The Call of the Canyon by Zane Grey (top romance novels TXT) 📕

“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.