the grand cañon of the colorado by john muir 1902 happy nowadays is the tourist, with earth's wonders, new and old, spread invitingly open before him, and a host of able workers as his slaves making everything easy, padding plush about him, grading roads for him, boring tunnels, moving hills out of his way, eager, like the devil, to show him all the kingdoms of the world and their glory and foolishness, spiritualizing travel for him with lightning and steam, abolishing space and time and almost everything else. little children and tender, pulpy people, as well as storm-seasoned explorers, may now go almost everywhere in smooth comfort, cross oceans and deserts scarce accessible to fishes and birds, and, dragged by steel horses, go up high mountains, riding gloriously beneath starry showers of sparks, ascending like elijah in a whirlwind and chariot of fire. first of the wonders of the great west to be brought within reach of the tourist were the yosemite and the big trees, on the completion of the first transcontinental railway; next came the yellowstone and icy alaska, by the northern roads; and last the grand cañon of the colorado, which, naturally the hardest to reach, has now become, by a branch of the santa fé, the most accessible of all. of course with this wonderful extension of steel ways through our wilderness there is loss as well as gain. nearly all railroads are bordered by belts of desolation. the finest wilderness perishes as if stricken with pestilence. bird and beast people, if not the dryads, are frightened from the groves. too often the groves also vanish, leaving nothing but ashes. fortunately, nature has a few big places beyond man's power to spoil--the ocean, the two icy ends of the globe, and the grand cañon. when i first heard of the santa fé trains running to the edge of the grand cañon of arizona, i was troubled with thoughts of the disenchantment likely to follow. but last winter, when i saw those trains crawling along through the pines of the cocanini forest and close up to the brink of the chasm at bright angel, i was glad to discover that in the presence of such stupendous scenery they are nothing. the locomotives and trains are mere beetles and caterpillars, and the noise they make is as little disturbing as the hooting of an owl in the lonely woods. in a dry, hot, monotonous forested plateau, seemingly boundless, you come suddenly and without warning upon the abrupt edge of a gigantic sunken landscape of the wildest, most multitudinous features, and those features, sharp and angular, are made out of flat beds of limestone and sandstone forming a spiry, jagged, gloriously colored mountain-range countersunk in a level gray plain. it is a hard job to sketch it even in scrawniest outline; and try as i may, not in the least sparing myself, i cannot tell the hundredth part of the wonders of its features--the side-cañons, gorges, alcoves, cloisters, and amphitheaters of vast sweep and depth, carved in its magnificent walls; the throng of great architectural rocks it contains resembling castles, cathedrals, temples, and palaces, towered and spired and painted, some of them nearly a mile high, yet beneath one's feet. all this, however, is less difficult than to give any idea of the impression of wild, primeval beauty and power one receives in merely gazing from its brink. the view down the gulf of color and over the rim of its wonderful wall, more than any other view i know, leads us to think of our earth as a star with stars swimming in light, every radiant spire pointing the way to the heavens. but it is impossible to conceive what the cañon is, or what impression it makes, from descriptions or pictures, however good. naturally it is untellable even to those who have seen something perhaps a little like it on a small scale in this same plateau region. one's most extravagant expectations are indefinitely surpassed, though one expect much from what is said of it as "the biggest chasm on earth"--"so big is it that all other big things,--yosemite, the yellowstone, the pyramids, chicago,--all would be lost if tumbled into it." naturally enough, illustrations as to size are sought for among other cañons like or unlike it, with the common result of worse confounding confusion. the prudent keep silence. it was once said that the "grand cañon could put a dozen yosemites in its vest pocket." the justly famous grand cañon of the yellowstone is, like the colorado, gorgeously colored and abruptly countersunk in a plateau, and both are mainly the work of water. but the colorado's cañon is more than a thousand times larger, and as a score or two new buildings of ordinary size would not appreciably change the general view of a great city, so hundreds of yellowstones might be eroded in the sides of the colorado cañon without noticeably augmenting its size or the richness of its sculpture. but it is not true that the great yosemite rocks would be thus lost or hidden. nothing of their kind in the world, so far as i know, rivals el capitan and tissiack, much less dwarfs or in any way belittles them. none of the sandstone or limestone precipices of the cañon that i have seen or heard of approaches in smooth, flawless strength and grandeur the granite face of el capitan or the tenaya side of cloud's rest. these colossal cliffs, types of permanence, are about three thousand and six thousand feet high; those of the cañon that are sheer are about half as high, and are types of fleeting change; while glorious-domed tissiack, noblest of mountain buildings, far from being overshadowed or lost in this rosy, spiry cañon company, would draw every eye, and, in serene majesty, "aboon them a'" she would take her place--castle, temple, palace, or tower. nevertheless a noted writer, comparing the grand cañon in a general way with the glacial yosemite, says: "and the yosemite--ah, the lovely yosemite! dumped down into the wilderness of gorges and mountains, it would take a guide who knew of its existence a long time to find it." this is striking, and shows up well above the levels of commonplace description; but it is confusing, and has the fatal fault of not being true. as well try to describe an eagle by putting a lark in it. "and the lark--ah, the lovely lark! dumped down the red, royal gorge of the eagle, it would be hard to find." each in its own place is better, singing at heaven's gate, and sailing the sky with the clouds. every feature of nature's big face is beautiful,--height and hollow, wrinkle, furrow, and line,--and this is the main master furrow of its kind on our continent, incomparably greater and more impressive than any other yet discovered, or likely to be discovered, now that all the great rivers have been traced to their heads. the colorado river rises in the heart of the continent on the dividing ranges and ridges between the two oceans, drains thousands of snowy mountains through narrow or spacious valleys, and thence through cañons of every color, sheer-walled and deep, all of which seem to be represented in this one grand cañon of cañons. it is very hard to give anything like an adequate conception of its size, much more of its color, its vast wall-sculpture, the wealth of ornate architectural buildings that fill it, or, most of all, the tremendous impression it makes. according to major powell, it is about two hundred and seventeen miles long, from five to fifteen miles wide from rim to rim, and from about five thousand to six thousand feet deep. so tremendous a chasm would be one of the world's greatest wonders even if, like ordinary cañons cut in sedimentary rocks, it were empty and its walls were simple. but instead of being plain, the walls are so deeply and elaborately carved into all sorts of recesses--alcoves, cirques, amphitheaters, and side-cañons--that were you to trace the rim closely around on both sides your journey would be nearly a thousand miles long. into all these recesses the level, continuous beds of rock in ledges and benches, with their various colors, run like broad ribbons, marvelously beautiful and effective even at a distance of ten or twelve miles. and the vast space these glorious walls inclose, instead of being empty, is crowded with gigantic architectural rock forms gorgeously colored and adorned with towers and spires like works of art. looking down from this level plateau, we are more impressed with a feeling of being on the top of everything than when looking from the summit of a mountain. from side to side of the vast gulf, temples, palaces, towers, and spires come soaring up in thick array half a mile or nearly a mile above their sunken, hidden bases, some to a level with our standpoint, but none higher. and in the inspiring morning light all are so fresh and rosy-looking that they seem new-born; as if, like the quick-growing crimson snow-plants of the california woods, they had just sprung up, hatched by the warm, brooding, motherly weather. in trying to describe the great pines and sequoias of the sierra, i have often thought that if one of those trees could be set by itself in some city park, its grandeur might there be impressively realized; while in its home forests, where all magnitudes are great, the weary, satiated traveler sees none of them truly. it is so with these majestic rock structures. though mere residual masses of the plateau, they are dowered with the grandeur and repose of mountains, together with the finely chiseled carving and modeling of man's temples and palaces, and often, to a considerable extent, with their symmetry. some, closely observed, look like ruins; but even these stand plumb and true, and show architectural forms loaded with lines strictly regular and decorative, and all are arrayed in colors that storms and time seem only to brighten. they are not placed in regular rows in line with the river, but "a' through ither," as the scotch say, in lavish, exuberant crowds, as if nature in wildest extravagance held her bravest structures as common as gravel-piles. yonder stands a spiry cathedral nearly five thousand feet in height, nobly symmetrical, with sheer buttressed walls and arched doors and windows, as richly finished and decorated with sculptures as the great rock temples of india or egypt. beside it rises a huge castle with arched gateway, turrets, watch-towers, ramparts, etc., and to right and left palaces, obelisks, and pyramids fairly fill the gulf, all colossal and all lavishly painted and carved. here and there a flat-topped structure may be seen, or one imperfectly domed; but the prevailing style is ornate gothic, with many hints of egyptian and indian. throughout this vast extent of wild architecture--nature's own capital city--there seem to be no ordinary dwellings. all look like grand and important public structures, except perhaps some of the lower pyramids, broad-based and sharp-pointed, covered with down-flowing talus like loosely set tents with hollow, sagging sides. the roofs often have disintegrated rocks heaped and draggled over them, but in the main the masonry is firm and laid in regular courses, as if done by square and rule. nevertheless they are ever changing: their tops are now a dome, now a flat table or a spire, as harder or softer strata are reached in their slow degradation, while the sides, with all their fine moldings, are being steadily undermined and eaten away. but no essential change in style or color is thus effected. from century to century they stand the same. what seems confusion among the rough earthquake-shaken crags nearest one comes to order as soon as the main plan of the various structures appears. every building, however complicated and laden with ornamental lines, is at one with itself and every one of its neighbors, for the same characteristic controlling belts of color and solid strata extend with wonderful constancy for very great distances, and pass through and give style to thousands of separate structures, however their smaller characters may vary. of all the various kinds of ornamental work displayed,--carving, tracery on cliff-faces, moldings, arches, pinnacles,--none is more admirably effective or charms more than the webs of rain-channeled taluses. marvelously extensive, without the slightest appearance of waste or excess, they cover roofs and dome-tops and the base of every cliff, belt each spire and pyramid and massy, towering temple, and in beautiful continuous lines go sweeping along the great walls in and out around all the intricate system of side-cañons, amphitheaters, cirques, and scallops into which they are sculptured. from one point hundreds of miles of this fairy embroidery may be traced. it is all so fine and orderly that it would seem that not only had the clouds and streams been kept harmoniously busy in the making of it, but that every raindrop sent like a bullet to a mark had been the subject of a separate thought, so sure is the outcome of beauty through the stormy centuries. surely nowhere else are there illustrations so striking of the natural beauty of desolation and death, so many of nature's own mountain buildings wasting in glory of high desert air--going to dust. see how steadfast in beauty they all are in their going. look again and again how the rough, dusty boulders and sand of disintegration from the upper ledges wreathe in beauty the next and next below with these wonderful taluses, and how the colors are finer the faster the waste. we oftentimes see nature giving beauty for ashes,--as in the flowers of a prairie after fire,--but here the very dust and ashes are beautiful. gazing across the mighty chasm, we at last discover that it is not its great depth nor length, nor yet these wonderful buildings, that most impresses us. it is its immense width, sharply defined by precipitous walls plunging suddenly down from a flat plain, declaring in terms instantly apprehended that the vast gulf is a gash in the once unbroken plateau, made by slow, orderly erosion and removal of huge beds of rocks. other valleys of erosion are as great,--in all their dimensions some are greater,--but none of these produces an effect on the imagination at once so quick and profound, coming without study, given at a glance. therefore by far the greatest and most influential feature of this view from bright angel or any other of the cañon views is the opposite wall. of the one beneath our feet we see only fragmentary sections in cirques and amphitheaters and on the sides of the outjutting promontories between them, while the other, though far distant, is beheld in all its glory of color and noble proportions--the one supreme beauty and wonder to which the eye is ever turning. for while charming with its beauty it tells the story of the stupendous erosion of the cañon--the foundation of the unspeakable impression made on everybody. it seems a gigantic statement for even nature to make, all in one mighty stone word, apprehended at once like a burst of light, celestial color its natural vesture, coming in glory to mind and heart as to a home prepared for it from the very beginning. wildness so godful, cosmic, primeval, bestows a new sense of earth's beauty and size. not even from high mountains does the world seem so wide, so like a star in glory of light on its way through the heavens. i have observed scenery-hunters of all sorts getting first views of yosemites, glaciers. while mountain ranges, etc. mixed with the enthusiasm which such scenery naturally excites, there is often weak gushing, and many splutter aloud like little waterfalls. here, for a few moments at least, there is silence, and all are in dead earnest, as if awed and hushed by an earthquake--perhaps until the cook cries "breakfast!" or the stable-boy "horses are ready!" then the poor unfortunates, slaves of regular habits, turn quickly away, gasping and muttering as if wondering where they had been and what had enchanted them. roads have been made from bright angel hotel through the cocanini forest to the ends of outstanding promontories, commanding extensive views up and down the cañon. the nearest of them, three or four miles east and west, are mcneil's point and rowe's point; the latter, besides commanding the eternally interesting cañon, gives wide-sweeping views southeast and west over the dark forest roof to the san francisco and mount trumbull volcanoes--the bluest of mountains over the blackest of level woods. instead of thus riding in dust with the crowd, more will be gained by going quietly afoot along the rim at different times of day and night, free to observe the vegetation, the fossils in the rocks, the seams beneath overhanging ledges once inhabited by indians, and to watch the stupendous scenery in the changing lights and shadows, clouds, showers, and storms. one need not go hunting the so-called "points of interest." the verge anywhere, everywhere, is a point of interest beyond one's wildest dreams. as yet, few of the promontories or throng of mountain buildings in the cañon are named. nor among such exuberance of forms are names thought of by the bewildered, hurried tourist. he would be as likely to think of names for waves in a storm. the eastern and western cloisters, hindu amphitheater, cape royal, powell's plateau, and grand view point, point sublime, bissell and moran points, the temple of set, vishnu's temple, shiva's temple, twin temples, tower of babel, hance's column--these fairly good names given by dutton, holmes, moran, and others are scattered over a large stretch of the cañon wilderness. all the cañon rock-beds are lavishly painted, except a few neutral bars and the granite notch at the bottom occupied by the river, which makes but little sign. it is a vast wilderness of rocks in a sea of light, colored and glowing like oak and maple woods in autumn, when the sun-gold is richest. i have just said that it is impossible to learn what the cañon is like from descriptions and pictures. powell's and dutton's descriptions present magnificent views not only of the cañon but of all the grand region round about it; and holmes's drawings, accompanying dutton's report, are wonderfully good. surely faithful and loving skill can go no further in putting the multitudinous decorated forms on paper. but the _colors_, the living, rejoicing _colors_, chanting morning and evening in chorus to heaven! whose brush or pencil, however lovingly inspired, can give us these? and if paint is of no effect, what hope lies in pen-work? only this: some may be incited by it to go and see for themselves. no other range of mountainous rock-work of anything like the same extent have i seen that is so strangely, boldly, lavishly colored. the famous yellowstone cañon below the falls comes to mind, but, wonderful as it is, and well deserved as is its fame, compared with this it is only a bright rainbow ribbon at the roots of the pines. each of the series of level, continuous beds of carboniferous rocks of the cañon has, as we have seen, its own characteristic color. the summit limestone-beds are pale yellow; next below these are the beautiful rose-colored cross-bedded sandstones; next there are a thousand feet of brilliant red sandstones; and below these the red wall limestones, over two thousand feet thick, rich massy red, the greatest and most influential of the series, and forming the main color-fountain. between these are many neutral-tinted beds. the prevailing colors are wonderfully deep and clear, changing and blending with varying intensity from hour to hour, day to day, season to season; throbbing, wavering, glowing, responding to every passing cloud or storm, a world of color in itself, now burning in separate rainbow bars streaked and blotched with shade, now glowing in one smooth, all-pervading ethereal radiance like the alpenglow, uniting the rocky world with the heavens. the dawn, as in all the pure, dry desert country, is ineffably beautiful; and when the first level sunbeams sting the domes and spires, with what a burst of power the big, wild days begin! the dead and the living, rocks and hearts alike, awake and sing the new-old song of creation. all the massy headlands and salient angles of the walls, and the multitudinous temples and palaces, seem to catch the light at once, and cast thick black shadows athwart hollow and gorge, bringing out details as well as the main massive features of the architecture; while all the rocks, as if wild with life, throb and quiver and glow in the glorious sunburst, rejoicing. every rock temple then becomes a temple of music; every spire and pinnacle an angel of light and song, shouting color halleluiahs. as the day draws to a close, shadows, wondrous, black, and thick, like those of the morning, fill up the wall hollows, while the glowing rocks, their rough angles burned off, seem soft and hot to the heart as they stand submerged in purple haze, which now fills the cañon like a sea. still deeper, richer, more divine grow the great walls and temples, until in the supreme flaming glory of sunset the whole cañon is transfigured, as if all the life and light of centuries of sunshine stored up and condensed in the rocks was now being poured forth as from one glorious fountain, flooding both earth and sky. strange to say, in the full white effulgence of the midday hours the bright colors grow dim and terrestrial in common gray haze; and the rocks, after the manner of mountains, seem to crouch and drowse and shrink to less than half their real stature, and have nothing to say to one, as if not at home. but it is fine to see how quickly they come to life and grow radiant and communicative as soon as a band of white clouds come floating by. as if shouting for joy, they seem to spring up to meet them in hearty salutation, eager to touch them and beg their blessings. it is just in the midst of these dull midday hours that the cañon clouds are born. a good storm-cloud full of lightning and rain on its way to its work on a sunny desert day is a glorious object. across the cañon, opposite the hotel, is a little tributary of the colorado called bright angel creek. a fountain-cloud still better deserves the name "angel of the desert wells"--clad in bright plumage, carrying cool shade and living water to countless animals and plants ready to perish, noble in form and gesture, seeming able for anything, pouring life-giving, wonder-working floods from its alabaster fountains, as if some sky-lake had broken. to every gulch and gorge on its favorite ground is given a passionate torrent, roaring, replying to the rejoicing lightning--stones, tons in weight, hurrying away as if frightened, showing something of the way grand cañon work is done. most of the fertile summer clouds of the cañon are of this sort, massive, swelling cumuli, growing rapidly, displaying delicious tones of purple and gray in the hollows of their sun-beaten bosses, showering favored areas of the heated landscape, and vanishing in an hour or two. some, busy and thoughtful-looking, glide with beautiful motion along the middle of the cañon in flocks, turning aside here and there, lingering as if studying the needs of particular spots, exploring side-cañons, peering into hollows like birds seeking nest-places, or hovering aloft on outspread wings. they scan all the red wilderness, dispensing their blessings of cool shadows and rain where the need is the greatest, refreshing the rocks, their offspring as well as the vegetation, continuing their sculpture, deepening gorges and sharpening peaks. sometimes, blending all together, they weave a ceiling from rim to rim, perhaps opening a window here and there for sunshine to stream through, suddenly lighting some palace or temple and making it flare in the rain as if on fire. sometimes, as one sits gazing from a high, jutting promontory, the sky all clear, showing not the slightest wisp or penciling, a bright band of cumuli will appear suddenly, coming up the cañon in single file, as if tracing a well-known trail, passing in review, each in turn darting its lances and dropping its shower, making a row of little vertical rivers in the air above the big brown one. others seem to grow from mere points, and fly high above the cañon, yet following its course for a long time, noiseless, as if hunting, then suddenly darting lightning at unseen marks, and hurrying on. or they loiter here and there as if idle, like laborers out of work, waiting to be hired. half a dozen or more showers may oftentimes be seen falling at once, while far the greater part of the sky is in sunshine, and not a raindrop comes nigh one. these thunder-showers from as many separate clouds, looking like wisps of long hair, may vary greatly in effects. the pale, faint streaks are showers that fail to reach the ground, being evaporated on the way down through the dry, thirsty air, like streams in deserts. many, on the other hand, which in the distance seem insignificant, are really heavy rain, however local; these are the gray wisps well zigzagged with lightning. the darker ones are torrent rain, which on broad, steep slopes of favorable conformation give rise to so-called "cloudbursts"; and wonderful is the commotion they cause. the gorges and gulches below them, usually dry, break out in loud uproar, with a sudden downrush of muddy, boulder-laden floods. down they all go in one simultaneous gush, roaring like lions rudely awakened, each of the tawny brood actually kicking up a dust at the first onset. during the winter months snow falls over all the high plateau, usually to a considerable depth, whitening the rim and the roofs of the cañon buildings. but last winter, when i arrived at bright angel in the middle of january, there was no snow in sight, and the ground was dry, greatly to my disappointment, for i had made the trip mainly to see the cañon in its winter garb. soothingly i was informed that this was an exceptional season, and that the good snow might arrive at any time. after waiting a few days, i gladly hailed a broad-browed cloud coming grandly on from the west in big promising blackness, very unlike the white sailors of the summer skies. under the lee of a rim-ledge, with another snow-lover, i watched its movements as it took possession of the cañon and all the adjacent region in sight. trailing its gray fringes over the spiry tops of the great temples and towers, it gradually settled lower, embracing them all with ineffable kindness and gentleness of touch, and fondled the little cedars and pines as they quivered eagerly in the wind like young birds begging their mothers to feed them. the first flakes and crystals began to fly about noon, sweeping straight up the middle of the cañon, and swirling in magnificent eddies along the sides. gradually the hearty swarms closed their ranks, and all the cañon was lost in gray gloom except a short section of the wall and a few trees beside us, which looked glad with snow in their needles and about their feet as they leaned out over the gulf. suddenly the storm opened with magical effect to the north over the cañon of bright angel creek, inclosing a sunlit mass of the cañon architecture, spanned by great white concentric arches of cloud like the bows of a silvery aurora. above these and a little back of them was a series of upboiling purple clouds, and high above all, in the background, a range of noble cumuli towered aloft like snow-laden mountains, their pure pearl bosses flooded with sunshine. the whole noble picture, calmly glowing, was framed in thick gray gloom, which soon closed over it; and the storm went on, opening and closing until night covered all. two days later, when we were on a jutting point about eighteen miles east of bright angel and one thousand feet higher, we enjoyed another storm of equal glory as to cloud effects, though only a few inches of snow fell. before the storm began we had a magnificent view of this grander upper part of the cañon and also of the cocanini forest and painted desert. the march of the clouds with their storm-banners flying over this sublime landscape was unspeakably glorious, and so also was the breaking up of the storm next morning--the mingling of silver-capped rock, sunshine, and cloud. most tourists make out to be in a hurry even here; therefore their few days or hours would be best spent on the promontories nearest the hotel. yet a surprising number go down the bright angel trail to the brink of the inner gloomy granite gorge overlooking the river. deep cañons attract like high mountains; the deeper they are, the more surely are we drawn into them. on foot, of course, there is no danger whatever, and, with ordinary precautions, but little on animals. in comfortable tourist faith, unthinking, unfearing, down go men, women, and children on whatever is offered, horse, mule, or burro, as if saying with jean paul, "fear nothing but fear"--not without reason, for these cañon trails down the stairways of the gods are less dangerous than they seem, less dangerous than home stairs. the guides are cautious, and so are the experienced, much-enduring beasts. the scrawniest rosinantes and wizened-rat mules cling hard to the rocks endwise or sidewise, like lizards or ants. from terrace to terrace, climate to climate, down one creeps in sun and shade, through gorge and gully and grassy ravine, and, after a long scramble on foot, at last beneath the mighty cliffs one comes to the grand, roaring river. to the mountaineer the depth of the cañon, from five thousand to six thousand feet, will not seem so very wonderful, for he has often explored others that are about as deep. but the most experienced will be awe-struck but the vast extent of strange, countersunk scenery, the multitude of huge rock monuments of painted masonry built up in regular courses towering above, beneath, and round about him. by the bright angel trail the last fifteen hundred feet of the descent to the river has to be made afoot down the gorge of indian garden creek. most of the visitors do not like this part, and are content to stop at the end of the horse-trail and look down on the dull-brown flood from the edge of the indian garden plateau. by the new hance trail, excepting a few daringly steep spots, you can ride all the way to the river, where there is a good spacious camp-ground in a mesquit-grove. this trail, built by brave hance, begins on the highest part of the rim, eight thousand feet above the sea, a thousand feet higher than the head of bright angel trail, and the descent is a little over six thousand feet, through a wonderful variety of climate and life. often late in the fall, when frosty winds are blowing and snow is flying at one end of the trail, tender plants are blooming in balmy summer weather at the other. the trip down and up can be made afoot easily in a day. in this way one is free to observe the scenery and vegetation, instead of merely clinging to his animal and watching its steps. but all who have time should go prepared to camp awhile on the riverbank, to rest and learn something about the plants and animals and the mighty flood roaring past. in cool, shady amphitheaters at the head of the trail there are groves of white silver fir and douglas spruce, with ferns and saxifrages that recall snowy mountains; below these, yellow pine, nut-pine, juniper, hop-hornbeam, ash, maple, holly-leaved berberis, cowania, spiraea, dwarf oak, and other small shrubs and trees. in dry gulches and on taluses and sun-beaten crags are sparsely scattered yuccas, cactuses, agave, etc. where springs gush from the rocks there are willow thickets, grassy flats, and bright flowery gardens, and in the hottest recesses the delicate abronia, mesquit, woody compositae, and arborescent cactuses. the most striking and characteristic part of this widely varied vegetation are the cactaceae--strange, leafless, old-fashioned plants with beautiful flowers and fruit, in every way able and admirable. while grimly defending themselves with innumerable barbed spears, they offer both food and drink to man and beast. their juicy globes and disks and fluted cylindrical columns are almost the only desert wells that never go dry, and they always seem to rejoice the more and grow plumper and juicier the hotter the sunshine and sand. some are spherical, like rolled-up porcupines, crouching in rock hollows beneath a mist of gray lances, unmoved by the wildest winds. others, standing as erect as bushes and trees or tall branchless pillars crowned with magnificent flowers, their prickly armor sparkling, look boldly abroad over the glaring desert, making the strangest forests ever seen or dreamed of. _cereus giganteus_, the grim chief of the desert tribe, is often thirty or forty feet high in southern arizona. several species of tree yuccas in the same deserts, laden in early spring with superb while lilies, form forests hardly less wonderful, though here they grow singly or in small lonely groves. the low, almost stemless _yucca baccata_, with beautiful lily-flowers and sweet banana-like fruit, prized by the indians, is common along the cañon rim, growing on lean, rocky soil beneath mountain-mahogany, nut-pines, and junipers, beside dense flowery mats of _spiraea caespitosa_ and the beautiful pinnate-leaved _spiraea millefolium_. the nut-pine, _pinus edulis_, scattered along the upper slopes and roofs of the cañon buildings, is the principal tree of the strange dwarf cocanini forest. it is a picturesque stub of a pine about twenty-five feet high, usually-with dead, lichened limbs thrust through its rounded head, and grows on crags and fissured rock tables, braving heat and frost, snow and drought, and continues patiently, faithfully fruitful for centuries. indians and insects and almost every desert bird and beast come to it to be fed. to civilized people from corn and cattle and wheat-field countries the cañon at first sight seems as uninhabitable as a glacier crevasse, utterly silent and barren. nevertheless it is the home of a multitude of our fellow-mortals, men as well as animals and plants. centuries ago it was inhabited by tribes of indians, who, long before columbus saw america, built thousands of stone houses in its crags, and large ones, some of them several stories high, with hundreds of rooms, on the mesas of the adjacent regions. their cliff-dwellings, almost numberless, are still to be seen in the cañon, scattered along both sides from top to bottom and throughout its entire length, built of stone and mortar in seams and fissures like swallows' nests, or on isolated ridges and peaks. the ruins of larger buildings are found on open spots by the river, but most of them aloft on the brink of the wildest, giddiest precipices, sites evidently chosen for safety from enemies, and seemingly accessible only to the birds of the air. many caves were also used as dwelling-places, as were mere seams on cliff-fronts formed by unequal weathering and with or without outer or side walls; and some of them were covered with colored pictures of animals. the most interesting of these cliff-dwellings had pathetic little ribbon-like strips of garden on narrow terraces, where irrigating-water could be carried to them--most romantic of sky-gardens, but eloquent of hard times. in recesses along the river and on the first plateau flats above its gorge were fields and gardens of considerable size, where irrigating-ditches may still be traced. some of these ancient gardens are still cultivated by indians, descendants of cliff dwellers, who raise corn, squashes, melons, potatoes, etc., to reinforce the produce of the many wild food-furnishing plants, nuts, beans, berries, yucca and cactus fruits, grass and sunflower seeds, etc., and the flesh of animals, deer, rabbits, lizards, etc. the cañon indians i have met here seem to be living much as did their ancestors, though not now driven into rock dens. they are able, erect men, with commanding eyes, which nothing that they wish to see can escape. they are never in a hurry, have a strikingly measured, deliberate, bearish manner of moving the limbs and turning the head, are capable of enduring weather, thirst, hunger, and over-abundance, and are blessed with stomachs which triumph over everything the wilderness may offer. evidently their lives are not bitter. the largest of the cañon animals one is likely to see is the wild sheep, or rocky mountain bighorn, a most admirable beast, with limbs that never fail, at home on the most nerve-trying precipices, acquainted with all the springs and passes and broken-down jumpable places in the sheer ribbon cliffs, bounding from crag to crag in easy grace and confidence of strength, his great horns held high above his shoulders, wild red blood beating and hissing through every fiber of him like the wind through a quivering mountain pine. deer also are occasionally met in the cañon, making their way to the river when the wells of the plateau are dry. along the short spring streams beavers are still busy, as is shown by the cotton-wood and willow timber they have cut and peeled, found in all the river drift-heaps. in the most barren cliffs and gulches there dwell a multitude of lesser animals, well-dressed, clear-eyed, happy little beasts--wood-rats, kangaroo-rats, gophers, wood-mice, skunks, rabbits, bob cats, and many others, gathering food, or dozing in their sun-warmed dens. lizards, too, of every kind and color are here enjoying life on the hot cliffs, and making the brightest of them brighter. nor is there any lack of feathered people. the golden eagle may be seen, and the osprey, hawks, jays, humming-birds, the mourning-dove, and cheery familiar singers--the black-headed grosbeak, robin, bluebird, townsend's thrush, and many warblers, sailing the sky and enlivening the rocks and bushes through all the cañon wilderness. here at hance's river camp or a few miles above it brave powell and his brave men passed their first night in the cañon on their adventurous voyage of discovery thirty-three years ago. they faced a thousand dangers, open or hidden, now in their boats gladly sliding down swift, smooth reaches, now rolled over and over in back-combing surges of rough, roaring cataracts, sucked under in eddies, swimming like beavers, tossed and beaten like castaway drift--stout-hearted, undaunted, doing their work through it all. after a month of this they floated smoothly out of the dark, gloomy, roaring abyss into light and safety two hundred miles below. as the flood rushes past us, heavy-laden with desert mud, we naturally think of its sources, its countless silvery branches outspread on thousands of snowy mountains along the crest of the continent, and the life of them, the beauty of them, their history and romance. its topmost springs are far north and east in wyoming and colorado, on the snowy wind river, front, park, and sawatch ranges, dividing the two ocean waters, and the elk, wasatch, uinta, and innumerable spurs streaked with streams, made famous by early explorers and hunters. it is a river of rivers--the du chesne, san rafael, yampa, dolores, gunnison, cotchetopa, uncompahgre, eagle, and roaring rivers, the green and the grand, and scores of others with branches innumerable, as mad and glad a band as ever sang on mountains, descending in glory of foam and spray from snow-banks and glaciers through their rocky moraine-dammed, beaver-dammed channels. then, all emerging from dark balsam and pine woods and coming together, they meander through wide, sunny park valleys, and at length enter the great plateau and flow in deep cañons, the beginning of the system culminating in this grand cañon of cañons. our warm cañon camp is also a good place to give a thought to the glaciers which still exist at the heads of the highest tributaries. some of them are of considerable size, especially those on the wind river and sawatch ranges in wyoming and colorado. they are remnants of a vast system of glaciers which recently covered the upper part of the colorado basin, sculptured its peaks, ridges, and valleys to their present forms, and extended far out over the plateau region--how far i cannot now say. it appears, therefore, that, however old the main trunk of the colorado may be, all its wide-spread upper branches and the landscapes they flow through are new-born, scarce at all changed as yet in any important feature since they first came to light at the close of the glacial period. the so-called grand colorado plateau, of which the grand cañon is only one of its well-proportioned features, extends with a breadth of hundreds of miles from the flanks of the wasatch and park mountains to the south of the san francisco peaks. immediately to the north of the deepest part of the cañon it rises in a series of subordinate plateaus, diversified with green meadows, marshes, bogs, ponds, forests, and grovy park valleys, a favorite indian hunting-ground, inhabited by elk, deer, beaver, etc. but far the greater part of the plateau is good sound desert, rocky, sandy, or fluffy with loose ashes and dust, dissected in some places into a labyrinth of stream-channel chasms like cracks in a dry clay-bed, or the narrow slit crevasses of glaciers,--blackened with lava-flows, dotted with volcanoes and beautiful buttes, and lined with long continuous escarpments,--a vast bed of sediments of an ancient sea-bottom, still nearly as level as when first laid down after being heaved into the sky a mile or two high. walking quietly about in the alleys and byways of the grand cañon city, we learn something of the way it was made; and all must admire effects so great from means apparently so simple: rain striking light hammer-blows or heavier in streams, with many rest sundays; soft air and light, gentle sappers and miners, toiling forever; the big river sawing the plateau asunder, carrying away the eroded and ground waste, and exposing the edges of the strata to the weather; rain torrents sawing cross-streets and alleys, exposing the strata in the same way in hundreds of sections, the softer, less resisting beds weathering and receding faster, thus undermining the harder beds, which fall, not only in small weathered particles, but in heavy sheer-cleaving masses, assisted down from time to time by kindly earthquakes, rain torrents rushing the fallen material to the river, keeping the wall rocks constantly exposed. thus the cañon grows wider and deeper. so also do the side-cañons and amphitheaters, while secondary gorges and cirques gradually isolate masses of the promontories, forming new buildings, all of which are being weathered and pulled and shaken down while being built, showing destruction and creation as one. we see the proudest temples and palaces in stateliest attitudes, wearing their sheets of detritus as royal robes, shedding off showers of red and yellow stones like trees in autumn shedding their leaves, going to dust like beautiful days to night, proclaiming as with the tongues of angels the natural beauty of death. every building is seen to be a remnant of once continuous beds of sediments--sand and slime on the floor of an ancient sea, and filled with the remains of animals, and that every particle of the sandstones and limestones of these wonderful structures was derived from other landscapes, weathered and rolled and ground in the storms and streams of other ages. and when we examine the escarpments, hills, buttes, and other monumental masses of the plateau on either side of the cañon, we discover that an amount of material has been carried off in the general denudation of the region compared with which even that carried away in the making of the grand cañon is as nothing. thus each wonder in sight becomes a window through which other wonders come to view. in no other part of this continent are the wonders of geology, the records of the world's auld lang syne, more widely opened, or displayed in higher piles. the whole cañon is a mine of fossils, in which five thousand feet of horizontal strata are exposed in regular succession over more than a thousand square miles of wall-space, and on the adjacent plateau region there is another series of beds twice as thick, forming a grand geological library--a collection of stone books covering thousands of miles of shelving tier on tier conveniently arranged for the student. and with what wonderful scriptures are their pages filled--myriad forms of successive floras and faunas, lavishly illustrated with colored drawings, carrying us back into the midst of the life of a past infinitely remote. and as we go on and on, studying this old, old life in the light of the life beating warmly about us, we enrich and lengthen our own. _roughing it de luxe_ _by_ _irvin s. cobb_ [illustration: by common consent we had named them clarence and clarice] _roughing it de luxe_ _by_ _irvin s. cobb_ _author of "back home,"_ _"the escape of mr. trimm," "cobb's anatomy,"_ _"cobb's bill of fare," etc._ _illustrated by john t. mccutcheon_ [illustration] _new york_ _george h. doran company_ copyright, 1913, by the curtis publishing company copyright, 1914, by george h. doran company to george h. doran, esq. my friend and still my publisher; my publisher and still my friend _the time table_ page a pilgrim canonized 15 rabid and his friends 55 how do you like the climate? 97 in the haunt of the native son 135 looking for lo 175 illustrations page by common consent we had named them clarence and clarice frontispiece evidently he believed the conspiracy against him was widespread 21 there was not a turkey trotter in the bunch 35 he'd garner in some fellows that wasn't sheep-herders 61 because a man has a soul is no reason he shouldn't have an appetite 73 he was a regular moving picture cowboy and gave general satisfaction 87 the boy who sells you a paper and the youth who blackens your shoes both show solicitude 101 out from under a rock somewhere will crawl a real estate agent 115 he felt that he was properly dressed for the time, the place and the occasion 127 even the place where the turkey trot originated was trotless and quiet 143 the woman nearest the wall has on her furs--it is always cool in the shade 155 it's a great thing out there to be a native son 169 each navajo squaw weaves on an average nine thousand blankets a year 179 as she leveled the lens a yell went up from somewhere 193 as the occupants spilled sprawlingly through the gap, a front tire exploded with a loud report 207 _a pilgrim canonized_ [illustration] a pilgrim canonized it is generally conceded that the grand cañon of arizona beggars description. i shall therefore endeavor to refrain from doing so. i realize that this is going to be a considerable contract. nearly everybody, on taking a first look at the grand cañon, comes right out and admits its wonders are absolutely indescribable--and then proceeds to write anywhere from two thousand to fifty thousand words, giving the full details. speaking personally, i wish to say that i do not know anybody who has yet succeeded in getting away with the job. in the old days when he was doing the literature for the barnum show, tody hamilton would have made the best nominee i can think of. remember, don't you, how when tody started in to write about the elephant quadrille you had to turn over to the next page to find the verb? and almost any one of those young fellows who write advertising folders for the railroads would gladly tackle the assignment; in fact, some of them already have--but not with any tumultuous success. in the presence of the grand cañon, language just simply fails you and all the parts of speech go dead lame. when the creator made it he failed to make a word to cover it. to that extent the thing is incomplete. if ever i run across a person who can put down on paper what the grand cañon looks like, that party will be my choice to do the story when the crack of doom occurs. i can close my eyes now and see the headlines: judgment day a complete success! replete with incident and abounding in surprises--many wealthy families disappointed--full particulars from our special correspondent on the spot! starting out from chicago on the santa fé, we had a full trainload. we came from everywhere: from peaceful new england towns full of elm trees and oldline republicans; from the middle states; and from the land of chewing tobacco, prominent adam's apples and hot biscuits--down where the r is silent, as in no'th ca'lina. and all of us--northerners, southerners, easterners alike--were actuated by a common purpose--we were going west to see the country and rough it--rough it on overland trains better equipped and more luxurious than any to be found in the east; rough it at ten-dollar-a-day hotels; rough it by touring car over the most magnificent automobile roads to be found on this continent. we were a daring lot and resolute; each and every one of us was brave and blithe to endure the privations that such an expedition must inevitably entail. let the worst come; we were prepared! if there wasn't any of the hothouse lamb, with imported green peas, left, we'd worry along on a little bit of the fresh shad roe, and a few conservatory cucumbers on the side. that's the kind of hardy adventurers we were! conspicuous among us was a distinguished surgeon of chicago; in fact, so distinguished that he has had a very rare and expensive disease named for him, which is as distinguished as a physician ever gets to be in this country. abroad he would be decorated or knighted. here we name something painful after him and it seems to fill the bill just as well. this surgeon was very distinguished and also very exclusive. after you scaled down from him, riding in solitary splendor in his drawing room, with kitbags full of symptoms and diagnoses scattered round, we became a mixed tourist outfit. i would not want to say that any of the persons on our train were impossible, because that sounds snobbish; but i will say this--some of them were highly improbable. there was the bride, who put on her automobile goggles and her automobile veil as soon as we pulled out of the chicago yards and never took them off again--except possibly when sleeping. i presume she wanted to show the rest of us that she was accustomed to traveling at a high rate of speed. if the bridegroom had only bethought him to carry one of those siren horns under his arm, and had tooted it whenever we went around a curve, the illusion would have been complete. there was also the middle-aged lady with the camera habit. any time the train stopped, or any time it behaved as though it thought of stopping, out on the platform would pop this lady, armed with her little accordion-plaited camera, with the lens focused and the little atomizer bulb dangling down, all ready to take a few pictures. she snapshotted watertanks, whistling posts, lunch stands, section houses, grade crossings and holes in the snowshed--also scenery, people and climate. a two-by-four photograph of a mountain that's a mile high must be a most splendid reminder of the beauties of nature to take home with you from a trip. there was the conversational youth in the norfolk jacket, who was going out west to fill an important vacancy in a large business house--he told us so himself. it was a good selection, too. if i had a vacancy that i wanted filled in such a way that other people would think the vacancy was still there, this youth would have been my candidate. [illustration: evidently he believed the conspiracy against him was widespread] and finally there was the corn-doctor from a town somewhere in indiana, who had the upper berth in number ten. it seemed to take a load off his mind, on the second morning out, when he learned that he would not have to spend the day up there, but could come down and mingle with the rest of us on a common footing; but right up to the finish of the journey he was uncertain on one or two other points. every time a conductor came through--pullman conductor, train conductor or dining-car conductor--he would hail him and ask him this question: "do i or do i not have to change at williams for the grand cañon?" the conductor--whichever conductor it was--always said, yes, he would have to change at williams. but he kept asking them--he seemed to regard a conductor as a functionary who would deliberately go out of his way to mislead a passenger in regard to an important matter of this kind. after a while the conductors took to hiding out from him and then he began cross-examining the porters, and the smoking-room attendant, and the baggageman, and the flagmen, and the passengers who got aboard down the line in colorado and new mexico. at breakfast in the dining car you would hear his plaintive, patient voice lifted. "yes, waiter," he would say; "fry 'em on both sides, please. and say, waiter, do you know for sure whether we change at williams for the grand cañon?" he put a world of entreaty into it; evidently he believed the conspiracy against him was widespread. at albuquerque i saw him leading off on one side a pueblo indian who was peddling bows and arrows, and heard him ask the indian, as man to man, if he would have to change at williams for the grand cañon. when he was not worrying about changing at williams he showed anxiety upon the subject of the proper clothes to be worn while looking at the grand cañon. among others he asked me about it. i could not help him. i had decided to drop in just as i was, and then to be governed by circumstances as they might arise; but he was not organized that way. on the morning of the last day, as we rolled up through the pine barrens of northern arizona toward our destination, those of us who had risen early became aware of a terrific struggle going on behind the shrouding draperies of that upper berth of his. convulsive spasms agitated the green curtains. muffled swear words uttered in a low but fervent tone filtered down to us. every few seconds a leg or an arm or a head, or the butt-end of a suitcase, or the bulge of a valise, would show through the curtains for a moment, only to be abruptly snatched back. speculation concerning the causes of these strange manifestations ran--as the novelists say--rife. some thought that, overcome with disappointment by the discovery that we had changed at williams in the middle of the night, without his knowing anything about it, he was having a fit all alone up there. presently the excitement abated; and then, after having first lowered his baggage, our friend descended to the aisle and the mystery was explained. he had solved the question of what to wear while gazing at the grand cañon. he was dressed in a new golf suit, complete--from the dinky cap to the scotch plaid stockings. if ever that man visits niagara, i should dearly love to be on hand to see him when he comes out to view the falls, wearing his bathing suit. some of us aboard that train did not seem to care deeply for the desert; the cactus possibly disappointed others; and the mesquit failed to give general satisfaction, though at a conservative estimate we passed through nine million miles of it. a few of the delegates from the eastern seaboard appeared to be irked by the tribal dancing of the hopi indians, for there was not a turkey-trotter in the bunch, the indian settlements of arizona being the only terpsichorean centers in this country to which the young turk movement had not penetrated yet. some objected to the plains because they were so flat and plainlike, and some to the mountains because of their exceedingly mountainous aspect; but on one point we all agreed--on the uniform excellence of the dining-car service. it is a powerfully hard thing for a man to project his personality across the grave. in making their wills and providing for the carrying on of their pet enterprises a number of our richest men have endeavored from time to time to disprove this; but, to date, the percentage of successes has not been large. so far as most of us are concerned the burden of proof shows that in this regard we are one with the famous little dog whose name was rover--when we die, we die all over. every big success represents the personality of a living man; rarely ever does it represent the personality of a dead man. the original fred harvey is dead--has been dead, in fact, for several years; but his spirit goes marching on across the southwestern half of this country. two thousand miles from salt water, the oysters that are served on his dining cars do not seem to be suffering from car-sickness. and you can get a beefsteak measuring eighteen inches from tip to tip. there are spring chickens with the most magnificent bust development i ever saw outside of a burlesque show; and the eggs taste as though they might have originated with a hen instead of a cold-storage vault. if there was only a cabaret show going up and down the middle of the car during meals, even the new york passengers would be satisfied with the service, i think. there is another detail of the harvey system that makes you wonder. out on the desert, in a dead-gray expanse of silence and sagebrush, your train halts at a junction point that you never even heard of before. there is not much to be seen--a depot, a 'dobe cabin or so, a few frame shacks, a few natives, a few indians and a few incurably languid mexicans--and that is positively all there is except that, right out there in the middle of nowhere, stands a hotel big enough and handsome enough for chicago or new york, built in the spanish style, with wide patios and pergolas--where a hundred persons might perg at one time--and gay-striped awnings. it is flanked by flower-beds and refreshingly green strips of lawn, with spouting fountains scattered about. you go inside to a big, spotlessly bright dining room and get as good a meal as you can get anywhere on earth--and served in as good style, too. to the man fresh from the east, such an establishment reminds him vividly of the hurry-up railroad lunch places to which he has been accustomed back home--places where the doughnuts are dornicks and the pickles are fossils, and the hard-boiled egg got up out of a sick bed to be there, and on the pallid yellow surface of the official pie a couple of hundred flies are enacting custard's last stand. it reminds him of them because it is so different. between kansas city and the coast there are a dozen or more of these hotels scattered along the line. and so, with real food to stay you and one of tuskegee's bright, straw-colored graduates to minister to your wants in the sleeper, you come on the morning of the third day to the grand cañon in northern arizona; you take one look--and instantly you lose all your former standards of comparison. you stand there gazing down the raw, red gullet of that great gosh-awful gorge, and you feel your self-importance shriveling up to nothing inside of you. you haven't an adjective left to your back. it makes you realize what the sensations would be of one little microbe lost inside of barnum's fat lady. i think my preconceived conception of the cañon was the same conception most people have before they come to see it for themselves--a straight up-and-down slit in the earth, fabulously steep and fabulously deep; nevertheless merely a slit. it is no such thing. imagine, if you can, a monster of a hollow approximately some hundreds of miles long and a mile deep, and anywhere from ten to sixteen miles wide, with a mountain range--the most wonderful mountain range in the world--planted in it; so that, viewing the spectacle from above, you get the illusion of being in a stationary airship, anchored up among the clouds; imagine these mountain peaks--hundreds upon hundreds of them--rising one behind the other, stretching away in endless, serried rank until the eye swims and the mind staggers at the task of trying to count them; imagine them splashed and splattered over with all the earthly colors you ever saw and a lot of unearthly colors you never saw before; imagine them carved and fretted and scrolled into all shapes--tabernacles, pyramids, battleships, obelisks, moorish palaces--the moorish suggestion is especially pronounced both in colorings and in shapes--monuments, minarets, temples, turrets, castles, spires, domes, tents, tepees, wigwams, shafts. imagine other ravines opening from the main one, all nuzzling their mouths in her flanks like so many sucking pigs; for there are hundreds of these lesser cañons, and any one of them would be a marvel were they not dwarfed into relative puniness by the mother of the litter. imagine walls that rise sheer and awful as the wrath of god, and at their base holes where you might hide all the seven wonders of the olden world and never know they were there--or miss them either. imagine a trail that winds like a snake and climbs like a goat and soars like a bird, and finally bores like a worm and is gone. imagine a great cloud-shadow cruising along from point to point, growing smaller and smaller still, until it seems no more than a shifting purple bruise upon the cheek of a mountain, and then, as you watch it, losing itself in a tiny rift which at that distance looks like a wrinkle in the seamed face of an old squaw, but which is probably a huge gash gored into the solid rock for a thousand feet of depth and more than a thousand feet of width. imagine, way down there at the bottom, a stream visible only at certain favored points because of the mighty intervening ribs and chines of rock--a stream that appears to you as a torpidly crawling yellow worm, its wrinkling back spangled with tarnished white specks, but which is really a wide, deep, brawling, rushing river--the colorado--full of torrents and rapids; and those white specks you see are the tops of enormous rocks in its bed. imagine--if it be winter--snowdrifts above, with desert flowers blooming alongside the drifts, and down below great stretches of green verdure; imagine two or three separate snowstorms visibly raging at different points, with clear, bright stretches of distance intervening between them, and nearer maybe a splendid rainbow arching downward into the great void; for these meteorological three-ring circuses are not uncommon at certain seasons. imagine all this spread out beneath the unflawed turquoise of the arizona sky and washed in the liquid gold of the arizona sunshine--and if you imagine hard enough and keep it up long enough you may begin, in the course of eight or ten years, to have a faint, a very faint and shadowy conception of this spot where the shamed scheme of creation is turned upside down and the very womb of the world is laid bare before our impious eyes. then go to arizona and see it all for yourself, and you will realize what an entirely inadequate and deficient thing the human imagination is. it is customary for the newly arrived visitor to take a ride along the edge of the cañon--the rim-drive, it is called--with stops at hopi point and mohave point and pima point, and other points where the views are supposed to be particularly good. to do this you get into a smart coach drawn by horses and driven by a competent young man in a khaki uniform. leaving behind you a clutter of hotel buildings and station buildings, bungalows and tents, you go winding away through a government forest reserve containing much fine standing timber and plenty more that is not so fine, it being mainly stunted piñon and gnarly desert growths. presently the road, which is a fine, wide, macadamized road, skirts out of the trees and threads along the cañon until it comes to a rocky flange that juts far over. you climb out there and, instinctively treading lightly on your tiptoes and breathing in syncopated breaths, you steal across the ledge, going slowly and carefully until you pause finally upon the very eyelashes of eternity and look down into that great inverted muffin-mold of a cañon. you are at the absolute jumping-off place. there is nothing between you and the undertaker except six-thousand feet, more or less, of dazzling arizona climate. below you, beyond you, stretching both ways from you, lie those buried mountains, the eternal herds of the lord's cattlefold; there are scars upon their sides, like the marks of a mighty branding iron, and in the distance, viewed through the vapor-waves of melting snow, their sides seem to heave up and down like the flanks of panting cattle. half a mile under you, straight as a man can spit, are gardens of willows and grasses and flowers, looking like tiny green patches, and the tents of a camp looking like scattered playing cards; and there is a plateau down there that appears to be as flat as your hand and is seemingly no larger, but actually is of a size sufficient for the evolutions of a brigade of cavalry. [illustration: there was not a turkey trotter in the bunch] when you have had your fill of this the guide takes you and leads you--you still stepping lightly to avoid starting anything--to a spot from which he points out to you, riven into the face of a vast perpendicular chasm above a cave like a monstrous door, a tremendous and perfect figure seven--the house number of the almighty himself. by this i mean no irreverence. if ever jehovah chose an earthly abiding-place, surely this place of awful, unutterable majesty would be it. you move a few yards farther along and instantly the seven is gone--the shift of shadow upon the rock wall has wiped it out and obliterated it--but you do not mourn the loss, because there are still upward of a million things for you to look at. and then, if you have timed wisely the hour of your coming, the sun pretty soon goes down; and as it sinks lower and lower out of titanic crannies come the thickening shades, making new plays and tricks of painted colors upon the walls--purples and reds and golds and blues, ambers and umbers and opals and ochres, yellows and tans and tawnys and browns--and the cañon fills to its very brim with the silence of oncoming night. you stand there, stricken dumb, your whole being dwarfed yet transfigured; and in the glory of that moment you can even forget the gabble of the lady tourist alongside of you who, after searching her soul for the right words, comes right out and gives the grand cañon her cordial indorsement. she pronounces it to be just perfectly lovely! but i said at the outset i was not going to undertake to describe the grand cañon--and i'm not. these few remarks were practically jolted out of me and should not be made to count in the total score. having seen the cañon--or a little bit of it--from the top, the next thing to do is to go down into it and view it from the sides and the bottom. most of the visitors follow the bright angel trail which is handily near by and has an assuring name. there are only two ways to do the inside of the grand cañon--afoot and on mule-back. el tovar hotel provides the necessary regalia, if you have not come prepared--divided skirts for the women and leggings for the men, a mule apiece and a guide to every party of six or eight. at the start there is always a lot of nervous chatter--airy persiflage flies to and fro and much laughing is indulged in. but it has a forced, strained sound, that laughter has; it does not come from the heart, the heart being otherwise engaged for the moment. down a winding footpath moves the procession, with the guide in front, and behind him in single file his string of pilgrims--all as nervous as cats and some holding to their saddle-pommels with death-grips. just under the first terrace a halt is made while the official photographer takes a picture; and when you get back he has your finished copy ready for you, so you can see for yourself just how pale and haggard and wall-eyed and how much like a typhoid patient you looked. the parade moves on. all at once you notice that the person immediately ahead of you has apparently ridden right over the wall of the cañon. a moment ago his arched back loomed before you; now he is utterly gone. it is at this point that some tourists tender their resignations--to take effect immediately. to the credit of the sex, be it said, the statistics show that fewer women quit here than men. but nearly always there is some man who remembers where he left his umbrella or something, and he goes back after it and forgets to return. in our crowd there was one person who left us here. he was a circular person; about forty per cent of him, i should say, rhymed with jelly. he climbed right down off his mule. he said: "i'm not scared myself, you understand, but i've just recalled that my wife is a nervous woman. she'd have a fit if she knew i was taking this trip! i love my wife, and for her sake i will not go down this cañon, dearly as i would love to." and with that he headed for the hotel. i wanted to go with him. i wanted to go along with him and comfort him and help him have his chill, and if necessary send a telegram for him to his wife--she was in pittsburgh--telling her that all was well. but i did not. i kept on. i have been trying to figure out ever since whether this showed courage on my part, or cowardice. over the ridge and down the steep declivity beyond goes your mule, slipping a little. he is reared back until his rump almost brushes the trail; he grunts mild protests at every lurching step and grips his shoecalks into the half-frozen path. you reflect that thousands of persons have already done this thing; that thousands of others--men, women and children--are going to do it, and that no serious accident has yet occurred--which is some comfort, but not much. the thought comes to you that, after all, it is a very bright and beautiful world you are leaving behind. you turn your head to give it a long, lingering farewell, and you try to put your mind on something cheerful--such as your life insurance. then something happens. the trail, that has been slanting at a downward angle which is a trifle steeper than a ship's ladder, but not quite so steep perhaps as a board fence, takes an abrupt turn to the right. you duck your head and go through a little tunnel in the rock, patterned on the same general design of the needle's eye that is going to give so many of our prominent captains of industry trouble in the hereafter. and as you emerge on the lower side you forget all about your life-insurance papers and freeze to your pommel with both hands, and cram your poor cold feet into the stirrups--even in warm weather they'll be good and cold--and all your vital organs come up in your throat, where you can taste them. if anybody had shot me through the middle just about then he would have inflicted only a flesh wound. you have come out on a place where the trail clings to the sheer side of the dizziest, deepest chasm in the known world. one of your legs is scraping against the everlasting granite; the other is dangling over half a mile of fresh mountain air. the mule's off hind hoof grates and grinds on the flinty trail, dislodging a fair-sized stone that flops over the verge. you try to look down and see where it is going and find you haven't the nerve to do it--but you can hear it falling from one narrow ledge to another, picking up other boulders as it goes until there must be a fair-sized little avalanche of them cascading down. the sound of their roaring, racketing passage grows fainter and fainter, then dies almost out, and then there rises up to you from those unutterable depths a dull, thuddy little sound--those stones have reached the cellar! then to you there comes the pleasing reflection that if your mule slipped and you fell off and were dashed to fragments, they would not be large, mussy, irregular fragments, but little teeny-weeny fragments, such as would not bring the blush of modesty to the cheek of the most fastidious. only your mule never slips off! it is contrary to a mule's religion and politics, and all his traditions and precedents, to slip off. he may slide a little and stumble once in a while, and he may, with malice aforethought, try to scrape you off against the outjutting shoulders of the trail; but he positively will not slip off. it is not because he is interested in you. a tourist on the cañon's rim a simple tourist is to him and nothing more; but he has no intention of getting himself hurt. instinct has taught that mule it would be to him a highly painful experience to fall a couple of thousand feet or so and light on a pile of rocks; and therefore, through motives that are purely selfish, he studiously refrains from so doing. when the prophet of old wrote, "how beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him," and so on, i judge he had reference to a mule on a narrow trail. my mule had one very disconcerting way about him--or, rather, about her, for she was of the gentler sex. when she came to a particularly scary spot, which was every minute or so, she would stop dead still. i concurred in that part of it heartily. but then she would face outward and crane her neck over the fathomless void of that bottomless pit, and for a space of moments would gaze steadily downward, with a despondent droop of her fiddle-shaped head and a suicidal gleam in her mournful eyes. it worried me no little; and if i had known, at the time, that she had a german name it would have worried me even more, i guess. but either the time was not ripe for the rash act or else she abhorred the thought of being found dead in the company of a mere tourist, so she did not leap off into space, but restrained herself; and i was very grateful to her for it. it made a bond of sympathy between us. on you go, winding on down past the red limestone and the yellow limestone and the blue sandstone, which is green generally; past huge bat caves and the big nests of pack-rats, tucked under shelves of nature's making; past stratified millions of crumbling seashells that tell to geologists the tale of the salt-water ocean that once on a time, when the world was young and callow, filled this hole brim full; and presently, when you have begun to piece together the tattered fringes of your nerves, you realize that the cañon is even more wonderful when viewed from within than it is when viewed from without. also, you begin to notice now that it is most extensively autographed. apparently about every other person who came this way remarked to himself that this cañon was practically completed and only needed his signature as collaborator to round it out--so he signed it and after that it was a finished job. some of them brought down colored chalk and stencils, and marking pots, and paints and brushes, and cold chisels to work with, which must have been a lot of trouble, but was worth it--it does add so greatly to the beauty of the grand cañon to find it spangled over with such names as you could hear paged in almost any dollar-a-day american-plan hotel. the guide pointed out a spot where one of these inspired authors climbed high up the face of a white cliff and, clinging there, carved out in letters a foot long his name; and it was one of those names that, inscribed upon a register, would instinctively cause any room clerk to reach for the key to an inside one, without bath. i regret to state that nothing happened to this person. he got down safe and sound; it was a great pity, too. by the bright angel trail it is three hours on a mule to the plateau, where there are green summery things growing even in midwinter, and where the temperature is almost sultry; and it is an hour or so more to the riverbed, down at the very bottom. when you finally arrive there and look up you do not see how you ever got down, for the trail has magically disappeared; and you feel morally sure you are never going to get back. if your mule were not under you pensively craning his head rearward in an effort to bite your leg off, you would almost be ready to swear the whole thing was an optical illusion, a wondrous dream. under these circumstances it is not so strange that some travelers who have been game enough until now suddenly weaken. their nerves capsize and the grit runs out of them like sand out of an overturned pail. all over this part of arizona they tell you the story of the lady from the southern part of the state--she was a school teacher and the story has become an epic--who went down bright angel one morning and did not get back until two o'clock the following morning; and then she came against her will in a litter borne by two tired guides, while two others walked beside her and held her hands; and she was protesting at every step that she positively could not and would not go another inch; and she was as hysterical as a treeful of chickadees; her hat was lost, and her glasses were gone, and her hair hung down her back, and altogether she was a mournful sight to see. likewise the natives will tell you the tale of a man who made the trip by crawling round the more sensational corners upon his hands and knees; and when he got down he took one look up to where, a sheer mile above him, the rim of the cañon showed, with the tall pine trees along its edge looking like the hairs upon a caterpillar's back, and he announced firmly that he wished he might choke if he stirred another step. through the miraculous indulgence of a merciful providence he was down, and that was sufficient for him; he wasn't going to trifle with his luck. he would stay down until he felt good and rested, and then he would return to his home in dear old altoona by some other route. he was very positive about it. there were two guides along, both of them patient and forbearing cowpunchers, and they argued with him. they pointed that there was only one suitable way for him to get out of the cañon, and that was the way by which he had got into it. "the trouble with you fellows," said the man, "is that you are too dad-blamed technical. the point is that i'm here, and here i'm going to stay." "but," they told him, "you can't stay here. you'd starve to death like that poor devil that some prospectors found in that gulch yonder--turned to dusty bones, with a pack rat's nest in his chest and a rock under his head. you'd just naturally starve to death." "there you go again," he said, "importing these trivial foreign matters into the discussion. let us confine ourselves to the main issue, which is that i am not going back. this rock shall fly from its firm base as soon as i," he said, or words to that effect. so insisting, he sat down, putting his own firm base against the said rock, and prepared to become a permanent resident. he was a grown man and the guides were less gentle with him than they had been with the lady school teacher. they roped his arms at the elbows and hoisted him upon a mule and tied his legs together under the mule's belly, and they brought him out of there like a sack of bran--only he made more noise than any sack of bran has ever been known to make. coming back up out of the grand cañon is an even more inspiring and amazing performance than going down. but by now--anyhow this was my experience, and they tell me it is the common experience--you are beginning to get used to the sensation of skirting along the raw and ragged verge of nothing. narrow turns where, going down, your hair pushed your hat off, no longer affright you; you take them jauntily--almost debonairly. you feel that you are now an old mountain-scaler, and your soul begins to crave for a trip with a few more thrills to the square inch in it. you get your wish. you go down hermit trail, which its middle name is thrills; and there you make the acquaintance of the hydrophobic skunk. the hydrophobic skunk is a creature of such surpassing accomplishments and vivid personality that i feel he is entitled to a new chapter. the hydrophobic skunk will be continued in our next. _rabid and his friends_ [illustration] _rabid and his friends_ the hydrophobic skunk resides at the extreme bottom of the grand cañon and, next to a southern republican who never asked for a federal office, is the rarest of living creatures. he is so rare that nobody ever saw him--that is, nobody except a native. i met plenty of tourists who had seen people who had seen him, but never a tourist who had seen him with his own eyes. in addition to being rare, he is highly gifted. i think almost anybody will agree with me that the common, ordinary skunk has been most richly dowered by nature. to adorn a skunk with any extra qualifications seems as great a waste of the raw material as painting the lily or gilding refined gold. he is already amply equipped for outdoor pursuits. nobody intentionally shoves him round; everybody gives him as much room as he seems to need. he commands respect--nay, more than that, respect and veneration--wherever he goes. joy-riders never run him down and foot passengers avoid crowding him into a corner. you would think nature had done amply well by the skunk; but no--the hydrophobic skunk comes along and upsets all these calculations. besides carrying the traveling credentials of an ordinary skunk, he is rabid in the most rabidissimus form. he is not mad just part of the time, like one's relatives by marriage--and not mad most of the time, like the old-fashioned railroad ticket agent--but mad all the time--incurably, enthusiastically and unanimously mad! he is mad and he is glad of it. we made the acquaintance of the hydrophobic skunk when we rode down hermit trail. the casual visitor to the grand cañon first of all takes the rim drive; then he essays bright angel trail, which is sufficiently scary for his purposes until he gets used to it; and after that he grows more adventurous and tackles hermit trail, which is a marvel of corkscrew convolutions, gimleting its way down this red abdominal wound of a cañon to the very gizzard of the world. alongside the hermit, traveling the bright angel is the same as gathering the myrtles with mary; but the civil engineers who worked out the scheme of the hermit and made it wide and navigable for ordinary folks were bright young men. they laid a wall along its outer side all the way from the top to the bottom. now this wall is made of loose stones racked up together without cement, and it is nowhere more than a foot or a foot and a half high. if your mule ever slipped--which he never does--or if you rolled off on your own hook--which has not happened to date--that puny little wall would hardly stop you--might not even cause you to hesitate. but some way, intervening between you and a thousand feet or so of uninterrupted fresh air, it gives a tremendous sense of security. life is largely a state of mind, anyhow, i reckon. as a necessary preliminary to going down hermit trail you take a buckboard ride of ten miles--ten wonderful miles! almost immediately the road quits the rocky, bare parapet of the gorge and winds off through the noble, big forest that is a part of the government reserve. jays that are twice as large and three times as vocal as the eastern variety weave blue threads in the green background of the pines; and if there is snow upon the ground its billowy white surface is crossed and criss-crossed with the dainty tracks of coyotes, and sometimes with the broad, furry marks of the wildcat's pads. the air is a blessing and the sunshine is a benediction. away off yonder, through a break in the conifers, you see one lone and lofty peak with a cap of snow upon its top. the snow fills the deeper ravines that furrow its side downward from the summit so that at this distance it looks as though it were clutched in a vast white owl's claw; and generally there is a wispy cloud caught on it like a white shirt on a poor man's monday washpole. or, huddled together in a nest formation like so many speckled eggs, you see the clutch of little mottled mountains for which nobody seems to have a name. if these mountains were in scotland, sir walter scott and bobby burns would have written about them and they would be world-famous, and tourists from america would come and climb their slopes, and stand upon their tops, and sop up romance through all their pores. but being in arizona, dwarfed by the heaven-reaching ranges and groups that wall them in north, south and west, they have not even a christian name to answer to. anon--that is to say, at the end of those ten miles--you come to the head of hermit trail. there you leave your buckboard at a way station and mount your mule. presently you are crawling downward, like a fly on a board fence, into the depths of the chasm. you pass through rapidly succeeding graduations of geology, verdure, scenery and temperature. you ride past little sunken gardens full of wild flowers and stunty fir trees, like bits of old japan; you climb naked red slopes crowned with the tall cactus, like old mexico; you skirt bald, bare, blistered vistas of desolation, like old perdition. you cross horsethief's trail, which was first traced out by the moccasined feet of marauding apaches and later was used by white outlaws fleeing northward with their stolen pony herds. you pass above the gloomy shadows of blythe's abyss and wind beneath a great box-shaped formation of red sandstone set on a spindle rock and balancing there in dizzy space like mohammed's coffin; and then, at the end of a mile-long jog along a natural terrace stretching itself midway between heaven and the other place, you come to the residence of shorty, the official hermit of the grand cañon. [illustration: he'd garner in some fellows that wasn't sheepherders] shorty is a little, gentle old man, with warped legs and mild blue eyes and a set of whiskers of such indeterminate aspect that you cannot tell at first look whether they are just coming out or just going back in. he belongs--or did belong--to the vast vanishing race of old-time gold prospectors. halfway down the trail he does light housekeeping under an accommodating flat ledge that pouts out over the pathway like a snuffdipper's under lip. he has a hole in the rock for his chimney, a breadth of weathered gray canvas for his door and an eighty-mile stretch of the most marvelous panorama on earth for his front yard. he minds the trail and watches out for the big boulders that sometimes fall in the night; and, except in the tourist season, he leads a reasonably quiet existence. alongside of shorty, robinson crusoe was a tenement-dweller, and jonah, weekending in the whale, had a perfectly uproarious time; but shorty thrives on a solitude that is too vast for imagining. he would not trade jobs with the most potted potentate alive--only sometimes in mid-summer he feels the need of a change stealing over him, and then he goes afoot out into the middle of death valley and spends a happy vacation of five or six weeks with the gila monsters and the heat. he takes toby with him. toby is a gentlemanly little woolly dog built close to the earth like a carpet sweeper, with legs patterned crookedly--after the model of his master's. toby has one settled prejudice: he dislikes indians. you have only to whisper the word "injun" and instantly toby is off, scuttling away to the highest point that is handy. from there he peers all round looking for red invaders. not finding any he comes slowly back, crushed to the earth with disappointment. nobody has ever been able to decide what toby would do with the indians if he found them; but he and shorty are in perfect accord. they have been associated together ever since toby was a pup and shorty went into the hermit business, and that was ten years ago. sitting cross-legged on a flat rock like a little gnome, with his puckered eyes squinting off at space, shorty told us how once upon a time he came near losing toby. "me and toby," he said, "was over to flagstaff, and that was several years ago. there was a saloon man over there owned a bulldog and he wanted that his bulldog and toby should fight. toby can lick mighty nigh any dog alive; but i didn't want that toby should fight. but this here saloon man wouldn't listen. he sicked his bulldog on to toby and in about a minute toby was taking that bulldog all apart. "this here saloon man he got mad then--he got awful mad. he wanted to kill toby and he pulled out his pistol. i begged him mighty hard please not to shoot toby--i did so! i stood in front of toby to protect him and i begged that man not to do it. then some other fellows made him put up his gun, and me and toby came on away from there." his voice trailed off. "i certainly would 'a' hated to lose toby. we set a heap of store by one another--don't we, dog?" and toby testified that it was so--testified with wriggling body and licking tongue and dancing eyes and a madly wagging stump tail. as we mounted and jogged away we looked back, and the pair of them--shorty and toby--were sitting there side by side in perfect harmony and perfect content; and i could not help wondering, in a country where we sometimes hang a man for killing a man, what would have been adequate punishment for a brute who would kill toby and leave shorty without his partner! in another minute, though, we had rounded a jagged sandstone shoulder and they were out of sight. about that time johnny, our guide, felt moved to speech, and we hearkened to his words and hungered for more, for johnny knows the ranges of the northwest as a city dweller knows his own little side street. in the fall of the year johnny comes down to the cañon and serves as a guide a while; and then, when he gets so he just can't stand associating with tourists any longer, he packs his warbags and journeys back to the northern range and enjoys the company of cows a spell. cows are not exactly exciting, but they don't ask fool questions. a highly competent young person is johnny and a cowpuncher of parts. most of the cañon guides are cowpunchers--accomplished ones, too, and of high standing in the profession. with a touch of reverence johnny pointed out to us sam scovel, the greatest bronco buster of his time, now engaged in piloting tourists. "can he ride?" echoed johnny in answer to our question. "scovel could ride an earthquake if she stood still long enough for him to mount! he rode steamboat--not young steamboat, but old steamboat! he rode rocking chair, and he's the only man that ever did do that and not be called on in a couple of days to attend his own funeral." this day he told us about one tom, who lived up in wyoming, where johnny came from. it appeared that in an easier day tom was hired by some cattle men to thin out the sheep herders who insisted upon invading the public ranges. by johnny's account tom did the thinning with conscientious attention to detail and gave general satisfaction for a while; but eventually he grew careless in his methods and took to killing parties who were under the protection of the game laws. likewise his own private collection of yearlings began to increase with a rapidity which was only to be accounted for on the theory that a large number of calves were coming into the world with tom's brand for a birthmark. so he lost popularity. several times his funeral was privily arranged, but on each occasion was postponed owing to the failure of the corpse to be present. finally he killed a young boy and was caught and convicted, and one morning they took him out and hanged him rather extensively. "tom was mighty methodical," said johnny. "he got five hundred a head for killing sheep herders--that was the regular tariff. every time he bumped one off he'd put a stone under his head, which was his private mark--a kind of a duebill, as you might say. and when they'd find that dead herder with the rock under his head they'd know there was another five hundred comin' to tom on the books; they always paid it, too. once in a while, though, he'd cut loose in a saloon and garner in some fellows that wasn't sheep herders. there was quite a number that thought tom acted kind of ungentlemanly when he was drinkin'." we went on and on at a lazy mule-trot, hearing the unwritten annals of the range from one who had seen them enacted at first hand. pretty soon we passed a herd of burros with mealy, dusty noses and spotty hides, feeding on prickly pears and rock lichens; and just before sunset we slid down the last declivity out upon the plateau and came to a camp as was a camp! this was roughing it de luxe with a most de-luxey vengeance! here were three tents, or rather three canvas houses, with wooden half-walls; and they were spick-and-span inside and out, and had glass windows in them and doors and matched wooden floors. the one that was a bedroom had gay navajo blankets on the floor, and a stove in it, and a little bureau, and a washstand with white towels and good lathery soap. and there were two beds--not cots or bunks, but regular beds--with wire springs and mattresses and white sheets and pillowslips. they were not veteran sheets and vintage pillowslips either, but clean and spotless ones. the mess tent was provided with a table with a clean cloth to go over it, and there were china dishes and china cups and shiny knives, forks and spoons. every scrap of this equipment had been brought down from the top on burro packs. the grand cañon is