Carley was awakened by rattling sounds in her room. The raising of
sleepy eyelids disclosed Flo on her knees before the little stove, in
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 of his mental peculiarity to her. It took
considerable restraint not to lead him to talk more about Flo and
Glenn. Presently they reached the turn in the road, opposite the
cottage Carley had noticed yesterday, and here her loquacious escort
halted.
“You take the trail heah,” he said, pointing it out, “an’ foller it
into West Fork. So long, an’ don’t forget we’re goin’ huntin’ turkeys.”
Carley smiled her thanks, and, taking to the trail, she stepped out
briskly, now giving attention to her surroundings. The canyon had
widened, and the creek with its deep thicket of green and white had
sheered to the left. On her right the canyon wall appeared to be
lifting higher—and higher. She could not see it well, owing to
intervening treetops. The trail led her through a grove of maples and
sycamores, out into an open park-like bench that turned to the right
toward the cliff. Suddenly Carley saw a break in the red wall. It was
the intersecting canyon, West Fork. What a narrow red-walled gateway!
Huge pine trees spread wide gnarled branches over her head. The wind
made soft rush in their tops, sending the brown needles lightly on the
air. Carley turned the bulging corner, to be halted by a magnificent
spectacle. It seemed a mountain wall loomed over her. It was the
western side of this canyon, so lofty that Carley had to tip back her
head to see the top. She swept her astonished gaze down the face of
this tremendous red mountain wall and then slowly swept it upward
again. This phenomenon of a cliff seemed beyond the comprehension of
her sight. It looked a mile high. The few trees along its bold rampart
resembled short spear-pointed bushes outlined against the steel gray of
sky. Ledges, caves, seams, cracks, fissures, beetling red brows, yellow
crumbling crags, benches of green growths and niches choked with brush,
and bold points where single lonely pine trees grew perilously, and
blank walls a thousand feet across their shadowed faces—these features
gradually took shape in Carley’s confused sight, until the colossal
mountain front stood up before her in all its strange, wild,
magnificent ruggedness and beauty.
“Arizona! Perhaps this is what he meant,” murmured Carley. “I never
dreamed of anything like this.... But, oh! it overshadows me—bears me
down! I could never have a moment’s peace under it.”
It fascinated her. There were inaccessible ledges that haunted her with
their remote fastnesses. How wonderful would it be to get there, rest
there, if that were possible! But only eagles could reach them. There
were places, then, that the desecrating hands of man could not touch.
The dark caves were mystically potent in their vacant staring out at
the world beneath them. The crumbling crags, the toppling ledges, the
leaning rocks all threatened to come thundering down at the breath of
wind. How deep and soft the red color in contrast with the green! How
splendid the sheer bold uplift of gigantic steps! Carley found herself
marveling at the forces that had so rudely, violently, and grandly left
this monument to nature.
“Well, old Fifth Avenue gadder!” called a gay voice. “If the back wall
of my yard so halts you—what will you ever do when you see the Painted
Desert, or climb Sunset Peak, or look down into the Grand Canyon?”
“Oh, Glenn, where are you?” cried Carley, gazing everywhere near at
hand. But he was farther away. The clearness of his voice had deceived
her. Presently she espied him a little distance away, across a creek
she had not before noticed.
“Come on,” he called. “I want to see you cross the stepping stones.”
Carley ran ahead, down a little slope of clean red rock, to the shore
of the green water. It was clear, swift, deep in some places and
shallow in others, with white wreathes or ripples around the rocks
evidently placed there as a means to cross. Carley drew back aghast.
“Glenn, I could never make it,” she called.
“Come on, my Alpine climber,” he taunted. “Will you let Arizona daunt
you?”
“Do you want me to fall in and catch cold?” she cried, desperately.
“Carley, big women might even cross the bad places of modern life on
stepping stones of their dead selves!” he went on, with something of
mockery. “Surely a few physical steps are not beyond you.”
“Say, are you mangling _Tennyson_ or just kidding me?” she demanded
slangily.
“My love, Flo could cross here with her eyes shut.”
