"Carley," called Flo, "come--looksee, as the Indians say. Here is

Glenn's Painted Desert, and I reckon it's shore worth seeing."

To Carley's surprise, she found herself upon the knob of the foothill.

And when she looked out across a suddenly distinguishable void she

seemed struck by the immensity of something she was unable to grasp. She

dropped her bridle; she gazed slowly, as if drawn, hearing Flo's voice.

"That thin green line of cottonwoods down there is the Little Colorado

River," Flo was saying. "Reckon it's sixty miles, all down hill. The

Painted Desert begins there and also the Navajo Reservation. You see the

white strips, the red veins, the yellow bars, the black lines. They are

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all desert steps leading up and up for miles. That sharp black peak

is called Wildcat. It's about a hundred miles. You see the desert

stretching away to the right, growing dim--lost in distance? We don't

know that country. But that north country we know as landmarks, anyway.

Look at that saw-tooth range. The Indians call it Echo Cliffs. At

the far end it drops off into the Colorado River. Lee's Ferry is

there--about one hundred and sixty miles. That ragged black rent is the

Grand Canyon. Looks like a thread, doesn't it? But Carley, it's some

hole, believe me. Away to the left you see the tremendous wall rising

and turning to come this way. That's the north wall of the Canyon. It

ends at the great bluff--Greenland Point. See the black fringe above the

bar of gold. That's a belt of pine trees. It's about eighty miles across

this ragged old stone washboard of a desert. ... 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'."




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