scenically artistic, but it is a non-producing district. and outside there was a corral for the mules; a canvas storehouse; hitching stakes for the burros; a dutch oven, and a little forge where the guides sometimes shoe a mule. they aren't blacksmiths; they merely have to be. bill was in charge of the camp--a dark, rangy, good-looking young leading man of a cowboy, wearing his blue shirt and his red neckerchief with an air. he spoke with the soft texas drawl and in his way was as competent as johnny. the sun, which had been winking farewells to us over the rim above, dropped out of sight as suddenly as though it had fallen into a well. from the bottom the shadows went slanting along the glooming walls of the gorges, swallowing up the yellow patches of sunlight that still lingered near the top like blacksnakes swallowing eggs. every second the colors shifted and changed; what had been blue a moment before was now purple and in another minute would be a velvety black. a little lost ghost of an echo stole out of a hole and went straying up and down, feebly mocking our remarks and making them sound cheap and tawdry. then the new moon showed as a silver fish, balancing on its tail and arching itself like a hooked skipjack. in a purpling sky the stars popped out like pinpricks and the peace that passes all understanding came over us. i wish to take advantage of this opportunity to say that, in my opinion, david belasco has never done anything in the way of scenic effects to beat a moonrise in the grand cañon. i reckon we might have been there until now--my companion and i--soaking our souls in the unutterable beauty of that place, only just about that time we smelled something frying. there was also a most delectable sputtering sound as of fat meat turning over on a hot skillet; but just the smell alone was a square meal for a poor family. the meeting adjourned by acclamation. just because a man has a soul is no reason he shouldn't have an appetite. that johnny certainly could cook! served on china dishes upon a cloth-covered table, we had mounds of fried steaks and shoals of fried bacon; and a bushel, more or less, of sheepherder potatoes; and green peas and sliced peaches out of cans; and sourdough biscuits as light as kisses and much more filling; and fresh butter and fresh milk; and coffee as black as your hat and strong as sin. how easy it is for civilized man to become primitive and comfortable in his way of eating, especially if he has just ridden ten miles on a buckboard and nine more on a mule and is away down at the bottom of the grand cañon--and there is nobody to look on disapprovingly when he takes a bite that would be a credit to a steam shovel! [illustration: because a man has a soul is no reason he shouldn't have an appetite] despite all reports to the contrary, i wish to state that it is no trouble at all to eat green peas off a knifeblade--you merely mix them in with potatoes for a cement; and fried steak--take it from an old steak-eater--tastes best when eaten with those tools of nature's own providing, both hands and your teeth. an hour passed--busy, yet pleasant--and we were both gorged to the gills and had reared back with our cigars lit to enjoy a third jorum of black coffee apiece, when johnny, speaking in an offhand way to bill, who was still hiding away biscuits inside of himself like a parlor prestidigitator, said: "seen any of them old hydrophobies the last day or two?" "not so many," said bill casually. "there was a couple out last night pirootin' round in the moonlight. i reckon, though, there'll be quite a flock of 'em out tonight. a new moon always seems to fetch 'em up from the river." both of us quit blowing on our coffee and we put the cups down. i think i was the one who spoke. "i beg your pardon," i asked, "but what did you say would be out tonight?" "we were just speakin' to one another about them hydrophoby skunks," said bill apologetically. "this here cañon is where they mostly hang out and frolic 'round." i laid down my cigar, too. i admit i was interested. "oh!" i said softly--like that. "is it? do they?" "yes," said johnny. "i reckin there's liable to be one come shovin' his old nose into that door any minute. or probably two--they mostly travels in pairs--sets, as you might say." "you'd know one the minute you saw him, though," said bill. "they're smaller than a regular skunk and spotted where the other kind is striped. and they got little red eyes. you won't have no trouble at all recognizin' one." it was at this juncture that we both got up and moved back by the stove. it was warmer there and the chill of evening seemed to be settling down noticeably. "funny thing about hydrophoby skunks," went on johnny after a moment of pensive thought--"mad, you know!" "what makes them mad?" the two of us asked the question together. "born that way!" explained bill--"mad from the start, and won't never do nothin' to get shut of it." "ahem--they never attack humans, i suppose?" "don't they?" said johnny, as if surprised at such ignorance. "why, humans is their favorite pastime! humans is just pie to a hydrophoby skunk. it ain't really any fun to be bit by a hydrophoby skunk neither." he raised his coffee cup to his lips and imbibed deeply. "which you certainly said something then, johnny," stated bill. "you see," he went on, turning to us, "they aim to catch you asleep and they creep up right soft and take holt of you--take holt of a year usually--and clamp their teeth and just hang on for further orders. some says they hang on till it thunders, same as snappin' turtles. but that's a lie, i judge, because there's weeks on a stretch down here when it don't thunder. all the cases i ever heard of they let go at sun-up." "it is right painful at the time," said johnny, taking up the thread of the narrative; "and then in nine days you go mad yourself. remember that fellow the hydrophoby skunk bit down here by the rapids, bill? let's see now--what was that hombre's name?" "williams," supplied bill--"heck williams. i saw him at flagstaff when they took him there to the hospital. that guy certainly did carry on regardless. first he went mad and his eyes turned red, and he got so he didn't have no real use for water--well, them prospectors don't never care much about water anyway--and then he got to snappin' and bitin' and foamin' so's they had to strap him down to his bed. he got loose though." "broke loose, i suppose?" i said. "no, he bit loose," said bill with the air of one who would not deceive you even in a matter of small details. "do you mean to say he bit those leather straps in two?" "no, sir; he couldn't reach them," explained bill, "so he bit the bed in two. not in one bite, of course," he went on. "it took him several. i saw him after he was laid out. he really wasn't no credit to himself as a corpse." i'm not sure, but i think my companion and i were holding hands by now. outside we could hear that little lost echo laughing to itself. it was no time to be laughing either. under certain circumstances i don't know of a lonelier place anywhere on earth than that grand cañon. presently my friend spoke, and it seemed to me his voice was a mite husky. well, he had a bad cold. "you said they mostly attack persons who are sleeping out, didn't you?" "that's right, too," said johnny, and bill nodded in affirmation. "then, of course, since we sleep indoors everything will be all right," i put in. "well, yes and no," answered johnny. "in the early part of the evening a hydrophoby is liable to do a lot of prowlin' round outdoors; but toward mornin' they like to get into camps--they dig up under the side walls or come up through the floor--and they seem to prefer to get in bed with you. they're cold-blooded, i reckin, same as rattlesnakes. cool nights always do drive 'em in, seems like." "it's going to be sort of coolish to-night," said bill casually. it certainly was. i don't remember a chillier night in years. my teeth were chattering a little--from cold--before we turned in. i retired with all my clothes on, including my boots and leggings, and i wished i had brought along my earmuffs. i also buttoned my watch into my lefthand shirt pocket, the idea being if for any reason i should conclude to move during the night i would be fully equipped for traveling. the door would not stay closely shut--the doorjamb had sagged a little and the wind kept blowing the door ajar. but after a while we dozed off. it was one-twenty-seven a.m. when i woke with a violent start. i know this was the exact time because that was when my watch stopped. i peered about me in the darkness. the door was wide open--i could tell that. down on the floor there was a dragging, scuffling sound, and from almost beneath me a pair of small red eyes peered up phosphorescently. "he's here!" i said to my companion as i emerged from my blankets; and he, waking instantly, seemed instinctively to know whom i meant. i used to wonder at the ease with which a cockroach can climb a perfectly smooth wall and run across the ceiling. i know now that to do this is the easiest thing in the world--if you have the proper incentive behind you. i had gone up one wall of the tent and had crossed over and was in the act of coming down the other side when bill burst in, his eyes blurred with sleep, a lighted lamp in one hand and a gun in the other. i never was so disappointed in my life because it wasn't a hydrophobic skunk at all. it was a pack rat, sometimes called a trade rat, paying us a visit. the pack or trade rat is also a denizen of the grand cañon. he is about four times as big as an ordinary rat and has an appetite to correspond. he sometimes invades your camp and makes free with your things, but he never steals anything outright--he merely trades with you; hence his name. he totes off a side of meat or a bushel of meal and brings a cactus stalk in; or he will confiscate your saddlebags and leave you in exchange a nice dry chip. he is honest, but from what i can gather he never gets badly stuck on a deal. next morning at breakfast johnny and bill were doing a lot of laughing between them over something or other. but we had our revenge! about noon, as we were emerging at the head of the trail, we met one of the guides starting down with a couple that, for the sake of convenience, we had christened clarence and clarice. shorty hailed us. "how's everything down at the camp?" he inquired. "oh, all right!" replied bill--"only there's a good many of them hydrophoby skunks pesticatin' about. last night we seen four." clarence and clarice crossed startled glances, and it seemed to me that clarice's cheek paled a trifle; or it may have been clarence's cheek that paled. he bent forward and asked shorty something, and as we departed full of joy and content we observed that shorty was composing himself to unload that stock horror tale. it made us very happy. by common consent we had named them clarence and clarice on their arrival the day before. at first glance we decided they must have come from back bay, boston--probably by way of lenox, newport and palm beach; if harvard had been a co-educational institution we should have figured them as products of cambridge. it was a shock to us all when we learned they really hailed from chicago. they were nearly of a height and a breadth, and similar in complexion and general expression; and immediately after arriving they had appeared for the ride down the bright angel in riding suits that were identical in color, cut and effect--long-tailed, tight-buttoned coats; derby hats; stock collars; shiny top boots; cute little crops, and form-fitting riding trousers with those bartlett pear extensions midships and aft--and the prevalent color was a soft, melting, misty gray, like a cow's breath on a frosty morning. evidently they had both patronized the same tailor. he was a wonder, that tailor. using practically the same stage effects, he had, nevertheless, succeeded in making clarence look feminine and clarice look masculine. we had gone down to the rim to see them off. and when they passed us in all the gorgeousness of their city bridle-path regalia, enthroned on shaggy mules, behind a flock of tourists in nondescript yet appropriate attire, and convoyed by a cowboy who had no reverence in his soul for the good, the sweet and the beautiful, but kept sniggering to himself in a low, coarse way, we felt--all of us--that if we never saw another thing we were amply repaid for our journey to arizona. the exactly opposite angle of this phenomenon was presented by a certain eastern writer, a member, as i recall, of the jersey city school of wild west story writers, who went to arizona about two years ago to see if the facts corresponded with his fiction; if not he would take steps to have the facts altered--i believe that was the idea. he reached el tovar at grand cañon in the early morning, hurried at once to his room and presently appeared attired for breakfast. competent eyewitnesses gave me the full details. he wore a flannel shirt that was unbuttoned at the throat to allow his adam's apple full sweep, a hunting coat, buckskin pants and high boots, and about his waist was a broad belt supporting on one side a large revolver--one of the automatic kind, which you start in to shooting by pulling the trigger merely and then have to throw a bucket of water on it to make it stop--and on the other side, as a counterpoise, was a buck-handled bowie knife such as was so universally not used by the early pioneers of our country. as he crossed the lobby, jangling like a milk wagon, he created a pronounced impression upon all beholders. the hotel is managed by an able veteran of the hotel business, assisted by a charming and accomplished wife; it is patronized by scientists, scholars and cosmopolitans, who come from all parts of the world to see the grand cañon; and it is as up-to-the-minute in its appointments and service as though it fronted on broadway, or chestnut street, or pennsylvania avenue. our hero careened across the intervening space. on reaching the dining room he snatched off his coat and, with a gesture that would have turned hackett or faversham as green with envy as a processed stringbean, flung it aside and prepared to enter. it was plain that he proposed to put on no airs before the simple children of the desert wilds. he would eat his antelope steak and his grizzly b'ar chuck in his shirt-sleeves, the way kit carson and old man bridger always did. [illustration: he was a regular moving picture cowboy and gave general satisfaction] the young woman who presides over the dining room met him at the door. in the cool, clarified accents of a wellesley graduate, which she is, she invited him to have on his things if he didn't mind. she also offered to take care of his hardware for him while he was eating. he consented to put his coat back on, but he clung to his weapons--there was no telling when the indians might start an uprising. probably at the moment it would have deeply pained him to learn that the only indian uprising reported in these parts in the last forty years was a carbuncle on the back of the neck of uncle hopi hooligan, the gentle copper-colored floorwalker of the white-goods counter in the hopi house, adjacent to the hotel! however, he stayed on long enough to discover that even this far west ordinary human garments make a most excellent protective covering for the stranger. many of the tourists do not do this. they arrive in the morning, take a hurried look at the cañon, mail a few postal cards, buy a navajo blanket or two and are out again that night. yet they could stay on for a month and make every hour count. to begin with, there is the cañon, worth a week of anybody's undivided attention. within easy reach are the painted desert and the petrified forests--thousands of acres of trees turned to solid agate. if these things were in europe they would be studded thick with hotels and americans by the thousand would flock across the seas to look at them. there are cliff-dwellers' ruins older than ancient babylon and much less expensive. the reservations of the hopis and the navajos, most distinctive of all the southern tribes, are handy, while all about stretches a big government reserve full of natural wonders and unnatural ones, too--everything on earth except a lover's leap. there are unexcelled facilities for lover's leaps, too--thousands of appropriate places are within easy walking distance of the hotel; but no lover ever yet cared to leap where he would have to drop five or six thousand feet before he landed. he'd be such a mussy lover; no satisfaction to himself then--or to the undertaker, either. however, as i was saying, most of the tourists run in on the morning train and out again on the evening train. to this breed belonged a youth who dropped in during our stay; i think he must have followed the crowd in. as he came out from breakfast i chanced to be standing on the side veranda and i presume he mistook me for one of the hired help. this mistake has occurred before when i was stopping at hotels. "my friend," he said to me in the patronizing voice of an experienced traveler, "is there anything interesting to see round here at this time of day?" either he had not heard there was a grand cañon going on regularly in that vicinity or he may have thought it was open only for matinees and evenings. so i took him by the hand and led him over to the curio store and let him look at the mexican drawnwork. it seemed to satisfy him, too--until by chance he glanced out of a window and discovered that the cañon was in the nature of a continuous performance. the same week there arrived a party of six or eight easterners who yearned to see some of those real genuine wild western characters such as they had met so often in a film. the manager trotted out a troupe of trail guides for them--all ex-cowboys; but they, being merely half a dozen sunburned, quiet youths in overalls, did not fill the bill at all. the manager hated to have his guests depart disappointed. privately he called his room clerk aside and told him the situation and the room clerk offered to oblige. the room clerk had come from ohio two years before and was a mighty accommodating young fellow. he slipped across to the curio store and put on a big hat and some large silver spurs and a pair of leather chaps made by one of the most reliable mail-order houses in this country. thus caparisoned, he mounted a pony and came charging across the lawn, uttering wild ki-yis and quirting his mount at every jump. he steered right up the steps to the porch where the delighted easterners were assembled, and then he yanked the pony back on his haunches and held him there with one hand while with the other he rolled a brown-paper cigarette--which was a trick he had learned in a high-school frat at cincinnati--and altogether he was the picture of a regular moving-picture cowboy and gave general satisfaction. if the cowboys are disappointing in their outward aspect, however, captain jim hance is not. the captain is the official prevaricator of the grand cañon. it is probably the only salaried job of the sort in the world--his competitors in the same line of business mainly work for the love of it. he is a venerable retired prospector who is specially retained by the santa fe road for the sole purpose of stuffing the casual tourist with the kind of fiction the casual tourist's system seems to crave. he just moons round from spot to spot, romancing as he goes. two of the captain's standbys have been advertised to the world. one of them deals with the sad fate of his bride, who on her honeymoon fell off into the cañon and lodged on a rim three hundred feet below. "i was two days gettin' down to the poor little thing," he tells you, "and then i seen both her hind legs was broke." here the captain invariably pauses and looks out musingly across the cañon until the victim bites with an impatient "what happened then?" "oh, i knew she wouldn't be no use to me any more as a bride--so i shot her!" the other tale he saves up until some tenderfoot notices the succession of blazes upon the treetrunks along one of the forest trails and wants to know what made those peculiar marks upon the bark all at the same height from the earth. captain hance explains that he himself did it--with his elbows and knees--while fleeing from a war party of apaches. his newest one, though--the one he is featuring this year--is, in the opinion of competent judges, the gem of the hance collection. it concerns the fate of one total loss watkins, an old and devoted friend of the captain. as a preliminary he leads a group of wide-eared, doe-eyed victims to the rim of the cañon. "right here," he says sorrowfully, "was where poor old total slipped off one day. it's two thousand feet to the first ledge and we thought he was a gone fawnskin, sure! but he had on rubber boots, and he had the presence of mind to light standing up. he bounced up and down for two days and nights without stoppin', and then we had to get a wingshot to kill him in order to keep him from starvin' to death." the next stop will be southern california, the land of perpetual sunshine--except when it rains! _how do you like the climate?_ [illustration] _how do you like the climate?_ once upon a time a stranger went to southern california; and when he was asked the customary question--to wit: "how do you like the climate?" he said: "no, i don't like it!" so they destroyed him on the spot. i have forgotten now whether they merely hanged him on the nearest tree or burned him at the stake; but they destroyed him utterly and hid his bones in an unmarked grave. history, that lying jade, records that when balboa first saw the pacific he plunged breast-deep into the waves, drew his sword and waved it on high, probably using for that purpose the australian crawl stroke; and then, in that generous and carefree way of the early discoverers, claimed the ocean and all points west in the name of his catholic majesty, carlos the cutup, or pedro the impossible, or whoever happened to be the king of spain for the moment. personal investigation convinces me that the current version of the above incident was wrong. what balboa did first was to state that he liked the climate better than any climate he'd ever met; was perfectly crazy about it, in fact, and intended to sell out back east and move west just as soon as he could get word home to his folks; after which, still following the custom of the country, he bought a couple of navajo blankets and some moccasins with blue beadwork on the toes, mailed a few souvenir postcards to close friends, and had his photograph taken showing him standing in the midst of the tropical verdure, with a freshly picked orange in his hand. and if he waved his sword at all it was with the idea of forcing the real-estate agents to stand back and give him air. i am sure that these are the correct details, because that is what every round-tripper does upon arriving in southern california; and, though balboa finished his little jaunt of explorations at a point some distance below the california state line, he was still in the climate belt. life out there in that fair land is predicated on climate; out there climate is capitalized, organized and systematized. every native is a climate booster; so is every newcomer as soon as he has stuck round long enough to get the climate habit, which is in from one to three days. they talk climate; they think climate; they breathe it by day; they snore it by night; and in between times they live on it. and it is good living, too--especially for the real-estate people and the hotel-keepers. southern californians brag of their climate just as new york brags of its wickedness and its skyscrapers, and as richmond brags of its cooking and its war memories. i don't blame them either; the california climate is worth all the brags it gets. back east in the wintertime we have weather; out in southern california they never have weather--nothing but climate. for hours on hours a native will stand outdoors, with his hat off and his head thrown back, inhaling climate until you can hear his nostrils smack. and after you've been on the spot a day or two you're doing the same thing yourself, for, in addition to being salubrious, the california climate is catching. [illustration: the boy who sells you a paper and the youth who blackens your shoes both show solicitude] just as soon as you cross the arizona line you discover that you have entered the climate belt. as your train whizzes past the monument that marks the boundary an earnest-minded passenger leans over, taps you on the breastbone and informs you that you are now in california, and wishes to know, as man to man, whether you don't regard the climate as about the niftiest article in that line you ever experienced! at the hotel the young lady of the telephone switchboard, who calls you in the morning, plugs in the number of your room; and when you drowsily answer the bell she informs you that it is now eight-thirty and--what do you think of the climate? the boy who sells you a paper and the youth who blackens your shoes both show solicitude to elicit your views upon this paramount subject. at breakfast the waiter finds out--if he can--how you like the climate before finding out how you like your eggs. when you pay your bill on going away the clerk somehow manages to convey the impression that the charges have been remarkably moderate considering what you have enjoyed in the matter of climate. punching your round-trip ticket on the train starting east, the conductor has a few well-merited words to speak on behalf of the climate of the glorious southland, the same being the favorite pet name of the resident classes for the entire lower end of the state of california. everybody is doing it, including press, pulpit and general public. the weather story--beg pardon, the climate story--is the most important thing in the daily paper, especially if a blizzard has opportunely developed back east somewhere and is available for purposes of comparison. at los angeles, which is the great throbbing heart of the climate belt, i went as a guest to a stag given at the handsome new clubhouse of a secret order renowned the continent over for its hospitality and its charities. we sat, six or seven hundred of us, in a big assembly hall, smoked cigars and drank light drinks, and witnessed some corking good sparring bouts by non-professional talent. there were two or three ministers present--fine, alert representatives of the modern type of city clergymen. when eleven o'clock came the master of ceremonies announced the toast, to our absent brothers! and called upon one of those clergymen to respond to it. the minister climbed up on the platform--a tall man, with a thick crop of hair and a profile as clean cut as a cameo and as mobile as an actor's, the face of a born orator. he could talk, too, that preacher! in language that was poetic without being sloppy he paid a tribute to the spirit of fraternity that fairly lifted us out of our chairs. every man there was touched, i think--and deeply touched; no man who believed in the brotherhood of man, whether he practiced it or not, could have listened unmoved to that speech. he spoke of the absent ones. some of them he said had answered the last rollcall, and some were stretched upon the bed of affliction, and some were unavoidably detained by business in the east; and he intimated that those in the last category who had been away for as long as three weeks wouldn't know the old place when they got back!--applause. this naturally brought him round to the subject of los angeles as a city of business and homes. he pointed out its marvelous growth--quoting freely from the latest issue of the city directory and other reliable authorities to prove his figures; he made a few heartrousing predictions touching on its future prospects, as tending to show that in a year or less san francisco and other ambitious contenders along the coast would be eating at the second table; he peopled the land clear back to the mountains with new homes and new neighbors; and he wound up, in a burst of vocal glory, with the most magnificent testimonial for the climate i ever heard any climate get. did he move his audience then? oh, but didn't he move them, though! along toward the close of the third minute of uninterrupted cheering i thought the roof was gone. on the day after my arrival i made one very serious mistake; in fact, it came near to being a fatal one. i met a lady, and naturally right away she asked me the customary opening question. every conversation between a stranger and a resident begins according to that formula. still it seemed to me an inopportune hour for bringing up the subject. it was early in march and the day was one of those days which a greenhorn from the east might have been pardoned for regarding as verging upon the chilly--not to say the raw. also, it seemed to be raining. i say it seemed to be raining, because no true southern californian would admit any actual defects in the climatic arrangements. if pressed he might concede that ostensibly an infinitesimal percentage of precipitation was descending, and that apparently the mercury had descended a notch or two in the tube. further than that, in the absence of the official reports, he would not care to commit himself. you never saw such touching loyalty anywhere! those scoffing neighbors of noah who kept denying on there was going to be any flood right up to the moment when they went down for the third time were rank amateurs alongside a seasoned resident of los angeles. i was newly arrived, however, and i hadn't acquired the ethics yet; and, besides, i had contracted a bad cold and had been taking a number of things for it and for the moment was, as you might say, full of conflicting emulsions. so, in reply to this lady's question, i said it occurred to me that the prevalent atmospheric conditions might for the nonce stand a few trifling alterations without any permanent ill effects. i repeat that this was a mistake; for this particular lady was herself a recent arrival, and of all the incurable californians, the new ones are the most incurable. she gave me one look--but such a look! from a reasonably solid person i became first a pulp and then a pap; and then, reversing the processes of creation as laid down in genesis, first chapter, and first to fifth verses, i liquefied and turned to gas, and darkness covered me, and i became void and without form, and passed off in the form of a vapor, leaving my clothes inhabited only by a blushing and embarrassed emptiness. when the outraged lady abated the intensity of her scornful gaze and i painfully reassembled my astral body out of space and projected it back into my earthly tenement again, i found i'd shrunk so in these various processes that nothing i wore fitted me any longer. i shall never commit that error again. i know better now. if i were a condemned criminal about to die on a gallows at the state penitentiary, i would make the customary announcement touching on my intention of going straight to heaven--condemned criminals never seem to have any doubt on that point--and then in conclusion i would add that after southern california, i knew i wouldn't care for the climate up there. then i would step serenely off into eternity, secure in the belief that, no matter how heinous my crime might have been, all the local papers would give me nice obituary notices. i'd be absolutely sure of the papers, because the papers are the last to concede that there ever was or ever will be a flaw in the climate anywhere. in a certain city out on the coast there is one paper that refuses even to admit that a human being can actually expire while breathing the air of southern california. it won't go so far as to say that anybody has died--"passed away" is the term used. you read in its columns that medulla oblongata, the mexican who was kicked in the head by a mule last sunday afternoon, has passed away at the city hospital; or that, during yesterday's misunderstanding in chinatown between the bing bangs and the ok louies, two tong men were shot and cut in such a manner that they practically passed away on the spot. when i was there i traveled all one day over the route of an unprecedented cold snap that had happened along a little earlier and mussed up the citrus groves; and, though i will not go so far as to say that the orange crop had died or that it had been killed, it did look to me as though it had passed away to a considerable extent. this sort of visitation, however, doesn't occur often; in fact, it never had occurred before--and the chances are it never will occur again. next to taxes and the high cost of living, i judge the california climate to be about the most dependable institution we have in this country--yes, and one of the most satisfactory, too. to its climate california is indebted for being the most extravagantly beautiful spot i've seen on this continent. it isn't just beautiful in spots--it is beautiful all over; it isn't beautiful in a sedate, reserved way--there is a prodigal, riotous, abandoned spendthriftiness to its beauty. i don't know of anything more wonderful than an automobile ride through one of the fruit valleys in the mission country. in one day's travel--or, at most, two--you can get a taste of all the things that make this farthermost corner of the united states at once so diversified and so individual--sky-piercing mountain and mirage-painted desert; seashore and upland; ranch lands, farm lands and fruit lands; city and town; traces of our oldest civilization and stretches of our newest; wilderness and jungle and landscape garden; the pines of the snows, the familiar growths of the temperate zone, the palms of the tropics; and finally--which is california's own--the big trees. all day you may ride and never once will your eye rest upon a picture that is commonplace or trumpery. going either north or south, your road lies between mountains. to the eastward, shutting out the deserts from this domain of everlasting summer, are the sierras--great saw-edged old he-mountains, masculine as bulls or bucks, all rugged and wrinkled, bearded with firs and pines upon their jowls, but bald-headed and hoar with age atop like the prophets of old. but the mountains of the coast range, to the westward, are full-bosomed and maternal, mothering the valleys up to them; and their round-uddered, fecund slopes are covered with softest green. only when you come closer to them you see that the garments on their breasts are not silky-smooth as they looked at a distance, but shirred and gored, gathered and smocked. i suppose even a lady mountain never gets too old to follow the fashions! now you pass an orchard big enough to make a hundred of your average eastern orchards; and if it be of apples or plums or cherries, and the time be springtime, it is all one vast white bridal bouquet; but if it be of almonds or peaches the whole land, maybe for miles on end, blazes with a pink flame that is the pinkest pink in the world--pinker than the heart of a ripe watermelon; pinker than the inside of a blond cow. here is a meadowland of purest, deepest green; and flung across it, like a streak of sunshine playing hooky from heaven, is a slash of wild yellow poppies. there, upon a hillside, stands a clump of gnarly, dwarfed olives, making you think of bible times and the old testament. or else it is a great range, where cattle by thousands feed upon the slopes. or a crested ridge, upon which the gum trees stand up in long aisles, sorrowful and majestic as the funereal groves of the ancient greeks--that is, provided it was the ancient greeks who had the funereal groves. or, best of all and most striking in its contrasts, you will see a hill all green, with a nap on it like a family album; and right on the top of it an old, crumbly gray mission, its cross gleaming against the skyline; and, down below, a modern town, with red roofs and hipped windows, its houses buried to their eaves in palms and giant rose bushes, and huge climbing geraniums, and all manner of green tropical growths that are nature's own christmas trees, with the red-and-yellow dingle-dangles growing upon them. or perhaps it is a gorge choked with the enormous redwoods, each individual tree with a trunk like the washington monument. and, if you are only as lucky as we were, up overhead, across the blue sky, will be drifting a hundred fleecy clouds, one behind the other, like woolly white sheep grazing upon the meadows of the firmament. everywhere the colors are splashed on with a barbaric, almost a theatrical, touch. it's a regular backdrop of a country; its scenery looks as though it belonged on a stage--as though it should be painted on a curtain. you almost expect to see a chorus of comic-opera brigands or a bevy of stage milkmaids come trooping out of the wings any minute. who was the libelous wretch who said that the flowers of california had no perfume and the birds there had no song? where we passed through tangled woods the odors distilled from the wild flowers by the sun's warmth were often almost suffocating in their sweetness; and in a yellow-tufted bush on the lawn at coronado i came upon a mocking-bird singing in a way to make his brother minstrel of mobile or savannah feel like applying for admission to a school of expression and learning the singing business all over again. [illustration: out from under a rock somewhere will crawl a real estate agent] at the end of the valley--top end or bottom end as the case may be--you come to a chain of lesser mountains, dropped down across your path like a trailing wing of the indians' fabled thunder-bird, vainly trying to shut you out from the next valley. you climb the divide and run through the pass, with a brawling river upon one side and tall cliffs upon the other; and then all of a sudden the hills magically part and you are within sight--almost within touch--of the ocean; for in this favored land the mountains come right down to the sea and the sea comes right up to the mountains. it may be upon a tiny bay that you have emerged, with the meadows sloping straight to tidemark, and out beyond the wild fowl feeding by the kelp beds. or perhaps you have come out upon a ragged, rugged headland, crowned belike with a single wind-twisted tree, grotesquely suggesting a frizzly chicken; and away below, straight and sheer, are the rocks rising out of the water like the jaws of a mangle. down there in that ginlike reef neptune is forever washing out his shirt in a smother of foamy lather. and he has spilled his bluing pot, too--else how could all the sea be so blue? on the outermost rocks the sea-lions have stretched themselves, looking like so many overgrown slugs; and they lie for hours and sun themselves and bellow--or, at least, i am told they do so on occasion. there was unfortunately no bellowing going on the day i was there. the unearthly beauty of the whole thing overpowers you. the poet that lives in nearly every human soul rouses within you and you feel like withdrawing to yon dense grove or yon peaked promontory to commune with nature. but be advised in season. restrain yourself! carefully refrain! do not do so! because out from under a rock somewhere will crawl a real-estate agent to ask you how you like the climate and take a dollar down as first payment on a fruit ranch, or a suburban lot, or a seaside villa--or something. climate did it and he can prove it. only he doesn't have to prove it--you admit it. i had never seen the mediterranean when i went west; but i saw the cypresses of del monte, and the redwood grove in the cañon just below harry leon wilson's place, down past carmel-by-the-sea; and that was sufficient. i had no burning yearning to see naples and die, as the poet suggested. i felt that i would rather see monterey bay again on a bright march day and live! and for all of this--for fruit, flowers and scenery, for real-estate agents, and for a race of the most persistent boosters under the sun--the climate is responsible. climate advertised is responsible for the rush of travel from the east that sets in with the coming of winter and lasts until well into the following spring; and climate realized is responsible for the string of tourist hotels that dot the coast all along from just below san francisco to the mexican border. both externally and internally the majority of these hotels are singularly alike. mainly they are rambling frame structures done in a modified spanish architecture--late spanish crossed on early peoria--with a lobby so large that, loafing there, you feel as though you were in the waiting-room of the grand central terminal, and with a dining room about the size of the state of rhode island, and a sun parlor that has windows all round, so as to give its occupants the aspect, when viewed from without, of being inmates of an aquarium; and a gorgeous tea room done in the style of one of the french louies--louie the limit, i guess. there are some notable exceptions to the rule--some of the places have pleasing individualities of their own, but most of them were cut off the same pattern. likewise the bulk of their winter patrons are cut off the same pattern. the average eastern tourist is a funny biped anyhow, and he is at his funniest out in california. living along the eastern seaboard are a large number of well-to-do people who harken not to the slogan of see america first, because many of them cannot see america at any price; they can just barely recognize its existence as a suitable place for making money, but no place for spending it. what makes life worth living to them is the fact that europe is distant only a four-day run by the four-day boat, the same being known as a four-day boat because only four days are required for the run between daunt's rock and ambrose channel, which is a very convenient arrangement for deep-sea divers and long-distance swimmers desiring to get on at daunt's rock and get off in ambrose channel, but slightly extending the journey for passengers who are less amphibious by nature. these people constitute one breed of eastern tourists. there is the other breed, who are willing to see america provided it is made over to conform with the accepted eastern model. those who can afford the expense go to florida in the winter; but it requires at least a million in small change to feel at home in that setting, and so a good many who haven't quite a million to spare, head for southern california as the next best spot on the map. arriving there, they endeavor to reproduce on as exact a scale as possible the life of the ultra fashionable florida resorts; the result is what a burlesque manager would call a number two palm beach company playing the western wheel. up and down the coast these tourists traipse for months on end, spending a week here and two weeks there, and doing the same things in the same way at each new stopping place. you meet them, part from them, and meet them again at the next stand, until the monotony of it grows maddening; and always they are intently following the routine you saw them following last week or the week before, or the week before that. they have traveled clear across the continent to practice such diversions as they might have had within two hours' ride of philadelphia or new york; and they are going to practice them, too, or know the reason why. of course they are not all constituted this way; i am speaking now of the impression created in california by tourists in bulk. they decline to do the things for which this country is best adapted; they will not see the things for which it is most famous. few of them take the roughing trips up into the mountains; fewer still visit the desert country. all about them the tremendous engineering contracts that have made this land a commercial arabian nights' entertainment are being carried out--the mighty reclamation schemes; the irrigation projects; the damming up of cañons and the shoveling away of mountains--but your average group of eastern tourists pass these by with dull and glazed eyes, their souls being bound up in the desire to reach the next hotel on the route with the least possible waste of time, and take up the routine where it was broken off at the last hotel. they tennis and they golf, and some go horseback riding and some take drives; and at one or two places there is polo in the season. likewise, in accordance with the rules laid down by the palm beach authorities, the women change clothes as often as possible during the course of the day; and in the evening all hands appear in full dress for dinner, the same being very wearing on men and very pleasing to women--that is, all of them do except a few obstinate persons who defy convention and remain comfortable. after dinner some of the younger people dance and some of the older ones play bridge; but the vast majority sit round--and then sit round some more and wonder whether eleven o'clock will ever come so they can go to bed! a good many take the wrong kind of clothes out there with them. they have read in the advertisements that southern california is a land of perpetual balm, where flowers bloom the year round; and they pack their trunks with the lightest and thinnest wearing apparel they own, which is a mistake. the natives know better than that. the all-wool sweater is the national garment of the western coast--both sexes and all ages go to it unanimously. experience proves it the ideal thing to wear; for in southern california in the winter it is never really hot in the sun and it is often exceedingly cool in the shade. besides, there is a sea wind that blows pretty regularly and which makes a specialty of working through the crannies in a silk shirt or a lingerie blouse. the chilliest, most pallid-looking things i ever saw in my life were a pair of white linen trousers i found in the top tray of my trunk when i reached the extreme lower end of california. i had to cover them under two blankets and a bedspread that night to keep the poor things from freezing stiff. the medium-weight garments an easterner wears between seasons are admirably suited for the west coast in the winter; but the guileless tenderfoot who is making his first trip to california usually doesn't learn this until it is too late. if he is wise he studies out the situation on his arrival, and thereafter takes his overcoat with him when he goes riding and his sweater when he goes walking; but there are many others who will be summer boys and girls though they perish in the attempt. at coronado i witnessed a mighty pitiable sight. it was a cool day, cooler than ordinary even, with a stiff wind blowing skeiny shreds of sea fog in off the gray ocean; and a beating rain was falling at frequent intervals. the veranda was full of easterners trying to look comfortable in summer clothes and not succeeding, while the road in front was dotted with westerners, comfortable and cozy in their thick sweaters. there emerged upon the wind-swept porch a youth who would have been a sartorial credit to himself on a florida beach in february or upon a jersey board-walk in august; but he did not coincide with the atmospheric scheme of things on a rainy march day down in southern california. [illustration: he felt he was properly dressed for the time, the place and the occasion] to begin with, he was a spindly and fragile person, with a knobby forehead and a fade-away face. dressed in close-fitting black and turned sidewise, with his profile to you, he would instantly suggest a neatly rolled umbrella with a plain bone handle. but he was not dressed in black; he was dressed in white--all white, like a bride or a bandaged thumb; white silk shirt; white flannel coat, with white pearl buttons spangled freely over it; white trousers; white panama hat; white socks; white buckskin shoes, with white rubber soles on them. he was, in short, all white except his face, which was a pinched, wan blue, and his nose, which was a suffused and chilly red. if my pencil had had an eraser on it i'm satisfied i could have backed him up against the wall and rubbed him right out; but he bore up splendidly. it was plain he felt that he was properly dressed for the time, the place and the occasion; and to him that was ample compensation for his suffering. i heard afterward that he lost three sets of tennis and had a congestive chill--all in the course of the same afternoon. the unconquerable determination of the eastern tourist to have southern california conform to his back-home standards is responsible for the fact that many of the tourist hotels out there are not so typical of the west as they might be--and as in my humble judgment they should be--but are as eastern as it is possible to make them--eastern in cuisine, in charges and in their operating schedules. here, again, there are some notable exceptions. in the supposedly wilder sections of the west, lying between the rockies and the sierras, the situation is different. it is notably different in arizona and new mexico in the south, and in utah, montana and wyoming in the north. there the person who serves you for hire is neither your menial nor your superior; whereas in the east he or she is nearly always one or the other, and sometimes both at once. this particular type of westerner doesn't patronize you; neither does he cringe to you in expectation of a tip. he gives you the best he has in stock, meanwhile retaining his own self-respect and expecting you to do the same. he ennobles and dignifies personal service. out on the coast, however--or at least at several of the big hotels out on the coast--the system, thanks to eastern influence, has been changed. the whole scheme is patterned after the accepted new york model. the charges for small services are as exorbitant as in new york, and the iniquities of the tipping system are worked out as amply and as wickedly as in the city where they originated. somebody with a taste for statistics figured it out once that if a man owned a three-dollar hat and wore it for two months, lunching every day at a new york café, and if he dined four nights a week at a new york restaurant and attended the theater twice a week, his hat at the end of those two months would cost him in tips eighteen dollars and seventy cents! no, on second thought, i guess it was a pair of earmuffs that would have cost him eighteen-seventy. a hat would have been more. it would be more in southern california--i'm sure of that. there the tipping habit is made more expensive by reason of the prevalent spirit of western generosity. the born westerner never has got used to dimes and nickels. to him quarters are still chicken-feed and a half dollar is small change. so the tips are just as numerous as in new york and for the same service they are frequently larger. a lot has been said and written about the marvelous palms of lower california and a lot more might be said--for they are outstretched everywhere; and if you don't cross them with silver at frequent intervals you would do well to try camping out for a change. likewise a cursory glance at the prices on some of the menus is calculated to make a new yorker homesick--they're so familiarly and unreasonably steep. and frequently the dishes you get aren't typical of the country; they are--thanks again be to the easterner--mostly transplanted imitations of the concoctions of the broadway and the fifth avenue chefs. there are compensations, though. there are some hotels that are operated on admirably different lines, and there are abundant opportunities for escaping altogether from hotel life and seeing this land of the living backdrop where it is untainted and unspoiled; where the hills are clothed in green and yellow; where little spanishy looking towns nestle below the missions, and the mocking-birds sing, and the real-estate boomer leaps from crag to crag, sounding his flute-like note. and don't forget the climate! but that is unnecessary advice. you won't have a chance to forget it--not for a minute you won't! _in the haunt of the native son_ [illustration] _in the haunt of the native son_ there are various ways of entering san francisco, and the traveling general passenger agent of any one of half a dozen trunklines stands ready to prove to you--absolutely beyond the peradventure of a doubt--that his particular way is incomparably the best one; but to my mind a very satisfactory way is to go overland from monterey. the route we followed led us lengthwise through the wonderful santa clara country, straight up a wide box plait of valley tucked in between an ornamental double ruffle of mountains. i suppose if we passed one ranch we passed a thousand--cattle ranches, fruit ranches, hen ranches, chicken ranches, bee ranches--all the known varieties and subvarieties. in california you mighty soon get out of the habit of speaking of farms; for there are no farms--only ranches. the particular ranch to which you have reference may be a ten-thousand-acre ranch, where they raise enough beef critters to feed a standing army, or it may be a half-acre ranch, where somebody is trying to make things home-like and happy for eight hens and a rooster; but a ranch it always is, and usually it is a model of its kind, too. the birds in california do not build nests. they build ranches. most of the way along the santa clara valley our tires glided upon an arrow-straight, unbelievably smooth stretch of magnificent automobile road, which--when it is completed--will extend without a break from the oregon line to the mexican line, and will be the finest, costliest, best thoroughfare to be found within the boundaries of any state of the union, that being the scale upon which they work out their public-utility plans in the west. eventually the road changes into a paved and curbed avenue, lined with seemingly unending aisles of the tall gum trees. soon you begin to skitter past the suburban villas of rich men, set back in ornamental landscape effects of green lawns and among tropical verdure. you emerge from this into a gently rolling plateau, upon which flower gardens of incomparable richness are interspersed with the homely structures that inevitably mark the proximity of any great city. there, rising ahead of you, are the foothills that protect, upon its landward side, san francisco, the city that has produced more artists, more poets, more writers, more actors, more pugilists, more sudden millionaires--cries of question! question! from the pittsburgh delegation--more good fiction and more native sons than any community in the western hemisphere. you aren't there yet, however. next you round a sloping shoulder of a hill and slide down into a shore road, with the beating, creaming surf on one side, and on the other a long succession of the sort of architectural triumphs that have made coney island famous. you negotiate another small ridge and there, suddenly spread out before you, is the golden gate, with the city itself cuddled in between the ocean and the friendly protecting mountains at its back. the seal rocks are there, and the cliff house, and the presidio, and all. new york has a wonderful harbor entrance; nature did some of it and man did the rest. san francisco has an even more wonderful one, and the hand of man did not need to touch it. when nature got through with it, it was a complete and satisfactory job. the first convincing impression the newcomer gets of san francisco is that here is a permanent city--a city that has found itself, has achieved its own personality, and is satisfied with it. perhaps, because they are growing so fast, certain of the other coast cities strike the casual observer as having just been put up. i was told that a man who lives on a residential street of san diego has to mark his house with chalk when he leaves of a morning in order to know it when he gets home at night. a real-estate agent told me so, and i do not think a southern california real-estate agent would deceive anybody--more particularly a stranger from the east. so it must be true. and los angeles' main business district is like a transverse slice chopped out of the middle of manhattan island. it isn't western. it is typically new yorky--as alive as new york and as handsomely done. you can almost imagine you are at the corner of broadway and forty-second street. san francisco, it seems to me, isn't like any city on earth except san francisco. once you get away from the larger hotels, which are accurate copies of the metropolitan article of the east, even to the afternoon tea-fighting mêlées of the women, you find yourself in a city that is absolutely individual and distinctive. it impresses its originality upon you; it presents itself with an air of having been right there from the beginning--and this, too, in spite of the fact that the ravages of the great fire are still visible in old cellar excavations and piles of débris. practically every building in the main part of the town has been rebuilt within eight years and is still new. the scars are fresh, but the spirit is old and abides. this same essence of individuality tinctures the lives, the manners and the conversations of the people. they do not strike you as being westerners or as being transplanted easterners; they are san franciscans. even when all other signs fail you may, nevertheless, instantly discern certain unfailing traits--to wit, as follows: 1--a san franciscan shudders with ill-concealed horror when anybody refers to his beloved city as frisco--which nobody ever does unless it be a raw alien from the other side of the continent; 2--he does not brag of the climate with that constancy which provides his neighbor of los angeles a never-failing topic of congenial conversation; and 3--he assures you with a regretful sighing note in his voice that the old-time romance disappeared with the destruction of the old-time buildings, the old-time resorts and the old-time neighborhoods. it has been my experience that romance is always in the past tense anyhow. romance is a commodity that was extremely plentiful last week or last year or last century, but for the moment they are entirely out of it, and can't say with any degree of certainty when a fresh stock will be coming in. this is largely true of all the formerly romantic cities i know anything about, and it appears to be especially true of san francisco. romance invariably acquires added value after it has vanished; in this respect it is very much like a history-making epoch. an epoch rarely seems to create any great amount of excitement when it is in process of epoching, or at least the excitement is only temporary and soon abates. afterward we look back upon it with a feeling of longing, but when it was actually coming to pass we took it--after the first shock of surprise--as a matter of course. no doubt our children and our children's children will read in the text-books that the first decade of the twentieth century was distinguished as the age when the auto and tango came into use, and people learned to fly, and grown men wore bracelet watches and carried their handkerchiefs up their cuffs; and they will repine because they, too, did not live in those stirring times. but we of the present generation who recently passed through these experiences have already accepted them without undue excitement, just as our forefathers in their day accepted the submarine cable, the galvanic battery and the congress gaiter. [illustration: even the place where the turkey trot originated was trotless and quiet] age and antiquity give an added value to everything except an egg. in my own case i know how it was with regard to the egyptian scarab. for years i felt that i could never rest satisfied until i had gone to egypt and had personally broken into the tomb of some sleeping pharaoh or some crumbly old rameses, and with my own hands had ravished from it a mummified specimen of that fabled beetle which the ancients worshiped and buried with them in their tombs. but not long ago i made the discovery that, in coloring, habits, customs and general walk and conversation, the scarab of the egyptians was none other than the common tumblebug of the southern dirt roads. right there was where i lost interest in the scarab. he was no novelty to me--not after that he wasn't. as a boy i had known him intimately. so, when i was repeatedly assured that the old-time romance had vanished from san francisco, and with it the atmosphere that bred bohemianism and developed literature and art, and kept alive the spirit of the forty-niner times, and all that, i made my own allowances. those who mourned for the fire-blasted past may have been right, in a measure. certainly the old-time chinatown isn't there any more--or, at any rate, isn't there in its physical aspects. the rebuilt chinatown of san francisco, though infinitely larger, isn't so picturesque really or so chinesey looking as new york's chinatown. i did not dare to give utterance to this treasonable statement until i was well away from san francisco, but it is true all the same. i cruised the shores of the far-famed and much-written-about barbary coast; and it seemed to me that in its dun-colored tiresomeness and in its miserable transparent counterfeit of joy it was up to the general metropolitan average--that it was just as tiresome and humdrum as the avowedly wicked section of any city always is. however, i was told that i had arrived just one week too late to see the barbary coast at its best--meaning by that its worst; for during the week before the police, growing virtuous, had put the crusher on the dance-halls and the hobble on the tango-twisters. even the place where the turkey trot originated--a place that would naturally be a shrine to a new yorker--was trotless and quiet--in mourning for its firstborn. the so-called french restaurants, which for years gave an unwholesome savor to certain phases of san francisco life, had likewise been sterilized and purified. i wished i might have got there before the housecleaning took place; but, even so, i should probably have been disappointed. what makes the vice of ancient babylon seem by contrast more seductive to us than the vice of the bowery is that babylon is gone and the bowery isn't. likewise the night life of san francisco, of which in times past i had read so much, was disillusionizing, because it wasn't visible to the naked eye. on this proposition los angeles puts it all over san francisco; for this, though, there is an easy explanation. los angeles boasts what is said to be the completest trolley system in the world; undoubtedly it is the noisiest in the world. the tracks seem to run through every street; there is a curve at every corner, i think, and a switch in the middle of every block. every thirty seconds or so a car comes along, and it always comes at top speed and takes the curve without slackening up; and the motorman is always clanging his gong in a whole-souled manner that would entitle him to membership in the swiss bellringers. naturally the folks in los angeles stay up late--they can't figure on doing much sleeping anyhow; but either san francisco has fewer trolley cars to the acre or else the motormen are not quite so musically inclined, and people may get to bed at a christian hour. most of them do it, too, if i am one to judge. at night in san francisco i didn't see a single owl lunch wagon or meet a single beggar. newsboys were remarkably scarce and taxicabs seemed to be few and far between. these things help to make any other city; without them san francisco still manages to be a city--another proof of her individuality. the old romance of the old san francisco may be dead and buried--the residents unite in saying that it is, and they ought to know; but, even so, new san francisco may well brag today of a greater romance than any it ever knew--the romance of achievement. somebody said not long ago that the greatest of all monuments to american pluck was san francisco rebuilt; but if there was pluck in it there was romance too. and there is romance, plenty of it, in the exposition these people have planned and are now carrying out to commemorate the opening of the panama canal. to begin with, citizens of san francisco and of the state of california are paying the whole bill themselves--they did not ask the federal government to contribute a red cent of the millions being spent and that will be spent, and to date the federal government has not contributed a red cent either. climatic conditions are in their favor. other expositions have had to contend with hot weather--sometimes with beastly hot weather; those other expositions could not open up until well into the spring, and they closed perforce with the coming of cold weather in the fall. but san francisco is never very hot and never really cold, and california becomes an out-of-door land as soon as the rains end; so this fair will be actively and continuously in operation for nine months instead of being limited to four or five months as the period of its greatest activities. then, again, there is another advantage--the exposition grounds are situated well within the city; the site is within easy riding distance of the civic center and not miles away from the middle of town, as has been the case in certain other instances in this country where big expositions were held. it is a place admirably devised by nature for the purposes to which it is now being put--a six-hundred-acre tract stretching along the water-front, with the presidio at its farther end, the high hills behind it, and in front of it the exquisite panorama of the golden gate, with emerald islands rising beyond; and berkeley and oakland just across the way; and on beyond, northward across the narrowing portals of the harbor, the big green mountain of tamalpais, rising sheer out of the sea. moreover, the president of the exposition and his aides promised that the whole thing, down to the minutest detail, would be completed and ready months before the date set for opening the gates--which furnishes another strikingly novel note in expositions, if their words come true; and they declared that, for beauty of conception and harmony of design, their exposition of 1915 would surpass any exposition ever seen in this country or in any other country. probably they are right. i know that, when i was there, the view from the first rise back of the grounds, looking down upon that long flat where men by thousands were toiling, and building after building was rising, made a picture sufficiently inspiring to warm the enthusiasm and brisken the imagination of any man, be he alien or native. there isn't any doubt, though, that the people of san francisco are going to have their hands full when the exposition visitors begin to pile in. by that i do not mean that the housing and feeding accommodations and the transit facilities will be deficient; but it is going to be a most overpoweringly big job to educate the pilgrims up to the point where they will call san francisco by its full name. all true san franciscans are very touchy on this point--touchy as hedgehogs, they are; the prejudice extends to all classes, with the possible exception of the chinese. i heard a story of a seafaring person, ignorant and newly arrived, who drifted into a waterfront saloon, called for a simple glass of beer and spoke a few casual words of greeting to the barkeeper--and woke up the next morning in the hospital with a very bad headache and a bandage round his throbbing brows. it developed that he had three times in rapid succession referred to the city as frisco, and on being warned against this practice had inquired: "well, wot do you want me to call her--plain fris?" that was the last straw. the barkeeper took a bung-starter and felled him as flat as a felled seam--and all present agreed that it served him right. an even worse breach of etiquette on the part of the outlander is to intimate that an earthquake preceded the great fire. that is positively the unforgivable sin! in any quarter of the city you could get many subscriptions for a fund to buy something with silver handles on it for any man who would insist upon talking of earthquakes. to make my meaning clearer, i will state that there are only two objects of general use in the civilized world that have silver handles on them, and one of them is a loving cup; but this article would not be a loving cup. a native will willingly concede that there was a fire, which burned its memories deep into the consciousness of the city that recovered from it with such splendid courage and such inconceivable rapidity; but by common consent there was nothing else. it does not take the stranger long to get this point of view, either. if i were in charge of the publicity work of the san francisco fair i should advertise two attractions that would surely appeal to all the women in this country, and to most of the men. in my press work i would dwell at length upon the fact that in this part of california a woman may wear any weight and any style of clothes--spring clothes, summer clothes, fall clothes or winter clothes--and not only be perfectly comfortable while so doing, but be in the fashion besides; and to be in the fashion is a thing calculated to make a woman comfortable whether she otherwise is or not. to see a group of four women promenading a san francisco street on a pleasant morning is to be reminded of that ballet representing the four seasons, which we used to see in the second act of every well-regulated extravaganza. the woman nearest the walls has on her furs--it is always cool in the shade; the one next to her is wearing the very latest wrinkles in spring garniture; the third one, let us say, is dressed in the especially becoming frock she bought last october; and the one on the outside, where the sun shines the brightest, is as summery in her white ducks and her white slippers as though she had just stepped off the cover of the august number of a magazine. there is something, too, about the salt-laden breezes of san francisco that gives women wonderful complexions; that detail, properly press-agented, ought to fetch the entire female population of the united states. [illustration: the woman nearest the wall has on her furs--it is always cool in the shade] for drawing the men, i would exploit the great cardinal fact that nowhere in the country--not even in norfolk or baltimore or new orleans--can you get better things to eat than in san francisco. for its size, i believe there are more good clubs and more good restaurants right there than in any other spot on the habitable globe. particularly in the preparation of the typical dishes of the coast do the san francisco cooks excel; their cuisine is based on a sane american foundation, with a delectable suggestion of the spanish in it, and sometimes with a traceable suggestion of the best there is in the italian and the chinese schools of cookery. to one whose taste in oysters has been developed by eating the full-chested bi-valve of the eastern seaboard and the deep-lunged, long-bodied product of the louisiana bayous, the native oyster does not greatly appeal. a lot has been written and printed about the california oyster, but in my opinion he will always have considerable difficulty in living up to his press notices. it takes about a thousand of him to make a quart and about a hundred of him to make a taste. even then he doesn't taste much like a real oyster, but more like an infinitesimal scrap of sponge where a real oyster camped out overnight once. there is a dream of a little fish, however, called a sand dab--he is a tiny, flounder-shaped titbit hailing from deep water; and for eating purposes he is probably the best fish that swims--better even than the pompano of the gulf--and when you say that you are saying about all there is to be said for a fish. and the big crabs of the pacific side are the hereditary princes of the crab family. they look like spread-eagles; and properly prepared they taste like heaven. i often wonder what the crabsters buy one-half so precious as the stuff they sell--which is a quotation from omar, with original interpolations by me. the domestic cheese of the sierras is not without its attractions also, whether you eat it fresh or whether you keep it until its general aspect and prevalent atmosphere are such as to satisfy even one of those epicurean cheese-eaters who think that no cheese is fit to eat until you can't. another thing worthy of mention in connection with this california school of cookery is that you can pay as little as you please for your dinner or as much as you please. there are three standbys of the exchange editor that may be counted upon to appear in the newspapers about once in so often. one is the hoary-headed and toothless tale regarding the artist who was hired to renovate religious paintings in a church in brussels, and turned in an itemized account including such entries as--"correcting the ten commandments"; "restoring the lost souls"; "renewing heaven"; and winding up with "doing several odd jobs for the damned." the second of the set comes out of retirement at frequent intervals--whenever some trusting soul runs across a time-stained number of the ulster gazette giving details of the death of george washington--i wonder how many million copies of that venerable counterfeit were printed--and writes in to his home editor about it. and the third, the most popular clipping of the three, concerns the prices that used to govern at the mining camps in the days of the early gold rush. the story that is most commonly quoted has to do with the menu of the el dorado hotel, at placerville, where bean soup was a dollar a plate; hash, lowgrade, seventy-five cents; hash, eighteen-carat, a dollar--and so on down the list to seventy-five cents for two irish potatoes, peeled. the cost of living may have gone down subsequently in those parts, but it has gone back up again--at certain favored spots. if the argonauts, those hardy adventurers who flung their gold round so regardlessly and were not satisfied unless they paid outrageously big prices for everything, could come back today they would have no cause to complain at the contemptible paucity of the bill after they had dined at any one of half a dozen ultra-expensive hotels that are to be found dotted along the coast. i append herewith a few items selected at random from the price card of a fashionable establishment in one of the larger coast cities: caviar impérial d'astracan, two dollars for a double portion; buffet russe--whatever that is--ninety cents; german asparagus, a single helping, one dollar and forty cents; blue-point oysters, fifty cents; fifty cents for clams; gorgonzola cheese, fifty cents a portion; and, in a land where peaches and figs grow anywhere and everywhere, seventy-five cents for an order of brandied peaches and fifty cents for an order of spiced figs. even seasoned new yorkers have been known to breathe hard on receiving a check for a full meal at certain restaurants in los angeles and san francisco. on the other hand, you can step round any corner in san francisco and walk into that institution which people in other large cities are forever seeking and never finding--a table-d'hôte restaurant where a perfect meal is to be had at a most moderate price. the best italian restaurant in the world--and i wish to say, after personal experience, that sunny italy itself is not barred--is a little place on the fringe of the barbary coast. there is another place not far away where, for a dollar, you get a bottle of good domestic wine and a selection from the following range of dishes: celery, ripe olives, green olives, radishes, onions, lettuce, sliced tomatoes, combination salad or crab-meat salad; soup--onion or consommé; fish--sole, salmon, bass, sand dabs, mussels or clams; entrées--sweetbreads with mushrooms, curry of lamb, calf's tongue, tripe with peppers, tagliatini a l'italienne, or boiled kidney with bacon; vegetables--asparagus, string-beans and cauliflower; roast--spring lamb with green peas, broiled chicken or broiled pig's feet; dessert--rhubarb pie, ice cream and cake, apple sauce, stewed fruits, baked pear or baked apple, mixed fruits; cheese of three varieties, and coffee to wind up on. the proprietor doesn't cut out his portions with a pair of buttonhole scissors, either, or sauce them with a medicine-dropperful of gravy. he gives a big, full, satisfying helping, well cooked and well served. there is some romance in the san francisco cooking, too, if the oldtimers who bemourn the old days only realized it. if this seeming officiousness on the part of a passing wayfarer may be excused there is one more suggestion i should like to throw off for the benefit of the promoters of the exposition. living somewhere in california is a man who should be looked up before the gates are opened, and he should be retained at a salary and staked out in suitable quarters as a special and added attraction. he is the most magnificent fish-liar in the known world! i do not know his name--he was so busy pouring fish stories down a party of us that he didn't take time to stop and tell his name--but no great difficulty should be experienced in finding him. there is only one of him alive--these world's wonders never occur in pairs. that would cheapen them and make them commonplace. he swam into our ken--if a mixed metaphor may be pardoned--on a train leaving oakland for the east. we were sitting in the club car--half a dozen or so of us--when he drifted along. at first look no one would have suspected him of being so gifted a creature as he proved himself to be. he was a round, short, tub-shaped man, with a button nose, and a double chin that ran all the way round and lapped over at the back. but, though his appearance was deceiving, anybody could tell with half an eye that he excelled in extemporaneous conversation. right off he began shadow-boxing and sparring about, waiting for an opening. in a minute he got it. the tall man with the long face and the stiff white pompadour, who looked like a patent toothbrush, gave him his chance. the tall man happened to look out of the car window and see in an inlet a fleet of beached fishing boats, and he remarked on their picturesqueness. that was the cue. "speaking of fishing," said the button-nosed man, "i'll tell you people something that'll maybe interest you. you may not believe it, either, me being a stranger to you; but it's the gospel truth or i wouldn't be sitting here a-telling it. i reckon i've done more fishing in my day and more different kinds of fishing than any man alive. i come originally from a prime fishing state--michigan--and i've lived in colorado and montana and oregon and all the other good fishing states out west. but, take it from me, friends, california is the best fishing state there is. yes, sir; when it comes to fishing, old california lays it over 'em all--she takes the rag right off the bush! i'm the one that oughter know because i've fished her from end to end and crossways--sea fishing, creek fishing, lake fishing and all. "down at catalina they'll tell you, if you ask 'em, that i'm the man that ketched the biggest tuna that ever come out of that ocean. it took me fourteen hours and forty-five minutes to land him, and during that time he towed me and an eighteen-foot boat, and the fellow i had along for boatman, over forty-four miles--i measured it afterward to be sure--and the friction of the reel spinning round wore my line down till it wasn't no thicker in places than a cobweb. but tunas ain't my regular specialty--trouts and basses are my special favorites; and up in the mountains is where i mostly do my fishing. "i'm just sort of hanging round now waiting for the snow to move out so's i can go up there and start fishing. "well, sirs, it's funny, ain't it, the way luck will run fishing? oncet when i was living up there i fished stiddy, day in and day out, for two seasons and never got a bite that you could rightly call a bite. and then all of a sudden one afternoon the luck switched and in exactly forty-five minutes by the watch--by this here very watch i'm carrying now in my pocket--i ketched seventy-two of them big old black basses out of one hole; and they averaged five pounds apiece!" we looked at one another silently. a total of seventy-two five-pound bass in three-quarters of an hour seemed a little too much to be taken as a first dose from a strange practitioner. and it was hard to believe they had all been basses; if only for the sake of variety there should have been at least one barytone. we felt that we needed time for reflection--and digestion. evidently realizing this, one of our number undertook to throw himself into the breach. as i recollect, this volunteer was the fat coffin drummer from des moines who had the round, smooth face and the round, bald head, and wore the fuzzy green hat with the bow at the back. i think he wore the bow there purposely--it simplified matters so when you were trying to decide which side of his head his face grew on. he heaved a pensive sigh out of his system and remarked upon the clearness of the air in these parts. "you're right there, mister," broke in the button-nosed man, snapping him up instantly. "the air is tolerable clear here today; but you oughter to see the air up in the mountains! why, it's so clear up there it would make this here hill-country air look like a fog. i remember oncet i was browsing along a cliff up in that country, toting my fishpole, and i happened to look over the bluff--just so--and down below i saw a hole in the creek that was just crawling with them big trouts--steel-head trouts and rainbow trouts. i could see the spots on their sides and their fins waving, and their gills working up and down. "i figured out that it was fully a hundred feet down to the water and the water would natchelly be tolerable deep; so i let all my line run off the reel, a hundred and sixty feet of it; and i fished and fished and fished--and didn't get a strike, let alone a nibble. yet i could look over and see all these hungry trouts down below looking up with expectant looks in their eyes--i could see their eyes--and jumping round regardless; and yet not a bite! so i changed bait--changed from live bait to dead bait, and back again to live--and still there wasn't nothing doing. so i says to myself: 'something's wrong, sure! this thing'll stand looking into.' [illustration: it's a great thing out there to be a native son] "so i snoops round and finds a place where there's a sort of a sloping place in the bluff; and i braces my pole in a rock and leaves it there; and i climbs down--and then i sees what's the matter. it was that there clear air that had fooled me! it was three hundred feet if it was an inch down from the top of that there bluff to the creek, and the hole was fully a hundred feet deep--maybe more; and away down at the plumb bottom all them trouts was congregated in a circlelike, looking up mighty greedy and longing at my bait, which was a live frog, dangling two hundred and forty-odd feet up in the air. but, speaking of clear air, that wasn't nothing at all compared to some other things i could tell you about. another time----" at this point i rose and escaped to the diner. when i got back at the end of an hour the other survivors told me that, up to the time he got off at sacramento, the button-nosed man had been getting better and better all the time. he certainly ought to be rounded up and put on exhibition at the fair to show those puny and feeble eastern fish-liars what the incomparable western climate can produce. i almost forgot to mention san francisco's chief product--native sons. a native son is one who has acquired special merit by being born in the state. you would think credit would be given to the subject's parents, where it belongs; but, no--that is not the california way. it's a great thing out there to be a native son. it counts in politics, and in society, and at the clubs. and, after that, the next best thing is to be a southerner, either by birth or descent. people who have southern blood in their veins are very proud of it and can join a club on the strength of it; and some of them do a lot of talking about it. the definition is rather elastic--anybody whose ancestors worked on the southern pacific is eligible, i think. of course, there are a lot of real southerners; but there are a whole lot more who--so it seemed to me--are giving remarkably realistic imitations of the type known in new york as the professional southerner. san francisco excels in southerners--the regular kind and the self-made kind both. i was out there too early in the year to meet the justly celebrated san francisco flea. he's a native son, too; but there isn't so much bragging being done on his account. _looking for lo_ [illustration] _looking for lo_ if it is your desire to observe the red indian of the plains engaged in his tribal sports and pastimes wait for the wild west show; there is sure to be one coming to your town before the season is over. or if you are bloodthirsty by nature and yearn to see him prancing round upon the warpath, destroying the hated paleface and strewing the soil with his shredded fragments, restrain your longings until next fall and then arrange to take in the football game between carlisle and princeton. but, whatever you do, do not go journeying into the far west in the hope of finding him in great number upon his native heath, for the chances are that you won't find him there in great number; and if you do he will probably be a considerable disappointment to you; because, unless he is paid for it, the red brother absolutely declines to be picturesque. i am reliably informed that he is still reasonably numerous in oklahoma, in north and south dakota, and in montana and washington; but my itinerary did not include those states. i did not see a live indian--that is to say, a live indian recognizable as such--in nevada or in colorado or in utah, or in a four-hour run across one corner of wyoming. in upward of a thousand miles of travel through california i saw just one indian--a bronze youth of perhaps twenty summers and, i should say, possibly half that many baths. he was wearing the scenario of a pair of overalls and a straw hat in an advanced state of decrepitude, and he was working in a truckpatch; if a native had not told me what he was i would have passed him by for a sunburnt hired hand. i saw a few indians in new mexico and a few more in arizona, but not a great many at that; and these, as i found out later, were mainly engaged to linger in the vicinity of stations and hotels along the line for the purpose of adding a touch of color to the surroundings and incidentally selling souvenirs to the tourists. mind you, i'm not saying there are not plenty of indians in those states; but they mostly stay on their reservations and the reservations unfortunately are not, as a rule, near the railroad stations. a traveler going through the average small southern town sees practically the entire strength of the colored citizenry gathered at the depot and jumps at the conclusion that the population is from ninety to ninety-five per cent. black. in the west he sees maybe one little indian settlement in a stretch of five or six hundred miles, and he figures that the indian is practically an extinct species. of course, though, he is not extinct. in these piping commercial days of acute competition he has no time to be gallivanting down to the depot every time a through train rolls in, especially as the depot is frequently eighty or ninety miles distant from his domicile. he is closely confined at home turning out souvenirs. it is a pity, too, that he cannot spare more of his time for this simple and inexpensive pleasure. in one week's study of the passing tourist breed he could see enough funny sights and hear enough funny things--unintentionally funny things--to keep his family entertained on many a long winter's evening as they sit peacefully in the wigwam making knickknacks for the eastern trade. [illustration: each navajo squaw weaves on an average nine thousand blankets a year] no, sirree! those southwestern tribes are far from being extinct--especially the navajos. you can, in a way, approximate the tribal strength of the navajos by the number of navajo blankets you see. from colorado to the coast the navajo blanket carpets the earth. i'll bet any amount within reason that in six weeks' time i saw ten million navajo blankets if i saw one. as for other things--bows and arrows, for example--well, i do not wish to exaggerate; but had i bought all the wooden bows and arrows that were offered to me i could take them and build a rustic footbridge across the delaware river at trenton, with a neat handrail all the way over. taking the figures of the last census as a working basis i calculate that each navajo squaw weaves, on an average, nine thousand blankets a year; and while she is so engaged her husband, the metal worker of the establishment, is producing a couple of tons of silver bracelets set with turquoises. for prolixity of output i know of no female in the entire animal kingdom that can compare with the navajo squaw--unless it is the lady potomac shad. right here i wish to claim one proud distinction: i went from the atlantic to the pacific and back again--and i did not buy a single blanket! since the return of the lewis & clark expedition i am probably the only white person who has ever done this. goodness knows the call was strong enough and the opportunities abundant enough; blankets were available for my inspection at every railroad station, at every hotel, and at every one of two hundred thousand souvenir stores that i encountered--but i was under orders from headquarters. as we were bidding farewell to our family before starting west, our wife said to us in firm, decided accents: "i have already picked out a place where we can hide the cheyenne war-bonnet. we can get rid of the moccasins and the stone hatchets and the beadwork breastplates by storing them in a trunk up in the attic. but do not bring a navajo blanket back to this already crowded establishment!" so we restrained ourselves. but it was a hard struggle and took a heroic effort. i recall one blanket, done in gray and black and red and white, and decorated with the figures of the thunder bird and the swastika, the rising sun and the jig saw, and other indian signs, symbols and emblems. it was with the utmost difficulty that i wrenched myself away from the vicinity of this treasure. and then, when i got back home, feeling proud as punch over having withstood temptation in all its forms, almost the first words i heard, spoken in tones of deep disappointment, were these: "well, why didn't you bring a navajo blanket for the den? you know we've always wanted one!" wasn't that just like a woman? though i refrained from seeking bargains in the blankets of the aborigine, i sought diligently enough for the aborigine himself. i had my first glimpse of him in northern new mexico just after we had come down out of colorado. accompanied by his lady, he was languidly reposing on the platform in front of a depot, with his wares tastefully arranged at his feet. as a concession to the acquired ideals of the eastern visitor he had a red sofa tidy draped round his shoulders, and there was a tired-looking hen-feather caught negligently in his back hair; and his squaw displayed ornamented leggings below the hems of her simple calico walking skirt. but these adornments, i gathered, constituted the calling costume, so to speak. when at home in his village the universal garment of the pueblo male is the black sateen shirt of commerce. he puts it on and wears it until it is taken up by absorption, and then it is time to put on another. these shirts do not require washing; but, among the best pueblo families, i understand it is customary--once in so often--to have them searched. and thus is the wild life of the west kept down. farther along the line, in arizona, we met the hopi and the navajo--delegations from both of these tribes having been imported from the reservations to give an added touch of picturesqueness to the principal hotel of the grand cañon. the hopi, who excels at snake dancing and pottery work, is a mannerly little chap; and his daughter, with her hair done up in elaborate whorl effects in fancied imitation of the squash blossom--the squash being the hopi emblem of purity--is a decidedly attractive feature of the landscape. the hopi women are industrious little bodies, clever at basket weaving--and the men work, too, when not engaged in attending lodge; for the hopis are the ritualists of the southwest, and every hopi is a confirmed joiner. their secret societies exist to-day, uncorrupted and unchanged, just as they have survived for hundreds and perhaps thousands of years. in the hopi house at grand cañon there is a reproduction of a kiva or underground temple. it isn't underground--it is located upstairs; but in all other regards it is supposed to conform exactly to one of the real ceremonial chambers of the hopis. the dried-mud walls are covered thickly with symbolic devices, painted on; and there is an altar tricked out with totems of the powamu clan, one of the biggest of these societies. just in front of the altar, with its wooden figures of the war god, the god of growing things, and the god of thunder, is a sand painting set in the floor like a mosaic. when one of the clans is getting ready for a service the official high priest or medicine man of that particular clan sprinkles clean brown sand upon the flat earth before the altar and upon this foundation, by trickling between his thumb and forefinger tiny streams of sands of other colors, he makes the mystic figures that he worships. after the rites are over he obliterates the design with his hand, leaving the space bare for the next clan. in the hopi house at grand cañon a sand painting sacred to the antelope clan is preserved under glass for the benefit of visitors. the manager of the establishment, a mr. smith, who has spent most of his life among the tribes of arizona, told us a story about this. two years ago this summer, a party of mystic shriners on an excursion visited the cañon. mr. smith chaperoned one group of them on their tour through the hopi house. in the sand painting of the kiva they seemed to find something that particularly interested them. they put their heads together, talking in undertones and pointing--so smith said--first at one design and then at another. an old hopi buck, a priest of the antelope clan, was lounging in the low doorway watching them. what the shriners said to one another could have had no significance for him, even admitting that he heard them, for he did not understand a word of english; but suddenly he reached forth a withered hand and plucked smith by the sleeve. i am letting smith tell the rest of the tale just as he told it to us: "the hopi pointed to one of the shriners, an elderly man who came, i think, from somewhere in illinois, and in his own tongue he said to me: 'that man with the white hair is a hopi--and he is a member of my clan!' i said to him: 'you speak foolishness--that man comes from the east and never until to-day saw a hopi in his whole life!' the medicine man showed more excitement than i ever saw an indian show. "'you are lying to me!' he said. 