While he had been indoors, it had ceased to storm and the view lay clear and clean before him. Although there was a foot of level snow on the rim, so vast were the ledges and benches below that the drifts served only as high lights for their crimson and black and orange. Just beneath Nucky were tree tops, heavy laden with white. Far, far below were tiny shrubs that the porter said were trees and below these,—orderly strips of brilliant colors and still below, and below—! Nucky moistened his dry lips and once more bolted to the hotel.
Just within the door, John Seaton met him.
"Well, Enoch?"
There was no coldness in Nucky's eyes now. They were the frightened eyes of a child.
"I can't stand that thing!" he panted. "I gotta get back to N' York, now!"
Seaton looked at Nucky curiously. "For heaven's sake, Enoch! Where's your nerve?"
"What good would nerve do a guy lookin' at hell!" gasped Nucky.
"Hell? Why the Canyon is one of the beautiful sights of the world!
You're crazy, Enoch! Come out with me and look again."
"Not on your life!" cried Nucky. "I'm going back to little old N'
York."
"It can't be done, my boy. There'll be no trains out of here for at least twelve hours, because of the storm. And listen, Enoch! No nonsense! Remember that if you wander away from the hotel, you're lost. There are no trolleys in this neck of the woods, and no telephones and no police. Wait a moment, Enoch, there's Frank Allen, the guide."