That thrust spurred Carley to action. His words were jest, yet they
held a hint of earnest. With her heart at her throat Carley stepped on
the first rock, and, poising, she calculated on a running leap from
stone to stone. Once launched, she felt she was falling downhill. She
swayed, she splashed, she slipped; and clearing the longest leap from
the last stone to shore she lost her balance and fell into Glenn’s
arms. His kisses drove away both her panic and her resentment.
“By Jove! I didn’t think you’d even attempt it!” he declared,
manifestly pleased. “I made sure I’d have to pack you over—in fact,
rather liked the idea.”
“I wouldn’t advise you to employ any such means again—to dare me,” she
retorted.
“That’s a nifty outdoor suit you’ve on,” he said, admiringly. “I was
wondering what you’d wear. I like short outing skirts for women, rather
than trousers. The service sort of made the fair sex dippy about
pants.”
“It made them dippy about more than that,” she replied. “You and I will
never live to see the day that women recover their balance.”
“I agree with you,” replied Glenn.
Carley locked her arm in his. “Honey, I want to have a good time today.
Cut out all the _other_ women stuff.... Take me to see your little gray
home in the West. Or is it gray?”
He laughed. “Why, yes, it’s gray, just about. The logs have bleached
some.”
Glenn led her away up a trail that climbed between bowlders, and
meandered on over piny mats of needles under great, silent, spreading
pines; and closer to the impondering mountain wall, where at the base
of the red rock the creek murmured strangely with hollow gurgle, where
the sun had no chance to affect the cold damp gloom; and on through
sweet-smelling woods, out into the sunlight again, and across a wider
breadth of stream; and up a slow slope covered with stately pines, to a
little cabin that faced the west.
“Here we are, sweetheart,” said Glenn. “Now we shall see what you are
made of.”
Carley was non-committal as to that. Her intense interest precluded any
humor at this moment. Not until she actually saw the log cabin Glenn
had erected with his own hands had she been conscious of any great
interest. But sight of it awoke something unaccustomed in Carley. As
she stepped into the cabin her heart was not acting normally for a
young woman who had no illusions about love in a cottage.
Glenn’s cabin contained one room about fifteen feet wide by twenty
long. Between the peeled logs were lines of red mud, hard dried. There
was a small window opposite the door. In one corner was a couch of
poles, with green tips of pine boughs peeping from under the blankets.
The floor consisted of flat rocks laid irregularly, with many spaces of
earth showing between. The open fireplace appeared too large for the
room, but the very bigness of it, as well as the blazing sticks and
glowing embers, appealed strongly to Carley. A rough-hewn log formed
the mantel, and on it Carley’s picture held the place of honor. Above
this a rifle lay across deer antlers. Carley paused here in her survey
long enough to kiss Glenn and point to her photograph.
“You couldn’t have pleased me more.”
To the left of the fireplace was a rude cupboard of shelves, packed
with boxes, cans, bags, and utensils. Below the cupboard, hung upon
pegs, were blackened pots and pans, a long-handled skillet, and a
bucket. Glenn’s table was a masterpiece. There was no danger of
knocking it over. It consisted of four poles driven into the ground,
upon which had been nailed two wide slabs. This table showed
considerable evidence of having been scrubbed scrupulously clean. There
were two low stools, made out of boughs, and the seats had been covered
with woolly sheep hide. In the right-hand corner stood a neat pile of
firewood, cut with an ax, and beyond this hung saddle and saddle
blanket, bridle and spurs. An old sombrero was hooked upon the pommel
of the saddle. Upon the wall, higher up, hung a lantern, resting in a
coil of rope that Carley took to be a lasso. Under a shelf upon which
lay a suitcase hung some rough wearing apparel.
Carley noted that her picture and the suit case were absolutely the
only physical evidences of Glenn’s connection with his Eastern life.
That had an unaccountable effect upon Carley. What had she expected?
Then, after another survey of the room, she began to pester Glenn with
questions. He had to show her the spring outside and the little bench
with basin and soap. Sight of his soiled towel made her throw up her
hands. She sat on the stools. She lay on the couch. She rummaged into
the contents of the cupboard. She threw wood on the fire. Then,
finally, having exhausted her search and inquiry, she flopped down on
one of the stools to gaze at Glenn in awe and admiration and
incredulity.
