Marian feasted her eyes, trying to grasp what it was that she saw. Moments and miles passed, and suddenly a gray squall of rain and snow swooped down from behind, enveloping the car. It brought a piercing cold. What rain there was soon changed to sleet. It pelted Marian, many hailstones bouncing off the glass wind-shield to sting her face. Gloves and pockets appeared little protection against such cold. Marian suffered. Her cheeks, her nose, her ears seemed to congeal to ice. The world around that car was white, swept by a blizzard, with snow fleeting across the ground. The sky was obscured. When Marian opened her eyes, at intervals, she could not see far in front of the car. This obscurity did not deter the Indian from driving fast. So that between her pangs and fears Marian had to make heroic enjoyment out of this hour.

  At length the gray cloud lightened, the snow thinned out, and the blue of sky shone through a thin haze of white. That too faded or melted away, and then the storm veered, leaving clear a great open space above. Marian grew aware that she was now far down in the desert, with open bare ridges all around her and the distant prospects out of view. The snow failed. The earth changed its white- and-black hue to a dull red. Once again the car sped out upon a height from which Marian had a second look at the leagues of desert. Here the immense reach and slope struck her more forcibly, and especially the great volume of light.

  The sun came out from behind the cloud bank over the east, and the desert magnified lines and colors, and suddenly unmasked an appalling beauty.

  Once the Indian stopped the car, to examine some of its mechanism. Thus Marian was enabled to get out, to stretch her cramped, cold limbs. After that, when the journey had been resumed, she soon grew comfortable under a warming sun, and at length forgot both pangs and fears in absorption of this desert land. Her driver traveled downhill for no less than three hours. This brought them to what seemed an incongruity — an iron bridge spanning a rock-walled gorge, through which ran a muddy stream. Here in this valley the sun was hot. Marian had to remove the heavy coat.

  Beyond the river stretched a gravelly plain, hard packed by wind, and its slow ascent at last gained another height, from which Marian confirmed her wondering expectations. Three level benches of colored desert, as high as mountains, lifted their wondrous reds and purples and grays and golds toward the blue sky. It was a land of painted steps. It was beyond her power to grasp. She could but revel in a mosaic of color and a strange expanse of earth and rock. This was but the portal of Lo Blandy’s country. What then would Oljato be like? Marian felt confounded in her own impressions. Once she glanced behind her, as if to make sure of distance she had traversed, of land she knew to be solid and not a substance of dreams. The spectacle to the rear was vastly different, a gray desert slope, a red desert slope, league on league, shelving back to rise and lift to a great dark plateau from which the Spanish Peaks showed white pure snow against the sky.

  The ensuing hour, during which the Indian driver crossed the bare plains of sand and gravel and climbed the successive steps of colored rock, passed by all too quickly for Marian. The sun beat down hot. To the north, in the direction the car was heading, more storm clouds were gathering. Above the last desert step the earth appeared a place of ruin and decay, a zone of sinister red and strange drab, where rocks and clay had been weathered into fantastic shapes. Marian likened the region to an inferno. Soon it lay behind, and she found herself confronted with a wide valley between glaring walls of rock. Dark rich green fields of alfalfa formed the floor of this valley, making the hot walls of stone naked and stark by contrast. Marian saw clusters of trees beginning to show green, and the roofs of two flat houses.

  “What’s this place?” she inquired.

  “Copenwashie,” replied the Indian.

  “Are those green fields Indian farms?”

  “Some are. White people got most land now.”

  “But isn’t this a reservation for the use of Indians?” went on Marian, curiously.

  All the reply she received was a grunt of disgust. The Indian drove fast up this level valley, making the dust fly from under his car. When he came to the first house he stopped and carried packages in. Marian saw no one. In the fields, however, were picturesque laborers she took to be Indians. Upon resuming the journey her guide pointed out some low stone houses, standing back under shelving cliffs, surrounded by greening trees. These were the homes of missionaries. From that point the road ascended the side of a steep gorge. Up on top of this elevation the land was level, covered with rough low bushes, dull green in color. Gray and red buildings showed in the distance, and long lines of bare trees. In a few moments the car had reached them. Marian was consumed with interest and curiosity.

