Ruff got in some swings, but he couldn't reach Glenn's face.An' Glenn batted him right an' left, every time in his ugly mug.Ruff got all bloody an' he cussed something awful.Glenn beat him against the fence an' then we all saw Ruff reach for a gun or knife.All the men yelled.An' shore Iscreamed.But Glenn saw as much as we saw.He got fiercer.He beat Ruff down to his knees an' swung on him hard.Deliberately knocked Ruff into the dip ditch.What a splash! It wet all of us.Ruff went out of sight.Then he rolled up like a huge hog.We were all scared now.That dip's rank poison, you know.Reckon Ruff knew that.He floundered along an' crawled up at the end.Anyone could see that he had mouth an' eyes tight shut.He began to grope an' feel around, trying to find the way to the pond.One of the men led him out.It was great to see him wade in the water an' wallow an' souse his head under.When he came out the men got in front of him any stopped him.He shore looked bad....An' Glenn called to him, 'Ruff, that sheep-dip won't go through your tough hide, but a bullet will!"Not long after this incident Carley started out on her usual afternoon ride, having arranged with Glenn to meet her on his return from work.
Toward the end of June Carley had advanced in her horsemanship to a point where Flo lent her one of her own mustangs.This change might not have had all to do with a wonderful difference in riding, but it seemed so to Carley.There was as much difference in horses as in people.This mustang she had ridden of late was of Navajo stock, but he had been born and raised and broken at Oak Creek.Carley had not yet discovered any objection on his part to do as she wanted him to.He liked what she liked, and most of all he liked to go.His color resembled a pattern of calico, and in accordance with Western ways his name was therefore Calico.Left to choose his own gait, Calico always dropped into a gentle pace which was so easy and comfortable and swinging that Carley never tired of it.Moreover, he did not shy at things lying in the road or rabbits darting from bushes or at the upwhirring of birds.Carley had grown attached to Calico before she realized she was drifting into it; and for Carley to care for anything or anybody was a serious matter, because it did not happen often and it lasted.She was exceedingly tenacious of affection.
June had almost passed and summer lay upon the lonely land.Such perfect and wonderful weather had never before been Carley's experience.The dawns broke cool, fresh, fragrant, sweet, and rosy, with a breeze that seemed of heaven rather than earth, and the air seemed tremulously full of the murmur of falling water and the melody of mocking birds.At the solemn noontides the great white sun glared down hot--so hot that t burned the skin, yet strangely was a pleasant burn.The waning afternoons were Carley's especial torment, when it seemed the sounds and winds of the day were tiring, and all things were seeking repose, and life must soften to an unthinking happiness.These hours troubled Carley because she wanted them to last, and because she knew for her this changing and transforming time could not last.So long as she did not think she was satisfied.
Maples and sycamores and oaks were in full foliage, and their bright greens contrasted softly with the dark shine of the pines.Through the spaces between brown tree trunks and the white-spotted holes of the sycamores gleamed the amber water of the creek.Always there was murmur of little rills and the musical dash of little rapids.On the surface of still, shady pools trout broke to make ever-widening ripples.Indian paintbrush, so brightly carmine in color, lent touch of fire to the green banks, and under the oaks, in cool dark nooks where mossy bowlders lined the stream, there were stately nodding yellow columbines.And high on the rock ledges shot up the wonderful mescal stalks, beginning to blossom, some with tints of gold and others with tones of red.
Riding along down the canyon, under its looming walls, Carley wondered that if unawares to her these physical aspects of Arizona could have become more significant than she realized.The thought had confronted her before.Here, as always, she fought it and denied it by the simple defense of elimination.Yet refusing to think of a thing when it seemed ever present was not going to do forever.Insensibly and subtly it might get a hold on her, never to be broken.Yet it was infinitely easier to dream than to think.
But the thought encroached upon her that it was not a dreamful habit of mind she had fallen into of late.When she dreamed or mused she lived vaguely and sweetly over past happy hours or dwelt in enchanted fancy upon a possible future.Carley had been told by a Columbia professor that she was a type of the present age--a modern young woman of materialistic mind.
Be that as it might, she knew many things seemed loosening from the narrowness and tightness of her character, sloughing away like scales, exposing a new and strange and susceptible softness of fiber.And this blank habit of mind, when she did not think, and now realized that she was not dreaming, seemed to be the body of Carley Burch, and her heart and soul stripped of a shell.Nerve and emotion and spirit received something from her surroundings.She absorbed her environment.She felt.It was a delightful state.But when her own consciousness caused it to elude her, then she both resented and regretted.Anything that approached permanent attachment to this crude and untenanted West Carley would not tolerate for a moment.Reluctantly she admitted it had bettered her health, quickened her blood, and quite relegated Florida and the Adirondacks, to little consideration.