“Glenn—you’ve actually lived here!” she ejaculated.
“Since last fall before the snow came,” he said, smiling.
“Snow! Did it snow?” she inquired.
“Well, I guess. I was snowed in for a week.”
“Why did you choose this lonely place—way off from the Lodge?” she
asked, slowly.
“I wanted to be by myself,” he replied, briefly.
“You mean this is a sort of camp-out place?”
“Carley, I call it my home,” he replied, and there was a low, strong
sweetness in his voice she had never heard before.
That silenced her for a while. She went to the door and gazed up at the
towering wall, more wonderful than ever, and more fearful, too, in her
sight. Presently tears dimmed her eyes. She did not understand her
feeling; she was ashamed of it; she hid it from Glenn. Indeed, there
was something terribly wrong between her and Glenn, and it was not in
him. This cabin he called home gave her a shock which would take time
to analyze. At length she turned to him with gay utterance upon her
lips. She tried to put out of her mind a dawning sense that this
close-to-the-earth habitation, this primitive dwelling, held strange
inscrutable power over a self she had never divined she possessed. The
very stones in the hearth seemed to call out from some remote past, and
the strong sweet smell of burnt wood thrilled to the marrow of her
bones. How little she knew of herself! But she had intelligence enough
to understand that there was a woman in her, the female of the species;
and through that the sensations from logs and stones and earth and fire
had strange power to call up the emotions handed down to her from the
ages. The thrill, the queer heartbeat, the vague, haunting memory of
something, as of a dim childhood adventure, the strange prickling sense
of dread—these abided with her and augmented while she tried to show
Glenn her pride in him and also how funny his cabin seemed to her.
Once or twice he hesitatingly, and somewhat appealingly, she imagined,
tried to broach the subject of his work there in the West. But Carley
wanted a little while with him free of disagreeable argument. It was a
foregone conclusion that she would not like his work. Her intention at
first had been to begin at once to use all persuasion in her power
toward having him go back East with her, or at the latest some time
this year. But the rude log cabin had checked her impulse. She felt
that haste would be unwise.
“Glenn Kilbourne, I told you why I came West to see you,” she said,
spiritedly. “Well, since you still swear allegiance to your girl from
the East, you might entertain her a little bit before getting down to
business talk.”
“All right, Carley,” he replied, laughing. “What do you want to do? The
day is at your disposal. I wish it were June. Then if you didn’t fall
in love with West Fork you’d be no good.”
“Glenn, I love people, not places,” she returned.
“So I remember. And that’s one thing I don’t like. But let’s not
quarrel. What’ll we do?”
“Suppose you tramp with me all around, until I’m good and hungry. Then
we’ll come back here—and you can cook dinner for me.”
“Fine! Oh, I know you’re just bursting with curiosity to see how I’ll
do it. Well, you may be surprised, miss.”
“Let’s go,” she urged.
“Shall I take my gun or fishing rod?”
“You shall take nothing but _me_,” retorted Carley. “What chance has a
girl with a man, if he can hunt or fish?”
So they went out hand in hand. Half of the belt of sky above was
obscured by swiftly moving gray clouds. The other half was blue and was
being slowly encroached upon by the dark storm-like pall. How cold the
air! Carley had already learned that when the sun was hidden the
atmosphere was cold. Glenn led her down a trail to the brook, where he
calmly picked her up in his arms, quite easily, it appeared, and
leisurely packed her across, kissing her half a dozen times before he
deposited her on her feet.
“Glenn, you do this sort of thing so well that it makes me imagine you
have practice now and then,” she said.
“No. But you are pretty and sweet, and like the girl you were four
years ago. That takes me back to those days.”
“I thank you. That’s dear of you. I think I am something of a cat....
I’ll be glad if this walk leads us often to the creek.”