'that white-haired man is a hopi, or else his people long ago were hopis.' i laughed at him and that ruffled his dignity and he turned away, and i couldn't get another word out of him. "as the shriners were passing out i halted the white-haired man and said to him: 'the hopi medicine man insists that you are a hopi and that you know something about his clan.' 'well,' he said, 'i'm no hopi; but i think i do know something about some of the things he seems to revere. where is this medicine man?' "i pointed to where the old indian was squatted in a corner, sulking; he walked right over to him and motioned to him, and the hopi got up and they went into the kiva together. i do not know what passed between them--certainly no words passed--but in about ten minutes the shriner came out, and he had a puzzled look on his face. "'i've just had the most wonderful experience,' he said to me, 'that i've ever had in my whole life. of course that indian isn't a mason, but in a corrupted form he knows something about masonry; and where he learned it i can't guess. why, there are lodges in this country where i actually believe he could work his way in.'" not being either a mason or a hopi, i cannot undertake to vouch for the story or to contradict it; but smith has the reputation of being a truthful man. the navajos are the aristocrats of the southwestern country. they are dignified, cleanly in their personal habits, and orderly; and they are wonderful artisans. in addition to being wonderful weavers and excellent silversmiths, they shine at agriculture and at stock raising and sheep raising. they are born horse-traders, too, and at driving a bargain it is said a buck navajo can spot a scotchman five balls any time and beat him out; but they have the name of being absolutely honest and absolutely truthful. this same mr. smith, who has lived several years on the navajo reservation and who is an adopted member of the tribe, took several of us to pay a formal call upon a navajo subchief, who spends the tourist season at the grand cañon. the old chap, long-haired and the color of a prime smoke-cured ham, received us with perfect courtesy into his winter residence, the same being a circular hut contrived by overlapping timbers together in a kind of basket design and then coating the logs inside and out with adobe clay. the place was clean and free from all unpleasant odors. in the middle of the floor a fire burned, the smoke escaping through a hole in the roof. at one side was the primitive forge, where the head of the house worked in metals; and against the far wall his squaw was hunkered down, weaving a blanket on her wooden loom. a couple of his young offspring were playing about, dressed simply in their little negligee-strings. the mud walls were hung with completed blankets. long, stringy strips of dried beef and mutton--the national dishes of the tribe--were dangling from cross-pieces overhead; and on a rug upon the earthen floor lay a glittering pile of bracelets and brooches that had been made by the old man out of mexican dollars. when we came away, after spending fifteen minutes or so as their guests, the whole family came with us; but the old man tarried a minute to fasten a small brass padlock through a hasp upon his wattled wooden door. "up on the reservation, away from the railroads and the towns, there are no locks upon the doors," smith said. "why is that?" i asked. smith grinned. "i'll tell the old man what you said and let him answer." he clucked in guttural monosyllables to the chief, and the chief clucked back briefly, meanwhile eyeing me with a whimsical squint out of his puckered old eyes. and then smith translated: "why should we lock our doors in the place where we live? there are no white men there!" i will confess that as a representative of the dominant caucasian stock i had, for the moment, no apt reply ready. later i thought of a very fitting retort, which undoubtedly would have flattened that impertinent indian as flat as a flounder; unfortunately, though, it only came to me after several days of study, and by that time i was upward of a thousand miles away from him. but i am saving it to use on him the next time i go back to the grand cañon. no mere indian can slander our race, even if he is telling the truth--not while i'm around! down in southern california i rather figured on finding a large swarm of mission indians clustering about every mission; but, alas! they weren't there, either. we saw a few worshipers and plenty of tourists, but no indians--at least, i didn't see any personally. there is something wonderfully impressive about a first trip to any one of those old gray churches; everything about it is eloquent with memories of that older civilization which this western country knew long before the celt and the anglo-saxon breeds came over the divide and down the pacific slope, filled with their lust for gold and lands, craving ever more power and more territory over which to float the stars and stripes. the vanished day of the spaniard now lives only within the walls of the early missions, but it invests them with that added veneration which attaches to whatever is old and traditional and historic. we haven't a great deal that is very old in our own country; maybe that explains why we fuss over it so when we come across it in europe. [illustration: as she leveled the lens a yell went up from somewhere] there is one mission which in itself, it seemed to me, is almost worth a trip clear across the continent to see--the one at santa barbara. it is up the side of a gentle foothill, with the mountains of the coast range behind it. down below the roofs and spires of a brisk little city show through green clumpage, and still farther beyond the blue waters of the pacific may be seen. parts of this mission are comparatively new; there are retouchings and restorations that date back only sixty or seventy years, but most of it speaks to you of an earlier century than this and an earlier race than the one that now peoples the land. you pass through walls of solid masonry that are sixteen feet thick and pierced by narrow passages; you climb winding stairs to a squat tower where sundry cracked brazen bells, the gifts of spanish gentlemen who died a hundred years ago perhaps, swing by withes of ancient rawhide from great, worm-gnawed, hand-riven beams; you walk through the mission burying-ground, past crumbly old family vaults with half-obliterated names and titles and dates upon their ovenlike fronts, and you wander at will among the sunken individual graves under the palms and pepper trees. most convincing of all to me were the stone-flagged steps at the door of the church itself, for they are all worn down like the teeth of an old horse--in places they are almost worn in two. better than any guidebook patter of facts and figures--better than the bells and the graves and the hand-made beams--these steps convey to the mind a sense of age. you stand and look at them, and you see there the tally of vanished generations--the heavy boot of the conquistador; the sandaled foot of the old padre; the high heel of a dainty spanish-born lady; the bare, horny sole of the indian convert--each of them taking its tiny toll out of stone and mortar--each of them wearing away its infinitesimal mite--until through years and years the firm stone was scored away and channeled out and left at it is now, with curves in it and deep hollows. given a dime's worth of imagination to start on, almost any one could people that spot with the dead-and-gone figures of that shadowy past; could forget the trolley cars curving right up to the walls; the electric lights strung in globular festoons along the ancient ceilings of the porticoes; the roofs of the new, shiny modern bungalows dotting the gentle slopes below--could forget even that the brown-cowled, rope-girthed father who served as guide spoke with a strong german accent; could almost forgive the impious driver of the rig that brought one here for referring to this place as the mish. but be sure there would be one thing to bring you hurtling back again to earth, no matter how far aloft your fancy soared--and that would be the ever-present souvenir-collecting tourist, to whom no shrine is holy and no memory is sacred. there is no charge for admission to the mission. all comers, regardless of breed or creed, are welcomed; and on constant duty is a gentle-voiced priest, ready to lead the way to the inner rooms where priceless relics of the day when the spaniards first came to california are displayed; and into the church itself, with its candles burning before the high altar and the quaint old holy pictures ranged thick upon the walls; and through the burying-ground--and to all the rest of it; and for this service there is nothing to pay. on departing the visitor, if he chooses, may leave a coin behind; but he doesn't have to--it isn't compulsory. there is a kind of traveler who repays this hospitality by defiling the walls with his inconsequential name, scratched in or scrawled on, and by toting away as a souvenir whatever portable object he can confiscate when nobody is looking. up in the bell tower the masonry is all defaced and pocked where these vandals have dug at it with pocketknives; and as we were coming away, one of them--a typical specimen--showed me with deep pride half of a brick pouched in his coat pocket. it seemed that while the priest's back was turned he had pried it loose from the frilled ornamentation of a vault in the burying-ground at the cost only of his self-respect--admitting that he had any of that commodity in stock--and a broken thumbnail. it was, indeed, a priceless treasure and he valued it accordingly. and yet, at a distance of ten feet in an ordinary light, no one not in the secret could have said offhand whether that half-brick came out of a mission tomb in california or a smokehouse in arkansas. we didn't see any indians when we ran down into mexico. however, we only ran into mexico for a distance of a mile and a half below the california state boundary, and maybe that had something to do with it. by automobile we rode from san diego over to the town of tia juana, signifying, in our tongue, aunt jane. ramona, heroine of helen hunt jackson's famous novel, had an aunt called jane. i guess they had a grudge against the lady; they named this town after her. selling souvenirs to tourists, who come daily on sightseeing coaches from coronado beach and san diego, is the principal pastime of the natives of tia juana. weekdays they do this; and sometimes on a sunday afternoon they have a bullfight in their little bullring. on such an occasion the bullfighting outfit is specially imported from one of the larger towns farther inland. sometimes the whole troupe comes from juarez and puts on a regular metropolitan production, with the original all-star cast. there is the gallant performer known as the armadilla, who teases the bull to desperation by waving a red shawl at him; the no less daring parabola, sticking little barbed boleros in the bull's withers; and, last of all, the intrepid mantilla, who calmly meets the final rush of the infuriated beast and, with one unerring thrust of his trusty sword, delivers the porte-cochère, or fatal stroke, just behind the left shoulder-blade, while all about the assembled peons and pianolas rend the ambient air with their delighted cry: _"hoi polloi! hoi polloi! dolce far niente!"_ isn't it remarkable how readily the seasoned tourist masters the difficulties of a foreign language? before i had been in mexico an hour i had picked up the intricate phraseology of the bullfight; and i was glad afterward that i took the trouble to get it all down in my mind correctly, because such knowledge always comes in handy. you can use it with effect in company--it stamps you as a person of culture and travel--and it impresses other people; but then i always could pick up foreign languages easily. i do not wish to boast--but with me it amounts to a positive gift. it was a weekday when we visited tia juana, and so there was no bullfight going on; in fact, there didn't seem to be much of anything going on. once in a while a spigotty lady would pass, closely followed by a couple of little spigots, and occasionally the postmaster would wake up long enough to accept a sheaf of postcards from a tourist and then go right back to sleep again. we had sampled the tamales of the country, finding them only slightly inferior to the same article as sold in kansas city, kansas; and we had drifted--three of us--into a mexican café. it was about ten feet square and was hung with chromos furnished by generous milwaukee brewers and other decorations familiar to all who have ever visited a crossroads bar-room on our own side of the line. bottled beer appeared to be the one best bet in the drinking line, and the safest one, too; but somehow i hated--over here upon the soil of another country--to be calling for the domestic brews of our own st. louis! personally i desired to conform my thirst to the customs of the country--only i didn't know what to ask for. i had learned the bullfighting language, but i hadn't progressed very far beyond that point. while i was deliberating a mexican came in and said something in spanish to the barkeeper and the barkeeper got a bottle of a clear, almost colorless fluid out from under the counter and poured him a sherry glassful of it. so then, by means of a gesture that is universal and is understood in all climes, i indicated to the barkeeper that i would take a little of the same. the moment, though, that i had swallowed it i realized i had been too hasty. it was mescal--an explosive in liquid form that is brewed or stilled or steeped, or something, from the juices of a certain variety of cactus, according to a favorite family prescription used by old nick several centuries ago when he was residing in this section. for its size and complexion i know of nothing that is worthy to be mentioned in the same breath with mescal, unless it is the bald-faced hornet of the sunny south. it goes down easily enough--that is not the trouble--but as soon as it gets down you have the sensation of having swallowed a comet. as i said before, i didn't see any indians in old mexico, but if i had taken one more swig of the national beverage i am satisfied that not only would i have seen a great number of them, but, with slight encouragement, might have been one myself. for the purpose of assuaging the human thirst i would say that it is a mistake on the part of a novice to drink mescal--he should begin by swallowing a lighted kerosene lamp for practice and work up gradually; but the experience was illuminating as tending to make me understand why the mexicans are so prone to revolutions. a mexican takes a drink of mescal before breakfast, on an empty stomach, and then he begins to revolute round regardless. on leaving tia juana we stopped to view the fort, which was the principal attraction of the place. it was located in the outskirts just back of the cluster of adobe houses and frame shacks that made up the town. the fort proper consisted of a mud wall about three feet high, inclosing perhaps half an acre of bare clayey soil. outside the wall was a moat, upward of a foot deep, and inside was a barrack. this barrack--i avoid using the plural purposely--was a wooden shanty that had been whitewashed once, but had practically recovered from it since; and its walls were pierced--for artillery-fire, no doubt--with two windows, to the frames of which a few fragments of broken glass still adhered. overhead the flag of the republic was flying; and every half-minute, so it seemed to us, a drum would beat and a bugle would blow and the garrison would turn out, looking--except for their guns--very much like a squad of district-telegraph messengers. they would evolute across the parade ground a bit and then retire to quarters until the next call to arms should sound. we could not get close enough to ascertain what all the excitement was about, because they would not let us. we were not allowed to venture within fifty yards of the outer breastworks, or kneeworks; and even then, so the village authorities warned us, we must keep moving. a woman camera fiend from coronado was along, and she unlimbered her favorite instrument with the idea of taking a few snapshots of this martial scene. as she leveled the lens a yell went up from somewhere, and out of the barrack and over the wall came skipping a little officer, leaving a trail of inflammatory spanish behind him in a way to remind you of the fireman cleaning out the firebox of the through limited. he was not much over five feet tall and his shabby little uniform needed the attention of the dry cleanser, but he carried a sword and two pistols, and wore a brass gorget at his throat, a pair of huge epaulets and a belt; and he had gold braid and brass buttons spangled all over his sleeves and the front of his coat, and a pair of jingling spurs were upon his heels. there was a long feather in his cap, too--and altogether, for his size, he was most impressive to behold. he charged right up to the abashed camera lady and, through an interpreter, explained to her that it was strictly against the rules to permit a citizen of a foreign power to make any pictures of the fortifications whatsoever. he appeared to nurse a horrid fear that the secret of the fortifications might become known above the line, and that some day, armed with this information, the boy scouts or a young ladies' high school might swoop down and capture the whole works. he explained to the lady, that, much as he regretted it, if she persisted in her suspicious and spylike conduct, he would have to smash her camera for her. so she desisted. the little officer and his merry men had ample reason for being a mite nervous just then. their country was in the midst of its spring revolution. the madero family had just been thinned out pretty extensively, and it was not certain yet whether the diaz faction or the huerta faction, or some other faction, would come out on top. besides, these gallant guardians of the frontier were a long way from headquarters and in no position to figure out in advance which way the national cat would jump next. all they knew was that she was jumping. [illustration: as the occupants spilled sprawlingly through the gap, a front tire exploded with a loud report] every morning, so we heard, they were taking a vote to decide whether they would be federalists that day or liberalists, or what not; and the vote was invested with a good deal of personal interest, too, because there was no telling when a superior force might arrive from the interior; and if they had happened to vote wrong that day there was always the prospect of their being backed up against a wall, with nothing to look at except a firing squad and a row of newmade graves. we were told that one morning, about three or four weeks before the date of our visit, the garrison had been in the barrack casting their usual ballot. they were strong huertaists that morning--it was viva huerta! all the way. just about the time the vote was being announced a couple of visiting americans in an automobile came down the road flanking the fort. there had been a rain and the road was slippery with red mud. as the driver took the turn at the corner his wheels began skidding and he lost control. the car skewed off at a tangent, hurdled the moat, and tore a hole in the mud wall; and, as the occupants spilled sprawlingly through the gap, a front tire exploded with a loud report. the garrison took just one look out the front door, jumped to the conclusion that the villa crowd had arrived and were shooting automobiles at them, and unanimously adjourned by the back way into the woods. some of them did not get back until the shades of night had descended upon the troubled land. such is military life in our sister republic in times of war, and yet they sometimes have a very realistic imitation of the real thing over there. revolution before last there were two separate engagements in this little town of tia juana. a lot of belligerents were killed and a good many more were wounded. in an iron letter box in front of the post-office we saw a round hole where a steel-jacketed bullet had passed through after first passing through a prominent citizen. we did not see this citizen. it became necessary to bury him shortly after the occurrence referred to. in vain i sought the red brother on my saunterings through california. in san francisco i once thought i had him treed. on pacific street, a block ahead of me, i saw a group of pedestrians, wrapped in loose flowing garments of many colors. even at that distance i could make out that they were dark-skinned and had long black hair. i said to myself: "it is probable that these persons are connected with doctor somebody's medicine show; but i don't care if they are. they are indians--more indians than i have seen in one crowd at one time since buffalo bill was at madison square garden last spring. i shall look them over." so i ran and caught up with them--but they were not indians. they were genuine egyptian acrobats, connected with a traveling carnival company. when moses transmitted the divine command to the children of israel that they should spoil the egyptians, the children of israel certainly did a mighty thorough job of it. that was several thousand years ago and those egyptians i saw were still spoiled. i noticed it as soon as i got close to them. in salt lake city i saw half a dozen indians, but in a preserved form only. they were on display in a museum devoted to relics of the early days. in my opinion indians do not make very good preserves, especially when they have been in stock a long time and have become shopworn, as was the case with these goods. personally, i would not care to invest. besides, there was no telling how old they were. they had been dug out, mummified, from the cliff-dwellers' ruins in the southern part of the state, along with their household goods, their domestic utensils, their weapons of war and their ornaments; and there they were laid out in glass cases for modern eyes to see. there were plenty of other interesting exhibits in this museum, including several of brigham young's suits of clothes. for a man busied with statecraft and military affairs and domestic matters, brigham young must have changed clothes pretty often. i couldn't keep from wondering how a man with a family like his was found the time for it. to my mind the most interesting relic in the whole collection was the spry octogenarian who acted as guide and showed us through the place--for he was one of the few living links between the old west and the new. as a boy-convert to mormonism he came across the desert with the second expedition that fled westward from gentile persecution after brigham young had blazed the trail. he was a pony express rider in the days of the overland mail service. he was also an indian fighter--one of the trophies he showed was a scalp of his own raising practically, he having been present when it was raised by a friendly indian scout from the head of the hostile who originally owned it--and he had lived in salt lake city when it was a collection of log shanties within the walls of a wooden stockade. and now here he was, a man away up in his eighties, but still brisk and bright, piloting tourists about the upper floor of a modern skyscraper. we visited the museum after we had inspected the mormon tabernacle and had looked at the mormon temple--from the outside--and had seen the beehive and the lion house and the eagle gate and the painfully ornate mansion where brigham young kept his favorite wife, amelia. the tabernacle is famous the world over for its choir, its organ and its acoustics--particularly its acoustics. the guide, who is a mormon elder detailed for that purpose, escorts you into the balcony, away up under the domed wooden roof; and as you wait there, listening, another elder, standing upon a platform two hundred feet away, drops an ordinary pin upon the floor--and you can distinctly hear it fall. at first you are puzzled to decide exactly what it sounds like; but after a while the correct solution comes to you--it sounds exactly like a pin falling. next to the whispering gallery in the capitol at washington, i don't know of a worse place to tell your secrets to a friend than the mormon tabernacle. you might as well tell them to a woman and be done with it! in salt lake city i had rather counted upon seeing a mormon out walking with three or four of his wives--all at one time. i felt that this would be a distinct novelty to a person from new york, where the only show one enjoys along this line is the sight of a chap walking with three or four other men's wives--one at a time. but here, as in my quest for the indian, i was disappointed some more. once i thought i was about to score. i was standing in front of the zion coöperative mercantile establishment, which is a big department store owned by the church, but having all the latest improvements, including bargain counters and special salesdays. out of the door came an elderly gentleman attired in much broadcloth and many whiskers, and behind him trailed half a dozen soberly dressed women of assorted ages. filled with hope, i fell in behind the procession and followed it across to the hotel. there i learned the disappointing truth. the broadclothed person was not a mormon at all. he was a country bank president from somewhere back east and the women of his party were ohio school-teachers. anywhere except in utah i doubt if he could have fooled me, either, for he had the kind of whiskers that go with the banking profession. for some reason whiskers are associated with the practice of banking all over this country; hallowed by custom, they have come to stand for financial responsibility. a new york banker wears those little jib-boom whiskers on the sides of his head and sometimes a pennon on his chin, whereas a country banker usually has a full-rigged face. this man's whiskers were of the old square barkentine cut. i should have known who he was by his sailing gear. and so, disappointed in my dreams of seeing indians on the hoof and mormon households taking the air in family groups, i left salt lake city, with its fine wide streets and its handsome business district and its pure air and its background of snow-topped mountains, and started on the long homebound hike. it was late in the afternoon. we had quit utah, with its flat plains, its garden spots reclaimed from the desert, and its endless succession of trim red-brick farmhouses, which seem to be the universal dwelling-places of the prosperous mormon farmer. we had departed from the old trail that mark twain crawled over in a stage-coach and afterward wrote about in his immortal roughing it. the limited, traveling forty-odd miles an hour, was skipping through the lower part of wyoming before turning southward into colorado. we were in the midst of an expanse of desolation and emptiness, fifteen miles from anywhere, and i was sitting on the observation platform of the rear car, watching how the shafts of the setting sun made the colors shift and deepen in the cañons and upon the sides of the tall red mesas, when i became aware that the train was slowing down. through the car came the conductor, with a happy expression upon his face. behind him was a pleased-looking flagman leading by the arm a ragged tramp who had been caught, up forward somewhere, stealing a free ride. the tramp was not resisting exactly, but at every step he said: "you can't put me off the train between stations! it's the law that you can't put me off the train between stations!" neither the conductor nor the flagman said a word in answer. as the conductor reached up and jerked the bellcord the tramp, in the tone and manner of one who advances an absolutely unanswerable argument, said: "you know, don't you, you can't put me off the train between stations?" the train halted. the conductor unfastened a tail-gate in the guard-rail, and the flagman dropped his prisoner out through the opening. as the tramp flopped off into space i caught this remark: "you can't put me off the train between stations." the conductor tugged another signal on the bellcord, and the wheels began to turn faster and faster. the tramp picked himself up from between the rails. he brushed some adhering particles of roadbed off himself and, facing us, made a megaphone of his hands and sent a message after our diminishing shapes. by straining my ears i caught his words. he spoke as follows: "you can't put me off the train between stations!" in my whole life i never saw a man who was so hard to convince of a thing as that tramp was. * * * * * transcriber's note: minor spelling, hyphenation, and punctuation errors have been corrected. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 15526-h.htm or 15526-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/5/5/2/15526/15526-h/15526-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/5/5/2/15526/15526-h.zip) john l. stoddard's lectures, volume 10 (of 10) southern california grand cañon of the colorado river yellowstone national park illustrated and embellished with views of the world's famous places and people, being the identical discourses delivered during the past eighteen years under the title of the stoddard lectures boston balch brothers co. norwood press j. s. gushing & co.--berwick & smith norwood, mass., u.s.a. macdonald & sons, bookbinders, boston mcm southern california [illustration] nature has carefully guarded southern california. ten thousand miles of ocean roll between her western boundary and the nearest continent; while eastward, her divinity is hedged by dreary deserts that forbid approach. although the arid plains of eastern arizona are frequently called deserts, it is not till the west-bound tourist has passed flagstaff that the word acquires a real and terrible significance. then, during almost an entire day he journeys through a region which, while it fascinates, inspires him with dread. occasionally a flock of goats suggests the possibility of sustaining life here, but sometimes for a distance of fifty miles he may see neither man nor beast. the villages, if such they can be called, are merely clusters of rude huts dotting an area of rocky desolation. no trees are visible. no grazing-ground relieves the dismal monochrome of sand. the mountains stand forth dreary, gaunt, and naked. in one locality the train runs through a series of gorges the sides of which are covered with disintegrated rock, heaped up in infinite confusion, as if an awful ague-fit had seized the hills, and shaken them until their ledges had been broken into a million boulders. at another point, emerging from a maze of mountains, the locomotive shoots into a plain, forty or fifty miles square, and sentineled on every side by savage peaks. once, doubtless, an enormous lake was held encompassed by these giants; but, taking advantage of some seismic agitation, it finally slipped through their fingers to the sea, and now men travel over its deserted bed. sometimes these monsters seemed to be closing in upon us, as if to thwart our exit and crush us in their stony arms; but the resistless steed that bore us onward, though quivering and panting with the effort, always contrived to find the narrow opening toward liberty. occasionally our route lay through enormous fields of cactus and yucca trees, twelve feet in height, and, usually, so hideous from their distorted shapes and prickly spikes, that i could understand the proverb, "even the devil cannot eat a cactus." [illustration: life on the desert.] [illustration: the desert's mountains.] [illustration: desert vegetation.] as the day wore on, and we were drawn from one scene of desolation to another, i almost doubted, like bunyan's pilgrim, whether we should ever reach the promised land alive; but, finally, through a last upheaval of defiant hills which were, if possible, more desolate and weird than any we had seen, we gained the boundary of california and gazed upon the colorado river. it is a stream whose history thrilled me as i remembered how in its long and tortuous course of more than a thousand miles to this point it had laboriously cut its way through countless desert cañons, and i felt glad to see it here at last, sweeping along in tranquil majesty as if aware that all its struggles were now ended, and peace and victory had been secured. it was sunset when our train, having crossed this river, ran along its western bank to our first stopping-place in california,--the needles. never shall i forget the impression made upon me as i looked back toward the wilderness from which we had emerged. what! was that it--that vision of transfiguration--that illumined zion radiant with splendor? across the river, lighted by the evening's after-glow of fire, rose a celestial city, with towers, spires, and battlements glittering as if sheathed in burnished gold. sunshine and distance had dispelled all traces of the region's barrenness, and for a few memorable moments, while we watched it breathlessly, its sparkling bastions seemed to beckon us alluringly to its magnificence; then, fading like an exquisite mirage created by the genii of the desert, it swiftly sank into the desolation from which the sun had summoned it, to crown it briefly with supernal glory. turning at last from its cold immobility to the activity around us, i saw some representatives of the fallen race of california, as indian bucks and squaws came from their squalid hovels to sell the trifling products of their industry, and stare at what to them is a perpetual miracle,--the passing train. five races met upon that railroad platform, and together illustrated the history of the country. first, in respect to time, was the poor indian, slovenly, painted and degraded, yet characterized by a kind of bovine melancholy on the faces of the men, and a trace of animal beauty in the forms of the young squaws. teasing and jesting with the latter were the negro porters of the train, who, though their ancestors were as little civilized as those of the indians, have risen to a level only to be appreciated by comparing the african and the indian side by side. there, also, was the mexican, the lord of all this region in his earlier and better days, but now a penniless degenerate of old castile. among them stood the masterful anglo-saxon, whose energy has pushed aside the spaniard, civilized the negro, developed half a continent, built this amazing path of steel through fifteen hundred miles of desert, and who is king where-ever he goes. while i surveyed these specimens of humanity and compared them, one with another, there suddenly appeared among them a fifth figure,--that of sing lee, formerly a subject of the oldest government on earth, and still a representative of the four hundred millions swarming in the flowery kingdom. strangely enough, of all these different racial types, the mongol seemed the most self-satisfied. the yankee was continually bustling about, feeding passengers, transporting trunks, or hammering car-wheels; the negroes were joking with the indians, who appeared stolidly apathetic or resigned; the mexicans stood apart in sullen gloom, as if secretly mourning their lost estate; but sing lee looked about him with a cheerful calmness which seemed indicative of absolute contentment and his face wore, continually, a complacent smile. what strange varieties of human destiny these men present, i thought as i surveyed them: the indian and the mexican stand for the hopeless past; the anglo-saxon and the negro for the active present; while sing lee is a specimen of that yellow race which is embalmed in its own conservatism, like a fly in amber. [illustration: looking back at the mountains.] [illustration: a california ranch scene.] [illustration: indian huts.] [illustration: "a fallen race."] [illustration: a mexican house and family.] [illustration: the blossoming wilderness.] [illustration: complacent mongols.] [illustration: characteristic scenery.] the unsuspecting traveler who has crossed the colorado river and entered southern california, naturally looks around him for the orange groves of which he has so often heard, and is astonished not to find himself surrounded by them; but, gradually, the truth is forced upon his mind that, in this section of our country, he must not base his calculations upon eastern distances, or eastern areas. for, even after he has passed the wilderness of arizona and the california frontier, he discovers that the eldorado of his dreams lies on the other side of a desert, two hundred miles in breadth, beyond whose desolate expanse the siren of the sunset sea still beckons him and whispers: "this is the final barrier; cross it, and i am yours." the transit is not difficult, however, in days like these; for the whole distance from chicago to the coast can be accomplished in seventy-two hours, and where the transcontinental traveler of less than half a century ago was threatened day and night with attacks from murderous apaches, and ran the risk of perishing of thirst in many a waterless "valley of death," the modern tourist sleeps securely in a pullman car, is waited on by a colored servant, and dines in railway restaurants the management of which, both in the quality and quantity of the food supplied, even in the heart of the great american desert, is justly famous for its excellence. at san bernardino, we enter what is called the garden of southern california; but even here it is possible to be disappointed, if we expect to find the entire country an unbroken paradise of orange trees and roses. thousands of oranges and lemons, it is true, suspend their miniature globes of gold against the sky; but interspersed between their groves are wastes of sand, reminding us that all the fertile portion of this region has been as truly wrested from the wilderness, as holland from the sea. accordingly, since san bernardino county alone is twice as large as massachusetts, and the county of los angeles nearly the size of connecticut, it is not difficult to understand why a continuous expanse of verdure is not seen. the truth is, southern california, with a few exceptions, is cultivated only where man has brought to it vivifying water. when that appears, life springs up from sterility, as water gushed forth from the rock in the arabian desert when the great leader of the israelites smote it in obedience to divine command. hence, there is always present here the fascination of the unattained, which yet is readily attainable, patiently waiting for the master-hand that shall unlock the sand-roofed treasure-houses of fertility with a crystal key. it can be easily imagined, therefore, that this is a land of striking contrasts. pass, for example, through the suburbs of los angeles, and you will find that, while one yard is dry and bare, the next may be embellished with a palm tree twenty feet in height, with roses clambering over the portico of the house, and lilies blooming in the garden. of the three things essential to vegetation--soil, sun, and water--man must contribute (and it is all he can contribute) water. [illustration: striking contrasts.] [illustration: wrested from the sand.] [illustration: a palm-girt avenue, los angeles.] once let the tourist here appreciate the fact that almost all the verdure which delights his eyes is the gift of water at the hand of man, and any disappointment he may have at first experienced will be changed to admiration. moreover, with the least encouragement this country bursts forth into verdure, crowns its responsive soil with fertility, and smiles with bloom. even the slightest tract of herbage, however brown it may be in the dry season, will in the springtime clothe itself with green, and decorate its emerald robe with spangled flowers. in fact, the wonderful profusion of wild flowers, which, when the winter rains have saturated the ground, transform these hillsides into floral terraces, can never be too highly praised. happy is he who visits either palestine or southern california when they are bright with blossoms and redolent of fragrance. the climax of this renaissance of nature is, usually, reached about the middle of april, but in proportion as the rain comes earlier or later, the season varies slightly. at a time when many cities of the north and east are held in the tenacious grip of winter, their gray skies thick with soot, their pavements deep in slush, and their inhabitants clad in furs, the cities of southern california celebrate their floral carnival, which is a time of great rejoicing, attended with an almost fabulous display of flowers. los angeles, for example, has expended as much as twenty-five thousand dollars on the details of one such festival. the entire city is then gay with flags and banners, and in the long procession horses, carriages, and riders are so profusely decked with flowers, that they resemble a slowly moving throng of animated bouquets. ten thousand choice roses have been at such times fastened to the wheels, body, pole, and harness of a single equipage. sometimes the individual exhibitions in these floral pageants take the form of floats, which represent all sorts of myths and allegories, portrayed elaborately by means of statues, as well as living beings, lavishly adorned with ornamental grasses, and wild and cultivated flowers. southern california is not only a locality, it is a type. it cannot be defined by merely mentioning parallels of latitude. we think of it and love it as the dreamland of the spanish missions, and as a region rescued from aridity, and made a home for the invalid and the winter tourist. los angeles is really its metropolis, but san diego, pasadena, and santa barbara are prosperous and progressive cities whose population increases only less rapidly than their ambition. [illustration: an arbor in winter.] [illustration: main street, los angeles.] one of the first things for an eastern visitor to do, on arriving at los angeles, is to take the soft sound of _g_ out of the city's name, and to remember that the spaniards and mexicans pronounce _e_ like the english _a_ in fate. this is not absolutely necessary for entrance into good society, but the pronunciation "angeelees" is tabooed. the first anglo-saxon to arrive here was brought by the mexicans, in 1822, as a prisoner. soon after, however, americans appeared in constantly increasing numbers, and, on august 13, 1846, major fremont raised at los angeles the stars and stripes, and the house that he occupied may still be seen. nevertheless, the importance of los angeles is of recent date. in 1885 it was an adobe village, dedicated to the queen of the angels; to-day, a city of brick and stone, with more than fifty thousand inhabitants, it calls itself the queen of the state. its streets are broad, many of its buildings are massive and imposing, and its fine residences beautiful. it is the capital of southern california, and the headquarters of its fruit-culture. the plains and valleys surrounding it are one mass of vineyards, orange groves and orchards, and, in 1891, the value of oranges alone exported from this city amounted to one and a quarter millions of dollars. it must be said, however, that there is less verdure here than in well-cared-for eastern towns of corresponding size, and that los angeles, and even pasadena, notwithstanding their many palm trees, have on the whole a bare appearance, compared with a city like new haven, with its majestic elms and robe of vivid green, which even in autumn seems to dream of summer bloom. nevertheless, los angeles is clean, and poverty and squalor rarely show themselves; while, in the suburbs of the city, even the humblest dwellings are frequently surrounded by palm trees, and made beautiful by flowers. [illustration: fremont's headquarters.] [illustration: palatial residences in los angeles.] [illustration: los angeles.] another charm of los angeles is the sudden contrasts it presents. thus, a ride of three minutes from his hotel will bring the tourist to the remains of the humble mexican village which was the forerunner of the present city. there he will find the inevitable plaza with its little park and fountain, without which no mexican town is complete. there, too, is the characteristic adobe church, the quaint interior of which presents a curious medley of old weather-beaten statues and modern furniture, and is always pervaded by that smell peculiar to long-inhabited adobe buildings, and which is called by steele, in his charming "old california days," the national odor of mexico. los angeles, also, has its chinatown, which in its manners and customs is, fortunately, as distinct from the american portion of the city as if it were an island in the pacific; but it gave me an odd sensation to be able to pass at once from the handsome, active settlement of the anglo-saxon into the stupidity of mexico, or the heathenism of china. [illustration: plaza and adobe church, los angeles.] [illustration: broadway, los angeles.] "how can i distinguish here a native californian from an eastern man?" i asked a resident. "there are no native californians," was the somewhat exaggerated reply; "this is not only a modern, but an eastern city. nine-tenths of our inhabitants came here from the east less than fifteen years ago, many of them less than five. we are an old people with a new home." ostrich rearing is now a profitable industry of california, and farms have been established for this purpose at half a dozen points in the southern section of the state. two of them are in the vicinity of los angeles, and well repay a visit; for, if one is unacquainted with the habits of these graceful birds, there is instruction as well as amusement in studying their appearance, character, and mode of life. my first view of the feathered bipeds was strikingly spectacular. as every one knows, the ostrich is decidedly _décolleté_ as well as utterly indifferent to the covering of its legs. accordingly a troop of them, as they came balancing and tiptoeing toward me, reminded me of a company of ballet dancers tripping down the stage. while the head of the ostrich is unusually small, its eyes are large and have an expression of mischief which gives warning of danger. during a visit to one of the farms, i saw a male bird pluck two hats from unwary men, and it looked wicked enough to have taken their heads as well, had they not been more securely fastened. it is sometimes sarcastically asserted that the ostrich digests with satisfaction to itself such articles as gimlets, nails, and penknives; but this is a slander. it needs gravel, like all creatures of its class which have to grind their food in an interior grist-mill; but though it will usually bite at any bright object, it will not always swallow it. i saw one peck at a ribbon on a lady's hat, and, also, at a pair of shears in its keeper's hands, but this was no proof that it intended to devour either. on another occasion, an ostrich snatched a purse from a lady's hand and instantly dropped it; but when a gold piece fell from it, the bird immediately swallowed that, showing how easily even animals fall under the influence of californian lust for gold. [illustration: an ostrich farm.] [illustration: orange grove avenue, pasadena.] sixteen miles from los angeles, yet owing to the clear atmosphere, apparently, rising almost at the terminus of the city's streets, stand the sierra madre mountains, whose copious reservoirs furnish this entire region with water. an excursion toward this noble range brought me one day to pasadena, the pride of all the towns which, relatively to los angeles, resemble the satellites of a central sun. pasadena seems a garden without a weed; a city without a hovel; a laughing, happy, prosperous, charming town, basking forever in the sunshine, and lying at the feet of still, white mountain peaks, whose cool breath moderates the semi-tropical heat of one of the most exquisitely beautiful valleys in the world. these mountains, although sombre and severe, are not so awful and forbidding as those of the arizona desert, but they are notched and jagged, as their name _sierra_ indicates, and scars and gashes on their surfaces give proof of the terrific battles which they have waged for ages with the elements. a striking feature of their scenery is that they rise so abruptly from the san gabriel valley, that from pasadena one can look directly to their bases, and even ride to them in a trolley car; and the peculiar situation of the city is evidenced by the fact that, in midwinter, its residents, while picking oranges and roses in their gardens, often see snow-squalls raging on the neighboring peaks of the sierra. [illustration: three miles from oranges to snow.] it would be difficult to overpraise the charm of pasadena and its environs. twenty-five years ago the site of the present city was a sheep-pasture. to-day it boasts of a population of ten thousand souls, seventy-five miles of well-paved streets, numerous handsome public buildings, and hundreds of attractive homes embellished by well-kept grounds. one of its streets is lined for a mile with specimens of the fan palm, fifteen feet in height; and i realized the prodigality of nature here when my guide pointed out a heliotrope sixteen feet in height, covering the whole porch of a house; while, in driving through a private estate, i saw, in close proximity, sago and date palms, and lemon, orange, camphor, pepper, pomegranate, fig, quince, and walnut trees. [illustration: a pasadena hotel.] [illustration: a pasadena residence.] [illustration: pasadena.] as we stood spellbound on the summit of pasadena's famous raymond hill, below us lay the charming town, wrapped in the calm repose that distance always gives even to scenes of great activity; beyond this stretched away along the valley such an enchanting vista of green fields and golden flowers, and pretty houses nestling in foliage, and orchards bending 'neath their luscious fruits, that it appeared a veritable paradise; and the effect of light and color, the combination of perfect sunshine and well-tempered heat, the view in one direction of the ocean twenty miles away, and, in the other, of the range of the sierra madre only seven miles distant, with the san gabriel valley sleeping at its base, produced a picture so divinely beautiful, that we were moved to smiles or tears with the unreasoning rapture of a child over these lavish gifts of nature. yet this same nature has imposed an inexorable condition on the recipients of her bounty; for most of this luxuriance is dependent upon irrigation. "the palm," said my informant, "will grow with little moisture here, and so will barley and the grape-vine; but everything else needs water, which must be artificially supplied." "how do you obtain it?" i asked. "we buy the requisite amount of water with our land," was the reply. "do you see that little pipe," he added, pointing to an orange grove, "and do you notice the furrows between the trees? once in so often the water must be turned on there; and, as the land is sloping, the precious liquid gradually fills the trenches and finds its way to the roots of the trees." [illustration: a raisin ranch.] dealers in california wines declare that people ought to use them in preference to the imported vintage of europe, and the warehouses they have built prove the sincerity of their conviction. one storehouse in the san gabriel valley is as large as the city hall of new york, and contains wooden receptacles for wine rivaling in size the great tun of heidelberg. we walked between its endless rows of hogsheads, filled with wine; and, finally, in the sample-room were invited to try in turn the claret, burgundy, sherry, port, and brandy. [illustration: an orange grove, pasadena.] [illustration: a california vineyard.] "how much wine do you make?" i asked the gentleman in charge. "in one year," was the reply, "we made a million gallons." i thought of the los angeles river which i had crossed that morning, and of its sandy bed one hundred feet in width, with a current in the centre hardly larger than the stream from a hose-pipe, and remarked, "surely, in some portions of this land there is more wine than water." "where do you sell it?" i presently inquired. "everywhere," was the answer, "even in france; and what goes over there you subsequently buy, at double the price, for real french wine." [illustration: at the base of the mountains.] it was the old story, and i doubt not there is truth in it; but the products of california vineyards, owing, possibly, to the very richness of the soil, do not seem to me to possess a flavor equal in delicacy to that of the best imported wines. this will, however, be remedied in time, and in the comparatively near future this may become the great wine-market of the world. certainly no state in the union has a climate better adapted to vine-growing, and there are now within its borders no less than sixty million vines, which yield grapes and raisins of the finest quality. no visit to pasadena would be complete without an excursion to the neighboring mountains, which not only furnish the inhabitants with water, but, also, contribute greatly to their happiness and recreation. for, having at last awakened to the fact that comfort and delight awaited them in the recesses and upon the summits of their giant hills, the californians have built fine roads along the mountain sides, established camping-grounds and hostelries at several attractive points, and, finally, constructed a remarkable elevated railroad, by which the people of los angeles can, in three hours, reach the crest of the sierra madre, six thousand feet above the sea. soon after leaving pasadena, a trolley takes the tourist with great rapidity straight toward the mountain wall, which, though presenting at a distance the appearance of an unbroken rampart, disintegrates as he approaches it into separate peaks; so that the crevices, which look from pasadena like mere wrinkles on the faces of these granite giants, prove upon close inspection to be cañons of considerable depth. i was surprised and charmed to see the amount of cultivation which is carried to the very bases of these cliffs. orchards and orange groves approach the monsters fearlessly, and shyly drop golden fruit, or fragrant blossoms at their feet; while lovely homes are situated where the traveler would expect to find nothing but desolate crags and savage wildness. the truth is, the inhabitants have come to trust these mountains, as gentle animals sometimes learn by experience to approach man fearlessly; and, seeing what the snow-capped peaks can do for them in tempering the summer heat and furnishing them water from unfailing reservoirs, men have discerned behind their stern severity the smile of friendship and benevolence, and have perceived that these sublime dispensers of the gifts of nature are in reality beneficent deities,--their feet upon the land which they make fertile, their hands uplifted to receive from the celestial treasure-house the blessings they in turn give freely to the grateful earth. [illustration: looking down on the san gabriel valley.] [illustration: the alpine tavern.] [illustration: the great incline.] to reach their serrated crests the trolley car, already mentioned, conveys us through a wild gorge known as rubio cañon, and leaves us at the foot of an elevated cable-road to ascend mount lowe. even those familiar with the mount washington and catskill railways, or who have ascended in a similar manner to mürren from the vale of lauterbrunnen, or to the summit of mount pilate from lucerne, look with some trepidation at this incline, the steepest part of which has a slope of sixty-two degrees, and, audaciously, stretches into the air to a point three thousand feet above our heads. once safely out of the cable car, however, at the upper terminus, we smile, and think the worst is over. it is true, we see awaiting us another innocent looking electric car by which we are to go still higher; but we are confident that nothing very terrible can be experienced in a trolley. this confidence is quickly shattered. i doubt if there is anything in the world more "hair lifting" than the road over which that car conveys its startled occupants. its very simplicity makes it the more horrifying; for, since the vehicle is light, no massive supports are deemed essential; and, as the car is open, the passengers seem to be traveling in a flying machine. i never realized what it was to be a bird, till i was lightly swung around a curve beneath which yawned a precipice twenty-five hundred feet in depth, or crossed a chasm by a bridge which looked in the distance like a thread of gossamer, or saw that i was riding on a scaffolding, built out from the mountain into space. for five appalling miles of alternating happiness and horror, ecstasy and dread, we twisted round the well-nigh perpendicular cliffs, until, at last the agony over, we walked into the mountain tavern near the summit, and, seating ourselves before an open fire blazing in the hall, requested some restorative nerve-food. yet this aërial inn is only one hundred and eighty minutes from los angeles; and it is said that men have snow-balled one another at this tavern, picked oranges at the base of the mountain, and bathed in the bay of santa monica, thirty miles distant, all in a single afternoon. it certainly is possible to do this, but it should be remembered that stories are almost the only things in california which do not need irrigation to grow luxuriantly. i was told that although this mountain railway earns its running expenses it pays no interest on its enormous cost. this can readily be believed; and one marvels, not only that it was ever built, but that it was not necessary to go to a lunatic asylum for the first passenger. nevertheless, it is a wonderfully daring experiment, and accomplishes perfectly what it was designed to do; while in proportion as one's nervousness wears away, the experience is delightful. [illustration: the circular bridge.] [illustration: imitating a bird.] [illustration: swinging round a curve.] [illustration: the innocent trolley.] living proofs of the progress made in california are the patient burros, which, previous to the construction of this railroad, formed the principal means of transportation up mount lowe. why has the donkey never found a eulogist? the horse is universally admired. the arab poet sings of the beauties of his camel. the bull, the cow, the dog, and even the cat have all been praised in prose or verse; but the poor donkey still remains an ass, the butt of ridicule, the symbol of stupidity, the object of abuse. yet if there be another and a better world for animals, and if in that sphere patience ranks as a cardinal virtue, the ass will have a better pasture-ground than many of its rivals. the donkey's small size is against it. most people are cruel toward dumb beasts, and only when animals have power to defend themselves, does caution make man kinder. he hesitates to hurt an elephant, and even respects, to some extent, the rear extremities of a mule; but the donkey corresponds to the small boy in a crowd of brutal playmates. it is difficult to see how these useful animals could be replaced in certain countries of the world. purchased cheaply, reared inexpensively, living on thistles if they get nothing better, and bearing heavy burdens till they drop from exhaustion, these little beasts are of incalculable value to the laboring classes of southern europe, egypt, mexico, and similar lands. if they have failed to win affection, it is, perhaps, because of their one infirmity,--their fearful vocal tones, which in america have won for them the sarcastic title of "rocky mountain canaries." [illustration: midwinter in california.] [illustration: a californian burro.] [illustration: romeo and juliet.] westward from los angeles stretches the famous "kite-shaped" track which takes the traveler through the most celebrated orange and lemon districts of the state. starting upon this memorable excursion, our route lay through the world-renowned san gabriel valley, a glorious expanse ten miles in width and seventy in length, steeped in sunshine, brilliant with every shade of yellow, emerald, and brown, and here and there enriched by spots of brighter color where beds of wild flowers swung their sweet bells noiselessly, or the light green of orange trees, with mounds of golden fruit heaped in profusion on the ground, relieved the sombre groves of eucalyptus whose foliage was so dark as to be nearly black. occasionally, however, our train traversed a parched area which illustrated how the cloven-foot of the adversary always shows itself in spots unhallowed by the benison of water. in winter and spring, these sterile points would not be so conspicuous, but on that summer day, in spite of the closed windows, dust sometimes filled the cars, and for a little while san gabriel valley was a paradise lost. for seventy miles contrasts of hot sand and verdant orchards, arid wastes and smiling valley, followed one another in quick succession,--and down upon it all frowned the long wall of the sierra madre. [illustration: san gabriel valley.] [illustration: gathering poppies at the base of the sierra madre.] it is a wonderful experience to ride for such a distance in a perfectly level valley, and see an uninterrupted range of mountains, eight thousand feet in height, rising abruptly from the plain like the long battle-line of an invading army. what adds to its impressiveness is the fact that these peaks are, for the entire country which they dominate, the arbiters of life and death. beyond them, on one side, the desert stretches eastward for a thousand miles; upon the other, toward the ocean, whose moisture they receive and faithfully distribute, extends this valley of delight. the height of the huge granite wall is generally uniform, save where, like towers on the mighty rampart, old san antonio and the san bernardino brothers lift their hoary heads two miles above the sea,--their silvery crowns and dazzling features standing out in the crystalline clearness of the atmosphere as if they had been carved in high relief. [illustration: an adobe house.] [illustration: a pasadena lemon tree.] we sped along, with feelings alternating between elation and dejection, as the scenery was beautiful or barren, till, suddenly, some sixty miles from los angeles, our train drew up before a city, containing asphalt pavements, buildings made of brick, and streets embowered in palms. this city which, in 1872, was a sheep-ranch, yet whose assessed valuation, in 1892, was more than four million dollars, is called riverside; but, save in the rainy season, one looks in vain for the stream from which it takes its name. the river has retired, as so many western rivers do, to wander in obscurity six feet below the sand. "a providential thing," said a wag to me, "for, in such heat as this, if the water rose to the surface it would all evaporate." the sun was, indeed, ardent as we walked through the town, and we were impressed by the fact that the dwellings most appropriate for this region are those which its first settlers seem to have instinctively adopted; for the white, one-storied adobe house, refreshing to the eye, cool in the heat, warm in the cold, caressed by clinging vines and overhung with trees, is surely the ideal residence for southern california. such buildings can, of course, be greatly varied and embellished by wealthy owners; but modern houses of red brick, fanciful "queen annes," and imitations of castles, seem less suited to this land of sun and sand, where nothing is so much to be desired as repose in form and color. i always welcomed, therefore, genuine southern dwellings and, in the place of asphalt pavements, natural roadways domed by arching trees. [illustration: a house modeled after the old mexican fashion.] [illustration: the ideal home.] the pride of riverside is its far-famed magnolia avenue, fifteen miles in length, with two broad driveways lined with pepper and eucalyptus trees. beyond these also are palm-girt sidewalks twenty feet in breadth; while, here and there, reflecting california's golden sunshine from their glistening leaves, stand groups of the magnificent magnolias which give the avenue its name. "why did you make this splendid promenade?" i asked in mingled curiosity and admiration. "it is one of our ways of booming things," was the reply; "out of the hundreds of people who come to see it, some stay, build houses, and go into business. without it they might never have come at all." "was not the cost of laying it out enormous?" i inquired. "not so great as you would naturally suppose," was the answer, "for after this country has once been irrigated, whatever is planted on watered land will grow like interest, day and night, summer and winter." [illustration: magnolia avenue, riverside.] [illustration: a magnolia blossom.] riverside's fortunes were made in orange culture, and there was a time when every one who planted orange trees was prosperous; but now, under inevitable competition, this enterprise is rivaled in value by other large industries, particularly the cultivation of lemons and olives. thousands of acres of olive orchards are now flourishing in southern california, and are considered a sure and profitable investment. another celebrated "orange city" is redlands, where the visitor ceases to wonder at nature, and devotes himself to marveling at man. how can he do otherwise when, in a place that was a wilderness ten years ago, he drives for twenty miles over well-curbed roads, sixty feet wide and as hard as asphalt, or strolls through handsome streets adorned with palms and orange trees, and frequently embellished with residences worthy of newport? no doubt it is a surprise to many tourists to find such elegant homes in these cities which were born but yesterday; for americans in the east, though far from conservative themselves, do not, as a rule, appreciate the wonderful growth of these towns which but a few years since had no existence. occasionally some neighbor goes out to the pacific coast, and tells his friends on his return what he has seen; but it makes little impression until they go themselves. they think he is exaggerating. "would you like to see a converted mountain?" inquired my guide. "what do you mean?" i asked incredulously. "you will see," he replied, "and in ten minutes we shall be there." [illustration: part of the "converted mountain," redlands.] accordingly, up we drove over magnificent, finely graded roads, till we arrived at what appeared to be a gentleman's private park. the park, however, seemed to have no limit, and we rode on through a bewildering extent of cemented stone walls, umbrageous trees, luxuriant flowers, trailing vines, and waving palms. at last we reached the summit, and what a view unrolled itself before us! directly opposite, the awful wall of the sierra swept up to meet our vision in all its majesty of granite glory, like an immense, white-crested wave, one hundred miles in length, which had by some mysterious force been instantaneously curbed and petrified, just as it was about to break and overwhelm the valley with destruction. beneath it, for seventy miles in exquisitely blended hues, stretched the wonderful san gabriel intervale, ideal in its tranquil loveliness. oh, the splendor, opulence, and sweetness of its countless flowers, whose scarlet, gold, and crimson glowed and melted into the richest sheen of velvet, and rendered miles of pure air redolent with perfume, as grapes impart their flavor to good wine! in gazing on this valley from a distance one would fain believe it to be in reality, as in appearance, an idyllic garden of arcadian innocence and happiness, and, forgetting the disillusions of maturer years, dream that all human hearts are as transparent as its atmosphere, and that all life is no less sweet and pure. [illustration: a driveway in redlands.] but, presently, i asked again, "what do you mean by a _converted_ mountain?" "eight years ago," was the reply, "this elevation on which we stand was a heap of yellow sand, like many unconverted mountains that we see about us; now it has been transformed into a dozen miles of finished roads and extensive gardens enclosing two fine residences." "pardon me," i exclaimed, "here are trees thirty feet high." "all grown in eight years," he answered. "still," i again protested, "here are stone walls, and curbed and graded roads." "all made in eight years," he reiterated. "but, in addition to this mountain, how about the twenty miles of orange groves surrounding it, the thirty thousand dollar public library of redlands, and its miles of asphalt streets?" "all in eight years," he said again, as if, like poe's raven, he had been taught one refrain. [illustration: the sierra madre and the san gabriel valley.] [illustration: a few "unconverted mountains," near redlands.] in fact, it should be said that this entire mountain was purchased by two wealthy brothers who now come every winter from the east to this incomparable hill, the whole of which has been, as if by magic, metamorphosed into an estate, where visitors are allowed to find instruction and delight upon its lofty terraces of forest and of flowers. is it strange, then, that such sudden transformations of sterile plains and mountains into bits of paradise make tourists in southern california wildly enthusiastic? they actually see fulfilled before their eyes the prophecy of isaiah, "the desert shall rejoice, and blossom as the rose." the explanation is, however, simple. the land is really rich. the ingredients are already here. instead of being worthless, as was once supposed, this is a precious soil. the aladdin's wand that unlocks all its treasures is the irrigating ditch; its "open sesame" is water; and the divinity who, at the call of man, bestows the priceless gift, is the madre of the sierras. a roman conqueror once said that he had but to stamp upon the earth and legions would spring up to do his bidding. so capital has stamped upon this sandy wilderness, and in a single generation a civilized community has leaped into astonished life. yet do we realize the immense amount of labor necessitated by such irrigation? this mountain, for example, is covered with water pipes, as electric wires are carried through our houses. every few rods a pipe with a faucet rises from the ground; and as there are miles of roads and hundreds of cultivated acres, it can with difficulty be imagined how many of these pipes have been laid, and how innumerable are the little ditches, through which the water is made to flow. should man relax his diligence for a single year, the region would relapse into sterility; but, on the other hand, what a land is this for those who have the skill and industry to call forth all its capabilities! what powers of productiveness may still be sleeping underneath its soil, awaiting but the kiss of water and the touch of man to waken them to life! beside its hidden rivers what future cities may spring forth to joyous being; and what new, undiscovered chemistry may not this mingling of mountain, sun, and ocean yet evolve to prove a permanent blessing to mankind! [illustration: grounds of the smiley brothers on the "converted mountain."] [illustration: irrigating ditches.] one hundred and twenty-six miles southwest of los angeles, one could imagine that he had reached the limit of the civilized world: eastward, the desert stretches far away to the bases of the san jacinto mountains; westward, thousands of miles of ocean billows shoulder one another toward the setting sun; southward, extends that barren, almost unknown strip of earth, the peninsula of lower california; yet in this _cul-de-sac_, this corner between mountain, desert, and sea, rises a charming and inspiring picture,--san diego. [illustration: san diego.] the beautiful harbor of this city is almost closed, on one side, by a bold majestic promontory called point loma; and on the other, by a natural breakwater, in the form of a crescent, twelve miles long, upon the outer rim of which the ocean beats a ceaseless monody. at one extremity of this silver strand, directly opposite point loma and close to the rhythmic surf, stands the hotel coronado; its west front facing the pacific, its east side looking on the azure of the peaceful bay, beyond which rises san diego with a population of twenty thousand souls. to reach this hotel, the tourist crosses the harbor from the city by a ferry, and then in an electric car is whirled for a mile along an avenue which he might well suppose was leading him to some magnificent family estate. the pavement is delightfully smooth and hard; on either side are waving palms and beds of radiant flowers; two charming parks, with rare botanical shrubs and trees, are, also, visible and hold invitingly before him the prospect of delightful hours in their fragrant labyrinths; and, finally, out of a semi-tropical garden, the vast extent of which he does not comprehend at first, rises the far-famed hostelry which, itself, covers about four and a half acres of ground, at the extreme southwestern corner of the union, and on a spot which yesterday was a mere tongue of sand. in the tourist season this palatial place of entertainment presents a brilliant throng of joyous guests who have, apparently, subscribed to the motto: "all care abandon ye, who enter here." it is one of the few spots on this continent where the great faults of our american civilization--worry and incessant work--are not conspicuous. men of the north too frequently forget that the object of life is not work, but that the object of work is life. in lands like southern california, however, where flowers fill the air with fragrance, where fruits are so abundant that starvation is impossible, and where the nerves are not continually whipped by atmospheric changes into restless energy, men live more calmly, probably more rationally. sunshine, roses, and the throbbing tones of the guitar would seem to be the most appropriate sources of amusement here. meanwhile the northern millionaire breaks down from overwork and leaves his money to be squandered by his relatives. yet he also, till the last gasp, claims that he is happy. what is happiness? _quien sabe_? [illustration: point loma.] [illustration: hotel coronado.] [illustration: courtyard of the hotel.] the country about san diego is a miniature reproduction of the plains of arizona and new mexico, and just above the city rises a genuine _mesa_, which, though comparatively small, resembles the large table-lands of the interior, and was formed in the same way. cutting it, here and there, are little cañons, like that through which the colorado rolls, not a mile deep, but still illustrative of the erosion made here by the rivers of a distant age; for these gashes are the result of rushing water, and every stone upon this small plateau has been worn round and smooth by friction with its fellows, tossed, whirled, and beaten by the waves of centuries. strange, is it not, that though, like many other areas of our continent, this region was once fashioned and completely ruled by water, at present it has practically none; and men must often bring the precious liquid fifty miles to crown the soil with beauty and fertility. [illustration: view from the table-land.] [illustration: pachango indians at home.] [illustration: a christianized indian.] [illustration: the mission bells.] the old town of san diego, four miles north of the present city, is now almost abandoned. only a dozen adobe buildings kept in fair repair, and as many more in ruins, mark the site. the little chapel is still used for worship, and from an uncouth wooden frame outside its walls hang two of the old mission bells which formerly rang out the angelus over the sunset waves. my guide carelessly struck them with the butt of his whip, and called forth from their consecrated lips of bronze a sound which, in that scene of loneliness, at first seemed like a wail of protest at the sacrilege, and finally died away into a muffled intonation resembling a stifled sob. roused by the unexpected call, there presently appeared an indian who looked as if he might have been contemporary with methuselah. no wrinkled leaf that had been blown about the earth for centuries could have appeared more dry and withered than this centenarian, whose hair drooped from his skull like spanish moss, and whose brown hands resembled lumps of adobe. [illustration: an aged squaw.] "i am glad to have you see this man," said the guide, "for he has rung these bells for seventy years, and is said to be more than a hundred years old." i could not obtain a portrait of this decrepit bell-ringer, for many indians are superstitiously opposed to being photographed; but i procured the picture of an equally shriveled female aged one hundred and thirty who might have been his sister. [illustration: relics of an ancient race.] [illustration: "ecstatic bathers."] "this," remarked my guide with a smile, "is what the climate of san diego does for the natives." "the glorious climate of california" has been for years a theme of song and story, and a discussion of its merits forms one of the principal occupations of the dwellers on the pacific coast. it is indeed difficult to see how tourists could pass their time here without this topic of conversation, so infinite is its variety and so debatable are many of the conclusions drawn from it. it is the sphinx of california; differing, however, from the sphinx of egypt in that it offers a new problem every day. the literature that treats of the pacific coast fairly bristles with statistics on this subject, and many writers have found it impossible to resist the temptation of adorning their pages with tables of humidity, temperature, and rainfall. some hotels even print in red letters at the top of the stationery furnished to their guests: "the temperature to-day is ----." among the photographs of san diego are several which represent groups of ecstatic bathers, ranging from small boys to elderly bald-headed gentlemen, apparently ready to take a plunge into the pacific; while beneath them is displayed the legend, "january 1, 18--." candor compels me, however, to state that, as far as i was able to ascertain, these pictured bathers rarely pay a new year's call to neptune in his mighty palace, but content themselves in winter with going no further than his ante-chambers,--the sheltered, sun-warmed areas of public bath-houses. [illustration: midwinter at los angeles.] "i believe this to be the best climate in the world," said a gentleman to me in san diego, "but i confess that, when strangers are visiting me, it occasionally does something it ought not to do." the truth is, there are several climates in southern california, some of which are forced upon the resident, while others can be secured by going in search of them in a trolley car or a railway carriage. the three determining factors in the problem of temperature are the desert, the ocean, and the mountains. thus, in midsummer, although it may be fiercely hot in the inland valleys, it is invariably cool in the mountains on account of their altitude, and near the shore because the hot air rising from the desert invites a daily ocean breeze. even at a distance from the comfortable coast, humanity never passes into that abject, panting, and perspiring condition in which the inhabitants of the eastern states are usually seen when the mercury goes to ninety. the nights are always cool; although not quite as much so in july as the enthusiasts tell us who have never seen the country later in the season than the month of may, and who weary us with the threadbare tale of never sleeping without a blanket. "is it true, madam," i said to a lady of san diego, "that here one must always take a blanket to bed with him?" "hush," she replied, "never ask that question unless you are sure that there are no tourists within hearing." [illustration: pier at santa monica.] [illustration: avalon, santa catalina island.] three statements are, i think, unquestionably accurate: first, that for many months of the year the residents need not take into consideration for a moment the possibility of rain; second, that on account of this drought there must inevitably be during that period a superfluity of dust; and, third, that every day there will be felt "a cool refreshing breeze," which frequently increases to a strong wind. my memory of california will always retain a vivid impression of this wind, and the effect of it upon the trees is evident from the fact that it has compelled most of them to lean toward the east, while one of the last sights i beheld in san diego was a man chasing his hat. nevertheless, acclimated californians would no more complain of their daily breeze, however vigorous, than a man would speak disrespectfully of his mother. as in most semi-tropical countries, there is a noticeable difference in temperature between sun and shade. in the sun one feels a genial glow, or even a decided heat; but let him step into the shade, or stand on a street-corner waiting for a car, and the cool wind from the mountains or the ocean will be felt immediately. people accustomed to these changes pay little heed to them; but to new-comers the temperature of the shade, and even that of the interiors of the hotels and houses, appears decidedly cool. [illustration: not afraid of the sun.] one day, in june, i was invited to dine at a fruit-ranch a few miles from pasadena. the heat in the sun was intense, and i noticed that the mercury indicated ninety-five degrees; but, unlike the atmosphere of new york in a heated term, the air did not remind me of a turkish bath. the heat of southern california is dry, and it is absolutely true that the highest temperature of an arid region rarely entails as much physical discomfort as a temperature fifteen or twenty degrees lower in the eastern states, when accompanied by humidity. the moisture in a torrid atmosphere is what occasions most of the distress and danger, the best proof of which is the fact that while, every summer, hundreds of people are prostrated by sunstroke near the atlantic coast, such a calamity has never occurred in new mexico, arizona, or california. moreover, when the mercury in los angeles rises, as it occasionally does, to one hundred degrees, the inhabitants of that city have a choice of several places of refuge: in two or three hours they can reach the mountains; or in an hour they can enjoy themselves upon redondo beach; or they may take a trolley car and, sixty minutes later, stroll along the sands of santa monica, inhaling a refreshing breeze, blowing practically straight from japan; or, if none of these resorts is sufficiently attractive, three hours after leaving los angeles they can fish on santa catalina island, a little off the coast; or linger in the groves of santa barbara; or, perhaps, best of all can be invigorated by the saline breath of the pacific sweeping through the corridors of the coronado. santa catalina island is, in particular, a delightful pleasure-resort, whose beautiful, transparent waters, remarkable fishing-grounds, and soft, though tonic-giving air, which comes to it from every point of the compass over a semi-tropic sea, are so alluring that thousands of contented people often overflow its hotels and camp in tents along the beach. [illustration: in cottonwood cañon, santa catalina.] [illustration: liliputian and giant.] [illustration: on the beach at santa catalina.] that the winter climate of southern california, not only on the coast, but in the interior, is delightful, is beyond question. what was healthful a hundred years ago to the spanish monks who settled here, proved equally so to those adventurous "forty-niners" who entered california seeking gold, and is still more beneficial to those who now come to enjoy its luxuries and comforts. flowers and fruit are found here throughout the entire year. the rainy days are few, and frosts are as ephemeral as the dew; and to the aged, the invalids, the fugitives from frost, and the "fallen soldiers of civilization," who are no longer able to make a courageous fight with eastern storms and northern cold, san diego is a climatic paradise. accordingly, from early october until april the overland trains roll westward from a land of snow and frost to one of sun and flowers, bearing an annually increasing multitude of invalids and pleasure-seekers, some of whom have expensive permanent homes and costly ranches here--like that of mr. andrew mcnally, at altadena--while others find abundant comfort in the fine hotels. [illustration: an old californian trading post.] [illustration: a bit of nature on the coast.] perhaps the principal secret of the charm of the winter climate of southern california, as well as that of its wonderfulhealth-restoring properties, lies in the fact that its dry, pure air and even temperature make it possible for one to live continuously out of doors. yet, though not cold, it is a temperature cool enough to be free from summer languor. [illustration: californian palms.] especially attractive to the visitors from the north are the palms of southern california. many of these resemble monstrous pineapples terminating in gigantic ferns. what infinite variety the palm tree has, now dwarfed in height, yet sending out on every side a mass of thick green leaves; now rising straight as an obelisk from the desert sand, and etching its fine feathery tufts against the sky; now bearing luscious fruit of different kinds; now furnishing material for clothing, fishing-nets, and matting; or putting forth those slender fronds, frequently twenty feet in length, which are sent north by florists to decorate dwellings and churches for festivals and weddings! the palm is typical of the south, as the pine is of the north. one hints to us of brilliant skies, a tropic sun, and an easy, indolent existence; the other suggests bleak mountains and the forests of northern hills, and symbolizes the conflict there between man and nature, in which both fortitude and daring have been needful to make man the conqueror. one finds a fascination in contrasting these two children of old mother earth, and thinks of heine's lines: "a pine tree standeth lonely on a northern mountain's height; it sleeps, while around it is folded a mantle of snowy white. "it is dreaming of a palm tree in a far-off orient land, which lonely and silent waiteth in the desert's burning sand." [illustration: hermit valley near san diego.] on my last day at san diego, i walked in the morning sunshine on coronado beach. the beauty of the sea and shore was almost indescribable: on one side rose point loma, grim and gloomy as a fortress wall; before me stretched away to the horizon the ocean with its miles of breakers curling into foam; between the surf and the city, wrapped in its dark blue mantle, lay the sleeping bay; eastward, the mingled yellow, red, and white of san diego's buildings glistened in the sunlight like a bed of coleus; beyond the city heaved the rolling plains, rich in their garb of golden brown, from which rose distant mountains, tier on tier, wearing the purple veil which nature here loves oftenest to weave for them; while, in the foreground, like a jewel in a brilliant setting, stood the coronado. [illustration: the pacific.] the fascination of southern california had at last completely captured me. its combination of ocean, desert, and mountain, its pageantry of color, and its composite life of city, ranch, and beach had cast over me a magic spell. it was, however, a lonely sea that spread its net of foam before my feet. during my stay i had not seen a single steamer on its surface, and only rarely had a few swift sea-birds, fashioned by man's hand, dotted the azure for a little with their white wings, ere they dipped below the horizon's rim. hence, though the old, exhilarating, briny odor was the same, i felt that, as an ocean, this was unfamiliar. the atlantic's waves are haunted by historic memories, but few reminders of antiquity rise ghostlike from the dreary waste of the pacific. few battles have been fought, few conquests made upon these shores. on the atlantic coast one feels that he is looking off toward civilized and friendly lands, across a sea which ocean greyhounds have made narrow; but here three purple islands, floating on the limitless expanse, suggest mysterious archipelagoes scattered starlike on its area, thousands of miles away, before a continent is reached; and one vaguely imagines unknown races, coral reefs, and shores of fronded palms, where nature smiles indulgently upon a pagan paradise. nevertheless its very mystery and vastness give to the pacific a peculiar charm, which changeful orient seas, and even the turbulent atlantic, never can impart. instinctively we stand uncovered in the presence of the mightiest ocean on our planet. it is at once the symbol and the fact of majesty; and the appalling sense of trackless space which it inspires, the rhythm of unmeasured and immeasureable waves, together with the moaning of the surf upon the sand, at times completely overwhelm us with suggestions of the infinite, until no language seems appropriate, unless it shapes itself in prayer. [illustration: "a sea-bird fashioned by man's hand."] [illustration: a lonely ocean.] in helen hunt jackson's novel, "ramona," the romance of this region has found immortality. what "romola" is to mediaeval florence, "ramona" is to southern california. it has embalmed in the memory of the nation a lost cause and a vanished race. less than one hundred years ago, where the anglo-saxon has since built railroads, erected manufactories, and created cities, a life was lived, so different in its character from all that followed or preceded it, that only a story like "ramona" could make it appear real. at that time about twenty "missions"--which were in