By and by the sun grew hot, the train wound slowly and creakingly
upgrade, the car became full of dust, all of which was disagreeable to
Carley. She dozed on her pillow for hours, until she was stirred by a
passenger crying out, delightedly: "Look! Indians!"
Carley looked, not without interest. As a child she had read about
Indians, and memory returned images both colorful and romantic. From
the car window she espied dusty flat barrens, low squat mud houses,
and queer-looking little people, children naked or extremely ragged
and dirty, women in loose garments with flares of red, and men in white
man's garb, slovenly and motley. All these strange individuals stared
apathetically as the train slowly passed.
"Indians," muttered Carley, incredulously. "Well, if they are the noble
red people, my illusions are dispelled." She did not look out of the
window again, not even when the brakeman called out the remarkable name
of Albuquerque.
Next day Carley's languid attention quickened to the name of Arizona,
and to the frowning red walls of rock, and to the vast rolling stretches
of cedar-dotted land. Nevertheless, it affronted her. This was no
country for people to live in, and so far as she could see it was indeed
uninhabited. Her sensations were not, however, limited to sight. She
became aware of unfamiliar disturbing little shocks or vibrations in
her ear drums, and after that a disagreeable bleeding of the nose. The
porter told her this was owing to the altitude. Thus, one thing and
another kept Carley most of the time away from the window, so that she
really saw very little of the country. From what she had seen she drew
the conviction that she had not missed much. At sunset she deliberately
gazed out to discover what an Arizona sunset was like just a pale yellow
flare! She had seen better than that above the Palisades. Not until
reaching Winslow did she realize how near she was to her journey's end
and that she would arrive at Flagstaff after dark. She grew conscious of
nervousness. Suppose Flagstaff were like these other queer little towns!
Not only once, but several times before the train slowed down for her
destination did Carley wish she had sent Glenn word to meet her. And
when, presently, she found herself standing out in the dark, cold, windy
night before a dim-lit railroad station she more than regretted her
decision to surprise Glenn. But that was too late and she must make the
best of her poor judgment.
Men were passing to and fro on the platform, some of whom appeared to
be very dark of skin and eye, and were probably Mexicans. At length an
expressman approached Carley, soliciting patronage. He took her bags
and, depositing them in a wagon, he pointed up the wide street:
"One block up an' turn. Hotel Wetherford." Then he drove off. Carley
followed, carrying her small satchel. A cold wind, driving the dust,
stung her face as she crossed the street to a high sidewalk that
extended along the block. There were lights in the stores and on the
corners, yet she seemed impressed by a dark, cold, windy bigness. Many
people, mostly men, were passing up and down, and there were motor cars
everywhere. No one paid any attention to her. Gaining the corner of
the block, she turned, and was relieved to see the hotel sign. As she
entered the lobby a clicking of pool balls and the discordant rasp of a
phonograph assailed her ears. The expressman set down her bags and left
Carley standing there. The clerk or proprietor was talking from behind
his desk to several men, and there were loungers in the lobby. The air
was thick with tobacco smoke. No one paid any attention to Carley until
at length she stepped up to the desk and interrupted the conversation
there.