  “Mesa. We stop little while,” said the driver, coming to a halt before one of the stone structures. It was large, with few windows, and appeared rather inhospitable-looking. Little ragged wild ponies wearing crude square- topped saddles stood near by with bridles down.

  “Are they Indian horses?” she asked.

  “Yes. Not much good. You wait,” he replied, with his reassuring smile. “This trading post. People friendly. You go in. I take mail.”

  Marian got out, glad to stretch her limbs again, and strolled to and fro. She saw a wide tree-lined avenue, with well-built gray stone houses on one side, and large red stone buildings on the other. These latter she took to be the government school quarters. How out of place they seemed! The great tableland of desert seemed to encompass them, accentuating their incongruity. The avenue was long, so that Marian could not see what lay at the upper end. Then her attention was attracted toward the trading post. Three men, Indians, had just come out. They wore white man’s garb, even to shoes and hats, and did not rouse Marian’s admiration. What swarthy faces, secretive and impassive — what sloe-black eyes, beady and sharp! These Indians watched her. Marian suffered something of disillusion and disappointment at sight of them. Then a white man appeared, tall, sandy-haired, and open-faced.

  “Come in. I’m Paxton, the trader,” he said. “My wife is always glad to meet visitors. You must be tired and hungry. And it’s a good way to Kaidab.”

  “Thank you, I am hungry, but not tired,” replied Marian, as she followed him in, wondering how he had learned where she was going. He led her through a huge hall-like storeroom, in which counters and shelves were loaded with merchandise, to another part of the house, into a living room, comfortable and pleasant. There Marian met the trader’s wife, a young and comely woman who was most kindly and agreeable. Neither by word nor by look did she manifest any curiosity. She was merely glad to meet a strange visitor and to give her a little rest and refreshment. Marian liked her.

  “I’m on my way to Kaidab,” she volunteered.

  “Well, I’m glad of that. It’s fine of you to be interested. God knows the Indians need friends. We traders believe we are about the only friends they have.”

  Marian asked casual questions about the Indians, being careful not to give an impression of more than ordinary interest. And altogether she spent a pleasant half hour with Mrs. Paxton.

  “I hope you come to Mesa again,” said her hostess, as they passed out through the store. From the door Marian saw a white man standing beside the car, in conversation with the Indian driver.

  “There’s Friel,” went on Mrs. Paxton, and evidently the recognition of the man changed her train of thought.

  “Who’s Friel?” queried Marian.

  “He’s a missionary,” she replied, “but of the kind that I’m afraid does more to antagonize the Indians against the church than to instil the true spirit of Christianity.”

  Marian, somewhat startled, made no direct reply to Mrs. Paxton’s statement. “Thank you for your kindness,” she said. “I’m sure we’ll meet again. Good- by.”

  Marian walked out to the car. At her step the man designated by Mrs. Paxton turned to see her. Marian was used to meeting strangers and classifying them, after the manner of women. But she had not any recollection of a type like this man.

  “I’m Mr. Friel,” he said, touching his sombrero. “Can I do anything for you?”

  “No, thank you,” replied Marian.

  His face had the brown of the open, but it was not one that inspired Marian to interest or liking. Quick was she to see the gleam of curiosity in his eyes, and then, as he took a good look at her, the leap of admiration.

  “You’re traveling alone,” he said. “May I know your errand?”

  Marian told him what she had told the trader’s wife. Then she felt rather than saw an increased interest in her, with something of antagonism.

  “Have you permission to go on the reservation?” he inquired.

  “No. Is it — compulsory?”

  “I — well — no, hardly that. But it is always best for visitors to see Mr. Blucher.”