Spring might have been fresh and keen in the air, but it had not yet
brought much green to the brown earth or to the trees. The cotton-woods
showed a light feathery verdure. The long grass was a bleached white,
and low down close to the sod fresh tiny green blades showed. The great
fern leaves were sear and ragged, and they rustled in the breeze. Small
gray sheath-barked trees with clumpy foliage and snags of dead
branches, Glenn called cedars; and, grotesque as these were, Carley
rather liked them. They were approachable, not majestic and lofty like
the pines, and they smelled sweetly wild, and best of all they afforded
some protection from the bitter wind. Carley rested better than she
walked. The huge sections of red rock that had tumbled from above also
interested Carley, especially when the sun happened to come out for a
few moments and brought out their color. She enjoyed walking on the
fallen pines, with Glenn below, keeping pace with her and holding her
hand. Carley looked in vain for flowers and birds. The only living
things she saw were rainbow trout that Glenn pointed out to her in the
beautiful clear pools. The way the great gray bowlders trooped down to
the brook as if they were cattle going to drink; the dark caverns under
the shelving cliffs, where the water murmured with such hollow mockery;
the low spear-pointed gray plants, resembling century plants, and which
Glenn called mescal cactus, each with its single straight dead stalk
standing on high with fluted head; the narrow gorges, perpendicularly
walled in red, where the constricted brook plunged in amber and white
cascades over fall after fall, tumbling, rushing, singing its water
melody—these all held singular appeal for Carley as aspects of the wild
land, fascinating for the moment, symbolic of the lonely red man and
his forbears, and by their raw contrast making more necessary and
desirable and elevating the comforts and conventions of civilization.
The cave man theory interested Carley only as mythology.
Lonelier, wilder, grander grew Glenn’s canyon. Carley was finally
forced to shift her attention from the intimate objects of the canyon
floor to the aloof and unattainable heights. Singular to feel the
difference! That which she could see close at hand, touch if she
willed, seemed to, become part of her knowledge, could be observed and
so possessed and passed by. But the gold-red ramparts against the sky,
the crannied cliffs, the crags of the eagles, the lofty, distant blank
walls, where the winds of the gods had written their wars—these haunted
because they could never be possessed. Carley had often gazed at the
Alps as at celebrated pictures. She admired, she appreciated—then she
forgot. But the canyon heights did not affect her that way. They
vaguely dissatisfied, and as she could not be sure of what they
dissatisfied, she had to conclude that it was in herself. To see, to
watch, to dream, to seek, to strive, to endure, to find! Was that what
they meant? They might make her thoughtful of the vast earth, and its
endless age, and its staggering mystery. But what more!
The storm that had threatened blackened the sky, and gray scudding
clouds buried the canyon rims, and long veils of rain and sleet began
to descend. The wind roared through the pines, drowning the roar of the
brook. Quite suddenly the air grew piercingly cold. Carley had
forgotten her gloves, and her pockets had not been constructed to
protect hands. Glenn drew her into a sheltered nook where a rock jutted
out from overhead and a thicket of young pines helped break the
onslaught of the wind. There Carley sat on a cold rock, huddled up
close to Glenn, and wearing to a state she knew would be misery. Glenn
not only seemed content; he was happy. “This is great,” he said. His
coat was open, his hands uncovered, and he watched the storm and
listened with manifest delight. Carley hated to betray what a weakling
she was, so she resigned herself to her fate, and imagined she felt her
fingers numbing into ice, and her sensitive nose slowly and painfully
freezing.
The storm passed, however, before Carley sank into abject and open
wretchedness. She managed to keep pace with Glenn until exercise warmed
her blood. At every little ascent in the trail she found herself
laboring to get her breath. There was assuredly evidence of abundance
of air in this canyon, but somehow she could not get enough of it.
Glenn detected this and said it was owing to the altitude. When they
reached the cabin Carley was wet, stiff, cold, exhausted. How welcome
the shelter, the open fireplace! Seeing the cabin in new light, Carley
had the grace to acknowledge to herself that, after all, it was not so
bad.
“Now for a good fire and then dinner,” announced Glenn, with the air of
one who knew his ground.
“Can I help?” queried Carley.
“Not today. I do not want you to spring any domestic science on me
now.” Carley was not averse to withholding her ignorance. She watched
Glenn with surpassing curiosity and interest. First he threw a quantity
of wood upon the smoldering fire.
