"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
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'."