dropped

her bridle; she gazed slowly, as if drawn, hearing Flo's voice.

"That thin green line of cottonwoods down there is the Little Colorado

River," Flo was saying. "Reckon it's sixty miles, all down hill. The

Painted Desert begins there and also the Navajo Reservation. You see the

white strips, the red veins, the yellow bars, the black lines. They are all

desert steps leading up and up for miles. That sharp black peak is called

Wildcat. It's about a hundred miles. You see the desert stretching away to

the right, growing dim--lost in distance? We don't know that country. But

that north country we know as landmarks, anyway. Look at that saw-tooth

range. The Indians call it Echo Cliffs. At the far end it drops off into

the Colorado River. Lee's Ferry is there--about one hundred and sixty

miles. That ragged black rent is the Grand Canyon. Looks like a thread,

doesn't it? But Carley, it's some hole, believe me. Away to the left you

see the tremendous wall rising and turning to come this way. That's the

north wall of the Canyon. It ends at the great bluff--Greenland Point. See

the black fringe above the bar of gold. That's a belt of pine trees. It's

about eighty miles across this ragged old stone washboard of a desert.

. . . Now turn and look straight and strain your sight over Wildcat. See

the rim purple dome. You must look hard. I'm glad it's clear and the sun is

shining. We don't often get this view. . . . That purple dome is Navajo

Mountain, two hundred miles and more away!"

Carley yielded to some strange drawing power and slowly walked forward

until she stood at the extreme edge of the summit.

What was it that confounded her sight? Desert slope--down and down--color--

distance--space! The wind that blew in her face seemed to have the openness

of the whole world back of it. Cold, sweet, dry, exhilarating, it breathed

of untainted vastness. Carley's memory pictures of the Adirondacks faded

into pastorals; her vaunted images of European scenery changed to operetta

settings. She had nothing with which to compare this illimitable space.

"Oh!--America!" was her unconscious tribute.

Stanton and Flo had come on to places beside her. The young man laughed.

"Wal, now Miss Carley, you couldn't say more. When I was in camp trainin'

for service overseas I used to remember how this looked. An' it seemed one

of the things I was goin' to fight for. Reckon I didn't the idea of the

Germans havin' my Painted Desert. I didn't get across to fight for it, but

I shore was willin'."

"You see, Carley, this is our America," said Flo, softly.

Carley had never understood the meaning of the word. The immensity of the

West seemed flung at her. What her vision beheld, so far-reaching and

boundless, was only a dot on the map.

"Does any one live--out there?" she asked, with slow sweep of hand.

"A few white traders and some Indian tribes," replied Stanton. "But you can

ride all day an' next day an' never see a livin' soul."

What was the meaning of the gratification in his voice? Did Westerners

court loneliness? Carley wrenched her gaze from the desert void to look at

her companions. Stanton's eyes were narrowed; his expression had changed;

lean and hard and still, his face resembled bronze. The careless humor was

gone, as was the heated flush of his quarrel with Flo. The girl, too, had

subtly changed, had responded to an influence that had subdued and softened

her. She was mute; her eyes held a light, comprehensive and all-embracing;

she was beautiful then. For Carley, quick to read emotion, caught a glimpse

of a strong, steadfast soul that spiritualized the brown freckled face.

Carley wheeled to gaze out and down into this incomprehensible abyss, and

on to the far up-flung heights, white and red and yellow, and so on to the

wonderful mystic haze of distance. The significance of Flo's designation of

miles could not be grasped by Carley. She could not estimate distance. But

she did not need that to realize her perceptions were swallowed up by

magnitude. Hitherto the power of her eyes had been unknown. How splendid to

see afar! She could see--yes--but what did she see? Space first,

annihilating space, dwarfing her preconceived images, and then wondrous

colors! What had she known of color? No wonder artists failed adequately

and truly to paint mountains, let alone the desert space. The toiling

millions of the crowded cities were ignorant of this terrible beauty and

sublimity. Would it have helped them to see? But just to breathe that

untainted air, just to see once the boundless open of colored sand and

rock--to realize what the freedom of eagles meant would not that have

helped anyone?

And with the thought there came to Carley's quickened and struggling mind a

conception of freedom. She had not yet watched eagles, but she now gazed

out into their domain. What then must be the effect of such environment on

people whom it encompassed? The idea stunned Carley. Would such people grow

in proportion to the nature with which they were in conflict? Hereditary

influence could not be comparable to such environment in the shaping of

character.

"Shore I could stand here all day," said Flo. "But it's beginning to cloud

over and this high wind is cold. So we'd better go, Carley."

"I don't know what I am, but it's not cold," replied Carley.

"Wal, Miss Carley, I reckon you'll have to come again an' again before you

get a comfortable feelin' here," said Stanton.

It surprised Carley to see that this young Westerner had hit upon the

truth. He understood her. Indeed she was uncomfortable. She was oppressed,

vaguely unhappy. But why? The thing there--the infinitude of open sand and

rock--was beautiful, wonderful, even glorious. She looked again.

Steep black-cindered slope, with its soft gray patches of grass, sheered

down and down, and out in rolling slope to merge upon a cedar-dotted level.

Nothing moved below, but a red-tailed hawk sailed across her vision. How

still-how gray the desert floor as it reached away, losing its black dots,

and gaining bronze spots of stone! By plain and prairie it fell away, each

inch of gray in her sight magnifying into its league-long roll, On and on,

and down across dark lines that were steppes, and at last blocked and

changed by the meandering green thread which was the verdure of a desert

river. Beyond stretched the white sand, where whirlwinds of dust sent aloft

their funnel-shaped spouts; and it led up to the horizon-wide ribs and

ridges of red and walls of yellow and mountains of black, to the dim mound

of purple so ethereal and mystic against the deep-blue cloud-curtained band

of sky.

And on the moment the sun was obscured and that world of colorful flame

went out, as if a blaze had died.

Deprived of its fire, the desert seemed to retreat, to fade coldly and

gloomily, to lose its great landmarks in dim obscurity. Closer, around to

the north, the canyon country yawned with innumerable gray jaws, ragged and

hard, and the riven earth took on a different character. It had no shadows.

It grew flat and, like the sea, seemed to mirror the vast gray cloud

expanse. The sublime vanished, but the desolate remained. No warmth--no

movement--no life! Dead stone it was, cut into a million ruts by ruthless

ages. Carley felt that she was gazing down into chaos.

At this moment, as before, a hawk had crossed her vision, so now a raven

sailed by, black as coal, uttering a hoarse croak.

"Quoth the raven--" murmured Carley, with a half-bitter laugh, as she

turned away shuddering in spite of an effort of self-control. "Maybe he

meant this wonderful and terrible West is never for such as I. . . . Come,

let us go."

Carley rode all that afternoon in the rear of the caravan, gradually

succumbing to the cold raw wind and the aches and pains to which she had

subjected her flesh. Nevertheless, she finished the day's journey, and,

sorely as she needed Glenn's kindly hand, she got off her horse without

aid.

Camp was made at the edge of the devastated timber zone that Carley had

found so dispiriting. A few melancholy pines were standing, and everywhere,

as far as she could see southward, were blackened fallen trees and stumps.

It was a dreary scene. The few cattle grazing on the bleached grass

appeared as melancholy as the pines. The sun shone fitfully at sunset, and

then sank, leaving the land to twilight and shadows.

Once in a comfortable seat beside the camp fire, Carley had no further

desire to move. She was so far exhausted and weary that she could no longer

appreciate the blessing of rest. Appetite, too, failed her this meal time.

Darkness soon settled down. The wind moaned through the pines. She was

indeed glad to crawl into bed, and not even the thought of skunks could

keep her awake.

Morning, disclosed the fact that gray clouds had been blown away. The sun

shone bright upon a white-frosted land. The air was still. Carley labored

at her task of rising, and brushing her hair, and pulling on her boots; and

it appeared her former sufferings were as naught compared with the pangs of

this morning. How she hated the cold, the bleak, denuded forest land, the

emptiness, the roughness, the crudeness! If this sort of feeling grew any

worse she thought she would hate Glenn. Yet she was nonetheless set upon

going on, and seeing the sheep-dip, and riding that fiendish mustang until

the trip was ended.

Getting in the saddle and on the way this morning was an ordeal that made

Carley actually sick. Glenn and Flo both saw how it was with her, and they

left her to herself. Carley was grateful for this understanding. It seemed

to proclaim their respect. She found further matter for satisfaction in the

astonishing circumstance that after the first dreadful quarter of an hour

in the saddle she began to feel easier. And at the end of several hours of

riding she was not suffering any particular pain, though she was weaker.

At length the cut-over land ended in a forest of straggling pines, through

which the road wound southward, and eventually down into a wide shallow

canyon. Through the trees Carley saw a stream of water, open fields of

green, log fences and cabins, and blue smoke. She heard the chug of a

gasoline engine and the baa-baa of sheep. Glenn waited for her to catch up

with him, and he said: "Carley, this is one of Hutter's sheep camps. It's

not a--a very pleasant place. You won't care to see the sheep-dip. So I'm

suggesting you wait here--"

"Nothing doing, Glenn," she interrupted. "I'm going to see what there is to

see."

"But, dear--the men--the way they handle sheep--they'll--really it's no

sight for you," he floundered.

"Why not?" she inquired, eying him.

"Because, Carley--you know how you hate the--the seamy side of things. And

the stench--why, it'll make you sick!"

"Glenn, be on the level," she said. "Suppose it does. Wouldn't you think

more of me if I could stand it?"

"Why, yes," he replied, reluctantly, smiling at her, "I would. But I wanted

to spare you. This trip has been hard. I'm sure proud of you. And, Carley--

you can overdo it. Spunk is not everything. You simply couldn't stand

this."

"Glenn, how little you know a woman!" she exclaimed. "Come along and show

me your old sheep-dip."

They rode out of the woods into an open valley that might have been

picturesque if it had not been despoiled by the work of man. A log fence

ran along the edge of open ground and a mud dam held back a pool of

stagnant water, slimy and green. As Carley rode on the baa-baa of sheep

became so loud that she could scarcely hear Glenn talking.

Several log cabins, rough hewn and gray with age, stood down inside the

inclosure; and beyond there were large corrals. From the other side of

these corrals came sounds of rough voices of men, a trampling of hoofs,

heavy splashes, the beat of an engine, and the incessant baaing of the

sheep.

At this point the members of Hutter's party dismounted and tied their

horses to the top log of the fence. When Carley essayed to get off Glenn

tried to stop her, saying she could see well enough from there. But Carley

got down and followed Flo. She heard Hutter call to Glenn: "Say, Ryan is

short of men. We'll lend a hand for a couple of hours."

Presently Carley reached Flo's side and the first corral that contained

sheep. They formed a compact woolly mass, rather white in color, with a

tinge of pink. When Flo climbed up on the fence the flock plunged as one

animal and with a trampling roar ran to the far side of the corral. Several

old rams with wide curling horns faced around; and some of the ewes climbed

up on the densely packed mass. Carley rather enjoyed watching them. She

surely could not see anything amiss in this sight.

The next corral held a like number of sheep, and also several Mexicans who

were evidently driving them into a narrow lane that led farther down.

Carley saw the heads of men above other corral fences, and there was also a

thick yellowish smoke rising from somewhere.

"Carley, are you game to see the dip?" asked Flo, with good nature that yet

had a touch of taunt in it.

"That's my middle name," retorted Carley, flippantly.

Both Glenn and this girl seemed to be bent upon bringing out Carley's worst

side, and they were succeeding. Flo laughed. The ready slang pleased her.

She led Carley along that log fence, through a huge open gate, and across a

wide pen to another fence, which she scaled. Carley followed her, not

particularly overanxious to look ahead. Some thick odor had begun to reach

Carley's delicate nostrils. Flo led down a short lane and climbed another

fence, and sat astride the top log. Carley hurried along to clamber up to

her side, but stood erect with her feet on the second log of the fence.

Then a horrible stench struck Carley almost like a blow in the face, and

before her confused sight there appeared to be drifting smoke and active

men and running sheep, all against a background of mud. But at first it was

the odor that caused Carley to close her eyes and press her knees hard

against the upper log to keep from reeling. Never in her life had such a

sickening nausea assailed her. It appeared to attack her whole body. The

forerunning qualm of seasickness was as nothing to this. Carley gave a

gasp, pinched her nose between her fingers so she could not smell, and

opened her eyes.

Directly beneath her was a small pen open at one end into which sheep were

being driven from the larger corral. The drivers were yelling. The sheep in

the rear plunged into those ahead of them, forcing them on. Two men worked

in this small pen. One was a brawny giant in undershirt and overalls that

appeared filthy. He held a cloth in his hand and strode toward the nearest

sheep. Folding the cloth round the neck of the sheep, he dragged it

forward, with an ease which showed great strength, and threw it into a pit

that yawned at the side. Souse went the sheep into a murky, muddy pool and

disappeared. But suddenly its head came up and then its shoulders. And it

began half to walk and half swim down what appeared to be a narrow boxlike

ditch that contained other floundering sheep. Then Carley saw men on each

side of this ditch bending over with poles that had crooks at the end, and

their work was to press and pull the sheep along to the end of the ditch,

and drive them up a boarded incline into another corral where many other

sheep huddled, now a dirty muddy color like the liquid into which they had

been emersed. Souse! Splash! In went sheep after sheep. Occasionally one

did not go under. And then a man would press it under with the crook and

quickly lift its head. The work went on with precision and speed, in spite

of the yells and trampling and baa-baas, and the incessant action that gave

an effect of confusion.

Carley saw a pipe leading from a huge boiler to the ditch. The dark fluid

was running out of it. From a rusty old engine with big smokestack poured

the strangling smoke. A man broke open a sack of yellow powder and dumped

it into the ditch. Then he poured an acid-like liquid after it.

"Sulphur and nicotine," yelled Flo up at Carley. "The dip's poison. If a

sheep opens his mouth he's usually a goner. But sometimes they save one."

Carley wanted to tear herself away from this disgusting spectacle. But it

held her by some fascination. She saw Glenn and Hutter fall in line with

the other men, and work like beavers. These two pacemakers in the small pen

kept the sheep coming so fast that every worker below had a task cut out

for him. Suddenly Flo squealed and pointed.

"There! that sheep didn't come up," she cried. "Shore he opened his mouth."

Then Carley saw Glenn energetically plunge his hooked pole in and out and

around until he had located the submerged sheep. He lifted its head above

the dip. The sheep showed no sign of life. Down on his knees dropped Glenn,

to reach the sheep with strong brown hands, and to haul it up on the

ground, where it flopped inert. Glenn pummeled it and pressed it, and

worked on it much as Carley had seen a life-guard work over a half-drowned

man. But the sheep did not respond to Glenn's active administrations.

"No use, Glenn," yelled Hutter, hoarsely. "That one's a goner."

Carley did not fall to note the state of Glenn's hands and arms and

overalls when he returned to the ditch work. Then back and forth Carley's

gaze went from one end to the other of that scene. And suddenly it was

arrested and held by the huge fellow who handled the sheep so brutally.

Every time he dragged one and threw it into the pit he yelled: "Ho! Ho!"

Carley was impelled to look at his face, and she was amazed to meet the

rawest and boldest stare from evil eyes that had ever been her misfortune

to incite. She felt herself stiffen with a shock that was unfamiliar. This

man was scarcely many years older than Glenn, yet he had grizzled hair, a

seamed and scarred visage, coarse, thick lips, and beetling brows, from

under which peered gleaming light eyes. At every turn he flashed them upon

Carley's face, her neck, the swell of her bosom. It was instinct that

caused her hastily to close her riding coat. She felt as if her flesh had

been burned. Like a snake he fascinated her. The intelligence in his bold

gaze made the beastliness of it all the harder to endure, all the stronger

to arouse.

"Come, Carley, let's rustle out of this stinkin' mess," cried Flo.

Indeed, Carley needed Flo's assistance in clambering down out of the

choking smoke and horrid odor.

"Adios, pretty eyes," called the big man from the pen.

"Well," ejaculated Flo, when they got out, "I'll bet I call Glenn good and

hard for letting you go down there."

"It was--my--fault," panted Carley. "I said I'd stand it."

"Oh, you're game, all right. I didn't mean the dip. . . . That

sheep-slinger is Haze Ruff, the toughest hombre on this range. Shore, now,

wouldn't I like to take a shot at him? . . . I'm going to tell dad and

Glenn."

"Please don't," returned Carley, appealingly.

"I shore am. Dad needs hands these days. That's why he's lenient. But Glenn

will cowhide Ruff and I want to see him do it."

In Flo Hutter then Carley saw another and a different spirit of the West, a

violence unrestrained and fierce that showed in the girl's even voice and

in the piercing light of her eyes.

They went back to the horses, got their lunches from the saddlebags, and,

finding comfortable seats in a sunny, protected place, they ate and talked.

Carley had to force herself to swallow. It seemed that the horrid odor of

dip and sheep had permeated everything. Glenn had known her better than she

had known herself, and he had wished to spare her an unnecessary and

disgusting experience. Yet so stubborn was Carley that she did not regret

going through with it.

"Carley, I don't mind telling you that you've stuck it out better than any

tenderfoot we ever had here," said Flo.

"Thank you. That from a Western girl is a compliment I'll not soon forget,"

replied Carley.

"I shore mean it. We've had rotten weather. And to end the little trip at

this sheep-dip hole! Why, Glenn certainly wanted you to stack up against

the real thing!"

"Flo, he did not want me to come on the trip, and especially here,"

protested Carley.

"Shore I know. But he let you."

"Neither Glenn nor any other man could prevent me from doing what I wanted

to do."

"Well, if you'll excuse me," drawled Flo, "I'll differ with you. I reckon

Glenn Kilbourne is not the man you knew before the war."

"No, he is not. But that does not alter the case."

"Carley, we're not well acquainted," went on Flo, more carefully feeling

her way, "and I'm not your kind. I don't know your Eastern ways. But I know

what the West does to a man. The war ruined your friend--both his body and

mind. . . . How sorry mother and I were for Glenn, those days when it

looked he'd sure 'go west,' for good! . . . Did you know he'd been gassed

and that he had five hemorrhages?"

"Oh! I knew his lungs had been weakened by gas. But he never told me about

having hemorrhages."

"Well, he shore had them. The last one I'll never forget. Every time he'd

cough it would fetch the blood. I could tell! . . . Oh, it was awful. I

begged him not to cough. He smiled--like a ghost smiling--and he whispered,

'I'll quit.' . . . And he did. The doctor came from Flagstaff and packed

him in ice. Glenn sat propped up all night and never moved a muscle. Never

coughed again! And the bleeding stopped. After that we put him out on the

porch where he could breathe fresh air all the time. There's something

wonderfully healing in Arizona air. It's from the dry desert and here it's

full of cedar and pine. Anyway Glenn got well. And I think the West has

cured his mind, too."

"Of what?" queried Carley, in an intense curiosity she could scarcely hide.

"Oh, God only knows!" exclaimed Flo, throwing up her gloved hands. "I never

could understand. But I hated what the war did to him."

Carley leaned back against the log, quite spent. Flo was unwittingly

torturing her. Carley wanted passionately to give in to jealousy of this

Western girl, but she could not do it. Flo Hutter deserved better than

that. And Carley's baser nature seemed in conflict with all that was noble

in her. The victory did not yet go to either side. This was a bad hour for

Carley. Her strength had about played out, and her spirit was at low ebb.

"Carley, you're all in," declared Flo. "You needn't deny it. I'm shore

you've made good with me as a tenderfoot who stayed the limit. But there's

no sense in your killing yourself, nor in me letting you. So I'm going to

tell dad we want to go home."

She left Carley there. The word home had struck strangely into Carley's

mind and remained there. Suddenly she realized what it was to be homesick.

The comfort, the ease, the luxury, the rest, the sweetness, the pleasure,

the cleanliness, the gratification to eye and ear--to all the senses--how

these thoughts came to haunt her! All of Carley's will power had been

needed to sustain her on this trip to keep her from miserably f ailing. She

had not failed. But contact with the West had affronted, disgusted,

shocked, and alienated her. In that moment she could not be fair minded;

she knew it; she did not care.

Carley gazed around her. Only one of the cabins was in sight from this

position. Evidently it was a home for some of these men. On one side the

peaked rough roof had been built out beyond the wall, evidently to serve as

a kind of porch. On that wall hung the motliest assortment of things Carley

had ever seen--utensils, sheep and cow hides, saddles, harness, leather

clothes, ropes, old sombreros, shovels, stove pipe, and many other articles

for which she could find no name. The most striking characteristic manifest

in this collection was that of service. How they had been used! They had

enabled people to live under primitive conditions. Somehow this fact

inhibited Carley's sense of repulsion at their rude and uncouth appearance.

Had any of her forefathers ever been pioneers? Carley did not know, but the

thought was disturbing. It was thought-provoking. Many times at home, when

she was dressing for dinner, she had gazed into the mirror at the graceful

lines of her throat and arms, at the proud poise of her head, at the

alabaster whiteness of her skin, and wonderingly she had asked of her image:

"Can it be possible that I am a descendant of cavemen?" She had never been

able to realize it, yet she knew it was true. Perhaps somewhere not far

back along her line there had been a great-great-grandmother who had lived

some kind of a primitive life, using such implements and necessaries as

hung on this cabin wall, and thereby helped some man to conquer the

wilderness, to live in it, and reproduce his kind. Like flashes Glenn's

words came back to Carley--"Work and children!"

Some interpretation of his meaning and how it related to this hour held

aloof from Carley. If she would ever be big enough to understand it and

broad enough to accept it the time was far distant. Just now she was sore

and sick physically, and therefore certainly not in a receptive state of

mind. Yet how could she have keener impressions than these she was

receiving? It was all a problem. She grew tired of thinking. But even then

her mind pondered on, a stream of consciousness over which she had no

control. This dreary woods was deserted. No birds, no squirrels, no

creatures such as fancy anticipated! In another direction, across the

canyon, she saw cattle, gaunt, ragged, lumbering, and stolid. And on the

moment the scent of sheep came on the breeze. Time seemed to stand still

here, and what Carley wanted most was for the hours and days to fly, so

that she would be home again.

At last Flo returned with the men. One quick glance at Glenn convinced

Carley that Flo had not yet told him about the sheep dipper, Haze Ruff.

"Carley, you're a real sport," declared Glenn, with the rare smile she

loved. "It's a dreadful mess. And to think you stood it! . . . Why, old

Fifth Avenue, if you needed to make another hit with me you've done it!"

His warmth amazed and pleased Carley. She could not quite understand why it

would have made any difference to him whether she had stood the ordeal or

not. But then every day she seemed to drift a little farther from a real

understanding of her lover. His praise gladdened her, and fortified her to

face the rest of this ride back to Oak Creek.

Four hours later, in a twilight so shadowy that no one saw her distress,

Carley half slipped and half fell from her horse and managed somehow to

mount the steps and enter the bright living room. A cheerful red fire

blazed on the hearth; Glenn's hound, Moze, trembled eagerly at sight of her

and looked up with humble dark eyes; the white-clothed dinner table steamed

with savory dishes. Flo stood before the blaze, warming her hands. Lee

Stanton leaned against the mantel, with eyes on her, and every line of his

lean, hard face expressed his devotion to her. Hutter was taking his seat

at the head of the table. "Come an' get it-you-all," he called, heartily.

Mrs. Hutter's face beamed with the spirit of that home. And lastly, Carley

saw Glenn waiting for her, watching her come, true in this very moment to

his stern hope for her and pride in her, as she dragged her weary, spent

body toward him and the bright fire.

By these signs, or the effect of them, Carley vaguely realized that she was

incalculably changing, that this Carley Burch had become a vastly bigger

person in the sight of her friends, and strangely in her own a lesser

creature.

CHAPTER VI

If spring came at all to Oak Creek Canyon it warmed into summer before

Carley had time to languish with the fever characteristic of early June in

the East.

As if by magic it seemed the green grass sprang up, the green buds opened

into leaves, the bluebells and primroses bloomed, the apple and peach

blossoms burst exquisitely white and pink against the blue sky. Oak Creek

fell to a transparent, beautiful brook, leisurely eddying in the stone

walled nooks, hurrying with murmur and babble over the little falls. The

mornings broke clear and fragrantly cool, the noon hours seemed to lag

under a hot sun, the nights fell like dark mantles from the melancholy

star-sown sky.

Carley had stubbornly kept on riding and climbing until she killed her

secret doubt that she was really a thoroughbred, until she satisfied her

own insistent vanity that she could train to a point where this outdoor

life was not too much for her strength. She lost flesh despite increase of

appetite; she lost her pallor for a complexion of gold-brown she knew her

Eastern friends would admire; she wore out the blisters and aches and

pains; she found herself growing firmer of muscle, lither of line, deeper

of chest. And in addition to these physical manifestations there were

subtle intimations of a delight in a freedom of body she had never before

known, of an exhilaration in action that made her hot and made her breathe,

of a sloughing off of numberless petty and fussy and luxurious little

superficialities which she had supposed were necessary to her happiness.

What she had undertaken in vain conquest of Glenn's pride and Flo Hutter's

Western tolerance she had found to be a boomerang. She had won Glenn's

admiration; she had won the Western girl's recognition. But her passionate,

stubborn desire had been ignoble, and was proved so by the rebound of her

achievement, coming home to her with a sweetness she had not the courage to

accept. She forced it from her. This West with its rawness, its ruggedness,

she hated.

Nevertheless, the June days passed, growing dreamily swift, growing more

incomprehensibly full; and still she had not broached to Glenn the main

object of her visit--to take him back East. Yet a little while longer! She

hated his work and had not talked of that. Yet an honest consciousness told

her that as time flew by she feared more and more to tell him that he was

wasting his life there and that she could not bear it. Still was he wasting

it? Once in a while a timid and unfamiliar Carley Burch voiced a pregnant

query. Perhaps what held Carley back most was the happiness she achieved in

her walks and rides with Glenn. She lingered because of them. Every day she

loved him more, and yet--there was something. Was it in her or in him? She

had a woman's assurance of his love and sometimes she caught her breath--so

sweet and strong was the tumultuous emotion it stirred. She preferred to

enjoy while she could, to dream instead of think. But it was not possible

to hold a blank, dreamy, lulled consciousness all the time. Thought would

return. And not always could she drive away a feeling that Glenn would

never be her slave. She divined something in his mind that kept him gentle

and kindly, restrained always, sometimes melancholy and aloof, as if he

were an impassive destiny waiting for the iron consequences he knew

inevitably must fall. What was this that he knew which she did not know?

The idea haunted her. Perhaps it was that which compelled her to use all

her woman's wiles and charms on Glenn. Still, though it thrilled her to see

she made him love her more as the days passed, she could not blind herself

to the truth that no softness or allurement of hers changed this strange

restraint in him. How that baffled her! Was it resistance or knowledge or

nobility or doubt?

Flo Hutter's twentieth birthday came along the middle of June, and all the

neighbors and range hands for miles around were invited to celebrate it.

For the second time during her visit Carley put on the white gown that had

made Flo gasp with delight, and had stunned Mrs. Hutter, and had brought a

reluctant compliment from Glenn. Carley liked to create a sensation. What

were exquisite and expensive gowns for, if not that?

It was twilight on this particular June night when she was ready to go

downstairs, and she tarried a while on the long porch. The evening star, so

lonely and radiant, so cold and passionless in the dusky blue, had become

an object she waited for and watched, the same as she had come to love the

dreaming, murmuring melody of the waterfall. She lingered there. What had

the sights and sounds and smells of this wild canyon come to mean to her?

She could not say. But they had changed immeasurably.

Her soft slippers made no sound on the porch, and as she turned the corner

of the house, where shadows hovered thick, she heard Lee Stanton's voice:

"But, Flo, you loved me before Kilbourne came."

The content, the pathos, of his voice chained Carley to the spot. Some

situations, like fate, were beyond resisting.

