The Call of the Canyon - Zane Grey (best ereader for pdf txt) 📗
- Author: Zane Grey
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“Happier! Why Glenn, I’d be miserable! … But listen. It wasn’t my beautiful and useless hand I wanted you to see. It was my engagement ring.”
“Oh!—Well?” he went on, slowly.
“I’ve never had it off since you left New York,” she said, softly. “You gave it to me four years ago. Do you remember? It was on my twenty-second birthday. You said it would take two months’ salary to pay the bill.”
“It sure did,” he retorted, with a hint of humor.
“Glenn, during the war it was not so—so very hard to wear this ring as an engagement ring should be worn,” said Carley, growing more earnest. “But after the war—especially after your departure West it was terribly hard to be true to the significance of this betrothal ring. There was a let-down in all women. Oh, no one need tell me! There was. And men were affected by that and the chaotic condition of the times. New York was wild during the year of your absence. Prohibition was a joke.—Well, I gadded, danced, dressed, drank, smoked, motored, just the same as the other women in our crowd. Something drove me to. I never rested. Excitement seemed to be happiness—Glenn, I am not making any plea to excuse all that. But I want you to know—how under trying circumstances—I was absolutely true to you. Understand me. I mean true as regards love. Through it all I loved you just the same. And now I’m with you, it seems, oh, so much more! … Your last letter hurt me. I don’t know just how. But I came West to see you—to tell you this—and to ask you… . Do you want this ring back?”
“Certainly not,” he replied, forcibly, with a dark flush spreading over his face.
“Then—you love me?” she whispered.
“Yes—I love you,” he returned, deliberately. “And in spite of all you say—very probably more than you love me… . But you, like all women, make love and its expression the sole object of life. Carley, I have been concerned with keeping my body from the grave and my soul from hell.”
“But—clear—you’re well now?” she returned, with trembling lips.
“Yes, I’ve almost pulled out.”
“Then what is wrong?”
“Wrong?—With me or you,” he queried, with keen, enigmatical glance upon her.
“What is wrong between us? There is something.”
“Carley, a man who has been on the verge—as I have been—seldom or never comes back to happiness. But perhaps—”
“You frighten me,” cried Carley, and, rising, she sat upon the arm of his chair and encircled his neck with her arms. “How can I help if I do not understand? Am I so miserably little? … Glenn, must I tell you? No woman can live without love. I need to be loved. That’s all that’s wrong with me.”
“Carley, you are still an imperious, mushy girl,” replied Glenn, taking her into his arms. “I need to be loved, too. But that’s not what is wrong with me. You’ll have to find it out yourself.”
“You’re a dear old Sphinx,” she retorted.
“Listen, Carley,” he said, earnestly. “About this love-making stuff. Please don’t misunderstand me. I love you. I’m starved for your kisses. But—is it right to ask them?”
“Right! Aren’t we engaged? And don’t I want to give them?”
“If I were only sure we’d be married!” he said, in low, tense voice, as if speaking more to himself.
“Married!” cried Carley, convulsively clasping him. “Of course we’ll be married. Glenn, you wouldn’t jilt me?”
“Carley, what I mean is that you might never really marry me,” he answered, seriously.
“Oh, if that’s all you need be sure of, Glenn Kilbourne, you may begin to make love to me now.”
It was late when Carley went up to her room. And she was in such a softened mood, so happy and excited and yet disturbed in mind, that the coldness and the darkness did not matter in the least. She undressed in pitchy blackness, stumbling over chair and bed, feeling for what she needed. And in her mood this unusual proceeding was fun. When ready for bed she opened the door to take a peep out. Through the dense blackness the waterfall showed dimly opaque. Carley felt a soft mist wet her face. The low roar of the falling water seemed to envelop her. Under the cliff wall brooded impenetrable gloom. But out above the treetops shone great stars, wonderfully white and radiant and cold, with a piercing contrast to the deep clear blue of sky. The waterfall hummed into an absolutely dead silence. It emphasized the silence. Not only cold was it that made Carley shudder. How lonely, how lost, how hidden this canyon!
Then she hurried to bed, grateful for the warm woolly blankets. Relaxation and thought brought consciousness of the heat of her blood, the beat and throb and swell of her heart, of the tumult within her. In the lonely darkness of her room she might have faced the truth of her strangely renewed and augmented love for Glenn Kilbourne. But she was more concerned with her happiness. She had won him back. Her presence, her love had overcome his restraint. She thrilled in the sweet consciousness of her woman’s conquest. How splendid he was! To hold back physical tenderness, the simple expressions of love, because he had feared they might unduly influence her! He had grown in many ways. She must be careful to reach up to his ideals. That about Flo Hutter’s toil-hardened hands! Was that significance somehow connected with the rift in the lute? For Carley admitted to herself that there was something amiss, something incomprehensible, something intangible that obtruded its menace into her dream of future happiness. Still, what had she to fear, so long as she could be with Glenn?
And yet there were forced upon her, insistent and perplexing, the questions—was her love selfish? was she considering him? was she blind to something he could see? Tomorrow and next day and the days to come held promise of joyous companionship with Glenn, yet likewise they seemed full of a portent of trouble for her, or fight and ordeal, of lessons that would make life significant for her.
