Just within the door, John Seaton met him.
"Well, Enoch?"
There was no coldness in Nucky's eyes now. They were the frightened
eyes of a child.
"I can't stand that thing!" he panted. "I gotta get back to N' York,
now!"
Seaton looked at Nucky curiously. "For heaven's sake, Enoch! Where's
your nerve?"
"What good would nerve do a guy lookin' at hell!" gasped Nucky.
"Hell? Why the Canyon is one of the beautiful sights of the world!
You're crazy, Enoch! Come out with me and look again."
"Not on your life!" cried Nucky. "I'm going back to little old N'
York."
"It can't be done, my boy. There'll be no trains out of here for at
least twelve hours, because of the storm. And listen, Enoch! No
nonsense! Remember that if you wander away from the hotel, you're
lost. There are no trolleys in this neck of the woods, and no
telephones and no police. Wait a moment, Enoch, there's Frank Allen,
the guide."
Seaton hailed a tall, rather heavily built man in corduroys and high
laced boots, who had lounged up to the cigar stand. As he approached,
Nucky saw that he was middle aged, with a heavily tanned face out of
which the blue of his eyes shone conspicuously.
"Here he is, Frank!" exclaimed Seaton.
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