“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.  “Nucky, this is the man who is going to look out for you while I’m gone.”

“Well, young New York!  What’re you going to do with the Canyon?” Frank slapped the boy on the shoulder.

Nucky grinned uncertainly.  “I dunno!” he said.

“Had a look at it?” demanded the guide.

“Yes!” Nucky spoke with sudden firmness.  “And I don’t like it.  I want to go back to New York.”

“Come on out with Frank and me and get used to it,” suggested John Seaton.

“I’m not going near it again,” returned Nucky.

Allen looked at the boy with deliberate interest.  He noted the pasty skin, the hollow chest, the strong, unformed features, the thin lips that were trembling, despite the cigarette stained fingers that pressed against them.

“Did you ever talk to Indians?” asked Allen, suddenly.

“No,” said Nucky.

“Well, let’s forget the Canyon and go over to the hogan, yonder.  Is that the best you two can do on shoes?  I’m always sorry for you lady-like New Yorkers.  Come over here a minute.  I guess we can rent some boots to fit you.”

“I’m going to write letters, Frank,” said Seaton.  “You and Enoch’ll find me over at one of the desks.  Fit the boy out as you think best.”

Not long after, Nucky trailed the guide through the lobby.  He was wearing high laced boots, with a very self-conscious air.  Once outside, in the glory of the westering sun, Frank took a deep breath.

“Great air, boy!  Get all you can of it into those flabby bellows of yours.  Before we go to the hogan, come over to the corral.  My Tom horse has got a saddle sore.  A fool tourist rode him all day with a fold in the blanket as big as your fist.”

“Is he a bronco?” asked Nucky, with sudden animation.

“He was a bronco.  You easterners have the wrong idea.  A bronco is a plains pony before he’s broken.  After he’s busted he’s a horse.  See?”

“Aw, you’re dead wrong, Frank!” drawled a voice.

Nucky looked up in astonishment to see a tall man, whose skin was a rich bronze, offering a cigarette to the guide.