She had
said:
"Some days I feel I've got to walk out of the office,
and down the street, without a hat, and on and on,
walking and walking, and running and running till I come to
the horizon."
And Heyl had answered, in his quiet, reassuring way: "Some
day that feeling will get too strong for you. When that
time comes get on a train marked Denver. From there take
another to Estes Park. That's the Rocky Mountains, where
the horizon lives and has its being. Ask for Heyl's place.
They'll hand you from one to the other. I may be there, but
more likely I shan't. The key's in the mail box, tied to a
string. You'll find a fire laid with fat pine knots. My
books are there. The bedding's in the cedar chest. And the
mountains will make you clean and whole again; and the
pines . . ."
Fanny went to the telephone. Trains for Denver. She found
the road she wanted, and asked for information. She was on
her own ground here. All her life she had had to find her
own trains, check her own trunks, plan her journeys.
Sometimes she had envied the cotton-wool women who had had
all these things done for them, always.
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