reality immense ecclesiastical farms--bordered the coast for seven hundred miles. for when the new world had been suddenly revealed to the astonished gaze of europe, it was not merely the adventurous conqueror who hastened to these shores. the priest accompanied him, and many enthusiastic soldiers of the cross embarked to bear to the benighted souls beyond the sea the tidings of salvation. missionary enterprises were not then what they are to-day. nothing was known with certainty of the strange tribes on this side of the globe, and there was often a heroism in the labors of self-sacrificing missionaries to america, which far surpassed the courage of the buccaneer. many exploring expeditions to this western land received the blessing of the church, and were conducted, not alone for obtaining territory and gold, but for the conversion of the inhabitants. in mexico and peru the priests had followed, rather than led the way; but in california, under the lead of father junipero, they took the initiative, and the salvation of souls was one of the principal purposes of the invaders. this did not, however, prevent the franciscans, who took possession of the land, from selecting with great wisdom its very best locations; but, having done so, they soon brought tens of thousands of indians under spiritual and temporal control. these natives were, for the most part, as gentle and teachable as the fathers were patient and wise; and, in 1834, a line of missions stretched from san diego to monterey, and the converted indians numbered about twenty thousand, many of whom had been trained to be carpenters, masons, blacksmiths, saddlers, tailors, millers, and farmers. three-quarters of a million cattle grazed upon the mission pastures, as well as sixty thousand horses; fruits, grain, and flowers grew in their well-cultivated valleys until the country blossomed like the garden of the lord; and in the midst of all this industry and agricultural prosperity the native converts obeyed their christian masters peacefully and happily, and came as near to a state of civilization as indians have ever come. [illustration: ramona's home.] [illustration: the chapel, ramona's home.] [illustration: palms near san fernando mission.] [illustration: corridor, san fernando mission.] presently the mexicans made their appearance here; but, though they held and managed enormous ranches, the situation was comparatively unchanged; for they maintained harmonious relations with the missions, and had no serious difficulties with the indians. thus life went on for nearly half a century, and seemed to the good fathers likely to go on forever; for who, they thought, would ever cross the awful eastern plains to interfere with their arcadian existence, or what invading force would ever approach them over the lonely sea? but history repeats itself. the missions soon became too rich not to excite cupidity; and those who coveted their lands and herds declared, as an excuse for violence, that the poor indians were held in a state of slavery, and should be made to depend upon themselves. at length, in 1833, the mexican government by a decree of secularization ruined the missions; but the indians, although not so prosperous and well treated as under the fathers, still kept, through mexican protection, most of their privileges and the lands they owned. finally came the anglo-saxon, and, under the imperious civilization that poured into california from 1840 to 1860, the pastoral age soon disappeared. the missions, which had already lost much of their property and power under the mexican government, quickly shrank after this new invasion into decrepitude. the practical anglo-saxon introduced railroads, electricity, commerce, mammoth hotels, and scientific irrigation, all of which the fathers, mexicans, and indians never would have cared for. nevertheless, with his arrival, the curtain fell upon as peaceful a life-drama as the world had seen. [illustration: santa barbara.] [illustration: san juan capistrano.] [illustration: group of franciscan friars.] to the reader, thinker, and poet the memories and associations of these missions form, next to the gifts of nature, the greatest charm of southern california; and, happily, although that semi-patriarchal life has passed away, its influence still lingers; for, scattered along the coast--some struggling in poverty, some lying in neglect--are the adobe churches, cloisters, and fertile mission-fields of san juan capistrano, san fernando rey, santa monica, santa barbara, and santa cruz, all of which still preserve the soft and gracious names, so generously given in those early days, and fill us with a genuine reverence for the sandaled monks, who by incessant toil transformed this barren region into a garden, covered these boundless plains with flocks and herds, and dealt so wisely with the indians that even their poor descendants, to-day, reverence their memory. [illustration: chief of a tribe of mission indians.] the saxon has done vastly more, it is true; but, in some ways, he has done much less. the very names which he bequeathed to places not previously christened by the spaniards, such as gold gulch, hell's bottom, and copperopolis, tell a more forcible, though not as beautiful a tale, as the melodious titles, san buenaventura, san francisco dolores, santa clara, san gabriel, and la purissima. [illustration: indian women.] it is not, therefore, the busy streets and handsome dwellings of los angeles and pasadena, but the adobe ruins, the battered statues, the cracked and voiceless bells, the poor remnants of the indian tribes, and even the old spanish names, behind which lies a century of sanctity and romance, which give to southern california an atmosphere of the old world and harmonize most perfectly with its history. [illustration: san diego mission.] most of the mission buildings are in a sad condition. earthquakes have shattered some; neglect and malice have disfigured others; but a society, composed alike of catholics and protestants, is now, in the interest of the past, endeavoring to rescue them from utter ruin. it is a worthy task. what subjects for a painter most of them present! how picturesque are their old cloisters, looming up dark, grand, and desolate against the sky! how worn and battered are they by the storms of years! how tremblingly stands the cross upon their ancient towers, as if its sacred form had become feeble like the fraternity that once flourished here! what witnesses they are of an irrevocable past! their crumbling walls, if they could speak, might grow sublimely eloquent, and thrill us with inspiring tales of heroism, patience, tact, and fortitude exhibited when these missions bloomed like flowery oases on the arid areas of the south and west, and taught a faith of which their melancholy cloisters are the sad memorials. ten miles from los angeles, the southern pacific railroad passes a long edifice, the massive walls of which might lead us to suppose it was a fortress, but for its cross and a few antiquated bells. it is the church of the san gabriel mission. all other buildings of the institution have disappeared; but this old edifice remains, and, unless purposely destroyed by man, may stand here for five centuries more, since its enormous walls are five feet thick, and the mortar used in their construction has rendered them almost as solid as if hewn from rock. as i descended, at the station a quarter of a mile away, a little barefooted mexican boy approached and shyly offered me his hand. "are you the father," he asked? "no," i said, "i am not the father, but i have come to see the church; can you show it to me?" "but padre joaquin said i was to meet a father." "well," i answered, "i am the only passenger who has come by this train, so you had better walk back with me." [illustration: san gabriel mission church.] the mexican boys seem to be the best part of what mexico has left in california. this lad, for example, was attending an american school, and appeared bright and ambitious, though so extremely courteous and respectful that he seemed almost timid. the little hut in which he lived was opposite the church, and he seemed perfectly familiar with the sacred structure. "see," he said, pointing to some mutilated wooden statues in the poor, scantily furnished sacristy, "here are some images which cannot be used, they are so broken, and here are more," he added, opening some drawers and displaying four or five smaller figures in various stages of dilapidation. thus, for some time he continued to call my attention to different curious relics with such interest and reverence that i was almost sorry when father joaquin appeared. it was sad to see the altar of the church defaced and cracked, and its statues, brought a hundred years ago from spain, scarcely less battered than those which the boy had shown me in the sacristy. yet it was plain that worshipers as well as vandals had been here. the basins for holy water, cut in the solid wall, were worn, like the steps of an ancient building, with countless fingers, long since turned to dust. there, also, were two old confessionals, one of which was so hopelessly infirm that it had been set aside at last, to listen to no more whispered tales of sin and sorrow. the doors of the church at first looked ancient, but wore a really modern air, when compared with the original portals, which, no longer able to stand upright, had been laid against the wall, to show to tourists. yet, eighty years ago, this church stood proudly at the head of all the missions, and reared its cross above the richest of their valleys. according to father joaquin's estimate, the fathers of san gabriel must have had twenty thousand acres under cultivation, and, in 1820, this mission alone possessed one hundred and sixty thousand vines, two thousand three hundred trees, twenty-five thousand head of cattle, and fifteen thousand sheep. "it was all ours," he said, with a sweep of his hand, "we had reclaimed it from the desert, and, by the treaty between the united states and mexico, we were allowed to retain all lands that we had cultivated. yet of those twenty thousand acres, one hundred and fifty are all that are left us!" the padre accompanied me to the station. "how large is your parish, father?" i asked. "it is thirteen miles long," was his reply, "and i have in it eight hundred souls, but most of them live too far away to walk to church, and are too poor to ride." "and how many indians have you?" "perhaps a hundred," he answered, "and even they are dying off." "what of their character?" i asked. "they have sadly fallen away," was the response. "true, they are christians as far as they are anything, but they are hopelessly degraded, yet they respect the church, and are obedient and reverential when under its influence." [illustration: discarded saints, san gabriel.] [illustration: mutilated statues.] [illustration: the baptismal font.] [illustration: san gabriel, from the southeast.] most of the californian missions are really dead, and near that of la purissima may still be seen the rent in the ground made by the earthquake which destroyed it. others, like san gabriel and san juan capistrano, are dragging out a moribund existence, under the care of only one or two priests, who move like melancholy phantoms through the lonely cloisters, and pray among the ruins of a noble past. the mission of santa barbara, however, is in fairly good repair, and a few franciscan fathers still reside there and carry on a feeble imitation of their former life. [illustration: a degenerate.] it is on his way to this mission that the traveler passes the reputed residence of ramona. there is, it is true, another structure near san diego which, also, claims this distinction; but the ranch on the route from los angeles to santa barbara perfectly corresponds to "h.h.'s" descriptions of her heroine's home, with its adjoining brook and willows, and hills surmounted by the cross. the house is almost hidden by the trees with which a mexican ordinarily surrounds his dwelling, and is, as usual, only one story high, with a projecting roof, forming a porch along the entire front. as we learn in "ramona," much of the family life in those old days--sewing, visiting, and siesta-taking--went on in the open air, under the shade of the porticos which were wide and low. here it was that alessandro brought felipe back to health, watching and nursing him as he slept outdoors on his rawhide bed; and we may see the arbor where the lovers met, the willows where they were surprised by señora moreno, and the hills on which the pious lady caused wooden crosses to be reared, that passers-by might know that some good catholics were still left in california. [illustration: the cross on the hill.] [illustration: santa barbara mission.] the mission of santa barbara is of solid brick and stone, with walls six feet in thickness. its cloisters look sufficiently massive to defy an earthquake, and are paved with enormous bricks each twelve inches square. the huge red tiles of the roof, also, tell of a workmanship which, although rude, was honest and enduring. the interior, however, is of little interest, for the poor relics which the fathers keep are even less attractive than those displayed at the mission of san gabriel; yet there are shown at least two enormous missals which are no less than four feet long by two feet wide, and beautifully inscribed on parchment. [illustration: santa barbara mission from the farm.] [illustration: where the fathers walked.] "what is the mission's income?" i asked the gentle monk who acted as my guide. "alas!" he answered, "we have very little. you know our lands are gone. we have barely twenty-five acres now. moreover, we are outside the village; and, as there is another church, most catholics go there. we receive, indeed, occasional offerings from travelers; but we are very poor." "who cultivates your twenty-five acres?" i inquired. "according to our ability, we are all busy," was the answer, "some till the garden; others train young men for the priesthood; one of our number is a carpenter; and another," he added, evidently laughing at his own expense, "knows just enough about machinery to make a bad break worse." "and the indians?" i said. "not one is left," was the reply. "though once the mission counted them by thousands, they are all dead and gone. there are their monuments," he added, pointing to the fragments of a mill and one or two industrial shops. [illustration: the cemetery, santa barbara.] i looked and saw the remnants of a giant wheel which formerly had been turned by water, brought from the hills to feed the fathers' lands. the water was still flowing, but the wheel lay, broken,--symbolic of the link which bound the mission to the vanished past. the first roman catholic bishop of california and some of the early fathers are buried in the chapel of the monastery, but interments are now made in a neighboring cemetery, strictly reserved for members of the mission, each of whom has there his predestined place. yet even in this humble campo santo life will not yield entirely to death. the hum of droning insects breaks the stillness of the empty cloisters; occasionally a lizard darts like a tongue of flame along the walls; grasses and trailing plants adorn impartially the ground containing human dust, and that which still awaits an occupant; while round a stately crucifix, which casts its shadow like a benediction on the sleeping dead, sweet wild flowers bloom throughout the year, and from their swinging censers offer incense to the figure of the saviour with each passing breeze. the hush of melancholy broods over the entire place. the mountains, gazing down upon it in stony silence, are haggard and forbidding; below it lies the modern town; while from a neighboring hillside the inmates of a villa look directly into the monastery garden, on which the earlier fathers little dreamed a female eye would ever rest. a little life, however, was still visible about this santa barbara mission. two brown-robed monks were hoeing in the field; occasionally, visitors came and went; and, just as i was leaving, one of the priests, in obedience to a summons, hurried away to minister to the sick; yet over all there hung an atmosphere of unreality and sadness. i felt myself the guest of an anachronism. [illustration: dreaming of other days.] a fashionable city has risen at the feet of these old monks, but they regard it not. a trolley car brings curious tourists to their doors; but the ways of the santa barbara fathers are those of long ago. like agèd pilgrims, dreaming by their firesides, they seem to be living in the past; they certainly have no present worthy of the name; and when i sought to draw forth from my priestly guide some idea of their future, he answered me by pointing to a grave. [illustration] grand cañon of the colorado river [illustration] while the old world is better able than the new to satisfy the craving of the mind for art and history, no portion of our globe can equal the north american continent in certain forms of natural scenery which reach the acme of sublimity. niagara, the yosemite, the yellowstone national park, and the grand cañon of the colorado in arizona are the four great natural wonders of america. niagara is nature in the majesty of liquid motion, where, as the outlet of vast inland seas, a mighty river leaps in wild delirium into a gorge two hundred feet below, and boils and seethes tumultuously till its heart is set at rest and its fever cooled by the embrace of lake ontario. the yosemite is nature pictured, in a frame of granite precipices, as reclining on a carpet woven with a million flowers, above which rise huge trees three centuries old, which, nevertheless, to the spectator, gazing from the towering cliffs, appear like waving ferns. the yellowstone park is the arena of an amphitheatre in which fire and water, the two great forces which have made our planet what it is, still languidly contend where formerly they struggled desperately for supremacy. but the grand cañon of arizona is nature wounded unto death, and lying stiff and ghastly with a gash, two hundred miles in length and a mile in depth, in her bared breast, from which is flowing fast a stream of life-blood called the colorado. [illustration: a petrified forest, arizona.] [illustration: pack-mules of the desert.] [illustration: evidences of erosion.] [illustration: the navajo church.] [illustration: fantastic forms.] the section of country through which one travels to behold this last-named marvel is full of mystery and fascination. it is a land where rivers frequently run underground or cut their way through gorges of such depth that the bewildered tourist, peering over their precipitous cliffs, can hardly gain a glimpse of the streams flowing half a mile below; a land of colored landscapes such as elsewhere would be deemed impossible, with "painted deserts," red and yellow rocks, petrified forests, brown grass and purple grazing grounds; a land where from a sea of tawny sand, flecked here and there with bleached bones, like whitecaps on the ocean, one gazes upon mountains glistening with snow; and where at times the intervals are so brief between aridity and flood, that one might choose, like alaric, a river-bed for his sepulchre, yet see a host like that of pharaoh drowned in it before the dawn. in almost every other portion of the world nature reveals her finished work; but here she partially discloses the secrets of her skill, and shows to us her modes of earth-building. thus, the entire country is dotted with _mesas_, or table-lands of sandstone, furrowed and fashioned in a tremendous process of erosion, caused by the draining through this area of a prehistoric ocean, whose rushing, whirling, and receding waters molded the mountains, carved the cañons, and etched innumerable grotesque figures and fantastic forms. a feeling of solemnity steals over us, as we reflect upon the lapse of geologic time which such a record covers, unnumbered ages before man's advent on this planet; and these deep cañons and eroded valleys, whose present streams are only miniature representatives of those which formerly wrought havoc here, teach lessons of patience to the restless mortals who behold them; while some of the singular formations on the cliffs present perplexing problems which nature, as it were in mocking humor, bids us solve. [illustration: a specimen of nature's handiwork.] was nature ever really sportive? in the old days, when she produced her uncouth monsters of the deep, was she in manner, as in age, a child? did she then play with her continents, and smile to see them struggle up from the sea only to sink again? was it caprice that made her wrap her vast dominions in the icy bands of glaciers, or pour upon them lava torrents, and frequently convulse them with a mighty earthquake? if so, new mexico and arizona must have been her favorite playgrounds. at many points her rock formations look like whimsical imitations of man's handicraft, or specimens of the colossal vegetation of an earlier age. some are gigantic, while others bear a ludicrous resemblance to misshapen dwarfs, suggesting, as they stand like pygmies round their mightier brethren, a group of mediaeval jesters in a court of kings. in the faint dusk of evening, as one flits by them in the moving train, their weird, uncanny forms appear to writhe in pain, and he is tempted to regard them as the material shapes of tortured souls. [illustration: a mesa.] the _mesas_ of new mexico and arizona are, usually, regular in outline, sometimes resembling in the distance cloud-banks on the edge of the horizon, but oftener suggesting mighty fortresses, or ramparts to resist invasion, like the wall of china. these are not only beautiful in form and color, but from the fact that they recall the works of man, we gaze at them with wonder, and find in them a fascinating interest. they prove that nature needs some human association to appeal strongly to us, and how man's history of smiles and tears gives pathos, mystery, and romance to scenes which otherwise would be merely coldly beautiful or terribly sublime. it is for this reason, doubtless, that we are always endeavoring to personify nature. we think of solitary trees as lonely, of storm-tossed waves as angry, and of a group of mountains as members of one family. thus some of the arizona mountains are called brothers. no doubt their birth was attended by the same throes of mother earth, and they possess certain family resemblances in their level summits, huge square shoulders, and the deep furrows in their rugged cheeks; while all of them evince the same disdain for decoration, scorning alike the soft rich robes of verdure and the rough storm-coats of the pines. [illustration: a group of mesas.] [illustration: on the old santa fé trail.] the idea of companionship in nature is not wholly fanciful. is not the fundamental law of the universe the attraction which one mass of matter has for another? even the awful distances in interstellar space form no exception to this rule; for telescopic scrutiny reveals the fact that planets, suns, and systems move in harmony, on paths which indicate that they are all associated in the stupendous drama of the skies. the human interest connected with the mountains and the _mesas_ of new mexico and arizona is not very great. no mediaeval mystery haunts these castles sculptured by the hand of nature. no famous romancer has lighted on their cliffs the torch of his poetic fancy. no poet has yet peopled them with creatures of his imagination. we can, unfortunately, conjure up from their majestic background no more romantic picture than that of some pueblo indian wooing his dusky bride. yet they are not without some reminiscences of heroism; for valiant men, a half century ago, following the westward moving star of empire, braved almost inconceivable hardships in their shadow, when, after four thousand years, american pioneers repeated the old, old story, begun upon the plains of shinar, as the "sons of the east" went westward in their quest of fortune. how few of us think of those unrecorded heroes now, as we cross this region in luxurious cars! to most of us the dead, whose bones once whitened many of these lonely plains, are nothing more than the last winter's snowdrifts melted by the sun; yet how effectively the saxon has succeeded in his conquest of the continent we have continual evidence as we glide swiftly, from the atlantic to the pacific, through glowing grain fields, prosperous cities, and states that rival empires in size. where formerly the spanish conquerors, in their fruitless search for the reputed seven cities glittering with gold, endured privations and exhibited bravery which have hardly been surpassed in the entire history of the world; and where, too, as if it were but yesterday, the american argonauts toiled painfully for months through tribes of hostile indians, across desert wastes and over cloud-encompassed mountains, we find ourselves the inmates of a rolling palace, propelled by one of nature's tireless forces, and feel at times in our swift flight as if we were the occupants of a cushioned cannon-ball of glass. even the crossing of one of the many viaducts along our route is a reminder of how science has been summoned to assist the invader in his audacious enterprise of girdling a continent with steel. [illustration: an arizona cloud-effect.] [illustration: old home of kit carson, taos, n.m.] [illustration: grave of kit carson, taos, n.m.] [illustration: the bridge of cañon diablo.] the art of bridge-building in some form or other is one of the earliest necessities of civilization. even the apes in equatorial regions will link themselves together, and swing their living line across a stream to trees on the opposite bank, thus forming a connected path of bodies along which other monkeys pass in safety. bridges of ropes or reeds are, also, made by the most primitive of men; while viaducts of stone rose gradually in perfection, from the rude blocks heaped up by savages to the magnificent structures fashioned by the romans. but with the introduction of iron and steel into their composition, bridges are now constructed quickly, with consummate skill, and in a multitude of different forms assist in making possible the safe and rapid transit of our great republic. [illustration: homes of cliff dwellers.] [illustration: skulls of cliff dwellers.] in addition to all the wonderful natural features of arizona and new mexico, the insight into ancient and modern indian life which they afford is of extraordinary interest, particularly as aboriginal civilization, evidently, reached a higher level here than was attained by any of the tribes which roamed throughout the regions now known as the middle and eastern states. the natives of the arid regions of the great southwest, though subdivided into numerous tribes, are usually known under the general title of pueblos. the name itself, bestowed upon them by the spaniards, is significant; since _pueblo_ is the spanish word for village, and this would seem to prove that the race thus designated three hundred and fifty years ago was not nomadic, but had been settled here for many years. [illustration: laguna.] [illustration: cliff palaces.] antiquity and mystery impart a charm to these pueblo indians. they are foundlings of history. we see their immemorial settlements, and know that, centuries before columbus landed on san salvador, a number of advantageously situated places in the western portion of this continent served as the homes of powerful tribes, whose towns and villages formed the scenes of warfare and barbaric splendor. but of the men who built those villages we know comparatively nothing. their origin is almost as trackless as the sand which hides so many of their relics in a tawny sepulchre. we may be certain, however, that the remnants who survive are the representatives of myriads who once made most of the american valleys palpitant with life, but over whom oblivion has swept like a huge tidal wave, leaving the scattered fragments of their history like peaks rising from a submerged world. [illustration: a two-story cliff palace.] the best conclusions of scientists in regard to the geological periods of our planet consider that the glacial epoch began about two hundred and forty thousand, and ended about eighty thousand, years ago. traces of the existence of men in north america during that glacial period have been found in abundance, and make it probable that a human population existed, toward the close of that era, all the way from the atlantic coast to the upper mississippi valley. where these men of the ice age originally came from is a matter of conjecture; but it seems probable that they migrated hither from the old world, since it is certain that during the various elevations and depressions of the two continents, it was possible, several times, for men to go from europe or from asia into america without crossing any ocean, either by the northwestern corner of alaska, which has been repeatedly joined to siberia through the elevation of the shallow bering sea, or by the great atlantic ridge which more than once has risen above the ocean between great britain and greenland. yet, though the first inhabitants of america, in all probability, came thus from the old world at a very distant period of antiquity, it is believed by the best students of the subject that, until within the last few centuries, there had been no intercourse between america and either europe or asia, for at least twenty thousand years. hence the aborigines of this continent developed in the course of ages peculiarities which distinguish them from other races, and justify their being regarded as, practically, native to the soil. [illustration: an early place of shelter.] the indians of new mexico and arizona were, probably, fugitives from more fertile lands, whence they had been expelled by the ancestors of the bloodthirsty and cruel apaches. the country to which they came, and where they made a final stand against their predatory foes, was well adapted to defense. for hundreds of square miles the land is cleft with chasms, and dotted with peculiar, isolated table-lands hundreds of feet in height, with almost perfectly level surfaces and precipitous sides. the origin and formation of these _mesas_, due to erosion through unnumbered centuries, by water draining from an inland sea, has been already referred to, and it can be readily seen that they originally formed ideal residences for the peace-loving pueblos, who either made their homes as cliff dwellers in the crevices of cañon walls, or took advantage of these lofty rocks, already shaped and fortified by nature, and built on them their dwellings. these in themselves were no mean strongholds. their thick walls, made of rock fragments cemented with adobe, constituted a natural fortress, against which weapons such as savages used before they acquired fire-arms could do little harm; and even these houses the indians constructed like the cliffs themselves, lofty and perpendicular, tier above tier, and, save for ladders, almost as inaccessible as eagles' nests. again, since these _pueblos_ stood on table-lands, the approach to which could be easily defended, they were almost impregnable; while their isolation and elevation, in the treeless regions of new mexico, enabled watchmen to discover the approach of an enemy at a considerable distance and to give warning for the women, children, and cattle roaming on the plain to be brought to a place of safety. the instinct of self-preservation and even the methods of defense are, after all, almost identical in every age and clime; and the motive which led the indians to the summits of these _mesas_ was, no doubt, the same that prompted the athenians to make a citadel of their acropolis, and mediaeval knights to build their castles on the isolated crags of italy, or on the mountain peaks along the rhine. [illustration: "crevices of cañon walls."] [illustration: the summit of a mesa.] [illustration: the mesa encantada.] as times became more peaceful, the pueblos located their villages upon the plains, and one of these, called laguna, is now a station of the santa fé railway. but a mere glance at this, in passing, was far too brief and unsatisfactory for our purpose, aside from the fact that its proximity to the railroad had, naturally, robbed the settlement of much of its distinctive character. we therefore resolved to leave our train, and go directly into the interior, to visit a most interesting and typical _pueblo,_ known as ácoma. arriving at the station nearest to it, early in the morning, we found a wagon and four horses waiting to receive us, and quickly started for our destination over a natural road across the almost level prairie. at the expiration of about two hours we saw before us, at a distance of three miles, a _mesa_ of such perfect symmetry and brilliant pinkish color, that it called forth a unanimous expression of enthusiasm. although the form of this "noblest single rock in america" changes as one beholds it from different points of view, the shape which it presented, as we approached it, was circular; and this, together with its uniform height and perpendicular walls, reminded me of the tomb of cæcilia metella on the appian way, magnified into majesty, as in a mirage. it was with added interest, therefore, that we learned that this was the enchanted mesa, about which there had been recently considerable scientific controversy. enchanting, if not enchanted, it certainly appeared that morning, and, as we drew nearer, its imposing mass continued to suggest old roman architecture, from hadrian's mausoleum by the tiber to the huge circle of the colosseum. [illustration: houses at laguna.] [illustration: the mesa from the east.] the indian name of this remarkable cliff is _katzímo_, and the title _haunted mesa_ would be a more appropriate translation of the spanish name, _mesa encantada_, than _enchanted;_ for the people of ácoma believe its summit to be haunted by the spirits of their ancestors. a sinister tradition exists among them that one day, many centuries ago, when all the men of the village were at work upon the plain, a mass of rock, detached by the slow action of the elements, or else precipitated by an earthquake shock, fell into the narrow cleft by which alone an ascent or descent of the _mesa_ was made, and rendered it impassable. the women and children, left thus on the summit of a cliff four hundred and thirty feet in height, and cut off from communication with their relatives and friends, who were unable to rejoin and rescue them, are said to have slowly perished by starvation, and their bones, pulverized in the course of centuries, are believed to have been, finally, blown or washed away. to test the truth of this tradition, at least so far as traces of a previous inhabitancy of the _mesa_ could confirm it, mr. frederick w. hodge, in 1895, made an attempt to reach the summit; but, though he climbed to within sixty feet of the top, he could on that occasion go no higher. he found, however, along the sides of the cliffs enormous masses of _débris_, washed down by the streams of water which, after a tempest, drain off from the summit in a thousand little cataracts. not only did mr. hodge discover in this rubbish several fragments of indian pottery, but he, also, observed certain holes in the cliff which seemed to him to have been cut there specially for hands and feet. these he believed to be traces of an ancient trail. stimulated by the announcement of this discovery, professor william libbey, of princeton college, in july, 1896, made the ascent of the enchanted mesa by means of a life line fired over the mound from a lyle gun. stout ropes having then been drawn over the cliffs and made secure, the adventurous aëronaut was actually hauled up to the summit in a boatswain's chair, as sailors are sometimes pulled ashore from a sinking ship. on his descent, however, he declared that he had found nothing to indicate that the crest had ever been inhabited, or even previously visited. nothing daunted by this statement, a few weeks later mr. hodge again attempted the ascent in which he had failed the year before. this time he was successful, and scaled the cliff by means of an extension ladder and several hundred feet of rope. but very different were the conclusions reached by him as to the probable authenticity of the tradition; for after having been on the _mesa_ only a short time, he found a piece of ancient pottery, and, during a search of twenty hours, not only were several more fragments of earthenware discovered, but also two stone ax-heads, an arrow-point of flint, and part of a shell bracelet. moreover, a little monument of stone, arranged with evident design, was found on the edge of the cliff. mr. hodge and his party concluded, therefore, that beyond a doubt the mesa encantada had once been inhabited, and that the legend of the destruction of its last occupants may be true. [illustration: looking through a crevice of the enchanted mesa.] [illustration: the lyle gun and ropes.] [illustration: man in boatswain's chair.] [illustration: the hodge party.] [illustration: indian relics.] the discovery of pieces of pottery here does not of itself prove great advancement in the race that made them; for, curiously enough, the manufacture of rude pottery is one of the first steps taken by man from a savage to a semi-civilized state. the various races of mankind have usually reached this art soon after their discovery of fire. in fact, such an invention is almost inevitable. thus, an early method of cooking food has always been to put it into a basket smeared with clay, which is supported over a fire. the clay served the double purpose of preventing liquids from escaping and protecting the basket from the flame. now, even the dullest savage could not have failed to notice, after a time, that the clay became hardened by the fire, and in that state was sufficient for his purpose without the basket. simple as it seems, the discovery of this fact marks an important epoch in the progress of every primitive race, and some authorities on ethnology distinguish the two great divisions of savagery and barbarism by placing in the lower grade those who have not arrived at the knowledge of making pottery. [illustration: the top of the mesa encantada.] [illustration: the approach to ácoma.] soon after passing this haunted rock, and driving further over the _mesa_-dotted plain, we came in sight of the weird city of the sky called ácoma. it occupies the summit of a table-land, the ascent to which is now a winding defile, flanked by frowning cliffs. even this path, though readily ascended on horseback, is too precipitous and sandy for a wagon. accordingly, as none of our party that day enjoyed the privilege of being an equestrian, we left our vehicle at the foot of the _mesa,_ and completed the journey on foot. some adventurous spirits, however, chose a short cut up the precipice along a natural fissure in the rocks, which, having been transformed with loose stones into a kind of ladder, was formerly, before these peaceful times, the only means of access to the summit. a steeper scramble would be hard to find. i must confess, however, that before taking either of these routes, we halted to enjoy a lunch for which the drive had given us the keenest appetite, and which we ate _al fresco_ in the shadow of a cliff, surrounded by a dozen curious natives. then, the imperious demands of hunger satisfied, we climbed three hundred and fifty feet above the surrounding plain, and stood in what is, with perhaps the exception of zuñi, the oldest inhabited town in north america. before us, on what seemed to be an island of the air, was a perfect specimen of the aboriginal civilization found here by the spanish conqueror, coronado, and his eager gold-seekers, in 1540. for now, as then, the members of the tribe reside together in one immense community building. it is rather droll to find among these natives of the desert the idea of the modern apartment house; but, in this place, as in all the settlements of the pueblo indians, communal dwellings were in existence long before the discovery of america, and the _mesa_ of ácoma was inhabited as it now is, when the pilgrims landed upon plymouth rock. [illustration: rain water basin, ácoma.] [illustration: the courtyard of ácoma.] an indian _pueblo_ is really a honeycomb of adobe cells, built up in terraces. the outer walls, being the most exposed, are the highest, and from them toward the centre of the village, projecting stories descend in such a way that the balcony of one series of rooms forms a roof for the next below it. finally, in the heart of the _pueblo_ is an open area where horses are corralled. when the space on the summit of the _mesa_ is sufficient, these apartment dwellings may be increased indefinitely by adding cells to the original mass, till it is six or seven stories high, and may contain one hundred, five hundred, or even a thousand persons, according to the size of the tribe. formerly there were no doorways in the lowest stories; but in these peaceful days they are now introduced occasionally by indian architects. where they do not exist, the only means of entering the ground-floor rooms is by climbing a ladder from the courtyard to the first terrace, and thence descending by another ladder through a hole in the roof. the upper stories, being safer from attack, are more liberally supplied with doors and windows, the latter being sometimes glazed with plates of mica. at present, panes of glass are also used, though they were pointed out to us as special luxuries. at night, and in times of danger, the ladders in these _pueblos_ used always to be drawn up after the last climbers had used them; since these industrious and sedentary indians were ever liable to raids from their nomadic enemies, who coveted their stores of food and the few treasures they had gradually accumulated. this precaution on the part of the pueblos again reminds us that human nature, in its primitive devices for self-protection, is everywhere very much the same. thus, there is no connection between the swiss lake dwellers and the indians of new mexico; yet as the latter, on retiring to their houses, draw up their ladders after them, so the old occupants of the villages built on piles in the swiss lakes pulled after them at night the bridges which connected them with the land. [illustration: house of a pueblo chief.] [illustration: a group of pueblo indians.] [illustration: a pueblo town.] one can well imagine that the people of ácoma do not spend many of their waking hours in their apartments. in this warm climate, with its superb air and almost rainless sky, every one lives as much as possible out of doors, and a true child of the sun always prefers the canopy of heaven to any other covering, and would rather eat on his doorstep and sleep on his flat roof, than to dine at a sumptuous table or recline on a comfortable bed. nature seems to be peculiarly kind and indulgent to the people of warm climates. they need not only less clothing but less food, and it is only when we travel in the tropics that we realize on how little sustenance man can exist. a few dates, a cup of coffee, and a bit of bread appear to satisfy the appetites of most aridians, whether they are indians or arabs. in the north, food, clothing, and fire are necessities of life; but to the people of the south the sun suffices for a furnace, fruits give sufficient nourishment, and clothing is a chance acquaintance. yet life is full of compensation. where nature is too indulgent, her favorites grow shiftless; and the greatest amount of indoor luxury and comfort is always found where nature seems so hostile that man is forced to fight with her for life. [illustration: characteristic pueblo houses.] [illustration: in the pueblo.] most of the cells which we examined in the many-chambered honeycomb of ácoma had very little furniture except a primitive table and a few stools, made out of blocks of wood or trunks of trees. across one corner of each room was, usually, stretched a cord on which the articles of the family wardrobe had been thrown promiscuously. the ornaments visible were usually bows and arrows, rifles, navajo blankets, and leather pouches, hung on wooden pegs. of beds i could find none; for indians sleep by preference on blankets, skins, or coarse-wool mattresses spread every night upon the floor. when we consider that the forty millions of japan, even in their comparatively high degree of civilization, still sleep in much the same way, we realize how unnecessary bedsteads are to the majority of the human race. in a few rooms i discovered wooden statuettes of saints, one or two crucifixes, and some cheap prints, which were evidently regarded with great veneration. the floors, which were not of wood, but of smooth adobe nearly as hard as asphalt, were in every instance remarkably clean. [illustration: interior of a pueblo apartment.] it is an interesting fact, in the domestic economy of the indian life led in these aërial villages, that the woman is always the complete owner of her apartment and its contents; for it is the women of the tribe who build the dwellings. accordingly, the position of a pueblo woman is extraordinary; and should her husband ill-treat her, she has the right and power to evict him, and to send him back to his original home. on the other hand, the man is sole possessor of the live stock of the family and of the property in the field; but when the crops are housed, the wife is at once invested with an equal share in their ownership. pueblo children, too, always trace their descent through the mother and take her clan name instead of the father's. i noticed that at ácoma the children seemed to be obedient to their parents and respectful to age, as i have invariably found them to be in all partially civilized countries of the world; for, paradoxical as it may seem, it is only in highly civilized communities, where individualism is cultivated at the expense of strict discipline and parental control, that children become indifferent to their fathers and mothers, and insolent to their superiors in age and wisdom. [illustration: pueblo water-carriers.] we lingered for some time upon this citadel of ácoma, profoundly interested in the life and customs of a people that asks no aid of the united states, but is, to-day, as self-supporting as it has always been. the number of pueblo indians was never very large. it is probable that there were in all about thirty thousand of them at the time of the spanish conquest, in 1540, and there are now about one-third that number scattered through more than twenty settlements. in an arid land where the greatest need is water, it is not strange that the dwellers on these rocky eyries should be called in the indian dialect "drinkers of the dew," for it would seem as if the dew must be their only beverage. but there are springs upon the neighboring plains whose precious liquid is brought up the steep trail daily on the heads of women, in three or five gallon jars, the carrying of which gives to the poise of the head and neck a native grace and elegance, as characteristic of pueblo women as of the girls of capri. moreover, on the summit of the _mesa_ there are, usually, hollows in the rock, partly natural, partly artificial, which serve as reservoirs to retain rain water and keep it fresh and cool. [illustration: an estufa.] besides the communal apartment-house, every _pueblo_ contains two characteristic edifices. one is as ancient as the tribe itself and thoroughly aboriginal, the other is comparatively modern and bears the imprint of the spaniard; they are the _estufa_ and the roman catholic church. the _estufa_ has always played a prominent part in the history of these indians. it is a semi-subterranean council hall, where matters of public business are discussed by the chiefs. the government of the pueblos is practically the same as when the spanish found them. each village seems to be completely independent of its neighbors, and no member of one tribe is allowed to sell real estate to members of another, or to marry into another clan without permission from his own. each settlement is governed by a council, the members of which, including its chief, are chosen annually. heredity counts for nothing among them, and official positions are conferred only by popular vote. even their war-chieftains are elected and are under the control of the council. all matters of public importance are discussed by this body in the _estufa_, the walls of which are usually whitewashed; but a more dismal place can hardly be imagined, not only from the dubious light which there prevails, but from the fact that it contains no furniture whatever, and no decoration. sometimes a village will have several _estufas_, each being reserved for a separate clan of the tribe. in any case, whether many or few, they are used exclusively by men, women never being allowed to enter them except to bring food to their male relatives. as we approached the ácoma _estufa_, it presented the appearance of a monstrous bean pot, from the opening of which a ladder rose to a height of twenty feet. this proved to be the only means of descending into an enclosure, to which we were politely but firmly denied admission. peering into the aperture, however, and noting the warm, close air which came from it, i understood why the spanish word _estufa_, or oven, was applied to these underground cells by their european discoverers; for neither light nor ventilation is obtainable except through the one opening, and in summer the temperature of the shallow cavern must be warm indeed. [illustration: estufa and surroundings.] [illustration: mexican ovens.] [illustration: the old church at ácoma.] the only other notable structure in ácoma is the roman catholic church, the walls of which are sixty feet in height and ten feet thick. one can realize the enormous amount of labor involved in its construction, when he reflects that every stone and every piece of timber used in building it had to be brought hither on the backs of indians, over the plains, from a considerable distance, and up the desperately difficult and narrow trail. even the graveyard, which occupies a space in front of the church, about two hundred feet square, is said to have required a labor of forty years, since the cemetery had to be enclosed with stone walls, forty feet deep at one edge and filled with earth brought in small basket-loads up the steep ascent from the plain below. the church itself is regarded by the indians with the utmost reverence, although it must be said that their religion is still almost as much pagan as christian. thus, while they respect the priests who come to minister to them, they also have a lurking reverence for the medicine man, who is known as the _cacique_. he is really the religious head of the community, a kind of augur and prophet, who consults the gods and communicates to the people the answers he claims to have received. this dignitary is exempt from all work of a manual kind, such as farming, digging irrigation-ditches, and even hunting, and receives compensation for his services in the form of a tract of land which the community cultivates for him with more care than is bestowed on any other portion of their territory, while his crops are the first harvested in the autumn. he also derives an income in the form of grain, buckskin, shells, or turquoises, from those who beg him to fast for them, and to intercede with the gods in case of sickness. on the other hand, the _cacique_ must lodge and feed all the strangers who come to the village, as long as they stay, and he is, also, the surgeon and the nurse of the community. [illustration: the altar.] [illustration: dance in the pueblo.] while, therefore, the pueblos go to church and repeat prayers in accordance with christian teaching, they also use the prayer-sticks of their ancestors, and still place great reliance on their dances, most of which are of a strictly religious character, and are not only dedicated to the sun, moon, rainbow, deer, elk, and sheep, but are usually performed for the specific purpose of obtaining rain. formerly, too, when their lives were far less peaceful than they are to-day, the pueblos indulged in war and scalp dances; but these are now falling into disuse. the most remarkable exhibition of dancing, still in vogue, is the repulsive snake dance of the moquis of arizona, which takes place every year alternately in four villages between the 10th and the 30th of august according to the phase of the moon. the origin of this extraordinary custom is not intelligible now even to the indians themselves, but the object in performing it is to obtain rain, and the dance, itself, is the culmination of a religious ceremonial which continues for nine days and nights. during that time only those who have been initiated into the sacred fraternities of the tribe may enter the _estufa_, on the floor of which weird pictures have been made with colored sand. [illustration: pueblo girls.] [illustration: three snake priests.] in the tribe of moquis there are two fraternities known as the antelopes and the snakes, each has from twenty to thirty members, some of whom are boys who serve as acolytes. when the open air ceremony of the snake dance begins, the members of these brotherhoods appear scantily clothed, with their faces painted red and white, and with tortoise-shell rattles tied to their legs. the antelope fraternity first enters the square, preceded by a venerable priest carrying two bags filled with snakes. these serpents, which have been previously washed and covered with sacred meal, are deposited by the priest in a small leaf-embowered enclosure called the _kisi_. around this the antelopes now march, stamping with the right foot violently, to notify the spirits of their ancestors (presumably in the lower world) that the ceremony has begun. after making the circuit of the enclosure four times, they halt, and stand in line with their backs turned toward it. then the snake fraternity appears, headed by its priest, and performs the same ceremony. then they too form a line, facing the antelopes, and all of them, for about five minutes, wave their wands and chant some unintelligible words. suddenly one antelope and one snake man rush to the _kisi_, and the priest who is presiding over the serpents presents them with a snake. the snake man immediately places the wriggling reptile in his mouth, and holds it by the centre of its body between his teeth, as he marches around the little plaza, taking high steps. meantime the, antelope man accompanies him, stroking the snake continually with a wand tipped with feathers. then all the members of the two fraternities follow in couples and do the same thing. finally, each snake man carries at least two snakes in his mouth and several in his hands; and even little boys, five years old, dressed like the adults, also hold snakes in their hands, fearlessly. once in a while a snake is purposely dropped, and a man whose special duty it is to prevent its escape rushes after it and catches it up. [illustration: the snake dance.] all the time that this hideous ceremony is going on, a weird chant is sung by the men and women of the tribe; and, at last, the chief priest draws on the ground a mystic circle with a line of sacred meal, and into this the men unload their snakes until the whole space becomes a writhing mass of serpents. suddenly the members rush into this throng of squirming reptiles, most of which are rattlesnakes, and each, grabbing up a handful of them, runs at full speed down the _mesa_ and sets them at liberty, to act as messengers to carry to the gods their prayers for rain. this ends the ceremony for the snakes, but not for the men; for after they have liberated the reptiles, the members of the brotherhoods return and bathe themselves in a kind of green decoction, called frog-water. then they drink a powerful emetic, and having lined up on the edge of the _mesa_, vomit in unison! this is to purge them from the evil effects of snake-handling; and lest it should not be sufficiently effectual, the dose is repeated. then they sit down, and eat bread, given them by the women as a kind of communion or religious rite. [illustration: after the emetic.] [illustration: chief snake priest.] the seventy or eighty snakes used in this dance are treated from first to last with the utmost kindness and respect, especially the rattlesnakes, a dozen of which will frequently be squirming on the ground at once. it is noticeable that the indians never pick up a rattlesnake when coiled, but always wait until it straightens itself out under the feather stroking, for it is claimed that the rattlesnake cannot strike uncoiled. at all events, when one is at its full length, the indians not only catch it up fearlessly, but carry it with impunity in their mouths and hands. as might be supposed, however, the moquis are said to possess an antidote against the poison of a rattlesnake, which, if a man is bitten, is given to him at once; and it is said that none of them ever dies from the effects of a snake-bite. [illustration: where the snakes are kept.] the religious element in all these ceremonies should not be lost sight of, for the life of the pueblo indians is permeated with religion, or superstition, to the minutest details. thus, it is an interesting fact that vicarious atonement has been a custom among them from time immemorial, and their _cacique_ is compelled to fast and do penance in many ways for the sins of his people. in some of the villages, also, certain men and women are chosen to expiate the wrongdoings of the tribe; and for more than a century there has been in new mexico an order of penitents, who torture themselves by beating their bodies with sharp cactus thorns, by carrying heavy crosses for great distances, and even by actual crucifixion. the severest of these cruel rites have, finally, been suppressed by the roman catholic church, but it encountered great difficulty in so doing, and the last crucifixion took place in 1891. [illustration: relics of cliff dwellers.] [illustration: summit of a moqui mesa.] such, then, are the pueblos of new mexico and arizona; a race uniting aboriginal pagan rites with christian ceremonies: cherishing at the same time their idols and their churches; using to-day their rifles, and to-morrow their bows and arrows; pounding occasionally with a hammer, but preferably with a stone; and handling american money for certain purchases, while trading beads, shells, and turquoises for others. sometimes we wonder that they have not made more progress during the centuries in which they have been associated with europeans; but it is hard to realize the difficulties which they have encountered in trying to comprehend our civilization, and in grasping its improvements. even the adoption of the antique spanish plow, the clumsy two-wheeled cart, the heavy ax and the rude saw, which are still found among them, caused them to pass at one stride from the stone to the iron age, which, but for the intervention of the spaniards, they would not naturally have reached without centuries of patient plodding. moreover, before the arrival of the europeans, the aborigines of america had never seen horses, cows, sheep, or dogs, and the turkey was the only domestic animal known to them. hence, in ancient american society there was no such thing as a pastoral stage of development; and the absence of domestic animals from the western hemisphere is a very important reason why the progress of mankind in this part of the world was not more rapid. still it is a remarkable fact that the most ancient race, of which we have any actual knowledge on this continent, is, also, the most peaceful, self-supporting, and industrious, subsisting principally on the sale of their curiously decorated pottery, and the products of their arid soil. we saw here a young man who had been educated in the government school at carlisle; but, like most of his race, after returning to his village he had reverted to the ways of his ancestors, disqualified by his birth and instincts of heredity from doing anything else successfully. [illustration: moqui cart and plow.] [illustration: moqui children.] it was late on the night succeeding our visit to ácoma that we arrived at flagstaff, and our entire party was asleep. suddenly we were aroused by a prolonged shout and the discharge of half a dozen revolvers. five minutes later there came a general fusillade of pistol shots, and near and distant cries were heard, in which our half-awakened faculties could distinguish only the words: "hurry up!" "call the crowd!" "down the alley!" then a gruff voice yelled just beneath my window: "let her go," and instantly our locomotive gave a whistle so piercing and continuous that all the occupants of our car sprang from their couches, and met in a demoralized group of multicolored pajamas in the corridor. what was it? had the train been held up? were we attacked? no; both the whistle and the pistol shots were merely flagstaff's mode of giving an alarm of fire. we hastily dressed and stepped out upon the platform. a block of buildings just opposite the station was on fire, and was evidently doomed; yet flagstaff's citizens, whose forms, relieved against the lurid glow, looked like comanche indians in a war dance, fought the flames with stubborn fury. the sight of a successful conflagration always thrills me, partly with horror, partly with delight. three hundred feet away, two buildings formed an ever-increasing pyramid of golden light. we could distinguish the thin streams of water thrown by two puny engines; but, in comparison with the great tongues of fire which they strove to conquer, they appeared like silver straws. nothing could check the mad carousal of the sparks and flames, which danced, leaped, whirled, reversed, and intertwined, like demons waltzing with a company of witches on walpurgis night. a few adventurous men climbed to the roofs of the adjoining structures, and thence poured buckets of water on the angry holocaust; but, for all the good they thus accomplished, they might as well have spat upon the surging, writhing fire, which flashed up in their faces like exploding bombs, whenever portions of the buildings fell. meantime huge clouds of dense smoke, scintillant with sparks, rolled heavenward from this miniature vesuvius; the neighboring windows, as they caught the light, sparkled like monster jewels; two telegraph poles caught fire, and cut their slender forms and outstretched arms against the jet black sky, like gibbets made of gold. how fire and water serve us, when subdued as slaves; but, oh, how terribly they scourge us, if ever for a moment they can gain the mastery! too interested to exchange a word, we watched the struggle and awaited the result. the fury of the fire seemed like the wild attack of indians, inflamed with frenzy and fanaticism, sure to exhaust itself at last, but for the moment riotously triumphant. gradually, however, through want of material on which to feed itself, the fiery demon drooped its shining crest, brandished its arms with lessening vigor, and seemed to writhe convulsively, as thrust after thrust from the silver spears of its assailants reached a vital spot. finally, after hurling one last shower of firebrands, it sank back into darkness, and its hereditary enemy rushed in to drown each lingering spark of its reduced vitality. [illustration: flagstaff station.] [illustration: packing wood.] [illustration: a mexican home.] [illustration: our car at flagstaff.] [illustration: the heavens from the observatory, flagstaff.] [illustration: twilight.] upon a hill near flagstaff stands an astronomical observatory from which distinguished students of the midnight skies search for the secrets of the moon and stars. few better sites on earth could have been chosen for this purpose, since arizona's atmosphere is so transparent that the extent of celestial scenery here disclosed is extraordinary. we visited the structure at the solemn hour that marks the hush between two days, when the last sound of one has died away, and before the first stir of the other thrills the morning air. then, gazing through the lenses of its noble telescope, we welcomed the swift waves of light pulsating toward us from the shoreless ocean we call space. there is a mysterious beauty about the radiance of a star that far surpasses that of the moon. the latter glitters only with reflected light; but a star (that is to say a distant sun), when seen through a telescope, frequently scintillates with different colors like a diamond, and quivers like a thing of life. moreover, the moon, forever waxing, waning, or presenting almost stupidly its great flat face, is continually changing; but the fixed star is always there. it fills the thoughtful soul with awe to look upon the starry heavens through such an instrument as that at flagstaff. space for the moment seems annihilated. we are apparently transported, as observers, from our tiny planet to the confines of our solar system, and, gazing thence still farther toward infinity, we watch with bated breath the birth, the progress, and the death of worlds. to one of the most distant objects in the depths of space, known as the ring nebula, the author addressed the following lines: to the ring nebula. o, pallid spectre of the midnight skies! whose phantom features in the dome of night elude the keenest gaze of wistful eyes till amplest lenses aid the failing sight, on heaven's blue sea the farthest isle of fire. from thee, whose glories it would fain admire, must vision, baffled, in despair retire! what art thou, ghostly visitant of flame? wouldst thou 'neath closer scrutiny dissolve in myriad suns that constellations frame, round which life-freighted satellites revolve, like those unnumbered orbs which nightly creep in dim procession o'er the azure steep, as white-wing'd caravans the desert sweep? or, art thou still an incandescent mass, acquiring form as hostile forces urge, through whose vast length a million lightnings pass as to and fro its fiery billows surge, whose glowing atoms, whirled in ceaseless strife where now chaotic anarchy is rife. shall yet become the fair abodes of life? we know not; for the faint, exhausted rays which hither on light's wingèd coursers come from fires which ages since first lit their blaze, one instant gleam, then perish, spent and dumb! how strange the thought that, whatsoe'er we learn, our tiny globe no answer can return, since with but dull, reflected beams we burn! yet this we know; yon ring of spectral light, whose distance thrills the soul with solemn awe, can ne'er escape in its majestic might the firm control of omnipresent law. this mote descending to its bounden place. those suns whose radiance we can scarcely trace, alike obey the power pervading space. [illustration: night.] [illustration: the san francisco volcanoes.] [illustration: starting for the grand cañon.] one glorious september morning, leaving our train at flagstaff, we started in stage-coaches for a drive of sixty-five miles to the grand cañon. i had looked forward to this drive with some misgiving, dreading the heat of the sun, and the dust and sand which i had supposed we should encounter; but to my astonishment and delight it was a thoroughly enjoyable experience. it was only eleven hours in duration, and not only was most of the route level, but two-thirds of it lay through a section of beautifully rolling land, diversified with open glades and thousands upon thousands of tall pines and cedars entirely free from undergrowth. it is no exaggeration to say that we drove that day for miles at a time over a road carpeted with pine needles. the truth is, arizona, though usually considered a treeless and rainless country, possesses some remarkable exceptions; and the region near flagstaff not only abounds in stately pines, but is at certain seasons visited by rainstorms which keep it fresh and beautiful. during our stay at the grand cañon we had a shower every night; the atmosphere was marvelously pure, and aromatic with the odors of a million pines; and so exhilarating was exercise in the open air, that however arduous it might be, we never felt inconvenienced by fatigue, and mere existence gave us joy. decidedly, then, it will not do to condemn the whole of arizona because of the heat of its arid, southern plains; for the northern portion of the state is a plateau, with an elevation of from five thousand to seven thousand feet. hence, as it is not latitude, so much as altitude, that gives us healthful, pleasing temperature, in parts of arizona the climate is delightful during the entire year. [illustration: the drive through the pines.] [illustration: the san francisco mountain.] a portion of this stage-coach journey led us over the flank of the great san francisco mountain. the isolated position, striking similarity, and almost uniform altitude of its four peaks, rising nearly thirteen thousand feet above the sea, have long made them famous. moreover, they are memorable for having cast a lurid light upon the development of this portion of our planet. cold, calm, and harmless though they now appear, the time has been when they contained a molten mass which needed but a throb of earth's uneasy heart to light the heavens with an angry glare, and cover the adjoining plains with floods of fire. lava has often poured from their destructive cones, and can be traced thence over a distance of thirty miles; proving that they once served as vents for the volcanic force which the thin crust of earth was vainly striving to confine. but their activity is apparently ended. the voices with which they formerly shouted to one another in the joy of devastation have been silenced. conquered at last, their fires smolder now beneath a barrier too firm to yield, and their huge forms appear like funeral monuments reared to the memory of the power buried at their base. another fascinating sight upon this drive was that of the painted desert whose variously colored streaks of sand, succeeding one another to the rim of the horizon, made the vast area seem paved with bands of onyx, agate, and carnelian. [illustration: the lunch station.] about the hour of noon we reached a lunch-station at which the stages, going to and from the cañon, meet and pass. the structure itself is rather primitive; but a good meal is served to tourists at this wayside halting-place, and since our appetites had been sharpened by the long ride and tonic-giving air, it seemed to us the most delicious of repasts. the principal object of one of the members of our party, in making the journey described in these pages, was to determine the advisability of building a railroad from flagstaff to the cañon. whether this will be done eventually is not, however, a matter of vital interest to travelers, since the country traversed can easily be made an almost ideal coaching-route; and with good stages, frequent relays of horses, and a well-appointed lunch-station, a journey thus accomplished would be preferable to a trip by rail. [illustration: hance's camp.] [illustration: our tent at hance's camp.] night had already come when we arrived at our destination, known as hance's camp, near the border of the cañon. as we drove up to it, the situation seemed enchanting in its peace and beauty; for it is located in a grove of noble pines, through which the moon that night looked down in full-orbed splendor, paving the turf with inlaid ebony and silver, and laying a mantle of white velvet on the tents in which we were to sleep. hance's log cabin serves as a kitchen and dining-room for travelers, and a few guests can even find lodging there; but, until a hotel is built, the principal dormitories must be the tents, which are provided with wooden floors and furnished with tables, chairs, and comfortable beds. this kind of accommodation, however, although excellent for travelers in robust health, is not sufficiently luxurious to attract many tourists. the evident necessity of the place is a commodious, well-kept inn, situated a few hundred feet to the rear of hance's camp, on the very edge of the cañon. if such a hotel, built on a spot commanding the incomparable view, were properly advertised and well-managed, i firmly believe that thousands of people would come here every year, on their way to or from the pacific coast--not wishing or expecting it to be a place of fashion, but seeking it as a point where, close beside a park of pines, seven thousand feet above the level of the sea, one of the greatest marvels of the world can be enjoyed, in all the different phases it presents at morning, noon, and night, in sunshine, moonlight, and in storm. [illustration: old hance.] [illustration: the first view.] early the next morning i eagerly climbed the little knoll at the foot of which our tents were located, for i well knew that from its summit i should see the cañon. many grand objects in the world are heralded by sound: the solemn music of niagara, the roar of active geysers in the yellowstone, the intermittent thunder of the sea upon a rocky coast, are all distinguishable at some distance; but over the grand cañon of the colorado broods a solemn silence. no warning voice proclaims its close proximity; no partial view prepares us for its awful presence. we walk a few steps through the pine trees from the camp and suddenly find ourselves upon the cañon's edge. just before reaching it, i halted for a moment, as has always been my wont when approaching for the first time any natural or historic object that i have longed for years to look upon. around me rose the stately pines; behind me was a simple stretch of rolling woodland; nothing betrayed the nearness of one of the greatest wonders of the world. could it be possible that i was to be disappointed? at last i hurried through the intervening space, gave a quick look, and almost reeled. the globe itself seemed to have suddenly yawned asunder, leaving me trembling on the hither brink of two dissevered hemispheres. vast as the bed of a vanished ocean, deep as mount washington, riven from its apex to its base, the grandest cañon on our planet lay glittering below me in the sunlight like a submerged continent, drowned by an ocean that had ebbed away. at my very feet, so near that i could have leaped at once into eternity, the earth was cleft to a depth of six thousand six hundred feet--not by a narrow gorge, like other cañons, but by an awful gulf within whose cavernous immensity the forests of the adirondacks would appear like jackstraws, the hudson palisades would be an insignificant stratum, niagara would be indiscernible, and cities could be tossed like pebbles. [illustration: the earth-gulf of arizona.] [illustration: a portion of the gulf.] [illustration: "a vast, incomparable void."] as brain grew steadier and vision clearer, i saw, directly opposite, the other side of the cañon thirteen miles away. it was a mountain wall, a mile in height, extending to the right and left as far as the eye could reach; and since the cliff upon which i was standing was its counterpart, it seemed to me as if these parallel banks were once the shore-lines of a vanished sea. between them lay a vast, incomparable void, two hundred miles in length, presenting an unbroken panorama to the east and west until the gaze could follow it no farther. try to conceive what these dimensions mean by realizing that a strip of the state of massachusetts, thirteen miles in width, and reaching from boston to albany, could be laid as a covering over this cañon, from one end to the other; and that if the entire range of the white mountains were flung into it, the monstrous pit would still remain comparatively empty! even now it is by no means without contents; for, as i gazed with awe and wonder into its colossal area, i seemed to be looking down upon a colored relief-map of the mountain systems of the continent. it is not strictly one cañon, but a labyrinth of cañons, in many of which the whole yosemite could be packed away and lost. thus one of them, the marble cañon, is of itself more than three thousand feet deep and sixty-six miles long. in every direction i beheld below me a tangled skein of mountain ranges, thousands of feet in height, which the grand cañon's walls enclosed, as if it were a huge sarcophagus, holding the skeleton of an infant world. it is evident, therefore, that all the other cañons of our globe are, in comparison with this, what pygmies are to a giant, and that the name grand cañon, which is often used to designate some relatively insignificant ravine, should be in truth applied only to the stupendous earth-gulf of arizona. [illustration: a section of the labyrinth.] [illustration: mount ayer.] at length, i began to try to separate and identify some of these formations. directly in the foreground, a savage looking mountain reared its splintered head from the abyss, and stood defiantly confronting me, six thousand feet above the cañon's floor. though practically inaccessible to the average tourist, this has been climbed, and is named mount ayer, after mrs. edward ayer, the first woman who ever descended into the cañon to the river's edge. beyond this, other mountains rise from the gulf, many of which resemble the step pyramid at sakhara, one of the oldest of the royal sepulchres beside the nile. but so immeasurably vaster are the pyramids of this cañon than any work of man, that had the tombs of the pharaohs been placed beside them, i could not have discovered them without a field-glass. some of these grand constructions stand alone, while others are in pairs; and many of them resemble oriental temples, buttressed with terraces a mile or two in length, and approached by steps a hundred feet in height. around these, too, are many smaller mountainous formations, crude and unfinished in appearance, like shrines commenced and then abandoned by the cañon's architect. most of us are but children of a larger growth, and love to interpret nature, as if she reared her mountains, painted her sunsets, cut her cañons, and poured forth her cataracts solely for our instruction and enjoyment. so, when we gaze on forms like these, shaped like gigantic temples, obelisks, and altars fashioned by man's hands, we try to see behind them something personal, and even name them after hindu, grecian, and egyptian gods, as if those deities made them their abodes. thus, one of these shrines was called by the artist, thomas moran, the temple of set; three others are dedicated respectively to siva, vishnu, and vulcan; while on the apex of a mighty altar, still unnamed, a twisted rock-formation, several hundred feet in height, suggests a flame, eternally preserved by unseen hands, ascending to an unknown god. [illustration: some of the cañon temples.] [illustration: siva's temple.] it is difficult to realize the magnitude of these objects, so deceptive are distances and dimensions in the transparent atmosphere of arizona. siva's temple, for example, stands upon a platform four or five miles square, from which rise domes and pinnacles a thousand feet in height. some of their summits call to mind immense sarcophagi of jasper or of porphyry, as if they were the burial-places of dead deities, and the grand cañon a necropolis for pagan gods. yet, though the greater part of the population of the world could be assembled here, one sees no worshipers, save an occasional devotee of nature, standing on the cañon's rim, lost in astonishment and hushed in awe. these temples were, however, never intended for a human priesthood. a man beside them is a pygmy. his voice here would be little more effective than the chirping of an insect. the god-appointed celebrant, in the cathedrals of this cañon, must be nature. her voice alone can rouse the echoes of these mountains into deafening peals of thunder. her metaphors are drawn from an experience of ages. her prayers are silent, rapturous communings with the infinite. her hymns of praise are the glad songs of birds; her requiems are the meanings of the pines; her symphonies the solemn roaring of the winds. "sermons in stone" abound at every turn; and if, as the poet has affirmed, "an undevout astronomer is mad," with still more truth can it be said that those are blind who in this wonderful environment look not "through nature up to nature's god." these wrecks of tempest and of time are finger-posts that point the thoughts of mortals to eternal heights; and we find cause for hope in the fact that, even in a place like this, man is superior to nature; for he interprets it, he finds in it the thoughts of god, and reads them after him. [illustration: near the temple of set.] [illustration: hance's trail, looking up.] the coloring of the grand cañon is no less extraordinary than its forms. nature has saved this chasm from being a terrific scene of desolation by glorifying all that it contains. wall after wall, turret after turret, and mountain range after mountain range belted with tinted strata, succeed one another here like billows petrified in glowing colors. these hues are not as brilliant and astonishing in their variety as are the colors of the yellowstone cañon, but their subdued and sombre tones are perfectly suited to the awe-inspiring place which they adorn. the prominent tints are yellow, red, maroon, and a dull purple, as if the glory of unnumbered sunsets, fading from these rugged cliffs, had been in part imprisoned here. yet, somehow, specimens of these colored rocks lose all their brilliancy and beauty when removed from their environment, like sea-shells from the beach; a verification of the sentiment so beautifully expressed in the lines of emerson: "i wiped away the weeds and foam, i fetched my sea-born treasures home; but the poor, unsightly, noisome things had left their beauty on the shore, with the sun and the sand and the wild uproar." [illustration: mist in the cañon.] to stand upon the edge of this stupendous gorge, as it receives its earliest greeting from the god of day, is to enjoy in a moment compensation for long years of ordinary uneventful life. when i beheld the scene, a little before daybreak, a lake of soft, white clouds was floating round the summits of the cañon mountains, hiding the huge crevasse beneath, as a light coverlet of snow conceals a chasm in an alpine glacier. i looked with awe upon this misty curtain of the morn, for it appeared to me symbolic of the grander curtain of the past which shuts out from our view the awful struggles of the elements enacted here when the grand gulf was being formed. at length, however, as the light increased, this thin, diaphanous covering was mysteriously withdrawn, and when the sun's disk rose above the horizon, the huge facades of the temples which looked eastward grew immediately rosy with the dawn; westward, projecting cliffs sketched on the opposite sides of the ravines, in dark blue silhouettes, the evanescent forms of castles, battlements, and turrets from which some shreds of white mist waved like banners of capitulation; stupendous moats beneath them were still black with shadow; while clouds filled many of the minor cañons, like vapors rising from enormous cauldrons. gradually, as the solar couriers forced a passage into the narrow gullies, and drove the remnant of night's army from its hiding-places, innumerable shades of purple, yellow, red, and brown appeared, varying according to the composition of the mountains, and the enormous void was gradually filled to the brim with a luminous haze, which one could fancy was the smoke of incense from its countless altars. a similar, and even more impressive, scene is visible here in the late afternoon, when all the western battlements in their turn grow resplendent, while the eastern walls submit to an eclipse; till, finally, a gray pall drops upon the lingering bloom of day, the pageant fades, the huge sarcophagi are mantled in their shrouds, the gorgeous colors which have blazed so sumptuously through the day grow pale and vanish, the altar fires turn to ashes, the mighty temples draw their veils and seem deserted by both gods and men, and the stupendous panorama awaits, beneath the canopy of night, the glory of another dawn. [illustration: a stupendous panorama.] [illustration: a tangled skein of cañons.] it was my memorable privilege to see, one afternoon, a thunder storm below me here. a monstrous cloud-wall, like a huge gray veil, came traveling up the cañon, and we could watch the lightning strike the buttes and domes ten or twelve miles away, while the loud peals of thunder, broken by crags and multiplied by echoes, rolled toward us through the darkening gulf at steadily decreasing intervals. sometimes two flashes at a time ran quivering through the air and launched their bolts upon the mountain shrines, as though their altars, having been erected for idolatrous worship, were doomed to be annihilated. occasionally, through an opening in the clouds, the sun would suddenly light up the summit of a mountain, or flash a path of gold through a ravine; and i shall never forget the curious sensation of seeing far beneath me bright sunshine in one cañon and a violent storm in another. at last, a rainbow cast its radiant bridge across the entire space, and we beheld the tempest disappear like a troop of cavalry in a cloud of dust beneath that iridescent arch, beyond whose curving spectrum all the temples stood forth, still intact in their sublimity. [illustration: on the brink.] at certain points along the cañon, promontories jut out into the abyss, like headlands which in former times projected into an ocean that has disappeared. hence, riding along the brink, as one may do for miles, we looked repeatedly into many lateral fissures, from fifteen hundred to three thousand feet in depth. all these, however, like gigantic fingers, pointed downward to the centre of the cañon, where, five miles away, and at a level more than six thousand feet below the brink on which we stood, extended a long, glittering trail. this, where the sunlight struck it, gleamed like an outstretched band of gold. it was the sinuous colorado, yellow as the tiber. [illustration: ripley's butte.] [illustration: a bit of the river.] [illustration: on hance's trail.] one day of our stay here was devoted to making the descent to this river. it is an undertaking compared with which the crossing of the gemmi on a mule is child's play. fortunately, however, the arduous trip is not absolutely necessary for an appreciation of the immensity and grandeur of the scenery. on the contrary, one gains a really better idea of these by riding along the brink, and looking down at various points on the sublime expanse. nevertheless, a descent into the cañon is essential for a proper estimate of its details, and one can never realize the enormity of certain cliffs and the extent of certain valleys, till he has crawled like a maimed insect at their base and looked thence upward to the narrowed sky. yet such an investigation of the cañon is, after all, merely like going down from a balloon into a great city to examine one of its myriad streets, since any gorge we may select for our descending path is but a tiny section of a labyrinth. that which is unique and incomparable here is the view from the brink; and when the promised hotel is built upon the border of the cañon, visitors will be content to remain for days at their windows or on the piazzas, feasting their souls upon a scene always sublime and sometimes terrible. [illustration: a vision of sublimity.] nevertheless, desirous of exploring a specimen of these chasms (as we often select for minute examination a single painting out of an entire picture gallery) we made the descent to the colorado by means of a crooked scratch upon a mountain side, which one might fancy had been blazed by a zigzag flash of lightning. as it requires four hours to wriggle down this path, and an equal amount of time to wriggle up, i spent the greater part of a day on what a comrade humorously styled the "quarter-deck of a mule." a square, legitimate seat in the saddle was usually impossible, so steep was the incline; and hence, when going down, i braced my feet and lay back on the haunches of the beast, and, in coming up, had to lean forward and clutch the pommel, to keep from sliding off, as a human avalanche, on the head of the next in line. in many places, however, riding was impossible, and we were compelled to scramble over the rocks on foot. the effect of hours of this exercise on muscles unaccustomed to such surprises may be imagined; yet, owing to the wonderfully restorative air of arizona, the next day after this, the severest physical exertion i had ever known, i did not feel the slightest bad result, and was as fresh as ever. that there is an element of danger in this trip cannot be doubted. at times the little trail, on which two mules could not possibly have passed each other, skirts a precipice where the least misstep would hurl the traveler to destruction; and every turn of the zigzag path is so sharp that first the head and then the tail of the mule inevitably projects above the abyss, and wig-wags to the mule below. moreover, though not a vestige of a parapet consoles the dizzy rider, in several places the animal simply puts its feet together and toboggans down the smooth face of a slanting rock, bringing up at the bottom with a jerk that makes the tourist see a large variety of constellations, and even causes his beast to belch forth an involuntary roar of disenchantment, or else to try to pulverize his immediate successor. in such a place as this nature seems pitiless and cruel; and one is impressed with the reflection that a million lives might be crushed out in any section of this maze of gorges and not a feature of it would be changed. there is, however, a fascination in gambling with danger, when a desirable prize is to be gained. the stake we risk may be our lives, yet, when the chances are in our favor, we often love to match excitement against the possibility of death; and even at the end, when we are safe, a sigh sometimes escapes us, as when the curtain falls on an absorbing play. [illustration: starting down the trail.] [illustration: a yawning chasm.] [illustration: obliged to walk.] as we descended, it grew warmer, not only from the greater elevation of the sun at noon, but from the fact that in this sudden drop of six thousand feet we had passed through several zones of temperature. snow, for example, may be covering the summits of the mountains in midwinter, while at the bottom of the cañon are summer warmth and vernal flowers. when, after two or three hours of continuous descent, we looked back at our starting-point, it seemed incredible that we had ever stood upon the pinnacles that towered so far above us, and were apparently piercing the slowly moving clouds. the effect was that of looking up from the bottom of a gigantic well. instinctively i asked myself if i should ever return to that distant upper world, and it gave me a memorable realization of my individual insignificance to stand in such a sunken solitude, and realize that the fissure i was exploring was only a single loop in a vast network of ravines, which, if extended in a straight line, would make a cañon seven hundred miles in length. it was with relief that we reached, at last, the terminus of the lateral ravine we had been following and at the very bottom of the cañon rested on the bank of the colorado. the river is a little freer here than elsewhere in its tortuous course, and for some hundred feet is less compressed by the grim granite cliffs which, usually, rise in smooth black walls hundreds of feet in almost vertical height, and for two hundred miles retain in their embrace the restless, foaming flood that has no other avenue of escape. the navigation of this river by major j.w. powell, in 1869, was one of the most daring deeds of exploration ever achieved by man, and the thrilling story of his journey down the colorado, for more than a thousand miles, and through the entire length of the grand cañon, is as exciting as the most sensational romance. despite the remonstrances of friends and the warnings of friendly indians, major powell, with a flotilla of four boats and nine men, started down the river, on may 24th, from green river city, in utah, and, on the 30th of august, had completed his stupendous task, with the loss of two boats and four men. of the latter, one had deserted at an early date and escaped; but the remaining three, unwilling