"Shore I did," replied Flo, dreamily. This was the voice of a girl who was

being confronted by happy and sad thoughts on her birthday.

"Don't you--love me--still?" he asked, huskily.

"Why, of course, Lee! I don't change," she said.

"But then, why--" There for the moment his utterance or courage failed.

"Lee, do you want the honest to God's truth?"

"I reckon--I do."

"Well, I love you just as I always did," replied Flo, earnestly. "But, Lee,

I love him more than you or anybody."

"My Heaven! Flo--you'll ruin us all!" he exclaimed, hoarsely.

"No, I won't either. You can't say I'm not level headed. I hated to tell

you this, Lee, but you made me."

"Flo, you love me an' him--two men?" queried Stanton, incredulously.

"I shore do," she drawled, with a soft laugh. "And it's no fun."

"Reckon I don't cut much of a figure alongside Kilbourne," said Stanton,

disconsolately.

"Lee, you could stand alongside any man," replied Flo, eloquently. "You're

Western, and you're steady and loyal, and you'll--well, some day you'll be

like dad. Could I say more? . . . But, Lee, this man is different. He is

wonderful. I can't explain it, but I feel it. He has been through hell's

fire. Oh! will I ever forget his ravings when he lay so ill? He means more

to me than just one man. He's American. You're American, too, Lee, and you

trained to be a soldier, and you would have made a grand one--if I know old

Arizona. But you were not called to France. . . . Glenn Kilbourne went. God

only knows what that means. But he went. And there's the difference. I saw

the wreck of him. I did a little to save his life and his mind. I wouldn't

be an American girl if I didn't love him. . . . Oh, Lee, can't you

understand?"

"I reckon so. I'm not begrudging Glenn what--what you care. I'm only afraid

I'll lose you."

"I never promised to marry you, did I?"

"Not in words. But kisses ought to--?"

"Yes, kisses mean a lot," she replied. "And so far I stand committed. I

suppose I'll marry you some day and be blamed lucky. I'll be happy, too--

don't you overlook that hunch. . . . You needn't worry. Glenn is in love

with Carley. She's beautiful, rich--and of his class. How could he ever see

me?"

"Flo, you can never tell," replied Stanton, thoughtfully. "I didn't like

her at first. But I'm comin' round. The thing is, Flo, does she love him as

you love him?"

"Oh, I think so--I hope so," answered Flo, as if in distress.

"I'm not so shore. But then I can't savvy her. Lord knows I hope so, too.

If she doesn't--if she goes back East an' leaves him here--I reckon my

case--"

"Hush! I know she's out here to take him back. Let's go downstairs now."

"Aw, wait--Flo," he begged. "What's your hurry? . . . Come-give me--"

"There! That's all you get, birthday or no birthday," replied Flo, gayly.

Carley heard the soft kiss and Stanton's deep breath, and then footsteps as

they walked away in the gloom toward the stairway. Carley leaned against

the log wall. She felt the rough wood--smelled the rusty pine rosin. Her

other hand pressed her bosom where her heart beat with unwonted vigor.

Footsteps and voices sounded beneath her. Twilight had deepened into night.

The low murmur of the waterfall and the babble of the brook floated to her

strained ears.

Listeners never heard good of themselves. But Stanton's subtle doubt of any

depth to her, though it hurt, was not so conflicting as the ringing truth

of Flo Hutter's love for Glenn. This unsought knowledge powerfully affected

Carley. She was forewarned and forearmed now. It saddened her, yet did not

lessen her confidence in her hold on Glenn. But it stirred to perplexing

pitch her curiosity in regard to the mystery that seemed to cling round

Glenn's transformation of character. This Western girl really knew more

about Glenn than his fiancee knew. Carley suffered a humiliating shock when

she realized that she had been thinking of herself, of her love, her life,

her needs, her wants instead of Glenn's. It took no keen intelligence or

insight into human nature to see that Glenn needed her more than she needed

him.

Thus unwontedly stirred and upset and flung back upon pride of herself,

Carley went downstairs to meet the assembled company. And never had she

shown to greater contrast, never had circumstance and state of mind

contrived to make her so radiant and gay and unbending. She heard many

remarks not intended for her far-reaching ears. An old grizzled Westerner

remarked to Hutter: "Wall, she's shore an unbroke filly." Another of the

company--a woman--remarked: "Sweet an' pretty as a columbine. But I'd like

her better if she was dressed decent." And a gaunt range rider, who stood

with others at the porch door, looking on, asked a comrade: "Do you reckon

that's style back East?" To which the other replied: "Mebbe, but I'd gamble

they're short on silk back East an' likewise sheriffs."

Carley received some meed of gratification out of the sensation she

created, but she did not carry her craving for it to the point of

overshadowing Flo. On the contrary, she contrived to have Flo share the

attention she received. She taught Flo to dance the fox-trot and got Glenn

to dance with her. Then she taught it to Lee Stanton. And when Lee danced

with Flo, to the infinite wonder and delight of the onlookers, Carley

experienced her first sincere enjoyment of the evening.

Her moment came when she danced with Glenn. It reminded her of days long

past and which she wanted to return again. Despite war tramping and Western

labors Glenn retained something of his old grace and lightness. But just to

dance with him was enough to swell her heart, and for once she grew

oblivious to the spectators.

"Glenn, would you like to go to the Plaza with me again, and dance between

dinner courses, as we used to?" she whispered up to him.

"Sure I would--unless Morrison knew you were to be there," he replied.

"Glenn! . . . I would not even see him."

"Any old time you wouldn't see Morrison!" he exclaimed, half mockingly.

His doubt, his tone grated upon her. Pressing closer to him, she said,

"Come back and I'll prove it."

But he laughed and had no answer for her. At her own daring words Carley's

heart had leaped to her lips. If he had responded, even teasingly, she

could have burst out with her longing to take him back. But silence

inhibited her, and the moment passed.

At the end of that dance Hutter claimed Glenn in the interest of

neighboring sheep men. And Carley, crossing the big living room alone,

passed close to one of the porch doors. Some one, indistinct in the shadow,

spoke to her in low voice: "Hello, pretty eyes!"

Carley felt a little cold shock go tingling through her. But she gave no

sign that she had heard. She recognized the voice and also the epithet.

Passing to the other side of the room and joining the company there, Carley

presently took a casual glance at the door. Several men were lounging

there. One of them was the sheep dipper, Haze Ruff. His bold eyes were on

her now, and his coarse face wore a slight, meaning smile, as if he

understood something about her that was a secret to others. Carley dropped

her eyes. But she could not shake off the feeling that wherever she moved

this man's gaze followed her. The unpleasantness of this incident would

have been nothing to Carley had she at once forgotten it. Most

unaccountably, however, she could not make herself unaware of this

ruffian's attention. It did no good for her to argue that she was merely

the cynosure of all eyes. This Ruff's tone and look possessed something

heretofore unknown to Carley. Once she was tempted to tell Glenn. But that

would only cause a fight, so she kept her counsel. She danced again, and

helped Flo entertain her guests, and passed that door often; and once stood

before it, deliberately, with all the strange and contrary impulse so

inscrutable in a woman, and never for a moment wholly lost the sense of the

man's boldness. It dawned upon her, at length, that the singular thing

about this boldness was its difference from any, which had ever before

affronted her. The fool's smile meant that he thought she saw his

attention, and, understanding it perfectly, had secret delight in it. Many

and various had been the masculine egotisms which had come under her

observation. But quite beyond Carley was this brawny sheep dipper, Haze

Ruff. Once the party broke up and the guests had departed, she instantly

forgot both man and incident.

Next day, late in the afternoon, when Carley came out on the porch, she was

hailed by Flo, who had just ridden in from down the canyon.

"Hey Carley, come down. I shore have something to tell you," she called.

Carley did not use any time pattering down that rude porch stairway. Flo

was dusty and hot, and her chaps carried the unmistakable scent of

sheep-dip.

"Been over to Ryan's camp an' shore rode hard to beat Glenn home," drawled

Flo.

"Why?" queried Carley, eagerly.

"Reckon I wanted to tell you something Glenn swore he wouldn't let me tell.

. . . He makes me tired. He thinks you can't stand things."

"Oh! Has he been--hurt?"

"He's skinned an' bruised up some, but I reckon he's not hurt."

"Flo--what happened?" demanded Carley, anxiously.

"Carley, do you know Glenn can fight like the devil?" asked Flo.

"No, I don't. But I remember he used to be athletic. Flo, you make me

nervous. Did Glenn fight?"

"I reckon he did," drawled Flo.

"With whom?"

"Nobody else but that big hombre, Haze Ruff."

"Oh!" gasped Carley, with a violent start. "That--that ruffian! Flo, did

you see--were you there?"

"I shore was, an' next to a horse race I like a fight," replied the Western

girl. "Carley, why didn't you tell me Haze Ruff insulted you last night?"

"Why, Flo--he only said, 'Hello, pretty eyes,' and I let it pass!" said

Carley, lamely.

"You never want to let anything pass, out West. Because next time you'll

get worse. This turn your other cheek doesn't go in Arizona. But we shore

thought Ruff said worse than that. Though from him that's aplenty."

"How did you know?"

"Well, Charley told it. He was standing out here by the door last night an'

he heard Ruff speak to you. Charley thinks a heap of you an' I reckon he

hates Ruff. Besides, Charley stretches things. He shore riled Glenn, an' I

want to say, my dear, you missed the best thing that's happened since you

got here."

"Hurry--tell me," begged Carley, feeling the blood come to her face.

"I rode over to Ryan's place for dad, an' when I got there I knew nothing

about what Ruff said to you," began Flo, and she took hold of Carley's

hand. "Neither did dad. You see, Glenn hadn't got there yet. Well, just as

the men had finished dipping a bunch of sheep Glenn came riding down,

lickety cut."

" 'Now what the hell's wrong with Glenn?' said dad, getting up from where

we sat.

"Shore I knew Glenn was mad, though I never before saw him that way. He

looked sort of grim an' black. . . . Well, he rode right down on us an'

piled off. Dad yelled at him an' so did I. But Glenn made for the sheep

pen. You know where we watched Haze Ruff an' Lorenzo slinging the sheep

into the dip. Ruff was just about to climb out over the fence when Glenn

leaped up on it."

" 'Say, Ruff,' he said, sort of hard, 'Charley an' Ben tell me they heard

you speak disrespect fully to Miss Burch last night.' "

"Dad an' I ran to the fence, but before we could catch hold of Glenn he'd

jumped down into the pen."

"'I'm not carin' much for what them herders say,' replied Ruff.

"'Do you deny it?' demanded Glenn.

"'I ain't denyin' nothin', Kilbourne,' growled Ruff. 'I might argue against

me bein' disrespectful. That's a matter of opinion.'

"'You'll apologize for speaking to Miss Burch or I'll beat you up an' have

Hutter fire you.'

"'Wal, Kilbourne, I never eat my words,' replied Ruff.

"Then Glenn knocked him flat. You ought to have heard that crack. Sounded

like Charley hitting a steer with a club. Dad yelled: 'Look out, Glenn. He

packs a gun!'--Ruff got up mad clear through I reckon. Then they mixed it.

Ruff got in some swings, but he couldn't reach Glenn's face. An' Glenn

batted him right an' left, every time in his ugly mug. Ruff got all bloody

an' he cussed something awful. Glenn beat him against the fence an' then we

all saw Ruff reach for a gun or knife. All the men yelled. An' shore I

screamed. But Glenn saw as much as we saw. He got fiercer. He beat Ruff

down to his knees an' swung on him hard. Deliberately knocked Ruff into the

dip ditch. What a splash! It wet all of us. Ruff went out of sight. Then he

rolled up like a huge hog. We were all scared now. That dip's rank poison,

you know. Reckon Ruff knew that. He floundered along an' crawled up at the

end. Anyone could see that he had mouth an' eyes tight shut. He began to

grope an' feel around, trying to find the way to the pond. One of the men

led him out. It was great to see him wade in the water an' wallow an' souse

his head under. When he came out the men got in front of him any stopped

him. He shore looked bad. . . . An' Glenn called to him, 'Ruff, that

sheep-dip won't go through your tough hide, but a bullet will!"

Not long after this incident Carley started out on her usual afternoon

ride, having arranged with Glenn to meet her on his return from work.

Toward the end of June Carley had advanced in her horsemanship to a point

where Flo lent her one of her own mustangs. This change might not have had

all to do with a wonderful difference in riding, but it seemed so to

Carley. There was as much difference in horses as in people. This mustang

she had ridden of late was of Navajo stock, but he had been born and raised

and broken at Oak Creek. Carley had not yet discovered any objection on his

part to do as she wanted him to. He liked what she liked, and most of all

he liked to go. His color resembled a pattern of calico, and in accordance

with Western ways his name was therefore Calico. Left to choose his own

gait, Calico always dropped into a gentle pace which was so easy and

comfortable and swinging that Carley never tired of it. Moreover, he did

not shy at things lying in the road or rabbits darting from bushes or at

the upwhirring of birds. Carley had grown attached to Calico before she

realized she was drifting into it; and for Carley to care for anything or

anybody was a serious matter, because it did not happen often and it

lasted. She was exceedingly tenacious of affection.

June had almost passed and summer lay upon the lonely land. Such perfect

and wonderful weather had never before been Carley's experience. The dawns

broke cool, fresh, fragrant, sweet, and rosy, with a breeze that seemed of

heaven rather than earth, and the air seemed tremulously full of the murmur

of falling water and the melody of mocking birds. At the solemn noontides

the great white sun glared down hot--so hot that t burned the skin, yet

strangely was a pleasant burn. The waning afternoons were Carley's especial

torment, when it seemed the sounds and winds of the day were tiring, and

all things were seeking repose, and life must soften to an unthinking

happiness. These hours troubled Carley because she wanted them to last, and

because she knew for her this changing and transforming time could not

last. So long as she did not think she was satisfied.

Maples and sycamores and oaks were in full foliage, and their bright greens

contrasted softly with the dark shine of the pines. Through the spaces

between brown tree trunks and the white-spotted holes of the sycamores

gleamed the amber water of the creek. Always there was murmur of little

rills and the musical dash of little rapids. On the surface of still, shady

pools trout broke to make ever-widening ripples. Indian paintbrush, so

brightly carmine in color, lent touch of fire to the green banks, and under

the oaks, in cool dark nooks where mossy bowlders lined the stream, there

were stately nodding yellow columbines. And high on the rock ledges shot up

the wonderful mescal stalks, beginning to blossom, some with tints of gold

and others with tones of red.

Riding along down the canyon, under its looming walls, Carley wondered that

if unawares to her these physical aspects of Arizona could have become more

significant than she realized. The thought had confronted her before. Here,

as always, she fought it and denied it by the simple defense of

elimination. Yet refusing to think of a thing when it seemed ever present

was not going to do forever. Insensibly and subtly it might get a hold on

her, never to be broken. Yet it was infinitely easier to dream than to

think.

But the thought encroached upon her that it was not a dreamful habit of

mind she had fallen into of late. When she dreamed or mused she lived

vaguely and sweetly over past happy hours or dwelt in enchanted fancy upon

a possible future. Carley had been told by a Columbia professor that she

was a type of the present age--a modern young woman of materialistic mind.

Be that as it might, she knew many things seemed loosening from the

narrowness and tightness of her character, sloughing away like scales,

exposing a new and strange and susceptible softness of fiber. And this

blank habit of mind, when she did not think, and now realized that she was

not dreaming, seemed to be the body of Carley Burch, and her heart and soul

stripped of a shell. Nerve and emotion and spirit received something from

her surroundings. She absorbed her environment. She felt. It was a

delightful state. But when her own consciousness caused it to elude her,

then she both resented and regretted. Anything that approached permanent

attachment to this crude and untenanted West Carley would not tolerate for

a moment. Reluctantly she admitted it had bettered her health, quickened

her blood, and quite relegated Florida and the Adirondacks, to little

consideration.

"Well, as I told Glenn," soliloquized Carley, "every time I'm almost won

over a little to Arizona she gives me a hard jolt. I'm getting near being

mushy today. Now let's see what I'll get. I suppose that's my pessimism or

materialism. Funny how Glenn keeps saying its the jolts, the hard knocks,

the fights that are best to remember afterward. I don't get that at all."

Five miles below West Fork a road branched off and climbed the left side of

the canyon. It was a rather steep road, long and zigzaging, and full of

rocks and ruts. Carley did not enjoy ascending it, but she preferred the

going up to coming down. It took half an hour to climb.

Once up on the flat cedar-dotted desert she was met, full in the face, by a

hot dusty wind coming from the south. Carley searched her pockets for her

goggles, only to ascertain that she had forgotten them. Nothing, except a

freezing sleety wind, annoyed and punished Carley so much as a hard puffy

wind, full of sand and dust. Somewhere along the first few miles of this

road she was to meet Glenn. If she turned back for any cause he would be

worried, and, what concerned her more vitally, he would think she had not

the courage to face a little dust. So Carley rode on.

The wind appeared to be gusty. It would blow hard awhile, then lull for a

few moments. On the whole, however, it increased in volume and persistence

until she was riding against a gale. She had now come to a bare, flat,

gravelly region, scant of cedars and brush, and far ahead she could see a

dull yellow pall rising high into the sky. It was a duststorm and it was

sweeping down on the wings of that gale. Carley remembered that somewhere

along this flat there was a log cabin which had before provided shelter for

her and Flo when they were caught in a rainstorm. It seemed unlikely that

she had passed by this cabin.

Resolutely she faced the gale and knew she had a task to find that refuge.

If there had been a big rock or bushy cedar to offer shelter she would have

welcomed it. But there was nothing. When the hard dusty gusts hit her, she

found it absolutely necessary to shut her eyes. At intervals less windy she

opened them, and rode on, peering through the yellow gloom for the cabin.

Thus she got her eyes full of dust--an alkali dust that made them sting and

smart. The fiercer puffs of wind carried pebbles large enough to hurt

severely. Then the dust clogged her nose and sand got between her teeth.

Added to these annoyances was a heat like a blast from a furnace. Carley

perspired freely and that caked the dust on her face. She rode on,

gradually growing more uncomfortable and miserable. Yet even then she did

not utterly lose a sort of thrilling zest in being thrown upon her own

responsibility. She could hate an obstacle, yet feel something of pride in

holding her own against it.

Another mile of buffeting this increasing gale so exhausted Carley and

wrought upon her nerves that she became nearly panic-stricken. It grew

harder and harder not to turn back. At last she was about to give up when

right at hand through the flying dust she espied the cabin. Riding behind

it, she dismounted and tied the mustang to a post. Then she ran around to

the door and entered.

What a welcome refuge! She was all right now, and when Glenn came along she

would have added to her already considerable list another feat for which he

would commend her. With aid of her handkerchief, and the tears that flowed

so copiously, Carley presently freed her eyes of the blinding dust. But

when she essayed to remove it from her face she discovered she would need a

towel and soap and hot water.

The cabin appeared to be enveloped in a soft, swishing, hollow sound. It

seeped and rustled. Then the sound lulled, only to rise again. Carley went

to the door, relieved and glad to see that the duststorm was blowing by.

The great sky-high pall of yellow had moved on to the north. Puffs of dust

were whipping along the road, but no longer in one continuous cloud. In the

west, low down the sun was sinking, a dull magenta in hue, quite weird and

remarkable.

"I knew I'd get the jolt all right," soliloquized Carley, wearily, as she

walked to a rude couch of poles and sat down upon it. She had begun to cool

off. And there, feeling dirty and tired, and slowly wearing to the old

depression, she composed herself to wait.

Suddenly she heard the clip-clop of hoofs. "There! that's Glenn," she

cried, gladly, and rising, she ran to the door.

She saw a big bay horse bearing a burly rider. He discovered her at the

same instant, and pulled his horse.

"Ho! Ho! if it ain't Pretty Eyes!" he called out, in gay, coarse voice.

Carley recognized the voice, and then the epithet, before her sight

established the man as Haze Ruff. A singular stultifying shock passed over

her.

"Wal, by all thet's lucky!" he said, dismounting. "I knowed we'd meet some

day. I can't say I just laid fer you, but I kept my eyes open."

Manifestly he knew she was alone, for he did not glance into the cabin.

"I'm waiting for--Glenn," she said, with lips she tried to make stiff.

"Shore I reckoned thet," he replied, genially. "But he won't be along yet

awhile."

He spoke with a cheerful inflection of tone, as if the fact designated was

one that would please her; and his swarthy, seamy face expanded into a

good-humored, meaning smile. Then without any particular rudeness he pushed

her back from the door, into the cabin, and stepped across the threshold.

"How dare--you!" cried Carley. A hot anger that stirred in her seemed to be

beaten down and smothered by a cold shaking internal commotion, threatening

collapse. This man loomed over her, huge, somehow monstrous in his brawny

uncouth presence. And his knowing smile, and the hard, glinting twinkle of

his light eyes, devilishly intelligent and keen, in no wise lessened the

sheer brutal force of him physically. Sight of his bulk was enough to

terrorize Carley.

"Me! Aw, I'm a darin' hombre an' a devil with the wimmin," he said, with a

guffaw.

Carley could not collect her wits. The instant of his pushing her back into

the cabin and following her had shocked her and almost paralyzed her will.

If she saw him now any the less fearful she could not so quickly rally her

reason to any advantage.

"Let me out of here," she demanded.

"Nope. I'm a-goin' to make a little love to you," he said, and he reached

for her with great hairy hands.

Carley saw in them the strength that had so easily swung the sheep. She

saw, too, that they were dirty, greasy hands. And they made her flesh

creep.

"Glenn will kill--you," she panted.

"What fer?" he queried, in real or pretended surprise. "Aw, I know wimmin.

You'll never tell him."

"Yes, I will."

"Wal, mebbe. I reckon you're lyin', Pretty Eyes," he replied, with a grin.

"Anyhow, I'll take a chance."

"I tell you--he'll kill you," repeated Carley, backing away until her weak

knees came against the couch.

"What fer, I ask you?" he demanded.

"For this--this insult."

"Huh! I'd like to know who's insulted you. Can't a man take an invitation

to kiss an' hug a girl--without insultin' her?"

"Invitation! . . . Are you crazy?" queried Carley, bewildered.

"Nope, I'm not crazy, an' I shore said invitation . . . . I meant thet

white shimmy dress you wore the night of Flo's party. Thet's my invitation

to get a little fresh with you, Pretty Eyes!"

Carley could only stare at him. His words seemed to have some peculiar,

unanswerable power.

"Wal, if it wasn't an invitation, what was it?" he asked, with another step

that brought him within reach of her. He waited for her answer, which was

not forthcoming.

"Wal, you're gettin' kinda pale around the gills," he went on, derisively.

"I reckoned you was a real sport. . . . Come here."

He fastened one of his great hands in the front of her coat and gave her a

pull. So powerful was it that Carley came hard against him, almost knocking

her breathless. There he held her a moment and then put his other arm round

her. It seemed to crush both breath and sense out of her. Suddenly limp,

she sank strengthless. She seemed reeling in darkness. Then she felt herself thrust away

from him with violence. She sank on the couch and her head and shoulders struck the

wall.

"Say, if you're a-goin' to keel over like thet I pass," declared Ruff, in

disgust. "Can't you Eastern wimmin stand nothin?"

Carley's eyes opened and beheld this man in an attitude of supremely

derisive protest.

"You look like a sick kitten," he added. "When I get me a sweetheart or

wife I want her to be a wild cat."

His scorn and repudiation of her gave Carley intense relief. She sat up and

endeavored to collect her shattered nerves. Ruff gazed down at her with

great disapproval and even disappointment.

"Say, did you have some fool idee I was a-goin' to kill you?" he queried,

gruffly.

"I'm afraid--I did," faltered Carley. Her relief was a release; it was so

strange that it was gratefulness.

"Wal, I reckon I wouldn't have hurt you. None of these flop-over Janes for

me! . . . An' I'll give you a hunch, Pretty Eyes. You might have run acrost

a fellar thet was no gentleman!"

Of all the amazing statements that had ever been made to Carley, this one

seemed the most remarkable.

"What 'd you wear thet onnatural white dress fer?" he demanded, as if he

had a right to be her judge.

"Unnatural?" echoed Carley.

"Shore. Thet's what I said. Any woman's dress without top or bottom is

onnatural. It's not right. Why, you looked like--like"--here he floundered

for adequate expression--"like one of the devil's angels. An' I want to

hear why you wore it."

"For the same reason I'd wear any dress," she felt forced to reply.

"Pretty Eyes, thet's a lie. An' you know it's a lie. You wore thet white

dress to knock the daylights out of men. Only you ain't honest enough to

say so . . . . Even me or my kind! Even us, who 're dirt under your little

feet. But all the same we're men, an' mebbe better men than you think. If

you had to put that dress on, why didn't you stay in your room? Naw, you

had to come down an' strut around an' show off your beauty. An' I ask you--

if you're a nice girl like Flo Hutter--what 'd you wear it fer?"

Carley not only was mute; she felt rise and burn in her a singular shame

and surprise.

"I'm only a sheep dipper," went on Ruff, "but I ain't no fool. A fellar

doesn't have to live East an' wear swell clothes to have sense. Mebbe

you'll learn thet the West is bigger'n you think. A man's a man East or

West. But if your Eastern men stand for such dresses as thet white one

they'd do well to come out West awhile, like your lover, Glenn Kilbourne.

I've been rustlin' round here ten years, an' I never before seen a dress

like yours--an' I never heerd of a girl bein' insulted, either. Mebbe you

think I insulted you. Wal, I didn't. Fer I reckon nothin' could insult you

in thet dress. . . . An' my last hunch is this, Pretty Eyes. You're not

what a hombre like me calls either square or game. Adios."

His bulky figure darkened the doorway, passed out, and the light of the sky

streamed into the cabin again. Carley sat staring. She heard Ruff's spurs

tinkle, then the ring of steel on stirrup, a sodden leathery sound as he

mounted, and after that a rapid pound of hoofs, quickly dying away.

He was gone. She had escaped something raw and violent. Dazedly she

realized it, with unutterable relief. And she sat there slowly gathering

the nervous force that had been shattered. Every word that he had uttered

was stamped in startling characters upon her consciousness. But she was

still under the deadening influence of shock. This raw experience was the

worst the West had yet dealt her. It brought back former states of

revulsion and formed them in one whole irrefutable and damning judgment

that seemed to blot out the vaguely dawning and growing happy

susceptibilities. It was, perhaps, just as well to have her mind reverted

to realistic fact. The presence of Haze Ruff, the astounding truth of the

contact with his huge sheep-defiled hands, had been profanation and

degradation under which she sickened with fear and shame. Yet hovering back

of her shame and rising anger seemed to be a pale, monstrous, and

indefinable thought, insistent and accusing, with which she must sooner or

later reckon. It might have been the voice of the new side of her nature,

but at that moment of outraged womanhood, and of revolt against the West,

she would not listen. It might, too, have been the still small voice of

conscience. But decision of mind and energy coming to her then, she threw

off the burden of emotion and perplexity, and forced herself into composure

before the arrival of Glenn.

The dust had ceased to blow, although the wind had by no means died away.

Sunset marked the west in old rose and gold, a vast flare. Carley espied a

horseman far down the road, and presently recognized both rider and steed.

He was coming fast. She went out and, mounting her mustang, she rode out to

meet Glenn. It did not appeal to her to wait for him at the cabin; besides

hoof tracks other than those made by her mustang might have been noticed by

Glenn. Presently he came up to her and pulled his loping horse.

"Hello! I sure was worried," was his greeting, as his gloved hand went out

to her. "Did you run into that sandstorm?"

"It ran into me, Glenn, and buried me," she laughed.

His fine eyes lingered on her face with glad and warm glance, and the keen,

apprehensive penetration of a lover.

"Well, under all that dust you look scared," he said.

"Scared! I was worse than that. When I first ran into the flying dirt I was

only afraid I'd lose my way--and my complexion. But when the worst of the

storm hit me--then I feared I'd lose my breath."