  “Who is he?”

  “The agent in charge of the reservation.”

  “Very well. Where can I find him?”

  “Unfortunately Mr. Blucher is away attending an investigation. But I can take it upon myself to — to make everything all right. Wouldn’t you like to see the school?”

  Marian felt that perhaps she was unfairly prejudiced against the man, who was well spoken enough. But apart from that Mr. Friel had the look in his eyes which she hated. And she never met that look twice. Nevertheless, she must accept people out here in the desert as she found them, and if possible without suffering indignity, she must learn from them.

  “It would be interesting to see the Indian children. I may return here and find some kind of work with them. But I’ve no time now.”

  “I can get you a position here,” he said, eagerly. He was too eager.

  “What authority have you?” asked Marian, bluntly. She omitted thanking him.

  “Well, no outright authority to hire government employees,” he returned. “But I hire people to work for me occasionally. And I’m hand in glove with Morgan. He’s the power here.”

  “Morgan?”

  “He’s been here over twenty years. And he runs things.”

  “What is he?”

  “Missionary.”

  “So — and if I return here to find work — whom should I see first?”

  “Come to me on the quiet. Then we’ll see Morgan. If you got a job before seeing him you’d soon lose it.”

  “Indeed! Well, I’ll think it over,” returned Marian, as she stepped to the car.

  Friel took hold of her arm, not to assist her, but to keep her from entering.

  “Let me drive you to Kaidab. I have my car here. There’s no room in this filthy junk box. Besides, a handsome girl like you oughtn’t be riding alone with one of these Indians.”

  “Why not? He’s the mail carrier. I’m paying him for driving me.”

  “They’re all alike, these Indian louts. You’re not safe with any one of them.”

  “If that’s true, Mr. Friel, it doesn’t speak well for your missionary work. I’ll take a chance on this Indian. Good day.”

  With that Marian resumed her seat in the car and signed the driver to start. He did so after a fashion that presupposed he was glad to leave the vicinity. Marian sat back, just as ready as she imagined he was. The breeze was pleasant. The wide colored spaces beckoned. She was a little amazed at the heat running along and cooling out of her veins. Upon sober reflection, Marian discerned that she resented most the insult to the Indian. She turned to him.

  “Did you understand what that man said?”

  “I savvy him. His head big stick with skin stretched over.”

  Marian was forced to admit that the Indian had discernment and originality. Then straightway she dismissed the irritation from her mind. The ride over the desert was all important. How far was she from Kaidab — from Oljato? Every speeding mile brought her closer to the home of Lo Blandy. She whispered his Indian name over and over again, trying to accept it and make it familiar. She could not succeed. And every thought of him augmented a mounting consciousness of an ordeal to come, baffling and tremendous in its significance. Yet what sweetness of thrill — of strange fire and magic!

  The gray clouds soon obscured the sun, and Marian again felt the chill of the wind. She bundled up once more. Her driver had turned off to the north from the Mesa road, and was following a depression of land, where Marian could not see far. There was a stretch of sandy going, then a climb up a long slope that led to a level plateau, sparsely green with plants, and monotonously gray with distance. Here the Indian put the car to its limit of speed, too fast and too noisy for Marian’s pleasure. Yet she gazed from one side to the other, eager to see. Eastward were long ragged lines of blue earth or rock, evidently marking a canyon. To the west the only mark of note was a great white bluff, standing alone, flat-topped, with bare sloping sides. Soon the gray obscurity ahead turned out to be snow, a driving hard storm that put Marian to another test. Burying her face in scarf and coat collar, she crouched there and endured. Meanwhile time passed and likewise the miles. When the storm cleared away and the sun shone again Marian had reached a wide red basin, sand-sloped and walled in by low cliffs, now shining with wet faces.

