The Call of the Canyon - Zane Grey (best ereader for pdf txt) 📗

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