“That thin green line of cottonwoods down there is the Little Colorado River,” Flo was saying.  “Reckon it’s sixty miles, all down hill.  The Painted Desert begins there and also the Navajo Reservation.  You see the white strips, the red veins, the yellow bars, the black lines.  They are all desert steps leading up and up for miles.  That sharp black peak is called Wildcat.  It’s about a hundred miles.  You see the desert stretching away to the right, growing dim—­lost in distance?  We don’t know that country.  But that north country we know as landmarks, anyway.  Look at that saw-tooth range.  The Indians call it Echo Cliffs.  At the far end it drops off into the Colorado River.  Lee’s Ferry is there—­about one hundred and sixty miles.  That ragged black rent is the Grand Canyon.  Looks like a thread, doesn’t it?  But Carley, it’s some hole, believe me.  Away to the left you see the tremendous wall rising and turning to come this way.  That’s the north wall of the Canyon.  It ends at the great bluff—­Greenland Point.  See the black fringe above the bar of gold.  That’s a belt of pine trees.  It’s about eighty miles across this ragged old stone washboard of a desert. . . .  Now turn and look straight and strain your sight over Wildcat.  See the rim purple dome.  You must look hard.  I’m glad it’s clear and the sun is shining.  We don’t often get this view. . . .  That purple dome is Navajo Mountain, two hundred miles and more away!”

Carley yielded to some strange drawing power and slowly walked forward until she stood at the extreme edge of the summit.

What was it that confounded her sight?  Desert slope—­down and down—­color—­ distance—­space!  The wind that blew in her face seemed to have the openness of the whole world back of it.  Cold, sweet, dry, exhilarating, it breathed of untainted vastness.  Carley’s memory pictures of the Adirondacks faded into pastorals; her vaunted images of European scenery changed to operetta settings.  She had nothing with which to compare this illimitable space.

“Oh!—­America!” was her unconscious tribute.

Stanton and Flo had come on to places beside her.  The young man laughed.  “Wal, now Miss Carley, you couldn’t say more.  When I was in camp trainin’ for service overseas I used to remember how this looked.  An’ it seemed one of the things I was goin’ to fight for.  Reckon I didn’t the idea of the Germans havin’ my Painted Desert.  I didn’t get across to fight for it, but I shore was willin’.”

“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.”