  At two o’clock the Indian brought his car to a halt before Red Sandy, a fort- like trading post located high upon an immense slope of sand. The traders, two young men, were as solicitous and kind as had been the Paxtons. Marian was indeed glad to warm her frozen cheeks and ears and hands. The traders conducted Marian to a loft above their store. It was warm, and somehow peculiarly fitting and picturesque with its blankets and baskets and other Indian handiwork. How weirdly the wind moaned outside!

  From the window of this house Marian had a wonderful view that fascinated and repelled her. How desolate and dreary! The immense basin appeared to spread to all points of the compass. Ponds of water glimmered under the lowering sky. Vegetation was so scanty that bushes here and there resembled animals. Across the void rose a whorl of white cliffs, bold and bleak, worn by the elements into strange and irregular conformation. This mass of rock ended abruptly in a sheer bluff facing the south. A wide avenue of spotted desert land separated it from the rise and heave of a black flat mountain to the eastward. Marian saw the almost level line of this tableland wander away into the distance, gradually to disappear in the north. And following the horizon round toward the west she suddenly beheld a dim purple-and-white dome. For long it held her gaze, not alone because of its beauty. It called. It did not seem real, so deep was the purple, so ethereal the white.

  “Is that a mountain?” she asked one of the traders.

  “It shore is,” he replied. “That’s old Nothsis Ahn. It’s worshiped by the Indians.”

  Marian went back to the car, where the Indian sat waiting for her. Almost she resented this swift passage across the desert. It left no time for realization, let alone contemplation. One more moment she gave to Red Sandy. It had beauty, but how austere! There was no life, no movement. The red colors dominated, but did not stand out. They merged with the drab, brown, mauve, and gray. Perhaps the lowering clouds caused the effect of gloom. The silence was impressive.

  On the way down across the sandy basin Marian espied dark riders approaching from around the bluff. She watched them grow until they met and passed her, two Indian men and one woman, riding shaggy ponies and packing blankets and sheepskins behind their saddles. The woman was heavy, garbed in loose dirty garments, with dull, dark face and unkempt hair. It was only at a distance that these Indians looked picturesque.

  Then there ensued an hour in which the car chugged over a sandy road, mostly uphill, with view restricted except on the eastern side. Here the long black flat mountain assumed nobler proportions. Bands of little horses dotted the gray-green rise of ground. An Indian rider appeared on the rim of a ridge, loping along, lending a touch of wildness and life to the scene. Presently the driver called Marian’s attention to a mound of earth with a dark hole leading into it. “Hogan. Indian house,” he said. How crude and primitive! Verily the wants and the comforts of the Indians must be few.

  It was only from the high places, Marian came to learn, that the incredible openness and boundlessness of the desert could be grasped. And there came a ridge summit from which she could see afar, down and across a land of prairie, on to slowly rising bare waste that swept upward to purple and black heights. These colors held her gaze. A round knob of stony hill on the left and the continuous range of mesa on her right seemed gradually to become less prominent in her sight. In another hour she learned that the black heights were forests of cedar and the purple ones were meadows of sage. Long before she reached these beautiful open patches of purple she became aware of a pervading fragrance in the air. It grew keener, stronger, sweeter. Marian recognized the odor of sage. Only how wild and strange, stifling almost, and wholly exhilarating! Here the barrenness of the desert was not in evidence. They had climbed to a high elevation. Forest of cedar and field of sage encompassed her on all sides.

  If this long twenty mile upgrade of desert had not slowly grown from waste to verdure, from desolate, sinister badlands to noble heights of keen sweet air and beautiful color, Marian would not have been prepared for the next phase of this bewildering country. But she had been given time. She had grown with the miles.

  So that when the Indian driver sped his car down a steep break, round curve and corner, out of the forest into a changed world of stone, Marian was not utterly confounded. The road stretched on through a long narrow pass, above which towered cliffs of red and gold and yellow, so lofty that she had to look almost straight up to see their rims. They seemed not to be cliffs, but stone faces of mountains. Marian gazed upward until her eyes ached.