Still south
of this, lifted great weathered buttes and mesas, fortifications of the
gods against time itself. The morning sun had not yet reached the
camp, but it shone warm and vivid on the peaks to the south, burning
through the drifting mists from the river, in colors that thrilled the
heart like music.
Enoch's eyes followed Diana's gesture. "I know," he said, softly.
"It's impossible to express it. I've thought of you and your work so
often, down here. Somehow, though, you do suggest the unattainable in
your pictures. It's what makes them great."
Diana shook her head and turned toward her tent, while Enoch lighted
his pipe and began his never-ending task of bringing in drift wood. He
paused, a log on his shoulder, before Curly, who was squatting beside
his muddy pan.
"Curly," he said, "is that stuff you have on Fowler and Brown,
political, financial, or a matter of personal morals?"
"Personal morals and worse!" grunted Curly. "It's some story!"
Enoch turned away without comment. But the lines between his eyes
deepened.
CHAPTER IX
THE CLIFF DWELLING
"Love! that which turns the meanest man to a god in some one's eyes!
Yet I must not know it! Suppose I cast my responsibility to the winds
and .
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