to brave any longer the terrors of the unknown cañon, abandoned the expedition and tried to return through the desert, but were massacred by indians. it is only when one stands beside a portion of this lonely river, and sees it shooting stealthily and swiftly from a rift in the titanic cliffs and disappearing mysteriously between dark gates of granite, that he realizes what a heroic exploit the first navigation of this river was; for nothing had been known of its imprisoned course through this entanglement of chasms, or could be known, save by exploring it in boats, so difficult of access were, and are, the two or three points where it is possible for a human being to reach its perpendicular banks. accordingly, when the valiant navigators sailed into these mysterious waters, they knew that there was almost every chance against the possibility of a boat's living in such a seething current, which is, at intervals, punctured with a multitude of tusk-like rocks, tortured into rapids, twisted into whirlpools, or broken by falls; while in the event of shipwreck they could hope for little save naked precipices to cling to for support. moreover, after a heavy rain the colorado often rises here fifty or sixty feet under the veritable cataracts of water which, for miles, stream directly down the perpendicular walls, and make of it a maddened torrent wilder than the rapids of niagara. all honor, then, to powell and his comrades who braved not alone the actual dangers thus described, but stood continually alert for unknown perils, which any bend in the swift, snake-like river might disclose, and which would make the gloomy groove through which they slipped a black-walled _oubliette_, or gate to acheron. [illustration: a cabin on the trail.] [illustration: a halt.] [illustration: at the bottom.] [illustration: taking lunch near the river.] [illustration: beside the colorado.] if any river in the world should be regarded with superstitious reverence, it is the colorado, for it represents to us, albeit in a diminished form, the element that has produced the miracle of the arizona cañon,--water. far back in the distant eocene epoch of our planet's history, the colorado was the outlet of an inland sea which drained off toward the pacific, as the country of northwestern arizona rose; and the grand cañon illustrates, on a stupendous scale, the system of erosion which, in a lesser degree, has deeply furrowed the entire region. at first one likes to think of the excavation of this awful chasm as the result of some tremendous cataclysm of nature; but, in reality, it has all been done by water, assisted, no doubt, by the subtler action of the winds and storms in the disintegration of the monster cliffs, which, as they slowly crumbled into dust, were carried downward by the rains, and, finally, were borne off by the omnivorous river to the sea. [illustration: monster cliffs, and a notch in the cañon wall.] [illustration: miles of intra-cañons.] but though, at first, these agents do not seem as forceful and extraordinary as a single terrible catastrophe, the slow results thus gained are even more impressive. for what an appalling lapse of time must have been necessary to cut down and remove layers of sandstone, marble, and granite, thousands of feet in thickness; to carve the mighty shrines of siva and of vishnu, and to etch out these scores of interlacing cañons! to calculate it one must reckon a century for every turn of the hourglass. it is the story of a struggle maintained for ages between the solid and the fluid elements, in which at last the yielding water won a victory over adamant. it is an evidence, too, of nature's patient methods; a triumph of the delicate over the strong, the liquid over the solid, the transitory over the enduring. at present, the softer material has been exhausted, and the rapacious river, shrunken in size, must satisfy itself by gnawing only the archaic granite which still curbs its course. yet if this calculation overpowers us, what shall we say of the reflections awakened by the fact that all the limestone cliffs along the lofty edges of the cañon are composed of fossils,--the skeletons of creatures that once lived here covered by an ocean, and that ten thousand feet of strata, which formerly towered above the present summits of the cañon walls, have been eroded and swept downward to the sea! hence, were the missing strata (all of which are found in regular sequence in the high plateaus of utah) restored, this cañon would be sixteen thousand feet in depth, and from its borders one could look down upon a mountain higher than mont blanc! to calculate the æons implied in the repeated elevations and subsidences which made this region what it is would be almost to comprehend eternity. in such a retrospect centuries crumble and disappear into the gulf of time as pebbles into the cañon of the colorado. on my last evening in the pine tree camp i left my tent and walked alone to the edge of the grand cañon. the night was white with the splendor of the moon. a shimmering lake of silvery vapor rolled its noiseless tide against the mountains, and laved the terraces of the hindu shrines. the lunar radiance, falling into such profundity, was powerless to reveal the plexus of subordinate cañons, and even the temples glimmered through the upper air like wraiths of the huge forms which they reveal by day. advancing cautiously to an isolated point upon the brink, i lay upon my face, and peered down into the spectral void. no voice of man, nor cry of bird, nor roar of beast resounded through those awful corridors of silence. even thought had no existence in that sunken realm of chaos. i felt as if i were the sole survivor of the deluge. only the melancholy murmur of the wind ascended from that sepulchre of centuries. it seemed the requiem for a vanished world. [illustration] yellowstone national park [illustration] on certain portions of our globe almighty god has set a special imprint of divinity. the alps, the pyrénées, the mexican volcanoes, the solemn grandeur of norwegian fjords, the sacred mountain of japan, and the sublimity of india's himalayas--at different epochs in a life of travel--had filled my soul with awe and admiration. but, since the summer of 1896, there has been ranked with these in my remembrance the country of the yellowstone. two-thirds across this continent, hidden away in the heart of the rocky mountains, eight thousand feet above the level of the sea, there lies a marvelous section of our earth, about one-half as large as the state of connecticut. on three sides this is guarded by lofty, well-nigh inaccessible mountains, as though the infinite himself would not allow mankind to rashly enter its sublime enclosure. in this respect our government has wisely imitated the creator. it has proclaimed to all the world the sanctity of this peculiar area. it has received it as a gift from god and, as his trustee, holds it for the welfare of humanity. we, then, as citizens of the united states, are its possessors and its guardians. it is our national park. yet, although easy of access, most of us let the years go by without exploring it! how little we realize what a treasure we possess is proven by the fact that, until recently, the majority of tourists here were foreigners! i thought my previous store of memories was rich, but to have added to it the recollections of the yellowstone will give a greater happiness to life while life shall last. day after day, yes, hour after hour, within the girdle of its snow-capped peaks i looked upon a constant series of stupendous sights--a blending of the beautiful and terrible, the strange and the sublime--which were, moreover, so peculiar that they stand out distinct and different from those of every other portion of our earth. [illustration: lone star geyser.] [illustration: the grotto, geyser's cone.] [illustration: entrance to the park.] to call our national park the "switzerland of america" would be absurd. it is not switzerland; it is not iceland; it is not norway; it is unique; and the unique cannot be compared. if i were asked to describe it in a dozen lines, i should call it the arena of an enormous amphitheatre. its architect was nature; the gladiators that contended in it were volcanoes. during unnumbered ages those gladiators struggled to surpass one another in destruction by pouring forth great floods of molten lava. even now the force which animated them still shows itself in other forms, but harmlessly, much as a captive serpent hisses though its fangs are drawn. but the volcanoes give no sign of life. they are dead actors in a fearful tragedy performed here countless centuries before the advent of mankind, with this entire region for a stage, and for their only audience the sun and stars. i shall never forget our entrance into this theatre of sublime phenomena. the pullman car, in which we had taken our places at st. paul, had carried us in safety more than a thousand miles and had left us at the gateway of the park. before us was a portion of the road, eight miles in length, which leads the tourist to the mammoth springs hotel. on one side an impetuous river shouted a welcome as we rode along. above us rose gray, desolate cliffs. they are volcanic in their origin. the brand of fire is on them all. they are symbolic, therefore, of the entire park; for fire and water are the two great forces here which have, for ages, struggled for supremacy. [illustration: the watchful sentinel.] [illustration: the mammoth springs hotel.] no human being dwells upon those dreary crags, but at one point, as i looked up at them, i saw--poised statue-like above a mighty pinnacle of rock--a solitary eagle. pausing, with outstretched wings above its nest, it seemed to look disdainfully upon us human pygmies crawling far below. living at such a height, in voluntary isolation, that king of birds appeared the very embodiment of strength and majesty. call it a touch of superstition, if you will, yet i confess it thrilled me to the heart to find that here, above the very entrance to the wonderland of our republic, there should be stationed midway between earth and heaven, like a watchful sentinel, our national bird,--the bird of freedom! at length a sudden turn revealed to us our first halting-place within the park,--the mammoth springs hotel. the structure in itself looked mammoth as we approached it, for its portico exceeds four hundred feet in length. our first impressions were agreeable. porters rushed forth and helped us to alight, and on the broad piazza the manager received us cordially. everything had the air of an established summer resort. this, i confess, surprised me greatly, as i had expected primitive accommodations, and supposed that, though the days of camping-out had largely passed away, the resting-places in the park were still so crude that one would be glad to leave them. but i lingered here with pleasure long after all the wonders of the park had been beheld. the furniture, though simple, is sufficient; to satisfy our national nervousness, the halls are so well-stocked with rocking-chairs that european visitors look about them with alarm, and try to find some seats that promise a more stable equilibrium; the sleeping-rooms are scrupulously clean; soft blankets, snow-white sheets, and comfortable beds assure a good night's rest; and the staff of colored waiters in the dining-room, steam-heat, a bell-boy service, and electric lights made us forget our distance from great cities and the haunts of men. moreover, what is true of this is true, as well, of the other hotels within the park; and when i add that well-cooked food is served in all of them, it will be seen that tourists need not fear a lengthy sojourn in these hostelries. [illustration: hall of the mammoth springs hotel.] [illustration: the photographer's house.] [illustration: mammoth hot springs.] [illustration: fort yellowstone.] standing on the veranda of the mammoth hot springs hotel, i saw between me and the range of mountains opposite a broad plateau, on which were grouped a dozen neat and tasteful structures. with the exception of the photographer's house in the foreground, these constitute fort yellowstone. "a fort!" the visitor exclaims, "impossible! these buildings are of wood, not stone. where are its turrets, battlements, and guns?" nevertheless, this is a station for two companies of united states cavalry; most of the houses being residences for the officers, while in the rear are barracks for the soldiers. [illustration: a forest in the park.] no one who has visited the national park ever doubts the necessity of having soldiers there. thus, one of the most important duties of the united states troops, stationed within its area, is to save its splendid forests from destruction. to do this calls for constant vigilance. a fire started in the resinous pines, which cover many of the mountain sides, leaps forward with such fury that it would overtake a horseman fleeing for his life. to guard against so serious a calamity, soldiers patrol the park continually to see that all the camp-fires have been extinguished. thanks to their watchful care, only one notable conflagration has occurred here in the last eight years, and that the soldiers fought with energy for twenty days, till the last vestige of it was subdued. the tourist comprehends the great importance of this work when he beholds the rivers of the park threading, like avenues of silver, the sombre frame-work of the trees, and recollects that just such forests as adjoin these streams cover no less than eighty-four per cent. of its entire area. in a treeless country like wyoming these forests are of priceless value, because of their utility in holding back, in spring, the melting snow. some of the largest rivers of our continent are fed from the well-timbered area of the yellowstone; and if the trees were destroyed, the enormous snowfall in the park, unsheltered from the sun, would melt so rapidly that the swollen torrents would quickly wash away roads, bridges, and productive farms, even, far out in the adjacent country, and, subsequently, cause a serious drought for many months. [illustration: fire-hole river.] another very important labor of the united states soldiers here is to preserve the game within the park. it is the purpose of our government to make this area a place of refuge for those animals which man's insatiate greed has now almost destroyed. the remoteness of this lofty region, together with its mountain fastnesses, deep forests, and sequestered glens, makes it an almost perfect game-preserve. there are at present thirty thousand elk within the park; its deer and antelopes are steadily increasing; and bears, foxes, and small game roam unmolested here. buffaloes, however, are still few in number. they have become too valuable. a buffalo head, which formerly could be bought for a mere trifle, commands, to-day, a price of five hundred dollars. hence, daring poachers sometimes run the risk of entering the park in winter and destroying them. [illustration: mountain sheep.] it is sad to reflect how the buffaloes of this continent have been almost exterminated. as late as thirty years ago, trains often had to halt upon the prairies; and even steamboats were, occasionally, obliged to wait an hour or two in the missouri river until enormous herds of buffalo had crossed their path. now only about two hundred of these animals are in existence,--the sole survivors of the millions that once thundered over the western plains, and disputed with the indians the ownership of this great continent. [illustration: yellowstone elk.] until very recently, travelers on our prairies frequently beheld the melancholy sight of laborers gathering up the buffalo bones which lay upon the plains, like wreckage floating on the sea. hundreds of carloads of these skeletons were shipped to factories in the east. now, to protect the few remaining buffaloes, as well as other animals, our troops patrol the park even in winter. the principal stations are connected by telephone, and information given thus is promptly acted on. no traveler is allowed to carry fire-arms; and any one who attempts to destroy animal life is liable to a fine of one thousand dollars, or imprisonment for two years, or both. [illustration: buffaloes in the snow.] [illustration: gathering buffalo bones.] still another task, devolving upon the military governor of the park, is the building and repairing of its roads. no doubt the superintendent is doing all he can with the amount of money that the government allows him; but there is room for great improvement in these thoroughfares, if congress will but make a suitable appropriation for the purpose. at present, a part of the coaching-route is of necessity traveled over twice. this should be obviated by constructing one more road, by which the tourist could be brought to several interesting features of the park that are now rarely seen. every one knows how roads in europe climb the steepest grades in easy curves, and are usually as smooth as a marble table, free from obstacles, and carefully walled-in by parapets of stone. why should not we possess such roads, especially in our national park? dust is at present a great drawback to the traveler's pleasure here; but this could be prevented if the roads were thoroughly macadamized. surely, the honor of our government demands that this unique museum of marvels should be the pride and glory of the nation, with highways equal to any in the world. [illustration: a yellowstone road.] [illustration: liberty cap.] only a few hundred feet distant from the mammoth springs hotel stands a strange, naturally molded shaft of stone, fifty-two feet in height. from certain points its summit calls to mind the head-dress of the revolution, and hence its name is liberty cap. it is a fitting monument to mark the entrance into wonderland, for it is the cone of an old geyser long since dead. within it is a tube of unknown depth. through that, ages since, was hurled at intervals a stream of boiling water, precisely as it comes from active geysers in the park to-day. but now the hand of time has stilled its passionate pulsations, and laid upon its stony lips the seal of silence. at only a little distance from this eloquent reminder of the past i peered into a cavern hundreds of feet deep. it was once the reservoir of a geyser. an atmosphere of sulphur haunts it still. no doubt this whole plateau is but the cover of extinguished fires, for other similar caves pierce the locality on which the hotel stands. a feeling of solemnity stole over me as i surveyed these dead or dying agents of volcanic power. in the great battle of the elements, which has been going on here for unnumbered centuries, they doubtless took an active part. but time has given them a mortal wound; and now they are waiting patiently until their younger comrades, farther up the park, shall, one by one, like them grow cold and motionless. [illustration: a mound of the hot spring terraces.] not more than fifty feet from liberty cap rise the famous hot spring terraces. they constitute a veritable mountain, covering at least two hundred acres, the whole of which has been, for centuries, growing slowly through the agency of hot water issuing from the boiling springs. this, as it cools, leaves a mineral deposit, spread out in delicate, thin layers by the soft ripples of the heated flood. strange, is it not? everywhere else the flow of water wears away the substance that it touches; but here, by its peculiar sediment, it builds as surely as the coral insect. moreover, the coloring of these terraces is, if possible, even more marvelous than their creation; for, as the mineral water pulsates over them, it forms a great variety of brilliant hues. hot water, therefore, is to this material what blood is to the body. with it the features glow with warmth and color; without it they are cold and ghostlike. accordingly, where water ripples over these gigantic steps, towering one above another toward the sky, they look like beautiful cascades of color; and when the liquid has deserted them, they stand out like a staircase of carrara marble. hence, through the changing centuries, they pass in slow succession, from light to shade, from brilliancy to pallor, and from life to death. this mineral water is not only a mysterious architect; it is, also, an artist that no man can equal. its magic touch has intermingled the finest shades of orange, yellow, purple, red, and brown; sometimes in solid masses, at other places diversified by slender threads, like skeins of multicolored silk. yet in producing all these wonderful effects, there is no violence, no uproar. the boiling water passes over the mounds it has produced with the low murmur of a sweet cascade. its tiny wavelets touch the stone work like a sculptor's fingers, molding the yielding mass into exquisitely graceful forms. [illustration: minerva terrace.] the top of each of these colored steps is a pool of boiling water. each of these tiny lakes is radiant with lovely hues, and is bordered by a colored coping, resembling a curb of jasper or of porphyry. yet the thinnest knife-blade can be placed here on the dividing line between vitality and death. the contrast is as sudden and complete as that between the desert and the valley of the nile. where egypt's river ends its overflow the desert sands begin; and on these terraces it is the same. where the life-giving water fails, the golden colors become ashen. this terraced mountain, therefore, seemed to me like a colossal checker-board, upon whose colored squares, the two great forces, life and death, were playing their eternal game. there is a pathos in this evanescent beauty. what lies about us in one place so gray and ghostly was once as bright and beautiful as that which we perceive a hundred feet away. but nothing here retains supremacy. the glory of this century will be the gravestone of the next. around our feet are sepulchres of vanished splendor. it seems as if the architect were constantly dissatisfied. no sooner has he finished one magnificent structure than he impatiently begins another, leaving the first to crumble and decay. each new production seems to him the finest; but never reaching his ideal, he speedily abandons it to perish from neglect. [illustration: jupiter terrace.] [illustration: "vitality and death."] it cannot be said of these terraces that "distance lends enchantment to the view." the nearer you come to them the more beautiful they appear. they even bear the inspection of a magnifying glass, for they are covered with a bead-like ornamentation worthy of the goldsmith's art. in one place, for example, rise pulpits finer than those of pisa or siena. their edges seem to be of purest jasper. they are upheld by tapering shafts resembling richly decorated organ-pipes. from parapets of porphyry hang gold stalactites, side by side with icicles of silver. moreover, all its marvelous fretwork is distinctly visible, for the light film of water pulsates over it so delicately that it can no more hide the filigree beneath than a thin veil conceals a face. it is a melancholy fact that were it not for united states troops, these beautiful objects would be mutilated by relic-hunters. hence, another duty of our soldiers is to watch the formations constantly, lest tourists should break off specimens, and ruin them forever, and lest still more ignoble vandals, whose fingers itch for notoriety, should write upon these glorious works of nature their worthless names, and those of the towns unfortunate enough to have produced them. all possible measures are taken to prevent this vandalism. thus, every tourist entering the park must register his name. most travelers do so, as a matter of course, at the hotels, but even the arrivals of those who come here to camp must be duly recorded at the superintendent's office, if a soldier sees a name, or even initials, written on the stone, he telephones the fact to the military governor. at once the lists are scanned for such a name. if found, the superintendent wires an order to have the man arrested, and so careful is the search for all defacers, that the offending party is, usually, found before he leaves the park. then the superintendent, like the mikado, makes the punishment fit the crime. a scrubbing brush and laundry soap are given to the desecrator, and he is made to go back, perhaps forty miles or more, and with his own hands wash away the proofs of his disgraceful vanity. not long ago a young man was arrested at six o'clock in the morning, made to leave his bed, and march without his breakfast several miles, to prove that he could be as skillful with a brush as with a pencil. [illustration: "sepulchres of vanished splendor."] [illustration: man and nature.] [illustration: the pulpit terrace.] [illustration: a camping-party.] after spending several days at the mammoth hot springs, we started out to explore the greater marvels that awaited us in the interior. the mode of travel through the park is a succession of coaching-parties over a distance of one hundred and eighty miles. the larger vehicles are drawn by six, the smaller ones by four, strong horses, well fed, well groomed, high spirited, yet safe. this feature of our national park astonished me. i had formed no idea of its perfection or its magnitude. here, for example, are vehicles enough to accommodate seven hundred tourists for a continuous journey of five days! here, too, are five hundred horses, all of which can be harnessed at twenty-four hours' notice; and, since the park is so remote, here also are the company's blacksmith and repair shops. within the stables, also, are the beautifully varnished coaches, varying in cost from one to two thousand dollars, and made in concord, new hampshire, twenty-five hundred miles away. on one of these i read the number, "13-1/2." "why did you add the fraction?" i inquired of the manager of transportation. "because," he replied, "some travelers would not take a number thirteen coach. they feared a breakdown or a tumble into the river; so i put on the half to take ill-luck away." i dwell at length upon these practical details, because i have found that people, in general, do not know them. most americans have little idea whether the driving distance in the park is ten miles, or a hundred. especially are they ignorant of the fact that they may leave the coaches at any point, remain at a hotel as long as they desire, and then resume their journey in other vehicles, without the least additional expense for transportation, precisely as one uses a stop-over ticket on a railroad. [illustration: a coaching-party.] [illustration: no. 13-1/2.] [illustration: hotel at yellowstone lake.] the fact that it is possible to go through the park in four or five days is not a reason why it is best to do so. hundreds of tourists make the trip three times as rapidly as they would were they aware that they could remain comfortably for months. when this is better known, people will travel here more leisurely. even now, parents with little children sometimes leave them at the mammoth springs hotel in charge of nurses, and receive messages by telephone every day to inform them how they are. an important consideration, also, for invalids is the fact that two skilled surgeons, attendant on the army, are always easily accessible. moreover, the climate of the park in summer is delightful. it is true, the sun beats down at noonday fiercely, the thin air offering scant resistance to its rays, but in the shade one feels no heat at all. light overcoats are needed when the sun goes down. there is scarcely a night here, through the year, which passes without frost. to me the pure dry air of that great height was more invigorating than any i had ever breathed, save, possibly, that of norway, and it is, probably, the tonic of the atmosphere that renders even the invalid and aged able to support long journeys in the park without exhaustion. in all these years no tourist has been made ill here by fatigue. [illustration: the golden gate.] [illustration: the golden gate, looking outward.] a few miles after leaving the hot springs, we reached the entrance to a picturesque ravine, the tawny color of whose rocks has given it the name of golden gate. this is, alike, the entrance to, and exit from, the inner sanctuary of this land of marvels. accordingly a solitary boulder, detached from its companions on the cliff, seems to be stationed at this portal like a sentinel to watch all tourists who come and go. at all events it echoes to the voices of those who enter almost as eager as seekers after gold; and, a week later, sees them return, browned by the sun, invigorated by the air, and joyful in the acquisition of incomparable memories. emerging from this golden gate, i looked about me with surprise, as the narrow walls of the ravine gave place to a plateau surrounded everywhere by snow-capped mountains, from which the indians believed one could obtain a view of paradise. across this area, like a railroad traversing a prairie, stretched the driveway for our carriages. "do tourists usually seem delighted with the park?" i asked our driver. "invariably," he replied. "of course i cannot understand the words of the foreigners, but their excited exclamations show their great enthusiasm. i like the tourists," he continued, "they are so grateful for any little favor! one of them said to me the other day, 'is the water here good to drink?' 'not always,' i replied, 'you must be careful.' at once he pressed my hand, pulled out a flask, and said, 'i thank you!" [illustration: the plateau.] while crossing the plateau we enjoyed an admirable view of the loftiest of the mountains which form, around the park, a rampart of protection. its sharply pointed summit pierces the transparent air more than eleven thousand feet above the sea, and it is well named electric peak, since it appears to be a storage battery for all of the rocky mountains. such are the mineral deposits on its sides, that the best instruments of engineers are thrown into confusion, and rendered useless, while the lightning on this favorite home of electricity is said to be unparalleled. [illustration: electric peak.] [illustration: the glass mountain.] presently a turn in the road revealed to us a dark-hued mountain rising almost perpendicularly from a lake. marvelous to relate, the material of which this mountain is composed is jet-black glass, produced by volcanic fires. the very road on which we drove between this and the lake also consists of glass too hard to break beneath the wheels. the first explorers found this obsidian cliff almost impassable; but when they ascertained of what it was composed, they piled up timber at its base, and set it on fire. when the glass was hot, they dashed upon the heated mass cold water, which broke it into fragments. then with huge levers, picks, and shovels, they pushed and pried the shining pieces down into the lake, and opened thus a wagon-road a thousand feet in length. [illustration: an indian chief.] the region of the yellowstone was to most indian tribes a place of horror. they trembled at the awful sights they here beheld. but the obsidian cliff was precious to them all. its substance was as hard as flint, and hence well suited for their arrow-heads. this mountain of volcanic glass was, therefore, the great indian armory; and as such it was neutral ground. hither all hostile tribes might come for implements of war and then depart unharmed. while they were here a sacred, inter-tribal oath protected them. an hour later, those very warriors might meet in deadly combat, and turn against each other's breasts the weapons taken from that laboratory of an unknown power. [illustration: a trapper.] can we wonder that, in former times, when all this region was still unexplored, and its majestic streams rolled nameless through a trackless wilderness, the statements of the few brave men who ventured into this enclosure were disbelieved by all who heard them? one old trapper became so angry when his stories of the place were doubted, that he deliberately revenged himself by inventing tales of which münchhausen would have been proud. thus, he declared, that one day when he was hunting here he saw a bear. he fired at it, but without result. the animal did not even notice him. he fired again, yet the big bear kept on grazing. the hunter in astonishment then ran forward, but suddenly dashed against a solid mountain made of glass. through that, he said, he had been looking at the animal. unspeakably amazed, he finally walked around the mountain, and was just taking aim again, when he discovered that the glass had acted like a telescope, and that the bear was twenty-five miles away! not far from the volcanic cliff which gave the trapper inspiration for his story, we reached one of the most famous basins of the park. in briefest terms, these basins are the spots in the arena where the crust is thinnest. they are the trap-doors in a volcanic stage through which the fiery actors in the tragedy of nature, which is here enacted, come upon the scene. literally, they are the vents through which the steam and boiling water can escape. in doing so, however, the water, as at the mammoth springs, leaves a sediment of pure white lime or silica. hence, from a distance, these basins look like desolate expanses of white sand. beside them always flows a river which carries off the boiling water to the outer world. [illustration: the norris basin.] [illustration: a place of danger.] no illustration can do justice to what is called the norris basin, but it is horrible enough to test the strongest nerves. having full confidence in our guide (the park photographer) we ventured with him, outside the usual track of tourists, and went where all the money of the rothschilds would not have tempted us to go alone. the crust beneath our feet was hot, and often quivered as we walked. a single misstep to the right or left would have been followed by appalling consequences. thus, a careless soldier, only a few days before, had broken through, and was then lying in the hospital with both legs badly scalded. around us were a hundred vats of water, boiling furiously; the air was heavy with the fumes of sulphur; and the whole expanse was seamed with cracks and honeycombed with holes from which a noxious vapor crept out to pollute the air. i thought of dante's walk through hell, and called to mind the burning lake, which he describes, from which the wretched sufferers vainly sought to free themselves. [illustration: a camping-station.] leaving, at last, this roof of the infernal regions, just as we again stood apparently on solid ground, a fierce explosion close beside us caused us to start and run for twenty feet. our guide laughed heartily. "come back," he said, "don't be afraid. it is only a baby geyser, five years old." in fact, in 1891, a sudden outburst of volcanic fury made an opening here, through which, at intervals of thirty minutes, day and night, hot water now leaps forth in wild confusion. "this, then, is a geyser!" i exclaimed. "bah!" said the guide, contemptuously, "if you had seen the real geysers in the upper basin, you would not look at this." [illustration: a baby geyser.] meantime, for half an hour we had been hearing, more and more distinctly, a dull, persistent roar, like the escape of steam from a transatlantic liner. at last we reached the cause. it is a mass of steam which rushes from an opening in the ground, summer and winter, year by year, in one unbroken volume. the rock around it is as black as jet; hence it is called the black growler. think of the awful power confined beneath the surface here, when this one angry voice can be distinctly heard four miles away. choke up that aperture, and what a terrible convulsion would ensue, as the accumulated steam burst its prison walls! it is a sight which makes one long to lift the cover from this monstrous caldron, learn the cause of its stupendous heat, and trace the complicated and mysterious aqueducts through which the steam and water make their way. [illustration: the black growler.] returning from the black growler, we halted at a lunch-station, the manager of which is larry. all visitors to the park remember larry. he has a different welcome for each guest: "good-day, professor. come in, my lord. the top of the morning to you, doctor." these phrases flow as lightly from his tongue as water from a geyser. his station is a mere tent; but he will say, with most amusing seriousness: "gintlemen, walk one flight up and turn to the right, ladies, come this way and take the elevator. now thin, luncheon is ready. each guest take one seat, and as much food as he can get." "where did you come from, larry?" i asked. [illustration: larry.] "from brooklyn, sor," was his reply, "but i'll niver go back there, for all my friends have been killed by the trolley cars." larry is very democratic. the other day a guest, on sitting down to lunch, took too much room upon the bench. "plaze move along, sor," said larry. the stranger glared at him. "i am a count," he remarked at last. "well, sor," said larry, "here you only count wun!" "hush!" exclaimed a member of the gentleman's suite, "that is count schouvaloff." "i'll forgive him that," said larry, "if he won't shuffle off this seat," pointing to my companion. larry asked me: "what is that gintleman's business?" "he is a teacher of singing," i answered. [illustration: larry's lunch-station.] "faith," said larry, "i'd like to have him try my voice. there is something very strange about my vocal chords. whenever i sing, the black growler stops. one tourist told me it was a case of professional jealousy, and said the black growler was envious of my _forte_ tones. 'i have not forty tones,' i said, 'i've only one tone,' 'well,' says he, 'make a note of it!'" [illustration: the biscuit basin.] only once in his life has larry been put to silence. two years ago, a gentleman remarked to him: "well, larry, good-by; come and visit me next winter in the east. in my house you shall have a nice room, and, if you are ill, shall enjoy a doctor's services free of all expense." "thank you," said larry, "plaze give me your card." the tourist handed it to him; and larry, with astonishment and horror, read beneath the gentleman's name these words: "superintendent of the insane asylum, utica, new york." some hours after leaving larry's lunch-station, we reached another area of volcanic action. our nerves were steadier now. the close proximity to hades was less evident; yet here hot mineral water had spread broadcast innumerable little mounds of silica, which look so much like biscuits grouped in a colossal pan that this is called the biscuit basin; but they are not the kind that "mother used to make." if a tourist asked for bread here, he would receive a stone; since all these so-called biscuits are as hard as flint. we walked upon their crusts with perfect safety; yet, in so doing, our boots grew warm beneath our feet, for the water in this miniature archipelago is heated to the boiling point. [illustration: a geyser pool.] "show me a geyser!" i at last exclaimed impatiently, "i want to see a genuine geyser." accordingly our guide conducted us to what he announced as "the fountain." i looked around me with surprise. i saw no fountain, but merely a pool of boiling water, from which the light breeze bore away a thin, transparent cloud of steam. it is true, around this was a pavement as delicately fashioned as any piece of coral ever taken from the sea. nevertheless, while i admired that, i could not understand why this comparatively tranquil pool was called a geyser, and frankly said i was disappointed. but, even as i spoke, i saw to my astonishment the boiling water in this reservoir sink and disappear from view. "where has it gone?" i eagerly inquired. "stand back!" shouted the guide, "she's coming." [illustration: "a cloud-burst of jewels."] i ran back a few steps, then turned and caught my breath; for at that very instant, up from the pool which i had just beheld so beautiful and tranquil, there rose in one great outburst of sublimity such a stupendous mass of water as i had never imagined possible in a vertical form. i knew that it was boiling, and that a deluge of those scalding drops would probably mean death, but i was powerless to move. amazement and delight enchained me spellbound. talk of a fountain! this was a cloud-burst of the rarest jewels which, till that moment, had been held in solution in a subterranean cavern, but which had suddenly crystallized into a million radiant forms on thus emerging into light and air. the sun was shining through the glittering mass; and myriads of diamonds, moonstones, pearls, and opals mingled in splendid rivalry two hundred feet above our heads. [illustration: the oblong geyser.] we soon approached another of the many geysers in the basin. they are all different. around one, a number of colored blocks, exquisitely decorated by the geyser's waves, appeared to have been placed artistically in an oblong frame. when i first beheld them, they looked like huge sea-monsters which, startled by our footsteps, were about to plunge into the depths. what is there in the natural world so fascinating and mysterious as a geyser? what, for example, is the depth of its intensely-colored pool of boiling water? no one can tell. one thing, however, is certain; the surface of the pool is but the summit of a liquid column. its base is in a subterranean reservoir. into that reservoir there flows a volume of cold water, furnished by the rain or snow, or by infiltration from some lake, or river. meantime, the walls of the deep reservoir are heated by volcanic fire. accordingly the water, in contact with these walls, soon begins to boil, and a great mass of steam collects above it. there must, of course, be some escape for this, and, finally, it makes its exit, hurling the boiling water to a height of one or two hundred feet, according to the force of the explosion. imagine, then, the amount of water that even one such reservoir contains; for some of these volcanic fountains play for more than half an hour before their contents are discharged! think, also, that in this basin there are no less than thirty geysers, seventeen of which have been observed in action simultaneously. [illustration: the giant geyser.] [illustration: the castle geyser.] thus far we had seen merely geysers which arise from pools; but, presently, we approached one which in the course of ages has built up for itself a cone, or funnel, for its scalding waves. "that," said our guide, "is the castle geyser." "that rock a geyser!" i exclaimed incredulously, "it looks like an old ruin, without a single indication of activity; save, possibly, the little cloud of steam that hangs above it, as if it were the breath of some mysterious monster sleeping far below." "if you doubt it," he replied, "go nearer and examine it." [illustration: on "its flinty sides."] we did so. i scrambled up its flinty sides, and found an opening in the summit three feet wide. i touched the rock. it was still warm, and yet no water was discernible. no sound was audible within its depths. [illustration: the castle geyser's cone.] "if this be really a geyser," i remarked, "it is no doubt a lifeless one like liberty cap." my comrade smiled, looked at his watch, then at his notebook, and finally replied: "wait half an hour and see." accordingly, we lingered on the massive ledges of the castle geyser, and learned that it is the largest, probably the oldest, of all the active geyser cones within the park. once its eruptions were no doubt stupendous; but now its power is waning. the gradual closing up of its huge throat, and the increasing substitution of steam for water, prove that the monster has now entered on the final stage of its career; for here, as on the terraces, we are surrounded by specimens of life, decay, and death. the young, the middle-aged, the old, the dead,--they are all here! the fiery agitation of the pool and the impulsive spurts of water are indicative of youth. a steady, splendid outburst proves maturity. the feebler action of the castle shows the waning powers of old age. last of all comes the closed cone, like a sealed sarcophagus, and that is death. [illustration: the castle and the beehive in action.] meantime, the thirty minutes of expectancy had passed; and, suddenly, with a tremendous rush of steam, the castle proved that its resources were by no means exhausted. at the same instant, half a mile away, the beehive geyser threw into the air a shaft of dazzling spray fully two hundred feet in height. i realized then, as never before, the noble action of our government in giving this incomparable region to the people. if this had not been done, the selfishness and greed of man would have made a tour here almost unbearable. a fence would, doubtless, have been built around every geyser, and fees would have been charged to witness each wonderful phenomenon; whereas, to-day, thanks to the generosity of congress, the park itself, and everything that it contains, are absolutely free to all, rich and poor, native and foreigner,--forever consecrated to the education and delight of man. [illustration: the crater of old faithful.] but no enumeration of the geysers would be complete without a mention of the special favorite of tourists, old faithful. the opening through which this miracle of nature springs is at the summit of a beautifully ornamented mound, which is itself a page in nature's wonder-book. the lines upon its wrinkled face tell of a past whose secrets still remain a mystery. it hints of an antiquity so vast that one contemplates it with bated breath; for this entire slope has been built up, atom after atom, through unnumbered ages; during which time, no doubt, the geyser hour by hour has faithfully performed its part, without an eye to note its splendor, or a voice to tell its glory to the world. old faithful does not owe its popularity entirely to height or beauty, though it possesses both. it is beloved for its fidelity. whatever irregularities other geysers show, old faithful never fails. year in, year out, winter and summer, day and night, in cold and heat, in sunshine and in storm, old faithful every seventy minutes sends up its silvery cascade to the height of about one hundred and eighty feet. of all the geysers known to man this is the most reliable and perfect. station yourself before it watch in hand and, punctual to the moment, it will never disappoint you. few realize on how large a scale the forces of nature work here. at each eruption, old faithful pours forth about one million five hundred thousand gallons, or more than thirty-three million gallons in one day! this geyser alone, therefore, could easily supply with water a city of the size of boston. [illustration: castle and old faithful geysers.] [illustration: old faithful in action.] within this area of the active geysers is a place called hell's half acre. it is rightly named. rough, perpendicular ledges project over a monstrous gulf of unknown depth, from which great clouds of steam are constantly emerging. when the wind draws back for a moment a portion of this sulphur-laden curtain, the visitor perceives a lake below, seething and boiling from internal heat. for years no one suspected this to be a geyser; but suddenly, in 1881, the underlying force hurled the entire lake up bodily to the height of two hundred and fifty feet, and even repeated frequently. after some months the exhibition ceased, and all was calm again for seven years. in 1888, however, it once more burst forth with prodigious energy, ejecting at each explosion more boiling water than all the other geysers in the park combined. even the surrounding ledges could not withstand this terrible upheaval, and tons of rock were sometimes thrown up, with the water, more than two hundred feet. it is not strange, therefore, that this is called excelsior, the king of geysers. it is the most tremendous, awe-inspiring fountain in the world. when it will be again aroused, no one can tell. its interval would seem to be from seven to ten years. said an enthusiastic traveler to me: "if the excelsior ever plays again, i will gladly travel three thousand miles to see it." [illustration: hell's half acre.] [illustration: the excelsior, in 1888.] [illustration: evening in the upper basin.] i have a vivid remembrance of my last night at the upper basin. the hush of evening hallowed it. alone and undisturbed we looked upon a scene unequaled in the world. around us liquid columns rose and fell with ceaseless regularity. the cooler air of evening made many shafts of vapor visible which in the glare of day had vanished unperceived. so perfect were their images in the adjoining stream, that it was easy to believe the veil had been at last withdrawn, and that the hidden source of all this wonderful display had been revealed. no sound from them was audible; no breeze disturbed their steadfast flight toward heaven; and in the deepening twilight, the slender, white-robed columns seemed like the ghosts of geysers, long since dead, revisiting the scenes of their activity. [illustration: the morning-glory pool.] [illustration: prismatic lake.] but geysers do not constitute the only marvels of these volcanic basins. the beauty of their pools of boiling water is almost inconceivable to those who have not seen them. no illustration can do them justice; for no photographer can adequately reproduce their clear, transparent depths, nor can an artist's brush ever quite portray their peculiar coloring, due to the minerals held in solution, or else deposited upon their sides. i can deliberately say, however, that some of the most exquisitely beautiful objects i have ever seen in any portion of the world are the superbly tinted caldrons of the yellowstone. their hues are infinitely varied. many are blue, some green, some golden, and some wine-colored, in all gradations of tone; and could we soar aloft and take of them a bird's-eye view, the glittering basin might seem to us a silver shield, studded with rubies, emeralds, turquoises, and sapphires. moreover, these miniature lakes are lined with exquisite ornamentation. one sees in them, with absolute distinctness, a reproduction of the loveliest forms that he has ever found in floral or in vegetable life. gardens of mushrooms, banks of goldenrod, or clusters of asparagus, appear to be growing here, created by the architect and colored by the artist of these mineral springs. [illustration: the road near the golden gate.] [illustration: the emerald pool.] the most renowned of all these reservoirs of color is called the emerald pool. painters from this and other lands have tried repeatedly to depict this faithfully upon canvas, but, finally, have left it in despair. in fact, its coloring is so intense, that as the bubbles, rising to its surface, lift from this bowl their rounded forms, and pause a second in the air before they break, they are still just as richly tinted as the flood beneath. accordingly this pool appeared to me like a colossal casket, filled with emeralds, which spirit hands from time to time drew gently upward from its jeweled depths. [illustration: sunlight lake.] close by this is another boiling pool called the sunlight lake. on this i saw one of the most marvelous phenomena i have ever looked upon. the colors of this tiny sheet of water appeared not only in concentric circles, like the rings of a tree, but also in the order of the spectrum. the outer band was crimson, and then the unbroken sequence came: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet in the centre! moreover, the very steam arising from it (reflecting as it did the varied tints beneath) was exquisitely colored, and vanished into air like a dissolving rainbow. all these prismatic pools are clasped by beautifully decorated curbs of silica, and seem to be set in rings of gold, with mineral colors running through them like enamel. so delicate are the touches of the magic water, as the persistent heart-beats of old mother earth propel it over their ornamental rims, that every ripple leaves its tiny mark. hence it is no exaggeration, but literal truth, to say that beautiful mosaic work is being formed each time the films of boiling water are dimpled by the passing breeze. [illustration: the devil's punch-bowl.] [illustration: the mammoth paint pot.] the great variety of wonders in our national park was a continual source of pleasure and surprise to me. thus, in the midst of all the pools and geysers in the upper basin is one known as the mammoth paint pot. the earth surrounding it is cracked and blistered by heat, and from this rises a parapet five feet high, enclosing a space resembling a circus ring. within this area is a mixture of soft clay and boiling water, suggesting an enormous caldron of hot mush. this bubbling slime is almost as diversely tinted as the pools themselves. it seemed to me that i was looking into a huge vat, where unseen painters were engaged in mixing colors. the fact is easily explained. the mineral ingredients of the volcanic soil produce these different hues. in a new form, it is the same old story of the mammoth terraces. fire supplies the pigments, and hot water uses them. all other features of the park are solemn and impressive; but the mammoth paint pot provokes a smile. there is no grandeur here. it seems a burlesque on volcanic power. the steam which oozes through the plastic mass tosses its substance into curious liliputian shapes, which rise and break like bubbles. a mirthful demon seems to be engaged in molding grotesque images in clay, which turn a somersault, and then fall back to vanish in the seething depths. now it will be a flower, then a face, then, possibly, a manikin resembling toys for children. meanwhile one hears constantly a low accompaniment of groanings, hiccoughs, and expectorations, as if the aforesaid demon found this pudding difficult to digest. [illustration: the road by gibbon river.] [illustration: "grotesque images in clay."] [illustration: on the continental divide.] soon after leaving the upper geyser basin, we approached a tiny lake which has, in some respects, no equal in the world. with the exception of some isolated mountain peaks, it marks the highest portion of our country. in winter, therefore, when encircled by mounds of snow, it rests upon the summit of our continent like a crown of sapphire set with pearls. so evenly is it balanced, that when it overflows, one part of it descends to the atlantic, another part to the pacific. this little streamlet, therefore, is a silver thread connecting two great oceans three thousand miles apart. accordingly, one might easily fancy that every drop in this pure mountain reservoir possessed a separate individuality, and that a passing breeze or falling leaf might decide its destiny, propelling it with gentle force into a current which should lead it eastward to be silvered by the dawn, or westward to be gilded by the setting sun. [illustration: the "silver thread connecting two oceans."] on either side of this elevation, known as the continental divide, the view was glorious. in one direction, an ocean of dark pines rolled westward in enormous billows. the silver surfaces of several lakes gleamed here and there like whitecaps on the rolling waves. far off upon the verge of the horizon, fifty miles away, three snow-capped, sharply pointed mountains looked like a group of icebergs drifting from the polar sea. they did not move, however, nor will they move while this old earth shall last. they antedate by ages the pyramids which they resemble. they will be standing thus, in majesty, when egypt's royal sepulchres shall have returned to dust. forever anchored there, those three resplendent peaks rise fourteen thousand feet above the sea, and form the grand tiara of our continent, the loftiest summits of the rocky mountains. [illustration: the three tetons.] as we began the descent from this great elevation, another splendid vision greeted us. we gazed upon it with delight. beyond a vast expanse of dark green pines we saw, three hundred feet below us, lake yellowstone. it stirred my heart to look at last upon this famous inland sea, nearly eight thousand feet above the ocean level, and to realize that if the white mountain monarch, washington, were planted in its depths (its base line on a level with the sea), there would remain two thousand feet of space between its' summit and the surface of this lake! in this respect it has but one real rival, lake titicaca, in the andes of peru. [illustration: lake yellowstone, from a distance.] descending to the shore, however, we found that even here, so far from shipyards and the sea, a steamboat was awaiting us. imagine the labor of conveying such a vessel sixty-five miles, from the railroad to this lake, up an ascent of more than three thousand feet. of course, it was brought in several sections; but even then, in one or two mountain gorges, the cliffs had to be blasted away to make room for it to pass. it is needless to add that this steamer has no rivals. it was with the greatest interest that i sailed at such a height on this adventurous craft; and the next time that i stand upon the summit of mount washington, and see the fleecy clouds float in the empyrean, one-third of a mile above me, i shall remember that the steamer on lake yellowstone sails at precisely the same altitude as that enjoyed by those sun-tinted galleons of the sky. [illustration: rustic falls, yellowstone park.] [illustration: the solitary steamboat.] [illustration: on lake yellowstone.] to appreciate the beauty of lake yellowstone, one should behold it when its waves are radiant with the sunset glow. it is, however, not only beautiful; it is mysterious. around it, in the distance, rise silver crested peaks whose melting snow descends to it in ice-cold streams. still nearer, we behold a girdle of gigantic forests, rarely, if ever, trodden by the foot of man. oh, the loneliness of this great lake! for eight long months scarcely a human eye beholds it. the wintry storms that sweep its surface find no boats on which to vent their fury. lake yellowstone has never mirrored in itself even the frail canoes of painted savages. the only keels that ever furrow it are those of its solitary steamer and some little fishing-boats engaged by tourists. even these lead a very brief existence. like summer insects, they float here a few weeks, and disappear, leaving the winds and waves to do their will. [illustration: the sleeping giant.] in sailing on this lake, i observed a distant mountain whose summit bore a strange resemblance to an upturned human face, sculptured in bold relief against the sky. it is appropriately called the sleeping giant; for it has slept on, undisturbed, while countless centuries have dropped into the gulf of time, like leaves in the adjoining forest. how many nights have cast their shadows like a veil upon that giant's silhouette! how many dawns have flooded it with light, and found those changeless features still confronting them! we call it human in appearance, and yet that profile was the same before the first man ever trod this planet. grim, awful model of the coming race, did not its stern lips smile disdainfully at the first human pygmy fashioned in its likeness? [illustration: along the shore.] this lake has one peculiarity which, in the minds of certain tourists, eclipses all the rest. i mean its possibilities for fishing. we know that sad experience has taught mankind to invent the proverb: "once a fisherman, always a liar." i wish, then, at the start, to say i am no fisherman; but what i saw here would inevitably make me one if i should remain a month or two upon these shores. lake yellowstone is the fisherman's paradise. said one of izaak walton's followers to me: "i would rather be an angler here than an angel." nor is this strange. i saw two men catch from this lake in one hour more than a hundred splendid trout, weighing from one to three pounds apiece! they worked with incredible rapidity. scarcely did the fly touch the water when the line was drawn, the light rod dipped with graceful curve, and the revolving reel drew in the speckled beauty to the shore. each of these anglers had two hooks upon his line, and both of them once had two trout hooked at the same time, and landed them; while we poor eastern visitors at first looked on in dumb amazement, and then enthusiastically cheered. [illustration: great fishing.] can the reader bear something still more trying to his faith? emerging from the lake is a little cone containing a boiling pool, entirely distinct from the surrounding water. i saw a fisherman stand on this and catch a trout, which, without moving from his place, or even unhooking the fish, he dropped into the boiling pool, and cooked! when the first scientific explorers of this region were urging upon congress the necessity of making it a national park, their statements in regard to fishing were usually received with courteous incredulity. but when one of their number gravely declared that trout could there be caught and boiled in the same lake, within a radius of fifteen feet, the house of representatives broke forth into roars of laughter, and thought the man a monumental liar. we cannot be surprised, therefore, that enthusiastic fishermen almost go crazy here. i have seen men, after a ride of forty miles, rush off to fish without a moment's rest as if their lives depended on it. some years ago, general wade hampton visited the park and came as far as lake yellowstone. on his return, some one inquired what he thought of nature's masterpiece, the cañon of the yellowstone. [illustration: larry, as fisherman and cook.] "the cañon!" cried the general, "no matter about the cañon; but i had the most magnificent fishing i ever saw in my life." one day, while walking along the shore, my comrade suddenly pressed my arm and pointed toward the lake. "an indian!" i cried in great astonishment, "i thought no indians ever came here." our guide laughed heartily; and, as he did so, i perceived my error. what i had thought to be an indian was but a portion of a tree, which had been placed upright against a log. the only artificial thing about it was a bunch of feathers. everything else was absolutely natural. no knife had sculptured it. no hand had given a support to its uplifted arm. even the dog which followed us appeared deceived, for he barked furiously at the strange intruder. there was to me a singular fascination in this solitary freak of nature; and, surrounded though i was by immeasurably greater wonders, i turned again and again to take a farewell look at this dark, slender figure, raising its hand, as if in threatening gesture to some unseen foe. [illustration: a false alarm.] leaving the lake, we presently entered the loveliest portion of the park,--a level, sheltered area of some fifty square miles, to which has been given the appropriate name of hayden valley, in commemoration of the distinguished geologist, doctor ferdinand v. hayden, who did so much to explore this region and to impress upon the government the necessity of preserving its incomparable natural features. even this tranquil portion of the park is undermined by just such fiery forces as are elsewhere visible, but which here manifest themselves in different ways. thus, in the midst of this natural beauty is a horrible object, known as the mud geyser. we crawled up a steep bank, and shudderingly gazed over it into the crater. forty feet below us, the earth yawned open like a cavernous mouth, from which a long black throat, some six feet in diameter, extended to an unknown depth. this throat was filled with boiling mud, which rose and fell in nauseating gulps, as if some monster were strangling from a slimy paste which all its efforts could not possibly dislodge. occasionally the sickening mixture would sink from view, as if the tortured wretch had swallowed it. then we could hear, hundreds of feet below, unearthly retching; and, in a moment, it would all come up again, belched out with an explosive force that hurled a boiling spray of mud so high that we rushed down the slope. a single drop of it would have burned like molten lead. five minutes of this was enough; and even now, when i reflect that every moment, day and night, the same regurgitation of black slime is going on, i feel as i have often felt, when, on a stormy night at sea, i have tried to sit through a course-dinner on an ocean steamer. [illustration: hayden valley.] [illustration: approaching the mud geyser.] [illustration: a stranger in the yellowstone.] not far from this perpetually active object is one that has been motionless for ages,--a granite boulder enclosed by trees as by the bars of a gigantic cage. it is a proof that glaciers once plowed through this region, and it was, no doubt, brought hither in the glacial period on a flood of ice, which, melting in this heated basin, left its burden, a grim reminder of how worlds are made. think what a combination of terrific forces must have been at work here, when the volcanoes were in full activity, and when the mass of ice which then encased our northern world strove to enclose this prison-house of fire within its glacial arms! one of our party remarked that the covering of this seething, boiling area with ice must have been the nearest approach to "hell's freezing over" that our earth has ever seen. another striking feature of our national park is its petrified forest, where, scattered over a large area, are solitary columns, which once were trunks of trees, but now are solid shafts of agate. the substance of the wood, however, is still apparent, the bark, the worm-holes, and even the rings of growth being distinctly visible; but every fibre has been petrified by the mysterious substitution of a mineral deposit. no doubt these trees were once submerged in a strong mineral solution, tinted with every color of the rainbow. still, more marvelous to relate, an excavation on the hillside proves that there are eleven layers of such forests, one above another, divided by as many cushions of lava. think of the ages represented here, during which all these different forests grew, and were successively turned to stone! this, therefore, is another illustration of the conflict between life and death. each was in turn a victor, and rested on his laurels for unnumbered centuries. life is triumphant now; but who shall say that death may not again prove conqueror? if not immediately, death may well be patient. he will rule all this planet in the end. [illustration: a natural bridge.] [illustration: a petrified forest.] no one can travel through the yellowstone park without imagining how it looks in winter. the snowfall is enormous, some drifts in the ravines being hundreds of feet deep, and, owing to the increased supply of water, the geysers throw higher streams. no traveling is possible then except on snowshoes; and it is with difficulty that some of the park hotels are reached as late as the middle of may. of course, in such a frigid atmosphere, the steam arising from the geysers is almost instantly congealed; and eye-witnesses affirm that, in a temperature of forty degrees below zero, the clouds of vapor sent up by old faithful rose fully two thousand feet, and were seen ten miles away. [illustration: the park in winter.] it can be well imagined that to do much exploration here, in winter, is not alone immensely difficult, but dangerous. in 1887 an expedition was formed, headed by lieutenant frederick schwatka; but, though he was experienced as an arctic traveler, in three days he advanced only twenty miles, and finally gave out completely. most of the exploring party turned back with him; but four kept heroically on, one of whom was the photographer, mr. f.j. haynes, of st. paul. undismayed by schwatka's failure, he and his comrades bravely persisted in their undertaking. for thirty days the mercury never rose higher than ten degrees below zero. once it marked fifty-two degrees below! yet these men were obliged to camp out every night, and carry on their shoulders provisions, sleeping-bags, and photographic instruments. but, finally, they triumphed over every obstacle, having in midwinter made a tour of two hundred miles through the park. nevertheless, they almost lost their lives in the attempt. at one point, ten thousand feet above the sea, a fearful blizzard overtook them. the cold and wind seemed unendurable, even for an hour, but they endured them for three days. a sharp sleet cut their faces like a rain of needles, and made it perilous to look ahead. almost dead from sheer exhaustion, they were unable to lie down for fear of freezing; chilled to the bone, they could make no fire; and, although fainting, they had not a mouthful for seventy-two hours. what a terrific chapter for any man to add to the mysterious volume we call life! one might suppose by this time that all the marvels of our national park had been described; but, on the contrary, so far is it from being true, that i have yet to mention the most stupendous of them all,--the world-renowned cañon of the yellowstone. the introduction to this is sublime. it is a waterfall, the height of which is more than twice as great as that of niagara. to understand the reason for the presence of such a cataract, we should remember that the entire region for miles was once a geyser basin. the river was then near the surface; and has been cutting down the walls of the cañon ever since. the volcanic soil, decomposed by heat, could not resist the constant action of the water. only a granite bluff at the upper end of the cañon has held firm; and over that the baffled stream now leaps to wreak its vengeance on the weaker foe beneath. [illustration: the expedition of 1887.] [illustration: f.j. haynes.] [illustration: the cañon from a distance.] through a colossal gateway of vast height, yet only seventy feet in breadth, falls the entire volume of the yellowstone river. it seems enraged at being suddenly compressed into that narrow space; for, with a roar of anger and defiance and without an instant's hesitation, it leaps into the yawning gulf in one great flood of dazzling foam. when looked upon from a little distance, a clasp of emerald apparently surmounts it, from which descends a spotless robe of ermine, nearly four hundred feet in length. the lower portion is concealed by clouds of mist, which vainly try to climb the surrounding cliffs, like ghosts of submerged mountains striving to escape from their eternal prison. we ask ourselves instinctively: what gives this river its tremendous impetus, and causes it to fill the air with diamond-tinted spray, and send up to the cliffs a ceaseless roar which echoes and reëchoes down the cañon? how awe-inspiring seems the answer to this question, when we think upon it seriously! the subtle force which draws this torrent down is the same power that holds the planets in their courses, retains the comets in their fearful paths, and guides the movements of the stellar universe. what is this power? we call it gravitation; but why does it invariably act thus with mathematical precision? who knows? behind all such phenomena there is a mystery that none can solve. this cataract has a voice. if we could understand it, perhaps we should distinguish, after all, but one word,--_god_. [illustration: yellowstone river above the falls.] [illustration: the great falls of the yellowstone.] [illustration: upper falls of the yellowstone.] [illustration: the cañon from brink of falls.] as for the gorge through which this river flows, imagine if you can a yawning chasm ten miles long and fifteen hundred feet in depth. peer into it, and see if you can find the river. yes, there it lies, one thousand five hundred feet below, a winding path of emerald and alabaster dividing the huge cañon walls. seen from the summit, it hardly seems to move; but, in reality, it rages like a captive lion springing at its bars. scarcely a sound of its fierce fury reaches us; yet, could we stand beside it, a quarter of a mile below, its voice would drown our loudest shouts to one another. [illustration: the cañon from grand point.] attracted to this river innumerable little streams are trickling down the colored cliffs. they are cascades of boiling water, emerging from the awful reservoir of heat which underlies this laboratory of the infinite. one of them is a geyser, the liquid shaft of which is scarcely visible, yet in reality is one hundred and fifty feet in height. from all these hot additions to its waves the temperature of the river, even a mile or two beyond the cañon, is twenty degrees higher than at its entrance. "are there not other cañons in the world as large as this?" it may be asked. [illustration: down the cañon from inspiration point.] yes, but none like this. for, see, instead of sullen granite walls, these sides are radiant with color. age after age, and aeon after aeon, hot water has been spreading over these miles of masonry its variegated sediment, like pigments on an artist's palette. here, for example, is an expanse of yellow one thousand feet in height. mingled with this are areas of red, resembling jasper. beside these is a field of lavender, five hundred feet in length, and soft in hue as the down upon a pigeon's breast. no shade is wanting here except the blue, and god replaces that. it is supplied by the o'erspreading canopy of heaven. yet there is no monotony in these hues. nature, apparently, has passed along this cañon, touching the rocks capriciously; now staining an entire cliff as red as blood, now tingeing a light pinnacle with green, now spreading over the whole face of a mountain a vast persian rug. hence both sides of the cañon present successive miles of oriental tapestry. moreover, every passing cloud works here almost a miracle; for all the lights and shades that follow one another down this gorge vary its tints as if by magic, and make of it one long kaleidoscope of changing colors. [illustration: below the upper falls.] [illustration: miles of colored cliffs.] nor are these cliffs less wonderful in form than color. the substance of their tinted rocks is delicate. the rain has, therefore, plowed their faces with a million furrows. the wind has carved them like a sculptor's chisel. the lightning's bolts have splintered them, until, mile after mile, they rise in a bewildering variety of architectural forms. old castles frown above the maddened stream, a thousand times more grand than any ruins on the rhine. their towers are five hundred feet in height. turrets and battlements, portcullises and draw-bridges, rise from the deep ravine, sublime and inaccessible; yet they are still a thousand feet below us! what would be the effect could we survey them from the stream itself, within the gloomy crevice of the cañon? only their size convinces us that they are works of nature, not of art. upon their spires we see a score of eagles' nests. the splendid birds leave these at times, and swoop down toward the stream; not in one mighty plunge, but gracefully, in slow, majestic curves, lower and lower, till we can follow them only through a field-glass, as they alight on trees which look to us like shrubs. [illustration: temples sculptured by the deity.] but many of these forms are grander than any castles. in one place is an amphitheatre. within its curving arms a hundred thousand people could be seated. its foreground is the emerald river; its drop-curtain the radiant cañon wall. cathedrals, too, are here, with spires twice as high as those which soar above the minster of cologne. fantastic gargoyles stretch out from the parapets. a hundred flying buttresses connect them with the mountain side. from any one of them as many shafts shoot heavenward as statues rise from the duomo of milan; and each of these great cañon shrines, instead of stained glass windows, has walls, roof, dome, and pinnacles, one mass of variegated color. the awful grandeur of these temples, sculptured by the deity, is overpowering. we feel that we must worship here. it is a place where the finite prays, the infinite hears, and immensity looks on. [illustration: the cañon from artist point.] two visions of this world stand out within my memory which, though entirely different, i can place side by side in equal rank. they are the himalayas of india, and the grand cañon of the yellowstone. on neither of them is there any sign of human life. no voice disturbs their solemn stillness. the only sound upon earth's loftiest mountains is the thunder of the avalanche. the only voice within this cañon is the roar of its magnificent cascade. it is well that man must halt upon the borders of this awful chasm. it is no place for man. the infinite allows him to stand trembling on the brink, look down, and listen spellbound to the anthem of its mighty cataract; but beyond this he may not, cannot go. it is as if almighty god had kept for his own use one part of his creation, that man might merely gaze upon it, worship, and retire. [illustration] note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustration. see 21841-h.htm or 21841-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/1/8/4/21841/21841-h/21841-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/1/8/4/21841/21841-h.zip) the saddle boys in the grand canyon or the hermit of the cave by captain james carson author of "the saddle boys of the rockies," "the saddle boys on the plains," "the saddle boys at circle ranch," etc. illustrated new york cupples & leon company publishers * * * * * * books for boys by captain james carson the saddle boys series 12mo. cloth. illustrated. the saddle boys of the rockies or, lost on thunder mountain the saddle boys in the grand canyon or, the hermit of the cave the saddle boys on the plains or, after a treasure of gold the saddle boys at circle ranch or, in at the grand round-up cupples & leon co publishers, new york. * * * * * * copyrighted 1913, by cupples & leon company the saddle boys in the grand canyon printed in u.s.a. contents chapter page i. the work of the wolf pack 1 ii. ridding the range of a pest 11 iii. the floating bottle 21 iv. the listener under the window 34 v. starting for the grand canyon 46 vi. buckskin on guard 54 vii. standing by the law 62 viii. the moqui who was caught napping 71 ix. "talk about luck!" 79 x. the copper-colored messenger 87 xi. at the grand canyon 98 xii. how the little trap worked 105 xiii. going down the canyon trail 116 xiv. the home of the cliff dwellers 124 xv. the treacherous guide 135 xvi. a wonderful discovery 143 xvii. the windows in the rocky walls 151 xviii. finding a way up 158 xix. fortune still favors the brave 167 xx. another surprise 175 xxi. the little old man of echo cave 184 xxii. turning the tables--conclusion 195 the saddle boys in the grand canyon chapter i the work of the wolf pack "hold up, bob!" "any signs of the lame yearling, frank?" "well, there seems to be something over yonder to the west; but the sage crops up, and interferes a little with my view." "here, take the field glasses and look; while i cinch my saddle girth, which has loosened again." frank haywood adjusted the glasses to his eye. then, rising in his saddle, he gazed long and earnestly in the direction he had indicated. meanwhile his companion, also a lad, a native of kentucky, and answering to the name of bob archer, busied himself about the band of his saddle, having leaped to the ground. frank was the only son of a rancher and mine owner, colonel leonidas haywood, who was a man of some wealth. frank had blue eyes, and tawny-colored hair; and, since much of his life had been spent on the plains among the cattle men, he knew considerable about the ways of cowboys and hunters, though always ready to pick up information from veterans of the trail. bob had come to the far southwest as a tenderfoot; but, being quick to learn, he hoped to graduate from that class after a while. having always been fond of outdoor sports in his kentucky home, he was, at least, no greenhorn. when he came to the new country where his father was interested with frank's in mining ventures, bob had brought his favorite kentucky horse, a coal-black stallion known as "domino," and which vied with frank's native "buckskin" in good qualities. these two lads were so much abroad on horseback that they had become known as the "saddle boys." they loved nothing better than to ride the plains, mounted on their pet steeds, and go almost everywhere the passing whim tempted them. of course, in that wonderland there was always a chance for adventure when one did much wandering; and that frank and bob saw their share of excitement can be readily understood. some of the strange things that happened to them have already been narrated in the first volume of this series, "the saddle boys of the rockies, or, lost on thunder mountain," and which, in a way, is an introduction to the present story. in the first book the boys cleared up a wonderful mystery concerning a great cavern. for several minutes bob was busily engaged with the saddle girth that had been giving him considerable trouble on this gallop. "there," he remarked, finally, throwing down the flap as though satisfied with his work. "i reckon i've got it fixed now so that it will hold through the day; but i need a new girth, and when we pull up again at circle ranch i'll see about getting it. oh! did you make out anything with the glasses, frank?" he sprang into the saddle like one who had spent much of his time on horseback. domino curvetted and pranced a little, being still full of mettle and spirits; but a very firm hand held him in. "take the glass, and see if you can make out what it is," frank remarked, as if he hardly knew himself, or felt like trusting his eyes. a minute later bob lowered the glasses. "there's something on the ground, and i can catch a glimpse of what looks like a dun-colored hide through the tufts of buffalo grass. the yearling was red, you said, frank? all right. then i reckon we'll find her there; but not on her feet." "come on!" as he said these curt words frank let buckskin have his head; and, accompanied by his chum, started at a full gallop over the level, in the direction of the spot where the dun-colored object had been sighted. shortly afterward they topped a little rise, and pulled up. no need to doubt their eyes now. just before them lay the mangled remains of the lame yearling, very little being left to tell the story of how the animal had met its fate. "wolves!" said frank, gloomily, as he sat looking down at the torn hide. "i don't know the signs as well as you, frank, but i'd say the same from general indications. and they had a royal good feast, too. this makes a round half dozen head your father has lost in the last month, doesn't it?" asked bob. "seven, all told. when bart heminway told me he had noticed that one of those fine yearlings seemed lame, i wondered if something wasn't going to happen to it soon. and then, when we missed it from the herd last night, i guessed what had come about. they caught her behind the rest, and pulled her down. the poor thing didn't have a ghost of a show against that pack of savage wolf-dogs." "i'd like to have just one chance at them, that's all," grumbled bob, as he let his hand fondle the butt of a modern repeating rifle, which he carried fastened to his saddle. "this is sure the limit, and it's just got to stop!" declared frank, grimly. "right now?" queried his chum, eagerly. two pairs of flashing eyes met, the black ones sending a challenge toward the blue. "why not?" said frank, shutting his jaws hard, "the day is before us still; and we're well primed for the business of hunting that pack to their den. look at that bunch of rocks a few miles off; that must be where they hang out, bob! queer that none of the boys have ever thought of hunting in this quarter for that old she-wolf sallie, and her brood." "then you think she did it, do you?" asked bob. "sure she did. you can see for yourself where her jaws closed on the throat of the poor yearling. everybody knows her trademark. that sly beast has been the bane of the cattle ranches around here for several years. they got to calling her sallie in fun; but it's been serious business lately; and many a cowboy'd ride two hundred miles for a chance to knock her over." "and yet none of the rough riders have even thought to search that rocky pile for her den, you say?" bob continued. "why, you see, the killings have always been in other directions," frank explained. "just as shrewd animals often do, up to now sallie has never pulled down a calf anywhere near her den. i reckon she just knew it might cause a search. but this time she's either grown over-bold, or else the pack started to do the business in spite of her, and she was forced into the game." "well, shall we head for that elevation, and see what we can find?" asked bob, who was inclined to be a little impatient. "wait a bit. it would be ten times better if we could only track the greedy pack direct; but that's a hard proposition, here on the open," frank observed. "well, what can we do then?" his chum asked. "perhaps put it in the hands of the best trailer in arizona," and with a laugh frank pointed off to the left. the kentucky boy turned his head in surprise, and then exclaimed: "old hank coombs, on his pony, as sure as anything! you knew he was coming along all the while, and just kept mum. but i'm sure glad to see the old cowman right now. and it may turn out to be a day of reckoning for that cunning sallie, and her half grown cubs." the two lads waved their range hats, and sent out a salute that was readily answered by the advancing cowman. hank coombs was indeed a veteran in the cattle line, having been one of the very first to throw a rope, and "mill" stampeding steers in texas, and farther to the west. he was an angular old fellow, grim looking in his greasy leather "chaps;" but with a twinkle in his eyes that told of the spirit of fun that had never been quenched by the passage of time. "howdy, boys," he called out, as he drew rein alongside the two lads. "what's this here yer lookin' at? another dead calf? no, i swan if it ain't a yearling as has been pulled down now. things seem t' be gittin' t' a warm pass when sech doin' air allowed. huh! an' it looks like sallie's work, too! that sly ole critter is goin' t' git t' the end of her rope some fine day." "why not to-day, hank?" demanded frank, briskly. the veteran grinned, as though he had half anticipated having such a question asked. "so, that's the way the wind blows, hey?" he remarked, slowly; and then he nodded his small head approvingly. "jest as you say, frank, thar's no time like the present t' do things. the hull pack hes been here, i see, an' no matter how cunning old sallie allers shows herself, a chain's only as strong as th' weakest link. one of her cubs will sure leave tracks we kin foller. all right, boys count on me t' back ye up. i'll go wharever ye say, frank." "we'll follow the trail, if there is one," said frank, instantly; "but the chances are that's where we'll bring up," and he pointed with his quirt in the direction of the rocky uplift that stood like a landmark in the midst of the great level sea of purple sage brush, marking the plain. after one good look the cowman nodded his head again in the affirmative. "reckon as how y'r' right, frank," he remarked; "but we'll see how the trail heads." throwing himself from his saddle he bent down over the remains of the yearling that had been so unfortunate as to become lame, and thus, lagging far behind the rest of the herd, fallen a victim to the wolf pack. "easy as fallin' off a log," announced old hank, immediately. "jest as i was sayin', thar's nearly allers one clumsy cub as don't hev half sense; an' i kin foller this trail on horseback, 'pears to me." he ran it out a little way; then, once more mounting, went on ahead, with his keen eyes fastened on the ground. bob watched his actions with the greatest of interest. he knew old hank was discovering a dozen signs that would be utterly invisible to one who had not had many years of practice in tracking both wild animals and human beings. now and then the trailer would draw in his horse, as though desirous of looking more carefully at the ground. twice he even dropped off and bent low, to make positive his belief. "i reckon you were right, frank," remarked bob, after half an hour of this sort of travel "because, you see, even if the trail did lead away from the rocks at first, it's heading that way now on a straight line." "thet was only the cuteness of the ole wolf," said hank. "she's up t' all the dodges goin'. but that comes a day of reckonin' for all her kind; an' her's orter be showin' up right soon." when another half hour passed the three riders had reached the border of the strange pile of rocks. and as frank looked up at the rough heap, with its many crevices and angles, he considered that it certainly must offer an ideal den to any wild beast wishing to hide through the daytime, and prowl forth when darkness and night lay upon the land. "here's whar the trail ends at the rocks," said hank, as he dismounted and threw the bridle over the head of his horse, cowboy fashion, knowing that under ordinary conditions the animal would remain there, just as if hobbled, or staked out. both of the saddle boys followed his example, and, holding their rifles ready, prepared to search the rocks for some trace of the wolf den. wild animals may be very cunning about locating their retreat in a place where it will be hidden from the eye of a casual passer; but, in course of time, they cannot prevent signs from accumulating, calculated to betray its presence to one who is keenly on the watch. the three searchers had not been moving back and forth among the piles of rocks more than ten minutes when old hank was observed to raise his head, smile, and sniff the air with more or less eagerness. "must be close by, boys," he said, positively. "i kin git the rank odor that allers hangs 'round the den of wild animals as brings meat home, an' leaves the bones. the air is a-comin' from that quarter, an' chances are we'll find the hole sumwhar over yonder." "i think i see it," said frank, eagerly. "just above that little spur there's a black looking crevice in the rock." "as dark as my hat," added hank; "an' i reckon as how that's whar sallie lives when she's t' home. now t' invite ourselves int' her leetle parlor, boys!" chapter ii ridding the range of a pest "well, what do you think now, frank?" asked bob, as they stood in front of that gloomy looking crevice, and observed the marks of many claws upon the discolored rock, where hairy bodies had drawn themselves along countless times. "i'm wondering," the other replied; "what ails our boys at the ranch never to have suspected that old sallie had her den, and raised her broods, so close to the circle ranch. why, right now we're not more'n ten miles, as the crow flies, away from home. and for years this terrible she-wolf has lived on the calves and partly grown animals belonging to cattlemen in this neck of the land. it makes me tired to think of it!" "but frank, it's a long lane that has no turning," remarked bob; "and just now we've got to the bend. sallie has invited her fate once too often. that lame yearling is going to spell her finish, if old hank here has his way." "it sure is," agreed frank. "and when we get back home with the hide of that old pest fastened to a saddle, the boys will be some sore to think how anyone of the lot might have done the job, if they'd only turned this way." "but what's hank going to do?" asked the kentucky boy, watching the veteran cow-puncher searching on the ground under a stunted pinon tree that chanced to grow where there was a small bit of soil among the rocks. "i don't know for a dead certainty," replied the other; "but i rather think he's picking up some pieces of wood that might make good torches." "whew! then he means that we're to go into the cave, and get our game--is that it, frank?" demanded the other, unconsciously tightening his grip on his rifle, as he glanced once more toward that yawning crevice, leading to unknown depths, where the wolf pack lurked during the daytime to issue forth when night came around. "that would be just like the old chap, for he knows nothing of fear," frank replied; "but of course there's no necessity for _both_ of us to go with him. one might remain here, so as to knock over any stray beast that managed to escape the attention of those who went in." "all right; where will you take up your stand, frank?" asked bob, instantly; at