Here was
something big, and bountiful, and real, and primal. Good
Kansas dirt. Miles of it. Miles of it. She felt she would
like to get out and tramp on it, hard.
"Pretty cold up there in Estes Park," the conductor had
said. "Been snowing up in the mountains."
She had arranged to stop in Denver only long enough to
change trains. A puffy little branch line was to take her
from Denver to Loveland, and there, she had been told, one
of the big mountain-road steam automobiles would take her up
the mountains to her destination. For one as mentally alert
as she normally was, the exact location of that destination
was very hazy in her mind. Heyl's place. That was all.
Ordinarily she would have found the thought ridiculous. But
she concentrated on it now; clung to it.
At the first glimpse of the foot-hills Fanny's listless gaze
became interested. If you have ever traveled on the jerky,
cleanly, meandering little road that runs between Denver
and the Park you know that it winds, and
curves, so that the mountains seem to leap about, friskily,
first confronting you on one side of the car window, then
disappearing and seeming to taunt you from the windows of
the opposite side.
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