Dorn Of The Mountains by Zane Grey Page A

steady far-seeing gaze out upon that land of rock and plain, and during the long hours, as she watched through clouds of dust and veils of heat, some strong and doubtful and restless sentiment seemed to change and then to fix. It was her physical acceptance—her eyes and her senses taking the West as she had already taken it in spirit.
    A woman should love her home wherever fate placed her, Helen believed, and not so much from duty as from delight and romance and living. How could life ever be tedious or monotonous out here in this tremendous vastness of bare earth and open sky, where the need to achieve made thinking and pondering superficial?
    It was with regret that she saw the last of the valley of the Río Grande, and then of its parallel mountain ranges. But the miles brought compensation in other valleys, other bold black upheavals of rock, and then again bare boundless yellow plains, and sparsely cedared ridges, and white dry washes, ghastly in the sunlight, and dazzling beds of alkali, and then a desert space where golden and blue flowers bloomed.
    She noted, too, that the whites and yellows of earth and rock had begun to shade to red—and this she knew meant an approach to Arizona. Arizona, the wild, the lonely, the red desert, the green plateau—Arizona with its thundering rivers, its unknown spaces, its pasture lands, outlaws, wolves and lions and savages! As to a boy that name stirred and thrilled and sang to her of nameless, sweet, intangible things, mysterious, and all of adventure. But she, being a girl of twenty, who had accepted responsibilities, must conceal the depths of her heart and that which her mother had complained was her misfortune in not being born a boy.
    Time passed while Helen watched and learned and dreamed. The train stopped at long intervals, at wayside stations where there seemed nothing but adobe sheds and lazy Mexicans, and dust and heat. Bo awoke and began to chatter, and to dig into the basket. She learned from the conductor that Magdalena was only two stations on. And she was full of conjectures as to whom would meet them, what would happen. So Helen was drawn back to sober realities in which there was considerable zest. Assuredly she did not know what was going to happen. Twice Riggs passed up and down the aisle, his dark face and light eyes and sardonic smile deliberately forced upon her sight. But again Helen fought a growing dread with contemptuous scorn. This fellow was not half a man. It was not conceivable what he could do, except annoy her, until she arrived at Pine. Her uncle was to meet her or send for her at Snowdrop, which place, Helen knew, was distant, a good long ride by stage from Magdalena. This stage ride was the climax and the dread of all the long journey in Helen’s considerations.
    “Oh, Nell!” cried Bo with delight. “We’re nearly there! Next station, the conductor said.”
    “I wonder if the stage travels at night,” said Helen thoughtfully.
    “Sure it does,” replied the irrepressible Bo.
    The train, though it clattered along as usual, seemed to Helen to fly. There the sun was setting over bleak New Mexican bluffs, Magdalena was at hand, and night, and adventure. Helen’s heart beat fast. She watched the yellow plains where the cattle grazed, and their presence, and irrigation ditches and cottonwood trees told her that the railroad part of the journey was nearly ended. Then, at Bo’s little scream, she looked across the car and out of the window there to see a line of low flat red adobe houses. The train began to slow down. Helen saw children run, white children and Mexican together, and then more houses, and high upon a hill an immense adobe church, crude and glaring, yet somehow beautiful.
    Helen told Bo to put on her bonnet, and, performing a like office for herself, she was ashamed of the trembling of her fingers. There were bustle and talk in the car.
    The train stopped. Helen peered out to see a straggling crowd of Mexicans and Indians, all