The Call of the Canyon, Zane Grey [ereader for textbooks txt] 📗
- Author: Zane Grey
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“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.
Two warm sunny days in early May inclined Mr. Hutter to the opinion that pleasant spring weather was at hand and that it would be a propitious time to climb up on the desert to look after his sheep interests. Glenn, of course, would accompany him.
“Carley and I will go too,” asserted Flo.
“Reckon that’ll be good,” said Hutter, with approving nod.
His wife also agreed that it would be fine for Carley to see the beautiful desert country round Sunset Peak. But Glenn looked dubious.
“Carley, it’ll be rather hard,” he said. “You’re soft, and riding and lying out will stove you up. You ought to break in gradually.”
“I rode ten miles today,” rejoined Carley. “And didn’t mind it—much.” This was a little deviation from stern veracity.
“Shore Carley’s well and strong,” protested Flo. “She’ll get sore, but that won’t kill her.”
Glenn eyed Flo with rather penetrating glance. “I might drive Carley round about in the car,” he said.
“But you can’t drive over those lava flats, or go round, either. We’d have to send horses in some cases miles to meet you. It’s horseback if you go at all.”
“Shore we’ll go horseback,” spoke up Flo. “Carley has got it all over that Spencer girl who was here last summer.”
“I think so, too. I am sure I hope so. Because you remember what the ride to Long Valley did to Miss Spencer,” rejoined Glenn.
“What?” inquired Carley.
“Bad cold, peeled nose, skinned shin, saddle sores. She was in bed two days. She didn’t show much pep the rest of her stay here, and she never got on another horse.”
“Oh, is that all, Glenn?” returned Carley, in feigned surprise. “Why, I imagined from your tone that Miss Spencer’s ride must have occasioned her discomfort… . See here, Glenn. I may be a tenderfoot, but I’m no mollycoddle.”
“My dear, I surrender,” replied Glenn, with a laugh. “Really, I’m delighted. But if anything happens—don’t you blame me. I’m quite sure that a long horseback ride, in spring, on the desert, will show you a good many things about yourself.”
That was how Carley came to find herself, the afternoon of the next day, astride a self-willed and unmanageable little mustang, riding in the rear of her friends, on the way through a cedar forest toward a place called Deep Lake.
Carley had not been able yet, during the several hours of their journey, to take any pleasure in the scenery or in her mount. For in the first place there was nothing to see but scrubby little gnarled cedars and drab-looking rocks; and in the second this Indian pony she rode had discovered she was not an adept horsewoman and had proceeded to take advantage of the fact. It did not help Carley’s predicament to remember that Glenn had decidedly advised her against riding this particular mustang. To be sure, Flo had approved of Carley’s choice, and Mr. Hutter, with a hearty laugh, had fallen in line: “Shore. Let her ride one of the broncs, if she wants.” So this animal she bestrode must have been a bronc, for it did not take him long to elicit from Carley a muttered, “I don’t know what bronc means, but it sounds like this pony acts.”
Carley had inquired the animal’s name from the young herder who had saddled him for her.
“Wal, I reckon he ain’t got much of a name,” replied the lad, with a grin, as he scratched his head. “For us boys always called him Spillbeans.”
“Humph! What a beautiful cognomen!” ejaculated Carley, “But according to Shakespeare any name will serve. I’ll ride him or—or—”
So far there had not really been any necessity for the completion of that sentence. But five miles of riding up into the cedar forest had convinced Carley that she might not have much farther to go. Spillbeans had ambled along well enough until he reached level ground where a long bleached grass waved in the wind. Here he manifested hunger, then a contrary nature, next insubordination, and finally direct hostility. Carley had urged, pulled, and commanded in vain. Then when she gave Spillbeans a kick in the flank he jumped stiff legged, propelling her up out of the saddle, and while she was descending he made the queer jump again, coming up to meet her. The jolt she got seemed to dislocate every bone in her body. Likewise it hurt. Moreover, along with her idea of what a spectacle she must have presented, it quickly decided Carley that Spillbeans was a horse that was not to be opposed. Whenever he wanted a mouthful of grass he stopped to get it. Therefore Carley was always in the rear, a fact which in itself did not displease her. Despite his contrariness, however, Spillbeans had apparently no intention of allowing the other horses to get completely out of sight.
Several times Flo waited for Carley to catch up. “He’s loafing on you, Carley. You ought to have on a spur. Break off a switch and beat him some.” Then she whipped the mustang across the flank with her bridle rein, which punishment caused Spillbeans meekly to trot on with alacrity. Carley had a positive belief that he would not do it for her. And after Flo’s repeated efforts, assisted by chastisement from Glenn, had kept Spillbeans in a trot for a couple of miles Carley began to discover that the trotting of a horse was the most uncomfortable motion possible to imagine. It grew worse. It became painful. It gradually got unendurable. But pride made Carley endure it until suddenly she thought she had been stabbed in the side. This strange piercing pain must be what Glenn had called a “stitch” in the side, something common to novices on horseback. Carley could have screamed. She pulled the mustang to a walk and sagged in her saddle until the pain subsided. What a blessed relief! Carley had keen sense of the difference between riding in Central Park and in Arizona. She regretted her choice of horses. Spillbeans was attractive to look at, but the pleasure of riding him was a delusion. Flo had said his gait resembled the motion of a rocking chair. This Western girl, according to Charley,
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