The Call of the Canyon

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"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 fail 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 failing. 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.

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