...Now turn and look straight and strain your sight over Wildcat.See the rim purple dome.You must look hard.I'm glad it's clear and the sun is shining.We don't often get this view....That purple dome is Navajo Mountain, two hundred miles and more away!"Carley yielded to some strange drawing power and slowly walked forward until she stood at the extreme edge of the summit.
What was it that confounded her sight? Desert slope--down and down--color--distance--space! The wind that blew in her face seemed to have the openness of the whole world back of it.Cold, sweet, dry, exhilarating, it breathed of untainted vastness.Carley's memory pictures of the Adirondacks faded into pastorals; her vaunted images of European scenery changed to operetta settings.She had nothing with which to compare this illimitable space.
"Oh!--America!" was her unconscious tribute.
Stanton and Flo had come on to places beside her.The young man laughed.
"Wal, now Miss Carley, you couldn't say more.When I was in camp trainin'
for service overseas I used to remember how this looked.An' it seemed one of the things I was goin' to fight for.Reckon I didn't the idea of the Germans havin' my Painted Desert.I didn't get across to fight for it, but I shore was willin'.""You see, Carley, this is our America," said Flo, softly.
Carley had never understood the meaning of the word.The immensity of the West seemed flung at her.What her vision beheld, so far-reaching and boundless, was only a dot on the map.
"Does any one live--out there?" she asked, with slow sweep of hand.
"A few white traders and some Indian tribes," replied Stanton."But you can ride all day an' next day an' never see a livin' soul."What was the meaning of the gratification in his voice? Did Westerners court loneliness? Carley wrenched her gaze from the desert void to look at her companions.Stanton's eyes were narrowed; his expression had changed;lean and hard and still, his face resembled bronze.The careless humor was gone, as was the heated flush of his quarrel with Flo.The girl, too, had subtly changed, had responded to an influence that had subdued and softened her.She was mute; her eyes held a light, comprehensive and all-embracing;she was beautiful then.For Carley, quick to read emotion, caught a glimpse of a strong, steadfast soul that spiritualized the brown freckled face.
Carley wheeled to gaze out and down into this incomprehensible abyss, and on to the far up-flung heights, white and red and yellow, and so on to the wonderful mystic haze of distance.The significance of Flo's designation of miles could not be grasped by Carley.She could not estimate distance.But she did not need that to realize her perceptions were swallowed up by magnitude.Hitherto the power of her eyes had been unknown.How splendid to see afar! She could see--yes--but what did she see? Space first, annihilating space, dwarfing her preconceived images, and then wondrous colors! What had she known of color? No wonder artists failed adequately and truly to paint mountains, let alone the desert space.The toiling millions of the crowded cities were ignorant of this terrible beauty and sublimity.Would it have helped them to see? But just to breathe that untainted air, just to see once the boundless open of colored sand and rock--to realize what the freedom of eagles meant would not that have helped anyone?
And with the thought there came to Carley's quickened and struggling mind a conception of freedom.She had not yet watched eagles, but she now gazed out into their domain.What then must be the effect of such environment on people whom it encompassed? The idea stunned Carley.Would such people grow in proportion to the nature with which they were in conflict? Hereditary influence could not be comparable to such environment in the shaping of character.
"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.