which his chum laughed, as though tickled. "so you think i'd consent to stay out here tamely, while you two were having a regular circus in there?" he remarked. "that would never suit me. and it's easy to see that you count on a ticket of admission to sallie's parlor, too. well, then, we'll all go, and share in the danger, as well as the sport. for to rid the range country of this pest i consider the greatest favor under the sun. but there comes hank with a bundle of torches under his arm." "we're off, then!" chuckled bob. "make sure o' yer guns, lads," said the cowman, as he came up; "because, in a case like this, when ye want t' shoot it's apt t' be in a hurry. an' anybody as knows what a fierce critter ole sallie is, kin tell ye it'll take an ounce of lead, put in the right place, t' down her fur keeps." "i'm ready," frank assured the old hunter. "then, jest as soon's i kin git this flare goin' we'll push in." hank announced. "will we be able to see the game with such a poor light?" asked bob, a trifle nervously, as his mind went back to school days, to remember what he had read of that old revolutionary patriot, israel putnam, entering a wolf's den alone, and killing the beast in open fight; truth to tell bob had never seen a real den in which wild beasts hid from the sun; and imagination doubled its perils in his mind. "fust thing ye see'll be some yaller eyes starin' at ye outen the dark," said hank, obligingly. "then, when i gives the word, both of ye let go, aimin' direct atween the yaller spots." "but what if we miss, and the beast attacks us?" bob went on, wishing to be thoroughly posted before venturing into that hole. "in case of a mix-up," the veteran went on; "every feller is for hisself; only, recerlect thar mustn't be any shootin' at close quarters. use yer knives, or else swat her over the head with yer clubbed guns. we're bound t' git sallie this time, by hook er by crook! ready, son?" both boys declared that they had no reason for delaying matters. since it had been decided as best to invade the wolf den, the sooner they started, the better. true, bob thought that had it been left to him, he would have first tried to smoke out the occupants of the cleft, waiting near by to shoot them down as they rushed out of the depths. but then hank was directing matters now, and whatever he said must be done. besides, hank had known wolves ever since he first "toted" a gun, now more than fifty-five years ago. perhaps he understood how difficult it is to smoke out a pack of wolves, that invariably seek a cave with a depth sufficient to get away from all the influences of the smudge. without the slightest hesitation old hank got down on hands and knees, and began to crawl into the gaping mouth of the crevice. it did not go straight in, but seemed to twist around more or less. all the while the two boys kept close at the heels of the guide who carried that flaring torch. they watched ahead to detect the first sign of the enemy; and had their ears on the alert with the same idea in view. stronger grew the odor that invariably marks the den of carnivorous animals. "we ought to stir her up soon now, frank," whispered bob, on whom the strain was bearing hard, since he was not used to anything of this sort. "yes, unless the sly old beast has a back door to her home; how about that, hank?" asked the cattleman's son. "don't reckon as how it's so," came the ready response. "in thet event, we'd feel a breath of fresh air; an' ye knows as how we don't. stiddy boys, keep yer wits about ye! she's clost by, now!" "i heard a growl!" admitted bob. "and there were whines too, from the half grown cubs," ventured frank. "once we turn this bend just ahead, likely enough we'll be in the mess," bob remarked. "range on both sides of me, boys," directed hank, halting, so that they could overtake him; because he knew full well that the crisis of this bold invasion of the she-wolf's den was near at hand. in this fashion, then, the three turned the rocky corner. "i see the yellow eyes!" whispered bob, beginning to bring his gun-stock nearer to his shoulder. "say, there's a whole raft of 'em, frank!" "sure," came the quick reply, close to his ear. "hank said there was about five of the brood. hold your fire, bob. pick out the mother wolf first." "that's what i want to do; but how can i make sure?" demanded the kentucky lad, trying his best to keep his hands from trembling with excitement. he had sunk down upon one knee. this allowed him to rest his elbow on the knee that was in position, always a favorite attitude with bob when using a rifle. "take the eyes that are above all the rest, and which seem so much larger and fiercer. are you on, bob?" continued the other, who was also handling his gun with all the eagerness of a sportsman. "yes," came the firm reply. "then let her go!" the last word was drowned in a terrific roar, for when a gun is fired in confined space the din is tremendous. even as he pulled the trigger bob knew that luck was against him; for the animal had moved at a time when he could not delay the pressure of his finger. he heard a second report close beside him. frank had also fired, realizing what had occurred, and that in all probability the first bullet would only wound the savage beast, without putting an end to her activities. the torch went sputtering to the floor of the cave, having been knocked from the hand of hank when the wolf struck him heavily. he could be heard trying to rescue it before it went completely out, all the while letting off a volley of whoops and directions. fortunately frank had kept his wits about him. and his rifle was still gripped firmly in his hands, he having instantly pumped a new cartridge into the chamber after firing. the half grown cubs showed an inclination to follow their mother in her headlong attack on the human invaders of the den; for the numerous gleaming pairs of eyes were undoubtedly advancing when frank turned his gun loose on them. the din was simply terrific. bob was more concerned with the possibility of an attack from the ferocious mother wolf then anything else. he had lost track of her after that first furious rush, and crouching there, was trying the best he knew how to locate the creature again. meanwhile old hank had succeeded in picking up the torch, which, being held in an upright position, began to shed a fair amount of light once more. not seeing anything else at which he could fire, bob now started in to assist his chum get rid of the ugly whelps that were advancing, growling, snarling, and in various other ways proving how they had inherited the fearless nature of the beast that had nursed them in that den. perhaps it was all one-sided, since the animals never had a chance to get in touch with the invaders. neither of the boys ever felt very proud of the work; but in view of the tremendous amount of damage a pack of hungry wolves can do on a cattle ranch, or in a sheepfold, they had no scruples concerning the matter. besides, every one along the arizona border hated a wolf almost as badly as they did a cowardly coyote; for while the former may be bolder than the beast that slinks across the desert looking for carrion, its capacity for mischief is a good many times as great. "i don't see any more eyes, frank!" called out bob, presently, as he tried to penetrate the cloud of powder-smoke that surrounded both of them. "that's because we got 'em all, i reckon," replied his chum. "how about that, hank?" "cleaned the hull brood out, son," replied the other, chuckling; "an' no mistake about it either." "but where did the big one go to; has she escaped after all?" asked bob, with a note of regret in his voice; for he thought the blame would be placed on him, for having made a poor shot when he had such a splendid chance to finish the animal. "oh! i wouldn't worry myself about her, bob," chuckled frank, who had already made a discovery; and as he spoke he pointed to a spot close by, where, huddled in a heap, lay the heavy body of the fiercest cattle thief known for years along the border. "she was mortally hurted by the fust shot," said hank, as they stood over the gaunt animal, and surveyed her proportions with almost a touch of awe; "but seemed like the critter had enough strength left t' make thet leap, as nigh knocked me flat. then she jest keeled over, an' guv up the ghost. arter this the young heifers kin stray away from their mother's sides, without bein' dragged off. thar'll be a vote o' thanks sent ter ye, bob, from every ranch inside of fifty mile, 'cause of what ye did when ye pulled trigger this day." hank, being an experienced worker, did not take very long to secure the pelt of the dead terror of the desert. then they left the rocks, finding their horses just where they had left them. all of the animals showed signs of alarm when they scented the skin of the wolf; and domino in particular pranced and snorted at a great rate since his education had been neglected in this particular. so hank, having the best trained steed in the bunch, insisted on carrying the pelt with him on their return trip to the ranch. ten miles, as the crow flies, and they would be at home; and with comparatively fresh steeds, that should not count for more than an hour's gallop. before they had gone three miles, however, bob called the attention of his chum to a horseman who was galloping toward them. it was a cowboy, and he waved his broad-brimmed hat over his head as he came sweeping forward. "is he doing stunts; or does he want us?" asked bob. "it's ted conway," replied frank, with a sudden look of anxiety; "one of the steadiest boys at the ranch; and he acts as if something had happened at home!" chapter iii the floating bottle waving his hat after the extravagant manner of his kind, the cowboy swept constantly nearer the little party. indeed, it was impossible for them to guess whether ted conway bore a message, or was simply delighted to see the son of his employer, and his chum. presently he reached the constantly advancing trio, and under the pull of the reins his pony reared upon its hind legs. "what's wrong, ted?" asked frank, immediately. "wanted at the ranch, frank," came the answer. "the boss has sent me out to look you up on the jump. told me as how you started out on a gallop this way, an' i took chances. reckon i was some lucky to strike you so easy." "but what has happened, ted?" insisted the boy, trying to read the bronzed face of the other, and get a hint as to whether his mission verged on the serious or not. it was so very unusual for colonel haywood to send anyone out to find him, that frank's suspicions were naturally aroused. "well, the colonel had a little tumble with that game leg of his--same one that the steer fell on, and broke two years back, in the big round-up--" began the cowboy, when frank interrupted him. "then he must have been seriously hurt this time, or he wouldn't send you out for me. tell me the worst, ted; you ought to realize that it's better for me to know it all in the start, than by degrees. is my father dead?" "no. last i seen of the colonel, he was a real live man; only he had his leg done up agin in splints; an' the ole doc. from the arrowhead ranch was thar, 'tending to him. no, it ain't on count of his leetle trouble with that leg that made him send me out huntin' for you, frank." "what then?" demanded the boy, curtly; but with a sigh of relief, for his father was very dear to him. "thar come a messenger to the ranch a while ago, an' somethin' he fetched along with him, 'peared to excite the boss right from the word go," ted admitted. "a messenger, ted?" the boy echoed, wonderingly. "never seen him afore, an' think he kim from town," the new arrival went on to say. "leastwise, he looked like a stray maverick, an' had a b'iled shirt, with a collar that i reckoned sure would choke him. atween you an' me i tried to get him to chuck the same; but he only grinned, an' allowed he could stand it." "oh! a messenger from town, was it?" said frank, with a relieved look. "then the chances are it must have been some business connected with a shipment of cattle. perhaps the railroad has had a bad wreck, and wants to settle for that last bunch we sent away." but ted shook his head in the negative. "'t'wan't no railroad man; that i know," he affirmed, positively. "'sides, the boss was holdin' of a bottle in his hand, an' seemed to set a heap of store by it." "a bottle, ted?" cried frank, deeply interested. "that's what," replied the cowboy, energetically. "but jest why he should reckon such a thing wuth shucks i can't tell ye. but he sent me out to bring you back to the ranch house like two-forty. i seen that he was plumb locoed, and some excited by the news, whatever it might be." frank looked at his chum in a puzzled way, and shook his head. "i don't seem able to make head or tail of this business, bob," he remarked; "but there's only one thing to be done, and that's to romp home on the gallop. so away we go with a rush. who's after me! hi! get long, buckskin! it's a race for a treat of oats as a prize! here you are, bob; hit up the pace!" with the words frank gave his horse free rein, and went tearing over the level plain, headed as straight for the distant ranch as though he were a bird far up in the clear air, and could see to make a direct line "as the crow flies!" and after a time, in the distance, they saw the whitewashed outbuildings of circle ranch. frank never viewed the familiar and dearly loved scene with more anxiety than he did now; but so far as he could see there did not appear to be anything out of the ordinary taking place around the ranch house. "looks all right, bob!" exclaimed frank, as though a great load had been taken from his heart. the sudden coming of ted conway, with that queer message that meant a hurried return, had mystified the boy not a little. but he knew that all would soon be made plain now, since they were nearly home. dashing up in front of the house, the two lads jumped to the ground almost before their mounts had come to a halt. the door was open, and frank led the way in a headlong rush. as they entered he saw his father seated in his comfortable easy-chair, with that unfortunate leg, that had given him more or less trouble for two years now, propped on another seat, and bound up. there was a stranger with him, but no sign of the arrowhead ranch cowboy doctor; which would indicate that, having done his duty, the roving physician and bone-setter had returned to his regular business, which was roping and branding cattle. colonel haywood was a man in the prime of life. up to the time that clumsy steer had broken his leg he had been most active; but since then he had not been able to get around on his feet so well, though able to ride fairly comfortably. "hello! frank, my boy!" he exclaimed, as the two came rushing in. "so ted managed to round you up in great style; did he? well, i always said ted was the sharpest fellow on the range when it came to finding things. where have you been to-day?" "doing a little missionary work for the country," replied frank, smiling. "we came across that lame pet yearling, the dun-colored one you thought so much of; and there was mighty little left of the poor beast but a torn hide, not worth lifting." "huh! wolves again!" exclaimed the stock-raiser, with a frown. "sure thing, sir," frank went on. "we saw a heap of signs that told us our old friend, sallie, with the broken tooth, had been on the job again. but that was the last of our beef the old lady'll ever taste, or anybody else's, for that matter." "what's that? did you sight her, and get a shot?" demanded the pleased rancher, forgetting his broken leg in his excitement, and making a movement that immediately caused him to give a grunt, and settle back again. "old hank happened to run across our trail just then," frank continued; "and we made up our minds to track the beast to her lair. where do you suppose we found it, dad, but in the big bunch of rocks that lies about ten miles to the west?" "you surprise me; but go on, tell me the rest, and then i'm going to let you in on something that will open your eyes a little," remarked the stockman. "oh! there isn't much more to tell, dad," the boy hastened to say, for he was eager to learn what all this mystery meant. "we found the opening, easy enough, and made up our minds to crawl in after sallie, the whole three of us. so hank picked up some wood for a flare, and in we went." "and you found her home? you met with a warm reception, i warrant!" the other exclaimed, his eyes kindling with pride as he saw the quiet, confident air with which frank rattled off his story. "sallie was in, ditto five of her half-grown brood, and all full of fight," the boy continued. "but of course they didn't have a ghost of a show against our two repeating rifles. hank held the torch, and bob fired first. then the brute jumped, and nearly got hank, who lost the flare for a few seconds. we keeled over the ugly whelps as they started for us; and later on found old sallie, just as she had dropped. that big jump was her last." "well, i'm glad to hear that, son," declared the rancher, who had suffered long and seriously from the depredations of that sly animal and her various broods, despite all efforts to locate her, and put an end to her attacks. "i'm glad you're pleased with what we did," frank remarked. "it will mean a lot to all honest ranchmen in this section," continued the cattleman. "with sallie gone, we can hope to raise a record herd the coming season, without keeping men constantly on the watch, day and night, for a slinking thief that defied our best efforts. shake hands, bob, and let me congratulate you on making the shot that ended the loping of the worst pest this country has known in five years." "but when ted came whirling along, shouting, and waving his hat, to tell us you wanted me back home on the jump, it gave me a bad feeling, dad; especially when i heard that you'd gone and hurt that leg again!" frank cried, as he, too, seized the other hand of his father, and squeezed it affectionately. "but i told ted to be sure and let you know that it was not on account of my new upset that i wanted you back," declared the ranchman, frowning. "yes, he delivered the message all right, dad; but all the same i was bothered a heap, let me tell you," frank went on. "and now, please, tell us what it's all about; won't you; and what this gentleman has to do with it; also the bottle ted said you were handling?" at that colonel haywood smiled, and looked up at the stranger. "this is a mr. hinchman, frank," he remarked. "he lives in a small place on the great colorado river called mohave city. and one day, not long ago, a man who was fishing on the river at a place where an eddy set in, found a curious bottle floating, that was sealed with red wax on the top, and seemed to contain only a piece of paper. this is the bottle," and as he spoke he opened a drawer of the desk, and drew out the flask in question. frank took it, and turned it around. so far as he could see it was an ordinary bottle. it contained no cork, but there were signs of sealing wax around the top. "mr. hinchman, is, i believe," the ranchman went on, "though he has been too modest to say so himself, a gentleman of some importance in mohave city, which accounted for the fisherman fetching his queer find to him. the bottle had evidently come down the great river, perhaps for one or two hundred miles, escaping destruction from contact with rocks in a marvelous manner, and finally falling into the hands of one who had both the time and the curiosity to examine its sealed contents." colonel haywood thereupon took up a small piece of paper from the pad of the desk. "this is what he found in the bottle, frank," continued the stockman. "it bore my address, and the name of my ranch here; so thinking that it might be something more than a practical joke he concluded to journey all the way across the country to see me. it was a mighty nice thing for mr. hinchman to do, and something i am not apt to forget in a hurry, either." "then the paper interested you, dad, it seems?" frank remarked, eagerly. "it certainly did, son, and i rather think you will feel the same as i did when i tell you whose name is written at the bottom of this little communication," the cattleman went on. "all right, i'm ready to hear it," frank remarked, laughingly. "felix oswald!" replied his father, quickly. the boy was indeed intensely surprised, if one could judge from his manner. "your uncle felix, dad, who has been gone these three years, and whose mysterious disappearance set the whole scientific world guessing. and you say his name is there, signed to that paper found in the sealed bottle? well, you sure have given me a surprise. then he's still alive?" "he seemed to be when he wrote this," the cattleman said, reflectively; "but as he failed to put any date on it, we can only guess how long the bottle has been cruising down the colorado, sucked into eddies that might hold it for weeks or months, until a rise in the river sent it forth again." "say, doesn't that beat everything you ever heard of, bob?" declared frank, turning to his chum. "it certainly does," replied bob, and then the ranchman's boy continued: "perhaps you remember me telling you some things about this queer old uncle of dad's, bob, and how, after he had made a name for himself, he suddenly vanished in a night, leaving word behind that he was going to study the biggest subject any man could ever tackle. and as he didn't want to be bothered, he said he would leave no address behind. they've looked for him all over europe, asia and africa, but he was never heard from again. and now to think that he's sent word to dad; and in a sealed bottle too!" "that looks as if he must be somewhere on the colorado river, don't it?" suggested bob. "undoubtedly," replied the stockman; "in fact, in this brief communication he admits that he is located somewhere along the grand canyon, in a place where travelers have as yet never penetrated. i can only guess that uncle felix must have been seized with a desire to unearth treasures that might tell the history of those strange old cliff dwellers, who occupied much of that country as long as eight hundred years ago. all he mentions about his hiding place is to call it echo cave. you never heard of such a place, did you, mr. hinchman; and you've lived on the lower river many years?" "i never did, colonel," replied the man from mohave city; "and perhaps few people have climbed through that wonderful gash in the surface of the arizona desert as many times as i have." "in this brief note," continued colonel haywood, "uncle felix simply says that he has become aware of the passage of time; and since his labors are not yet completed, and he does not wish to allow his friends to believe him dead, he has concluded to communicate with me, his nephew. and as he knew of no other way of doing so, he resorted to the artifice of the floating bottle." "mighty considerate of him, that's sure," chuckled frank. "been gone now two or three years, and suddenly remembers that there are people who might worry about his dropping out of sight." "but son," remarked the stockman, "don't forget that uncle felix is wrapped up in his profession, and cares very little about the ties of this world. i know him well enough for that. but it happens, singularly enough, that just now it is of the greatest importance he should be found, and communicated with. i would undertake the task myself, only for this unfortunate break that is bound to keep me laid up for another month or two. the doctor set my leg afresh, and tells me that this time i will really get perfectly well, given time. but it's hard to think that my cousin janice, his only child, will lose so great a sum if some one fails to locate uncle felix, and get his signature to a paper inside of another month." "why, how is that, father?" asked frank. "circumstances have arisen that will throw a fortune into her hands;" the stockman continued; "but the time limit approaches, and if his signature is not forthcoming others will reap the benefit, particularly that rascally cousin of mine, eugene warringford. you remember meeting him a year ago, frank, when he came around asking many questions, as though he might have tracked his uncle out this way, and then lost the trail?" "why not send us, dad?" demanded frank, standing up in front of the stockman, with a smile of confidence on his face. chapter iv the listener under the window "that was what i had in mind, frank, when i hurried ted conway out to find you both," colonel haywood remarked, his face filled with pride and confidence. "will you let me see the note, please?" asked bob; who expected some day to study to be a lawyer, his father's family having had several kentucky judges among their number. just as the owner of the ranch had said, the communication was exceedingly brief, and to the point, not an unnecessary word having been written. it was in pencil, and the handwriting was crabbed; just what one might expect of an elderly man, given over heart and soul to scientific research. "i suppose you know the writing well enough to feel sure this came from your noted uncle, sir?" asked bob, as he turned the paper over. "certainly, bob," replied the cattleman, promptly. "there is not the least possibility of it's being a practical joke. nobody out here knows anything about my uncle, who disappeared so long ago. yes, you can set it down as positive that the letter is genuine enough. he's located somewhere up in that most astonishing hole, the greatest wonder, most people admit, in the entire world. but just how you two boys are ever going to find him is another question." "we can try, dad; and that's all you could do if you were able to tramp. it happens that the grand canyon isn't more than a hundred and thirty miles from our ranch here, and we can ride that in a few days. how do you feel about it, bob?" "nothing would please me better," replied the other boy, quickly, his face lighting up with delight at the prospect of a long ride in the saddle, to be followed by days, and perhaps weeks, of roaming through that wonderland, where nature had outdone all her other works in trying to heap up astonishing surprises. "so far as i'm concerned," frank went on, "i've always wanted to visit the grand canyon, and meant to do it some day later on. of course i've seen what the little colorado has to show, because it's only a long day's ride off. mr. hinchman can, i reckon, give us some points about the place, and maybe even mention several smaller canyons where we might be likely to find uncle felix in echo cave." "which i'll be only too happy to attempt," answered the gentleman from mohave city; "and as i said before, i know considerable about the mysteries of the big hole in the desert, all of which is at your service. somehow, the queer way that message in the floating bottle came to me, excited my curiosity; and i'll be satisfied if i can only have a hand in the finding of the noted gentleman who, as your father has been telling me, vanished in the midst of his fame." "and now, dad, please explain just what we are to do in case luck follows us in our hunt, and we run across the professor," said frank. "you are to explain to him that the long option which he held on that san bernardino mine will expire in one more month. the work had been going on in a listless way for three years. all at once some time back they struck a wonderfully rich lode, and vein has been followed far enough to show that it is bound to be a record breaker." "that sounds great!" declared the deeply interested bob. "the mine couldn't be bought for a million to-day," continued the stockman; "and yet uncle felix is probably carrying around with him (for it couldn't be found at his home) a little legal document whereby it will become his sole property in case he chooses to plank down the modest sum of twenty thousand dollars by the thirtieth of next month!" "whew! that's going some, eh, bob?" exclaimed frank, with a little whistle that accentuated his surprise. "then if we are fortunate enough to find uncle felix before that time has expired, what shall we do, sir?" asked the precise bob, who was always keeping an eye out for the legal aspect of things. "coax him to accompany you to the nearest notary public, where he can sign his acceptance of the terms under which he holds the option on the san bernardino. but if this happens after the thirtieth it is all wasted energy; for at midnight of that day, i happen to know, the option expires," the ranchman continued, somewhat impressively. just as he finished speaking he suddenly turned toward the window, at which his keen vision had caught sight of a moving shadow, as though someone might have been crouching without, and listening. "who is there at the window?" he called out, sternly. all eyes were turned that way. after several seconds had passed a figure rose up, and a head was thrust through the opening. it belonged to a dark-faced cow-puncher, named abajo, who was supposed to be a half-breed mexican. although never a favorite with the owner of the circle ranch, abajo was a first-class handler of the rope, and could ride a horse as well as anyone. he had been employed by colonel haywood for half a year. he talked "united states," as frank was used to saying, as well as the average cowman. but frank had never liked the fellow. there seemed something crafty in his ways that was foreign to the make-up of the boy. "it's only me, boss," said abajo, with an attempt at a grin. "i wanted to ask you about that job you set me on yesterday. i took pete along, and we found the lost bunch of stock in a valley ten mile away from thunder mountain in the fox canyon country. got 'em all safe in but seven. never seen hair nor hide of them; but after gettin' back it struck me there was one place they might a strayed to that we didn't look up. if so be you say the word i'll pick up pete again, and make another try." "why, of course you had better go, abajo," remarked the stockman, looking keenly at the other, for he did not like the way in which the half-breed had been apparently loitering under that open window, as though listening to all that was passing in the room beyond. "i told you not to draw rein till you'd found all the missing stock; or knew what had become of them. that's all, abajo." the mexican cowboy hurried away. a minute later and they heard him shouting to pete; and then the clatter of horses' hoofs told that the pair were galloping wildly across the open. "i wonder how much he heard?" said frank; from which it would appear that he also suspected the other of having spied upon them for some purpose. "much good it could have done him, even if he caught all we said," replied his father. "because, of course, he doesn't know anything about uncle felix; and couldn't be interested in whether he is living or dead." "no," remarked mr. hinchman, "but the mention of a mine going a-begging that is worth a comfortable fortune, like a million or two, would interest abajo. i know his type pretty well, and you can rest assured that they're always on the lookout for easy money." "but didn't it strike you, dad," ventured frank, "that his excuse for being under that window was silly?" "yes, because abajo has always been able to understand, without asking what he should do under such conditions. he wanted some excuse for drawing near the open window, and he found it. perhaps he's heard something about the coming of mr. hinchman here, and the queer finding of the bottle that floated down the colorado for one or two hundred miles. i spoke to the foreman, bart heminway, about it." "when would you want us to make a start?" asked bob, looking as though he might be ready to jump into his saddle then and there. "oh! there is no such rushing hurry as all that," replied the cattleman, laughing at the eagerness of the two lads. "your horses are a bit off, just now, and after all that fight in the wolf den you boys need a rest." "but when do we start?" asked frank. "suppose you get ready to move in the morning," colonel haywood replied, after reflecting a moment. "that will give me time to write a letter to uncle felix, so that you can deliver it, if you're lucky enough to find his echo cave; and at the same time you can make up your packs; for you will need blankets, and plenty of grub along." "well, i reckon you're right, dad," admitted frank; "only it seems as if we might be losing valuable time. all the same we're going to do just what you say. now, if you haven't anything more to tell us, we'll just skip out, and begin looking up some of the supplies for our campaign in the grand canyon." "get along with you, then," laughed the ranchman. "i want to ask mr. hinchman a few more questions that have occurred to me since you came home. and, boys, grub will be ready in a short time, now, for there's ah sin stepping to the door every little while, to look around and see if the boys are in sight. you know what that sign means." frank and his chum went off, to make out a list of things they would take along with them on the strange expedition upon which they were about to start on the following morning. "what do you think of that slippery customer, abajo?" bob asked his chum, as the afternoon waned, and they were sitting on the long porch of the ranch house. "i've never liked him ever since he came here; but dad was in need of help, and the half-breed certainly knows his business to a dot," replied frank, who was examining the new girth his chum had attached to his saddle, mentally deciding that whatever the young kentuckian attempted, he did neatly and well. "didn't i hear something about his being a relative to that spanish joe who gave us so much trouble a little while back, on thunder mountain?" bob continued. "well, i couldn't say for sure, but some say he is a nephew," frank answered. "both of them have mexican blood in their veins; and, when you come to think of it, there is some resemblance in their faces." "but do you really think abajo was listening?" the other asked. "it looked like it; that's as far as i've got," laughed frank. "but," bob protested, "even if he knew that there was a big fortune connected with the paper this queer old professor carries on his person, what good would that do abajo?" frank shrugged his broad shoulders as he replied: "well, you never can tell what crazy notions some of these schemers after a fortune will hatch up. he might make up his mind to start a little hunt for the hermit of echo cave on his own hook; with the idea of getting a transfer of that valuable paper." "that's a fact!" declared bob, looking interested. "perhaps, after all, we won't have our work cut out for us as easy as we thought." "small difference that will make," frank went on, with a shutting of his teeth that told of the spirit animating the boy when difficulties hove in sight. "i agree with you, all right, frank," his companion remarked. "and perhaps it'll only make the hunt all the more interesting if we believe we've got opposition. you know how it was when peg grant threw his hat in the ring, and tried to find out what made those queer sounds in the heart of thunder mountain?" "sure i do," came the quick reply. "it stirred us up to doing bigger stunts than if we'd thought we had it all our own way. nothing like competition to get the best out of any fellow." "correct you are, frank. but speaking of abajo, perhaps that's him coming back now," and as he spoke the kentucky boy pointed across to a point where a single rider could be seen heading for the ranch house. he was still far away, but the eyes of frank haywood were very keen. besides, he knew the "style" of every cowboy who was in the employ of his father, and was able to pick them out almost as far as he could see them. "you're away off there, bob," he remarked quietly. "then it isn't the half-breed?" asked his chum. "i know the way that chap sits in the saddle," came the reply. "only one man on the pay roll of circle ranch holds himself that way. it's pete." "pete rawlings, the fellow who went with abajo to round up the missing cattle?" asked bob. "he's the one," frank went on. "and from the fact that he rides alone, i take it he's bringing news." "of the seven head of cattle that have disappeared, you mean, frank?" "perhaps. they may have found them, and abajo is standing by, while pete comes in to make some sort of report. there's that rustler bunch that comes from the other side of the gila river once in a while, under pedro mendoza, you remember. but he'll soon be on deck, and then we'll know. come along, bob, and we'll let dad hear that pete is sighted. he'll be interested some, i reckon." a short time later the single rider threw himself from his saddle after the usual impetuous manner of cowboys in general. "back again, pete; and did you see anything of that seven head?" asked colonel haywood, who had come outside. "ain't run across hair nor hide of 'em, colonel," replied the squatty cattleman, as he "waddled" up to the spot where the little group awaited his coming; for like many of his kind, pete was decidedly bow-legged, possibly from riding a horse all his life; and his walk somewhat resembled that of a sailor ashore after a long cruise. "where did you leave abajo?" asked frank, unable to restrain his curiosity. "didn't leave him," replied the other, with a grin. "he gave me the merry ha! ha! and said as how he reckoned he'd had enough of the old circle. got his month's pay yesterday, you see, an' he's even. i reckoned somethin' was in the wind when i seen him talkin' with that feller." "who was that, pete?" questioned colonel haywood; and the prompt answer made frank and bob exchange significant looks, for it seemed to voice their worst fears. "a gent as you had avisitin' here some time back, colonel. reckon as how he don't feel any too warm toward you, accordin' to the way he used to bring them black brows of his'n down, when he thought you wa'n't lookin'. and his name was eugene warringford." chapter v starting for the grand canyon no one appeared to be greatly surprised at this piece of news. apparently it had been already discounted in the mind of frank, his father, and even bob archer. "so, that's the way the wind sets, is it?" remarked the colonel, frowning. "anyhow, dad, that proves one thing," declared frank. "meaning about that business of listening under the window?" observed the owner of circle ranch. "it certainly does. abajo has been in the employ of eugene warringford from the start. but there must have been some other good reason why that schemer wanted to find uncle felix. he suspected that, sooner or later, the old gentleman would communicate with me, because i used to be quite a favorite of his, years ago." "yes, and he sent the half-breed here to get employment from you just to spy around," declared frank. "all the time he was accepting your money, he had a regular income from eugene." "oh! well, he earned all he got here," said the ranchman, quickly. "say what i may about abajo, he had no superior when it came to throwing the rope, and rounding up a herd. those mexicans make the finest of cowboys. they are at home in the saddle, every time." "also in hanging around under windows, and listening to what is said," added frank. "as for me, i have little use for their breed. and, dad, if ever you give me the reins here, no mexican will ever get a job on old circle ranch." "well," remarked the stockman, laughing at the vigor with which his son and heir made this assertion, "perhaps i'm leaning that way myself. after all, there's nothing like your own kind. we don't understand these fellows. their ways are not the same as ours; and i reckon we puncture their pride often enough. but there's no trouble now about understanding why abajo gave us the go-by to-day." "huh! he had some news worth while carrying to his boss," said frank. "and i can just imagine how eugene's little eyes will sparkle when he hears about that valuable paper; eh, dad?" "you're right, son," the ranchman replied. "because, it stands to reason he couldn't know anything about it before. the mine was a dead one up to a few months back, when that lucky-find lode was struck by accident. eugene will put up a big chase to find this echo cave, now that he knows uncle felix is located somewhere in the grand canyon of the colorado." "but it won't make a bit of difference in our plans, dad; will it?" asked frank. "that depends on you two boys. if you think you can carry the game along, even with eugene against you, i see no reason to make any change," the stockman replied, with a look that spoke of much confidence. the balance of the afternoon was spent in exchanging views, and much study of the map of the famous canyon of the colorado, which it happened the ranch owner had in his desk. all sorts of theories were advanced by first one and then another of the group. it happened that colonel haywood himself had never as yet paid a visit to the strange gash in the soil of northwestern arizona; and he admitted the fact with a rueful face. "then just as soon as you get well, dad, make up your mind you're going to take a little vacation, and see the grand canyon," said frank. "when we come back, perhaps what we have to say will set you wild to go. and we expect to bring news of old uncle felix too, if he's still in the land of the living." "let's go over that ground again," remarked bob. "now you're referring to what was said about the funny old stone dwellings of the cliff dwellers, who used to live there centuries ago," remarked frank. "and he's right, too," declared the ranchman. "i get the point bob makes. it was about these wonderful people that uncle felix was so deeply interested, and he made up his mind to shut himself away from all the world, just to study up their history, as left in the holes in the rock." "and it would seem to follow, then," said bob, readily, "that he will be found located in one of those series of terraces where these holes are discovered. i notice that there are a number of these villages connected with the map of the grand canyon; but the chances are your uncle felix wouldn't take up with any where tourist travel was common." "now, that sounds all right," admitted frank. "in the first place he would have been heard from long ago, if tourists ran across him; because they always talk, and send their accounts to be published in the papers." "besides, these scientific men hate to be watched when they're wrapped up in work like this. i've known a couple back in old kentucky," bob went on. "according to your idea, then," said the colonel, nodding approvingly, "this echo cave he mentions will prove to be some new place that the ordinary tourist in the big canyon has never set eyes on?" "that's my opinion, sir," replied bob. "and if that's so, then it wouldn't pay you boys to waste any time looking into these ruins of the homes of the cliff dwellers located around grand view; and in walnut canyon, some nine miles from flagstaff," the ranchman continued. "i think we'd save more or less time that way, sir," bob declared. "and you still want to go on horseback; when you might reach the railroad, and take a train, easily enough?" asked colonel haywood. the boys exchanged glances. they were wedded to the saddle, and disliked the idea of leaving their favorite steeds behind them when embarking on this new venture. "we've picked out the trail we expect to follow, dad," frank said, pleadingly; "and it seems to run pretty smooth, with only a few mountains to cross, and a couple of rivers to ford. if you don't object seriously, bob and i would prefer to go mounted." "oh! as far as that goes, i don't blame you, boys," the stockman hastened to say in reply; for he could understand the yearning one feels for a favorite horse; and how a seat in the saddle seems to be the finest thing in the world. "thank you, dad!" exclaimed frank. "i reckoned that you'd talk that way. somehow or other i just don't feel more'n half myself out of the saddle. and when we start to go down into the canyon we can find some place to leave our mounts where they'll be 'tended decently enough." ah sin, the chinese cook of the ranch, who generally accompanied the boys when the whole outfit went on the grand round-up, with the mess wagon in attendance, now came outdoors, and beat his gong to announce dinner. the cowboys were not far away, awaiting the summons with the customary range appetites held in check; and when they were seated at the table they presented a merry crowd. frank's mother happened to be visiting east at this time. he had a maiden aunt, however, who looked after the household duties, and sat at the end of the long table to pour the coffee. of course there was more or less talk about the sudden flitting of the half-breed, abajo. nobody had any regrets, for he had never been liked. and there were several who secretly felt pleased, because they had happened to quarrel with the dark-skinned mexican at different times, and did not altogether fancy the way he had of scowling, while his finger felt the edge of the knife he carried in his gay sash, after the manner of his countrymen. colonel haywood did not see fit to explain the real cause for the going of abajo, except to his foreman, bart heminway. but during the evening, when frank and bob were making up their packs so as to get an early start in the morning, the ranch owner might have been seen in earnest consultation with the foreman. presently bart went out, to return with old hank coombs, and another cowman known as chesty lane; who had of course received this name on account of the way he thrust out his figure, rather than from any inclination on his part to boast of his wonderful deeds. "chesty tells me, colonel," said bart, "that he used to be a guide in this same grand canyon, years ago. i never knowed it 'till right to-day. and if so be you intend to send old hank up thar to keep tabs on the doings of that ugly pair, abajo and warringford, thar couldn't be a better man to pick out than chesty. you can depend on him every time." then followed another conference, of which the two boys, wrapped up in their own plans in another room, were of course entirely ignorant. it was decided, however, that the two cowmen should wait until the boys were well on their way. then, supplied with ample funds, they could ride to the nearest station, meet the first train bound north, and be at flagstaff before night came around. in this way the colonel figured that he was safeguarding the interests of bob and frank. already had he begun to regret allowing them to go, and if it had not been for the high regard he had for his word, once given, he might have backed down. however, perhaps the sending of hank and his companion might answer the purpose, and prove a valuable move. the night passed, and with early dawn there was a stir all about circle ranch. every cowboy on the place accompanied frank and bob several miles on their long journey, every fellow wishing he had been asked to join them for the adventure. and when bart hemingway gave the word to turn back, the entire group waved their hats, and cheered as long as the two lads remained within hearing. chapter vi buckskin on guard "a good day's ride, all right, bob!" "you never said truer words, frank. and now, with night setting in, how far do you think we've covered since the start this morning?" the kentucky boy sat in his saddle with a slight show of weariness, which was not to be wondered at, considering the steadiness with which they had kept on the move, hour after hour, heading in a general westerly direction. the satin skin of domino was flecked with foam. even the tough little buckskin mount of frank showed signs of weariness; though ready to keep on if his master gave the word. "that would be hard to tell," replied the rancher's son; "but it must be all of sixty-five miles, i reckon." "then that beats my record some," declared the other. "but it was a glorious gallop all the way through," asserted frank. "that's what; and more to follow to-morrow," his chum hastened to remark. "but a different kind of travel, the chances are, bob. to-day it happened that we were crossing the great mesa, and it was like a floor for being level. over yonder, ahead, you can see the mountains we must cross. then there are rivers to ford or swim. yes, variety is the spice of life; and unless i miss my guess we're due for a big change to-morrow." "think we can make flagstaff by to-morrow night?" asked the kentucky lad, who, at a time like this, seemed to depend very much upon the superior knowledge of his chum, who had been brought up on the plains. "we're going to make a try; that's as far as i've got," laughed frank. "but what about camping here?" "as good as anywhere," answered bob. "fact is, i'm admitting to being ready to drop down in any old place, so long as i can stretch my legs, and roll. no wonder a horse likes to turn over as soon as you take the saddle off. shall we call it a go, frank?" the other jumped to the ground. bob thought he heard him give a little grunt in doing so; but just then he was interested in repressing his own feelings. however, when they had moved about somewhat, both boys confessed to feeling considerably better. as for the horses, there was no danger of their straying after that gallop of many hours in the hot sun. they took their roll, and then began hunting for stray tufts of grass among the buffalo berry bushes. the sun had already set, and twilight told of the coming night. around them lay the mesa, with the mountains cropping up like a crust along the edge. it was a familiar scene, to frank in particular, and one of which he never tired. "i noticed some jack rabbits as we came along," remarked bob, "and as they always come out of their burrows about dusk to play, suppose i try and knock over a couple right now." "wouldn't object myself to a good dinner of rabbit, after that ride," frank admitted, as he proceeded to get the little tent in position, a task that was only a pleasure to a boy fond of all outdoors. so bob immediately sauntered off toward the spot where he had noticed the long-eared animals, calculated to make a good meal for hungry campers. "i heard gophers whistling," called out frank, "and that means there's a village somewhere close by. keep your eyes out for the rattlers; they are always found where prairie dogs live." "i never forget that, frank," came back from the disappearing hunter. frank went on with his preparations. a fire would be necessary, if they expected to cook fresh meat; and it is not always an easy thing to have such when out on the open plain or mesa. but frank had already sighted a supply of fuel sufficient for their needs and it was indeed next door to a miracle to find the dead branch of a pine tree here, far away from the mountains, where the nearest trees seemed to grow. "i reckon it was just lifted up in some little tornado, and carried through the air, just to land where we needed it," he remarked, as he dragged the log closer to where he had quickly put up the tent; and then began chopping at it with his little camp hatchet. as he worked there came a quick report from a point not far away. "that means one jack," he remarked, raising his head to listen; but to his surprise no second shot followed. "well, if he hopes to get a pair, he'll have to hurry up his cakes," frank went on; "because the night's settling down on us fast. but then one will give us a taste all around, and help out." it was some little time before he heard bob coming, and then the kentuckian seemed to be walking rather unsteadily. frank jumped to his feet, with the suspicion that possibly after all bob had met with a misfortune. in the minute of time that he was waiting for his chum to appear, a number of things flashed through his head to give him uneasiness. had bob been unlucky enough to run across one of those aggressive little prairie rattlesnakes after all? could he have wounded himself in any way when he fired his repeating rifle? neither of these might prove to be the case; and yet bob was certainly staggering as he came along. now he could be seen by the light of the little fire. frank stared, for his chum was certainly bending over, as though bearing a load. he had heard no outcry that would signify the presence of others in the neighborhood. ah! surely those were the long slender legs of an antelope which bob gripped in front of him. "bully for you!" exclaimed frank. "where under the sun did you run across that fine game? say, you sure take the cake, stepping out just to knock over a couple of long-ears; and then coming back ten minutes later with a fine antelope on your back. how did you do it, bob?" "i don't know," laughed the other. "happened to start up against the wind, and was creeping up behind some buffalo berry bushes to see if there were any jack rabbits beyond, when this little fellow jumped to his feet. why he didn't light out when we came along, i never could tell you." "oh! he just knew we wanted a good supper, i reckon," frank remarked. "and now to get busy." it did not take them long to cut some choice bits from the antelope, which they began to cook at the fire, thrusting the meat through with long splinters of wood, which in turn were held in a slanting position in the ground. when one part gave evidence of being browned the novel spit was turned until all sides had been equally served. "remember the way old hank showed us how to toll antelope for a shot, when you can't find cover to get near enough?" asked frank, as they sat there, disposing of their supper, with the satisfaction hunger always brings in its train. "you mean with the red handkerchief waved over the top of a bush?" bob went on. "hank said there never was a more curious little beast than an antelope. if he didn't have a red rag a white one would do. once he said he just lay down on his back and kicked his heels in the air. the game ran away, but came back; and each time just a little bit closer, till hank could fire, and get his supper. i've done something the same for ducks, in a marsh back home, trying to draw their attention to the decoys i had out." a small stream ran near by, at which the boys and horses had quenched their thirst. sometimes its gentle murmur floated to their ears as they sat there, chatting, and wondering whether their mission to the grand canyon was destined to bear fruit or not. "i can get the smell of some late wild roses," remarked frank. "and it isn't often that you find such things up on one of these high mesas, or table lands. do you know, i rather imagine this used to be a favorite stamping ground for buffalo in those good old days when herds of tens of thousands could be met with, rolling like the waves of a sea over the plains." "what makes you think so?" asked bob, always seeking information. "the grass, for one thing," came the reply. "then i noticed quite a few old sun-burned remnants of skulls as we came along. the bone hunter didn't gather his crop in this region, that means. besides, didn't you see all those queer little indentations that looked as though they might have been pools away back years ago?" "sure, i did; and wondered whatever could have made them," bob admitted. "i may be wrong," frank continued; "but somehow i've got an idea that those must be what they used to call buffalo wallows. anyhow, that doesn't matter to us. we've made a good day of it; found a jim-dandy place for a camp; got some juicy fresh meat; and to-morrow we hope to land in flagstaff." "and what then?" queried bob. "we'll decide that while we ride along to-morrow," frank answered. "perhaps it may seem better that we leave our horses there, and take the train for the grand canyon; though i'm inclined to make another day of it, and follow the old wagon trail over the mesa, and through the pine forest past red butte, to grand view." "listen to buckskin snorting; what d'ye suppose ails him?" asked bob, as his chum stopped speaking. "i was just going to say that myself," remarked frank, putting out his hand for his rifle; and at the same time scattering the brands of the dying fire so that darkness quickly fell upon the spot. "too late, i'm afraid," muttered bob. "seems like it, because the horses are sure coming straight for us," said frank; "but there are many people moving around in this section, and perhaps some tenderfeet from the east have lost themselves, and would be glad of a chance to sit by our blaze and taste antelope meat, fresh where it is grown. step back, bob, and let's wait to see what turns up!" chapter vii standing by the law "what had we ought to do?" asked bob. "they must have seen our fire, and that's what made them head this way. so, all we can do is to wait, and see what they want," replied frank. "but there don't seem to be many in the party," his chum went on. "i think not more than two, bob." "you can tell from the beat of their horses' hoofs--is that it?" inquired the boy who wanted to learn. "yes, it's easy enough, bob." by this time the sounds had grown quite loud, and both boys strained their eyes, trying to locate the approaching horsemen. in the old days on the plains every stranger was deemed an enemy until he had proven himself a friend. nowadays it is hardly so positive as that; but nevertheless those who are wise take no chances. "i see them!" bob announced; but although the other saddle boy had not said so, he had picked up the advancing figures several seconds before. "one thing sure," remarked frank, as though relieved, "i reckon they can't be horse thieves or cattle rustlers." "you mean they wouldn't be so bold about coming forward?" ventured bob. "that's about the size of it; but we'll soon know," frank went on. as the strangers drew rapidly nearer he began to make out their "style" for the night was not intensely dark. and somehow frank's curiosity increased in bounds. he discovered no signs of the customary cowboy outfit about them. they wore garments that savored of civilization, and sat their horses with the air of men accustomed to much riding. "hold hard there, strangers; or you'll be riding us down!" frank sang out, as the newcomers loomed up close at hand. at that the others drew rein, and brought their horses to a halt. bending low in the saddle they seemed to be peering at the dimly-seen figures of the two boys. "who is it--speak quick!" one of the strangers said; and frank believed he heard a suspicious click accompanying the thrilling words. "two boys bound for flagstaff and the grand canyon," he answered, not wishing to take any unnecessary chances. "where from, and what's your names?" continued the other, in his commanding voice, that somehow told frank he must be one accustomed to demanding obedience. the ranch boy no longer felt any uneasiness. he believed that these men were not to be feared. "i am the son of colonel haywood, owner of the circle ranch; and this is my chum, bob archer, a kentucky boy," he said, boldly. then the other man, who as yet had not spoken, took occasion to remark: "'taint them, after all, stanwix! perhaps we've been following the wrong trail." the name gave frank an idea. he had heard more or less about the doings of a sheriff in a neighboring county, called yavapai, and his name was the same as that mentioned by the second dimly seen rider. "are you gentlemen from prescott?" he asked. "that's where i hold out when i'm home," replied the one who had asked about their identity. "are you sheriff stanwix?" pursued the boy, while his companion almost held his breath in suspense. "i am; and this is hand, who holds the same office in this county of coconino," replied the other, as he threw a leg over his saddle as though about to dismount. both of them joined the boys, leaving their horses to stand with the bridles thrown over their heads, cowboy fashion. frank meanwhile had picked up some small fuel, and thrown it on the still smouldering fire. it immediately started up into a blaze that continued to increase. they could now see that their visitors were two keen-eyed men. the evidence of their calling lay in the stars that decorated their left breasts. both looked as though they could hold their own against odds. and of course they were armed as became their dangerous profession. bob was especially interested. he had never really had anything to do with an officer of the law; and surveyed the pair with all the ardor of boyish curiosity. to see one sheriff was a treat; but to have two drop down upon them after this fashion must be an event worth remembering. "we had the good luck to knock over a young antelope just before dark," frank remarked, after each of the men had insisted in gravely shaking hands with both himself and bob. "perhaps you haven't had any supper, and wouldn't mind taking pot luck with us?" "how about that, hand?" questioned the taller man, turning with a laugh to the second sheriff. "just suits me," came the reply, as the speaker threw himself down on the hard ground. "half an hour's rest will do the hosses some good, too." "thank you, boys, we accept, and with pleasure," mr. stanwix went on, turning again toward frank. bob immediately got busy, and started to cut further bits from the carcase of his small antelope. there would be plenty for even the healthy appetites of the two officers, and then leave enough for the boys' breakfast. "we're in something of a hurry to get on to flagstaff ourselves, boys," the yavapai sheriff remarked, as he sniffed the cooking venison with relish; "but the temptation to hold over a bit is too strong. you see, hand and myself have just made up our minds to bag our birds this trip, no matter where it takes us, or how long we're on the job." "then you're after some cattle rustlers or bad men, i reckon," frank remarked. "a couple of the worst scoundrels ever known around these diggings," replied the officer. "they've been jumping from one county into another, when pushed; and in the end hand, here, and myself concluded we'd just join our forces. we've got a posse to the south, and another working to the north; but we happened to strike the trail of our birds just before dusk, and we've been following it in hopes of reaching flagstaff before they can get down into the gash, and hide." "a trail, you say?" frank observed. "could it have been the one i've been following just out of curiosity, and because it seemed to run in the very direction my chum and myself were bound?" "that's just what it was, frank," the sheriff answered, as he accepted the hot piece of browned venison, stick and all, which bob was holding out. "we saw that there had come into the trail the marks of two new hosses; and naturally enough we got the idea that it might mean our men were being followed by a couple of their own kind." "then when you saw our little fire, you thought we were the kind of steers you wanted to round up?" the boy asked. "oh! well," mr. stanwix replied with a little chuckle; "we kept a touch on our irons when i was asking you who you were; and if the reply hadn't been all that it was, i reckon we'd have politely asked you to throw up your hands, boys. but say, this meat is prime, and seems to go to the spot." "i don't know which spot you mean, stanwix," remarked the other officer, who was also munching away like a half-starved man; "but mine suits me all right. i'm right glad we stopped. the rest will tone the nags up for a long pull; and as for me, i'll be in great shape after this feed." bob was kept busy cooking more and more, for the two men seemed to realize, after once getting a taste, that they were desperately hungry. but he did it with pleasure. there was something genial about the manner of mr. stanwix that quite captured the heart of the kentucky lad. he knew the tall man could be as gentle as a woman, if the occasion ever arose when he had a wounded comrade to nurse; and if his reputation did not speak wrongly his courage was decidedly great. while they sat there the two men talked of various subjects. frank was curious to know something about those whom they were now banded together in a determined effort to capture, and so mr. stanwix told a few outlines of the case. the men were known as the arizona kid and big bill guffey. they had been cattlemen, miners, and about every other thing known to the southwest. by degrees they had acquired the reputation of being bad men; and all sorts of lawless doings were laid at their door. and finally it came to defying the sheriff, evading capture by flitting to another county, and playing a game of hide-and-seek, until their bold methods were the talk of the whole country. then it was the coconino sheriff had conceived the idea of an alliance with his brother officer in the adjoining county, of which the thriving city of prescott was the seat of government. frank even had mr. stanwix describe the two men whom the officers were pursuing. "we expect to be around the grand canyon for some weeks," the lad remarked; "and it might be we'd run across these chaps. to know who they were, would be putting us on our guard, and besides, perhaps we might be able to get notice to you, sir." "that sounds all right, frank," the other had hastened to reply; "and believe me, i appreciate your friendly feelings. it's the duty of all good citizens to back up the man they've put in office, when he's trying to free the community of a bad crowd." then he explained just how they might get word to him in case they had anything of importance to communicate. although the tarapai sheriff knew nothing about wireless telegraphy, he did understand some of the methods which savage tribes in many countries use in order to send news hundreds of miles; sometimes by a chain of drums stationed on the hill tops miles apart; or it may be by the waving of a red flag. "and i want to tell you, frank," mr. stanwix concluded, "if so be you ever do have occasion to send me that message, just make up your minds that i'll come to you on the jump, with hand at my heels. but for your own sakes i hope you won't run across these two hard cases. we've got an idea that they mean to do some hold-up game in the grand canyon, where hundreds of rich travelers gather. and if luck favors us we expect to put a spoke in their wheel before they run far!" chapter viii the moqui who was caught napping sheriff stanwix arose with a sigh. "reckon we'd better be moving on, hand," he said, evidently with reluctance; for it was very pleasant sitting there, taking his ease beside the camp fire of the two boys; but when duty called this man never let anything stand in the way. their horses had not strayed far away. like most animals they had sought the company of their kind, as various sounds indicated, buckskin doubtless showing his prairie strain by sundry nips with his teeth at the strangers. another shake of hands all around; then the sheriffs threw themselves into their saddles, and were off. the last the two lads saw of them was when their figures were swallowed up in the night-mists; and then it was a friendly wave of the arm that told how much they had appreciated the hospitality of the saddle boys. "well, anyhow, it doesn't seem quite so lonely out here, after all," said frank, laughing, as he and his chum settled down again. "why, no," added bob, "i thought we owned the whole coop; but i take it back. there are others abroad, it seems." "i only hope those two fly-by-night birds don't take a notion to double on their trail, and come back to pay us a visit," frank remarked; and of course bob understood that he meant the bad men who were being rounded up by sheriff stanwix, aided by the official of coconino county. "perhaps we'd better douse the glim, then?" bob suggested. "let it burn out," frank remarked; "i don't believe there's much chance of anybody else seeing it now; because it's pretty low. our tent shows up about as plain, come to think of it; but i don't mean to do without shelter." they sat there, chatting on various subjects, for some time. of course their mission to the region of the greatest natural wonder in the world took a leading part in this conversation. but then they also spoke of their recent visitors; and as bob showed signs of considerable interest, frank told all he had ever heard about the valor of the prescott sheriff. "i don't know how you feel about it, bob," he said, at length, with a yawn, "but i'm getting mighty sleepy." "same here; and i move we turn in," bob immediately replied. accordingly, as the idea had received unanimous approval, they took a look at the horses, now staked out with the ropes, and, finding them comfortable, both boys crawled under the canvas. some hours later they were aroused suddenly by a shrill yell. as they sat up, and groped for their rifles, not realizing what manner of peril could be hanging over them, the loud snorting of the horses came to their ears. "come on!" exclaimed frank, in considerable excitement. "sounds like somebody might be bothering our mounts!" bob had not been so very long in the western country; but he knew what that meant all right. horses were supposed to be the most valuable possessions among men who spent their lives on the great plains and deserts of this region. in the old days it was deemed a capital crime to steal horses. so bob, shivering with excitement, but not fear, hastened to follow at the heels of his chum, as frank hastily crawled out of the tent. a rather battered looking moon was part way up in the eastern heavens. though the light she gave was none of the best, still, to the boys, coming from the interior of the tent, it seemed quite enough to enable them to see their way about, and even distinguish objects at a little distance. frank lost no time heading in the direction where he knew the horses had been staked out. "anyhow, they don't seem to have got them yet," remarked bob, gleefully, as the sound of prancing and snorting came to their ears louder than ever. frank stopped for a couple of seconds to listen. "buckskin is carrying on something fierce," he muttered. "he seems to be furiously mad, too. perhaps, after all, it may be a bear sniffing around; though i'd never expect to find such a thing out here, so far away from the mountains." he again started on, with bob close at his elbow. the words of his chum had given the kentucky lad new cause for other thrills. what if it should prove to be a grizzly bear? he had had one experience with such a monster, and was not particularly anxious for another, not being in the big game class. now they were approaching the spot where the two roped horses were jumping restlessly about, making queer sounds that could only indicate alarm. frank spoke to his animal immediately, thinking to reassure him. "easy now, buckskin; what's making you act this way? i don't see any enemy. if you've given a false alarm, it'll sure be for the first time!" "frank!" ventured the other lad, just then. "what is it, bob?" "i thought i heard a low groan!" continued the kentucky boy, in awed tones. "you did?" ejaculated frank, quickly. "have you any idea where it came from?" as if to make it quite unnecessary for bob to reply, there came just then a low but distinct grunt or groan. frank could not tell which. "over this way, frank; he's in this direction!" exclaimed the impulsive bob, as he started to move off. "wait a minute," said the practical and cautious frank. "you never know what sort of game you're up against, around here. some of these horse thieves can toll a fellow away from his camp to beat the band, while a mate gets off with the saddle band. i've been warned against that very sort of play. go slow, bob, and keep a finger on your trigger, i tell you." they advanced slowly, looking all around in the dim moonlight. twice more the strange sounds arose. frank jumped to the conclusion that it was, after all, no attempt to draw them farther and farther away from the tent; because the groans seemed to come from the one spot, instead of gradually moving off in a tempting manner. "here he is, bob!" he said, presently; and the other, looking, saw a huddled-up figure lying upon the ground in the midst of the low buffalo berry bushes. immediately they were bending over the form, which had moved at their approach. "why, it's an indian, frank!" cried bob, in surprise. "yes, and unless i miss my guess, a moqui indian at that," frank replied. "three of them wandered down our way once, and gave us some interesting exhibitions of their customs. you know their home is up to the north. they are said to be the descendants of the old cliff dwellers who made all those holes high up in the rocks, to keep out of the reach of enemies." he was bending down over the other even while saying this; and feeling to see if the indian could have been wounded in any way. "what seems to be the matter with him, frank?" asked bob, when this thing had been going on for a full minute, the stricken man grunting, and frank appearing to continue his investigations. "i tell you what," frank remarked, presently; "i honestly believe he's been kicked by the heels of my sassy little buckskin; perhaps he's badly hurt; and then again, he may only have had the wind knocked out of him. that horse is as bad as any mule you ever saw, when it comes to planting his heels." "but what was he prowling around the camp for?" asked bob, who had a hazy idea concerning the red men of the west, gained perhaps from early reading of the attacks on the wagon trains of the pioneers of the prairie. "oh! these moqui indians wouldn't do a white man any harm, unless they happened to take too much juice of the agave plant, in the shape of mescal," frank hastened to say; "and i don't seem to get the smell of that stuff. so the chances are that he had something of an eye to our horses." "and as he didn't know about buckskin's ways he gave the little pony a chance to get in some dents. but he may be badly hurt, frank," bob went on, his natural kindness of heart cropping up above any feeling of animosity he might have experienced. "i suppose, then, we'll just have to tote the beggar to the tent, and start up that fire again, while we look him over. if those hind feet came slap against his ribs, the chances are we'll find a few of them broken." swinging their rifles into one hand they managed to take hold of the grunting moqui, and in this primitive fashion began hauling him along. buckskin continued to prance and snort as though demanding whether he had not amply fulfilled his duty as guardian to the camp; but no one paid the least attention to him just then. arriving at the tent the boys proceeded to rekindle the fire. "why, he's coming to, frank!" exclaimed bob, as, having finished his task, he turned to see his chum bending over the victim of buckskin's hoofs, and noted that the would-be horse thief was struggling to sit up. "i don't believe he's hurt very bad," frank declared. "i've felt all over his body, and don't seem to find any signs of broken bones." "listen to him gasp right now, as if the breath had been knocked out of him," remarked bob. "he's going to speak, frank, sure he is. i wonder can we understand what he says. moqui wasn't included in my education at the military institution at frankfort." the indian was indeed trying to get enough air in his lungs to enable him to say something. chapter ix "talk about luck!" "no hurt havasupai!" was what he managed to say, hoarsely. "we're not going to hurt you, old man," remarked frank; for he had seen that the indian was no stripling. "what we want to know is, how you came to get so close to the heels of my horse as to be kicked? tell us that, havasupai, if you please." there was no answer, although twice the exhausted red man opened his lips as if to speak. "that knocks the props out from under him, frank," remarked bob; "because he was bent on getting away with one or both mounts." "how about that, havasupai; weren't you thinking of stealing a horse, when that animal just keeled you over so neatly?" frank demanded. the indian was sitting up now. his head was hanging low on his chest. perhaps it was shame that caused this: or it might have been a desire to keep his face hidden from the searching eyes of the white boys. then, as though realizing the utter folly of denying what must appear so evident, he nodded his head slowly. "it is true, white boy," he muttered, in fair english. "havasupai meant to take a horse. he had looked upon the man who beckons, and he was afraid, because he had trouble at his village. he believed every man's hand was against him. and so he would flee to the desert where the white man's big medicine would not find him. there he might die with the poison snakes and the whooping birds." bob was of course puzzled by some of the things the indian said. "what does he mean, frank?" he asked. "i take it the warrior has been in some sort of fuss at his village," the other replied. "perhaps he even struck his chief in anger, and that made an offense punishable with death. these moqui indians are a queer lot, anyhow, i've heard. then he must have skipped out, and by accident seeing our friend, sheriff stanwix, known to him as the 'man who beckons,' he just imagined they were looking for him." "and that locoed him so much that he just couldn't stand it any longer," bob said. "discovering our camp he got the notion in his head that a horse might take him out of the danger zone. so he was in the act of jumping on one of our mounts when your clever little beast took a hand, or rather a hoof, in the matter. but do you know what he means by whooping birds?" "well, i can give a guess," replied frank. "that must mean the little owl that lives with the prairie dogs in their holes, along with the poison snake, otherwise the rattler." "looks like we've just got our hands full to-night, frank!" "you're right, bob. first we feed two hungry sheriffs, and pick up quite a little news about the bad men they're looking for. next, along comes this moqui, havasupai he says his name is, and he gets in a bad fix by trying to run off our horses; and feeling sorry for the old chap we lug him to our tent, and look him over, ready to even bind up his wounds, if he has any." "getting to be a habit, isn't it, frank?" "seems like it," returned the taller boy, as he once more turned toward the seated indian. "here, can you tell us where my horse kicked you?" "it matters not much. havasupai get what he needs because he try to steal horse from good white boys," came the humble reply. "one thing sure," remarked frank aside to his chum, "he's been in touch with the whites a heap, or he wouldn't know how to talk as he does. but then, that isn't so queer. you know that these moquis pick up a lot of good coin from the travelers who come and go at the grand canyon." "why, yes," bob went on to say, "i've always heard that one of the sights of this wonderland was the snake dance of the moquis. i read an account of it in a magazine once. it said that hundreds of people gathered from many quarters to be on hand and see it, because it occurs only once a year. some of them were big guns in science, too." "they're getting more and more interested in these indians of the southwest," frank continued; "and trying all the time to find out just where they fit in the long-ago past. that's what made old uncle felix, who had already made a name for himself, give up his happy home, and hide all these months down here. he wants to learn the long-buried secrets of the past history of the zunis, the moquis, and other tribes that might have sprung from the old cliff builders." "but what can we do with this fellow, frank?" "oh! well, nothing much, i reckon," the other answered, carelessly. "he must have been plum locoed at seeing the sheriff, and hardly knew what he was doing when he set out to grab buckskin. we'll just have to let him sleep here till morning, and then give him a bite of breakfast." "just as you say, frank; you ought to know what's best," bob hastened to declare. "now i wonder what'll be the next thing on the programme? i hope we don't have the two men the sheriff is hunting, drop in to make us a call." "little danger of that now," frank remarked reassuringly. "by this time they're well on their way to flagstaff. here, havasupai, as you call yourself; we don't mean to do you any harm, even if you did play us a mean trick when you tried to steal a mount. understand?" the old indian looked up at frank through his masses of coarse black hair, just beginning to be streaked with gray. "not do any harm," he repeated, as though hardly able to grasp the meaning of the words frank spoke; then his brown face lighted up with a grim smile. "white boys good; havasupai glad him not take horse. bad indian! but not always that way; him carry speaking paper tell how make good," and he thumped his breast as he said this. again did bob's eyes seek the face of his chum in a questioning manner. frank, having been raised amid such scenes, could more readily understand what the moqui meant when he referred to certain things which bob had never heard mentioned before. "he means that he's got a letter of recommendation along with him, written by some tourist, i reckon. perhaps this old fellow may have found a chance to do some one a good turn. he may have run across a greenhorn wandering on the desert; saved a fellow who had been stabbed by the fangs of a viper from the gila; or helped him to camp when he broke a leg in climbing around the grand canyon." "oh! i see what you mean, frank; that this party wrote out a recommendation to all concerned, stating that in his opinion havasupai was a fine fellow, and worth trusting. but then that was before he got into this trouble at this village. if he's a fugitive from justice at the hands of his own tribe, such a paper isn't worth much, i guess." "no more it isn't," agreed frank. "but all the same he means to stick us with it," chuckled bob; "for you can see he's got his hand in his shirt right now, as if searching for something so valuable that he won't even carry it in his ditty bag." "that's right, bob." "and now he's got in touch with that old letter," grunted bob. "i suppose we'll just have to read it to please him." "you can if you care to," remarked frank. "as for me, i'm that sleepy i only want a chance to crawl back into the tent, and take up my interrupted nap where it broke off." "but good gracious! do you really mean it?" exclaimed the puzzled bob. "why not?" demanded his chum. "and leave him loose here, with the horses close by?" bob went on, aghast. at that frank laughed a little. "well," he said, drily; "so far as the horses are concerned, i reckon our old friend havasupai will go a long way on foot before he ever tries to steal a promising looking pony again. as long as he lives he'll remember how it feels to get a pair of hoofs fairly planted against his back. so long, bob. tell the old fraud he can lie down anywhere he pleases, and share our breakfast in the morning." "that's the way you rub it in, frank; returning evil with good," the kentucky boy remarked. "but since you want me to take him in hand, i'll be the victim, and read his letter of recommendation, though i can already guess what it will say." the old moqui had meanwhile succeeded in getting out the paper which he seemed to set so much store by. looking up, and seeing that frank had turned away, he offered it to bob, who took it gravely, and proceeded to hold it so that the light of the little fire would fall upon the writing. frank was half way in the tent when he heard his chum give utterance to a shout. he backed out again, and turning, looked hastily, half expecting to see bob engaged in a tussle with the old indian. nothing of the sort met his gaze. the moqui was sitting there, staring at bob, who had straightened up, and was starting to dance around, holding the paper in his extended hand. "what ails you, bob?" demanded the other. "haven't been taken with a sudden pain, after all that venison you stowed away, i hope." "come out here, frank!" called the lad by the fire. "of all the luck! to think we'd strike such a piece as this! it's rich! it's the finest ever! we go to hunt for clues, and here they come straight to us. talk to me about the favors of fortune, why, we're in it up to the neck!" "you seem to be tickled about something, bob; has that paper any connection with it?" demanded frank. "well i should say, yes, by a big jugfull," replied the kentucky boy. "and you'll agree with me when i tell you it's signed by professor felix oswald, the very man we're going to search the grand canyon up and down to find!" chapter x the copper colored messenger "do you really mean it, bob?" asked frank, with the bewildered air of one who suspects a joke. "take it yourself, and see," replied the other, holding out the discolored and wrinkled sheet on which the writing was still plainly to be read. frank bent over, the better to allow the firelight to fall upon the queer document. this was what he read in a rather crabbed hand, though the writing could be read fairly well: _"to whom it may concern; greeting!