“I have ham and mutton of my own raising,” announced Glenn, with
importance. “Which would you prefer?”
“Of your own raising. What do you mean?” queried Carley.
“My dear, you’ve been so steeped in the fog of the crowd that you are
blind to the homely and necessary things of living. I mean I have here
meat of both sheep and hog that I raised myself. That is to say, mutton
and ham. Which do you like?”
“Ham!” cried Carley, incredulously.
Without more ado Glenn settled to brisk action, every move of which
Carley watched with keen eyes. The usurping of a woman’s province by a
man was always an amusing thing. But for Glenn Kilbourne—what more
would it be? He evidently knew what he wanted, for every movement was
quick, decisive. One after another he placed bags, cans, sacks, pans,
utensils on the table. Then he kicked at the roaring fire, settling
some of the sticks. He strode outside to return with a bucket of water,
a basin, towel, and soap. Then he took down two queer little iron pots
with heavy lids. To each pot was attached a wire handle. He removed the
lids, then set both the pots right on the fire or in it. Pouring water
into the basin, he proceeded to wash his hands. Next he took a large
pail, and from a sack he filled it half full of flour. To this he added
baking powder and salt. It was instructive for Carley to see him run
his skillful fingers all through that flour, as if searching for lumps.
After this he knelt before the fire and, lifting off one of the iron
pots with a forked stick, he proceeded to wipe out the inside of the
pot and grease it with a piece of fat. His next move was to rake out a
pile of the red coals, a feat he performed with the stick, and upon
these he placed the pot. Also he removed the other pot from the fire,
leaving it, however, quite close.
“Well, all eyes?” he bantered, suddenly staring at her. “Didn’t I say
I’d surprise you?”
“Don’t mind me. This is about the happiest and most bewildered
moment—of my life,” replied Carley.
Returning to the table, Glenn dug at something in a large red can. He
paused a moment to eye Carley.
“Girl, do you know how to make biscuits?” he queried.
“I might have known in my school days, but I’ve forgotten,” she
replied.
“Can you make apple pie?” he demanded, imperiously.
“No,” rejoined Carley.
“How do you expect to please your husband?”
“Why—by marrying him, I suppose,” answered Carley, as if weighing a
problem.
“That has been the universal feminine point of view for a good many
years,” replied Glenn, flourishing a flour-whitened hand. “But it never
served the women of the Revolution or the pioneers. And they were the
builders of the nation. It will never serve the wives of the future, if
we are to survive.”
“Glenn, you rave!” ejaculated Carley, not knowing whether to laugh or
be grave. “You were talking of humble housewifely things.”
“Precisely. The humble things that were the foundation of the great
nation of Americans. I meant work and children.”
Carley could only stare at him. The look he flashed at her, the sudden
intensity and passion of his ringing words, were as if he gave her a
glimpse into the very depths of him. He might have begun in fun, but he
had finished otherwise. She felt that she really did not know this man.
Had he arraigned her in judgment? A flush, seemingly hot and cold,
passed over her. Then it relieved her to see that he had returned to
his task.
He mixed the shortening with the flour, and, adding water, he began a
thorough kneading. When the consistency of the mixture appeared to
satisfy him he took a handful of it, rolled it into a ball, patted and
flattened it into a biscuit, and dropped it into the oven he had set
aside on the hot coals. Swiftly he shaped eight or ten other biscuits
and dropped them as the first. Then he put the heavy iron lid on the
pot, and with a rude shovel, improvised from a flattened tin can, he
shoveled red coals out of the fire, and covered the lid with them. His
next move was to pare and slice potatoes, placing these aside in a pan.
A small black coffee-pot half full of water, was set on a glowing part
of the fire. Then he brought into use a huge, heavy knife, a
murderous-looking implement it appeared to Carley, with which he cut
slices of ham. These he dropped into the second pot, which he left
uncovered. Next he removed the flour sack and other inpedimenta from
the table, and proceeded to set places for two—blue-enamel plate and
cup, with plain, substantial-looking knives, forks, and spoons. He went
outside, to return presently carrying a small crock of butter.