"Did you face that sand and ride through it all?" he queried.

"No, not all. But enough. I went through the worst of it before I reached

the cabin," she replied.

"Wasn't it great?"

"Yes--great bother and annoyance," she said, laconically.

Whereupon he reached with long, arm and wrapped it round her as they

rocked side by side. Demonstrations of this nature were infrequent with Glenn.

Despite losing one foot out of a stirrup and her seat in the saddle Carley

rather encouraged it. He kissed her dusty face, and then set her back.

"By George! Carley, sometimes I think you've changed since you've been

here," he said, with warmth. "To go through that sandstorm without one

kick--one knock at my West!"

"Glenn, I always think of what Flo says--the worst is yet to come," replied

Carley, trying to hide her unreasonable and tumultuous pleasure at words of

praise from him.

"Carley Burch, you don't know yourself," he declared, enigmatically.

"What woman knows herself? But do you know me?"

"Not I. Yet sometimes I see depths in you--wonderful possibilities-

-submerged under your poise--under your fixed, complacent idle attitude

toward life."

This seemed for Carley to be dangerously skating near thin ice, but she

could not resist a retort:

"Depths in me? Why I am a shallow, transparent stream like your West Fork!

. . . And as for possibilities-may I ask what of them you imagine you see?"

"As a girl, before you were claimed by the world, you were earnest at

heart. You had big hopes and dreams. And you had intellect, too. But you

have wasted your talents, Carley. Having money, and spending it, living for

pleasure, you have not realized your powers. . . . Now, don't look hurt.

I'm not censuring you, It's just the way of modern life. And most of your

friends have been more careless, thoughtless, useless than you. The aim of

their existence is to be comfortable, free from work, worry, pain. They

want pleasure, luxury. And what a pity it is! The best of you girls regard

marriage as an escape, instead of responsibility. You don't marry to get

your shoulders square against the old wheel of American progress--to help

some man make good--to bring a troop of healthy American kids into the

world. You bare your shoulders to the gaze of the multitude and like it

best if you are strung with pearls."

"Glenn, you distress me when you talk like this, " replied Carley, soberly.

"You did not use to talk so. It seems to me you are bitter against women."

"Oh no, Carley! I am only sad," he said. "I only see where once I was

blind. American women are the finest on earth, but as a race, if they don't

change, they're doomed to extinction."

"How can you say such things?" demanded Carley, with spirit.

"I say them because they are true. Carley, on the level now, tell me how

many of your immediate friends have children."

Put to a test, Carley rapidly went over in mind her circle of friends, with

the result that she was somewhat shocked and amazed to realize how few of

them were even married, and how the babies of her acquaintance were limited

to three. It was not easy to admit this to Glenn.

"My dear," replied he, "if that does not show you the handwriting on the

wall, nothing ever will."

"A girl has to find a husband, doesn't she?" asked Carley, roused to

defense of her sex. "And if she's anybody she has to find one in her set.

Well, husbands are not plentiful. Marriage certainly is not the end of

existence these days. We have to get along somehow. The high cost of living

is no inconsderable factor today. Do you know that most of the better-class

apartment houses in New York will not take children? Women are not all to

blame. Take the speed mania. Men must have automobiles. I know one girl who

wanted a baby, but her husband wanted a car. They couldn't afford both."

"Carley, I'm not blaming women more than men," returned Glenn. "I don't

know that I blame them as a class. But in my own mind I have worked it all

out. Every man or woman who is genuinely American should read the signs of

the times, realize the crisis, and meet it in an American way. Otherwise we

are done as a race. Money is God in the older countries. But it should

never become God in America. If it does we will make the fall of Rome pale

into insignificance."

"Glenn, let's put off the argument," appealed Carley. "I'm not--just up to

fighting you today. Oh--you needn't smile. I'm not showing a yellow streak,

as Flo puts it. I'll fight you some other time."

"You're right, Carley," he assented. "Here we are loafing six or seven

miles from home. Let's rustle along."

Riding fast with Glenn was something Carley had only of late added to her

achievements. She had greatest pride in it. So she urged her mustang to

keep pace with Glenn's horse and gave herself up to the thrill of the

motion and feel of wind and sense of flying along. At a good swinging lope

Calico covered ground swiftly and did not tire. Carley rode the two miles

to the rim of the canyon, keeping alongside of Glenn all the way. Indeed,

for one long level stretch she and Glenn held hands. When they arrived at

the descent, which necessitated slow and careful riding, she was hot and

tingling and breathless, worked by the action into an exuberance of

pleasure. Glenn complimented her riding as well as her rosy cheeks. There

was indeed a sweetness in working at a task as she had worked to learn to

ride in Western fashion. Every turn of her mind seemed to confront her with

sobering antitheses of thought. Why had she come to love to ride down a

lonely desert road, through ragged cedars where the wind whipped her face

with fragrant wild breath, if at the same time she hated the West? Could

she hate a country, however barren and rough, if it had saved the health

and happiness of her future husband? Verily there were problems for Carley

to solve.

Early twilight purple lay low in the hollows and clefts of the canyon. Over

the western rim a pale ghost of the evening star seemed to smile at Carley,

to bid her look and look. Like a strain of distant music, the dreamy hum of

falling water, the murmur and melody of the stream, came again to Carley's

sensitive ear.

"Do you love this?" asked Glenn, when they reached the green-forested

canyon floor, with the yellow road winding away into the purple shadows.

"Yes, both the ride--and you," flashed Carley, contrarily. She knew he had

meant the deep-walled canyon with its brooding solitude.

"But I want you to love Arizona," he said.

"Glenn, I'm a faithful creature. You should be glad of that. I love New

York."

"Very well, then. Arizona to New York," he said, lightly brushing her cheek

with his lips. And swerving back into his saddle, he spurred his horse and

called back over his shoulder: "That mustang and Flo have beaten me many a

time. Come on."

It was not so much his words as his tone and look that roused Carley. Had

he resented her loyalty to the city of her nativity? Always there was a

little rift in the lute. Had his tone and look meant that Flo might catch

him if Carley could not? Absurd as the idea was, it spurred her to

recklessness. Her mustang did not need any more than to know she wanted him

to run. The road was of soft yellow earth flanked with green foliage and

overspread by pines. In a moment she was racing at a speed she had never

before half attained on a horse. Down the winding road Glenn's big steed

sped, his head low, his stride tremendous, his action beautiful. But Carley

saw the distance between them diminishing. Calico was overtaking the bay.

She cried out in the thrilling excitement of the moment. Glenn saw her

gaining and pressed his mount to greater speed. Still he could not draw

away from Calico. Slowly the little mustang gained. It seemed to Carley

that riding him required no effort at all. And at such fast pace, with the

wind roaring in her ears, the walls of green vague and continuous in her

sight, the sting of pine tips on cheek and neck, the yellow road streaming

toward her, under her, there rose out of the depths of her, out of the

tumult of her breast, a sense of glorious exultation. She closed in on

Glenn. From the flying hoofs of his horse shot up showers of damp sand and

gravel that covered Carley's riding habit and spattered in her face. She

had to hold up a hand before her eyes. Perhaps this caused her to lose

something of her confidence, or her swing in the saddle, for suddenly she

realized she was not riding well. The pace was too fast for her

inexperience. But nothing could have stopped her then. No fear or

awkwardness of hers should be allowed to hamper that thoroughbred mustang.

Carley felt that Calico understood the situation; or at least he knew he

could catch and pass this big bay horse, and he intended to do it. Carley

was hard put to it to hang on and keep the flying sand from blinding her.

When Calico drew alongside the bay horse and brought Carley breast to

breast with Glenn, and then inch by inch forged ahead of him, Carley pealed

out an exultant cry. Either it frightened Calico or inspired him, for he

shot right ahead of Glenn's horse. Then he lost the smooth, wonderful

action. He seemed hurtling through space at the expense of tremendous

muscular action. Carley could feel it. She lost her equilibrium. She seemed

rushing through a blurred green and black aisle of the forest with a gale

in her face. Then, with a sharp jolt, a break, Calico plunged to the sand.

Carley felt herself propelled forward out of the saddle into the air, and

down to strike with a sliding, stunning force that ended in sudden dark

oblivion.

Upon recovering consciousness she first felt a sensation of oppression in

her chest and a dull numbness of her whole body. When she opened her eyes

she saw Glenn bending over her, holding her head on his knee. A wet, cold,

reviving sensation evidently came from the handkerchief with which he was

mopping her face.

"Carley, you can't be hurt--really!" he was ejaculating, in eager hope. "It

was some spill. But you lit on the sand and slid. You can't be hurt."

The look of his eyes, the tone of his voice, the feel of his hands were

such that Carley chose for a moment to pretend to be very badly hurt

indeed. It was worth taking a header to get so much from Glenn Kilbourne.

But she believed she had suffered no more than a severe bruising and

scraping.

"Glenn--dear, " she whispered, very low and very eloquently. "I think--my

back--is broken. . . . You'll be free--soon."

Glenn gave a terrible start and his face turned a deathly white. He burst

out with quavering, inarticulate speech.

Carley gazed up at him and then closed her eyes. She could not look at him

while carrying on such deceit. Yet the sight of him and the feel of him

then were inexpressibly blissful to her. What she needed most was assurance

of his love. She had it. Beyond doubt, beyond morbid fancy, the truth had

proclaimed itself, filling her heart with joy.

Suddenly she flung her arms up around his neck. "Oh--Glenn! It was too good

a chance to miss! . . . I'm not hurt a bit."

CHAPTER VII

The day came when Carley asked Mrs. Hutter: "Will you please put up a nice

lunch for Glenn and me? I'm going to walk down to his farm where he's

working, and surprise him."

"That's a downright fine idea," declared Mrs. Hutter, and forthwith bustled

away to comply with Carley's request.

So presently Carley found herself carrying a bountiful basket on her arm,

faring forth on an adventure that both thrilled and depressed her. Long

before this hour something about Glenn's work had quickened her pulse and

given rise to an inexplicable admiration. That he was big and strong enough

to do such labor made her proud; that he might want to go on doing it made

her ponder and brood.

The morning resembled one of the rare Eastern days in June, when the air

appeared flooded by rich thick amber light. Only the sun here was hotter

and the shade cooler.

Carley took to the trail below where West Fork emptied its golden-green

waters into Oak Creek. The red walls seemed to dream and wait under the

blaze of the sun; the heat lay like a blanket over the still foliage; the

birds were quiet; only the murmuring stream broke the silence of the

canyon. Never had Carley felt more the isolation and solitude of Oak Creek

Canyon. Far indeed from the madding crowd! Only Carley's stubbornness kept

her from acknowledging the sense of peace that enveloped her-that and the

consciousness of her own discontent. What would it be like to come to this

canyon-to give up to its enchantments? That, like many another disturbing

thought, had to go unanswered, to be driven into the closed chambers of

Carley's mind, there to germinate subconsciously, and stalk forth some day

to overwhelm her.

The trail led along the creek, threading a maze of bowlders, passing into

the shade of cottonwoods, and crossing sun-flecked patches of sand.

Carley's every step seemed to become slower. Regrets were assailing her.

Long indeed had she overstayed her visit to the West. She must not linger

there indefinitely. And mingled with misgiving was a surprise that she had

not tired of Oak Creek. In spite of all, and of the dislike she vaunted to

herself, the truth stared at her--she was not tired.

The long-delayed visit to see Glenn working on his own farm must result in

her talking to him about his work; and in a way not quite clear she

regretted the necessity for it. To disapprove of Glenn! She received faint

intimations of wavering, of uncertainty, of vague doubt. But these were

cried down by the dominant and habitable voice of her personality.

Presently through the shaded and shadowed breadth of the belt of forest she

saw gleams of a sunlit clearing. And crossing this space to the border of

trees she peered forth, hoping to espy Glenn at his labors. She saw an old

shack, and irregular lines of rude fence built of poles of all sizes and

shapes, and several plots of bare yellow ground, leading up toward the west

side of the canyon wall. Could this clearing be Glenn's farm? Surely she

had missed it or had not gone far enough. This was not a farm, but a slash

in the forested level of the canyon floor, bare and somehow hideous. Dead

trees were standing in the lots. They had been ringed deeply at the base by

an ax, to kill them, and so prevent their foliage from shading the soil.

Carley saw a long pile of rocks that evidently had been carried from the

plowed ground. There was no neatness, no regularity, although there was

abundant evidence of toil. To clear that rugged space, to fence it, and

plow it, appeared at once to Carley an extremely strenuous and useless

task. Carley persuaded herself that this must be the plot of ground belonging

to the herder Charley, and she was about to turn on down the creek when

far up under the bluff she espied a man. He was stalking along and bending

down, stalking along and bending down. She recognized Glenn. He was planting

something in the yellow soil.

Curiously Carley watched him, and did not allow her mind to become

concerned with a somewhat painful swell of her heart. What a stride he had!

How vigorous he looked, and earnest! He was as intent upon this job as if

he had been a rustic. He might have been failing to do it well, but he most

certainly was doing it conscientiously. Once he had said to her that a man

should never be judged by the result of his labors, but by the nature of

his effort. A man might strive with all his heart and strength, yet fall.

Carley watched him striding along and bending down, absorbed in his task,

unmindful of the glaring hot sun, and somehow to her singularly detached

from the life wherein he had once moved and to which she yearned to take

him back. Suddenly an unaccountable flashing query assailed her conscience:

How dare she want to take him back? She seemed as shocked as if some

stranger had accosted her. What was this dimming of her eye, this inward

tremulousness; this dammed tide beating at an unknown and riveted gate of

her intelligence? She felt more then than she dared to face. She struggled

against something in herself. The old habit of mind instinctively resisted

the new, the strange. But she did not come off wholly victorious. The

Carley Burch whom she recognized as of old, passionately hated this life

and work of Glenn Kilbourne's, but the rebel self, an unaccountable and

defiant Carley, loved him all the better for them.

Carley drew a long deep breath before she called Glenn. This meeting would

be momentous and she felt no absolute surety of herself.

Manifestly he was surprised to hear her call, and, dropping his sack and

implement, he hurried across the tilled ground, sending up puffs of dust.

He vaulted the rude fence of poles, and upon sight of her called out

lustily. How big and virile he looked! Yet he was gaunt and strained. It

struck Carley that he had not looked so upon her arrival at Oak Creek. Had

she worried him? The query gave her a pang.

"Sir Tiller of the Fields," said Carley, gayly, "see, your dinner! I

brought it and I am going to share it."

"You old darling!" he replied, and gave her an embrace that left her cheek

moist with the sweat of his. He smelled of dust and earth and his body was

hot. "I wish to God it could be true for always!"

His loving, bearish onslaught and his words quite silenced Carley. How at

critical moments he always said the thing that hurt her or inhibited her!

She essayed a smile as she drew back from him.

"It's sure good of you," he said, taking the basket. "I was thinking I'd be

through work sooner today, and was sorry I had not made a date with you.

Come, we'll find a place to sit."

Whereupon he led her back under the trees to a half-sunny, half-shady bench

of rock overhanging the stream. Great pines overshadowed a still, eddying

pool. A number of brown butterflies hovered over the water, and small trout

floated like spotted feathers just under the surface. Drowsy summer

enfolded the sylvan scene.

Glenn knelt at the edge of the brook, and, plunging his hands in, he

splashed like a huge dog and bathed his hot face and head, and then turned

to Carley with gay words and laughter, while he wiped himself dry with a

large red scarf. Carley was not proof against the virility of him then, and

at the moment, no matter what it was that had made him the man he looked,

she loved it.

"I'll sit in the sun," he said, designating a place. "When you're hot you

mustn't rest in the shade, unless you've coat or sweater. But you sit here

in the shade."

"Glenn, that'll put us too far apart," complained Carley. "I'll sit in the

sun with you."

The delightful simplicity and happiness of the ensuing hour was something

Carley believed she would never forget.

"There! we've licked the platter clean," she said. "What starved bears we

were! . . . . I wonder if I shall enjoy eating--when I get home. I used to

be so finnicky and picky."

"Carley, don't talk about home," said Glenn, appealingly.

"You dear old farmer, I'd love to stay here and just dream--forever,"

replied Carley, earnestly. "But I came on purpose to talk seriously."

"Oh, you did! About what?" he returned, with some quick, indefinable change

of tone and expression.

"Well, first about your work. I know I hurt your feelings when I wouldn't

listen. But I wasn't ready. I wanted to--to just be gay with you for a

while. Don't think I wasn't interested. I was. And now, I'm ready to hear

all about it--and everything."

She smiled at him bravely, and she knew that unless some unforeseen shock

upset her composure, she would be able to conceal from him anything which

might hurt his feelings.

"You do look serious," he said, with keen eyes on her.

"Just what are your business relations with Hutter?" she inquired.

"I'm simply working for him," replied Glenn. "My aim is to get an interest

in his sheep, and I expect to, some day. We have some plans. And one of

them is the development of that Deep Lake section. You remember--you were

with us. The day Spillbeans spilled you?"

"Yes, I remember. It was a pretty place," she replied.

Carley did not tell him that for a month past she had owned the Deep Lake

section of six hundred and forty acres. She had, in fact, instructed Hutter

to purchase it, and to keep the transaction a secret for the present.

Carley had never been able to understand the impulse that prompted her to

do it. But as Hutter had assured her it was a remarkably good investment on

very little capital, she had tried to persuade herself of its advantages.

Back of it all had been an irresistible desire to be able some day to

present to Glenn this ranch site he loved. She had concluded he would

never wholly dissociate himself from this West; and as he would visit it

now and then, she had already begun forming plans of her own. She could

stand a month in Arizona at long intervals.

"Hutter and I will go into cattle raising some day," went on Glenn. "And

that Deep Lake place is what I want for myself."

"What work are you doing for Hutter?" asked Carley.

"Anything from building fence to cutting timber," laughed Glenn. "I've not

yet the experience to be a foreman like Lee Stanton. Besides, I have a

little business all my own. I put all my money in that."

"You mean here--this--this farm?"

"Yes. And the stock I'm raisin'. You see I have to feed corn. And believe

me, Carley, those cornfields represent some job."

"I can well believe that," replied Carley. "You--you looked it."

"Oh, the hard work is over. All I have to do now it to plant and keep the

weeds out."

"Glenn, do sheep eat corn?"

"I plant corn to feed my hogs."

"Hogs?" she echoed, vaguely.

"Yes, hogs," he said, with quiet gravity. "The first day you visited my

cabin I told you I raised hogs, and I fried my own ham for your dinner."

"Is that what you--put your money in?"

"Yes. And Hutter says I've done well."

"Hogs!" ejaculated Carley, aghast.

"My dear, are you growin' dull of comprehension?" retorted Glenn.

"H-o-g-s." He spelled the word out. "I'm in the hog-raising business, and

pretty blamed well pleased over my success so far."

Carley caught herself in time to quell outwardly a shock of amaze and

revulsion. She laughed, and exclaimed against her stupidity. The look of

Glenn was no less astounding than the content of his words. He was actually

proud of his work. Moreover, he showed not the least sign that he had any

idea such information might be startlingly obnoxious to his fiancee.

"Glenn! It's so--so queer," she ejaculated. "That you--Glenn Kilbourne-

should ever go in for--for hogs! . . . It's unbelievable. How'd you

ever--ever happen to do it?"

"By Heaven! you're hard on me!" he burst out, in sudden dark, fierce

passion. "How'd I ever happen to do it? . . . What was there left for me? I

gave my soul and heart and body to the government--to fight for my country.

I came home a wreck. What did my government do for me? What did my

employers do for me? What did the people I fought for do for me? . . .

Nothing--so help me God--nothing! . . . I got a ribbon and a bouquet--a

little applause for an hour--and then the sight of me sickened my

countrymen. I was broken and used. I was absolutely forgotten. . . . But my

body, my life, my soul meant all to me. My future was ruined, but I wanted

to live. I had killed men who never harmed me--I was not fit to die. . . .

I tried to live. So I fought out my battle alone. Alone! . . . No one

understood. No one cared. I came West to keep from dying of consumption in sight of the

indifferent mob for whom I had sacrificed myself. I chose to die on my feet away off

alone somewhere. . . . But I got well. And what made me well--and saved my

soul--was the first work that offered. Raising and tending hogs!"

The dead whiteness of Glenn's face, the lightning scorn of his eyes, the

grim, stark strangeness of him then had for Carley a terrible harmony with

this passionate denunciation of her, of her kind, of the America for whom

he had lost all.

"Oh, Glenn!--forgive--me! " she faltered. "I was only--talking. What do I

know? Oh, I am blind--blind and little!"

She could not bear to face him for a moment, and she hung her head. Her

intelligence seemed concentrating swift, wild thoughts round the shock to

her consciousness. By that terrible expression of his face, by those

thundering words of scorn, would she come to realize the mighty truth of

his descent into the abyss and his rise to the heights. Vaguely she began

to see. An awful sense of her deadness, of her soul-blighting selfishness,

began to dawn upon her as something monstrous out of dim, gray obscurity.

She trembled under the reality of thoughts that were not new. How she had

babbled about Glenn and the crippled soldiers! How she had imagined she

sympathized! But she had only been a vain, worldly, complacent, effusive

little fool. She had here the shock of her life, and she sensed a greater

one, impossible to grasp.

"Carley, that was coming to you," said Glenn, presently, with deep, heavy

expulsion of breath.

"I only know I love you--more--more," she cried, wildly, looking up and

wanting desperately to throw herself in his arms.

"I guess you do--a little," he replied. "Sometimes I feel you are a kid.

Then again you represent the world--your world with its age-old custom--its

unalterable. . . . But, Carley, let's get back to my work."

"Yes--yes," exclaimed Carley, gladly. "I'm ready to--to go pet your hogs-

-anything."

"By George! I'll take you up," he declared. "I'll bet you won't go near one

of my hogpens."

"Lead me to it!" she replied, with a hilarity that was only a nervous

reversion of her state.

"Well, maybe I'd better hedge on the bet," he said, laughing again. "You

have more in you than I suspect. You sure fooled me when you stood for the

sheep-dip. But, come on, I'll take you anyway."

So that was how Carley found herself walking arm in arm with Glenn down the

canyon trail. A few moments of action gave her at least an appearance of

outward composure. And the state of her emotion was so strained and intense

that her slightest show of interest must deceive Glenn into thinking her

eager, responsive, enthusiastic. It certainly appeared to loosen his

tongue. But Carley knew she was farther from normal than ever before in her

life, and that the subtle, inscrutable woman's intuition of her presaged

another shock. Just as she had seemed to change, so had the aspects of the

canyon undergone some illusive transformation. The beauty of green foliage

and amber stream and brown tree trunks and gray rocks and red walls was

there; and the summer drowsiness and languor lay as deep; and the

loneliness and solitude brooded with its same eternal significance. But

some nameless enchantment, perhaps of hope, seemed no longer to encompass

her. A blow had fallen upon her, the nature of which only time could

divulge.

Glenn led her around the clearing and up to the base of the west wall,

where against a shelving portion of the cliff had been constructed a rude

fence of poles. It formed three sides of a pen, and the fourth side was

solid rock. A bushy cedar tree stood in the center. Water flowed from under

the cliff, which accounted for the boggy condition of the red earth. This

pen was occupied by a huge sow and a litter of pigs.

Carley climbed on the fence and sat there while Glenn leaned over the top

pole and began to wax eloquent on a subject evidently dear to his heart.

Today of all days Carley made an inspiring listener. Even the shiny, muddy,

suspicious old sow in no wise daunted her fictitious courage. That filthy

pen of mud a foot deep, and of odor rancid, had no terrors for her. With an

arm round Glenn's shoulder she watched the rooting and squealing little

pigs, and was amused and interested, as if they were far removed from the

vital issue of the hour. But all the time as she looked and laughed, and

encouraged Glenn to talk, there seemed to be a strange, solemn, oppressive

knocking at her heart. Was it only the beat-beat-beat of blood?

"There were twelve pigs in that litter," Glenn was saying, "and now you see

there are only nine. I've lost three. Mountain lions, bears, coyotes, wild

cats are all likely to steal a pig. And at first I was sure one of these

varmints had been robbing me. But as I could not find any tracks, I knew I

had to lay the blame on something else. So I kept watch pretty closely in

daytime, and at night I shut the pigs up in the corner there, where you see

I've built a pen. Yesterday I heard squealing--and, by George! I saw an

eagle flying off with one of my pigs. Say, I was mad. A great old

bald-headed eagle--the regal bird you see with America's stars and stripes

had degraded himself to the level of a coyote. I ran for my rifle, and I

took some quick shots at him as he flew up. Tried to hit him, too, but I

failed. And the old rascal hung on to my pig. I watched him carry it to

that sharp crag way up there on the rim."

"Poor little piggy!" exclaimed Carley. "To think of our American emblem--our

stately bird of noble warlike mien--our symbol of lonely grandeur and

freedom of the heights--think of him being a robber of pigpens!--Glenn, I

begin to appreciate the many-sidedness of things. Even my hide-bound

narrowness is susceptible to change. It's never too late to learn. This

should apply to the Society for the Preservation of the American Eagle."

Glenn led her along the base of the wall to three other pens, in each of

which was a fat old sow with a litter. And at the last enclosure, that

owing to dry soil was not so dirty, Glenn picked up a little pig and held

it squealing out to Carley as she leaned over the fence. It was fairly

white and clean, a little pink and fuzzy, and certainly cute with its

curled tall.

"Carley Burch, take it in your hands," commanded Glenn.

The feat seemed monstrous and impossible of accomplishment for Carley. Yet

such was her temper at the moment that she would have undertaken anything.

"Why, shore I will, as Flo says," replied Carley, extending her ungloved

hands. "Come here, piggy. I christen you Pinky." And hiding an almost

insupportable squeamishness from Glenn, she took the pig in her hands and

fondled it.

"By George!" exclaimed Glenn, in huge delight. "I wouldn't have believed

it. Carley, I hope you tell your fastidious and immaculate Morrison that

you held one of my pigs in your beautiful hands."

"Wouldn't it please you more to tell him yourself?" asked Carley.

"Yes, it would," declared Glenn, grimly.

This incident inspired Glenn to a Homeric narration of his hog-raising

experience. In spite of herself the content of his talk interested her. And

as for the effect upon her of his singular enthusiasm, it was deep and

compelling. The little-boned Berkshire razorback hogs grew so large and fat

and heavy that their bones broke under their weight. The Duroc jerseys were

the best breed in that latitude, owing to their larger and stronger bones,

that enabled them to stand up under the greatest accumulation of fat.

Glenn told of his droves of pigs running wild in the canyon below. In

summertime they fed upon vegetation, and at other seasons on acorns, roots,

bugs, and grubs. Acorns, particularly, were good and fattening feed. They

ate cedar and juniper berries, and pinyon nuts. And therefore they lived

off the land, at little or no expense to the owner. The only loss was from

beasts and birds of prey. Glenn showed Carley how a profitable business

could soon be established. He meant to fence off side canyons and to

segregate droves of his hogs, and to raise abundance of corn for winter

feed. At that time there was a splendid market for hogs, a condition Hutter

claimed would continue indefinitely in a growing country. In conclusion

Glenn eloquently told how in his necessity he had accepted gratefully the

humblest of labors, to find in the hard pursuit of it a rejuvenation of

body and mind, and a promise of independence and prosperity.

When he had finished, and excused himself to go repair a weak place in the

corral fence, Carley sat silent, wrapped in strange meditation.

Whither had faded the vulgarity and ignominy she had attached to Glenn's

raising of hogs? Gone--like other miasmas of her narrow mind! Partly she

understood him now. She shirked consideration of his sacrifice to his

country. That must wait. But she thought of his work, and the more she

thought the less she wondered.

