The Call of the Canyon

"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."