Evidently he had kept the butter in or near the spring. It looked dewy
and cold and hard. After that he peeped under the lid of the pot which
contained the biscuits. The other pot was sizzling and smoking, giving
forth a delicious savory odor that affected Carley most agreeably. The
coffee-pot had begun to steam. With a long fork Glenn turned the slices
of ham and stood a moment watching them. Next he placed cans of three
sizes upon the table; and these Carley conjectured contained sugar,
salt, and pepper. Carley might not have been present, for all the
attention he paid to her. Again he peeped at the biscuits. At the edge
of the hot embers he placed a tin plate, upon which he carefully
deposited the slices of ham. Carley had not needed sight of them to
know she was hungry; they made her simply ravenous. That done, he
poured the pan of sliced potatoes into the pot. Carley judged the heat
of that pot to be extreme. Next he removed the lid from the other pot,
exposing biscuits slightly browned; and evidently satisfied with these,
he removed them from the coals. He stirred the slices of potatoes round
and round; he emptied two heaping tablespoonfuls of coffee into the
coffee-pot.
“Carley,” he said, at last turning to her with a warm smile, “out here
in the West the cook usually yells, ‘Come and get it.’ Draw up your
stool.”
And presently Carley found herself seated across the crude table from
Glenn, with the background of chinked logs in her sight, and the smart
of wood smoke in her eyes. In years past she had sat with him in the
soft, subdued, gold-green shadows of the Astor, or in the sumptuous
atmosphere of the St. Regis. But this event was so different, so
striking, that she felt it would have limitless significance. For one
thing, the look of Glenn! When had he ever seemed like this,
wonderfully happy to have her there, consciously proud of this dinner
he had prepared in half an hour, strangely studying her as one on
trial? This might have had its effect upon Carley’s reaction to the
situation, making it sweet, trenchant with meaning, but she was hungry
enough and the dinner was good enough to make this hour memorable on
that score alone. She ate until she was actually ashamed of herself.
She laughed heartily, she talked, she made love to Glenn. Then suddenly
an idea flashed into her quick mind.
“Glenn, did this girl Flo teach you to cook?” she queried, sharply.
“No. I always was handy in camp. Then out here I had the luck to fall
in with an old fellow who was a wonderful cook. He lived with me for a
while. ... Why, what difference would it have made—had Flo taught me?”
Carley felt the heat of blood in her face. “I don’t know that it would
have made a difference. Only—I’m glad she didn’t teach you. I’d rather
no girl could teach you what I couldn’t.”
“You think I’m a pretty good cook, then?” he asked.
“I’ve enjoyed this dinner more than any I’ve ever eaten.”
“Thanks, Carley. That’ll help a lot,” he said, gayly, but his eyes
shone with earnest, glad light. “I hoped I’d surprise you. I’ve found
out here that I want to do things well. The West stirs something in a
man. It must be an unwritten law. You stand or fall by your own hands.
Back East you know meals are just occasions—to hurry through—to dress
for—to meet somebody—to eat because you have to eat. But out here they
are different. I don’t know how. In the city, producers, merchants,
waiters serve you for money. The meal is a transaction. It has no
significance. It is money that keeps you from starvation. But in the
West money doesn’t mean much. You must work to live.”
Carley leaned her elbows on the table and gazed at him curiously and
admiringly. “Old fellow, you’re a wonder. I can’t tell you how proud I
am of you. That you could come West weak and sick, and fight your way
to health, and learn to be self-sufficient! It is a splendid
achievement. It amazes me. I don’t grasp it. I want to think.
Nevertheless I—”
“What?” he queried, as she hesitated.
“Oh, never mind now,” she replied, hastily, averting her eyes.
The day was far spent when Carley returned to the Lodge—and in spite of
the discomfort of cold and sleet, and the bitter wind that beat in her
face as she struggled up the trail—it was a day never to be forgotten.
Nothing had been wanting in Glenn’s attention or affection. He had been
comrade, lover, all she craved for. And but for his few singular words
about work and children there had been no serious talk. Only a play day
in his canyon and his cabin! Yet had she appeared at her best?
Something vague and perplexing knocked at the gate of her
consciousness.