_ "this is to certify to the good character of the bearer, a moqui indian by the name of havasupai, who has rendered me a very great service, which proves him to be the friend of the white man, and a believer in the pursuit of science. i cheerfully recommend him to all who may be in need of a trustworthy and capable guide to the grand canyon. "professor oswald." frank looked up to see the grinning face of his chum thrust close to him. "think it's genuine, frank?" demanded the other. "i can see no reason why it shouldn't be," answered the other, glancing down again at the crumpled paper he held, and which the old moqui was regarding with the greatest of pride on his brown face. "looks like that paper mr. hinchman brought to my dad; yes, i'd stake my word on it, bob, that the same hand wrote both." "but how d'ye suppose this greasy old indian ever got the document?" asked the young kentuckian. "we'll have to put it up to him, and find out," came the reply. "he can speak united states all right; we've found that out already; and so you see, there's no reason under the sun why he shouldn't want to tell us." he turned to the moqui. it was not the same sleepy boy apparently who, but a minute before, had started to creep into the comfortable tent, where the blankets lay; but a wide-awake fellow, eager to ascertain under what conditions this fugitive brave could have secured such a letter of recommendation from the man of science, who was supposed to have utterly vanished from the haunts of men without leaving a single trace behind, up to the hour that message came to colonel haywood. holding the paper up, and shaking it slightly, frank started to put the moqui warrior on the rack. "this belong to you, havasupai?" he demanded, trying to assume a stern manner, such as he believed would affect the other more or less, and be apt to bring out straight answers to his leading questions. "the white boy has said," answered the other, for an indian seldom answers in a direct way. "where did you get it?" frank continued, slowly, as if feeling his way; for he did not wish to alarm the indian, knowing how obstinate a moqui may prove if he once suspects that he is being coaxed into betraying some secret or a friend. the black, bead-like eyes were on the face of frank as he put these questions. doubtless the old moqui balanced every one well before venturing a reply. "he gave it," nodding in the direction of the paper frank held. "do you mean the man who signed his name here, professor oswald?" a nod of the head in the affirmative settled that question. "was he a small man with a bald head, no hair on top, and wearing glasses over his eyes, big, staring glasses?" frank aided comprehension by touching the top of his own head when speaking about the loss of hair on the part of the noted scientist; and then made rings with his fingers and thumbs which he clapped to his eyes as though looking through a pair of spectacles. evidently the moqui understood. reading signs was a part of his early education. in fact it comprised nearly four-fifths of all the indian knew. "white boy heap wise; he know that the man give havasupai talking paper. much great man; know all. tell havasupai about cliff men. find much good cook pot, heap more stuff in cave. find out how cave men live. write all down in book. send havasupai one, promise. it is well!" "but where did you meet him?" asked frank; and he saw at once that this was getting very near the danger line, judging from the manner in which the moqui acted; for he seemed to draw back, just as the alarmed tortoise will hide its head in its shell at the first sign of peril. "in canyon where picture rocks laugh at sun," the indian slowly said. "that ought to stand for the grand canyon," remarked the boy. the keen ears of the moqui caught the words, although they were almost spoken in whispers, and only intended for bob. he nodded violently, and frank somehow found himself wondering whether, after all, the shrewd indian might not be wanting to deceive him. he may have conceived the idea that these two white boys were the enemies of the queer old professor; and for that reason would be careful how he betrayed the man who trusted him. "listen, moqui," said frank, putting on a serious manner, so as to impress the other; "we are the friends of the little-old-man who has no hair on top of his head. we want to see him, talk with him! it means much good to him. he will be glad if you help us find him. do you understand that?" the indian's black eyes roved from one to the other of those bright young faces. apparently he would be foolish to suspect even for a minute that the two lads could have any evil design in their minds. still, the crafty look on his brown face grew more intense. "he has some good reason for refusing to accommodate us, i'm afraid," bob said just then, as if he too had read the signs of that set countenance. "why don't you answer me, moqui?" frank insisted, bent on knowing the worst. "we are on the way now to find the man who gave you this letter that talks. we have some good news for him. and you can help us if you will only tell in what part of the grand canyon echo cave lies." the indian seemed to ponder. evidently his mind worked slowly, when it tried to grapple with secrets. but one thing he knew, and this must be some solemn promise he had made the man of science, never under any conditions to betray his hiding-place to a living soul. "no can say; in canyon where picture rocks lie; that all," he finally declared, and frank knew indians well enough to feel sure that no torture could be painful enough to induce havasupai to betray one he believed his friend, and whose magic talking paper he carried inside his shirt, to prove his good character. "that settles it, bob, i'm afraid," he remarked to his chum, who had been listening eagerly to all that was being said. "you might try all sorts of terrible things and he wouldn't whisper a word, even if he believed all we told him." "that's tough," observed bob; "but anyhow, we've got something out of it all, because we know now that the silly old professor must be hiding in one of those cliff caves, trying to read up the whole life history of the queer people who dug their homes out of the solid rock, tier after tier, away up the face of the cliffs." "true for you, bob, and i'm glad to see how you take it. i had hoped the moqui might make our job easier, as he could do, all right, if only he wanted to tell us a few things. but we're no worse off than we were before, in all things, and some better in a few." "i wish i could talk moqui," declared bob; "and perhaps then i'd be able to make the old fellow understand. perhaps, frank, if you gave him a little note to uncle felix, he might promise to take it to him later on!" "hello! that's a good idea, i declare," exclaimed frank; "and i'll just do that same while i think of it." he immediately drew out a pad of paper, and a fountain pen which he often carried for business purposes, since there were times when he had to sign documents as a witness for his father. the old moqui watched him closely. evidently the spider-like handwriting was a deep mystery to him, and he must always feel a certain amount of respect for any white person who could communicate with another by means of the "talking paper." "there," said frank, presently, "that ought to do the business, i reckon." "what did you say?" asked his comrade, who was busy at the fire just then, drawing some of the partly-burned wood aside, so that their supply might hold out in the morning. "oh!" frank went on, "i told him dad had his note, sent in that bottle. then i mentioned the important fact that the mine paper he carried had increased in value thousands of dollars. and i wound up by telling him how much we wanted to see and talk with him. i signed my name, and yours, to the note." "and now to see whether the moqui will promise to carry it to your great-uncle." frank held the note up. "you will not tell us where we can find the little man without any hair on his head, havasupai," he said. "but surely you will not say no when i ask you to carry this talking paper to him. it will please him very much. he will shake your hand, and many times thank you. how?" the cautious old moqui seemed to be weighing chances in his suspicious mind. "three to one he thinks we mean to spy on him, and find it all out that way," was bob's quick opinion. "just what was in my mind; i could read it in his sly old face. but all the same he's going to consent, bob." the kentucky boy wondered how frank could tell this. he was even more surprised when the indian stretched out a hand for the note, as he said solemnly: "havasupai will carry the talking paper to the man who has no hair on his head. but no eye must see him do it. the white boys must say to havasupai that they will not try to follow him." frank looked at his chum, and nodded. "we'll just have to do it, i guess, to satisfy the suspicious old fraud, bob," he remarked; and then raising his hand, while his chum did likewise frank went on, addressing the moqui, who watched every action with glittering black eyes: "we promise not to follow, havasupai, and will hope that this talking paper may cause the man-who-hides to send you for us to take us to him. you understand all that i am saying, don't you?" the moqui said something in his native language, which of course neither of them comprehended. but at the same time he reached out his hand and deliberately took the note intended for uncle felix. "hurrah! he's going to act as our messenger!" exclaimed bob, filled with anticipations of success. "say, that was a pretty smart dodge on our part, after all. but it makes me hold my breath every time i think of our good luck in running across this chap the way we did. and buckskin deserves all the credit. he did it with his wonderful little tap." "all right," said frank; "me for the land of sleep now! havasupai, you can lie down where you will. in the morning we promise you a share of our meat. how?" "it is well, white boy," replied the old moqui, as he dropped in a heap, and evidently meant to sleep just as he was without any further preparations. bob also crawled into the tent, although he had some misgivings, and wondered whether his chum were really doing a wise thing to trust one who had just confessed to a desire to raid their horses. but as bob, too, was tired and sleepy, he soon forgot all his suspicions in slumber. when he awoke he could see the daylight peeping under the canvas. without disturbing his companion, bob immediately started to crawl out. he had suddenly remembered the old moqui; and it seemed as though his fears must have returned two-fold, and nothing would do but that he must hasten to make sure all was well. frank was just opening his eyes a little while later when he saw bob's head thrust in at the opening of the tent. "better get up, frank," the other said. "i've started the fire, and after we've had breakfast we'll be on our way. it was just as you said, though; he had the good sense to keep clear of the heels of the horses." "who are you talking about, the moqui?" asked frank, sitting up suddenly, as he caught a peculiar strain in the other's voice. "yes, our friend, havasupai; who vamoosed in the night!" laughed bob. chapter xi at the grand canyon "do you mean it?" asked frank. "come out, and see for yourself," bob returned. "i've looked all around, and not a sign of the old fellow can i find." "and both horses are there?" frank continued, making a break for the exit. "as fine as you please. our friend didn't want a second try from those clever heels of buckskin. he gave them a wide berth when he cleared out, i warrant. oh! you can look everywhere, and you won't see a whiff of havasupai. he's skipped by the light of the moon, all right." bob backed off, as his chum walked this way and that. he grinned as though he really enjoyed the whole thing. in his mind he had figured that it would turn out something this way, so he was not very much surprised. "what d'ye think, frank," he exclaimed, presently; "don't you remember promising to share our venison at breakfast with the moqui?" "why yes, to be sure i do; but what of that, bob?" "only that he didn't forget," laughed the other. frank immediately glanced toward the carcase of the little antelope. "ginger! he did go and cut himself a piece from it, sure enough," he admitted. "while he thought our company not as nice as our room, still, he didn't object to sharing our meat. and, frank, he wasn't at all stingy about the amount he took, either," bob complained. "oh! well, i reckon there's still enough for us, and to spare. besides, we've got heaps of other things along in our packs, for an emergency, you know. suppose we make a pot of coffee, and start things." "that's all right, frank; i'll attend to it," declared bob; "but why under the sun do you suppose now, that sly old moqui dodged out like that?" "well, for one thing, he may have suspected us," replied frank. "what! after all we did for him, took him in, and forgave his sins, even to offering to mend any broken ribs, if he'd had any, through that horse kick? i can't just understand that," bob ventured, while he measured out enough ground coffee to make a pot of the tempting hot beverage. "he took the alarm, it seems," frank went on, indifferently. "knew we wanted to find the man who had given him the talking paper; and was afraid we might try to make him tell; or, that failing, stalk him when he went to deliver my note. and on the whole i can't much blame the old indian. suspicion is a part of their nature. he believed he was on the safe side in slipping away as he did. forget it, bob. we've learned a heap by his just dropping in on us, i think." "sure we have," replied the other, being busily employed over the fire just then. "and i was thinking what he could have meant when he pointed off in the direction i calculate the grand canyon lies, and said in answer to one of your questions: 'seek there! when the sun is red it shines in echo cave!'" "i've guessed that riddle, and it was easy," frank remarked. "then let me hear about it, because i'm pretty dull when it comes to understanding all this lovely sign language of the indians," bob remarked. "listen, then. the sun is said to be red when its setting; that's plain enough; isn't it, bob?" "all o.k. so far, frank. i won't forget that in a hurry, either." "then, when he said it looked into the cave at sunset, it was another way of telling us the cave faced the west!" frank continued. "well, what a silly chap i was not to guess that," chuckled the other. "and from what i know about the bigness of that canyon, bob, i think that this unknown echo cave must be pretty high up on the face of a big cliff to the east of the river." "why high up? i don't get on to any reason for your saying that?" inquired bob. "you'll see it just as soon as i mention why," remarked his companion. "when the sun is going down in the west, far beyond the horizon, don't you see that it can only shine along the very upper part of the cliffs? the lower part is already lost in the shadows that drop late in the afternoon in all canyons." "of course, and it's as plain to me now as the nose on my face," agreed bob. "queer, how easy we see these things after they've been explained." it did not take long to prepare breakfast, and still less time to eat it once the coffee and venison were ready. just as frank had said, there was plenty of the meat for the meal. "that was a mighty juicy little antelope, all right," remarked bob, as he finished his last bite, and prepared to get up from the ground where he had been enjoying his ease during the meal. "and for one i don't care how soon you repeat the dose," remarked frank; "only it will be a long day before you get one of the timid little beasts as easy as that accommodating chap fell to your gun. why, he was just a gift, that's all you could call it, bob." "that's what i've been thinking myself, though of course i don't know as much about them as you do, by a long shot," bob admitted. "i suppose it's us to hit the saddle again now?" "we're going to try and make flagstaff by night," frank announced, as he picked up his saddle and bridle, and walked toward the spot where buckskin was staked out. the horses had been able to drink all they wanted during the night, for the ropes by means of which they were tethered allowed of a range that took them to the little spring hole from which the water gushed, to run away, and, in the end, possibly unite with the wonderful colorado. in ten minutes more the boys were off at a round gallop. there was no intention of pushing their mounts so soon in the day. like most persons who have spent much time on horseback both lads knew the poor policy of urging an animal to its best speed in the early part of a journey, especially one that is to be prolonged for ten or twelve hours. at noon they were far enough advanced for frank to declare he had no doubt about being able to make flagstaff before sunset. "when we get there, and spend a night at the hotel, we must remember and ask if our friend mr. stanwix and his partner arrived in good time, and went on," bob suggested. just as frank had expected, they made the town on the railroad before the sun had dropped out of sight; and the horses were in fair condition at that. flagstaff only boasts of a normal population of between one and two thousand; but there are times, with the influx of tourists bound for the grand canyon, when it is a lively little place. the two boys only desired shelter and rest for themselves and their horses during the night. it was their intention to push on early the following day, keeping along the old wagon trail that at one time was the sole means of reaching the then little known wonderland along the deeply sunk colorado. after a fairly pleasant night, they had an early breakfast. the horses proved to be in fine fettle, and eager for the long gallop. so the two saddle boys once more started forth. the day promised to be still warmer than the preceding one; and the first part of the journey presented some rather difficult problems. they managed to put the san francisco mountains behind them, however, and from that on the dash was for the most part over a fairly level plateau. now and then they were threading the trail through great pine forests, and again it was a mesa that opened up before them. bob was especially delighted. "think we'll make it, frank?" he asked, about the middle of the afternoon, as they cantered along, side by side, the horses by this time having had pretty much all their "ginger" as bob called it taken out of them, though still able to respond to a sudden emergency, had one arisen. "i reckon so," replied the other. "according to my map we're within striking distance right now. given two more hours, and we'll possibly sight the border of the big hole. that was red horse tank we just passed, you know," and he pointed out their position on the little chart to bob. it was half an hour to sundown when the well known grand view hotel stood out in plain sight before them; and before the shades of night commenced to fall, the tired boys had thrown themselves from their saddles, seen to the comfort of the faithful steeds, and mounted to the porch of the hotel for a flitting view of the amazing spectacle that spread itself before them, ere darkness hid its wonderful and majestic beauty. chapter xii how the little trap worked "what do you think of it?" asked frank, after they had stood there a short time, taking in the picture as seen in the late afternoon. "it's hard to tell," bob replied slowly. "it's so terribly big, that a fellow ought to take his time letting the thing soak in. that further wall looks as if you could throw a stone over to it; and yet they say it's more than a mile from here." "yes," frank went on, "and all along in the grand canyon there are what seem to be little hills, every one of which is a mountain in itself. they only look small in comparison with the tremendous size of the biggest gap in the whole world." "and how far does this thing run--is it fifty miles in length?" bob asked. "i understand that the river runs through this canyon over two hundred miles," the other replied. "and all the way there are scores, if not hundreds, of smaller canyons and 'washes,' reaching out like the fingers of a whopping big hand; or the feelers of a centipede." "that's what i read about it away back; but i had forgotten," bob remarked. "and they say that it would be a year's trip to try and follow the grand canyon all the way down from beginning to end, only on one side." "i reckon it would, for you'd have to trace every one of these lateral gashes up to its source, so as to cross over. and that would mean thousands of miles to be covered." "gee!" exclaimed bob, throwing up his hands as he spoke; "when you say that, it makes a fellow have some little idea of the size of this hole. and to think it's come just by the river eating away the soil!" "they call that erosion," remarked frank, who had of course posted himself on many of these facts, during his previous visit to the canyons of the little colorado. "it's been going on for untold thousands of years; and as the river with its tributaries has gradually eaten away the soil and rocks, it has left the grandest pictured and colored walls ever seen in any part of this old earth." "when that afternoon sun shines on the red rocks it makes them look almost like blood," declared bob. "and already i'm glad we came. i think just now i could be happy spending months prowling around here, finding new pictures every day." "then you don't blame old uncle felix for staying, do you?" laughed frank. "sure i don't," returned the other lad, with vehemence. "and besides, you must remember that he had another string to his bow." "meaning his craze to be the fortunate man of science to unravel the mystery that has always hung over the homes of those cliff dwellers?" frank went on. "i can understand how it must appeal to a man living as professor felix has all these years," mused bob. "and think of those queer old fellows picking out this one place of all the wide country to build their homes." "that was because there could be no place that offered them a tenth of the advantages this did," frank remarked, pointing across the wide chasm to the towering heights that could be seen. "think of hundreds of miles of such cliffs to choose from! and as the softer rock was washed out by the action of floods countless ages ago, leaving the harder in the shape of astonishing shelves and buttes, these people took a lesson from nature, and carved their roomy homes by following the pliable stone." "say," bob exclaimed, "that makes me think of what i read about the catacombs of rome; how, for hundreds of miles, they run in every direction, following the course of veins of earth in the rock, that were selected by those who dug 'em." "of course," said frank, "these people built their homes up in the cliffs in order to be safe. nobody seems to know what they were afraid of, whether savage tribes, or great beasts that may have roamed this part of the country a thousand and more years ago." "and that's the bait that has drawn the old scientist here, to study it all out, and write up the history of the people who looked on this very picture so many hundreds of years back. why, frank, some of the cliffs they say are about a mile high! that's hard to believe, for a fact." "but it's been proved true," the other asserted. "the trouble is, that everything here is on such an awful big scale that a fellow fools himself. actual measurement is the only way to prove things. the eye goes back on you. why, i've looked out on a clear day in colorado, and believed i could walk to a mountain in an hour. they told me it's base was fifty miles away; and there you are." "well, we'll have to put off looking till morning," said bob, regretfully; "because the sun's dropped out of sight, and it's getting pretty thick down there in the hole. and to think that to-morrow we'll be pushing along through that place, with the walls shutting us in on both sides." "not only to-morrow, but for many days, perhaps," frank added; for more than ever did he begin to realize the enormous task that confronted them; it was almost like looking for a needle in a haystack; but if one possesses a powerful magnet, even then the bit of steel may be recovered in time. did they happen to know of any such magnet? almost unconsciously frank's thoughts went out toward that old moqui brave, havasupai, who had fled from his village because of some act which he had committed; but who was now determined to return, and take his punishment with the stoicism indians have always shown. the moqui might be the connecting link! he alone knew where the hermit had his lodging, possibly in one of those quaint series of cliff dwellers' homes, which for some reason he called echo cave. "we must ask if our friend sheriff stanwix has been here," bob suggested, as they went to their room to prepare for supper. "oh!" replied his chum, "i did that when i spoke with the clerk at the desk. you were looking after the ponies at the time, so as to make sure they'd be well taken care of for a week, or a month if necessary." "and what did he tell you, frank?" "they got here, all right," came the reply. "if you'd looked sharp when you were out there in the hotel stables, you might have recognized both their mounts; for they left them here at noon to-day." "noon!" echoed bob; "then they made mighty good work of it, to get ahead of us all that time. i reckon you're going to tell me they've gone down into the canyon, and put in several hours looking for their birds, the two fellows who've given 'em the merry laugh more'n a few times." "guessed right the first shot," frank went on, "but all that doesn't concern us one half as much as some other information i struck." "and you've been keeping it back from me, while we stood there on the piazza, admiring the wonderful view," bob remarked, with a touch of reproach in his voice. "there were people passing us, all the time," his chum explained; "and besides, i wanted to keep it until we were alone, so we could talk it over." "is it about that scheming cousin of your father's--what did you say his name was--eugene warringford?" "you got it straight enough," frank admitted; "and what i learned, was about him. i saw his name on the register, and he's somewhere about the hotel right now. i had a suspicion that i saw some one trying to get near us while we stood there, drinking in that picture; and bob, while i couldn't just hold up my hand and say for sure, i think it was that tricky abajo." "the half-breed cowboy who left circle ranch because he had some news for this eugene that the fellow would be apt to consider mighty valuable, because it meant a stake of a million or two dollars; is that right, frank?" "the same abajo," his chum continued; "which proves that those two are bound up in a plot to win this game. if eugene can only find uncle felix he intends to get that paper in his possession, by fair means or foul." "then it's up to us to put a stopper in his little bottle!" declared bob. "i'm wondering," frank proceeded, "whether they've got any idea where to look for the man who has hidden himself away for three years. perhaps they mean to keep tabs on us, and if we are lucky enough to discover uncle felix, they hope to jump in, and snatch away the prize before we can warn him." "say, this is getting to be a pretty mix-up all around," laughed the kentucky lad. "here we are, meaning to try and follow the old moqui; or failing that, wait for him to fetch us a message from the hermit of echo cave. then eugene, and his shadow, abajo, are hanging around with the idea of beating us at our game. havasupai on his part will be heading for the cave that lies in an unknown part of the grand canyon, and all the while dodging about for fear that he is followed." "yes," added frank, falling in with the idea; "and perhaps there are the moquis from his village who may have had word somehow of his return, searching for havasupai, and bent on bringing him to the bar of their tribal law. to finish the game, think of our friends, the two sheriffs, loose in the big gash, and hunting for the men who have snapped their fingers in their faces so often across the line!" "well, it sure looks like there might be some warm times coming," remarked bob. "i suppose we take our guns along with us when we're going the rounds of the sights?" "wouldn't think of doing anything else," was frank's reply. "no telling when we might need 'em. suppose, now, those two rascals the sheriffs are after should learn in some way about the value of the paper uncle felix has with him, wouldn't they just make it the game of their lives to try and capture him? and i reckon eugene, too, will be so dead in earnest that he won't stop at little things, backed up by such a reckless character as the mexican. yes, the repeating rifles go along, bob!" "this water feels fine after that long, dusty and tiresome ride, eh?" remarked the young kentuckian, as he splashed in the deep basin, and then proceeded to use the towel vigorously. "it certainly does," frank admitted, as he did likewise. shortly afterward the two boys went down to supper. the hotel had its usual number of guests, this being a favorite point for parties to start on the tour. "don't look just now," said frank, as they sat at a table; "but abajo has taken his seat right back of you. and it wasn't accident, either, that made him do it; i believe he has been set to watch us!" from time to time, as they ate, frank would report as to what the half-breed was doing; and while nothing occurred to actually prove the fact, still he saw no reason to change his mind. "and i'm going to find out if he's keeping an eye on us, so as to report to his employer, eugene warringford," frank announced, as they were drawing near the end of the meal. "that sounds good to me," bob remarked; "but how will you do it?" for answer frank drew out a paper from an inner pocket. "you see this document," he observed, with a solemn look. "well, it's only what you might call a dummy, being just an invitation i received a little while back to invest in some worthless mines over in the hualpai mountains of mohave county. i kept it, meaning to figure out how these sharpers work their game. now, when i hand you this, look deeply interested, as though it might be connected with the finding of uncle felix." "oh! i see your move, and go you one better, frank." for some little time they seemed to be conversing intently. frank would occasionally tap the document, which he had sealed up in its envelope, as though he laid great stress on it. finally he placed it on the table alongside his plate, and kept on talking. shortly afterward the boys left the table in apparently such a hurry that they both forgot the envelope that lay there, half hidden by a napkin. passing out of the room, they dodged back, and peered around the corner of the doorway. "there's the waiter at the table," said bob. "now he's found the fine tip you left there, and is putting it in his pocket, with a grin. if everybody treated him as well as that, he'd soon be owning one of these hotels himself, frank." "watch!" remarked his chum, in a low whisper. "now he's discovered the document lying there where i left it. he takes it up. perhaps he sees another dollar coming to him when he runs after us to return it." "but there's somebody at his elbow," bob went on to say; "and it's abajo, as sure as you live. he's saying something, and i reckon telling the waiter that you asked him to get the packet. there, he slips some money in the fellow's hand; and the waiter lets him take the envelope. and we'd better slip behind this coat rack here, for abajo will be heading this way in a hurry." and hardly had they carried out that programme ere the half-breed glided past, one hand held in the pocket where he had thrust the "valuable" document! chapter xiii going down the canyon trail "was i right?" asked frank, after the half-breed had disappeared. "i should say yes," replied his chum, who had followed the vanishing figure of abajo with staring eyes. "he got the precious paper, all right, eh?" frank went on, chuckling. "he sure did, and bribed our friend the waiter to let him carry it off. shows how you can trust anybody in the tourist country, where they are nearly all out for the money," bob declared, indignation struggling hard with a sense of humor. "but just stop and think how easy abajo, sharp rascal that he is, rose to my little bait?" laughed frank. "just as i expected, he was watching us all the time we examined that wonderful paper, and of course he believed it to be something for which his employer would reward him heavily, if he could only lay hands on it." bob himself was laughing now, as the full sense of the ridiculous character of frank's little joke broke upon him. "oh! my, think what will happen when mr. warringford tears open that envelope, and sees how his spy has been fooled!" he exclaimed. "there's only one bad thing about it, bob!" "what is that?" inquired the other. "eugene is, i take it, a clever fellow," said frank, seriously; "and he'll understand that this was done with a purpose. it will make him suspect that we're onto the game, and that we know he has the half-breed watching our every move." "well, what of that, frank?" "nothing, only after this we may expect they'll change their tactics more or less, and play on another string of the fiddle," the other saddle boy replied. "all right," bob remarked. "forewarned is forearmed, they say; and if we know eugene is laying low for us, we can be on our guard." "yes, that's all very good," frank went on, shaking his head; "but once we get into the big canyon it may pay us to keep an eye out for overhanging rocks." "say, you don't mean to tell me you think eugene would go that far?" demanded bob, startled at the very idea of such a thing. "i don't like to think he would; but you never can tell," frank replied. "when a man like eugene warringford sells his soul, and with a chance of getting a big stake, he is generally ready to shut his eyes, and go the limit." "but, frank, that would be terrible! one of those rocks, coming down from the face of a high cliff, would seriously injure us!" "sure it would, and on that account we must keep on the watch all the time," frank continued. "but i don't see abajo anywhere about the piazza of the hotel; do you?" "he's gone, and i reckon to carry that wonderful find of his to the man who employs him," bob remarked. "wouldn't i give a dollar to be hiding close by when he runs across eugene, and they open the envelope you sealed! wow! it will be a regular circus! can't you imagine that yellow face of the half-breed turning more like saffron then ever when he learns that we played him for a softy?" "well, if you were near by, bob, i wouldn't be surprised if you just had to stick your fingers in your ears," chuckled frank. "i reckon they will have a heap to say about it; and abajo, after this, won't take us for easy marks, will he?" bob remarked, in a satisfied tone. a short time later they were in their room. "you don't suppose now, frank, that we'll be bothered to-night?" bob observed, as he stood there by the window looking out toward the grand canyon. at that the other laughed quite merrily. "don't give yourself any uneasiness about that, bob," he remarked. "in the first place nobody would bother trying to get up here, even if they could, when so many better chances of reaching us will crop up after we start into the canyon to-morrow. then again, we haven't anything to be stolen but our rifles, and what little cash we brought along for expenses." "oh! i suppose i am silly thinking about it," admitted bob, "but some way that half-breed seems to be on my nerves. his face is so sly, and his black eyes just glitter as i've seen those of a snake do when he's going to strike. but, just as you say, it's foolish to borrow trouble, and i must get those notions out of my head." "that's the talk, bob," his chum declared, heartily. "morning will find us in fine trim to make a start into this big ditch. and before another night you'll be so filled with wonder over what you see that these other things will take a back seat." "but do you think we ever can find the hermit of echo cave?" asked bob. "i think we've got a pretty good chance, if we're left alone," came the ready reply. "meaning if this eugene warringford keeps his hands off; and nothing else turns up to balk us?" bob asked. "yes, all of that, and more," frank admitted. "but already i find myself wishing we had somebody along with us, like old hank coombs for instance, frank." "well, who knows what may happen?" said the other, a little mysteriously. "d'ye know, bob, i saw my dad winking at hank when he thought i wasn't looking; and on that account i've got half an idea he meant to send the old man, perhaps with a second cowboy, along on our trail. we may run across friends here when we least expect it." "i hope it turns out that way," declared the kentucky boy; "because hank is just what you might call a tower of strength when he's along. remember how fortunate it was he turned up when he did, at the time we wanted to follow that plague of the cattle ranges, the wolf, sallie? i reckon we'd have had a much harder time bagging our game if hank hadn't been along." "well, get to bed now," frank counseled; "and let to-morrow look out for itself." "all right, i'll be with you in three shakes of a lamb's tail," declared bob. but before he left the window frank noticed that he thrust his head out, as if desirous of making sure that no one could climb up the face of the wall, and find entrance there while they slept. bob was not a timid boy as a rule; in fact he was deemed rather bold; but just as he said, that dark face of abajo had impressed him unfavorably; and he felt that the young half-breed would be furious when he learned how neatly he had been sold. nor did anything happen during that night as they slept upon the border of the wonderland. both lads enjoyed a peaceful sleep, and awoke feeling as "fresh as fish," as bob quaintly expressed it. breakfast not being ready they walked about, viewing the astonishing features of the canyon as seen from the bluff on which the hotel stood. down in the tremendous gap mists were curling up like little clouds, to vanish as they reached the line where the sunlight fell. it was a sight that appalled bob, who declared that he felt as though looking into the crater of some vast volcano. "well," remarked frank, "they did have volcanos around here, after this canyon was pretty well formed, though perhaps thousands of years ago. great beds of lava have been found down in the bottom of the hole, so my little guide book tells me. but look away off there, bob, and see that peak standing up like the rim of a cloud. do you know what that is?" "i heard one man say," bob replied, quickly, "navajo peak could be seen on a clear morning, and perhaps that's the one; but frank, just think, it's about a hundred and twenty miles off. whew! they do things on a big scale around here; don't they? i'd call it the playground of giants." "and you'd about hit the bulls eye," his chum observed; "but there goes the call for breakfast." "i feel as if i could stow away enough for a crowd, this mountain air is so fresh and invigorating," bob remarked, as they headed for the dining room. half an hour later they were once more in front of the hotel, and interviewing a guide who had been recommended by the manager as an experienced canyon man. it ended in their making terms with john henry, as the fellow gave his name; though of course frank was too wise to tell him what their real object was in exploring the tremendous gap. that could come later on. at about nine o'clock they started down the trail that led from grand view into the depths of the fearful dip. and as they descended, following their guide, bob found himself realizing the colossal size of everything connected with the rainbow-hued canyon walls. nor was his mind made any easier when frank took occasion, half an hour later, to bend toward him, and say in the most natural manner possible, though in low tones: "they're on the job again, bob--abajo and eugene--because i happened to see them watching us start down the trail; and they had some one along with them, perhaps a guide; so we'll have to take it for granted that they mean to dog us all the time, hoping to steal our thunder, if we make any lucky find!" chapter xiv the home of the cliff dwellers although bob had anticipated such a thing, still the knowledge that it was actually coming to pass gave him a thrill. for some little time he did not say anything; but frank could see him look uneasily up at the walls that now arose sheer above their heads some hundreds of feet. frank had studied the situation as well as he could, both from a map of the canyon which he found in the little guide book, and his own observations. all the while he kept before him that admission on the part of the old moqui whom they had befriended, to the effect that the westering sun shone full in echo cave. so he expected to find the home of the hermit-scientist high up in the wall on the eastern side of the grand canyon. first he intended heading toward the east, and going just as far as they could. days, and perhaps weeks, might be spent in the search for the strange cave that had once been the home of those mysterious cliff people, which cavern professor oswald was occupying while studying the lives and customs of the long departed people who had dug these dwellings out of the rock. at noon they had made good progress; but when the tremendous size of that two hundred mile canyon was taken into consideration, with its myriad of side "washes," and minor canyons, the distance that they had covered was, as bob aptly declared, but a "flea-bite" compared with the whole. and frank declared time and again it had been a lucky thought that caused his chum to suggest that they bring the field glasses along. they were in almost constant use. far distant scenes were brought close, and high walls could be examined in a way that must have been impossible with the naked eye. of course frank was particularly anxious to scrutinize every colored wall that faced the west. the rainbow tints so plainly marked, tier above tier, called out expressions of deep admiration from the two lads; but all the while they were on the watch for something besides. when frank ranged that powerful glass along the ragged face of a towering cliff he was looking eagerly for signs of openings such as marked the windows of the homes fashioned by the strange people of a past age. during the afternoon they actually discovered such small slits in the rock--at least they looked like pencil markings to them when the guide first pointed out the village of the ancient cliff dwellers; though on closer acquaintance they found that the openings were of generous size. "shall we climb up that straggly path along the face of the wall, and see what the old things look like?" asked bob, as the guide made motions upward. "yes, we ought to have our first sight of such places," frank replied, in a cautious tone. "not that i expect we're going to find our hermit there, or in any other village that's known to tourist travel. but we ought to get an idea of what these places are like, you see. then we'll know better what to expect. and perhaps the conditions will teach us how to discover _his_ hiding place." accordingly they started to climb upward, just as many other tourists had been doing for years. there were even places, "aisles of safety," bob called them, where one who was ascending, upon happening to meet a descending investigator, could squeeze into a hole in the rock until the other had slipped by. of course it was a risky climb, and no lightheaded person could ever dream of taking it. but the two saddle boys were possessed of good nerves and able to look downward toward the bottom of the canyon, even when several hundred feet up in the air. then they entered the first hole. it seemed to be a fair-sized apartment, and was connected with a string of others, all running along the face of the cliff; so that those who occupied them in the long ago might have air and light. the boys observed everything with the ordinary curiosity expected of newcomers. frank even investigated to see if there were any signs to indicate that those old dwellers in the canyon knew about the use of fire; and soon decided that it was so. "well, what do you think about this?" bob asked, after they had roamed from one room to another. "for my part i think i'd fancy living in one of those three story adobe houses of the hopi indians, we saw pictures of at the hotel; or even a navajo hogan. but one thing sure, these people never had to worry about leaking roofs." "no," added frank, laughing; "and floods couldn't bother them, because the colorado never rose three hundred feet since it began cutting out this canyon." "and think of the grand view they had before their doors, with the canyon in places as much as thirteen miles across, and mountains in their dooryard, looking like anthills," bob went on impressively. "makes a fellow feel mighty small; doesn't it?" frank remarked, as he stepped to a window to look out again. "makes me feel that i want to get down again to the trail," admitted bob. "i'm wondering whether it's going to be much harder getting back than it was coming up." "that's always the case," frank declared, "as i've found out myself when climbing up a steep cliff. but the guide is ready for you, bob, if you show signs of getting dizzy. you have seen that he carries a rope along, just like the swiss guides do." "oh! come, frank! go easy with me; can't you?" the other exclaimed. "i hope i'm not quite so bad as that." "all the same, bob, don't take any chances; and if you feel the least bit giddy, let me know. this is a case where an ounce of prevention is better than a pound of cure. and a stout rope is a mighty good thing to feel when your foot slips." it turned out, however, that the kentucky lad was as sure-footed as a mountain goat. he descended the trail, with its several ladders, placed there of course by modern investigators, without the least show of timidity. they continued along the bed of the wide canyon. at times they followed the ordinary trail. then again frank would express a desire to have a closer look at some high granite wall that hovered, for possibly a thousand feet, above the very river itself; and this meant that they must negotiate a passage for themselves. no doubt john henry, the guide, must have thought them the queerest pair of tourists he had ever led through the mysteries of the grand canyon. but as yet frank had not thought fit to enlighten him. he was not altogether pleased with the appearance of the guide, and wished to wait until he knew a little more about his ways, before entrusting him with their secret. more than a few times during that day frank believed he had positive evidence that they were being watched. of course they met frequent parties of pilgrims wandering this way and that, as they drank in the tremendous glories of the canyon; but occasionally the boy believed he had seen a head thrust out from behind some rock in their rear, and then hastily withdrawn again as he looked. of course he could make a guess as to who was taking such a interest in the progress of his chum and himself. no one, save eugene warringford, would bother for even a minute about what they were doing, since richer quarry by far than a couple of boys would catch the eye of any lawless desperado, like those the two sheriffs were following, bent on making a haul. "frank," said bob, when the afternoon was drawing to a close, and they had begun to think of picking out the spot where they would spend the night; "tell me why you chose to head toward the east instead of the other way, where bright angel trail attracts so many tourists?" frank cast one glance toward the guide, as if to make sure that john henry was far enough in advance not to be able to catch what was said. "i had a reason, bob," he remarked, seriously. "before we got down into the canyon, so as to choose which way we would go, i talked with several men who were coming up. and bob, i learned that an old moqui indian had been seen heading toward the east late last night!" "and you think it may have been our friend, havasupai?" asked bob. "i'm pretty sure of it, from the descriptions they gave me," came the answer. "but frank, think how impossible it seems that he could have reached here almost as soon as we did; unless the old warrior was able to fly i don't see how it could be done." "i'm just as much up a tree as you are, bob," laughed the other; "but, all the same, i believe the moqui has arrived, and is on his way right now to where echo cave lies." "then he must have an aeroplane to help him out, for i don't see how else he could make it," bob insisted. "think for a minute, and you'll see it isn't actually impossible," frank continued. "he could have made flagstaff that night, just as we did." "yes," admitted bob, "that's a fact; for while he said he was tired, and wanted a mount to fly from his people, who were looking for him, still i understand that these moquis are wonderful runners, and game to the last drop of the hat. oh! i grant you that he could have made flagstaff that night sometime." "well, flagstaff is on the railroad, you know," frank remarked. "sure! i see now what you are hitting at," bob observed; "the old indian must have had money, as all his kind have, what with the tips given by tourists day after day. he could have come to grand view on the train. frank, once more i knuckle down to your superior wisdom. that's what havasupai must have done, sure pop!" "anyhow," the other continued, "it pleases me to believe so; and that the moqui is even now hurrying to make connections with the hermit in this mysterious echo cave. there's still another reason, though, why i picked out this course up the river, instead of going down. it is connected with the fact that the moquis have their homes in this quarter." "oh!" exclaimed bob, "i catch on now to what you mean. the chances are that the moqui would be prowling around within fifty miles of his own shack when he ran across the man-with-the-shining-spot-in-his-head, otherwise the bald professor oswald." "that's the point, bob." "it sure beats everything how you can get on to these things, frank. here i'm going to be a lawyer some day, so they tell me; and yet i don't seem to grab the fine points of this game of hide-and-seek as you do." "oh! well," frank remarked, consolingly; "a lawyer isn't supposed to know much about trails, and all such things. that comes to a fellow who has spent years outdoors, studying things around him, and keeping his wits on edge all the while." "i hope to keep on learning more and more right along," said bob. "here comes john henry back, to tell us he has found a good place for camping to-night; so no more at present, bob." it proved just as frank had said. the guide declared that as the sun was low down, the canyon would soon be darkening; and they ought to make a halt while the chance was still good to see what lay around them. accordingly they made a camp, and not a great distance away from the border of the swirling river that rolled on to pass through all the balance of that wonderful gulch, the greatest in the known world. they had come prepared for this, carrying quite a number of things along that would prove welcome at supper time. a cheery fire was soon blazing, and the guide busied himself in preparations for a meal; while the two boys wandered down to the edge of the river, to throw a few rocks into the current, and talk undisturbed. "there are several other camps not far away," remarked frank. "i could see the smoke rising in two places further on." "yes," added bob, "and there's one behind us too, for i saw smoke rising soon after we halted. perhaps that may be eugene's stopping place; eh, frank?" "i wouldn't be surprised one little bit. just look at the river, how silently it pushes along right here. it's deep too; and yet below a mile or so it frets and foams among the boulders that have dropped into its great bed from the high cliffs." "and they do say some bold explorers have gone all the way through the canyon in a boat; but i reckon it must be a terrible trip," bob ventured to say. "excuse us from trying to make it," laughed frank; "by the time we'd reach mohave city, where that bottle was picked up, there wouldn't be much left of us. but let's go back to camp now. john henry must have grub ready." three minutes later he suddenly caught bob's sleeve. "wait up!" he whispered. "there's somebody talking to our guide right now; and say, bob, don't you recognize the fellow?" "if i didn't think it was silly i'd say it was old spanish joe, the cowboy we had so much trouble with on thunder mountain," bob declared, crouching down. "well, think again," said frank; "and you'll remember that abajo is his nephew!" [illustration: "there's somebody talking to our guide right now." _saddle boys in the grand canyon_ _page 134_] chapter xv the treacherous guide "why, of course he is," declared bob; "and it looks as if our old enemies had cropped up again, to join forces with the new ones. that will make three against us; won't it, frank?" "the more the merrier," replied the other, but bob could see that he was inwardly worried over the new phase of the situation. "look at the way spanish joe is arguing with john henry!" said bob. "the guide keeps pointing this way, as if he might be afraid we'd come back, and see him talking with old joe. now they shake hands, frank. do you think any bargain has been struck between them?" "i'm afraid it has," replied his comrade, gritting his teeth with displeasure. "john henry has sold us out, and gone over to the enemy for cash. i saw him hide something in his pocket." "then what will we do about him?" asked bob, clenching his fist, as if it might give him considerable pleasure to take the treacherous guide personally in hand, and teach him the needed lesson. "that's easy," chuckled frank. "we'll keep on guard to-night, and when he sees how we hang to our guns he won't try any tricks, you may be sure." "and in the morning?" bob went on. "why," declared frank, firmly; "there's only one thing to be done--we must fire john henry, even if we have to pay him the whole sum agreed on for the week." "i'm glad to hear you say that, frank; because i'd hate to have him along. why, he might take a notion to step on my fingers when i was climbing up after him, and claim it was only an accident, but if i had a broken leg, or a cracked skull, that wouldn't do me any good, i take it." "there, joe is moving off, and we can head for camp," frank remarked, as they still hovered behind the spur of rocks that had concealed them, though allowing a view of the little camp. "but you don't want to tell john henry that we saw him making a bargain with spanish joe, i take it?" bob questioned. "that's right, we don't; and try to keep from looking as if you suspected him. now his back is turned, come along," and frank, rising, led the way. the preparations for supper went on apace. the guide was unusually talkative, bob thought, and he wondered whether it was not the result of a disturbed conscience. perhaps john henry might not be wholly bad, and was worried over having entered into an arrangement to betray his generous young employers. "what are we going to do for a guide when we let him go?" asked bob, later on, after they had eaten supper, and john henry had wandered down to the river for a dip, as he said. "we'll have to trust to luck to pick up another," frank declared. "and if it comes to the worst, we can go it alone, i reckon. i've never been up against such a big job as this, but i think i'd tackle it, if i had to. but wait and see what another day brings out." when it came time for them to retire they began talking about their ranch habit of standing guard. the guide laughed at the idea of any harm coming to pass while they were there in the canyon. "lots of other tourists are camping inside of three mile from here," he said; "and i heard the sheriff of the county himself is somewhere down in the canyon; so it don't look as how there could anything happen. but just as you says, boys; if it makes you feel better to stand guard, i ain't got a thing agin it." the night passed without any sort of attack. either frank or bob sat up all the time, with a trusty rifle ready; but there was no occasion to make use of the weapon. with the coming of morning they made ready to eat a hasty breakfast. after this was over frank found himself compelled to discharge the guide. "we've concluded to do without your services, john henry," he said, as the man stood ready to start forth on the way along the canyon, heading east. "me? let me go? what for?" stammered the fellow; turning red and then white as a consciousness of his guilt broke upon him. "here's what we promised to pay you for the week," continued frank. "we want no hard feelings about it. never mind why we let you go. you can think what you like. but next time you hire out to a party, john henry, be careful how you let anybody hand you over a few dollars to make you turn against your friends." the man tried to speak, and his voice failed him. they left him standing there, holding the bills frank had thrust into his hand, and looking "too cheap for anything," as bob said. perhaps he feared that the boys might tell what they knew about him, and in this way destroy his usefulness as a canyon guide ever afterwards. "good riddance to bad rubbish!" declared bob, after they had gone on half a mile, and on looking back saw john henry still standing there as if hardly knowing whether to be sorry, or glad over having received full pay for a week after only working a single day. "and here we are cut loose from everybody, and going it on our own hook," laughed frank. "but it would be foolish for us to think of doing without a guide if so be we can find one. we'll ask every party we meet, and perhaps in that way we can strike the right man." during the morning they came upon several parties making the rounds of the wonderland along the beaten channels. sometimes women were in the company, for the strange sights that awaited the bold spirit capable of enduring ordinary fatigue tempted others besides men to undertake one of the trips. just at noon the two boys came upon a lone chinaman sitting at a little fire he had kindled, cooking a fish, evidently pulled from the river by means of a hook and line. "well, what do you think!" exclaimed frank, as he stared at the oriental; "bob, don't you recognize that cousin of our ranch cook, ah sin, the same fellow who was down at our place five months ago? hello! charley moi, what are you doing in the big canyon, tell me?" the chinaman jumped up, and manifested more or less joy at the sight of frank. he insisted on shaking hands with both the boys. "how do? glad see flank, blob! me, i cook for plarties in gland canyon. hear of chance gettee job up gland view hotel. go there now. alle samee like see boys from circle lanch. how ah sin? him berry veil last time hear samee." frank had an idea. "see here, charley moi," he said; "you say you've been about the big canyon a long time now, serving as a cook to parties who go up and down. perhaps we might engage you to stay with us!" "me cook velly fine much all timee. you tly charley moi, you never say solly do samee!" declared the oriental, his moon-like face illuminated with a childlike and bland smile. "but we want you for a guide too, charley; you ought to know a heap about the place by this time," frank went on. "alle light, me do," replied the other, glibly. "no matter, cookee or guide, alle samee. lucky we meet. tly flish. just ketchee from water. cook to turnee. plentee for all. then go like flank, blob say. sabe?" as it was nearly noon the boys were quite satisfied to make a little halt, and taste the fresh fish which the chinaman had succeeded in coaxing from the rushing waters of the nearby colorado. later on they once again made a start. charley moi did everything in his power to prove his fidelity and faithfulness. he seemed proud of the fact that the son of the big owner of circle ranch, where his cousin worked as cook for the mess, trusted him, and had employed him as a guide. never before in the history of the grand canyon had a chinaman held such an exalted office; and charley believed he had cause to feel proud. "can we trust him?" bob asked, as evening came on again. "i've always heard that chinamen are treacherous fellows." "then you've heard what isn't true," frank replied. "a chinaman never breaks his word. over in the far east i've read that all the merchants of british cities are chinese. the japs are a different kind of people. yes, we can trust charley moi. he would never betray us to our enemies." nevertheless, that night the boys also slept on their arms, so to speak. one of them remained on guard at different times, the entire night. frank had learned caution on the range. he did not mean to be taken by surprise; though he really believed that nothing would be done to injure them until after they had found some trace of the hidden hermit of echo cave. before another twelve hours had passed he had occasion to change his opinion. the night did not bring any alarm in its train. charley moi was up several times, shuffling around, looking at the fire, and sitting there smoking his little pipe, as though in satisfaction over having struck such a profitable job so easily; but he gave no sign of holding any intercourse with outsiders. with the coming of morning they were once more on the way. frank noticed with considerable satisfaction that now they seemed to be beyond the ordinary limit of the various trails taken by the regular tourist parties. they were walking along, about the middle of the morning, when they found themselves in a lonely region, where the dim trail led along the foot of rugged walls stretching up, red and apparently unscalable, to the height of hundreds of feet. frank was craning his neck as he looked up overhead, wondering if it could be possible that there was any sign of an abandoned cliff dwellers' village there, when he saw something move, and at the same instant he jumped forward to pull his chum violently back. chapter xvi a wonderful discovery bob opened his mouth to call out, and ask what was the matter, that his chum had seized upon him so fiercely. but he held his breath, for something came to pass just then that made words entirely unnecessary. a huge rock seemed to slip from its notch up on the side of the cliff, and come crashing down, loosening others on the way, until finally the rush and roar almost partook of the nature of a small avalanche. charley moi had skipped out in a lively manner, and thus managed to avoid being caught. bob stared at the pile of broken rock, about which hung a little cloud of dust. "wow! that was as close a call as i ever hope to have, frank!" he exclaimed, with a little quiver to his voice. frank himself was a bit white, and his hand trembled as he laid it on that of his chum. "i just happened to be looking up, and saw it trembling on the break," he said. "only for that we might have been underneath all that stuff." "but did you notice the clever way charley moi avoided the deluge?" said bob, trying to smile, though he found it hard work. "yes, it's hard to catch a chinaman napping, they say," frank went on. "three times this very day i've heard the thunder of falling rocks, and that was what kept me nervous; so i watched out above. and, bob, it seemed as though i must have seen that big rock just trembling as it started to leave the face of the cliff." "well, all i can say then, is, that you jumped to the occasion mighty well. some fellows would have been scared just stiff, and couldn't have thrown out a hand to save a chum. but look here, frank, you don't imagine that thing was done on purpose, do you?" frank looked at his companion, with a wrinkle on his forehead. "i don't want to think anybody could be so mean and low as to want to hurt boys who'd never done them any harm," he said; "but all the same i seem to have an idea that i got a glimpse of a man's arm when that rock started to drop." "whew! you give me a cold chill, frank," muttered bob, gazing helplessly upward toward the spot from which the descending rock had started on its riotous tumble. "yes, and i hope i was mistaken," frank went on. "i don't see anything up there now; and perhaps it was only a delusion. all these bright colors affect the eyes, you see. then, again, it might have been some goat jumping, that started that rock on its downward plunge." "but you didn't see any goat, frank, did you?" bob asked, anxiously. "no, i didn't," admitted the other; "but then there may be a shelf up there, and any animal on it would be hidden from the eyes of those right below." they passed on; but more than once bob craned his neck in the endeavor to look up to that spot, from whence the loose rock had plunged. he could not get it out of his head that foes were hovering about, who thought so little of human life that they would conspire to accomplish a death if possible. the day passed without any further peril confronting them. charley moi seemed to fill the bill as a guide, very well. he also knew the different points of interest, and chattered away like a magpie or a monkey as they kept pushing on. bob became curious to know just how the chinaman could tell about so many things when they were now above the trails used ordinarily by tourists, who gave two or three days to seeing the grand canyon, and then rushed away, thinking they had exhausted its wonders, when in fact they had barely seen them. he put the question to charley moi, and when the smiling-faced chinaman replied, frank caught his breath. "that easy, bloss," said charley, nodding. "happen this way. long time black me 'gage with sahib, like one know out in canton. think have samee big joss some bit up here in canlon. me to bling grub to certain place evly two month. him give me list what buy, and put cash in hand. know can trust chinaman ebery time. many time now me do this; so know how make trail up-river, much far past same tourist use. sabe, flank, blob?" the two boys stared at each other, unable to say a word at first. it was as if the same tremendous thought had come to each. "gee whiz! did you get on to that, frank?" finally ejaculated bob. "i sure did," replied his chum, allowing his pent-up breath full play. "charley says he engaged himself to a gentleman long ago; perhaps it was as much as three years back, the time that the professor disappeared from the haunts of men. and, frank, his part of the contract was to come to a certain point away up here in the grand canyon, once every two months, at a time agreed on, bringing a load of food, as per the list given him by this mysterious party." "it must be professor oswald!" exclaimed frank. "i've been wondering all the time how under the sun he could have supplied himself with food these long months if he'd cut loose from the world, as he said in that note he had. now the puzzle begins to show an answer. charley moi is the missing link. he has kept the professor in grub all the time. did you ever hear of such luck? first we run across that old moqui, who has been in touch with the man we want to find; and now here's the one who comes up here every little while to deliver his goods, and get a new list, as well as money to pay for the same. it's just the limit, that's what!" he turned to the chinaman, and continued: "did you happen to notice, charley, whether this party you are working for is a bald-headed man? has he a shining top when he takes his hat off; and does he bend over, as if he might be hunting for diamonds all the time?" the chinese guide smirked, and bobbed his head in the affirmative. "that him, velly much, just same say. shiny head, and blob this away alle time," with which he walked slowly forward, bending over as though trying to discover a rich vein of gold in the seamed rock under his feet. "shake hands, bob," said frank. "we're getting hot on the trail. now we needn't have any doubt at all about the choice of the eastern route. it's the right one; and somewhere further on we're just bound to find echo cave." "then all we've got to fear, frank, is the work of eugene and his crowd. let us keep clear of that bad lot, and we're going to succeed. any time, now, we may glimpse our old moqui, returning with a message from the professor, if he sees fit to reply to your appeal. he may, though, be so set and stubborn that nothing will move him from his game of hiding. then we'll have to get that paper, with his signature, and save the mine for his family." "that's what i mean to do," replied the other, with grim determination. "if he's so wrapped up in his scheme that he just won't come out, we're going to do the best we can to save his fortune in spite of him. there's his daughter janice to think of. above all, we mustn't let that schemer, eugene warringford, get his fingers on the document." that night they made camp in a little cave that offered an asylum. the boys rather fancied the idea for a change. and they passed a very comfortable night without any alarm. once, bob being on duty near the mouth of the opening, heard a shuffling sound without. he could not make out whether it was caused by the passage of a human being, or a bear. half believing that they were about to be attacked by some animal that fancied the cave as a den, he had drawn back the hammer of his rifle, and watched the round opening that was plainly seen at the time, as it was near morning, and the small remnant of a moon was shining without. but he waited in vain, and, as the minutes passed without any further alarm, bob heaved a sigh of relief. it was all very well to think of shooting big game; but under such conditions he did not much fancy a close battle. when morning came, and he had told frank about it, the other immediately went out to look for traces of the animal. as he came back bob saw by the expression on his chum's face that frank had made some sort of discovery. "how about it?" he asked. "it was no bear," replied the other, decidedly. "but sure i heard something moving, frank, and i was wide-awake at the time, too," bob protested. "i guess you were, all right," frank admitted. "a man passed by, not far from the mouth of the cave. he even stooped down, and looked in, though careful not to let his head show against the bright background. then he went off again up the canyon." "since you know so much, frank, perhaps you could give a guess as to who he was," said bob, eagerly. "no guess about it," came the reply. "i've examined his track before, and ought to know it like a book. it was abajo, bob!" "then ten to one, spanish joe and eugene were close by!" declared bob. "say, do you really believe he knew we were in here?" "of course he did," frank asserted. "perhaps they saw us enter. but abajo also knows that both of us are fair shots. he did not dare take the chance of trying to creep in. it would be more dangerous than our going into that wolf den." "the plot seems to be thickening, frank. it won't be long now before something is bound to happen. if we could only run across the old moqui now, and hear that he carried a message in answer to your note, that would clear the air a heap, wouldn't it?" "well, we must live in hopes," replied frank, cheerfully. "and now, after a bite which charley moi is getting ready for us, we'll be off again, and tackle the roughest traveling in the whole canyon, so he says. but he knows the way, because he was led up here by the old professor, and told to come back every two months." chapter xvii the windows in the rocky walls "well, here it's the fourth day we've been out, and nothing doing yet, frank!" bob spoke gloomily, as though the unsuccessful search was beginning to pall upon him a little. boys' natures differ so much; and while the young kentuckian had many fine qualities that his chum admired, still he was not so persistent as frank. nothing could ever daunt the boy from circle ranch. difficulties, he believed, were only thrown in his way to bring out the better parts of his nature. the more a fellow found himself "up against it," as frank called meeting trouble half-way, the stronger became his character. "oh! well, now, bob, i wouldn't say that," he answered the complaint of his chum. "just think what tremendous progress we've been making right along. and if the very worst comes, didn't charley moi say that it was only a week now before he must get another stock of things to eat, and won't he have to wait at the place of meeting, for the 'learned sahib' to appear, and take them from him, as he has done so often? why, we can be in hiding nearby, and meet the professor, even against his will." "that's so," bob admitted, the argument proving a clincher; "and i reckon i'm a silly clown to think anything else." "no, you're only tired, after a pretty tough day, that's all," frank declared. "when you've had a rest you'll feel better. i'm more used to this sort of thing than you are, old fellow; but all the same we must admit that we're getting the greatest view ever of this old canyon." "that's so, frank, and it's worth all the climbing and sliding, too. but every time we've discovered signs of any of those old deserted homes of the cliff dwellers, why, we find they've been visited time and again by curious folks hoping to discover some treasure, or keepsakes of the extinct people. no chance for the old professor to hide away there." "but pretty soon we're going to discover a new batch of those caves in the face of the rock, something unknown to all other searchers. we'll find it by the aid of this same glass; and because we're looking for it, high up. in all these other cases you see, bob, there were shelves of rock above shelves; and new ladders have been made by the guides, so that anybody with nerve could climb up and up. now these ladders give the thing away. and i've somehow got the notion in my head that in the case of the rock dwellings where the professor is hiding himself, there is no outward sign in the shape of ladders." "but in that case, frank, how under the sun could the old fellows ever get up to their dens, which you said must be near the top of a high cliff?" "well, that's something we're going to find out later on, you see," replied the other, serenely. "perhaps they had some way of lowering themselves from the top by means of a rope, or a stout, wide grape vine. then, again, there may be some cleft in the rock farther away, that no one would notice; but which was used as a trail, running up into the cliff, and to the rock houses." "it does take you to figure out these things," declared bob, in admiration, as they trudged along, with charley moi in advance. "then we haven't yet got to the place where the chinese buyer meets his employer with the eatables?" bob remarked after a little silence. "the last time i asked him he kept saying it was only a little farther along," replied frank. "there, look at him stopping right now; and frank, he's grinning at us in a way that can only mean one thing. that must be where he always waits for the queer old gentleman to show up." "how about that, charley; is this the place where you hang out?" asked frank, as they hastened to join the guide. "allee samee place," replied charley moi, waving his yellow hand around him. "not know where shaib come fromee, always turn roundee rock," and he pointed to a large outlying mass that had, ages ago, become detached from the towering cliff overhead, and fallen in such a fashion as to partly obstruct the canyon trail. frank looked around him eagerly. "we must be getting warmer all the time," he remarked; "and if you just take a look at that river right now, you'll see that up yonder the rock rises up almost from its very flood. when the water is high it must sweep along against the face of that big cliff. and bob, something seems to tell me that somewhere inside of a mile or so, we're going to find what we're looking for." "oh! i hope so!" echoed bob, with a look of expectancy on his face; for he always put great reliance on the common sense of his chum; and when frank said a thing in that steady tone, the kentucky boy believed it must be so. frank called a halt then and there. "we're tired, anyway," he said, "and might as well spend the night here. besides, i just want to find a place were i can take a good look through the glass up at that cliff near the top. it faces the west, all right, you see; and the indications are that somewhere or other i'll find signs of the queer windows belonging to some of those cave houses." the camp was made, and charley moi busied himself with his fire. bob had some things he wished to attend to; while frank took the glass, and, settling down in a place where he believed he could get a fair view of the upper strata of colored rock, began carefully scrutinizing the cliff. "the time is right, because the old indian said the westering sun shone in the mouth of echo cave," frank mused, as he pursued his work, not disappointed because failure came in the beginning. frank had been at work possibly six or eight minutes when he gave utterance to a low exclamation. then he fixed his field glasses upon a certain spot as though something had caught his attention there. "bob!" he called out. "want me?" asked his chum from the spot where the fire was burning. "yes, come here please," frank continued. bob quickly complied with the request. he knew that although his camp-mate spoke in such a quiet tone, he had evidently made a discovery. frank could repress his feelings even in a moment of great excitement, which was something beyond the ability of the more impetuous kentucky lad. "what have you found, frank?" he asked, as he reached the side of the other. "here, take the glass," said frank. "point it toward that little cone that seems to rise up like a chimney above the level of the cliff top. got it now? well, let your glass slowly drop straight down the face of the rock. never mind the glint of the sun, and the fine rich color. i know it's just glorious, and all that; but we're after something more important now than pictures and color effects. what do you see, bob?" "honest now, i believe you've hit the bulls-eye this time, frank." "then you think they're windows, about after the same style as those holes in the rock where we climbed up the ladders to the deserted homes of the old time cliff dwellers?" asked the other. "sure they are; no mistake about it, either," replied bob, and then he gave a low exclamation. "what did you see?" demanded frank, as if suspecting the truth. "i don't know," came the reply; "but something seemed to move just inside one of those openings. it may have been a garment fluttering in the breeze that must be blowing so far up the heights; and then, again, perhaps some hawk, or other bird, has its nest there, and just flew past. i couldn't say, frank; but i saw _something_, and it moved!" frank took the glass, and looked long and earnestly. "whatever it was," he remarked, "it doesn't mean to repeat the act. but all the same, bob, i've got a hunch we've found the place, and that echo cave lies far up yonder in that beetling cliff." "it's a fierce reach up there," remarked bob, as he scanned the height. "how under the sun d'ye suppose that old professor could ever get up and down? too far for him to have a rope ladder; and even if he had, how could he reach the place at first? frank, all the way up, i can't see the first sign of any rock shelves, where ladders might have rested long ago." "that's so," replied the other, reflectively. "the face of the cliff is as even and smooth as a floor. nobody would ever look to find a cluster of cliff dwellers' homes up there; that is, nobody but a man like professor oswald, who has made a life study of such things, and knows all the indications. but something tells me we're pretty near the end of our long trail. the only question now is, how can we get in touch with the hermit of echo cave?" as night settled down the two boys returned to the fire, still perplexed. chapter xviii finding a way up that night they kept no fire going. frank seemed to think it best that they remain quiet, so as not to announce their presence in the neighborhood. though for that matter, it would seem that if any one were perched aloft in one of those slits in the face of the cliff, that represented the windows of the cave dwellings, the entire canyon below must be spread out like a book. nothing happened to disturb them. once frank thought he heard a distant shout, and this excited his curiosity not a little. according to what charley moi said they were now in a neighborhood where ordinary tourists never visited. he thought of the two sheriffs and the lawless men they were pursuing. could it be possible that they were destined to run across those desperate characters sooner or later? the thought was a disquieting one. it served to make frank wakeful, and his restlessness was communicated to bob, although the latter did not know what caused it. but if the fugitives from justice were loitering around in that particular part of the grand canyon, either hiding from the determined sheriffs, or looking for rich quarry, neither they or anyone else disturbed the camp of the saddle boys. again, in the morning, charley moi lighted a fire, and made ready to prepare a modest breakfast. as bob had said, their supplies were running low, and unless something happened very soon the chinaman would have to be dispatched to the nearest store to replenish the food. still thinking of the sound he had heard during the night, and which he believed must have been a human voice, rather than the cry of some wild animal, frank, while they sat cross-legged around the fire, eating the scanty meal, addressed himself to the chinaman. "how many times have you come up this far, charley moi?" he asked. the other commenced to figure on his fingers. having no counting board, used so frequently by his countrymen in laundries, until they get accustomed to the habits of the white man, he took this means of tabulating. "allee fingers and this much over," and he held up the first and second fingers of one hand. "ten and two, making twelve in all," declared bob. "well, you have served the man-with-the-bald-head faithfully and long, charley." "and in all these times i suppose you've never known anybody to be around here?" frank went on. charley shook his head in the negative. "white man, no. sometime moqui come 'long, make for stlore down canlon get glub. see same two, thlee times. charley moi see old moqui last night," the chinaman replied. "what's that you say?" demanded frank, hastily. "that you saw a moqui last night, and after we had come to halt right here?" "thatee so," grinned the other, as though pleased to feel that he was able to interest frank so readily. "just when did this happen, charley moi?" pursued the other. "flank, blob, down by river, make muchee look-look in glass," answered charley. "now, what d'ye think of that?" ejaculated bob, in disgust. "while we were away from camp for ten minutes, something happened. why couldn't it have come about when we were on deck? there's a fine chance lost to get track of havasupai; for i reckon you believe the same as i do, frank, and that the old moqui whom charley saw was _our_ indian?" "seems like it, bob," replied the other, "but don't cry yet. perhaps it may not be too late to remedy matters. see here, charley moi, could you show me just where you saw this moqui last?" the yellow-skinned guide smirked, and nodded his head until his pigtail bobbed up and down like a bell rope. "easy do," he observed, beginning to get upon his feet. "come along bob," remarked frank. "we'd all better be present. three heads are better than one when it comes to a question of deciding what's to be done." "do you think you can track him, frank?" questioned the kentucky boy, eagerly. "i'm going to try," was all frank would say; for he was very modest with regard to his accomplishments as a son of the prairie. charley moi was as good as his word. he seemed to remember just where he had happened to spy the passing indian when looking up from the making of the fire. the moqui had paid no attention to him; indeed, at the time he was creeping past as though taking advantage of the absence of the two boys in order to make a circuit of the camp near the big cliff. "find 'em frank?" asked bob, after he had seen his chum bending down over the ground for half a minute. "yes, and they are the tracks of an indian too, for they toe in," frank replied. "besides, they are made by moccasins instead of shoes or boots with heels. and if i needed any further proof to tell me our friend havasupai made these tracks, and not a strange moqui, i have it in the queer patch across the toe of his right moccasin, which i noticed when he was with us before." "that's just fine!" bob exclaimed, filled with pride over the way in which his chum seemed able to fix the facts so that they could not be questioned. "and will you start after him right away, frank?" "watch me; that's all," came the reply, as frank began to move away, still bending low in order to follow the faint traces of footprints on the rock and scanty soil. the others came close at his heels, bob with a look of assurance on his face, because he felt positive that the game would now be tracked to its hiding place; and charley moi picturing his wonder on his moon-like countenance. so the prairie lad led them in and out among the rocks, and the scrub that grew close to the verge of the river. several times he seemed a little in doubt, as the marks faded entirely away; but on such occasions his common-sense came to the rescue, and, after a look around, frank was able to once more find the trail. "here's where it ends!" when frank made this remark bob could not keep from expressing his surprise. he gaped upward at the bare-faced wall that arose for hundreds of feet, without any particular ledge or outcropping where even a nimble indian could find safe lodgment for his moccasined feet. "but, frank, however could the old moqui get up there to see uncle felix?" he asked. "d'ye suppose he made some sort of signal, and the hermit lowered a long rope with a noose at the end, which would draw him up? wow! excuse me from ever trying to fly in that way! it would make me so dizzy i'd be sure to drop, and get smashed." "you're beating on the wrong track, bob," remarked the other. "no rope could be lowered all that distance; and even if it could no one man would be able to pull another all the way up." "but there must be some way of getting to the place where the slits in the face of the cliff tell of windows. however do you think he did it, frank?" "just because you don't happen to see a ladder, bob, is no evidence there isn't a way to mount upward. one thing about this great cliff i guess you didn't happen to notice. that shows you pass things by. look again, and you'll see that it seems to have been split by some volcanic smash, ages ago. there's a regular crevice running slantingly up the face of the rock. you see it now, don't you?" "sure i do; and i was blind not to take notice of the same before," bob replied. "fact is, i did see that uneven mark, but just thought it was a fault in the make of the cliff, as a miner would say." "well, that crack extends four-fifths of the way up to the top; and far enough to reach the place where we noticed all those dark marks, which we believed must be windows of the many rooms or houses of the cliff dwellers. get that, bob?" "sure i do, frank, and after your explanation i can see what you're aiming at. but where does that ragged crevice start from down here, do you think?" frank stepped forward. just as if he had it all figured out, he bent down, and with his hand drew aside the bushes that grew against the base of the cliff. "well, i declare, there it is for a fact!" exclaimed bob, as he saw a rough opening before him, which came almost together five feet from the ground, leaving only a dark, uneven, slanting line that crawled up the face of the cliff like the photograph of a zigzag bolt of lightning taken with a snapshot camera. "there you are," said frank, with a broad smile. "unless all signs fail, here's the entrance to the mysterious echo cave. we have been more than lucky to find it with so little trouble." "just to think of it," remarked bob, as he bent over to look up into the gap as well as he was able; "here's where the queer old professor has been hiding for all this time, and no one any the wiser. but frank, however in the wide world do you suppose he found out the way to get up there?" "we would have found it sooner or later, even if charley moi had not seen the old indian moving along," replied frank, with the confidence of one who knows what he is talking about. "y--yes, i reckon we would, after you'd prowled around a little, and had some chance to look the ground over. then you believe he must have found the presence of those windows looking out of the cliff just like we did; by using a powerful glass? and, thinking that here was the very place for him to hide and study, he set about looking for the road up, and found it, very likely." "he did it by using common sense, and applying all he knew about the ways of these people of the long ago," replied frank. "and you can see that if he chose, he could have thrown that bottle out of one of the openings up there, so that it would drop in the passing current of the colorado, to be carried down-stream until somebody saw it; and finding the message to my father, sent or carried it to circle ranch." "well," observed bob, with a gleam in his eye, "now that we've found a way to get up to echo cave, have we the nerve to start in?" chapter xix fortune still favors the brave instead of replying at once to this question, as bob undoubtedly thought his chum would do, frank seemed to give a start. he dropped to his hands and knees, and seemed to be examining some marks on the ground. if ever the fair knowledge of reading tracks which frank possessed was called upon to do duty, it was now. bob, of course, could not understand what possessed his comrade; but simply stood there and stared, wondering what frank had found to cause him to exhibit such breathless interest, and all the signs of unusual excitement. when finally the lad on his knees did look up, bob saw a grave expression on his face. "there's something wrong, frank; tell me what it is?" he demanded. "i've made an unpleasant discovery, bob," replied the other. "charley!" he added turning to the wondering celestial, "go back to our camp, and bring our guns right away, both of them, see?" "yep, bloss, me unelstand. charley moi gettee gluns light away quick!" and as he said this the obliging chinaman went on a run, his pigtail and blue blouse flying out behind him. "say, whatever does all this mystery mean, frank?" asked bob, almost helplessly. "just what you might imagine; that there's danger hanging about us, bob." the eyes of the astonished bob sought the ground at the point where his chum had been so deeply interested. "then it must be something you just discovered there, and that's a fact," he declared; "because you didn't act this way three minutes ago." "i happened to discover footprints coming from another quarter," frank went on, calmly; "and they headed into this crevice, just as those of the moccasined moqui did from that side. and they came after old havasupai had gone up, for i found where they wiped out a part of one of his tracks." "footprints, and were they made by the old professor, do you think?" asked bob. "not any. fact is," observed frank, as though deciding to have the worst over, "they were the tracks of three persons, all men!" "oh! my! three, you said, frank; and that would mean eugene, spanish joe, and abajo, wouldn't it?" "just the very ones i meant," replied frank. "then they must have been hiding some place near here, and saw the moqui pass in?" suggested bob, fully aroused by now. "that seems to be what happened," frank observed. "but here comes charley moi with the guns. see how he dodges about, so as to keep hidden from the view of anybody up in those windows above, which we can't glimpse from here." when bob eagerly took his repeating rifle from the hands of the chinaman he exhibited all the evidence of great satisfaction; for he heaved a sigh of relief, and fondled his weapon in a way that caused his comrade to smile. "i feel better now," bob confessed; "because, to tell the honest truth, when you broke the news so suddenly it nearly gave me heart failure, frank, to think that if those rascals sprang out at us we would be next door to helpless. now let 'em be careful how they play their little game. but what does it all mean, do you suppose, frank?" "i can only make a guess, and that may be wide of the truth," the other admitted. "by some accident they managed to get on the track of the moqui. though havasupai thought himself smart, he was no match for such a cunning rascal as spanish joe, who is said to be the best trailer along the arizona border. and they followed him right here." "that was last evening, just when you and i stood there down by the river, looking through the glasses up at the windows of the rock houses above," remarked bob. "yes. perhaps they didn't go up right then." frank went on. "i admit that i can't just make out how long ago these tracks were made. a better trailer might, you see, bob. if old hank coombs were only here now i'd be glad to turn the whole business over to him, and play second fiddle." "but some time between dark and morning these three rascals went in here, and surprised the hermit of echo cave--is that it, frank?" "it covers the case all right," came the reply. "say, do you think they are up there yet?" asked the kentucky lad, in an anxious tone. "i think they must be, bob, because all the tracks point one way, showing that the three men never came back. if they left the cave it must have been by some other way." "no use asking why they would want to get in touch with uncle felix!" continued bob, as if bent on finding out everything he could in connection with the case. "we know what their reason was," frank made answer. "when abajo, hanging about the window of our ranch house, heard what we had to say about the message that came floating down the colorado in that bottle, and carried the wonderful news to his employer, eugene warringford, he set the game going that must end right here. he has come with the intention of making professor oswald turn over that option to him; and he'll do it unless something we can offer prevents." "but frank, if the moqui carried that note of yours to uncle felix, he would be on his guard, and absolutely refuse to sign away the papers?" "i hope he will, but i fear that those three scamps are up there right now, trying to coax or bulldoze him into signing," frank said, with a tightening of his lips, and a flash of his clear eyes. "then we go up, and put a spoke in their wheel, do we?" asked bob, looking as if he were ready to make the start instantly, if his comrade but gave the word. frank glanced around him a little uncertainly. "i've got a good notion to try it," he muttered as if talking to himself. "what's that you say, frank?" asked his companion, who had caught the words, and did not know what to make of them. "i didn't tell you, bob," frank remarked; "but during the night i thought i heard a voice calling far away yonder. and somehow it struck me at the time that there was a familiar cowboy yell about it." "old hank coombs, perhaps, frank?" suggested the other lad, quickly. "that was on my mind, bob. you know history often repeats itself. once before, just when we seemed to need hank the worst way, he came riding along as if he had heard us call. and i was wondering whether he might not be somewhere around here right now." "that would be just prime, if only we could get in touch with him," bob declared. "and, as your father wouldn't send hank alone, there'd be one more cowboy along. that would make a party of four. why, those three rascals would just shrivel, and throw up the sponge, if they saw us break in on 'em. but frank, how about making the old range call?" "d'ye know, i was just thinking it might do to try it," remarked the other. "then start in and give the whoop," bob observed. "no harm done anyhow; even if they hear it up there. and while you're doing all that, i'll just drop on one knee here, and cover the crack in the wall. suppose one of the lot should try and come out while we were off our guard. i'll make him surrender quicker than he can say 'jack robinson'!" presently there sounded upon the morning air the clear "cooee" of the range, particularly well known to every cowboy who had worked at circle ranch. frank and bob listened eagerly to learn whether there would come any response. if not, then they must take up the task of climbing that singular crevice by themselves; and finding out how affairs stood above. their suspense was short-lived, for quickly there floated to their waiting ears a responsive call. turning toward the quarter from whence it seemed to come they saw a hat waving. "it's old hank, sure it is!" exclaimed bob, with a thrill of delight; for the burden of going up against three desperate characters was more than boy nature could stand without more or less uneasiness. "that's chesty with him," announced frank, as two figures were discovered coming toward them. "why, if we'd made all the arrangements ourselves we couldn't have done better, bob. here comes our reinforcements just in the nick of time. and if eugene and his backers are still up yonder in the cliff dwellers' homes, they have stayed a little while too long, that's all." in another three minutes the boys were shaking hands with old hank and chesty; the latter with a cheerful grin on his face, as though he considered it quite a joke to break in on frank's game at the finishing point. of course they were ignorant as to how matters stood. and frank took upon himself the task of explaining all that had happened. "ther up yonder yet, then," announced hank, after he had carefully inspected the footprints, and noted that they all pointed one way; "that is to say, if they ain't got an airyplane along as would allow of them flying off. an' frank, when ye sez the word we'uns are goin' t' walk up this rock ladder t' see what sorter place the ole perfessor keeps." "then i say it now," declared frank, anxious to have the thing settled one way or the other without further delay. "foller arter me, all of ye!" called the old plainsman, as he plunged into the gap. chapter xx another surprise "one thing, we won't need torches this time, hank!" remarked bob as he prepared to follow after the leader. "i reckons not, bobby," chuckled the veteran cowman, who knew that something about the situation must have recalled their entering that cave that day where sly old sallie and her half-grown whelps awaited their coming with bared teeth. just back of hank came chesty, who was a very ambitious young fellow, and always to be counted on with regard to obtaining his proper share in every little excitement that happened. then frank filed along; and at his heels bob climbed; while charley moi brought up the rear, bent on seeing all that might come to pass. the crevice immediately began to mount upward, just as frank had anticipated it would. there were times when the climbing was pretty steep, and frank began to wonder what sort of agile man this old and stubborn professor oswald could be, to overcome such difficulties so often, while in the pursuit of his hobby. bob was soon panting, but no less bent on "keeping up with the procession," as he himself put it. they had been going back from the face of the cliff pretty much all the time, so that