“You look out fer Tom Hutter, an’ I reckon Flo ain’t so darn above layin’ traps fer you.  ’Specially as she’s sweet on your beau.  I seen them together a lot.”

“Yes?” interrogated Carley, encouragingly.

“Kilbourne is the best fellar thet ever happened along Oak Creek.  I helped him build his cabin.  We’ve hunted some together.  Did you ever hunt?”

“No.”

“Wal, you’ve shore missed a lot of fun,” he said.  “Turkey huntin’.  Thet’s what fetches the gurls.  I reckon because turkeys are so good to eat.  The old gobblers hev begun to gobble now.  I’ll take you gobbler huntin’ if you’d like to go.”

“I’m sure I would.”

“There’s good trout fishin’ along heah a little later,” he said, pointing to the stream.  “Crick’s too high now.  I like West Fork best.  I’ve ketched some lammin’ big ones up there.”

Carley was amused and interested.  She could not say that Charley had shown any indication of his mental peculiarity to her.  It took considerable restraint not to lead him to talk more about Flo and Glenn.  Presently they reached the turn in the road, opposite the cottage Carley had noticed yesterday, and here her loquacious escort halted.

“You take the trail heah,” he said, pointing it out, “an’ foller it into West Fork.  So long, an’ don’t forget we’re goin’ huntin’ turkeys.”

Carley smiled her thanks, and, taking to the trail, she stepped out briskly, now giving attention to her surroundings.  The canyon had widened, and the creek with its deep thicket of green and white had sheered to the left.  On her right the canyon wall appeared to be lifting higher—­and higher.  She could not see it well, owing to intervening treetops.  The trail led her through a grove of maples and sycamores, out into an open park-like bench that turned to the right toward the cliff.  Suddenly Carley saw a break in the red wall.  It was the intersecting canyon, West Fork.  What a narrow red-walled gateway!  Huge pine trees spread wide gnarled branches over her head.  The wind made soft rush in their tops, sending the brown needles lightly on the air.  Carley turned the bulging corner, to be halted by a magnificent spectacle.  It seemed a mountain wall loomed over her.  It was the western side of this canyon, so lofty that Carley had to tip back her head to see the top.  She swept her astonished gaze down the face of this tremendous red mountain wall and then slowly swept it upward again.  This phenomenon of a cliff seemed beyond the comprehension of her sight.  It looked a mile high.  The few trees along its bold rampart resembled short spear-pointed bushes outlined against the steel gray of sky.  Ledges, caves, seams, cracks, fissures, beetling red brows, yellow crumbling crags, benches of green growths and niches choked with brush, and bold points where single lonely pine trees grew perilously, and blank walls a thousand feet across their shadowed faces—­these features gradually took shape in Carley’s confused sight, until the colossal mountain front stood up before her in all its strange, wild, magnificent ruggedness and beauty.