First he had labored with his hands. What infinite meaning lay unfolding to

her vision! Somewhere out of it all came the conception that man was

intended to earn his bread by the sweat of his brow. But there was more to

it than that. By that toil and sweat, by the friction of horny palms, by

the expansion and contraction of muscle, by the acceleration of blood,

something great and enduring, something physical and spiritual, came to a

man. She understood then why she would have wanted to surrender herself to

a man made manly by toil; she understood how a woman instinctively leaned

toward the protection of a man who had used his hands--who had strength and

red blood and virility who could fight like the progenitors of the race.

Any toil was splendid that served this end for any man. It all went back to

the survival of the fittest. And suddenly Carley thought of Morrison. He

could dance and dangle attendance upon her, and amuse her--but how would he

have acquitted himself in a moment of peril? She had her doubts. Most

assuredly he could not have beaten down for her a ruffian like Haze Ruff.

What then should be the significance of a man for a woman?

Carley's querying and answering mind reverted to Glenn. He had found a

secret in this seeking for something through the labor of hands. All

development of body must come through exercise of muscles. The virility of

cell in tissue and bone depended upon that. Thus he had found in toil the

pleasure and reward athletes had in their desultory training. But when a

man learned this secret the need of work must become permanent. Did this

explain the law of the Persians that every man was required to sweat every

day?

Carley tried to picture to herself Glenn's attitude of mind when he had

first gone to work here in the West. Resolutely she now denied her

shrinking, cowardly sensitiveness. She would go to the root of this matter,

if she had intelligence enough. Crippled, ruined in health, wrecked and

broken by an inexplicable war, soul-blighted by the heartless, callous

neglect of government and public, on the verge of madness at the

insupportable facts, he had yet been wonderful enough, true enough to himself

and God, to fight for life with the instinct of a man, to fight for his

mind with a noble and unquenchable faith. Alone indeed he had been alone!

And by some miracle beyond the power of understanding he had found day by

day in his painful efforts some hope and strength to go on. He could not

have had any illusions. For Glenn Kilbourne the health and happiness and

success most men held so dear must have seemed impossible. His slow, daily,

tragic, and terrible task must have been something he owed himself. Not for

Carley Burch! She like all the others had failed him. How Carley shuddered

in confession of that! Not for the country which had used him and cast him

off! Carley divined now, as if by a flash of lightning, the meaning of

Glenn's strange, cold, scornful, and aloof manner when he had encountered

young men of his station, as capable and as strong as he, who had escaped

the service of the army. For him these men did not exist. They were less

than nothing. They had waxed fat on lucrative jobs; they had basked in the

presence of girls whose brothers and lovers were in the trenches or on the

turbulent sea, exposed to the ceaseless dread and almost ceaseless toil of

war. If Glenn's spirit had lifted him to endurance of war for the sake of

others, how then could it fail him in a precious duty of fidelity to

himself? Carley could see him day by day toiling in his lonely canyon--

plodding to his lonely cabin. He had been playing the game--fighting it out

alone as surely he knew his brothers of like misfortune were fighting.

So Glenn Kilbourne loomed heroically in Carley's transfigured sight. He was

one of Carley's battle-scarred warriors. Out of his travail he had climbed

on stepping-stones of his dead self. Resurqam! That had been his

unquenchable cry. Who had heard it? Only the solitude of his lonely canyon,

only the waiting, dreaming, watching walls, only the silent midnight

shadows, only the white, blinking, passionless stars, only the wild

creatures of his haunts, only the moaning wind in the pines--only these had

been with him in his agony. How near were these things to God?

Carley's heart seemed full to bursting. Not another single moment could her

mounting love abide in a heart that held a double purpose. How bitter the

assurance that she had not come West to help him! It was self, self, all

self that had actuated her. Unworthy indeed was she of the love of this

man. Only a lifetime of devotion to him could acquit her in the eyes of her

better self. Sweetly and madly raced the thrill and tumult of her blood.

There must be only one outcome to her romance. Yet the next instant there

came a dull throbbing-an oppression which was pain--an impondering vague

thought of catastrophe. Only the fearfulness of love perhaps!

She saw him complete his task and wipe his brown moist face and stride

toward her, coming nearer, tall and erect with something added to his

soldierly bearing, with a light in his eyes she could no longer bear.

The moment for which she had waited more than two months had come at last.

"Glenn--when will you go back East?" she asked, tensely and low.

The instant the words were spent upon her lips she realized that he had

always been waiting and prepared for this question that had been so

terrible for her to ask.

"Carley," he replied gently, though his voice rang, "I am never going back

East."

An inward quivering hindered her articulation.

"Never?" she whispered.

"Never to live, or stay any while," he went on. "I might go some time for a

little visit. . . . But never to live."

"Oh--Glenn!" she gasped, and her hands fluttered out to him. The shock was

driving home. No amaze, no incredulity succeeded her reception of the fact.

It was a slow stab. Carley felt the cold blanch of her skin. "Then--this is

it--the something I felt strange between us?"

"Yes, I knew--and you never asked me," he replied.

"That was it? All the time you knew," she whispered, huskily. "You knew. .

. . I'd never--marry you--never live out here?"

"Yes, Carley, I knew you'd never be woman enough--American enough--to help

me reconstruct my broken life out here in the West," he replied, with a sad

and bitter smile.

That flayed her. An insupportable shame and wounded vanity and clamoring

love contended for dominance of her emotions. Love beat down all else.

"Dearest--I beg of you--don't break my heart," she implored.

"I love you, Carley," he answered, steadily, with piercing eyes on hers.

"Then come back--home--home with me."

"No. If you love me you will be my wife."

"Love you! Glenn, I worship you," she broke out, passionately. "But I could

not live here--I could not."

"Carley, did you ever read of the woman who said, 'Whither thou goest,

there will I go' . . ."

"Oh, don't be ruthless! Don't judge me. . . . I never dreamed of this. I

came West to take you back."

"My dear, it was a mistake," he said, gently, softening to her distress.

"I'm sorry I did not write you more plainly. But, Carley, I could not ask

you to share this--this wilderness home with me. I don't ask it now. I

always knew you couldn't do it. Yet you've changed so--that I hoped against

hope. Love makes us blind even to what we see."

"Don't try to spare me. I'm slight and miserable. I stand abased in my own

eyes. I thought I loved you. But I must love best the crowd--people-

-luxury--fashion--the damned round of things I was born to."

"Carley, you will realize their insufficiency too late," he replied,

earnestly. "The things you were born to are love, work, children,

happiness."

"Don't! don't! . . . they are hollow mockery for me," she cried,

passionately. "Glenn, it is the end. It must come--quickly. . . . You are

free."

"I do not ask to be free. Wait. Go home and look at it again with different

eyes. Think things over. Remember what came to me out of the West. I will

always love you--and I will be here--hoping--"

"I--I cannot listen," she returned, brokenly, and she clenched her hands

tightly to keep from wringing them. "I--I cannot face you. . . . Here

is--your ring. . . . You--are--free. . . . Don't stop me--don't come. . . .

Oh, Glenn, good-by!"

With breaking heart she whirled away from him and hurried down the slope

toward the trail. The shade of the forest enveloped her. Peering back

through the trees, she saw Glenn standing where she had left him, as if

already stricken by the loneliness that must be his lot. A sob broke from

Carley's throat. She hated herself. She was in a terrible state of

conflict. Decision had been wrenched from her, but she sensed unending

strife. She dared not look back again. Stumbling and breathless, she

hurried on. How changed the atmosphere and sunlight and shadow of the

canyon! The looming walls had pitiless eyes for her flight. When she

crossed the mouth of West Fork an almost irresistible force breathed to her

from under the stately pines.

An hour later she had bidden farewell to the weeping Mrs. Hutter, and to

the white-faced Flo, and Lolomi Lodge, and the murmuring waterfall, and the

haunting loneliness of Oak Creek Canyon.

CHAPTER VIII

At Flagstaff, where Carley arrived a few minutes before train time, she was

too busily engaged with tickets and baggage to think of herself or of the

significance of leaving Arizona. But as she walked into the Pullman she

overheard a passenger remark, "Regular old Arizona sunset," and that shook

her heart. Suddenly she realized she had come to love the colorful sunsets,

to watch and wait for them. And bitterly she thought how that was her way

to learn the value of something when it was gone.

The jerk and start of the train affected her with singular depressing

shock. She had burned her last bridge behind her. Had she unconsciously

hoped for some incredible reversion of Glenn's mind or of her own? A sense

of irreparable loss flooded over her--the first check to shame and humiliation.

From her window she looked out to the southwest. Somewhere across the cedar

and pine-greened uplands lay Oak Creek Canyon, going to sleep in its purple

and gold shadows of sunset. Banks of broken clouds hung to the horizon,

like continents and islands and reefs set in a turquoise sea. Shafts of

sunlight streaked down through creamy-edged and purple-centered clouds.

Vast flare of gold dominated the sunset background.

When the train rounded a curve Carley's strained vision became filled with

the upheaved bulk of the San Francisco Mountains. Ragged gray grass slopes

and green forests on end, and black fringed sky lines, all pointed to the

sharp clear peaks spearing the sky. And as she watched, the peaks slowly

flushed with sunset hues, and the sky flared golden, and the strength of

the eternal mountains stood out in sculptured sublimity. Every day for two

months and more Carley had watched these peaks, at all hours, in every

mood; and they had unconsciously become a part of her thought. The train

was relentlessly whirling her eastward. Soon they must become a memory.

Tears blurred her sight. Poignant regret seemed added to the anguish she

was suffering. Why had she not learned sooner to see the glory of the

mountains, to appreciate the beauty and solitude? Why had she not

understood herself?

The next day through New Mexico she followed magnificent ranges and

valleys--so different from the country she had seen coming West--so

supremely beautiful that she wondered if she had only acquired the harvest

of a seeing eye.

But it was at sunset of the following clay, when the train was speeding

down the continental slope of prairie land beyond the Rockies, that the

West took its ruthless revenge.

Masses of strange cloud and singular light upon the green prairie, and a

luminosity in the sky, drew Carley to the platform of her car, which was

the last of the train. There she stood, gripping the iron gate, feeling the

wind whip her hair and the iron-tracked ground speed from under her,

spellbound and stricken at the sheer wonder and glory of the firmament, and

the mountain range that it canopied so exquisitely.

A rich and mellow light, singularly clear, seemed to flood out of some

unknown source. For the sun was hidden. The clouds just above Carley hung

low, and they were like thick, heavy smoke, mushrooming, coalescing,

forming and massing, of strange yellow cast of mative. It shaded westward

into heliotrope and this into a purple so royal, so matchless and rare that

Carley understood why the purple of the heavens could never be reproduced

in paint. Here the cloud mass thinned and paled, and a tint of rose began

to flush the billowy, flowery, creamy white. Then came the surpassing

splendor of this cloud pageant-a vast canopy of shell pink, a sun-fired

surface like an opal sea, rippled and webbed, with the exquisite texture of

an Oriental fabric, pure, delicate, lovely--as no work of human hands could

be. It mirrored all the warm, pearly tints of the inside whorl of the

tropic nautilus. And it ended abruptly, a rounded depth of bank, on a broad

stream of clear sky, intensely blue, transparently blue, as if through the

lambent depths shone the infinite firmament. The lower edge of this stream

took the golden lightning of the sunset and was notched for all its

horizon-long length by the wondrous white glistening-peaked range of the

Rockies. Far to the north, standing aloof from the range, loomed up the

grand black bulk and noble white dome of Pikes Peak.

Carley watched the sunset transfiguration of cloud and sky and mountain

until all were cold and gray. And then she returned to her seat, thoughtful

and sad, feeling that the West had mockingly flung at her one of its

transient moments of loveliness.

Nor had the West wholly finished with her. Next day the mellow gold of the

Kansas wheat fields, endless and boundless as a sunny sea, rich, waving in

the wind, stretched away before her aching eyes for hours and hours. Here

was the promise fulfilled, the bountiful harvest of the land, the strength

of the West. The great middle state had a heart of gold.

East of Chicago Carley began to feel that the long days and nights of

riding, the ceaseless turning of the wheels, the constant and wearing

stress of emotion, had removed her an immeasurable distance of miles and

time and feeling from the scene of her catastrophe. Many days seemed to

have passed. Many had been the hours of her bitter regret and anguish.

Indiana and Ohio, with their green pastoral farms, and numberless villages,

and thriving cities, denoted a country far removed and different from the

West, and an approach to the populous East. Carley felt like a wanderer

coming home. She was restlessly and impatiently glad. But her weariness of

body and mind, and the close atmosphere of the car, rendered her extreme

discomfort. Summer had laid its hot hand on the low country east of the

Mississippi.

Carley had wired her aunt and two of her intimate friends to meet her at

the Grand Central Station. This reunion soon to come affected Carley in

recurrent emotions of relief, gladness, and shame. She did not sleep well,

and arose early, and when the train reached Albany she felt that she could

hardly endure the tedious hours. The majestic Hudson and the palatial

mansions on the wooded bluffs proclaimed to Carley that she was back in the

East. How long a time seemed to have passed! Either she was not the same or

the aspect of everything had changed. But she believed that as soon as she

got over the ordeal of meeting her friends, and was home again, she would

soon see things rationally.

At last the train sheered away from the broad Hudson and entered the

environs of New York. Carley sat perfectly still, to all outward appearances a calm,

superbly-poised New York woman returning home, but inwardly

raging with contending tides. In her own sight she was a disgraceful

failure, a prodigal sneaking back to the ease and protection of loyal

friends who did not know her truly. Every familiar landmark in the approach

to the city gave her a thrill, yet a vague unsatisfied something lingered

after each sensation.

Then the train with rush and roar crossed the Harlem River to enter New

York City. As one waking from a dream Carley saw the blocks and squares of

gray apartment houses and red buildings, the miles of roofs and chimneys,

the long hot glaring streets full of playing children and cars. Then above

the roar of the train sounded the high notes of a hurdy-gurdy. Indeed she

was home. Next to startle her was the dark tunnel, and then the slowing of

the train to a stop. As she walked behind a porter up the long incline

toward the station gate her legs seemed to be dead.

In the circle of expectant faces beyond the gate she saw her aunt's, eager

and agitated, then the handsome pale face of Eleanor Harmon, and beside her

the sweet thin one of Beatrice Lovell. As they saw her how quick the change

from expectancy to joy! It seemed they all rushed upon her, and embraced

her, and exclaimed over her together. Carley never recalled what she said.

But her heart was full.

"Oh, how perfectly stunning you look!" cried Eleanor, backing away from

Carley and gazing with glad, surprised eyes.

"Carley!" gasped Beatrice. "You wonderful golden-skinned goddess! . . .

You're young again, like you were in our school days."

It was before Aunt Mary's shrewd, penetrating, loving gaze that Carley

quailed.

"Yes, Carley, you look well-better than I ever saw you, but--but--"

"But I don't look happy," interrupted Carley. "I am happy to get home--to

see you all . . . But--my--my heart is broken!"

A little shocked silence ensued, then Carley found herself being led across

the lower level and up the wide stairway. As she mounted to the vast-domed

cathedral-like chamber of the station a strange sensation pierced her with

a pang. Not the old thrill of leaving New York or returning! Nor was it

welcome sight of the hurrying, well-dressed throng of travelers and

commuters, nor the stately beauty of the station. Carley shut her eyes, and

then she knew. The dim light of vast space above, the looming gray walls,

shadowy with tracery of figures, the lofty dome like the blue sky, brought

back to her the walls of Oak Creek Canyon and the great caverns under the

ramparts. As suddenly as she had shut her eyes Carley opened them to face

her friends.

"Let me get it over-quickly," she burst out, with hot blood surging to her

face. "I--I hated the West. It was so raw--so violent--so big. I think I

hate it more--now. . . . But it changed me--made me over physically--and

did something to my soul--God knows what. . . . And it has saved Glenn. Oh!

he is wonderful! You would never know him. . . . For long I had not the

courage to tell him I came to bring him back East. I kept putting it off.

And I rode, I climbed, I camped, I lived outdoors. At first it nearly

killed me. Then it grew bearable, and easier, until I forgot. I wouldn't be

honest if I didn't admit now that somehow I had a wonderful time, in spite

of all. . . . Glenn's business is raising hogs. He has a hog ranch. Doesn't

it sound sordid? But things are not always what they sound--or seem. Glenn

is absorbed in his work. I hated it--I expected to ridicule it. But I ended

by infinitely respecting him. I learned through his hog-raising the real

nobility of work. . . . Well, at last I found courage to ask him when he

was coming back to New York. He said 'never!' . . . I realized then my

blindness, my selfishness. I could not be his wife and live there. I could

not. I was too small, too miserable, too comfort-loving--too spoiled. And

all the time he knew this--knew I'd never be big enough to marry him. . . .

That broke my heart. I left him free--and here I am. . . . I beg you--don't

ask me any more--and never to mention it to me--so I can forget."

The tender unspoken sympathy of women who loved her proved comforting in

that trying hour. With the confession ruthlessly made the hard compression

in Carley's breast subsided, and her eyes cleared of a hateful dimness.

When they reached the taxi stand outside the station Carley felt a rush of

hot devitalized air from the street. She seemed not to be able to get air

into her lungs.

"Isn't it dreadfully hot?" she asked.

"This is a cool spell to what we had last week," replied Eleanor.

"Cool!" exclaimed Carley, as she wiped her moist face. "I wonder if you

Easterners know the real significance of words."

Then they entered a taxi, to be whisked away apparently through a

labyrinthine maze of cars and streets, where pedestrians had to run and

jump for their lives. A congestion of traffic at Fifth Avenue and

Forty-second Street halted their taxi for a few moments, and here in the

thick of it Carley had full assurance that she was back in the metropolis.

Her sore heart eased somewhat at sight of the streams of people passing to

and fro. How they rushed! Where were they going? What was their story? And

all the while her aunt held her hand, and Beatrice and Eleanor talked as

fast as their tongues could wag. Then the taxi clattered on up the Avenue,

to turn down a side street and presently stop at Carley's home. It was a

modest three-story brown-stone house. Carley had been so benumbed by

sensations that she did not imagine she could experience a new one. But

peering out of the taxi, she gazed dubiously at the brownish-red stone

steps and front of her home.

"I'm going to have it painted," she muttered, as if to herself.

Her aunt and her friends laughed, glad and relieved to hear such a

practical remark from Carley. How were they to divine that this

brownish-red stone was the color of desert rocks and canyon walls?

In a few more moments Carley was inside the house, feeling a sense of

protection in the familiar rooms that had been her home for seventeen

years. Once in the sanctity of her room, which was exactly as she had left

it, her first action was to look n the mirror at her weary, dusty, heated

face. Neither the brownness of it nor the shadow appeared to harmonize with

the image of her that haunted the mirror.

"Now!" she whispered low. "It's done. I'm home. The old life--or a new life? How to meet

either. Now!"

Thus she challenged her spirit. And her intelligence rang at her the

imperative necessity for action, for excitement, for effort that left no

time for rest or memory or wakefulness. She accepted the issue. She was

glad of the stern fight ahead of her. She set her will and steeled her

heart with all the pride and vanity and fury of a woman who had been

defeated but Who scorned defeat. She was what birth and breeding and

circumstance had made her. She would seek what the old life held.

What with unpacking and chatting and telephoning and lunching, the day soon

passed. Carley went to dinner with friends and later to a roof garden. The

color and light, the gayety and music, the news of acquaintances, the humor

of the actors--all, in fact, except the unaccustomed heat and noise, were

most welcome and diverting. That night she slept the sleep of weariness.

Awakening early, she inaugurated a habit of getting up at once, instead of

lolling in bed, and breakfasting there, and reading her mail, as had been

her wont before going West. Then she went over business matters with her

aunt, called on her lawyer and banker, took lunch with Rose Maynard, and

spent the afternoon shopping. Strong as she was, the unaccustomed heat and

the hard pavements and the jostle of shoppers and the continual rush of

sensations wore her out so completely that she did not want any dinner. She

talked to her aunt a while, then went to bed.

Next day Carley motored through Central Park, and out of town into

Westchester County, finding some relief from the seemed to look at the

dusty trees and the worn greens without really seeing them. In the

afternoon she called on friends, and had dinner at home with her aunt, and

then went to a theatre. The musical comedy was good, but the almost

unbearable heat and the vitiated air spoiled her enjoyment. That night upon

arriving home at midnight she stepped out of the taxi, and involuntarily,

without thought, looked up to see the stars. But there were no stars. A

murky yellow-tinged blackness hung low over the city. Carley recollected

that stars, and sunrises and sunsets, and untainted air, and silence were

not for city dwellers. She checked any continuation of the thought.

A few days sufficed to swing her into the old life. Many of Carley's

friends had neither the leisure nor the means to go away from the city

during the summer. Some there were who might have afforded that if they had

seen fit to live in less showy apartments, or to dispense with cars. Other

of her best friends were on their summer outings in the Adirondacks. Carley

decided to go with her aunt to Lake Placid about the first of August.

Meanwhile she would keep going and doing.

She had been a week in town before Morrison telephoned her and added his

welcome. Despite the gay gladness of his voice, it irritated her. Really,

she scarcely wanted to see him. But a meeting was inevitable, and besides,

going out with him was in accordance with the plan she had adopted. So she

made an engagement to meet him at the Plaza for dinner. When with slow and

pondering action she hung up the receiver it occurred to her that she

resented the idea of going to the Plaza. She did not dwell on the reason why.

When Carley went into the reception room of the Plaza that night Morrison

was waiting for her--the same slim, fastidious, elegant, sallow-faced

Morrison whose image she had in mind, yet somehow different. He had what

Carley called the New York masculine face, blase and lined, with eyes that

gleamed, yet had no fire. But at sight of her his face lighted up.

"By Jove I but you've come back a peach!" he exclaimed, clasping her

extended hand. "Eleanor told me you looked great. It's worth missing you to

see you like this."

"Thanks, Larry," she replied. "I must look pretty well to win that

compliment from you. And how are you feeling? You don't seem robust for a

golfer and horseman. But then I'm used to husky Westerners."

"Oh, I'm fagged with the daily grind," he said. "I'll be glad to get up in

the mountains next month. Let's go down to dinner."

They descended the spiral stairway to the grillroom, where an orchestra was

playing jazz, and dancers gyrated on a polished floor, and diners in

evening dress looked on over their cigarettes.

"Well, Carley, are you still finicky about the eats?" he queried,

consulting the menu.

"No. But I prefer plain food," she replied.

"Have a cigarette," he said, holding out his silver monogrammed case.

"Thanks, Larry. I--I guess I'll not take up smoking again. You see, while I

was West I got out of the habit."

"Yes, they told me you had changed," he returned. "How about drinking?"

"Why, I thought New York had gone dry!" she said, forcing a laugh.

"Only on the surface. Underneath it's wetter than ever."

"Well, I'll obey the law."

He ordered a rather elaborate dinner, and then turning his attention to

Carley, gave her closer scrutiny. Carley knew then that he had become

acquainted with the fact of her broken engagement. It was a relief not to

need to tell him.

"How's that big stiff, Kilbourne?" asked Morrison, suddenly. "Is it true he

got well?"

"Oh--yes! He's fine," replied Carley with eyes cast down. A hot knot seemed

to form deep within her and threatened to break and steal along her veins.

"But if you please--I do not care to talk of him."

"Naturally. But I must tell you that one man's loss is another's gain."

Carley had rather expected renewed courtship from Morrison. She had not,

however, been prepared for the beat of her pulse, the quiver of her nerves,

the uprising of hot resentment at the mere mention of Kilbourne. It was

only natural that Glenn's former rivals should speak of him, and perhaps

disparagingly. But from this man Carley could not bear even a casual

reference. Morrison had escaped the army service. He had been given a

high-salaried post at the ship-yards--the duties of which, if there had

been any, he performed wherever he happened to be. Morrison's father had

made a fortune in leather during the war. And Carley remembered Glenn

telling her he had seen two whole blocks in Paris piled twenty feet deep

with leather army goods that were never used and probably had never been

intended to be used. Morrison represented the not inconsiderable number of

young men in New York who had gained at the expense of the valiant legion

who had lost. But what had Morrison gained? Carley raised her eyes to gaze

steadily at him. He looked well-fed, indolent, rich, effete, and supremely

self-satisfied. She could not we that he had gained anything. She would

rather have been a crippled ruined soldier.

"Larry, I fear gain and loss are mere words, she said. "The thing that

counts with me is what you are."

He stared in well-bred surprise, and presently talked of a new dance which

had lately come into vogue. And from that he passed on to gossip of the

theatres. Once between courses of the dinner he asked Carley to dance, and

she complied. The music would have stimulated an Egyptian mummy, Carley

thought, and the subdued rose lights, the murmur of gay voices, the glide

and grace and distortion of the dancers, were exciting and pleasurable.

Morrison had the suppleness and skill of a dancing-master. But he held

Carley too tightly, and so she told him, and added, "I imbibed some fresh

pure air while I was out West--something you haven't here--and I don't want

it all squeezed out of me."

The latter days of July Carley made busy--so busy that she lost her tan and

appetite, and something of her splendid resistance to the dragging heat and

late hours. Seldom was she without some of her friends. She accepted almost

any kind of an invitation, and went even to Coney Island, to baseball

games, to the motion pictures, which were three forms of amusement not

customary with her. At Coney Island, which she visited with two of her

younger girl friends, she had the best time since her arrival home. What

had put her in accord with ordinary people? The baseball games, likewise

pleased her. The running of the players and the screaming of the spectators

amused and excited her. But she hated the motion pictures with their

salacious and absurd misrepresentations of life, in some cases capably

acted by skillful actors, and in others a silly series of scenes featuring

some doll-faced girl.

But she refused to go horseback riding in Central Park. She refused to go

to the Plaza. And these refusals she made deliberately, without asking

herself why.

On August 1st she accompanied her aunt and several friends to Lake Placid,

where they established themselves at a hotel. How welcome to Carley's

strained eyes were the green of mountains, the soft gleam of amber water!

How sweet and refreshing a breath of cool pure air! The change from New

York's glare and heat and dirt, and iron-red insulating walls, and

thronging millions of people, and ceaseless roar and rush, was tremendously

relieving to Carley. She had burned the candle at both ends. But the beauty

of the hills and vales, the quiet of the forest, the sight of the stars,

made it harder to forget. She had to rest. And when she rested she could

not always converse, or read, or write.

For the most part her days held variety and pleasure. The place was

beautiful, the weather pleasant, the people congenial. She motored over the

forest roads, she canoed along the margin of the lake, she played golf and

tennis. She wore exquisite gowns to dinner and danced during the evenings.

But she seldom walked anywhere on the trails and, never alone, and she

never climbed the mountains and never rode a horse.

Morrison arrived and added his attentions to those of other men. Carley

neither accepted nor repelled them. She favored the association with

married couples and older people, and rather shunned the pairing off

peculiar to vacationists at summer hotels. She had always loved to play and

romp with children, but here she found herself growing to avoid them,

somehow hurt by sound of pattering feet and joyous laughter. She filled the

days as best she could, and usually earned quick slumber at night. She

staked all on present occupation and the truth of flying time.

CHAPTER IX

The latter part of September Carley returned to New York.

Soon after her arrival she received by letter a formal proposal of marriage

from Elbert Harrington, who had been quietly attentive to her during her

sojourn at Lake Placid. He was a lawyer of distinction, somewhat older than

most of her friends, and a man of means and fine family. Carley was quite

surprised. Harrington was really one of the few of her acquaintances whom

she regarded as somewhat behind the times, and liked him the better for

that. But she could not marry him, and replied to his letter in as kindly a

manner as possible. Then he called personally.

"Carley, I've come to ask you to reconsider," he said, with a smile in his

gray eyes. He was not a tall or handsome man, but he had what women called

a nice strong face.

"Elbert, you embarrass me," she replied, trying to laugh it out. "Indeed I

feel honored, and I thank you. But I can't marry you."

"Why not? he asked, quietly.

"Because I don't love you," she replied.

"I did not expect you to," he said. "I hoped in time you might come to

care. I've known you a good many years, Carley. Forgive me if I tell you I

see you are breaking--wearing yourself down. Maybe it is not a husband you

need so much now, but you do need a home and children. You are wasting your

life."

