thea’s life at the ottenburg ranch was simple and full of light, like the days themselves. she awoke every morning when the first fierce shafts of sunlight darted through the curtainless windows of her room at the ranch house. after breakfast she took her lunch-basket and went down to the canyon. usually she did not return until sunset.

panther canyon was like a thousand others—one of those abrupt fissures with which the earth in the southwest is riddled; so abrupt that you might walk over the edge of any one of them on a dark night and never know what had happened to you. this canyon headed on the ottenburg ranch, about a mile from the ranch house, and it was accessible only at its head. the canyon walls, for the first two hundred feet below the surface, were perpendicular cliffs, striped with even-running strata of rock. from there on to the bottom the sides were less abrupt, were shelving, and lightly fringed with piñons and dwarf cedars. the effect was that of a gentler canyon within a wilder one. the dead city lay at the point where the perpendicular outer wall ceased and the v-shaped inner gorge began. there a stratum of rock, softer than those above, had been hollowed out by the action of time until it was like a deep groove running along the sides of the canyon. in this hollow (like a great fold in the rock) the ancient people had built their houses of yellowish stone and mortar. the over-hanging cliff above made a roof two hundred feet thick. the hard stratum below was an everlasting floor. the houses stood along in a row, like the buildings in a city block, or like a barracks.

in both walls of the canyon the same streak of soft rock had been washed out, and the long horizontal groove had been built up with houses. the dead city had thus two streets, one set in either cliff, facing each other across the ravine, with a river of blue air between them.

the canyon twisted and wound like a snake, and these two streets went on for four miles or more, interrupted by the abrupt turnings of the gorge, but beginning again within each turn. the canyon had a dozen of these false endings near its head. beyond, the windings were larger and less perceptible, and it went on for a hundred miles, too narrow, precipitous, and terrible for man to follow it. the cliff dwellers liked wide canyons, where the great cliffs caught the sun. panther canyon had been deserted for hundreds of years when the first spanish missionaries came into arizona, but the masonry of the houses was still wonderfully firm; had crumbled only where a landslide or a rolling boulder had torn it.

all the houses in the canyon were clean with the cleanness of sun-baked, wind-swept places, and they all smelled of the tough little cedars that twisted themselves into the very doorways. one of these rock-rooms thea took for her own. fred had told her how to make it comfortable. the day after she came old henry brought over on one of the pack-ponies a roll of navajo blankets that belonged to fred, and thea lined her cave with them. the room was not more than eight by ten feet, and she could touch the stone roof with her finger-tips. this was her old idea: a nest in a high cliff, full of sun. all morning long the sun beat upon her cliff, while the ruins on the opposite side of the canyon were in shadow. in the afternoon, when she had the shade of two hundred feet of rock wall, the ruins on the other side of the gulf stood out in the blazing sunlight. before her door ran the narrow, winding path that had been the street of the ancient people. the yucca and niggerhead cactus grew everywhere. from her doorstep she looked out on the ocher-colored slope that ran down several hundred feet to the stream, and this hot rock was sparsely grown with dwarf trees. their colors were so pale that the shadows of the little trees on the rock stood out sharper than the trees themselves. when thea first came, the chokecherry bushes were in blossom, and the scent of them was almost sickeningly sweet after a shower. at the very bottom of the canyon, along the stream, there was a thread of bright, flickering, golden-green,—cottonwood seedlings. they made a living, chattering screen behind which she took her bath every morning.

thea went down to the stream by the indian water trail. she had found a bathing-pool with a sand bottom, where the creek was damned by fallen trees. the climb back was long and steep, and when she reached her little house in the cliff she always felt fresh delight in its comfort and inaccessibility. by the time she got there, the woolly red-and-gray blankets were saturated with sunlight, and she sometimes fell asleep as soon as she stretched her body on their warm surfaces. she used to wonder at her own inactivity. she could lie there hour after hour in the sun and listen to the strident whir of the big locusts, and to the light, ironical laughter of the quaking asps. all her life she had been hurrying and sputtering, as if she had been born behind time and had been trying to catch up. now, she reflected, as she drew herself out long upon the rugs, it was as if she were waiting for something to catch up with her. she had got to a place where she was out of the stream of meaningless activity and undirected effort.

here she could lie for half a day undistracted, holding pleasant and incomplete conceptions in her mind—almost in her hands. they were scarcely clear enough to be called ideas. they had something to do with fragrance and color and sound, but almost nothing to do with words. she was singing very little now, but a song would go through her head all morning, as a spring keeps welling up, and it was like a pleasant sensation indefinitely prolonged. it was much more like a sensation than like an idea, or an act of remembering. music had never come to her in that sensuous form before. it had always been a thing to be struggled with, had always brought anxiety and exaltation and chagrin—never content and indolence. thea began to wonder whether people could not utterly lose the power to work, as they can lose their voice or their memory. she had always been a little drudge, hurrying from one task to another—as if it mattered! and now her power to think seemed converted into a power of sustained sensation. she could become a mere receptacle for heat, or become a color, like the bright lizards that darted about on the hot stones outside her door; or she could become a continuous repetition of sound, like the cicadas.