"
"You see, Carley, this is our America," said Flo, softly.
Carley had never understood the meaning of the word. The immensity of the
West seemed flung at her. What her vision beheld, so far-reaching and
boundless, was only a dot on the map.
"Does any one live--out there?" she asked, with slow sweep of hand.
"A few white traders and some Indian tribes," replied Stanton. "But you can
ride all day an' next day an' never see a livin' soul."
What was the meaning of the gratification in his voice? Did Westerners
court loneliness? Carley wrenched her gaze from the desert void to look at
her companions. Stanton's eyes were narrowed; his expression had changed;
lean and hard and still, his face resembled bronze. The careless humor was
gone, as was the heated flush of his quarrel with Flo. The girl, too, had
subtly changed, had responded to an influence that had subdued and softened
her. She was mute; her eyes held a light, comprehensive and all-embracing;
she was beautiful then. For Carley, quick to read emotion, caught a glimpse
of a strong, steadfast soul that spiritualized the brown freckled face.
Carley wheeled to gaze out and down into this incomprehensible abyss, and
on to the far up-flung heights, white and red and yellow, and so on to the
wonderful mystic haze of distance.
Pages:
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142