"All you say may be true, my friend," replied Carley, with a helpless

little upflinging of hands. "Yet it does not alter my feelings."

"But you will marry sooner or later?" he queried, persistently.

This straightforward question struck Carley as singularly as if it was one

she might never have encountered. It forced her to think of things she had

buried.

"I don't believe I ever will," she answered, thoughtfully.

"That is nonsense, Carley," he went on. "You'll have to marry. What else

can you do? With all due respect to your feelings--that affair with

Kilbourne is ended--and you're not the wishy-washy heartbreak kind of a

girl."

"You can never tell what a woman will do," she said, somewhat coldly.

"Certainly not. That's why I refuse to take no. Carley, be reasonable. You

like me--respect me, do you not?"

"Why, of course I do!"

"I'm only thirty-five, and I could give you all any sensible woman wants,"

he said. "Let's make a real American home. Have you thought at all about

that, Carley? Something is wrong today. Men are not marrying. Wives are not

having children. Of all the friends I have, not one has a real American

home. Why, it is a terrible fact! But, Carley, you are not a

sentimentalist, or a melancholiac. Nor are you a waster. You have fine

qualities. You need something to do some one to care for."

"Pray do not think me ungrateful, Elbert," she replied, "nor insensible to

the truth of what you say. But my answer is no!"

When Harrington had gone Carley went to her room, and precisely as upon her

return from Arizona she faced her m rror skeptically and relentlessly. "I

am such a liar that I'll do well to look at myself," she meditated. "Here I

am again. Now! The world expects me to marry. But what do I expect?"

There was a raw unheated wound in Carley's heart. Seldom had she permitted

herself to think about it, let alone to probe it with hard materialistic

queries. But custom to her was as inexorable as life. If she chose to live

in the world she must conform to its customs. For a woman marriage was the

aim and the end and the all of existence. Nevertheless, for Carley it could

not be without love. Before she had gone West she might have had many of

the conventional modern ideas about women and marriage. But because out

there in the wilds her love and perception had broadened, now her

arraignment of herself and her sex was bigger, sterner, more exacting. The

months she had been home seemed fuller than all the months of her life. She

had tried to forget and enjoy; she had not succeeded; but she had looked

with far-seeing eyes at her world. Glenn Kilbourne's tragic fate had opened

her eyes.

Either the world was all wrong or the people in it were. But if that were

an extravagant and erroneous supposition, there certainly was proof

positive that her own small individual world was wrong. The women did not

do any real work; they did not bear children; they lived on excitement and

luxury. They had no ideals. How greatly were men to blame? Carley doubted

her judgment here. But as men could not live without the smiles and

comradeship and love of women, it was only natural that they should give

the women what they wanted. Indeed, they had no choice. It was give or go

without. How much of real love entered into the marriages among her

acquaintances? Before marriage Carley wanted a girl to be sweet, proud,

aloof, with a heart of golden fire. Not attainable except through love! It

would be better that no children be born at all unless born of such

beautiful love. Perhaps that was why so few children were born. Nature's

balance and revenge! In Arizona Carley had learned something of the

ruthlessness and inevitableness of nature. She was finding out she had

learned this with many other staggering facts.

"I love Glenn still," she whispered, passionately, with trembling lips, as

she faced the tragic-eyed image of herself in the mirror. "I love him more-

-more. Oh, my God! If I were honest I'd cry out the truth! It is terrible.

. . I will always love him. How then could I marry any other man? I would

be a lie, a cheat. If I could only forget him--only kill that love. Then I

might love another man--and if I did love him--no matter what I had felt or

done before, I would be worthy. I could feel worthy. I could give him just

as much. But without such love I'd give only a husk--a body without soul."

Love, then, was the sacred and holy flame of life that sanctioned the

begetting of children. Marriage might be a necessity of modern time, but it

was not the vital issue. Carley's anguish revealed strange and hidden

truths. In some inexplicable way Nature struck a terrible balance--revenged

herself upon a people who had no children, or who brought into the world

children not created by the divinity of love, unyearned for, and therefore

somehow doomed to carry on the blunders and burdens of life.

Carley realized how right and true it might be for her to throw herself

away upon an inferior man, even a fool or a knave, if she loved him with

that great and natural love of woman; likewise it dawned upon her how false

and wrong and sinful it would be to marry the greatest or the richest or

the noblest man unless she had that supreme love to give him, and knew it

was reciprocated.

"What am I going to do with my life?" she asked, bitterly and aghast. "I

have been--I am a waster. I've lived for nothing but pleasurable sensation.

I'm utterly useless. I do absolutely no good on earth."

Thus she saw how Harrington's words rang true--how they had precipitated a

crisis for which her unconscious brooding had long made preparation.

"Why not give up ideals and be like the rest of my kind?" she soliloquized.

That was one of the things which seemed wrong with modern life. She thrust

the thought from her with passionate scorn. If poor, broken, ruined Glenn

Kilbourne could cling to an ideal and fight for it, could not she, who had

all the world esteemed worth while, be woman enough to do the same? The

direction of her thought seemed to have changed. She had been ready for

rebellion. Three months of the old life had shown her that for her it was

empty, vain, farcical, without one redeeming feature. The naked truth was

brutal, but it cut clean to wholesome consciousness. Such so-called social

life as she had plunged into deliberately to forget her unhappiness had

failed her utterly. If she had been shallow and frivolous it might have

done otherwise. Stripped of all guise, her actions must have been construed

by a penetrating and impartial judge as a mere parading of her decorated

person before a number of males with the purpose of ultimate selection.

"I've got to find some work," she muttered, soberly.

At the moment she heard the postman's whistle outside; and a little later

the servant brought up her mail. The first letter, large, soiled, thick,

bore the postmark Flagstaff, and her address in Glenn Kilbourne's writing.

Carley stared at it. Her heart gave a great leap. Her hand shook. She sat

down suddenly as if the strength of her legs was inadequate to uphold her.

"Glenn has--written me!" she whispered, in slow, halting realization. "For

what? Oh, why?"

The other letters fell off her lap, to lie unnoticed. This big thick

envelope fascinated her. It was one of the stamped envelopes she had seen

in his cabin. It contained a letter that had been written on his rude

table, before the open fire, in the light of the doorway, in that little

log-cabin under the spreading pines of West Ford Canyon. Dared she read it?

The shock to her heart passed; and with mounting swell, seemingly too full

for her breast, it began to beat and throb a wild gladness through all her

being. She tore the envelope apart and read:

DEAR CARLEY:

I'm surely glad for a good excuse to write you.

Once in a blue moon I get a letter, and today Hutter brought me one from a

soldier pard of mine who was with me in the Argonne. His name is Virgil

Rust--queer name, don't you think?--and he's from Wisconsin. Just a rough-

diamond sort of chap, but fairly well educated. He and I were in some

pretty hot places, and it was he who pulled me out of a shell crater. I'd

"gone west" sure then if it hadn't been for Rust.

Well, he did all sorts of big things during the war. Was down several times

with wounds. He liked to fight and he was a holy terror. We all thought

he'd get medals and promotion. But he didn't get either. These much-desired

things did not always go where they were best deserved.

Rust is now lying in a hospital in Bedford Park. His letter is pretty blue,

All he says about why he's there is that he's knocked out. But he wrote a

heap about his girl. It seems he was in love with a girl in his home town--

a pretty, big-eyed lass whose picture I've seen--and while he was overseas

she married one of the chaps who got out of fighting. Evidently Rust is

deeply hurt. He wrote: "I'd not care so . . . if she'd thrown me down to

marry an old man or a boy who couldn't have gone to war." You see, Carley,

service men feel queer about that sort of thing. It's something we got over

there, and none of us will ever outlive it. Now, the point of this is that

I am asking you to go see Rust, and cheer him up, and do what you can for

the poor devil. It's a good deal to ask of you, I know, especially as Rust

saw your picture many a time and knows you were my girl. But you needn't

tell him that you--we couldn't make a go of it.

And, as I am writing this to you, I see no reason why I shouldn't go on in

behalf of myself.

The fact is, Carley, I miss writing to you more than I miss anything of my

old life. I'll bet you have a trunkful of letters from me--unless you've

destroyed them. I'm not going to say how I miss your letters. But I will

say you wrote the most charming and fascinating letters of anyone I ever

knew, quite aside from any sentiment. You knew, of course, that I had no

other girl correspondent. Well, I got along fairly well before you came

West, but I'd be an awful liar if I denied I didn't get lonely for you and

your letters. It's different now that you've been to Oak Creek. I'm alone

most of the time and I dream a lot, and I'm afraid I see you here in my

cabin, and along the brook, and under the pines, and riding Calico--which

you came to do well--and on my hogpen fence--and, oh, everywhere! I don't

want you to think I'm down in the mouth, for I'm not. I'll take my

medicine. But, Carley, you spoiled me, and I miss hearing from you, and I

don't see why it wouldn't be all right for you to send me a friendly letter

occasionally.

It is autumn now. I wish you could see Arizona canyons in their gorgeous

colors. We have had frost right along and the mornings are great. There's a

broad zigzag belt of gold halfway up the San Francisco peaks, and that is

the aspen thickets taking on their fall coat. Here in the canyon you'd

think there was blazing fire everywhere. The vines and the maples are red,

scarlet, carmine, cerise, magenta, all the hues of flame. The oak leaves

are turning russet gold, and the sycamores are yellow green. Up on the

desert the other day I rode across a patch of asters, lilac and lavender,

almost purple. I had to get off and pluck a handful. And then what do you

think? I dug up the whole bunch, roots and all, and planted them on the

sunny side of my cabin. I rather guess your love of flowers engendered this

remarkable susceptibility in me.

I'm home early most every afternoon now, and I like the couple of hours

loafing around. Guess it's bad for me, though. You know I seldom hunt, and

the trout in the pool here are so tame now they'll almost eat out of my

hand. I haven't the heart to fish for them. The squirrels, too, have grown

tame and friendly. There's a red squirrel that climbs up on my table. And

there's a chipmunk who lives in my cabin and runs over my bed. I've a new

pet--the little pig you christened Pinky. After he had the wonderful good

fortune to be caressed and named by you I couldn't think of letting him

grow up in an ordinary piglike manner. So I fetched him home. My dog, Moze,

was jealous at first and did not like this intrusion, but now they are good

friends and sleep together. Flo has a kitten she's going to give me, and

then, as Hutter says, I'll be "Jake."

My occupation during these leisure hours perhaps would strike my old

friends East as idle, silly, mawkish. But I believe you will understand me.

I have the pleasure of doing nothing, and of catching now and then a

glimpse of supreme joy in the strange state of thinking nothing. Tennyson

came close to this in his "Lotus Eaters." Only to see--only to feel is

enough!

Sprawled on the warm sweet pine needles, I breathe through them the breath

of the earth and am somehow no longer lonely. I cannot, of course, see the

sunset, but I watch for its coming on the eastern wall of the canyon. I see

the shadow slowly creep up, driving the gold before it, until at last the

canyon rim and pines are turned to golden fire. I watch the sailing eagles

as they streak across the gold, and swoop up into the blue, and pass out of

sight. I watch the golden flush fade to gray, and then, the canyon slowly

fills with purple shadows. This hour of twilight is the silent and

melancholy one. Seldom is there any sound save the soft rush of the water

over the stones, and that seems to die away. For a moment, perhaps, I am

Hiawatha alone in his forest home, or a more primitive savage, feeling the

great, silent pulse of nature, happy in unconsciousness, like a beast of

the wild. But only for an instant do I ever catch this fleeting state. Next

I am Glenn Kilbourne of West Fork, doomed and haunted by memories of the

past. The great looming walls then become no longer blank. They are vast

pages of the history of my life, with its past and present, and, alas! its

future. Everything time does is written on the stones. And my stream seems

to murmur the sad and ceaseless flow of human life, with its music and its

misery.

Then, descending from the sublime to the humdrum and necessary, I heave a

sigh, and pull myself together, and go in to make biscuits and fry ham. But

I should not forget to tell you that before I do go in, very often my

looming, wonderful walls and crags weave in strange shadowy characters the

beautiful and unforgettable face of Carley Burch!

I append what little news Oak Creek affords.

That blamed old bald eagle stole another of my pigs.

I am doing so well with my hog-raising that Hutter wants to come in with

me, giving me an interest in his sheep.

It is rumored some one has bought the Deep Lake section I wanted for a

ranch. I don't know who. Hutter was rather noncommittal.

Charley, the herder, had one of his queer spells the other day, and swore

to me he had a letter from you. He told the blamed lie with a sincere and

placid eye, and even a smile of pride. Queer guy, that Charley!

Flo and Lee Stanton had another quarrel--the worst yet, Lee tells me. Flo

asked a girl friend out from Flag and threw her in Lee's way, so to speak,

and when Lee retaliated by making love to the girl Flo got mad. Funny

creatures, you girls! Flo rode with me from High Falls to West Fork, and

never showed the slightest sign of trouble. In fact she was delightfully

gay. She rode Calico, and beat me bad in a race.

Adios, Carley. Won't you write me?

GLENN.

No sooner had Carley read the letter through to the end than she began it

all over again, and on this second perusal she lingered over passages--only

to reread them. That suggestion of her face sculptured by shadows on the

canyon walls seemed to thrill her very soul.

She leaped up from the reading to cry out something that was unutterable.

All the intervening weeks of shame and anguish and fury and strife and

pathos, and the endless striving to forget, were as if by the magic of a

letter made nothing but vain oblations.

"He loves me still!" she whispered, and pressed her breast with clenching

hands, and laughed in wild exultance, and paced her room like a caged

lioness. It was as if she had just awakened to the assurance she was

beloved. That was the shibboleth--the cry by which she sounded the closed

depths of her love and called to the stricken life of a woman's insatiate

vanity.

Then she snatched up the letter, to scan it again, and, suddenly grasping

the import of Glenn's request, she hurried to the telephone to find the

number of the hospital in Bedford Park. A nurse informed her that visitors

were received at certain hours and that any attention to disabled soldiers

was most welcome.

Carley motored out there to find the hospital merely a long one-story frame

structure, a barracks hastily thrown up for the care of invalided men of

the service. The chauffeur informed her that it had been used for that

purpose during the training period of the army, and later when injured

soldiers began to arrive from France.

A nurse admitted Carley into a small bare anteroom. Carley made known her

errand.

"I'm glad it's Rust you want to see," replied the nurse. "Some of these

boys are going to die. And some will be worse off if they live. But Rust

may get well if he'll only behave. You are a relative--or friend?"

"I don't know him," answered Carley. "But I have a friend who was with him

in France."

The nurse led Carley into a long narrow room with a line of single beds

down each side, a stove at each end, and a few chairs. Each bed appeared to

have an occupant and those nearest Carley lay singularly quiet. At the far

end of the room were soldiers on crutches, wearing bandages on their beads,

carrying their arms in slings. Their merry voices contrasted discordantly

with their sad appearance.

Presently Carley stood beside a bed and looked down upon a gaunt, haggard

young man who lay propped up on pillows.

"Rust--a lady to see you," announced the nurse.

Carley had difficulty in introducing herself. Had Glenn ever looked like

this? What a face! It's healed scar only emphasized the pallor and furrows

of pain that assuredly came from present wounds. He had unnaturally bright

dark eyes, and a flush of fever in his hollow cheeks.

"How do!" he said, with a wan smile. "Who're you?"

"I'm Glenn Kilbourne's fiancee," she replied, holding out her hand.

"Say, I ought to've known you," he said, eagerly, and a warmth of light

changed the gray shade of his face. "You're the girl Carley! You're almost

like my--my own girl. By golly! You're some looker! It was good of you to

come. Tell me about Glenn."

Carley took the chair brought by the nurse, and pulling it close to the

bed, she smiled down upon him and said: "I'll be glad to tell you all I

know--presently. But first you tell me about yourself. Are you in pain?

What is your trouble? You must let me do everything I can for you, and

these other men."

Carley spent a poignant and depth-stirring hour at the bedside of Glenn's

comrade. At last she learned from loyal lips the nature of Glenn

Kil bourne's service to his country. How Carley clasped to her sore heart

The praise of the man she loved--the simple proofs of his noble disregard

Of self! Rust said little about his own service to country or to comrade.

But Carley saw enough in his face. He had been like Glenn. By these two

Carley grasped the compelling truth of the spirit and sacrifice of the

legion of boys who had upheld American traditions. Their children and

their children's children, as the years rolled by into the future, would

hold their heads higher and prouder. Some things could never die in the

hearts and the blood of a race. These boys, and the girls who had the

supreme glory of being loved by them, must be the ones to revive the

Americanism of their forefathers. Nature and God would take care of the slackers, the

cowards who cloaked their shame with bland excuses of home service, of disability, and

of dependence.

Carley saw two forces in life--the destructive and constructive. On the one

side greed, selfishness, materialism: on the other generosity, sacrifice,

and idealism. Which of them builded for the future? She saw men as wolves,

sharks, snakes, vermin, and opposed to them men as lions and eagles. She

saw women who did not inspire men to fare forth to seek, to imagine, to

dream, to hope, to work, to fight. She began to have a glimmering of what a

woman might be.

That night she wrote swiftly and feverishly, page after page, to Glenn,

only to destroy what she had written. She could not keep her heart out of

her words, nor a hint of what was becoming a sleepless and eternal regret.

She wrote until a late hour, and at last composed a letter she knew did not

ring true, so stilted and restrained was it in all passages save those

concerning news of Glenn's comrade and of her own friends. "I'll

never-never write him again," she averred with stiff lips, and next moment

could have laughed in mockery at the bitter truth. If she had ever had any

courage, Glenn's letter had destroyed it. But had it not been a kind of

selfish, false courage, roused to hide her hurt, to save her own future?

Courage should have a thought of others. Yet shamed one moment at the

consciousness she would write Glenn again and again, and exultant the next

with the clamouring love, she seemed to have climbed beyond the self that

had striven to forget. She would remember and think though she died of

longing.

Carley, like a drowning woman, caught at straws. What a relief and joy to

give up that endless nagging at her mind! For months she had kept

ceaselessly active, by associations which were of no help to her and which

did not make her happy, in her determination to forget. Suddenly then she

gave up to remembrance. She would cease trying to get over her love for

Glenn, and think of him and dream about him as much as memory dictated.

This must constitute the only happiness she could have.

The change from strife to surrender was so novel and sweet that for days

she felt renewed. It was augmented by her visits to the hospital in Bedford

Park. Through her bountiful presence Virgil Rust and his comrades had many

dull hours of pain and weariness alleviated and brightened. Interesting

herself in the condition of the seriously disabled soldiers and possibility

of their future took time and work Carley gave willingly and gladly. At

first she endeavored to get acquaintances with means and leisure to help

the boys, but these overtures met with such little success that she quit

wasting valuable time she could herself devote to their interests.

Thus several weeks swiftly passed by. Several soldiers who had been more

seriously injured than Rust improved to the extent that they were

discharged. But Rust gained little or nothing. The nurse and doctor both

informed Carley that Rust brightened for her, but when she was gone he

lapsed into somber indifference. He did not care whether he ate or not, or

whether he got well or died.

"If I do pull out, where'll I go and what'll I do?" he once asked the

nurse.

Carley knew that Rust's hurt was more than loss of a leg, and she decided

to talk earnestly to him and try to win him to hope and effort. He had come

to have a sort of reverence for her. So, biding her time, she at length

found opportunity to approach his bed while his comrades were asleep or out

of hearing. He endeavored to laugh her off, and then tried subterfuge, and

lastly he cast off his mask and let her see his naked soul.

"Carley, I don't want your money or that of your kind friends--whoever they

are--you say will help me to get into business," he said. "God knows I

thank you and it warms me inside to find some one who appreciates what I've

given. But I don't want charity. . . . And I guess I'm pretty sick of the

game. I'm sorry the Boches didn't do the job right."

"Rust, that is morbid talk," replied Carley. "You're ill and you just can't

see any hope. You must cheer up--fight yourself; and look at the brighter

side. It's a horrible pity you must be a cripple, but Rust, indeed life can

be worth living if you make it so."

"How could there be a brighter side when a man's only half a man--" he

queried, bitterly.

"You can be just as much a man as ever," persisted Carley, trying to smile

when she wanted to cry.

"Could you care for a man with only one leg?" he asked, deliberately.

"What a question! Why, of course I could!"

"Well, maybe you are different. Glenn always swore even if he was killed no

slacker or no rich guy left at home could ever get you. Maybe you haven't

any idea how much it means to us fellows to know there are true and

faithful girls. But I'll tell you, Carley, we fellows who went across got

to see things strange when we came home. The good old U. S. needs a lot of

faithful girls just now, believe me."

"Indeed that's true," replied Carley. "It's a hard time for everybody, and

particularly you boys who have lost so--so much."

"I lost all, except my life--and I wish to God I'd lost that," he replied,

gloomily.

"Oh, don't talk so!" implored Carley in distress. "Forgive me, Rust, if I

hurt you. But I must tell you--that--that Glenn wrote me--you'd lost your girl.

Oh, I'm sorry! It is dreadful for you now. But if you got well--and went to

work--and took up life where you left it--why soon your pain would grow

easier. And you'd find some happiness yet."

"Never for me in this world."

"But why, Rust, why? You're no--no--Oh! I mean you have intelligence and

courage. Why isn't there anything left for you?"

"Because something here's been killed," he replied, and put his hand to his

heart.

"Your faith? Your love of--of everything? Did the war kill it?"

"I'd gotten over that, maybe," he said, drearily, with his somber eyes on

space that seemed lettered for him. "But she half murdered it--and they did

the rest."

"They? Whom do you mean, Rust?"

"Why, Carley, I mean the people I lost my leg for!" he replied, with

terrible softness.

"The British? The French?" she queried, in bewilderment.

"No!" he cried, and turned his face to the wall.

Carley dared not ask him more. She was shocked. How helplessly impotent all

her earnest sympathy! No longer could she feel an impersonal, however

kindly, interest in this man. His last ringing word had linked her also to

his misfortune and his suffering. Suddenly he turned away from the wall.

She saw him swallow laboriously. How tragic that thin, shadowed face of

agony! Carley saw it differently. But for the beautiful softness of light

in his eyes, she would have been unable to endure gazing longer.

"Carley, I'm bitter," he said, "but I'm not rancorous and callous, like some

of the boys. I know if you'd been my girl you'd have stuck to me."

"Yes," Carley whispered.

"That makes a difference," he went on, with a sad smile. "You see, we

soldiers all had feelings. And in one thing we all felt alike. That was we

were going to fight for our homes and our women. I should say women first.

No matter what we read or heard about standing by our allies, fighting for

liberty or civilization, the truth was we all felt the same, even if we

never breathed it. . . . Glenn fought for you. I fought for Nell. . . . We

were not going to let the Huns treat you as they treated French and Belgian

girls. . . . And think! Nell was engaged to me--she loved me--and, by God!

She married a slacker when I lay half dead on the battlefield!"

"She was not worth loving or fighting for," said Carley, with agitation.

"Ah! now you've said something," he declared. "If I can only hold to that

truth! What does one girl amount to? I do not count. It is the sum that

counts. We love America--our homes--our women! . . . Carley, I've had

comfort and strength come to me through you. Glenn will have his reward in

your love. Somehow I seem to share it, a little. Poor Glenn! He got his,

too. Why, Carley, that guy wouldn't let you do what he could do for you. He

was cut to pieces--"

"Please--Rust--don't say any more. I am unstrung," she pleaded.

"Why not? It's due you to know how splendid Glenn was. . . . I tell you,

Carley, all the boys here love you for the way you've stuck to Glenn. Some

of them knew him, and I've told the rest. We thought he'd never pull

through. But he has, and we know how you helped. Going West to see him! He

didn't write it to me, but I know. . . . I'm wise. I'm happy for him--the

lucky dog. Next time you go West--"

"Hush!" cried Carley. She could endure no more. She could no longer be a

lie.

"You're white--you're shaking," exclaimed Rust, in concern. "Oh, I--what

did I say? Forgive me--"

"Rust, I am no more worth loving and fighting for than your Nell."

"What!" he ejaculated.

"I have not told you the truth," she said, swiftly. "I have let you believe

a lie. . . . I shall never marry Glenn. I broke my engagement to him."

Slowly Rust sank back upon the pillow, his large luminous eyes piercingly

fixed upon her, as if he would read her soul.

"I went West--yes--" continued Carley. "But it was selfishly. I wanted

Glenn to come back here. . . . He had suffered as you have. He nearly died.

But he fought--he fought--Oh! he went through hell! And after a long, slow,

horrible struggle he began to mend. He worked. He went to raising hogs. He

lived alone. He worked harder and harder. . . . The West and his work saved

him, body and soul . . . . He had learned to love both the West and his

work. I did not blame him. But I could not live out there. He needed me.

But I was too little--too selfish. I could not marry him. I gave him up. .

. . I left--him--alone!"

Carley shrank under the scorn in Rust's eyes.

"And there's another man," he said, "a clean, straight, unscarred fellow

who wouldn't fight!"

"Oh, no-I--I swear there's not," whispered Carley.

"You, too," he replied, thickly. Then slowly he turned that worn dark face

to the wall. His frail breast heaved. And his lean hand made her a slight

gesture of dismissal, significant and imperious.

Carley fled. She could scarcely see to find the car. All her internal being

seemed convulsed, and a deadly faintness made her sick and cold.

CHAPTER X

Carley's edifice of hopes, dreams, aspirations, and struggles fell in ruins

about her. It had been built upon false sands. It had no ideal for

foundation. It had to fall.

Something inevitable had forced her confession to Rust. Dissimulation had

been a habit of her mind; it was more a habit of her class than sincerity.

But she had reached a point in her mental strife where she could not stand

before Rust and let him believe she was noble and faithful when she knew

she was neither. Would not the next step in this painful metamorphosis of

her character be a fierce and passionate repudiation of herself and all she

represented?

She went home and locked herself in her room, deaf to telephone and

servants. There she gave up to her shame. Scorned--despised--dismissed by

that poor crippled flame-spirited Virgil Rust! He had reverenced her, and

the truth had earned his hate. Would she ever forget his look--incredulous--

shocked--bitter--and blazing with unutterable contempt? Carley Burch was

only another Nell--a jilt--a mocker of the manhood of soldiers! Would she

ever cease to shudder at memory of Rust's slight movement of hand? Go! Get

out of my sight! Leave me to my agony as you left Glenn Kilbourne alone to

fight his! Men such as I am do not want the smile of your face, the touch

of your hand! We gave for womanhood! Pass on to lesser men who loved the

fleshpots and who would buy your charms! So Carley interpreted that slight

gesture, and writhed in her abasement.

Rust threw a white, illuminating light upon her desertion of Glenn. She had

betrayed him. She had left him alone. Dwarfed and stunted was her narrow

soul! To a man who had given all for her she had returned nothing. Stone

for bread! Betrayal for love! Cowardice for courage!

The hours of contending passions gave birth to vague, slow-forming revolt.

She became haunted by memory pictures and sounds and smells of Oak Creek

Canyon. As from afar she saw the great sculptured rent in the earth, green

and red and brown, with its shining, flashing ribbons of waterfalls and

streams. The mighty pines stood up magnificent and stately. The walls

loomed high, shadowed under the shelves, gleaming in the sunlight, and they

seemed dreaming, waiting, watching. For what? For her return to their

serene fastnesses--to the little gray log cabin. The thought stormed

Carley's soul.

Vivid and intense shone the images before her shut eyes. She saw the

winding forest floor, green with grass and fern, colorful with flower and

rock. A thousand aisles, glades, nooks, and caverns called her to come.