Carley was awakened by rattling sounds in her room. The raising of sleepy eyelids disclosed Flo on her knees before the little stove, ill the act of lighting a fire.
“Mawnin’, Carley,” she drawled. “It’s shore cold. Reckon it’ll snow today, worse luck, just because you’re here. Take my hunch and stay in bed till the fire burns up.”
“I shall do no such thing,” declared Carley, heroically.
“We’re afraid you’ll take cold,” said Flo. “This is desert country with high altitude. Spring is here when the sun shines. But it’s only shinin’ in streaks these days. That means winter, really. Please be good.”
“Well, it doesn’t require much self-denial to stay here awhile longer,” replied Carley, lazily.
Flo left with a parting admonition not to let the stove get red-hot. And Carley lay snuggled in the warm blankets, dreading the ordeal of getting out into that cold bare room. Her nose was cold. When her nose grew cold, it being a faithful barometer as to temperature, Carley knew there was frost in the air. She preferred summer. Steam-heated rooms with hothouse flowers lending their perfume had certainly not trained Carley for primitive conditions. She had a spirit, however, that was waxing a little rebellious to all this intimation as to her susceptibility to colds and her probable weakness under privation. Carley got up. Her bare feet landed upon the board floor instead of the Navajo rug, and she thought she had encountered cold stone. Stove and hot water notwithstanding, by the time she was half dressed she was also half frozen. “Some actor fellow once said w-when you w-went West you were c-camping out,” chattered Carley. “Believe me, he said something.”
The fact was Carley had never camped out. Her set played golf, rode horseback, motored and house-boated, but they had never gone in for uncomfortable trips. The camps and hotels in the Adirondacks were as warm and luxurious as Carley’s own home. Carley now missed many things. And assuredly her flesh was weak. It cost her effort of will and real pain to finish lacing her boots. As she had made an engagement with Glenn to visit his cabin, she had donned an outdoor suit. She wondered if the cold had anything to do with the perceptible diminishing of the sound of the waterfall. Perhaps some of the water had frozen, like her fingers.
Carley went downstairs to the living room, and made no effort to resist a rush to the open fire. Flo and her mother were amused at Carley’s impetuosity. “You’ll like that stingin’ of the air after you get used to it,” said Mrs. Hutter. Carley had her doubts. When she was thoroughly thawed out she discovered an appetite quite unusual for her, and she enjoyed her breakfast. Then it was time to sally forth to meet Glenn.
“It’s pretty sharp this mawnin’,” said Flo. “You’ll need gloves and sweater.”
Having fortified herself with these, Carley asked how to find West Fork Canyon.
“It’s down the road a little way,” replied Flo. “A great narrow canyon opening on the right side. You can’t miss it.”
Flo accompanied her as far as the porch steps. A queer-looking individual was slouching along with ax over his shoulder.
“There’s Charley,” said Flo. “He’ll show you.” Then she whispered: “He’s sort of dotty sometimes. A horse kicked him once. But mostly he’s sensible.”
At Flo’s call the fellow halted with a grin. He was long, lean, loose jointed, dressed in blue overalls stuck into the tops of muddy boots, and his face was clear olive without beard or line. His brow bulged a little, and from under it peered out a pair of wistful brown eyes that reminded Carley of those of a dog she had once owned.
“Wal, it ain’t a-goin’ to be a nice day,” remarked Charley, as he tried to accommodate his strides to Carley’s steps.
“How can you tell?” asked Carley. “It looks clear and bright.”
“Naw, this is a dark mawnin’. Thet’s a cloudy sun. We’ll hev snow on an’ off.”
“Do you mind bad weather?”
“Me? All the same to me. Reckon, though, I like it cold so I can loaf round a big fire at night.”
“I like a big fire, too.”
“Ever camped out?” he asked.
“Not what you’d call the real thing,” replied Carley.
“Wal, thet’s too bad. Reckon it’ll be tough fer you,” he went on, kindly. “There was a gurl tenderfoot heah two years ago an’ she had a hell of a time. They all joked her, ‘cept me, an’ played tricks on her. An’ on her side she was always puttin’ her foot in it. I was shore sorry fer her.”
“You were very kind to be an exception,” murmured Carley.
“You look out fer Tom Hutter, an’ I reckon Flo ain’t so darn above layin’ traps fer you. ‘Specially as she’s sweet on your beau. I seen them together a lot.”
“Yes?” interrogated Carley, encouragingly.
“Kilbourne is the best fellar thet ever happened along Oak Creek. I helped him build his cabin. We’ve hunted some together. Did you ever hunt?”
“No.”
“Wal, you’ve shore missed a lot of fun,” he said. “Turkey huntin’. Thet’s what fetches the gurls. I reckon because turkeys are so good to eat. The old gobblers hev begun to gobble now. I’ll take you gobbler huntin’ if you’d like to go.”
“I’m sure I would.”
“There’s good trout fishin’ along heah a little later,” he said, pointing to the stream. “Crick’s too high now. I like West Fork best. I’ve ketched some lammin’ big ones up there.”
Carley was amused and interested. She could not say that Charley had shown any indication
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