The Call of the Canyon

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.