Nature was every woman's mother. The populated city was a delusion. Disease

and death and corruption stalked in the shadows of the streets. But her

canyon promised hard work, playful hours, dreaming idleness, beauty,

health, fragrance, loneliness, peace, wisdom, love, children, and long

life. In the hateful shut-in isolation of her room Carley stretched forth

her arms as if to embrace the vision. Pale close walls, gleaming placid

stretches of brook, churning amber and white rapids, mossy banks and

pine-matted ledges, the towers and turrets and ramparts where the eagles

wheeled--she saw them all as beloved images lost to her save in anguished

memory.

She heard the murmur of flowing water, soft, low, now loud, and again

lulling, hollow and eager, tinkling over rocks, bellowing into the deep

pools, washing with silky seep of wind-swept waves the hanging willows.

Shrill and piercing and far-aloft pealed the scream of the eagle. And she

seemed to listen to a mocking bird while he mocked her with his melody of

many birds. The bees hummed, the wind moaned, the leaves rustled, the

waterfall murmured. Then came the sharp rare note of a canyon swift, most

mysterious of birds, significant of the heights.

A breath of fragrance seemed to blow with her shifting senses. The dry,

sweet, tangy canyon smells returned to her--of fresh-cut timber, of wood

smoke, of the cabin fire with its steaming pots, of flowers and earth, and

of the wet stones, of the redolent pines and the pungent cedars.

And suddenly, clearly, amazingly, Carley beheld in her mind's sight the

hard features, the bold eyes, the slight smile, the coarse face of Haze

Ruff. She had forgotten him. But he now returned. And with memory of him

flashed a revelation as to his meaning in her life. He had appeared merely

a clout, a ruffian, an animal with man's shape and intelligence. But he was

the embodiment of the raw, crude violence of the West. He was the eyes of

the natural primitive man, believing what he saw. He had seen in Carley

Burch the paraded charm, the unashamed and serene front, the woman seeking

man. Haze Ruff had been neither vile nor base nor unnatural. It had been

her subjection to the decadence of feminine dress that had been unnatural.

But Ruff had found her a lie. She invited what she did not want. And his

scorn had been commensurate with the falsehood of her. So might any man

have been justified in his insult to her, in his rejection of her. Haze

Ruff had found her unfit for his idea of dalliance. Virgil Rust had found

her false to the ideals of womanhood for which he had sacrificed all but

life itself. What then had Glenn Kilbourne found her? He possessed the

greatness of noble love. He had loved her before the dark and changeful

tide of war had come between them. How had he judged her? That last sight

of him standing alone, leaning with head bowed, a solitary figure trenchant

with suggestion of tragic resignation and strength, returned to flay

Carley. He had loved, trusted, and hoped. She saw now what his hope had

been-that she would have instilled into her blood the subtle, red, and

revivifying essence of calling life in the open, the strength of the wives

of earlier years, an emanation from canyon, desert, mountain, forest, of

health, of spirit, of forward-gazing natural love, of the mysterious saving

instinct he had gotten out of the West. And she had been too little too

steeped in the indulgence of luxurious life too slight-natured and

pale-blooded! And suddenly there pierced into the black storm of Carley's

mind a blazing, white-streaked thought--she had left Glenn to the Western

girl, Flo Hutter. Humiliated, and abased in her own sight, Carley fell prey

to a fury of jealousy.

She went back to the old life. But it was in a bitter, restless, critical

spirit, conscious of the fact that she could derive neither forgetfulness

nor pleasure from it, nor see any release from the habit of years.

One afternoon, late in the fall, she motored out to a Long Island club

where the last of the season's golf was being enjoyed by some of her most

intimate friends. Carley did not play. Aimlessly she walked around the

grounds, finding the autumn colors subdued and drab, like her mind. The air

held a promise of early winter. She thought that she would go South before

the cold came. Always trying to escape anything rigorous, hard, painful, or

disagreeable! Later she returned to the clubhouse to find her party assembled

on an inclosed porch, chatting and partaking of refreshment. Morrison

was there. He had not taken kindly to her late habit of denying herself to

him.

During a lull in the idle conversation Morrison addressed Carley pointedly.

"Well, Carley, how's your Arizona hog-raiser?" he queried, with a little

gleam in his usually lusterless eyes.

"I have not heard lately," she replied, coldly.

The assembled company suddenly quieted with a portent inimical to their

leisurely content of the moment. Carley felt them all looking at her, and

underneath the exterior she preserved with extreme difficulty, there burned

so fierce an anger that she seemed to have swelling veins of fire.

"Queer how Kilbourne went into raising hogs," observed Morrison. "Such a

low-down sort of work, you know."

"He had no choice," replied Carley. "Glenn didn't have a father who made

tainted millions out of the war. He had to work. And I must differ with you

about its being low-down. No honest work is that. It is idleness that is

low down."

"But so foolish of Glenn when he might have married money," rejoined

Morrison, sarcastcally.

"The honor of soldiers is beyond your ken, Mr. Morrison."

He flushed darkly and bit his lip.

"You women make a man sick with this rot about soldiers," he said, the

gleam in his eye growing ugly. "A uniform goes to a woman's head no matter

what's inside it. I don't see where your vaunted honor of soldiers comes

in considering how they accepted the let-down of women during and after the

war."

"How could you see when you stayed comfortably at home?" retorted Carley.

"All I could see was women falling into soldiers' arms," he said, sullenly.

"Certainly. Could an American girl desire any greater happiness--or

opportunity to prove her gratitude?" flashed Carley, with proud uplift of

head.

"It didn't look like gratitude to me," returned Morrison.

"Well, it was gratitude," declared Carley, ringingly. "If women of America

did throw themselves at soldiers it was not owing to the moral lapse of the

day. It was woman's instinct to save the race! Always, in every war, women

have sacrificed themselves to the future. Not vile, but noble! . . . You

insult both soldiers and women, Mr. Morrison. I wonder--did any American

girls throw themselves at you?"

Morrison turned a dead white, and his mouth twisted to a distorted checking

of speech, disagreeable to see.

"No, you were a slacker," went on Carley, with scathing scorn. "You let the

other men go fight for American girls. Do you imagine one of them will ever

marry you? . . . All your life, Mr. Morrison, you will be a marked man-

-outside the pale of friendship with real American men and the respect of

real American girls."

Morrison leaped up, almost knocking the table over, and he glared at Carley

as he gathered up his hat and cane. She turned her back upon him. From that

moment he ceased to exist for Carley. She never spoke to him again.

Next day Carley called upon her dearest friend, whom she had not seen for

some time.

"Carley dear, you don't look so very well," said Eleanor, after greetings

had been exchanged.

"Oh, what does it matter how I look?" queried Carley, impatiently.

"You were so wonderful when you got home from Arizona."

"If I was wonderful and am now commonplace you can thank your old New York

for it."

"Carley, don't you care for New York any more?" asked Eleanor.

"Oh, New York is all right, I suppose. It's I who am wrong."

"My dear, you puzzle me these days. You've changed. I'm sorry. I'm afraid

you're unhappy."

"Me? Oh, impossible! I'm in a seventh heaven," replied Carley, with a hard

little laugh. "What 're you doing this afternoon? Let's go out--riding--or

somewhere."

"I'm expecting the dressmaker."

"Where are you going to-night?"

"Dinner and theater. It's a party, or I'd ask you."

"What did you do yesterday and the day before, and the days before that?"

Eleanor laughed indulgently, and acquainted Carley with a record of her

social wanderings during the last few days.

"The same old things-over and over again! Eleanor don't you get sick of

it?" queried Carley.

"Oh yes, to tell the truth," returned Eleanor, thoughtfully. "But there's

nothing else to do."

"Eleanor, I'm no better than you," said Carley, with disdain. "I'm as

useless and idle. But I'm beginning to see myself--and you--and all this

rotten crowd of ours. We're no good. But you're married, Eleanor. You're

settled in life. You ought to do something. I'm single and at loose ends.

Oh, I'm in revolt! . . . Think, Eleanor, just think. Your husband works

hard to keep you in this expensive apartment. You have a car. He dresses

you in silks and satins. You wear diamonds. You eat your breakfast in bed.

You loll around in a pink dressing gown all morning. You dress for lunch or

tea. You ride or golf or worse than waste your time on some lounge lizard,

dancing till time to come home to dress for dinner. You let other men make

love to you. Oh, don't get sore. You do. . . . And so goes the round of

your life. What good on earth are you, anyhow? You're just a--a

gratification to the senses of your husband. And at that you don't see much

of hint."

"Carley, how you rave!" exclaimed her friend. "What has gotten into you

lately? Why, everybody tells me you're--you're queer! The way you insulted

Morrison--how unlike you, Carley!"

"I'm glad I found the nerve to do it. What do you think, Eleanor?"

"Oh, I despise him. But you can't say the things you feel."

"You'd be bigger and truer if you did. Some day I'll break out and flay you

and your friends alive."

"But, Carley, you're my friend and you're just exactly like we are. Or you

were, quite recently."

"Of course, I'm your friend. I've always loved you, Eleanor," went on

Carley, earnestly. "I'm as deep in this--this damned stagnant muck as you,

or anyone. But I'm no longer blind. There's something terribly wrong with

us women, and it's not what Morrison hinted."

"Carley, the only thing wrong with you is that you jilted poor Glenn--and

are breaking your heart over him still."

"Don't--don't!" cried Carley, shrinking. "God knows that is true. But

there's more wrong with me than a blighted love affair."

"Yes, you mean the modern feminine unrest?"

"Eleanor, I positively hate that phrase 'modern feminine unrest!' It smacks

of ultra--ultra--Oh! I don't know what. That phrase ought to be translated

by a Western acquaintance of mine--one Haze Ruff. I'd not like to hurt your

sensitive feelings with what he'd say. But this unrest means speed-mad,

excitement-mad, fad-mad, dress-mad, or I should say undress-mad, culture--

mad, and Heaven only knows what else. The women of our set are idle,

luxurious, selfish, pleasure-craving, lazy, useless, work-and-children

shirking, absolutely no good."

"Well, if we are, who's to blame?" rejoined Eleanor, spiritedly. "Now,

Carley Burch, you listen to me. I think the twentieth-century girl in

America is the most wonderful female creation of all the ages of the

universe. I admit it. That is why we are a prey to the evils attending

greatness. Listen. Here is a crying sin--an infernal paradox. Take this

twentieth-century girl, this American girl who is the finest creation of

the ages. A young and healthy girl, the most perfect type of culture

possible to the freest and greatest city on earth-New York! She holds

absolutely an unreal, untrue position in the scheme of existence.

Surrounded by parents, relatives, friends, suitors, and instructive schools

of every kind, colleges, institutions, is she really happy, is she really

living?"

"Eleanor," interrupted Carley, earnestly, "she is not. . . . And I've been

trying to tell you why."

"My dear, let me get a word in, will you," complained Eleanor. "You don't

know it all. There are as many different points of view as there are

people. . . . Well, if this girl happened to have a new frock, and a new

beau to show it to, she'd say, 'I'm the happiest girl in the world.' But

she is nothing of the kind. Only she doesn't know that. She approaches

marriage, or, for that matter, a more matured life, having had too much,

having been too well taken care of, knowing too much. Her masculine

satellites--father, brothers, uncles, friends, lovers--all utterly spoil

her. Mind you, I mean, girls like us, of the middle class--which is to say

the largest and best class of Americans. We are spoiled. . . . This girl

marries. And life goes on smoothly, as if its aim was to exclude friction

and effort. Her husband makes it too easy for her. She is an ornament, or a

toy, to be kept in a luxurious cage. To soil her pretty hands would be

disgraceful! Even f she can't afford a maid, the modern devices of science

make the care of her four-room apartment a farce. Electric dish-washer,

clothes-washer, vacuum-cleaner, and the near-by delicatessen and the

caterer simply rob a young wife of her housewifely heritage. If she has a

baby--which happens occasionally, Carley, in spite of your assertion--it

very soon goes to the kindergarten. Then what does she find to do with

hours and hours? If she is not married, what on earth can she find to do?"

"She can work," replied Carley, bluntly.

"Oh yes, she can, but she doesn't," went on Eleanor. "You don't work. I

never did. We both hated the idea. You're calling spades spades, Carley,

but you seem to be riding a morbid, impractical thesis. Well, our young

American girl or bride goes in for being rushed or she goes in for fads,

the ultra stuff you mentioned. New York City gets all the great artists,

lecturers, and surely the great fakirs. The New York women support them.

The men laugh, but they furnish the money. They take the women to the

theaters, but they cut out the reception to a Polish princess, a lecture by

an Indian magician and mystic, or a benefit luncheon for a Home for

Friendless Cats. The truth is most of our young girls or brides have a

wonderful enthusiasm worthy of a better cause. What is to become of their

surplus energy, the bottled-lightning spirit so characteristic of modern

girls? Where is the outlet for intense feelings? What use can they make of

education or of gifts? They just can't, that's all. I'm not taking into

consideration the new-woman species, the faddist or the reformer. I mean

normal girls like you and me. Just think, Carley. A girl's every wish,

every need, is almost instantly satisfied without the slightest effort on

her part to obtain it. No struggle, let alone work! If women crave to

achieve something outside of the arts, you know, something universal and

helpful which will make men acknowledge her worth, if not the equality,

where is the opportunity?"

"Opportunities should be made," replied Carley.

"There are a million sides to this question of the modern young woman--the

fin-de-siecle girl. I'm for her!"

"How about the extreme of style in dress for this remarkably-to-be-pitied

American girl you champion so eloquently?" queried Carley, sarcastically.

"Immoral!" exclaimed Eleanor with frank disgust.

"You admit it?"

"To my shame, I do."

"Why do women wear extreme clothes? Why do you and I wear open-work silk

stockings, skirts to our knees, gowns without sleeves or bodices?"

"We're slaves to fashion," replied Eleanor, "That's the popular excuse."

"Bah!" exclaimed Carley.

Eleanor laughed in spite of being half nettled. "Are you going to stop

wearing what all the other women wear--and be looked at askance? Are you

going to be dowdy and frumpy and old-fashioned?"

"No. But I'll never wear anything again that can be called immoral. I want

to be able to say why I wear a dress. You haven't answered my question yet.

Why do you wear what you frankly admit is disgusting?"

"I don't know, Carley," replied Eleanor, helplessly. "How you harp on

things! We must dress to make other women jealous and to attract men. To be

a sensation! Perhaps the word 'immoral' is not what I mean. A woman will be

shocking in her obsession to attract, but hardly more than that, if she

knows it."

"Ah! So few women realize how they actually do look. Haze Ruff could tell

them."

"Haze Ruff. Who in the world is he or she?" asked Eleanor.

"Haze Ruff is a he, all right," replied Carley, grimly.

"Well, who is he?"

"A sheep-dipper in Arizona," answered Carley, dreamily.

"Humph! And what can Mr. Ruff tell us?"

"He told me I looked like one of the devil's angels--and that I dressed to

knock the daylights out of men."

"Well, Carley Burch, if that isn't rich!" exclaimed Eleanor, with a peal of

laughter. "I dare say you appreciate that as an original compliment."

"No. . . . I wonder what Ruff would say about jazz--I just wonder,"

murmured Carley.

"Well, I wouldn't care what he said, and I don't care what you say,"

returned Eleanor. "The preachers and reformers and bishops and rabbis make

me sick. They rave about jazz. Jazz--the discordant note of our decadence!

Jazz--the harmonious expression of our musicless, mindless, soulless

materialism!--The idiots! If they could be women for a while they would

realize the error of their ways. But they will never, never abolish jazz--

never, for it is the grandest, the most wonderful, the most absolutely

necessary thing for women in this terrible age of smotheration."

"All right, Eleanor, we understand each other, even if we do not agree,"

said Carley. "You leave the future of women to chance, to life, to

materialism, not to their own conscious efforts. I want to leave it to free

will and idealism."

"Carley, you are getting a little beyond me," declared Eleanor, dubiously.

"What are you going to do? It all comes home to each individual woman. Her

attitude toward life."

"I'll drift along with the current, Carley, and be a good sport," replied

Eleanor, smiling.

"You don't care about the women and children of the future? You'll not deny

yourself now, and think and work, and suffer a little, in the interest of

future humanity?"

"How you put things, Carley!" exclaimed Eleanor, wearily. "Of course I

care--when you make me think of such things. But what have I to do with the

lives of people in the years to come?"

"Everything. America for Americans! While you dawdle, the life blood is

being sucked out of our great nation. It is a man's job to fight; it is a

woman's to save. . . . I think you've made your choice, though you don't

realize it. I'm praying to God that I'll rise to mine."

Carley had a visitor one morning earlier than the usual or conventional

time for calls.

"He wouldn't give no name," said the maid. "He wears soldier clothes,

ma'am, and he's pale, and walks with a cane."

"Tell him I'll be right down," replied Carley.

Her hands trembled while she hurriedly dressed. Could this caller be Virgil

Rust? She hoped so, but she doubted.

As she entered the parlor a tall young man in worn khaki rose to meet her.

At first glance she could not name him, though she recognized the pale face

and light-blue eyes, direct and steady.

"Good morning, Miss Burch," he said. "I hope you'll excuse so early a call.

You remember me, don't you? I'm George Burton, who had the bunk next to

Rust's."

"Surely I remember you, Mr. Burton, and I'm glad to see you," replied

Carley, shaking hands with him. "Please sit down. Your being here must mean

you're discharged from the hospital."

"Yes, I was discharged, all right," he said.

"Which means you're well again. That is fine. I'm very glad."

"I was put out to make room for a fellow in bad shape. I'm still shaky and

weak," he replied. "But I'm glad to go. I've pulled through pretty good,

and it'll not be long until I'm strong again. It was the 'flu' that kept me

down."

"You must be careful. May I ask where you're going and what you expect to

do?"

"Yes, that's what I came to tell you," he replied, frankly. "I want you to

help me a little. I'm from Illinois and my people aren't so badly off. But

I don't want to go back to my home town down and out, you know. Besides,

the winters are cold there. The doctor advises me to go to a little milder

climate. You see, I was gassed, and got the 'flu' afterward. But I know

I'll be all right if I'm careful. . . . Well, I've always had a leaning

toward agriculture, and I want to go to Kansas. Southern Kansas. I want to

travel around till I find a place I like, and there I'll get a job. Not too

hard a job at first--that's why I'll need a little money. I know what to do.

I want to lose myself in the wheat country and forget the--the war. I'll

not be afraid of work, presently. . . . Now, Miss Burch, you've been so

kind--I'm going to ask you to lend me a little money. I'll pay it back. I

can't promise just when. But some day. Will you?"

"Assuredly I will," she replied, heartily. "I'm happy to have the

opportunity to help you. How much will you need for immediate use? Five

hundred dollars?"

"Oh no, not so much as that," he replied. "Just railroad fare home, and

then to Kansas, and to pay board while I get well, you know, and look

around."

"We'll make it five hundred, anyway," she replied, and, rising, she went

toward the library. "Excuse me a moment." She wrote the check and,

returning, gave it to him.

"You're very good," he said, rather low.

"Not at all," replied Carley. "You have no idea how much it means to me to

be permitted to help you. Before I forget, I must ask you, can you cash

that check here in New York?"

"Not unless you identify me," he said, ruefully, "I don't know anyone I

could ask."

"Well, when you leave here go at once to my bank--it's on Thirty-fourth

Street--and I'll telephone the cashier. So you'll not have any difficulty.

Will you leave New York at once?"

"I surely will. It's an awful place. Two years ago when I came here with my

company I thought it was grand. But I guess I lost something over there. .

. . I want to be where it's quiet. Where I won't see many people."

"I think I understand," returned Carley. "Then I suppose you're in a hurry

to get home? Of course you have a girl you're just dying to see?"

"No, I'm sorry to say I haven't," he replied, simply. "I was glad I didn't

have to leave a sweetheart behind, when I went to France. But it wouldn't

be so bad to have one to go back to now."

"Don't you worry!" exclaimed Carley. "You can take your choice presently.

You have the open sesame to every real American girl's heart."

"And what is that?" he asked, with a blush.

"Your service to your country," she said, gravely.

"Well," he said, with a singular bluntness, "considering I didn't get any

medals or bonuses, I'd like to draw a nice girl."

"You will," replied Carley, and made haste to change the subject. "By the

way, did you meet Glenn Kilbourne in France?"

"Not that I remember," rejoined Burton, as he got up, rising rather stiffly

by aid of his cane. "I must go, Miss Burch. Really I can't thank you

enough. And I'll never forget it."

"Will you write me how you are getting along?" asked Carley, offering her

hand.

"Yes."

Carley moved with him out into the hall and to the door. There was a

question she wanted to ask, but found it strangely difficult of utterance.

At the door Burton fixed a rather penetrating gaze upon her.

"You didn't ask me about Rust," he said.

"No, I--I didn't think of him--until now, in fact," Carley lied.

"Of course then you couldn't have heard about him. I was wondering."

"I have heard nothing."

"It was Rust who told me to come to you," said Burton. "We were talking one

day, and he--well, he thought you were true blue. He said he knew you'd

trust me and lend me money. I couldn't have asked you but for him."

"True blue! He believed that. I'm glad. . . . Has he spoken of me to you

since I was last at the hospital?"

"Hardly," replied Burton, with the straight, strange glance on her again.

Carley met this glance and suddenly a coldness seemed to envelop her. It

did not seem to come from within though her heart stopped beating. Burton

had not changed--the warmth, the gratitude still lingered about him. But

the light of his eyes! Carley had seen it in Glenn's, in Rust's--a strange,

questioning, far-off light, infinitely aloof and unutterably sad. Then

there came a lift of her heart that released a pang. She whispered with

dread, with a tremor, with an instinct of calamity.

"How about--Rust?"

"He's dead."

The winter came, with its bleak sea winds and cold rains and blizzards of

snow. Carley did not go South. She read and brooded, and gradually avoided

all save those true friends who tolerated her.

She went to the theater a good deal, showing preference for the drama of

strife, and she did not go anywhere for amusement. Distraction and

amusement seemed to be dead issues for her. But she could become absorbed

in any argument on the good or evil of the present day. Socialism reached

into her mind, to be rejected. She had never understood it clearly, but it

seemed to her a state of mind where dissatisfied men and women wanted to

share what harder working or more gifted people possessed. There were a few

who had too much of the world's goods and many who had too little. A

readjustment of such inequality and injustice must come, but Carley did not

see the remedy in Socialism.

She devoured books on the war with a morbid curiosity and hope that she

would find some illuminating truth as to the uselessness of sacrificing

young men in the glory and prime of their lives. To her war appeared a

matter of human nature rather than politics. Hate really was an effect of

war. In her judgment future wars could be avoided only in two ways--by men

becoming honest and just or by women refusing to have children to be

sacrificed. As there seemed no indication whatever of the former, she

wondered how soon all women of all races would meet on a common height,

with the mounting spirit that consumed her own heart. Such time must come.

She granted every argument for war and flung against it one ringing

passionate truth--agony of mangled soldiers and agony of women and children.

There was no justification for offensive war. It was monstrous and hideous.

If nature and evolution proved the absolute need of strife, war, blood, and

death in the progress of animal and man toward perfection, then it would be

better to abandon this Christless code and let the race of man die out.

All through these weeks she longed for a letter from Glenn. But it did not

come. Had he finally roused to the sweetness and worth and love of the

western girl, Flo Hutter? Carley knew absolutely, through both intelligence

and intuition, that Glenn Kilbourne would never love Flo. Yet such was her

intensity and stress at times, especially in the darkness of waking hours,

that jealousy overcame her and insidiously worked its havoc. Peace and a

strange kind of joy came to her in dreams of her walks and rides and climbs

in Arizona, of the lonely canyon where it always seemed afternoon, of the

tremendous colored vastness of that Painted Desert. But she resisted these

dreams now because when she awoke from them she suffered such a yearning

that it became unbearable. Then she knew the feeling of the loneliness and

solitude of the hills. Then she knew the sweetness of the murmur of falling

water, the wind in the pines, the song of birds, the white radiance of the

stars, the break of day and its gold-flushed close. But she had not yet

divined' their meaning. It was not all love for Glenn Kilbourne. Had city

life palled upon her solely because of the absence of her lover? So Carley

plodded on, like one groping in the night, fighting shadows.

One day she received a card from an old schoolmate, a girl who had married

out of Carley's set, and had been ostracized. She was living down on Long

Island, at a little country place named Wading River. Her husband was an

electrician--something of an inventor. He worked hard. A baby boy had just

come to them. Would not Carley run down on the train to see the youngster?

That was a strong and trenchant call. Carley went. She found indeed a

country village, and on the outskirts of it a little cottage that must have

been pretty in summer, when the green was on vines and trees. Her old

schoolmate was rosy, plump, bright-eyed, and happy. She saw in Carley no

change--a fact that somehow rebounded sweetly on Carley's consciousness.

Elsie prattled of herself and her husband and how they had worked to earn

this little home, and then the baby.

When Carley saw the adorable dark-eyed, pink-toed, curly-fisted baby she

understood Elsie's happiness and reveled in it. When she felt the soft,

warm, living little body in her arms, against her breast, then she absorbed

some incalculable and mysterious strength. What were the trivial, sordid,

and selfish feelings that kept her in tumult compared to this welling

emotion? Had she the secret in her arms? Babies and Carley had never become

closely acquainted in those infrequent meetings that were usually the

result of chance. But Elsie's baby nestled to her breast and cooed to her

and clung to her finger. When at length the youngster was laid in his crib

it seemed to Carley that the fragrance and the soul of him remained with

her.

"A real American boy!" she murmured.

"You can just bet he is," replied Elsie. "Carley, you ought to see his dad."

"I'd like to meet him," said Carley, thoughtfully. "Elsie, was he in the

service?"

"Yes. He was on one of the navy transports that took munitions to France.

Think of me, carrying this baby, with my husband on a boat full of

explosives and with German submarines roaming the ocean! Oh, it was

horrible!"

"But he came back, and now all's well with you," said Carley, with a smile

of earnestness. "I'm very glad, Elsie."

"Yes--but I shudder when I think of a possible war in the future. I'm going

to raise boys, and girls, too, I hope--and the thought of war is

torturing."

Carley found her return train somewhat late, and she took advantage of the

delay to walk out to the wooded headlands above the Sound.

It was a raw March day, with a steely sun going down in a pale-gray sky.

Patches of snow lingered in sheltered brushy places. This bit of woodland

had a floor of soft sand that dragged at Carley's feet. There were sere and

brown leaves still fluttering on the scrub-oaks. At length Carley came out

on the edge of the bluff with the gray expanse of seat beneath her, and a

long wandering shore line, ragged with wreckage or driftwood. The surge of

water rolled in--a long, low, white, creeping line that softly roared on

the beach and dragged the pebbles gratingly back. There was neither boat

nor living creature in sight.

Carley felt the scene ease a clutching hand within her breast. Here was

loneliness and solitude vastly different from that of Oak Creek Canyon, yet

it held the same intangible power to soothe. The swish of the surf, the

moan of the wind in the evergreens, were voices that called to her. How

many more miles of lonely land than peopled cities! Then the sea-how vast!

And over that the illimitable and infinite sky, and beyond, the endless

realms of space. It helped her somehow to see and hear and feel the eternal

presence of nature. In communion with nature the significance of life might

be realized. She remembered Glenn quoting: "The world is too much with us.

. . . Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers." What were our powers?

What did God intend men to do with hands and bodies and gifts and souls?

She gazed back over the bleak land and then out across the broad sea. Only

a millionth part of the surface of the unsubmerged earth knew the populous

abodes of man. And the lonely sea, inhospitable to stable homes of men, was

thrice the area of the land. Were men intended, then, to congregate in few

places, to squabble and to bicker and breed the discontents that led to

injustice, hatred, and war? What a mystery it all was! But Nature was

neither false nor little, however cruel she might be.

Once again Carley fell under the fury of her ordeal. Wavering now,

restless and sleepless, given to violent starts and slow spells of apathy,

she was wearing to defeat.

That spring day, one year from the day she had left New York for Arizona,

she wished to spend alone. But her thoughts grew unbearable. She summed up

the endless year. Could she live another like it? Something must break

within her.

