And what a setting! Curly shot from ambush, by
creatures, it was highly probable, who were ignorantly actuated by
Brown's own crooked Mexican policy. Curly flinging, with his dying
hands, the boomerang that was to strike Brown down. That incidentally
it would pull Fowler down, moved Enoch little. Fowler too would be
hoist by his own petard.
For a long hour Enoch paced the floor. Then he came to a sudden pause
before the mantel and turned on the light above the painting of Bright
Angel trail. Outside the room sounded the clatter of Washington's
streets. Enoch did not hear it. Once more a passionate, sullen boy,
he was clinging to his mule on the twisting trail. Once more swept
over him the horror of the Canyon and of human beings that had tortured
the soul of the boy, Enoch, on that first visit into the Canyon's
depths. The sweat started to his forehead and, as he stared, he
grasped the mantel with both hands. Then he picked up the envelope.
His hand shook as he inserted a finger under the flap, lifting his eyes
as he did so, once more to the painting.
He paused. Unearthly calm, drifting mists, colors too ephemeral, too
subtle for words--drawn in the Canyon!
The lift of the Ida under his knees, the eager welter of the whirlpool,
the sting of the icy Colorado dragging him under, the flash of Diana's
face and his winning fight with death.
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