She went out. The air was warm and balmy, carrying that subtle current

which caused the mild madness of spring fever. In the Park the greening of

the grass, the opening of buds, the singing of birds, the gladness of

children, the light on the water, the warm sun--all seemed to reproach her.

Carley fled from the Park to the home of Beatrice Lovell; and there,

unhappily, she encountered those of her acquaintance with whom she had

least patience. They forced her to think too keenly of herself. They

appeared carefree while she was miserable.

Over teacups there were waging gossip and argument and criticism. When

Carley entered with Beatrice there was a sudden hush and then a murmur.

"Hello, Carley! Now say it to our faces," called out Geralda Conners, a

fair, handsome young woman of thirty, exquisitely gowned in the latest

mode, and whose brilliantly tinted complexion was not the natural one of

health.

"Say what, Geralda?" asked Carley. "I certainly would not say anything

behind your backs that I wouldn't repeat here."

"Eleanor has been telling us how you simply burned us up."

"We did have an argument. And I'm not sure I said all I wanted to."

"Say the rest here," drawled a lazy, mellow voice. "For Heaven's sake, stir

us up. If I could get a kick out of anything I'd bless it."

"Carley, go on the stage," advised another. "You've got Elsie Ferguson tied

to the mast for looks. And lately you're surely tragic enough."

"I wish you'd go somewhere far off!" observed a third. "My husband is dippy

about you."

"Girls, do you know that you actually have not one sensible idea in your

heads?" retorted Carley.

"Sensible? I should hope not. Who wants to be sensible?"

Geralda battered her teacup on a saucer. "Listen," she called. "I wasn't

kidding Carley. I am good and sore. She goes around knocking everybody and

saying New York backs Sodom off the boards. I want her to come out with it

right here."

"I dare say I've talked too much," returned Carley. "It's been a rather

hard winter on me. Perhaps, indeed, I've tried the patience of my friends."

"See here, Carley," said Geralda, deliberately, "just because you've had

life turn to bitter ashes in your mouth you've no right to poison it for

us. We all find it pretty sweet. You're an unsatisfied woman and if you

don't marry somebody you'll end by being a reformer or fanatic."

"I'd rather end that way than rot in a shell," retorted Carley.

"I declare, you make me see red, Carley," flashed Geralda, angrily. "No

wonder Morrison roasts you to everybody. He says Glenn Kilbourne threw you

down for some Western girl. If that's true it's pretty small of you to vent

your spleen on us."

Carley felt the gathering of a mighty resistless force, But Geralda Conners

was nothing to her except the target for a thunderbolt.

"I have no spleen," she replied, with a dignity of passion. "I have only

pity. I was as blind as you. If heartbreak tore the scales from my eyes,

perhaps that is well for me. For I see something terribly wrong in myself,

in you, in all of us, in the life of today."

"You keep your pity to yourself. You need it," answered Geralda, with heat.

"There's nothing wrong with me or my friends or life in good old New York."

"Nothing wrong!" cried Carley. "Listen. Nothing wrong in you or life

today-nothing for you women to make right? You are blind as bats--as dead

to living truth as if you were buried. Nothing wrong when thousands of

crippled soldiers have no homes--no money--no friends--no work--in many

cases no food or bed? . . . Splendid young men who went away in their prime

to fight for you and came back ruined, suffering! Nothing wrong when sane

women with the vote might rid politics of partisanship, greed, crookedness?

Nothing wrong when prohibition is mocked by women--when the greatest boon

ever granted this country is derided and beaten down and cheated? Nothing

wrong when there are half a million defective children in this city?

Nothing wrong when there are not enough schools and teachers to educate our

boys and girls, when those teachers are shamefully underpaid? Nothing wrong

when the mothers of this great country let their youngsters go to the dark.

motion picture halls and night after night in thousands of towns over all

this broad land see pictures that the juvenile court and the educators and

keepers of reform schools say make burglars, crooks, and murderers of our

boys and vampires of our girls? Nothing wrong when these young adolescent

girls ape you and wear stockings rolled under their knees below their

skirts and use a lip stick and paint their faces and darken their eyes and

pluck their eyebrows and absolutely do not know what shame is? Nothing

wrong when you may find in any city women standing at street corners

distributing booklets on birth control? Nothing wrong when great magazines

print no page or picture without its sex appeal? Nothing wrong when the

automobile, so convenient for the innocent little run out of town, presents

the greatest evil that ever menaced American girls! Nothing wrong when

money is god--when luxury, pleasure, excitement, speed are the striven for?

Nothing wrong when some of your husbands spend more of their time with

other women than with you? Nothing wrong with jazz--where the lights go out

in the dance hall and the dancers. jiggle and toddle and wiggle in a

frenzy? Nothing wrong in a country where the greatest college cannot report

birth of one child to each graduate in ten years? Nothing wrong with race

suicide and the incoming horde of foreigners? . . . Nothing wrong with you

women who cannot or will not stand childbirth? Nothing wrong with most of

you, when if you did have a child, you could not nurse it? . . . Oh, my

God, there's nothing wrong with America except that she staggers under a

Titanic burden that only mothers of sons can remove! . . . You doll women,

you parasites, you toys of men, you silken-wrapped geisha girls, you

painted, idle, purring cats, you parody of the females of your species--

find brains enough if you can to see the doom hanging over you and revolt

before it is too late!"

CHAPTER XI

Carley burst in upon her aunt.

"Look at me, Aunt Mary!" she cried, radiant and exultant. "I'm going back

out West to marry Glenn and live his life!"

The keen old eyes of her aunt softened and dimmed. "Dear Carley, I've known

that for a long time. You've found yourself at last."

Then Carley breathlessly babbled her hastily formed plans, every word of

which seemed to rush her onward.

"You're going to surprise Glenn again?" queried Aunt Mary.

"Oh, I must! I want to see his face when I tell him."

"Well, I hope he won't surprise you," declared the old lady. "When did you

hear from him last?"

"In January. It seems ages--but--Aunt Mary, you don't imagine Glenn--"

"I imagine nothing," interposed her aunt. "It will turn out happily and

I'll have some peace in my old age. But, Carley, what's to become of me?"

"Oh, I never thought!" replied Carley, blankly. "It will be lonely for you.

Auntie, I'll come back in the fall for a few weeks. Glenn will let me."

"Let you? Ye gods! So you've come to that? Imperious Carley Burch! . . .

Thank Heaven, you'll now be satisfied to be let do things."

"I'd--I'd crawl for him," breathed Carley.

"Well, child, as you can't be practical, I'll have to be," replied Aunt

Mary, seriously. "Fortunately for you I am a woman of quick decision.

Listen. I'll go West with you. I want to see the Grand Canyon. Then I'll go

on to California, where I have old friends I've not seen for years. When

you get your new home all fixed up I'll spend awhile with you. And if I

want to come back to New York now and then I'll go to a hotel. It is

settled. I think the change will benefit me.'

"Auntie, you make me very happy. I could ask no more," said Carley.

Swiftly as endless tasks could make them the days passed. But those on the

train dragged interminably.

Carley sent her aunt through to the Canyon while she stopped off at

Flagstaff to store innumerable trunks and bags. The first news she heard of

Glenn and the Hutters was that they had gone to the Tonto Basin to buy hogs

and would be absent at least a month. This gave birth to a new plan in

Carley's mind. She would doubly surprise Glenn. Wherefore she took council

with some Flagstaff business men and engaged them to set a force of men at

work on the Deep Lake property, making the improvements she desired, and

hauling lumber, cement, bricks, machinery, supplies--all the necessaries for

building construction. Also she instructed them to throw up a tent house

for her to live in during the work, and to engage a reliable Mexican man

with his wife for servants. When she left for the Canyon she was happier

than ever before in her life.

It was near the coming of sunset when Carley first looked down into the

Grand Canyon. She had forgotten Glenn's tribute to this place. In her

rapturous excitement of preparation and travel the Canyon had been merely a

name. But now she saw it and she was stunned.

What a stupendous chasm, gorgeous in sunset color on the heights, purpling

into mystic shadows in the depths! There was a wonderful brightness of all

the millions of red and yellow and gray surfaces still exposed to the sun.

Carley did not feel a thrill, because feeling seemed inhibited. She looked

and looked, yet was reluctant to keep on looking. She possessed no image in

mind with which to compare this grand and mystic spectacle. A

transformation of color and shade appeared to be going on swiftly, as if

gods were changing the scenes of a Titanic stage. As she gazed the dark

fringed line of the north rim turned to burnished gold, and she watched

that with fascinated eyes. It turned rose, it lost its fire, it faded to

quiet cold gray. The sun had set.

Then the wind blew cool through the pinyons on the rim. There was a sweet

tang of cedar and sage on the air and that indefinable fragrance peculiar

to the canyon country of Arizona. How it brought back to Carley remembrance

of Oak Creek! In the west, across the purple notches of the abyss, a dull

gold flare showed where the sun had gone down.

In the morning at eight o'clock there were great irregular black shadows

under the domes and peaks and escarpments. Bright Angel Canyon was all

dark, showing dimly its ragged lines. At noon there were no shadows and all

the colossal gorge lay glaring under the sun. In the evening Carley watched

the Canyon as again the sun was setting.

Deep dark-blue shadows, like purple sails of immense ships, in wonderful

contrast with the bright sunlit slopes, grew and rose toward the east, down

the canyons and up the walls that faced the west. For a long while there

was no red color, and the first indication of it was a dull bronze. Carley

looked down into the void, at the sailing birds, at the precipitous slopes,

and the dwarf spruces and the weathered old yellow cliffs. When she looked

up again the shadows out there were no longer dark. They were clear. The

slopes and depths and ribs of rock could be seen through them. Then the

tips of the highest peaks and domes turned bright red. Far to the east she

discerned a strange shadow, slowly turning purple. One instant it grew

vivid, then began to fade. Soon after that all the colors darkened and

slowly the pale gray stole over all.

At night Carley gazed over and into the black void. But for the awful sense

of depth she would not have known the Canyon to be there. A soundless

movement of wind passed under her. The chasm seemed a grave of silence. It

was as mysterious as the stars and as aloof and as inevitable. It had held

her senses of beauty and proportion in abeyance.

At another sunrise the crown of the rim, a broad belt of bare rock, turned

pale gold under its fringed dark line of pines. The tips of the peak

gleamed opal. There was no sunrise red, no fire. The light in the east was

a pale gold under a steely green-blue sky. All the abyss of the Canyon was

soft, gray, transparent, and the belt of gold broadened downward, making

shadows on the west slopes of the mesas and escarpments. Far down in the

shadows she discerned the river, yellow, turgid, palely gleaming. By

straining her ears Carley heard a low dull roar as of distant storm. She

stood fearfully at the extreme edge of a stupendous cliff, where it sheered

dark and forbidding, down and down, into what seemed red and boundless

depths of Hades. She saw gold spots of sunlight on the dark shadows,

proving that somewhere, impossible to discover, the sun was shining through

wind-worn holes in the sharp ridges. Every instant Carley grasped a

different effect. Her studied gaze absorbed an endless changing. And at

last she realized that sun and light and stars and moon and night and

shade, all working incessantly and mutably over shapes and lines and angles

and surfaces too numerous and too great for the sight of man to hold, made

an ever-changing spectacle of supreme beauty and colorful grandeur.

She talked very little while at the Canyon. It silenced her. She had come

to see it at the critical time of her life and in the right mood. The

superficialities of the world shrunk to their proper insignificance. Once

she asked her aunt: "Why did not Glenn bring me here?" As if this Canyon

proved the nature of all things!

But in the end Carley found that the rending strife of the transformation

of her attitude toward life had insensibly ceased. It had ceased during the

long watching of this cataclysm of nature, this canyon of gold-banded

black-fringed ramparts, and red-walled mountains which sloped down to be

lost in purple depths. That was final proof of the strength of nature to

soothe, to clarify, to stabilize the tried and weary and upward-gazing

soul. Stronger than the recorded deeds of saints, stronger than the

eloquence of the gifted uplifters of men, stronger than any words ever

written, was the grand, brooding, sculptured aspect of nature. And it must

have been so because thousands of years before the age of saints or

preachers--before the fret and symbol and figure were cut in stone-man must

have watched with thought--developing sight the wonders of the earth, the

monuments of time, the glooming of the dark-blue sea, the handiwork of God.

In May, Carley returned to Flagstaff to take up with earnest inspiration

the labors of homebuilding in a primitive land.

It required two trucks to transport her baggage and purchases out to Deep

Lake. The road was good for eighteen miles of the distance, until it

branched off to reach her land, and from there it was desert rock and sand.

But eventually they made it; and Carley found herself and belongings dumped

out into the windy and sunny open. The moment was singularly thrilling and

full of transport. She was free. She had shaken off the shackles. She faced

lonely, wild, barren desert that must be made habitable by the genius of

her direction and the labor of her hands. Always a thought of Glenn hovered

tenderly, dreamily in the back of her consciousness, but she welcomed the

opportunity to have a few weeks of work and activity and solitude before

taking up her life with him. She wanted to adapt herself to the

metamorphosis that had been wrought in her.

To her amazement and delight, a very considerable progress had been made

with her plans. Under a sheltered red cliff among the cedars had been

erected the tents where she expected to live until the house was completed.

These tents were large, with broad floors high off the ground, and there

were four of them. Her living tent had a porch under a wide canvas awning.

The bed was a boxlike affair, raised off the floor two feet, and it

contained a great, fragrant mass of cedar boughs upon which the blankets

were to be spread. At one end was a dresser with large mirror, and a

chiffonier. There were table and lamp, a low rocking chair, a shelf for

books, a row of hooks upon which to hang things, a washstand with its

necessary accessories, a little stove and a neat stack of cedar chips and

sticks. Navajo rugs on the floor lent brightness and comfort.

Carley heard the rustling of cedar branches over her head, and saw where

they brushed against the tent roof. It appeared warm and fragrant inside,

and protected from the wind, and a subdued white light filtered through the

canvas. Almost she felt like reproving herself for the comfort surrounding

her. For she had come West to welcome the hard knocks of primitive life.

It took less than an hour to have her trunks stored in one of the spare

tents, and to unpack clothes and necessaries for immediate use. Carley

donned the comfortable and somewhat shabby outdoor garb she had worn at Oak

Creek the year before; and it seemed to be the last thing needed to make

her fully realize the glorious truth of the present.

"I'm here," she said to her pale, yet happy face in the mirror. "The

impossible has happened. I have accepted Glenn's life. I have answered that

strange call out of the West."

She wanted to throw herself on the sunlit woolly blankets of her bed and

hug them, to think and think of the bewildering present happiness, to dream

of the future, but she could not lie or sit still, nor keep her mind from

grasping at actualities and possibilities of this place, nor her hands from

itching to do things.

It developed, presently, that she could not have idled away the time even

if she had wanted to, for the Mexican woman came for her, with smiling

gesticulation and jabber that manifestly meant dinner. Carley could not

understand many Mexican words, and herein she saw another task. This

swarthy woman and her sloe-eyed husband favorably impressed Carley.

Next to claim her was Hoyle, the superintendent. "Miss Burch," he said, "in

the early days we could run up a log cabin in a jiffy. Axes, horses, strong

arms, and a few pegs--that was all we needed. But this house you've planned

is different. It's good you've come to take the responsibility."

Carley had chosen the site for her home on top of the knoll where Glenn had

taken her to show her the magnificent view of mountains and desert. Carley

climbed it now with beating heart and mingled emotions. A thousand times

already that day, it seemed, she had turned to gaze up at the noble

white-clad peaks. They were closer now, apparently looming over her, and

she felt a great sense of peace and protection in the thought that they

would always be there. But she had not yet seen the desert that had haunted

her for a year. When she reached the summit of the knoll and gazed out

across the open space it seemed that she must stand spellbound. How green

the cedared foreground-how gray and barren the downward slope--how

wonderful the painted steppes! The vision that had lived in her memory

shrank to nothingness. The reality was immense, more than beautiful,

appalling in its isolation, beyond comprehension with its lure and strength

to uplift.

But the superintendent drew her attention to the business at hand.

Carley had planned an L-shaped house of one story. Some of her ideas

appeared to be impractical, and these she abandoned. The framework was up

and half a dozen carpenters were lustily at work with saw and hammer.

"We'd made better progress if this house was in an ordinary place,"

explained Hoyle. "But you see the wind blows here, so the framework had to

be made as solid and strong as possible. In fact, it's bolted to the

sills."

Both living room and sleeping room were arranged so that the Painted Desert

could be seen from one window, and on the other side the whole of the San

Francisco Mountains. Both rooms were to have open fireplaces. Carley's idea

was for service and durability. She thought of comfort in the severe

winters of that high latitude, but elegance and luxury had no more

significance in her life.

Hoyle made his suggestions as to changes and adaptations, and, receiving

her approval, he went on to show her what had been already accomplished.

Back on higher ground a reservoir of concrete was being constructed near an

ever-flowing spring of snow water from the peaks. This water was being

piped by gravity to the house, and was a matter of greatest satisfaction to

Hoyle, for he claimed that it would never freeze in winter, and would be

cold and abundant during the hottest and driest of summers. This assurance

solved the most difficult and serious problem of ranch life in the desert.

Next Hoyle led Carley down off the knoll to the wide cedar valley adjacent

to the lake. He was enthusiastic over its possibilities. Two small corrals

and a large one had been erected, the latter having a low flat barn

connected with it. Ground was already being cleared along the lake where

alfalfa and hay were to be raised. Carley saw the blue and yellow smoke

from burning brush, and the fragrant odor thrilled her. Mexicans were

chopping the cleared cedars into firewood for winter use.

The day was spent before she realized it. At sunset the carpenters and

mechanics left in two old Ford cars for town. The Mexicans had a camp in

the cedars, and the Hoyles had theirs at the spring under the knoll where

Carley had camped with Glenn and the Hutters. Carley watched the golden

rosy sunset, and as the day ended she breathed deeply as if in unutterable

relief. Supper found her with appetite she had long since lost. Twilight

brought cold wind, the staccato bark of coyotes, the flicker of camp fires

through the cedars. She tried to embrace all her sensations, but they were

so rapid and many that she failed.

The cold, clear, silent night brought back the charm of the desert. How

flaming white the stars!. The great spire-pointed peaks lifted cold

pale-gray outlines up into the deep star-studded sky. Carley walked a

little to and fro, loath to go to her tent, though tired. She wanted calm.

But instead of achieving calmness she grew more and more towards a strange

state of exultation.

Westward, only a matter of twenty or thirty miles, lay the deep rent in the

level desert--Oak Creek Canyon. If Glenn had been there this night would

have been perfect, yet almost unendurable. She was again grateful for his

absence. What a surprise she had in store for him! And she imagined his

face in its change of expression when she met him. If only he never learned

of her presence in Arizona until she made it known in person! That she most

longed for. Chances were against it, but then her luck had changed. She

looked to the eastward where a pale luminosity of afterglow shone in the

heavens. Far distant seemed the home of her childhood, the friends she had

scorned and forsaken, the city of complaining and striving millions. If

only some miracle might illumine the minds of her friends, as she felt that

hers was to be illumined here in the solitude. But she well realized that

not all problems could be solved by a call out of the West. Any open and

lonely land that might have saved Glenn Kilbourne would have sufficed for

her. It was the spirit of the thing and not the letter. It was work of any

kind and not only that of ranch life. Not only the raising of hogs!

Carley directed stumbling steps toward the light of her tent. Her eyes had

not been used to such black shadow along the ground. She had, too,

squeamish feminine fears of hydrophobia skunks, and nameless animals or

reptiles that were imagined denizens of the darkness. She gained her tent

and entered. The Mexican, Gino, as he called himself, had lighted her lamp

and fire. Carley was chilled through, and the tent felt so warm and cozy

that she could scarcely believe it. She fastened the screen door, laced the

flaps across it, except at the top, and then gave herself up to the lulling

and comforting heat.

There were plans to perfect; innumerable things to remember; a car and

accessories, horses, saddles, outfits to buy. Carley knew she should sit

down at her table and write and figure, but she could not do it then.

For a long time she sat over the little stove, toasting her knees and

hands, adding some chips now and then to the red coals. And her mind seemed

a kaleidoscope of changing visions, thoughts, feelings. At last she

undressed and blew out the lamp and went to bed.

Instantly a thick blackness seemed to enfold her and silence as of a dead

world settled down upon her. Drowsy as she was, she could not close her

eyes nor refrain from listening. Darkness and silence were tangible things.

She felt them. And they seemed suddenly potent with magic charm to still

the tumult of her, to soothe and rest, to create thoughts she had never

thought before. Rest was more than selfish indulgence. Loneliness was

necessary to gain consciousness of the soul. Already far back in the past

seemed Carley's other life.

By and by the dead stillness awoke to faint sounds not before perceptible

to her--a low, mournful sough of the wind in the cedars, then the faint

far-distant note of a coyote, sad as the night and infinitely wild.

Days passed. Carley worked in the mornings with her hands and her brains.

In the afternoons she rode and walked and climbed with a double object, to

work herself into fit physical condition and to explore every nook and

corner of her six hundred and forty acres.

Then what she had expected and deliberately induced by her efforts quickly

came to pass. Just as the year before she had suffered excruciating pain

from aching muscles, and saddle blisters, and walking blisters, and a very

rending of her bones, so now she fell victim to them again. In sunshine and

rain she faced the desert. Sunburn and sting of sleet were equally to be

endured. And that abomination, the hateful blinding sandstorm, did not

daunt her. But the weary hours of abnegation to this physical torture at

least held one consoling recompense as compared with her experience of last

year, and it was that there was no one interested to watch for her

weaknesses and failures and blunders. She could fight it out alone.

Three weeks of this self-imposed strenuous training wore by before Carley

was free enough from weariness and pain to experience other sensations. Her

general health, evidently, had not been so good as when she had first

visited Arizona. She caught cold and suffered other ills attendant upon an

abrupt change of climate and condition. But doggedly she kept at her task.

She rode when she should have been in bed; she walked when she should have

ridden; she climbed when she should have kept to level ground. And finally

by degrees so gradual as not to be noticed except in the sum of them she

began to mend.

Meanwhile the construction of her house went on with uninterrupted

rapidity. When the low, slanting, wide-eaved roof was completed Carley lost

further concern about rainstorms. Let them come. When the plumbing was all

in and Carley saw verification of Hoyle's assurance that it would mean a

gravity supply of water ample and continual, she lost her last concern as

to the practicability of the work. That, and the earning of her endurance,

seemed to bring closer a wonderful reward, still nameless and spiritual,

that had been unattainable, but now breathed to her on the fragrant desert

wind and in the brooding silence.

The time came when each afternoon's ride or climb called to Carley with

increasing delight. But the fact that she must soon reveal to Glenn her

presence and transformation did not seem to be all the cause. She could

ride without pain, walk without losing her breath, work without blistering

her hands; and in this there was compensation. The building of the house

that was to become a home, the development of water resources and land that

meant the making of a ranch--these did not altogether constitute the

anticipation of content. To be active, to accomplish things, to recall to

mind her knowledge of manual training, of domestic science, of designing

and painting, to learn to cook-these were indeed measures full of reward,

but they were not all. In her wondering, pondering meditation she arrived

at the point where she tried to assign to her love the growing fullness of

her life. This, too, splendid and all-pervading as it was, she had to

reject. Some exceedingly illusive and vital significance of life had

insidiously come to Carley.

One afternoon, with the sky full of white and black rolling clouds and a

cold wind sweeping through the cedars, she halted to rest and escape the

chilling gale for a while. In a sunny place, under the lee of a gravel

bank, she sought refuge. It was warm here because of the reflected sunlight

and the absence of wind. The sand at the bottom of the bank held a heat

that felt good to her cold hands. All about her and over her swept the keen

wind, rustling the sage, seeping the sand, swishing the cedars, but she was

out of it, protected and insulated. The sky above showed blue between the

threatening clouds. There were no birds or living creatures in sight.

Certainly the place had little of color or beauty or grace, nor could she

see beyond a few rods. Lying there, without any particular reason that she

was conscious of, she suddenly felt shot through and through with

exhilaration.

Another day, the warmest of the spring so far, she rode a Navajo mustang

she had recently bought from a passing trader; and at the farthest end of

her section, in rough wooded and ridged ground she had not explored, she

found a canyon with red walls and pine trees and gleaming streamlet and

glades of grass and jumbles of rock. It was a miniature canyon, to be

sure, only a quarter of a mile long, and as deep as the height of a lofty

pine, and so narrow that it seemed only the width of a lane, but it had all

the features of Oak Creek Canyon, and so sufficed for the exultant joy of

possession. She explored it. The willow brakes and oak thickets harbored

rabbits and birds. She saw the white flags of deer running away down the

open. Up at the head where the canyon boxed she flushed a flock of wild

turkeys. They ran like ostriches and flew like great brown chickens. In a

cavern Carley found the den of a bear, and in another place the bleached

bones of a steer.

She lingered here in the shaded depths with a feeling as if she were indeed

lost to the world. These big brown and seamy-barked pines with their

spreading gnarled arms and webs of green needles belonged to her, as also

the tiny brook, the blue bells smiling out of the ferns, the single stalk

of mescal on a rocky ledge.

Never had sun and earth, tree and rock, seemed a part of her being until

then. She would become a sun-worshiper and a lover of the earth. That

canyon had opened there to sky and light for millions of years; and

doubtless it had harbored sheep herders, Indians, cliff dwellers,

barbarians. She was a woman with white skin and a cultivated mind, but the

affinity for them existed in her. She felt it, and that an understanding of

it would be good for body and soul.

Another day she found a little grove of jack pines growing on a flat mesa-

like bluff, the highest point on her land. The trees were small and close

together, mingling their green needles overhead and their discarded brown

ones on the ground. From here Carley could see afar to all points of the

compass--the slow green descent to the south and the climb to the

black-timbered distance; the ridged and canyoned country to the west, red

vents choked with green and rimmed with gray; to the north the grand

upflung mountain kingdom crowned with snow; and to the east the vastness of

illimitable space, the openness and wildness, the chased and beaten mosaic

of colored sands and rocks.

Again and again she visited this lookout and came to love its isolation,

its command of wondrous prospects, its power of suggestion to her thoughts.

She became a creative being, in harmony with the live things around her.

The great life-dispensing sun poured its rays down upon her, as if to ripen

her; and the earth seemed warm, motherly, immense with its all-embracing

arms. She no longer plucked the bluebells to press to her face, but leaned

to them. Every blade of gramma grass, with its shining bronze-tufted seed

head, had significance for her. The scents of the desert began to have

meaning for her. She sensed within her the working of a great leveling

process through which supreme happiness would come.

June! The rich, thick, amber light, like a transparent reflection from

some intense golden medium, seemed to float in the warm air. The sky became

an azure blue. In the still noontides, when the bees hummed drowsily and

the flies buzzed, vast creamy-white columnar clouds rolled up from the

horizon, like colossal ships with bulging sails. And summer with its rush

of growing things was at hand.

Carley rode afar, seeking in strange places the secret that eluded her.

Only a few days now until she would ride down to Oak Creek Canyon! There

was a low, singing melody of wind in the cedars. The earth became too

beautiful in her magnified sight. A great truth was dawning upon her--that

the sacrifice of what she had held as necessary to the enjoyment of life--

that the strain of conflict, the labor of hands, the forcing of weary body,

the enduring of pain, the contact with the earth--had served somehow to

rejuvenate her blood, quicken her pulse, intensify her sensorial faculties,

thrill her very soul, lead her into the realm of enchantment.

One afternoon a dull, lead-black-colored cinder knoll tempted her to

explore its bare heights. She rode up until her mustang sank to his knees

and could climb no farther. From there she essayed the ascent on foot. It

took labor. But at last she gained the summit, burning, sweating, panting.

The cinder hill was an extinct crater of a volcano. In the center of it lay

a deep bowl, wondrously symmetrical, and of a dark lusterless hue. Not a

blade of grass was there, nor a plant. Carley conceived a desire to go to

the bottom of this pit. She tried the cinders of the edge of the slope.

They had the same consistency as those of the ascent she had overcome. But

here there was a steeper incline. A tingling rush of daring seemed to drive

her over the rounded rim, and, once started down, it was as if she wore

seven-league boots. Fear left her. Only an exhilarating emotion consumed

her. If there were danger, it mattered not. She strode down with giant

steps, she plunged, she started avalanches to ride them until they stopped,

she leaped, and lastly she fell, to roll over the soft cinders to the pit.

There she lay. It seemed a comfortable resting place. The pit was scarcely

six feet across. She gazed upward and was astounded. How steep was the

rounded slope on all sides! There were no sides; it was a circle. She

looked up at a round lake of deep translucent sky. Such depth of blue, such

exquisite rare color! Carley imagined she could gaze through it to the

infinite beyond.

She closed her eyes and rested. Soon the laboring of heart and breath

calmed to normal, so that she could not hear them. Then she lay perfectly

motionless. With eyes shut she seemed still to look, and what she saw was

the sunlight through the blood and flesh of her eyelids. It was red, as

rare a hue as the blue of sky. So piercing did it grow that she had to

shade her eyes with her arm.

Again the strange, rapt glow suffused her body. Never in all her life had

she been so absolutely alone. She might as well have been in her grave. She

might have been dead to all earthy things and reveling in spirit in the

glory of the physical that had escaped her in life. And she abandoned

herself to this influence.

She loved these dry, dusty cinders; she loved the crater here hidden from

all save birds; she loved the desert, the earth-above all, the sun. She was

a product of the earth--a creation of the sun. She had been an

infinitesimal atom of inert something that had quickened to life under the

blazing magic of the sun. Soon her spirit would abandon her body and go on,

while her flesh and bone returned to dust. This frame of hers, that carried

the divine spark, belonged to the earth. She had only been ignorant,

mindless, feelingless, absorbed in the seeking of gain, blind to the truth.

She had to give. She had been created a woman; she belonged to nature; she

was nothing save a mother of the future. She had loved neither Glenn

Kilbourne nor life itself. False education, false standards, false

environment had developed her into a woman who imagined she must feed her

body on the milk and honey of indulgence.

She was abased now--woman as animal, though saved and uplifted by her power

of immortality. Transcendental was her female power to link life with the

future. The power of the plant seed, the power of the earth, the heat of

the sun, the inscrutable creation-spirit of nature, almost the divinity of

God--these were all hers because she was a woman. That was the great

secret, aloof so long. That was what had been wrong with life--the woman

blind to her meaning, her power, her mastery.

So she abandoned herself to the woman within her. She held out her arms to

the blue abyss of heaven as if to embrace the universe. She was Nature. She

kissed the dusty cinders and pressed her breast against the warm slope. Her

heart swelled to bursting with a glorious and unutterable happiness.

That afternoon as the sun was setting under a gold-white scroll of cloud

Carley got back to Deep Lake.

A familiar lounging figure crossed her sight. It approached to where she

had dismounted. Charley, the sheep herder of Oak Creek!

"Howdy!" he drawled, with his queer smile. "So it was you-all who had this

Deep Lake section?"

"Yes. And how are you, Charley?" she replied, shaking hands with him.

"Me? Aw, I'm tip-top. I'm shore glad you got this ranch. Reckon I'll hit

you for a job."

"I'd give it to you. But aren't you working for the Hutters?"

"Nope. Not any more. Me an' Stanton had a row with them."

How droll and dry he was! His lean, olive-brown face, with its guileless

clear eyes and his lanky figure in blue jeans vividly recalled Oak Creek to

Carley.

"Oh, I'm sorry," returned she haltingly, somehow checked in her warm rush

of thought. "Stanton? . . . Did he quit too?"

"Yep. He sure did."

"What was the trouble?"

"Reckon because Flo made up to Kilbourne," replied Charley, with a grin.

"Ah! I--I see," murmured Carley. A blankness seemed to wave over her. It

extended to the air without, to the sense of the golden sunset. It passed.

What should she ask--what out of a thousand sudden flashing queries? "Are--

are the Hutters back?"

"Sure. Been back several days. I reckoned Hoyle told you. Mebbe he didn't

know, though. For nobody's been to town."

"How is--how are they all?" faltered Carley. There was a strange wall here

between her thought and her utterance.

"Everybody satisfied, I reckon," replied Charley.

"Flo--how is she?" burst out Carley.

"Aw, Flo's loony over her husband," drawled Charley, his clear eyes on

Carley's.

"Husband!" she gasped.

"Sure. Flo's gone an' went an' done what I swore on."

"Who?" whispered Carley, and the query was a terrible blade piercing her

heart.

"Now who'd you reckon on?" asked Charley, with his slow grin.

Carley's lips were mute.

"Wal, it was your old beau thet you wouldn't have," returned Charley, as he

gathered up his long frame, evidently to leave. "Kilbourne! He an' Flo came

back from the Tonto all hitched up."

CHAPTER XII

Vague sense of movement, of darkness, and of cold attended Carley's

consciousness for what seemed endless time.

A fall over rocks and a severe thrust from a sharp branch brought an acute

appreciation of her position, if not of her mental state. Night had fallen.

The stars were out. She had stumbled over a low ledge. Evidently she had

wandered around, dazedly and aimlessly, until brought to her senses by

pain. But for a gleam of campfires through the cedars she would have been

lost. It did not matter. She was lost, anyhow. What was it that had

happened?

Charley, the sheep herder! Then the thunderbolt of his words burst upon

her, and she collapsed to the cold stones. She lay quivering from head to

toe. She dug her fingers into the moss and lichen. "Oh, God, to think--

after all--it happened!" she moaned. There had been a rending within her

breast, as of physical violence, from which she now suffered anguish. There

were a thousand stinging nerves. There was a mortal sickness of horror, of

insupportable heartbreaking loss. She could not endure it. She could not

live under it.

She lay there until energy supplanted shock. Then she rose to rush into the

darkest shadows of the cedars, to grope here and there, hanging her head,

wringing her hands, beating her breast. "It can't be true," she cried. "Not

after my struggle--my victory--not now!" But there had been no victory. And

now it was too late. She was betrayed, ruined, lost. That wonderful love

had wrought transformation in her--and now havoc. Once she fell against the

branches of a thick cedar that upheld her. The fragrance which had been

sweet was now bitter. Life that had been bliss was now hateful! She could

not keep still for a single moment.

Black night, cedars, brush, rocks, washes, seemed not to obstruct her. In a

frenzy she rushed on, tearing her dress, her hands, her hair. Violence of

some kind was imperative. All at once a pale gleaming open space,

shimmering under the stars, lay before her. It was water. Deep Lake! And

instantly a hideous terrible longing to destroy herself obsessed her. She

had no fear. She could have welcomed the cold, slimy depths that meant

oblivion. But could they really bring oblivion? A year ago she would have

believed so, and would no longer have endured such agony. She had changed.

A cursed strength had come to her, and it was this strength that now

augmented her torture. She flung wide her arms to the pitiless white stars

and looked up at them. "My hope, my faith, my love have failed me," she

whispered. "They have been a lie. I went through hell for them. And now

I've nothing to live for.... Oh, let me end it all!"

If she prayed to the stars for mercy, it was denied her. Passionlessly they

blazed on. But she could not kill herself. In that hour death would have

been the only relief and peace left to her. Stricken by the cruelty of her

fate, she fell back against the stones and gave up to grief. Nothing was

left but fierce pain. The youth and vitality and intensity of her then

locked arms with anguish and torment and a cheated, unsatisfied love.

Strength of mind and body involuntarily resisted the ravages of this

catastrophe. Will power seemed nothing, but the flesh of her, that medium

of exquisite sensation, so full of life, so prone to joy, refused to

surrender. The part of her that felt fought terribly for its heritage.

All night long Carley lay there. The crescent moon went down, the stars

moved on their course, the coyotes ceased to wail, the wind died away, the

lapping of the waves along the lake shore wore to gentle splash, the

whispering of the insects stopped as the cold of dawn approached. The

darkest hour fell--hour of silence, solitude, and melancholy, when the

desert lay tranced, cold, waiting, mournful without light of moon or stars

or sun.

In the gray dawn Carley dragged her bruised and aching body back to her

tent, and, fastening the door, she threw off wet clothes and boots and fell

upon her bed. Slumber of exhaustion came to her.

When she awoke the tent was light and the moving shadows of cedar boughs on

the white canvas told that the sun was straight above. Carley ached as

never before. A deep pang seemed invested in every bone. Her heart felt

swollen out of proportion to its space in her breast. Her breathing came

slow and it hurt. Her blood was sluggish. Suddenly she shut her eyes. She

loathed the light of day. What was it that had happened?

Then the brutal truth flashed over her again, in aspect new, with all the

old bitterness. For an instant she experienced a suffocating sensation as

if the canvas had sagged under the burden of heavy air and was crushing her

breast and heart. Then wave after wave of emotion swept over her. The storm

winds of grief and passion were loosened again. And she writhed in her

misery.

Some one knocked on her door. The Mexican woman called anxiously. Carley

awoke to the fact that her presence was not solitary on the physical earth,

even if her soul seemed stricken to eternal loneliness. Even in the desert

there was a world to consider. Vanity that had bled to death, pride that

had been crushed, availed her not here. But something else came to her support.

The lesson of the West had been to endure, not to shirk--to face an

issue, not to hide. Carley got up, bathed, dressed, brushed and arranged

her dishevelled hair. The face she saw in the mirror excited her amaze and

pity. Then she went out in answer to the call for dinner. But she could not

eat. The ordinary functions of life appeared to be deadened..

The day happened to be Sunday, and therefore the workmen were absent.

Carley had the place to herself. How the half-completed house mocked her I

She could not bear to look at it. What use could she make of it now? Flo

Hutter had become the working comrade of Glenn Kilbourne, the mistress of

his cabin. She was his wife and she would be the mother of his children.

That thought gave birth to the darkest hour of Carley Burch's life. She

became possessed as by a thousand devils. She became merely a female robbed

of her mate. Reason was not in her, nor charity, nor justice. All that was

abnormal in human nature seemed coalesced in her, dominant, passionate,

savage, terrible. She hated with an incredible and insane ferocity. In the

seclusion of her tent, crouched on her bed, silent, locked, motionless, she

yet was the embodiment of all terrible strife and storm in nature. Her

heart was a maelstrom and would have whirled and sucked down to hell all

the beings that were men. Her soul was a bottomless gulf, filled with the

gales and the fires of jealousy, superhuman to destroy.

That fury consumed all her remaining strength, and from the relapse she

sank to sleep.

Morning brought the inevitable reaction. However long her other struggles,

this monumental and final one would be brief. She realized that, yet was

unable to understand how it could be possible, unless shock or death or

mental aberration ended the fight. An eternity of emotion lay back between

this awakening of intelligence and the hour of her fall into the clutches

of primitive passion.

That morning she faced herself in the mirror and asked, "Now--what do I owe

you?" It was not her voice that answered. It was beyond her. But it said:

"Go on! You are cut adrift. You are alone. You owe none but yourself! . . .

Go on! Not backward--not to the depths--but up--upward!"

She shuddered at such a decree. How impossible for her! All animal, all

woman, all emotion, how could she live on the cold, pure heights? Yet she

owed something intangible and inscrutable to herself. Was it the thing that

woman lacked physically, yet contained hidden in her soul? An element of

eternal spirit to rise! Because of heartbreak and ruin and irreparable loss

must she fall? Was loss of love and husband and children only a test? The

present hour would be swallowed in the sum of life's trials. She could not

go back. She would not go down. There was wrenched from her tried and sore

heart an unalterable and unquenchable decision--to make her own soul prove

the evolution of woman. Vessel of blood and flesh she might be, doomed by

nature to the reproduction of her kind, but she had in her the supreme

spirit and power to carry on the progress of the ages--the climb of woman

out of the darkness.

Carley went out to the workmen. The house should be completed and she would

live in it. Always there was the stretching and illimitable desert to look

at, and the grand heave upward of the mountains. Hoyle was full of zest for

the practical details of the building. He saw nothing of the havoc wrought

in her. Nor did the other workmen glance more than casually at her. In this

Carley lost something of a shirking fear that her loss and grief were

patent to all eyes.

That afternoon she mounted the most spirited of the mustangs she had

purchased from the Indians. To govern him and stick on him required all her

energy. And she rode him hard and far, out across the desert, across mile

after mile of cedar forest, clear to the foothills. She rested there,

absorbed in gazing desertward, and upon turning back again, she ran him

over the level stretches. Wind and branch threshed her seemingly to

ribbons. Violence seemed good for her. A fall had no fear for her now. She

reached camp at dusk, hot as fire, breathless and strengthless. But she had

earned something. Such action required constant use of muscle and mind. If

need be she could drive both to the very furthermost limit. She could ride

and ride--until the future, like the immensity of the desert there, might

swallow her. She changed her clothes and rested a while. The call to supper

found her hungry. In this fact she discovered mockery of her grief. Love

was not the food of life. Exhausted nature's need of rest and sleep was no

respecter of a woman's emotion.

Next day Carley rode northward, wildly and fearlessly, as if this conscious

activity was the initiative of an endless number of rides that were to save

her. As before the foothills called her, and she went on until she came to

a very high one.

Carley dismounted from her panting horse, answering the familiar impulse to

attain heights by her own effort.

"Am I only a weakling?" she asked herself. "Only a creature mined by the

fever of the soul! . . . Thrown from one emotion to another? Never the

same. Yearning, suffering, sacrificing, hoping, and changing--forever the

same! What is it that drives me? A great city with all its attractions has

failed to help me realize my life. So have friends failed. So has the

world. What can solitude and grandeur do? . . . All this obsession of

mine--all this strange feeling for simple elemental earthly things likewise

will fail me. Yet I am driven. They would call me a mad woman."

It took Carley a full hour of slow body-bending labor to climb to the

summit of that hill. High, steep, and rugged, it resisted ascension. But at

last she surmounted it and sat alone on the heights, with naked eyes, and

an unconscious prayer on her lips.

What was it that had happened? Could there be here a different answer from

that which always mocked her?

She had been a girl, not accountable for loss of mother, for choice of home

and education. She had belonged to a class. She had grown to womanhood in

it. She had loved, and in loving had escaped the evil of her day, if not

its taint. She had lived only for herself. Conscience had awakened--but,

alas! too late. She had overthrown the sordid, self-seeking habit of life;

she had awakened to real womanhood; she had fought the insidious spell of

modernity and she had defeated it; she had learned the thrill of taking

root in new soil, the pain and joy of labor, the bliss of solitude, the

promise of home and love and motherhood. But she had gathered all these

marvelous things to her soul too late for happiness.

"Now it is answered," she declared aloud. "That is what has happened? . . .

And all that is past. . . . Is there anything left? If so what?"

She flung her query out to the winds of the desert. But the desert seemed

too gray, too vast, too remote, too aloof, too measureless. It was not

concerned with her little life. Then she turned to the mountain kingdom.

It seemed overpoweringly near at hand. It loomed above her to pierce the

fleecy clouds. It was only a stupendous upheaval of earth-crust, grown over

at the base by leagues and leagues of pine forest, belted along the middle

by vast slanting zigzag slopes of aspen, rent and riven toward the heights

into canyon and gorge, bared above to cliffs and corners of craggy rock,

whitened at the sky-piercing peaks by snow. Its beauty and sublimity were

lost upon Carley now; she was concerned with its travail, its age, its

endurance, its strength. And she studied it with magnified sight.

What incomprehensible subterranean force had swelled those immense slopes

and lifted the huge bulk aloft to the clouds? Cataclysm of nature--the

expanding or shrinking of the earth-vast volcanic action under the surface!

Whatever it had been, it had left its expression of the travail of the

universe. This mountain mass had been hot gas when flung from the parent

sun, and now it was solid granite. What had it endured in the making? What

indeed had been its dimensions before the millions of years of its

struggle?

Eruption, earthquake, avalanche, the attrition of glacier, the erosion of

water, the cracking of frost, the weathering of rain and wind and snow--

these it had eternally fought and resisted in vain, yet still it stood

magnificent, frowning, battle-scarred and undefeated. Its sky-piercing

peaks were as cries for mercy to the Infinite. This old mountain realized

its doom. It had to go, perhaps to make room for a newer and better

kingdom. But it endured because of the spirit of nature. The great notched

circular line of rock below and between the peaks, in the body of the

mountains, showed where in ages past the heart of living granite had blown

out, to let loose on all the near surrounding desert the streams of black

lava and the hills of black cinders. Despite its fringe of green it was

hoary with age. Every looming gray-faced wall, massive and sublime, seemed

a monument of its mastery over time. Every deep-cut canyon, showing the

skeleton ribs, the caverns and caves, its avalanche-carved slides, its

long, fan-shaped, spreading taluses, carried conviction to the spectator

that it was but a frail bit of rock, that its life was little and brief,

that upon it had been laid the merciless curse of nature. Change! Change

must unknit the very knots of the center of the earth. So its strength lay

in the sublimity of its defiance. It meant to endure to the last rolling

grain of sand. It was a dead mountain of rock, without spirit, yet it

taught a grand lesson to the seeing eye.

Life was only a part, perhaps an infinitely small part of nature's plan.

Death and decay were just as important to her inscrutable design. The uni-

verse had not been created for life, ease, pleasure, and happiness of a man

creature developed from lower organisms. If nature's secret was the

developing of a spirit through all time, Carley divined that she had it

within her. So the present meant little.

"I have no right to be unhappy," concluded Carley. "I had no right to Glenn

Kilbourne. I failed him. In that I failed myself. Neither life nor nature

failed me--nor love. It is no longer a mystery. Unhappiness is only a

change. Happiness itself is only change. So what does it matter? The great

thing is to see life--to understand--to feel--to work--to fight--to endure.

It is not my fault I am here. But it is my fault if I leave this strange

old earth the poorer for my failure. . . . I will no longer be little. I

will find strength. I will endure. . . . I still have eyes, ears, nose,

taste. I can feel the sun, the wind, the nip of frost. Must I slink like a

craven because I've lost the love of one man? Must I hate Flo Hutter

because she will make Glenn happy? Never! ... All of this seems better so,

because through it I am changed. I might have lived on, a selfish clod!"

Carley turned from the mountain kingdom and faced her future with the

profound and sad and far-seeing look that had come with her lesson. She

knew what to give. Sometime and somewhere there would be recompense. She

would hide her wound in the faith that time would heat it. And the ordeal

she set herself, to prove her sincerity and strength, was to ride down to

Oak Creek Canyon.

Carley did not wait many days. Strange how the old vanity held her back

until something of the havoc in her face should be gone!

One morning she set out early, riding her best horse, and she took a sheep

trail across country. The distance by road was much farther. The June

morning was cool, sparkling, fragrant. Mocking birds sang from the topmost

twig of cedars; doves cooed in the pines; sparrow hawks sailed low over the

open grassy patches. Desert primroses showed their rounded pink clusters in

sunny places, and here and there burned the carmine of Indian paint-brush.

Jack rabbits and cotton-tails bounded and scampered away through the sage.

The desert had life and color and movement this June day. And as always

there was the dry fragrance on the air.

Her mustang had been inured to long and consistent travel over the desert.

Her weight was nothing to him and he kept to the swinging lope for miles.

As she approached Oak Creek Canyon, however, she drew him to a trot, and

then a walk. Sight of the deep red-walled and green-floored canyon was a

shock to her.

The trail came out on the road that led to Ryan's sheep camp, at a point

several miles west of the cabin where Carley had encountered Haze Ruff. She

remembered the curves and stretches, and especially the steep jump-off

where the road led down off the rim into the canyon. Here she dismounted

and walked. From the foot of this descent she knew every rod of the way

would be familiar to her, and, womanlike, she wanted to turn away and fly

from them. But she kept on and mounted again at level ground.

The murmur of the creek suddenly assailed her ears--sweet, sad, memorable,

strangely powerful to hurt. Yet the sound seemed of long ago. Down here

summer had advanced. Rich thick foliage overspread the winding road of

sand. Then out of the shade she passed into the sunnier regions of isolated

pines. Along here she had raced Calico with Glenn's bay; and here she had

caught him, and there was the place she had fallen. She halted a moment

under the pine tree where Glenn had held her in his arms. Tears dimmed her

eyes. If only she had known then the truth, the reality! But regrets were

useless.

By and by a craggy red wall loomed above the trees, and its pipe-organ

conformation was familiar to Carley. She left the road and turned to go

down to the creek. Sycamores and maples and great bowlders, and mossy

ledges overhanging the water, and a huge sentinel pine marked the spot

where she and Glenn had eaten their lunch that last day. Her mustang

splashed into the clear water and halted to drink. Beyond, through the

trees, Carley saw the sunny red-earthed clearing that was Glenn's farm. She

looked, and fought herself, and bit her quivering lip until she tasted

blood. Then she rode out into the open.

The whole west side of the canyon had been cleared and cultivated and

plowed. But she gazed no farther. She did not want to see the spot where

she had given Glenn his ring and had parted from him. She rode on. If she

could pass West Fork she believed her courage would rise to the completion

of this ordeal. Places were what she feared. Places that she had loved

while blindly believing she hated! There the narrow gap of green and blue

split the looming red wall. She was looking into West Fork. Up there stood

the cabin. How fierce a pang rent her breast! She faltered at the crossing

of the branch stream, and almost surrendered. The water murmured, the

leaves rustled, the bees hummed, the birds sang--all with some sad

sweetness that seemed of the past.

Then the trail leading up West Fork was like a barrier. She saw horse

tracks in it. Next she descried boot tracks the shape of which was so

well-remembered that it shook her heart. There were fresh tracks in the

sand, pointing in the direction of the Lodge. Ah! that was where Glenn

lived now. Carley strained at her will to keep it fighting her memory. The

glory and the dream were gone!

A touch of spur urged her mustang into a gallop. The splashing ford of the

creek--the still, eddying pool beyond--the green orchards--the white lacy

waterfall--and Lolomi Lodge!

Nothing had altered. But Carley seemed returning after many years. Slowly

she dismounted--slowly she climbed the porch steps. Was there no one at

home? Yet the vacant doorway, the silence--something attested to the

knowledge of Carley's presence. Then suddenly Mrs. Hutter fluttered out

with Flo behind her.

"You dear girl--I'm so glad!" cried Mrs. Hutter, her voice trembling.

"I'm glad to see you, too," said Carley, bending to receive Mrs. Hutter's

embrace. Carley saw dim eyes--the stress of agitation, but no surprise.

"Oh, Carley!" burst out the Western girl, with voice rich and full, yet tremulous.

"Flo, I've come to wish you happiness," replied Carley, very low.

Was it the same Flo? This seemed more of a woman--strange now--white and

strained--beautiful, eager, questioning. A cry of gladness burst from her.

Carley felt herself enveloped in strong close clasp-and then a warm, quick

kiss of joy, It shocked her, yet somehow thrilled. Sure was the welcome

here. Sure was the strained situation, also, but the voice rang too glad a

note for Carley. It touched her deeply, yet she could not understand. She

had not measured the depth of Western friendship.

"Have you--seen Glenn?" queried Flo, breathlessly.

"Oh no, indeed not," replied Carley, slowly gaining composure. The nervous

agitation of these women had stilled her own. "I just rode up the trail.

Where is he?"

"He was here--a moment ago," panted Flo. "Oh, Carley, we sure are locoed.

. . . Why, we only heard an hour ago--that you were at Deep Lake. . . .

Charley rode in. He told us. . . . I thought my heart would break. Poor

Glenn! When he heard it. . . . But never mind me. Jump your horse and run

to West Fork!"

The spirit of her was like the strength of her arms as she hurried Carley

across the porch and shoved her down the steps.

"Climb on and run, Carley," cried Flo. "If you only knew how glad he'll be

that you came!"

Carley leaped into the saddle and wheeled the mustang. But she had no

answer for the girl's singular, almost wild exultance. Then like a shot the

spirited mustang was off down the lane. Carley wondered with swelling

heart. Was her coming such a wondrous surprise--so unexpected and big in

generosity--something that would make Kilbourne as glad as it had seemed to

make Flo? Carley thrilled to this assurance.

Down the lane she flew. The red walls blurred and the sweet wind whipped

her face. At the trail she swerved the mustang, but did not check his gait.

Under the great pines he sped and round the bulging wall. At the rocky

incline leading to the creek she pulled the fiery animal to a trot. How low

and clear the water! As Carley forded it fresh cool drops splashed into her

face. Again she spurred her mount and again trees and walls rushed by. Up

and down the yellow bits of trail--on over the brown mats of pine needles

--until there in the sunlight shone the little gray log cabin with a tall

form standing in the door. One instant the canyon tilted on end for Carley

and she was riding into the blue sky. Then some magic of soul sustained

her, so that she saw clearly. Reaching the cabin she reined in her mustang.

"Hello, Glenn! Look who's here!" she cried, not wholly failing of gayety.

He threw up his sombrero.

"Whoopee!" he yelled, in stentorian voice that rolled across the canyon and

bellowed in hollow echo and then clapped from wall to wall. The unexpected

Western yell, so strange from Glenn, disconcerted Carley. Had he only

answered her spirit of greeting? Had hers rung false?

But he was coming to her. She had seen the bronze of his face turn to

white. How gaunt and worn he looked. Older he appeared, with deeper lines

and whiter hair. His jaw quivered.

"Carley Burch, so it was you?" he queried, hoarsely.

"Glenn, I reckon it was," she replied. "I bought your Deep Lake ranch site.

I came back too late . . . . But it is never too late for some things. . .

. I've come to wish you and Flo all the happiness in the world--and to say

we must be friends."

The way he looked at her made her tremble. He strode up beside the mustang,

and he was so tall that his shoulder came abreast of her. He placed a big

warm hand on hers, as it rested, ungloved, on the pommel of the saddle.

"Have you seen Flo?" he asked.

"I just left her. It was funny--the way she rushed me off after you. As if

there weren't two--"

Was it Glenn's eyes or the movement of his hand that checked her utterance?

His gaze pierced her soul. His hand slid along her arm to her waist--around

it. Her heart seemed to burst.

"Kick your feet out of the stirrups," he ordered.

Instinctively she obeyed. Then with a strong pull he hauled her half out of

the saddle, pellmell into his arms. Carley had no resistance. She sank

limp, in an agony of amaze. Was this a dream? Swift and hard his lips met

hers--and again--and again. . . .

"Oh, my God!--Glenn, are--you--mad?" she whispered, almost swooning.

"Sure--I reckon I am," he replied, huskily, and pulled her all the way out

of the saddle.

Carley would have fallen but for his support. She could not think. She was

all instinct. Only the amaze--the sudden horror--drifted--faded as before

fires of her heart!

"Kiss me!" he commanded.

She would have kissed him if death were the penalty. How his face blurred

in her dimmed sight! Was that a strange smile? Then he held her back from

him.

"Carley--you came to wish Flo and me happiness?" he asked.

"Oh, yes--yes. . . . Pity me, Glenn--let me go. I meant well. . . . I

should--never have come."

"Do you love me?" he went on, with passionate, shaking clasp.

"God help me--I do--I do! . . . And now it will kill me!"

"What did that damned fool Charley tell you?"

The strange content of his query, the trenchant force of it, brought her

upright, with sight suddenly cleared. Was this giant the tragic Glenn who

had strode to her from the cabin door?

"Charley told me--you and Flo--were married," she whispered.

"You didn't believe him!" returned Glenn.

She could no longer speak. She could only see her lover, as if

transfigured, limned dark against the looming red wall.

"That was one of Charley's queer jokes. I told you to beware of him. Flo is

married, yes--and very happy. . . . I'm unutterably happy, too--but I'm not

married. Lee Stanton was the lucky bridegroom. . . . Carley, the moment I

saw you I knew you had come back to me."

End of The Project Gutenberg Etext The Call of the Canyon, by Zane Grey