there was really no chance to take an observation, in order to tell just how far up they had come. frank felt sure, however, after this labor had kept up for quite a long time, that they must now be getting near the top of the break, or where the crooked crack in the face of the rock ended. he tried to picture what they would find. if eugene and his reckless backers had been in possession of the place for some hours now, they must have tried all sorts of expedients in order to compel the professor to reveal the secret hiding place of the valuable document, and make it over to them. nor would such heartless men hesitate long about adopting torture in order to force a confession from the unwilling victim. then frank wondered if the three rascals would attempt any tactics looking to holding the attacking force at bay. they were well armed, no doubt, and having such a rich treasure hanging in the scales, it might be expected that they would hate to let it slip from their covetous grasp without putting up some sort of fight. but all that could be left to old hank. for many years he had been the leading figure in all the affairs that centered around circle ranch. did the rustlers run off part of the herd, the veteran was put in charge of the pursuing force. sometimes the sly marauders got off scot free; but more often they paid dearly for their audacity in picking out colonel haywood's ranch as the scene of their foray. frank really had no fears as to the result, now that hank had arrived on the scene to direct operations. the three schemers might give them some trouble, but they could not carry the day. "please let a fellow rest up a little, hank!" came from bob, finally. the old cow puncher understood that the pace had been too warm for the tenderfoot; and he considerately halted. perhaps none of the climbers were averse to a breathing spell before the final round. it would put them in better condition for the wind-up, whatever that might prove to be. "frank," whispered bob, as he pulled at the trouser leg of his chum so as to induce him to bend down closer. "what's the row?" asked the other, in somewhat the same guarded tone, as he managed to double over, and bring his face close to that of his friend. "charley moi has just told me something," bob went on. "you know we found out before now that he's got the greatest pair of ears ever for hearing things? well, he says there's something or some one following us up this old crack!" "whew! that's nice, now. a regular procession, it seems," remarked frank. "who d'ye think it can be; and would a bear or a mountain lion pick up our tracks this way?" continued bob, who was trying to work his rifle around, so as to cover the rear. "wait! let's all listen, after i send the word along to hank and chesty," remarked frank. when this had been done even the old cowman thought well enough of the idea to wait until they could find out the nature of the sounds that had reached the keen hearing of the wide-awake chinaman. it was only half light in the break of the rock, and the passage they had been following thus far was so very crooked that no one could see more than twenty feet down the trail. still every eye was fastened on that point where the advancing man or animal would first appear. frank, too, had his rifle bearing on the spot; and taken as a whole the appearance of the little company, flattened out against the break in the mighty rock wall, was rather threatening. all of them could catch the sounds below now. whoever came up the rock ladder must be unused to negotiating such a stairway, for they rattled small bits of loose shale down at times; and frank felt sure he could hear a panting sound, very much like that which tired bob had been making a minute ago. and, as he listened, frank made a discovery that caused him to tighten his grip on that reliable repeating rifle. there were two of the pursuers! and he anticipated that the leader must come in sight ere another dozen seconds passed! there was some sort of movement now, down in the region of the little twist where the steep stairway of the old cliff dwellers made a turn. then a head and shoulders came into view. frank chuckled aloud. just in almost that last second of time he had suddenly guessed the truth, when, in this clinging figure that was staring upward, as though filled with genuine surprise, he recognized an old friend. it was mr. stanwix, the sheriff of the county! he and his mate from the adjoining division of coconino must have just had a glimpse of charley moi disappearing in the dark hole at the base of the cliff; and, being in pursuit of two shrewd law breakers, who had been known to appear in other dress than that of cowmen, perhaps the officers had concluded that here was something that ought to be investigated. frank immediately made a friendly gesture with one hand. he did not want to risk the chances of being fired upon by the officers of the law, who might take the little party for bad men. then he beckoned in a fashion that the sheriff must readily understand to mean caution, and silence. they saw mr. stanwix bend down as though he might be explaining to his fellow officer what an astonishing thing had happened. after that he came on, climbing the steep rock ladder as an exhausted person might. yet his nature was like that of the bulldog; and once he had started to do a thing, nothing could make him stop. when he arrived at a point where he could make his way alongside frank, squeezing past charley moi and bob, the sheriff of yavapai county turned an inquiring look upon his young friend. whereupon frank started in to tell him just who the other three in the party happened to be; and that they were bent upon foiling the lawless game of three rascals plotting for a big stake. in return mr. stanwix intimated that they had suspected something wrong when they saw from a little distance two persons, and one of them a chinaman, disappearing in a cleft of the rocks. further explanations must await a better opportunity, however. they were now too near the series of chambers connecting with one another to hesitate longer. besides, who could say what might not be going on up there a little further, in those holes in the wall where, ages ago, the singular people whom professor oswald loved to study about, had their homes, and lived on from year to year? old hank, when he once more started upward, seemed to have become much more cautious. frank could easily guess the reason. there was a strong possibility that the three schemers might have learned of their presence in the vicinity ere now. and of course eugene knew full well why frank and bob had come to the grand canyon from their ranch home. suspecting that sooner or later the two boys might discover the way up to the cliff house, they would be apt to lay a trap of some sort, thinking to catch them napping when they ascended. old hank could not be taken unawares any easier than might the wary weasel that has never been seen asleep by mortal eyes. frank, keeping well up by the heels of the little cowboy's boots, was ready to draw himself upward at the first sign of trouble. he knew when hank had reached the top of the singular stairway fashioned by nature for the benefit of those who built their habitations near the top of the cliff, far beyond the reach of enemies in the valley below. a few seconds of suspense followed, while chesty was following the veteran into the first hollowed-out apartment. nothing followed where frank had been expecting all manner of evil things. "perhaps they're asleep," was the new thought that flashed through his brain. he did not know what manner of man uncle felix was. now they were all gathered there in that outer chamber that might be called an ante-room of the various apartments running along the face of the cliff for some distance. even charley moi was there, full of curiosity, and willing to lend a hand after a fashion. bob looked around; just as his chum had done as soon as he entered. he saw that some one had certainly been there recently. there were plenty of evidences to that effect. old hank raised his hand with the forefinger elevated. it was recognized as a signal for absolute silence by all the others. even bob restrained his desire to ask questions; and every one listened, as if expecting to catch sounds. was that a human voice? frank started a trifle as the idea came to him. still, it might only have been an additionally strong movement of the breeze; turning some angle that caused it to give forth a sound. he turned to see if any of the others had heard, and judged from the way old hank had his head raised that he, too, had caught the sound; also that it appealed to him as full of significance. again the veteran waved his hand. this time it meant not only caution, but an invitation to advance. hank was about to pass into the next apartment, and wished the others to keep close at his heels. bob was quivering all over with the fever of suspense, as well as pent-up eagerness. he did not know just how much longer he could hold in; for he wanted to yell. still, he did not do it. since coming to this wonderland country of the southwest he had learned many lessons in the way of self control; and every day he was gaining more and more of a mastery over himself. now hank was in the second room, and still heading onward toward another hole in the wall, evidently the only means of communication between the various houses forming the little community. when he reached this, voices were plainly heard beyond. hank kept right on, heading for yet a third doorway; and whoever was doing the talking, he or they must be in that further apartment; so that in another minute frank expected to have his curiosity fully satisfied. chapter xxi the little old man of echo cave "you admit you have carried the document with you, and that it's only a question of refusing to produce it, professor?" frank recognized that drawling voice. he had heard his father's cousin, eugene warringford, speak many times, and generally in this slow way. but frank also knew that back of his apparently careless manner there was more or less venom. eugene could hate, and hide his feelings in a masterly manner. he could smile, and then strike behind the back of the one with whom he was dealing. and somehow his very drawling voice always made frank quiver with instinctive dislike. "i admit nothing, sir," came another voice, quick and nervous, yet with a firmness that told of considerable spirit. "you come upon me in my retreat without an invitation, and at first claim to be a warm admirer of my work, which you seem to have studied fairly well. but now you are taking the mask off, sir; and i can recognize the wolf under the sheep's clothing." frank had heard that the old scientist, though a small man, was full of grit; and he could well believe it after hearing him speak. and bob, who crouched close at the side of his chum, gave frank a nudge as if to say: "what do you think of that for nerve; isn't he the limit, though?" eugene laughed in his lazy way at being accused of evil intentions. apparently he had about made up his mind that there was no use in longer beating about the bush. he had the old gentleman cooped up in this isolated place, where no assistance could possibly reach him. and backed up himself by a couple of reckless rascals, no doubt eugene considered himself in a position to demand obedience. "well, my dear old gentleman," he remarked, and by the sound frank imagined the fellow must be lighting a fresh cigarette, for he seemed to puff between the words; "just as you say, what's the use of carrying the joke on any longer. let's be brutally frank with each other from now on." "very well," replied the other, quickly. "here's the situation then, in a nutshell. you suddenly appear before me, with a couple of men you claim are guides, but whom i have every reason to believe are low minions who are simply in your pay." "careful, professor," eugene broke in. "i'd advise you to go a bit slow. these men talk english, if they do look like mexicans; and they may resent being called rascals." "let that pass," continued the hermit of echo cave, as though waving the matter aside contemptuously. "at any rate, you come suddenly into my habitation here, where i have spent many happy months in solitude, wrapped up in my studies of the people of the cliffs, who spent their lives in this very place, and who have left many traces of their customs behind. my work is almost finished, and in another week i expected leaving here for civilization, with a masterly book on the subject that has mystified the world for a century." "come to the point, professor," broke in the man with the drawl; "and keep all this about your studies for those of your kind, who may appreciate them. we are concerned only about one thing; and that is a certain paper which you will presently take from its hiding-place, sign over to me, and then finish your labors here in peace. understand that?" "by good luck i was forewarned," the sharp voice went on; "and hence i made sure not to carry that document on my person. you have taken the liberty of searching every inch of these cliff houses since you arrived here, but without success. and allow me to inform you, sir, that you might hunt until the day of doom without the slightest chance of finding that paper. it will never be yours!" "oh! i am not worrying in the least, professor," eugene remarked, coolly. "you will see a great light presently, i imagine." "i have already done so, sir," came the snappy reply. "i am awakening to the fact that too long have i been neglecting my daughter; and that since this investment of mine has turned out so happily, it must become her property." "very nice and thoughtful of you, professor," sneered eugene; "and while i dislike to spoil such delightful plans, i fear i must do so. it is my nature to persist in anything i undertake. and i have made up my mind to possess that document; or make you pay dearly for my disappointment." "now you begin to descend to low threats, sir," cried the scientist, who did not seem to be a particle afraid; which proved the truth of the old saying that courage does not necessarily need a big tenement. "we have hunted high and low through this series of ratholes, and without any success," observed eugene, beginning to bite off his words, as though unable to much longer keep up the pretense of being calm. "what have you done with that old moqui who came up here ahead of us?" "ah! you saw him enter the hidden stairway, then, and that was how you learned the way to reach these cliff dwellings?" exclaimed the other, as though one thing that had bothered him was now explained. "yes, that was how it came about," answered eugene. "we have followed him like his own shadow for days, and yet he knew it not. age must have dimmed the sight and hearing of the warrior. after we saw him pass upward, on investigating, we found the stone ladder in the crevice, and we waited several hours for him to come down, for we wanted to make sure of him first. as he did not appear, we finally could stand it no longer, and began to creep up here, inches at a time. then we surprised you, and announced our intention of stopping with you." "yes," declared the scientist, bitterly. "first you pretended that you were sent out by a magazine to search for me, and get some points as to my great work here among the zunis, the hopis and the moquis. but i soon discovered that you had another motive in trying to find professor oswald. you began to hint about your desire to possess stock in certain mines, and especially in one, the ownership of which i had carried in my hand for some years. besides, i had been warned of your real intentions, and was on my guard." "what became of that old moqui indian?" went on eugene. "he climbed up, but he did not come down. we guarded that stairway closely every minute of the time. we have searched every room in this rabbit burrow that we could discover; but still he does not show up. have you put him away in some place, the entrance to which is hidden from our eyes?" the only reply to this question was a scornful laugh. as bob would say, it was as if the defiant little professor had flashed out. "don't you wish you knew?" "well, as the document and the moqui have both vanished mysteriously, there's only one thing i can conclude," went on eugene, between his teeth; "and that is they must be together at this very moment. produce the one, and the other will be found not far away." "what a wise man you are, sir!" remarked the little scientist, with a sneer. "perhaps i may prove a more successful one than you imagine," returned eugene, between furious puffs. "now, all the time i have been turning this old lot of rabbit burrows upside down i've been thinking a whole lot, professor." "bravo!" exclaimed the other clapping his hands vigorously; "it will certainly do you a great amount of good, sir, for i imagine you seldom treat yourself to such a luxury as a good hard think. and may i inquire concerning the result of your labors in that line?" "first of all, i sized you up as a mighty stubborn little bit of humanity." "oh! thank you, sir. really, i am disposed to accept that as a compliment; for you see, a man of my profession could never succeed unless he had mastered his inclination for an easy life, and had become a stoic. and what else did you happen to decide after this wonderful fit of thinking, may i ask, sir?" "this: i made up my mind that once you declined to produce that document, to secure which i have come a great distance, and undergone considerable fatigue, that no threat of bodily harm would induce you to alter your decision!" "it is really very interesting to hear you say this, sir," remarked the one who had lived in that lofty cave for many months, poring over the queer things that he unearthed from time to time in the ruins of the cliff dwellers' homes. "and after reaching such a conclusion as that, how comes it you persisted in trying to carry out your original intention?" "because i had another arrow in my quiver, professor!" remarked eugene, in a penetrating voice, that had a ring of anticipated triumph in it. "h'm! torture, perhaps?" suggested the other; "but my dear sir, nothing of that nature could make me open my lips. i would die rather than submit to your proposals." "but wait a bit, my old friend," chuckled eugene; "there are two kinds of torture, that of the body, and of the mind!" "i suppose you are right, sir," the little scientist remarked; "but honestly, now, i fail to understand the drift of your remarks." "then it shall be my pleasure to enlighten you, professor," eugene continued. "pay attention to me now, and you will quickly have the cataract removed from your eyes. is there anything in the world that you value above that document which you know by this time has suddenly increased in value many times over?" "i can think of but one thing--my daughter janice!" replied the other, quickly. "and she is far beyond your reach in the east." "ah yes, quite true, professor," the schemer went on; "more's the pity. but i think you make a mistake when you say that your daughter is the only thing on earth you value above the million that has suddenly dropped at your feet. how about this, professor?" he evidently held something up, for the other immediately uttered a startled cry. "the manuscript of my forthcoming book on the mysteries of the cliff dwellers of the grand canyon! the hard work of three long years of exile! a labor of love that i expected will place my name among the front ranks of scientists!" "exactly!" sneered eugene. "just keep back, professor, please. my men are not in any too pleasant a mood, and i would not answer for what they might do to you if you made the first effort to snatch this thing from my hands. sit down again, and let us reason together." "you wretch! now i begin to see your game. you would threaten to destroy all my precious work of years, in order to obtain a miserable paper." at that eugene laughed loudly. "it may be all you say, professor," he remarked; "but it represents a snug little fortune that i'd like to possess. the future would be mighty pleasant, once i made that fine hit. and if it appears like so much trash in your eyes, my dear man, there should no longer be any hesitation about giving it up to me. think of the work you have done. it couldn't be replaced, professor, i imagine? if now i should deliberately take a match out of my pocket like this, strike the same, and apply the busy little flame to these papers, the history of the zunis, the hopis, the moquis, and their ancestors the cliff dwellers, would be forever lost to the world, wouldn't it?" "stop, you wretch!" cried the excited hermit, who was apparently greatly alarmed at seeing his precious manuscript in peril. "ah! do you then consent to open your mouth, and tell what i want to know?" demanded his tormentor. "is there no other way out?" asked the prisoner of the cave, hopelessly. "none," replied eugene, harshly. "my men are watching for the moqui to show up every second, and with orders to shoot him on sight. so don't indulge in any hope that he can save you. there, the match has burned itself out; but remember, professor, there are others, plenty of them, where that came from. i will give you one minute to produce that paper." the scientist uttered a sigh that was plainly heard. "i suppose i must yield to fate then," he said, dismally. "but you promise to return my papers to me after i have complied with your outrageous demands?" "to be sure i will, and only too gladly," replied the other, eagerly. "i don't want to make the terms too hard on you, old man. only you must choose now between losing either the fortune, or your work of years. and perhaps we'd find the document after all, too. speak up; where is it?" "examine that rock stool on which you are seated, and you will find that it can be moved," the voice of the hermit went on, steadily. "there, now that you have over-turned the seat, you discover something in the cavity. keep your word, and place in my hands my precious packet of manuscript. threats of taking my life might not move me; but when you place in peril that on which my reputation as a scientist must be based, it is too much. thank you, sir; i see you are a man of your word. and i will sign the papers just as you may wish to have done." chapter xxii turning the tables--conclusion "come on in, boys!" old hank coombs had stood all the while this intensely interesting dialogue was going on, as though glued to the spot. indeed, not one of the party in the adjoining apartment of the cliff dwellers' cave but who had kept drinking in the conversation as though it fairly fascinated them. but when the old cow puncher realized that to all appearances the outrageous scheme of eugene had worked only too well, and that the precious document was even then in the hands of the smooth-tongued plotter, he suddenly awoke to the fact that perhaps they had waited a little too long. through the opening that served as a doorway between the apartments he jumped, followed immediately by chesty, the two sheriffs, and finally the saddle boys, with charley moi bringing up the rear. of course their unexpected coming created quite a breeze among those whom they thus surprised. the little man who wore the goggles seemed delighted, and immediately started to place himself, and his precious manuscript, in a position where he might be covered by these welcome allies. spanish joe and abajo had started to draw their weapons; but when they discovered that they had already been covered, and recognized several among the newcomers as old companions on circle ranch, they promptly elevated their hands. eugene looked just as ugly as he felt. the prize had apparently been about to fall into his hands, like a ripe apple, when this change of front had to occur. he kept his wits about him, however, and like the shrewd fox that he was, played the game to the limit for his own safety. "keep your friends back, professor oswald!" he shouted, as he managed to interpose what looked like a stone table between himself and the two sheriffs, who had their hungry eyes on him. "see here, unless you promise on your word of honor not to proceed against me for this little game that didn't work, i'll tear this paper that's worth a million into little bits, no matter what happens to me afterwards! do you hear, professor?" frank caught his breath. after all the hard work which he and bob had put in to save that precious document for janice, was it to be lost? he wanted to fly at the man, and snatch it from his hands; but did not dare; for only too well did he know that at the first hostile move eugene would proceed to put his threat into execution. to his intense surprise the little man with the big glasses seemed to be shaking as with a convulsion of laughter. it did not seem as though he worried about the fate of the document eugene held so rigidly, while awaiting an answer to his demand. "do just as you please about that, my friend," chuckled the scientist. "if it would afford you any enjoyment to destroy the paper you are holding, i wouldn't cheat you out of it for the world." "but--" stammered the defeated plotter, "it would render void all your right to taking possession of the san bernardino mine, if this document were destroyed!" "oh! dear no, not at all," exclaimed the other, cheerily. "the fact is, that paper is even now on the way to the nearest post office, addressed to my friend and relative, colonel haywood, and is to go by registered mail." "that moqui indian--" gasped eugene, falling back helplessly. "exactly, he carries the packet, with orders to let nothing divert him from his one purpose," observed the scientist; while bob nudged his chum in the side, unable to restrain his delight over the wonderful outcome of the knotty problem. "how did he get out of here?" asked eugene. "we watched the stone stairway every minute of the time, and he didn't go down that way." "oh! well, in my prowling around here, month after month," explained the hermit, "i managed to find a way the old cliff dwellers had for reaching the summit of the rocks, in case of necessity. the moqui possessed the nerve required to crawl along the face of the cliff on a narrow ledge, and make the exit. he is miles away by now, and my daughter's inheritance is safe!" "but--this paper here," asked eugene, faintly; yet with curiosity governing his actions; "it seems to be a legal document, transferring a majority of the shares of the san bernardino mine over to you if the further conditions are fulfilled within a certain time?" "to be sure," laughed the other, "that was the first copy, you might say. there was some little defect about it, which we discovered after it was signed; so a second copy was made. if you had examined that one closer you would have found that the stamp necessary to make it legal was lacking. somehow i happened to keep both copies, never dreaming how valuable this bogus one might prove." eugene threw the paper angrily to the floor. "i'm done!" he cried, shaking his head. "come on, mr. stanwix, if you are after me, and put the irons on; though i don't think you've got any show of convicting me of any unlawful game. i claim to have come here to interview this famous old gentleman about the wonderful discoveries he has made connected with these people of the cliffs. i expected to make a big sum in selling the article to a magazine. perhaps you might give me more or less trouble if you cared; but then it's another thing to show proof. and the professor wouldn't like to stay out here long months, waiting for the case to come on." "that's where you're right, my tall friend," chirped the little scientist; "and as my work is almost finished i do not mean to let anything detain me from getting my book in the hands of the printers." "hear that, mr. stanwix; he says we're going to get off easy, and you might as well wish us good day right now?" exclaimed eugene, nodding to the yavapai sheriff, whom he appeared to know. "well, there's no hurry," remarked that official, pleasantly. "on the whole, my opinion is that it would be good policy to keep you locked up until we know that the document has reached the hands of the one to whom it was sent, and who is, i believe, the father of our friend, frank, here." "i agree with you, mr. sheriff!" declared the old hermit of the cave. "because if he were set free i fear he would chase after the united states mail, if a single hope remained of stealing my property. yes, kindly keep him by you until i come around with news." then he turned to the two cow punchers, who had stood moodily by, listening to all that was being said. "i have no use for either of you men," he remarked, shaking a finger at them; "so the sooner you get down out of this place, the better. and while i continue to remain here a few days, i'm going to ask these brave lads to keep me company as a guard of honor. i've many things to show that may interest them. and i want to accompany frank to his home a little later, if possible." and so it was arranged. old hank and chesty declared that their orders had been to stay as long as frank and bob did; so they also took up their quarters in the apartments that went to make up what the little old gentleman had called echo cave. the two sheriffs took their prisoner away, to place him in some secure nook while they continued their search for the pair of scoundrels whom they had hunted so long, and were determined to get this time. as they will not be seen again in this story it may only be right to say that frank afterwards read an account in a paper of how the sheriffs finally rounded up the arizona kid and big bill guffey, arresting them after a warm resistance in which all of the participants were wounded. and in due time doubtless the bad men who had so long defied the law, paid the penalty for their various crimes. the saddle boys certainly did enjoy the few days they spent with the queer little hermit, while he completed his odd business in the rock dwellings of the ancient cliff men. they found the echo which had caused him to give the place its name, and spent many an hour amusing themselves with its astonishing power to send back sounds. finally havasupai made his appearance, bearing with him a receipt, which proved that the precious packet had been sent by registered mail to circle ranch. and then the professor announced himself as ready to take his departure from the scene of his two years' labors as a hermit, working in the interests of science. "it's a wonderful old place," bob declared as they took their last look at the grand canyon from the bluff in front of the hotel, ere mounting their horses and starting back home across the many miles that lay to the south and east before circle ranch might be reached. "yes, and we'll never forget what we've seen here," added frank. "not to speak of the adventures that have come our way," remarked bob. "tell you the truth, frank, i'll be mighty sorry when our trip is over, because i reckon it'll be a long time before we have another chance for such a great gallop." but although of course he did not know it just then, bob was very much mistaken when he made this prophecy. it happened that events were shaping themselves at that very hour in a way calculated to call upon the saddle boys to make another venture into the realms of chance, and mounted upon their prized horses too. what these events were, and how well frank and bob acquitted themselves when brought face to face with new adventures, will be found set forth in the next volume of this series, under the title of, "the saddle boys on the plains; or, after a treasure of gold." old hank and chesty accompanied professor oswald by way of the railroad to a point nearest the ranch, where a vehicle would be awaiting them. he had been greatly interested in hearing how one of the bottles that he had thrown into the swift current of the colorado had been eventually picked up in far distant mohave city; and thus his note came into the hands of his relatives. of course frank and his chum enjoyed the return gallop even more than when on the way to the grand canyon. they no longer had anything weighing on their minds, since the plans of eugene warringford had been broken up. and besides, the recollection of the astounding wonders they had gazed upon in that great canyon were bound to haunt them forever. the little professor was waiting to see them at the ranch, before starting east to join his daughter, and get his wonderful book under way. "i owe you boys more than i can tell," he declared, when he was saying good-bye; "and you needn't be at all surprised if a nice little bunch of gold mine stock comes this way for each of you, just as soon as my deal goes through, which will be in one more week." he was as good as his word, and when the mine came under his authority he did send both frank and bob some stock, on which they could collect dividends four times a year. frank looked in vain for the coming of the old moqui. charley moi did indeed turn up a little later, anxious to again meet the boys whom he had served in the grand canyon. but havasupai came not to circle ranch; and remembering how he had apparently been fleeing from the wrath of his people at the time they first met him, frank and bob could not but wonder whether the old warrior had gone back to his native village only to meet his fate at the hands of his people, according to moqui law. here we may leave our two young friends, the saddle boys, for a short time, enjoying a well earned rest. but the lure of the great outdoors was so strongly rooted in their natures that it may be readily understood they could not remain inactive long; but would soon be galloping over the wide reaches, following the cowboys as they rounded up the herds, branded mavericks and young cattle, and picked out those intended for shipment to the great marts at kansas city. but while new scenes would likely interest frank and bob from time to time, they could never forget the magnificent views that had been stamped upon their memories forever while in the grand canyon of the mighty colorado. the end * * * * * * the boys' outing library _12mo. cloth. illustrated. jacket in full color. price, per volume, 65 cents, postpaid._ [illustration] the saddle boys series by capt. james carson the saddle boys of the rockies the saddle boys in the grand canyon the saddle boys on the plains the saddle boys at circle ranch the saddle boys on mexican trails the dave dashaway series by roy rockwood dave dashaway the young aviator dave dashaway and his hydroplane dave dashaway and his giant airship dave dashaway around the world dave dashaway: air champion the speedwell boys series by roy rockwood the speedwell boys on motorcycles the speedwell boys and their racing auto the speedwell boys and their power launch the speedwell boys in a submarine the speedwell boys and their ice racer the tom fairfield series by allen chapman tom fairfield's school days tom fairfield at sea tom fairfield in camp tom fairfield's pluck and luck tom fairfield's hunting trip the fred fenton athletic series by allen chapman fred fenton the pitcher fred fenton in the line fred fenton on the crew fred fenton on the track fred fenton: marathon runner _send for our free illustrated catalogue._ cupples & leon company, publishers new york the jewel series by ames thompson _12mo. cloth. illustrated. jacket in colors_ price per volume, 65 cents [illustration] _a series of stories brimming with hardy adventure, vivid and accurate in detail, and with a good foundation of probability. they take the reader realistically to the scene of action. besides being lively and full of real situations, they are written in a straightforward way very attractive to boy readers._ 1. the adventure boys and the valley of diamonds malcolm edwards and his son ralph are adventurers with ample means for following up their interest in jewel clues. in this book they form a party of five, including jimmy stone and bret hartson, boys of ralph's age, and a shrewd level-headed sailor named stanley greene. they find a valley of diamonds in the heart of africa. 2. the adventure boys and the river of emeralds the five adventurers, staying at a hotel in san francisco, find that pedro the elevator man has an interesting story of a hidden "river of emeralds" in peru, to tell. with him as guide, they set out to find it, escape various traps set for them by jealous peruvians, and are much amused by pedro all through the experience. 3. the adventure boys and the lagoon of pearls this time the group starts out on a cruise simply for pleasure, but their adventuresome spirits lead them into the thick of things on a south sea cannibal island. _send for our free illustrated catalogue_ cupples & leon company, publishers new york the bomba books by roy rockwood _12mo. cloth. illustrated. with colored jacket_ price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid [illustration] _bomba lived far back in the jungles of the amazon with a half-demented naturalist who told the lad nothing of his past. the jungle boy was a lover of birds, and hunted animals with a bow and arrow and his trusty machete. he had a primitive education in some things, and his daring adventures will be followed with breathless interest by thousands._ 1. bomba the jungle boy _or the old naturalist's secret_ in the depth of the jungle bomba lives a life replete with thrilling situations. once he saves the lives of two american rubber hunters who ask him who he is, and how he had come into the jungle. he sets off to solve the mystery of his identity. 2. bomba the jungle boy at the moving mountain _or the mystery of the caves of fire_ bomba travels through the jungle, encountering wild beasts and hostile natives. at last he trails the old man of the burning mountain to his cave and learns more concerning himself. 3. bomba the jungle boy at the giant cataract _or chief nascanora and his captives_ from the moving mountain bomba travels to the giant cataract, still searching out his parentage. among the pilati indians he finds some white captives, and an aged opera singer who is the first to give bomba real news of his forebears. 4. bomba the jungle boy on jaguar island _or adrift on the river of mystery_ jaguar island was a spot as dangerous as it was mysterious and bomba was warned to keep away. but the plucky boy sallied forth and met adventures galore. 5. bomba the jungle boy in the abandoned city _or a treasure ten thousand years old_ years ago this great city had sunk out of sight beneath the trees of the jungle. a wily half-breed and his tribe thought to carry away its treasure of gold and precious stones. bomba follows. _send for our free illustrated catalogue_ cupples & leon company, publishers new york sea stories for boys by john gabriel rowe _large 12mo. cloth. illustrated. colored jacket_ price per volume, $1.00 net [illustration] _every boy who knows the lure of exploring, and who loves to rig up huts and caves and tree-houses to fortify himself against imaginary enemies will enjoy these books, for they give a vivid chronicle of the doings and inventions of a group of boys who are shipwrecked, and have to make themselves snug and safe in tropical islands where the dangers are too real for play._ 1. crusoe island dick, alf and fred find themselves stranded on an unknown island with the old seaman josh. their ship destroyed by fire, their friends lost, they have to make shift for themselves for a whole exciting year before being rescued. 2. the island treasure with much ingenuity these boys fit themselves into the wild life of the island they are cast upon in storm. they build various kinds of strongholds and spend most of their time outwitting their enemies. 3. the mystery of the derelict their ship and companions perished in tempest at sea, the boys are adrift in a small open boat when they spy a ship. such a strange vessel!--no hand guiding it, no soul on board,--a derelict. it carries a gruesome mystery, as the boys soon discover, and it leads them into a series of strange experiences. _send for our free illustrated catalogue_ cupples & leon company, publishers new york the boy ranchers series by willard f. baker _12mo. cloth. illustrated. jacket in full colors_ price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid [illustration] _stories of the great west, with cattle ranches as a setting, related in such a style as to captivate the hearts of all boys._ 1. the boy ranchers _or solving the mystery at diamond x_ two eastern boys visit their cousin. they become involved in an exciting mystery. 2. the boy ranchers in camp _or the water fight at diamond x_ returning for a visit, the two eastern lads learn, with delight, that they are to become boy ranchers. 3. the boy ranchers on the trail _or the diamond x after cattle rustlers_ our boy heroes take the trail after del pinzo and his outlaws. 4. the boy ranchers among the indians _or trailing the yaquis_ rosemary and floyd are captured by the yaqui indians but the boy ranchers trailed them into the mountains and effected the rescue. 5. the boy ranchers at spur creek _or fighting the sheep herders_ dangerous struggle against desperadoes for land rights brings out heroic adventures. 6. the boy ranchers in the desert _or diamond x and the lost mine_ one night a strange old miner almost dead from hunger and hardship arrived at the bunk house. the boys cared for him and he told them of the lost desert mine. 7. the boy ranchers on roaring river _or diamond x and the chinese smugglers_ the boy ranchers help capture delton's gang who were engaged in smuggling chinese across the border. _send for our free illustrated catalogue_ cupples & leon company, publishers new york the webster series by frank v. webster [illustration] mr. webster's style is very much like that of the boys' favorite author, the late lamented horatio alger, jr., but his tales are thoroughly up-to-date. cloth. 12mo. over 200 pages each. illustrated. stamped in various colors. price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid. only a farm boy _or dan hardy's rise in life_ the boy from the ranch _or roy bradner's city experiences_ the young treasure hunter _or fred stanley's trip to alaska_ the boy pilot of the lakes _or nat morton's perils_ tom the telephone boy _or the mystery of a message_ bob the castaway _or the wreck of the eagle_ the newsboy partners _or who was dick box_? two boy gold miners _or lost in the mountains_ the young firemen of lakeville _or herbert dare's pluck_ the boys of bellwood school _or frank jordan's triumph_ jack the runaway _or on the road with a circus_ bob chester's grit _or from ranch to riches_ airship andy _or the luck of a brave boy_ high school rivals _or fred markham's struggles_ darry the life saver _or the heroes of the coast_ dick the bank boy _or a missing fortune_ ben hardy's flying machine _or making a record for himself_ harry watson's high school days _or the rivals of rivertown_ comrades of the saddle _or the young rough riders of the plains_ tom taylor at west point _or the old army officer's secret_ the boy scouts of lennox _or hiking over big bear mountain_ the boys of the wireless _or a stirring rescue from the deep_ cowboy dave _or the round-up at rolling river_ jack of the pony express _or the young rider of the mountain trail_ the boys of the battleship _or for the honor of uncle sam_ cupples & leon co., publishers new york the boy hunters series by captain ralph bonehill 12mo. illustrated. price per volume, $1.00, postpaid. [illustration] four boy hunters _or, the outing of the gun club_ a fine, breezy story of the woods and waters, of adventures in search of game, and of great times around the campfire, told in captain bonehill's best style. in the book are given full directions for camping out. guns and snowshoes _or, the winter outing of the young hunters_ in this volume the young hunters leave home for a winter outing on the shores of a small lake. they hunt and trap to their hearts' content, and have adventures in plenty, all calculated to make boys "sit up and take notice." a good healthy book; one with the odor of the pine forests and the glare of the welcome campfire in every chapter. young hunters of the lake _or, out with rod and gun_ another tale of woods and waters, with some strong hunting scenes and a good deal of mystery. the three volumes make a splendid outdoor series. out with gun and camera _or, the boy hunters in the mountains_ takes up the new fad of photographing wild animals as well as shooting them. an escaped circus chimpanzee and an escaped lion add to the interest of the narrative. cupples & leon co., publishers, new york the motor boys series by clarence young _12mo. illustrated. price per volume, $1.00, postpaid_ [illustration] the motor boys _or chums through thick and thin_ the motor boys overland _or a long trip for fun and fortune_ the motor boys in mexico _or the secret of the buried city_ the motor boys across the plains _or the hermit of lost lake_ the motor boys afloat _or the cruise of the dartaway_ the motor boys on the atlantic _or the mystery of the lighthouse_ the motor boys in strange waters _or lost in a floating forest_ the motor boys on the pacific _or the young derelict hunters_ the motor boys in the clouds _or a trip for fame and fortune_ the motor boys over the rockies _or a mystery of the air_ the motor boys over the ocean _or a marvelous rescue in mid-air_ the motor boys on the wing _or seeking the airship treasure_ the motor boys after a fortune _or the hut on snake island_ the motor boys on the border _or sixty nuggets of gold_ the motor boys under the sea _or from airship to submarine_ the motor boys on road and river _or racing to save a life_ the motor boys at boxwood hall _or ned, bob and jerry as freshmen_ the motor boys on a ranch _or ned, bob and jerry among the cowboys_ the motor boys in the army _or ned, bob and jerry as volunteers_ the motor boys on the firing line _or ned, bob and jerry fighting for uncle sam_ the motor boys bound for home _or ned, bob and jerry on the wrecked troopship_ the motor boys on thunder mountain _or the treasure box of blue rock_ cupples & leon company. publishers new york i married a ranger _by dama margaret smith_ (_mrs. "white mountain"_) stanford university press stanford university, california london: humphrey milford oxford university press stanford university press stanford university, california london: humphrey milford oxford university press the maruzen company tokyo, osaka, kyoto, sendai the baker & taylor company 55 fifth avenue, new york copyright 1930 by the board of trustees of the leland stanford junior university all rights reserved published 1930 printed and bound in the united states of america by stanford university press _this book is lovingly dedicated to white mountain smith who has made me glad i married a ranger_ _foreword_ _i married a ranger_ is an intimate story of "pioneer" life in a national park, told in an interesting, humorous way, that makes it most delightful. to me it is more than a book; it is a personal justification. for back in 1921, when the author came to my office in washington and applied for the clerical vacancy existing at the grand canyon, no woman had been even considered for the position. the park was new, and neither time nor funds had been available to install facilities that are a necessary part of our park administrative and protective work. especially was the grand canyon lacking in living quarters. for that reason the local superintendent, as well as washington office officials, were opposed to sending any women clerks there. nevertheless, after talking to the author, i decided to make an exception in her case, so she became the first woman government employee at the canyon. _i married a ranger_ proves that the decision was a happy one. it is a pleasure to endorse mrs. smith's book, and at the same time to pay a tribute of admiration to the women of the service, both employees and wives of employees, who carry on faithfully and courageously under all circumstances. arno b. cammerer _associate director,_ national park service table of contents chapter page i. "_out in arizona, where the bad men are_" 1 ii. "_this ain't washington!_" 11 iii. "_i do!_" 21 iv. _celebrities and squirrels_ 31 v. _navajo land_ 42 vi. "_they killed me_" 56 vii. _a grand canyon christmas_ 67 viii. _the day's work_ 77 ix. _the doomed tribe_ 89 x. _where they dance with snakes_ 104 xi. _the terrible badger fight_ 121 xii. _grand canyon ups and downs_ 131 xiii. _sisters under the skin_ 147 xiv. _the passing show_ 158 xv. _fools, flood, and dynamite_ 170 [illustration] _chapter i: "out in arizona, where the bad men are"_ "so you think you'd like to work in the park office at grand canyon?" "sure!" "where is grand canyon?" i asked as an afterthought. i knew just that little about the most spectacular chasm in the world, when i applied for an appointment there as a government worker. our train pulled into the rustic station in the wee small hours, and soon i had my first glimpse of the canyon. bathed in cold moonlight, the depths were filled with shadows that disappeared as the sun came up while i still lingered, spellbound, on the rim. on the long train journey i had read and re-read the _grand canyon information booklet_, published by the national park service. i was still unprepared for what lay before me in carrying out my rôle as field clerk there. so very, very many pages of that booklet have never been written--pages replete with dangers and hardships, loneliness and privations, sacrifice and service, all sweetened with friendships not found in heartless, hurrying cities, lightened with loyalty and love, and tinted with glamour and romance. and over it all lies a fascination a stranger without the gates can never share. i was the first woman ever placed in field service at the grand canyon, and the superintendent was not completely overjoyed at my arrival. to be fair, i suppose he expected me to be a clinging-vine nuisance, although i assured him i was well able to take care of myself. time softens most of life's harsh memories, and i've learned to see his side of the question. what was he to do with a girl among scores of road builders and rangers? when i tell part of my experiences with him, i do so only because he has long been out of the service and i can now see the humorous aspect of our private feud. as the sun rose higher over the canyon, i reluctantly turned away and went to report my arrival to the superintendent. he was a towering, gloomy giant of a man, and i rather timidly presented my assignment. he looked down from his superior height, eyed me severely, and spoke gruffly. "i suppose you know you were thrust upon me!" "no. i'm very sorry," i said, quite meekly. while i was desperately wondering what to do or say next, a tall blond man in park uniform entered the office. the superintendent looked quite relieved. "this is white mountain, chief ranger here. i guess i'll turn you over to him. look after her, will you, chief?" and he washed his hands of me. in the washington office i had often heard of "white mountain" smith. i recalled him as the government scout that had seen years of service in yellowstone before he became chief ranger at grand canyon. i looked him over rather curiously and decided that i liked him very well. his keen blue eyes were the friendliest i had seen since i left west virginia. he looked like a typical western man, and i was surprised that his speech had a "down east" tone. "aren't you a westerner?" "no, i'm a connecticut yankee," he smiled. "but we drift out here from everywhere. i've been in the west many years." "have you ever been in west virginia?" i blurted. homesickness had settled all over me. he looked at me quickly, and i reckon he saw that tears were close to the surface. "no-o, i haven't been there. but my father went down there during the civil war and helped clean up on the rebels!" sparks flew then and i forgot to be homesick. but he laughed and led me toward my new home. we strolled up a slight rise through wonderful pine trees, with here and there a twisted juniper giving a grotesque touch to the landscape. the ground was covered with springy pine needles, and squirrels and birds were everywhere. we walked past rows and rows of white tents pitched in orderly array among the pines, the canvas village of fifty or more road builders. by and by we came to a drab gray shack, weather-beaten and discouraged, hunched under the trees as if it were trying to blot itself from the scene. i was passing on, when the chief (white mountain) stopped me with a gesture. "this is your home," he said. just that bald statement. i thought he was joking, but he pushed the door open and we walked inside. the tiny shack had evidently seen duty as a warehouse and hadn't been manicured since! but in view of the fact that the park service was handicapped by lack of funds, and in the throes of road building and general development, i was lucky to draw a real house instead of a tent. i began to see why the superintendent had looked askance at me when i arrived. i put on my rose-colored glasses and took stock of my abode. it was divided into two rooms, a kitchen and a combination living-dining-sleeping-dressing-bath-room. the front door was a heavy nailed-up affair that fastened with an iron hook and staple. the back door sagged on its leather hinges and moved open or shut reluctantly. square holes were cut in the walls for windows, but these were innocent of screen or glass. cracks in the roof and walls let in an abundance of arizona atmosphere. the furniture consisted of a slab table that extended all the way through the middle of the room, a wicker chair, and a golden-oak dresser minus the mirror and lacking one drawer. white mountain looked surprised and relieved, when i burst out laughing. he didn't know how funny the financial inducements of my new job sounded to me while i looked around that hovel: "so much per annum and furnished quarters!" "we'll fix this up for you. we rangers didn't know until this morning that you were coming," he said; and we went down to see if the cook was in a good humor. i was to eat at the "mess house" with the road crew and rangers, provided the cook didn't mind having a woman around. i began to have leanings toward "equal-rights-for-women clubs," but the cook was as nice as could be. i fell in love with him instantly. both he and his kitchen were so clean and cheerful. his name was jack. he greeted me as man to man, with a hearty handclasp, and assured me he would look after me. "but you'll have to eat what the men do. i ain't got time to fix fancies for you," he hastened to add. a steel triangle hung on a tree near the cookhouse door, and when dinner was ready jack's helper struck it sharply with an iron bar. this made a clatter that could be heard a mile and brought the men tumbling from their tents to eat. as i was washing my hands and face in the kitchen i heard jack making a few remarks to his boarders: "now don't any you roughnecks forget there's a lady eatin' here from now on, and i'll be damned if there's goin' to be any cussin', either." i don't believe they needed any warning, for during the months i lived near their tents and ate with them they never "forgot." many of them no doubt had come from homes as good as mine, and more than one had college degrees. as they became accustomed to having me around they shed their reserve along with their coats and became just what they really were, a bunch of grown-up boys in search of adventure. a week later it seemed perfectly natural to sit down to luncheon with platters of steak, bowls of vegetables, mounds of potatoes, and pots of steaming black coffee; but just then it was a radical change from my usual glass of milk and thin sandwich lunch. the food was served on long pine tables, flanked by backless benches. blue and white enamel dishes, steel knives and forks, and of course no napkins, made up the service. we drank coffee from tin cups, cooling and diluting it with condensed milk poured from the original can. i soon learned that "shoot the cow!" meant nothing more deadly than "pass the milk, please!" the rangers ate at a table apart from the other men. the chief sat at the head of the table, and my plate was at his right. several rangers rose to greet me when i came in. "i'm glad you came," said one of them. "we are apt to grow careless without someone to keep the rough edges polished for us." that was ranger charley fisk, the most loyal, faithful friend one could wish for. he was never too tired nor too busy to add a shelf here or build a cabinet there in my tiny cabin for me. but all that i had to learn later. there was frank, ranger winess; he and the chief had been together many years in yellowstone; and ranger west, and ranger peck. these and several more were at the table. "eat your dinner," the chief advised, and i ate, from steak to pie. the three meals there were breakfast, dinner, and supper. no lettuce-leaf lunch for them. dinner disposed of, i turned my attention to making my cabin fit to live in. the cook had his flunky sweep and scrub the floor, and then, with the aid of blankets, pictures, and draperies from my trunks, the little place began to lose its forlorn look. white mountain contributed a fine pair of pendleton blankets, gay and fleecy. he spread a navajo rug on the floor and placed an armful of books on the table. ranger fisk threw the broken chair outside and brought me a chair he had made for himself. ranger winess had been riding the drift fence while we worked, but he appeared on the scene with a big cluster of red indian paintbrush blossoms he had found in a coulee. none of us asked if they were picked inside the park. no bed was available, and again ranger fisk came to the rescue. he lent me his cot and another ranger contributed his mattress. white mountain was called away, and when he returned he said that he had hired a girl for the fire look-out tower, and suggested that i might like to have her live there with me. "she's part indian," he added. "fine. i like indians, and anyway these doors won't lock. i'm glad to have her." so they found another cot and put it up in the kitchen for her. she was a jolly, warm-hearted girl, used to life in such places. her husband was a forest ranger several miles away, and she spent most of her time in the open. all day she stayed high in the fire tower, with her glasses scanning the surrounding country. at the first sign of smoke, she determined its exact location by means of a map and then telephoned to ranger headquarters. men were on their way immediately, and many serious forest fires were thus nipped in the bud. she and i surveyed each other curiously. i waited for her to do the talking. "you won't stay here long!" she said, and laughed when i asked her why. "this is a funny place to put you," she remarked next, after a glance around our new domain. "i'd rather be out under a tree, wouldn't you?" "god forbid!" i answered earnestly. "i'm no back-to-nature fan, and this is primitive a-plenty for me. there's no bathroom, and i can't even find a place to wash my face. what shall we do?" we reconnoitered, and found the water supply. we coaxed a tin basin away from the cook and were fully equipped as far as a bathroom was concerned. thea--for that was her indian name--agreed that it might be well to fasten our doors; so we dragged the decrepit dresser against the front portal and moved a trunk across the back entrance. as there were no shades at the windows, we undressed in the dark and retired. the wind moaned in the pines. a querulous coyote complained. strange noises were everywhere around us. scampering sounds echoed back and forth in the cabin. my cot was hard and springless as a rock, and when i stretched into a more comfortable position the end bar fell off and the whole structure collapsed, i with it. modesty vetoed a light, since the men were still passing our cabin on their way to the tents; so in utter darkness i pulled the mattress under the table and there made myself as comfortable as possible. just as i was dozing, thea came in from the kitchen bringing her cot bumping and banging at her heels. she was utterly unnerved by rats and mice racing over her. we draped petticoats and other articles of feminine apparel over the windows and sat up the rest of the night over the smoky lamp. wrapped in our bright blankets it would have been difficult to tell which of us was the indian. "i'll get a cat tomorrow," i vowed. "you can't. cats aren't allowed in the park," she returned, dejectedly. "well, then rats shouldn't be either," i snapped. "i can get some traps i reckon. or is trapping prohibited in this area?" thea just sighed. morning finally came, as mornings have a habit of doing, and found me flinging things back in my trunk, while my companion eyed me sardonic-wise. i had spent sufficient time in the great open spaces, and just as soon as i could get some breakfast i was heading for washington again. but by the time i had tucked in a "feed" of fried potatoes, eggs, hot cakes, and strong coffee, a lion couldn't have scared me away. "bring on your mice," was my battle cry. at breakfast ranger fisk asked me quite seriously if i would have some cackle berries. i looked around, couldn't see any sort of fruit on the table, and, remembering the cook's injunction to eat what he set before me, i answered: "no, thank you; but i'll have an egg, please." after the laughter had subsided, white mountain explained that cackle berries were eggs! i told the rangers about the mice in my house, and the cook overheard the conversation. a little later a teamster appeared at my cabin with a tiny gray kitten hidden under his coat. "cook said you have mice, miss. i've brought 'tuffy' to you. please keep him hid from the rangers. he has lived in the barn with me up to now." with such a loyal protector things took a turn for the better, and my indian friend, my wee gray cat, and myself dwelt happily in our little grayhaven. [illustration] _chapter ii: "this ain't washington!"_ "this ain't washington, and we don't keep bankers' hours here," was the slogan of the superintendent. he spoke that phrase, chanted it, and sang it. he made a litany of it; he turned it into a national anthem. it came with such irritating regularity i could have sworn he timed it on a knotted string, sort of "day-by-day-in-every-way" tempo, one might say. and it wasn't washington, and we didn't live lives of ease; no banker ever toiled from dawn until all hours of the night, sunday included! i made pothooks and translated them. i put figures down and added them up. for the road crew i checked in equipment and for the cook i chucked out rotten beef. the superintendent had boasted that three weeks of the program he had laid out for me would be plenty to send me back where i came from and then he would have a regular place again. but i really didn't mind the work. i was learning to love the arizona climate and the high thin air that kept one's spirits buoyed up in spite of little irritations. i was not lonely, for i had found many friends. when i had been at the canyon a few days the young people gave a party for me. it was my début, so to speak. the world-famous stone building at hermit's rest was turned over to us for the evening by the fred harvey people, and, attended by the entire ranger force, i drove out the nine miles from headquarters. we found the house crowded with guides, cowboys, stage-drivers, and their girls. most of the girls were fred harvey waitresses, and if you think there is any discredit attached to that job you had better change your mind. the girls there were bookkeepers, teachers, college girls, and stenographers. they see the world and get well paid while doing it. the big rendezvous at hermit's rest resembles an enormous cavern. the fireplace is among the largest anywhere in the world, and the cave impression is further carried out by having flat stones laid for the floor, and rock benches covered with bearskins and navajo rugs. many distinguished guests from all parts of the globe have been entertained in that room, but we forgot all about distinguished personages and had a real old-fashioned party. we played cards and danced, and roasted weenies and marshmallows. after that party i felt that i belonged there at the canyon and had neighbors. there were others, however. the social leader, for instance. she tried to turn our little democracy into a monarchy, with herself the sovereign. she was very near-sighted, and it was a mystery how she managed to know all about everything until we discovered she kept a pair of powerful field-glasses trained on the scene most of the time. the poor lady had a mania for selling discarded clothing at top prices. we used to ask each other when we met at supper, "did you buy anything today?" i refused point-blank to buy her wreckage, but the rangers were at a disadvantage. they wanted to be gentlemen and not hurt her feelings! now and then one would get cornered and stuck with a second-hand offering before he could make his getaway. then how the others would rag him! one ranger, with tiny feet, of which he was inordinately proud, was forced to buy a pair of no. 12 shoes because they pinched the social leader's husband's feet. he brought them to me. "my gawd! what'll i do with these here box cars? they cost me six bucks and i'm ruined if the boys find out about it." an indian squaw was peddling baskets at my house, and we traded the shoes to her for two baskets. i kept one and he the other. not long after that he was burned to death in a forest fire, and when i packed his belongings to send to his mother the little basket was among his keepsakes. there was a bridge fiend in our midst, too! she weighed something like twenty stone, slept all forenoon, played bridge and ate chocolates all afternoon, and talked constantly of reducing. one day she went for a ride on a flop-eared mule; he got tired and lay down and rolled over and over in the sand. they had some trouble rescuing her before she got smashed. i told her the mule believed in rolling to help reduce. she didn't see the joke, but the mule and i did. grand canyon life was too exciting for her, so she left us. a quaint little person was the rancher's wife who brought fresh eggs and vegetables to us. she wore scant pajamas instead of skirts, because she thought it "more genteel," she explained. when a favorite horse or cow died, she carefully preserved the skull and other portions of the skeleton for interior-decoration purposes. ranger fisk and i took refuge in her parlor one day from a heavy rain. her husband sat there like a graven image. he was never known to say more than a dozen words a day, but she carried on for the entire family. as ranger fisk said, "she turns her voice on and then goes away and forgets it's running." she told us all about the last moments of her skeletons before they were such, until it ceased to be funny. ranger fisk sought to change the conversation by asking her how long she had been married. "ten years; but it seems like fifty," she said. we braved the rain after that. ranger fisk was born in sweden. he ran away from home at fourteen and joined the merchant marine, and in that service poked into most of the queer seaports on the map. he had long since lost track of his kinsfolk, and although he insisted that he was anxious to marry he carefully kept away from all marriageable ladies. ranger winess was the sheik of the force. every good-looking girl that came his way was rushed for a day and forgotten as soon as another arrived. he played his big guitar, and sang and danced, and made love, all with equal skill and lightness. the only love he was really constant to was tony, his big bay horse. ranger west, assistant chief ranger, was the most like a storybook ranger of them all. he was essentially an outdoor man, without any parlor tricks. i have heard old-timers say he was the best man with horses they had ever known. he was much more interested in horses and tobacco than he was in women and small talk. but if there was a particularly dangerous task or one requiring sound judgment and a clear head, ranger west was selected. he and ranger fisk and ranger winess were known as the "three musketeers." they were the backbone of the force. sometimes i think my very nicest neighbor was the gardener at el tovar hotel. he saw me hungrily eying his flowers, and gave me a generous portion of plants and showed me how to care for them. i planted them alongside my little gray house, and after each basin of water had seen duty for cleansing purposes it went to water the flowers. we never wasted a drop of water. it was hauled a hundred miles in tank cars, and cost accordingly. i sometimes wondered if we paid extra for the red bugs that swam around in it so gaily. anyway, my flowers didn't mind the bugs. they grew into masses of beautiful foliage and brilliant blossoms. i knew every leaf and bud on them. i almost sat up nights with them, i was so proud of their beauty. my flowers and my little gray kitten were all the company i had now. the fire guard girl had gone home. one of my neighbors asked me to go with a group of fred harvey girls to visit the petrified forest, lying more than a hundred miles southeast of the canyon. as i had been working exceptionally hard in the park office, i declared myself a holiday, and sunday morning early found us well on the way. we drove through ordinary desert country to williams and from there on past flagstaff and eastward to holbrook. eighteen miles from there we began to see fallen logs turned into stone. my ideas of the petrified forest were very vague, but i had expected to see standing trees turned to stone. these big logs were all lying down, and i couldn't find a single stump! we drove through several miles of fallen logs and came to the government museum where unique and choice specimens had been gathered together for visitors to see. it is hard to describe this wood, that isn't wood. it looks like wood, at least the grain and the shape, and knotholes and even wormholes are there; but it has turned to beautifully brilliant rock. some pieces look like priceless italian marble; others are all colors of the rainbow, blended together into a perfect poem of shades. of course i asked for an explanation, and with all the technical terms left out, this is about what i learned: "these trees are probably forty million years old! none of them grew here. this is proved in several ways: there are few roots or branches and little bark." the ranger saw me touch the outside of a log that was covered with what looked to me like perfectly good bark! he smiled. "yes, i know that looks like bark, but it is merely an outside crust of melted sand, et cetera, that formed on the logs as they rolled around in the water." "water?" i certainly hadn't seen any water around the petrified forest. "yes, water. this country, at one time, was an arm of the pacific ocean, and was drained by some disturbance which brought the sierra mountains to the surface. these logs grew probably a thousand miles north of here and were brought here in a great flood. they floated around for centuries perhaps, and were thoroughly impregnated with the mineral water, doubtless hot water. when the drainage took place, they were covered by silt and sand to a depth of perhaps two thousand feet. here the petrifaction took place. silica was present in great quantities. manganese and iron provided the coloring matter, and through pressure these chemicals were forced into the grain of the wood, which gradually was absorbed and its cell structure replaced by ninety-nine per cent silica and the other per cent iron and manganese. erosion brought what we see to the top. we have reason to believe that the earth around here covers many thousand more." after that all soaked in i asked him what the beautiful crystals in purple and amber were. these are really amethysts and topazes found in the center of the logs. formed probably by resin in the wood, these jewels are next hardest to diamonds and have been much prized. one famous jeweler even had numberless logs blown to splinters with explosives in order to secure the gems. the wood is very little softer than diamond, and polishes beautifully for jewelry, book-ends, and table tops. the ranger warned us against taking any samples from the reserve. we could have spent days wandering around among the fallen giants, each one disclosing new beauties in color and formation; but we finally left, reluctantly, each determined to come back again. it was quite dark when we reached the canyon, and i was glad to creep into bed. my kitten snuggled down close to the pillow and sang sleepy songs, but i couldn't seem to get to sleep. only cheesecloth nailed over the windows stood between me and all sorts of animals i imagined prowled the surrounding forest. the cheesecloth couldn't keep the noises out, and the cry that i heard might just as well have been the killing scream of a cougar as a bed-time story of a tree frog. it made my heart beat just as fast. and although the rangers declared i never heard more than one coyote at a time, i knew that at least twenty howling voices swelled the chorus. while i was trying to persuade myself that the noise i heard was just a pack rat, a puffing, blowing sound at the window took me tremblingly out to investigate. i knew some ferocious animal was about to devour me! but my precious flowers were the attraction. a great, gaunt cow had taken the last delectable bite from my pansy bed and was sticking out a greedy tongue to lap in the snapdragons. throwing on my bathrobe, i grabbed the broom and attacked the invader. i whacked it fore and aft! i played a tune on its lank ribs! taken completely by surprise, it hightailed clumsily up through the pines, with me and my trusty broom lending encouragement. when morning came, showing the havoc wrought on my despoiled posies, i was ready to weep. ranger winess joined me on my way to breakfast. "don't get far from headquarters today," he said. "dollar mark bull is in here and he is a killer. i've been out on tony after him, but he charged us and tony bolted before i could shoot. when i got tony down to brass tacks, dollar mark was hid." i felt my knees knocking together. "what's he look like?" i inquired, weakly. "big red fellow, with wide horns and white face. branded with a dollar mark. he's at least twenty years old, and mean!" my midnight visitor! i sat down suddenly on a lumber pile. it was handy to have a lumber pile, for i felt limp all over. i told the ranger about chasing the old beast around with a broom. his eyes bulged out on stems. frequent appearances of "dollar mark" kept me from my daily tramps through the pines, and i spent more time on the rim of the canyon. strangely, the great yawning chasm itself held no fascination for me. i could appreciate its dizzy depths, its vastness, its marvelous color effects, and its weird contours. i could feel the immensity of it, and it repelled instead of attracted. i seemed to see its barrenness and desolation, the cruel deception of its poisonous springs, and its insurmountable walls. i could visualize its hapless victims wandering frantically about, trying to find the way out of some blind coulee, until, exhausted and thirst-crazed, they lay down to die under the sun's pitiless glare. many skeletons, half buried in sand, have been found to tell of such tragedies. it was only in the evenings, after the sun had gone down, that i could feel at ease with the canyon. then i loved to sit on the rim and look down on the one living spot far below, where, almost a century ago, the indians made their homes and raised their crops, watering the fields from the clear, cold spring that gushes out of the hillside. as the light faded, the soft mellow moon would swim into view, shrouding with tender light the stark, grim boulders. from the plateau, lost in the shadows, the harsh bray of wild burros, softened by distance, floated upward. on a clear day i could see objects on the north rim, thirteen miles away, and with a pair of strong field glasses i could bring the scene quite close. it looked like a fairyland over there, and i wanted to cross over and see what it was really like. white mountain advanced the theory that if we were married we could go over there for our honeymoon! i had to give the matter careful consideration; but while i considered, the moon came up, and behind us in the music room someone began to play softly schubert's "serenade." i said, "all right. next year we'll go!" [illustration] _chapter iii: "i do!"_ the washington office decided, by this time, that i was really going to stay, so they sent another girl out to work with me. the poor superintendent was speechless! but his agony was short-lived. another superintendent was sent to relieve him, which was also a relief to me! my new girl was from alabama and had never been west of that state. she was more of a tenderfoot than i, if possible. at first she insisted one had to have a bathtub or else be just "pore white trash," but in time she learned to bathe quite luxuriously in a three-pint basin. it took longer for her to master the art of lighting a kerosene lamp, and it was quite a while before she was expert enough to dodge the splinters in the rough pine floor. i felt like a seasoned sourdough beside her! we "ditched" the big cookstove, made the back room into sleeping quarters, and turned our front room into a sort of clubhouse. white mountain gave us a wonderful phonograph and plenty of records. if one is inclined to belittle canned music, it is a good plan to live for a while where the only melody one hears is a wailing coyote or the wind moaning among the pines. we kept getting new records. the rangers dropped in every evening with offerings. ranger winess brought us love songs. he doted on john mccormack's ballads, and i secretly applauded his choice. of course i had to praise the harry lauder selections that ranger fisk toted in. white mountain favored elman and kreisler. the violin held him spellbound. but when pat came we all suffered through an evening of grand opera spelled with capital letters! nobody knew much about "pat." he was a gentleman without doubt. he was educated and cultured, he was witty and traveled. his game of bridge was faultless and his discussion of art or music authentic. he was ready to discuss anything and everything, except himself. in making up personnel records i asked him to fill out a blank. he gave his name and age. "education" was followed by "a.b." and "m.a." nearest relative: "none." in case of injury or death notify--"_nobody._" that was all. somewhere he had a family that stood for something in the world, but where? he was a striking person, with his snow-white hair, bright blue eyes, and erect, soldier-like bearing. white mountain and ranger winess had known him in yellowstone; ranger fisk had seen him in rainier; ranger west had met him at glacier. he taught me the game of cribbage, and the old game of gold-rush days--solo. one morning pat came to my cabin and handed me a book. without speaking he turned and walked away. inside the volume i found a note: "i am going away. this is my favorite book. i want you to have it and keep it." the title of the book was _story of an african farm_. none of us ever saw pat again. the yearly rains began to come daily, each with more force and water than the preceding one. lightning flashed like bombs exploding, and thunder roared and reverberated back and forth from rim to rim of the canyon. we sank above our shoes in mud every time we left the cabin. the days were disagreeable, but the evenings were spent in the cabin, ranger winess with his guitar and the other boys singing while we girls made fudge or sea-foam. such quantities of candy as that bunch could consume! the sugar was paid for from the proceeds of a put-and-take game that kept us entertained. we had a girl friend, virginia, from washington as a guest, and she fell in love with arizona. also with ranger winess. it was about arranged that she would remain permanently, but one unlucky day he took her down bright angel trail. he provided her with a tall lank mule, "by gosh," to ride, and she had never been aboard an animal before. every time by gosh flopped an ear she thought he was trying to slap her in the face. on a steep part of the trail a hornet stung the mule, and he began to buck and kick. i asked virginia what she did then. "i didn't do anything. by gosh was doing enough for both of us," she said. ranger winess said, however, that she turned her mule's head in toward the bank and whacked him with the stick she carried. which was the logical thing to do. unfortunately ranger winess teased her a little about the incident, and a slight coolness arose. just to show how little she cared for his company, virginia left our party and strolled up to the rim to observe the effect of moonlight on the mist that filled it. our game of put-and-take was running along merrily when we heard a shriek, then another. we rushed out, and there was dollar mark bull chasing virginia around and around among the big pine trees while she yelled like a calliope. seeing the door open she knocked a few of us over in her hurry to get inside. then she bravely slammed the door and stood against it! fortunately, dollar mark retreated and no lives were lost. the rangers departed, we soothed virginia, now determined not to remain permanently, and settled down for the night. everything quiet and peaceful, thank goodness! alas! the most piercing shrieks i ever heard brought me upright in bed with every hair standing on end. it was morning. i looked at virginia's bed. i could see her quite distinctly, parts of her at least. her head was buried, ostrich-wise, in the blankets, while her feet beat a wild tattoo in the air. stell woke up and joined the chorus. the cause of it all was a bewildered navajo buck who stood mutely in the doorway, staring at the havoc he had created. at arm's length he tendered a pair of moccasins for sale. it was the first reservation indian in native dress, or rather undress, the girls had seen, and they truly expected to be scalped. it never occurs to an indian to knock at a door, nor does the question of propriety enter into his calculations when he has an object in view. i told him to leave, and he went out. an hour later, however, when we went to breakfast, he was squatted outside my door waiting for us to appear. he had silver bracelets and rings beaten out of mexican coins and studded with native turquoise and desert rubies. we each bought something. i bought because i liked his wares, and the other girls purchased as a sort of thank-offering for mercies received. the bracelets were set with the brilliant rubies found by the indians in the desert. it is said that ants excavating far beneath the surface bring these semi-precious stones to the top. others contend that they are not found underneath the ground but are brought by the ants from somewhere near the nest because their glitter attracts the ant. true or false, the story results in every anthill being carefully searched. virginia's visit was drawing to a close, and white mountain and i decided to announce our engagement while she was still with us. we gave a dinner at el tovar, with the rangers and our closest friends present. at the same party another ranger announced his engagement and so the dinner was a hilarious affair. one of the oldest rangers there, and one notoriously shy with women, made me the object of a general laugh. he raised his glass solemnly and said: "well, here's wishin' you joy, but i jest want to say this: ef you'd a played yo' cyards a little bit different, you wouldn't 'a had to take white mountain." before the dinner was over a call came from the public camp ground for aid. our party broke up, and we girls went to the assistance of a fourteen-year-old mother whose baby was ill. bad food and ignorance had been too much for the little nameless fellow, and he died about midnight. there was a terrible electric storm raging, and rain poured down through the old tent where the baby died. ranger winess carried the little body down to our house and we took the mother and followed. we put him in a dresser drawer and set to work to make clothes to bury him in. ranger fisk and ranger winess made the tiny casket, and we rummaged through our trunks for materials. a sheer dimity frock of mine that had figured in happier scenes made the shroud, and virginia gave a silken scarf to line the coffin. ranger winess tacked muslin over the rough boards so it would look nicer to the young mother. there were enough of my flowers left by dollar mark to make a wreath, and that afternoon a piteous procession wended its way to the cemetery. and such a cemetery! near the edge of the canyon, a mile or so from headquarters it lay, a bleak neglected spot in a sagebrush flat with nothing to mark the cattle-tramped graves, of which there were four. at the edge of the clearing, under a little pine, was the open grave, and while the coffin was lowered the men sang. i never heard a more lonesome sound than those men singing there over that little grave. white mountain read the burial service. we took the mother back to our cabin while the grave was being filled in. i used to see her walking out there each morning with a few wild flowers to put on the mound. ranger winess managed to ride that way and keep her in sight until she returned to the camp ground. while the blue lupine blossomed she kept the mound covered with the fragrant flowers. ranger fisk had a vacation about this time, and he insisted white mountain and i should get married while he could act as best man. so we journeyed to flagstaff with him and were married. it seemed more like a wedding in a play than anything else. ranger fisk was burdened with the responsibility of the wedding-ring, license, minister's fee, and flowers for the occasion. he herded us into the clerk's office to secure the necessary papers, and the girl clerk that issued them was a stickler for form. we gave our names, our parents' names, our ages, birth-places, and previous states of servitude. i was getting ready to show her my vaccination scar, when she turned coldly critical eyes on me and asked: "are you white?" this for a virginian to answer was quite a blow. we went to the minister's house, and since two witnesses were necessary, the wife was called in from her washing. she came into the parlor drying her hands on her apron, which she discarded by rolling up and tossing into a chair. ranger fisk produced the ring, with a flourish, at the proper moment, gave the minister his money, after all the "i do's" had been said, and the wedding was over. so we were married. no wedding march, no flower girls, no veil, no rice, no wedding breakfast. just a solemn promise to respect each other and be faithful. perhaps the promise meant just a little more to us because it was not smothered in pomp. for a wedding-trip we visited the cliff dwellings in walnut canyon. here, hundreds of years ago, other newly married couples had set up housekeeping and built their dreams into the walls that still tell the world that we are but newcomers on this hemisphere. the news of our marriage reached the canyon ahead of us, and we found our little cabin filled with our friends and their gifts. they spent a merry evening with us and as we bade them goodnight we felt that such friendship was beyond price indeed. but after midnight! the great open spaces were literally filled with a most terrifying and ungodly racket. i heard shrieks and shots, and tin pans banging. horrors! the cook was on another vanilla-extract jamboree!! but--drums boomed and bugles blared. ah, of course! the indians were on the warpath; i never entirely trusted those red devils. i looked around for a means of defense, but the chief told me not to be alarmed--it was merely a "shivaree." "now, what might that be?" i inquired. i supposed he meant at least a banshee, or at the very least an irish wake! it was, however, nothing more or less than our friends serenading us. they came inside, thirty strong; the walls of the cabin fairly bulged. they played all sorts of tricks on us, and just as they left someone dropped a handful of sulphur on top of the stove. naturally, we went outside with our visitors to wish them "godspeed!" "i'll never get married again; at least not in the land of the shivaree," i told white mountain as we tried to repair the damage. i guess we were let off easy, for when our ranger friend returned with his bride they suffered a much worse fate. the groom was locked for hours in the old bear cage on the rim, and his wife was loaded into a wheelbarrow and rolled back and forth across the railroad tracks until the chief called a halt to that. he felt the treatment was a little too severe even for people in love. since i could not go to live in the bachelor ranger quarters, white mountain moved into my cabin until our house could be completed. a tent house was built for stell in the back yard of our cabin. she was afraid to live alone, and used to wake us at all hours of the night. once she came bursting into our cabin, hysterical with fright. a bunch of coyotes had been racing around and around her tent trying to get into the garbage can. they yelped and barked, and, finally, as she sobbed and tried to explain, "they sat down in my door and laughed like crazy people." she finished the night on our spare cot, for anybody that thinks coyotes can't act like demons had better spend a night in arizona and listen to them perform. stell wasn't a coward by any means. she was right there when real courage was needed. a broken leg to set or a corpse to bathe and dress were just chores that needed to be done, and she did her share of both. but seven thousand feet altitude for months at a time will draw a woman's nerves tauter than violin strings. i remember, one morning, stell and i came home in the dawn after an all-night vigil with a dying woman. we were both nearly asleep as we stumbled along through the pines, but not too far gone to see dollar mark come charging at us. we had stopped at the cookhouse and begged a pot of hot coffee to take to our cabins. stell was carrying it, and she stood her ground until the mean old bull was within a few feet of her. then she dashed the boiling-hot coffee full in his gleaming red eyes, and while he snorted and bellowed with pain we shinnied up a juniper tree and hung there like some of our ancestors until the road crew came along and drove him away. we were pretty mad, and made a few sarcastic remarks about a ranger force that couldn't even "shoot the bull." we requested the loan of a gun, if necessary! ranger winess took our conversation to heart, and next morning hung a notice in headquarters which "regretted to report that dollar mark bull accidentally fell over the rim into the canyon and was killed." in my heart i questioned both the "regret" and the "accidental" part of the report, and in order to still any remorse that the ranger might feel i baked him the best lemon pie i had in my repertoire! [illustration] _chapter iv: celebrities and squirrels_ soon after our wedding the chief crossed to the north rim to meet a party of celebrities, which included his old friend emerson hough. this was to have been our honeymoon trip, but i was left at home! the new superintendent needed me in the office; therefore white mountain spent our honeymoon trip alone. i had heard of such a thing, but never expected it to happen to me. i might have felt terribly cut up about it but on the south rim we were fermenting with excitement getting ready to entertain important guests. general diaz of italy and his staff were coming, soon to be followed by marshal foch with his retinue. and in the meantime tom mix and eva novak had arrived with beautiful horses and swaggering cowboys to make a picture in the canyon. what was a mere honeymoon compared to such luminaries? tom and eva spent three weeks making the picture, and we enjoyed every minute they were there. ranger winess was assigned to duty with them, and when they left the canyon he found himself with the offer of a movie contract. tom liked the way the ranger handled his horse and his rifle, and tom's wife liked the sound of his guitar. so we lost ranger winess. he went away to hollywood, and we all went around practicing: "i-knew-him-when" phrases. but hollywood wasn't grand canyon, and there wasn't a horse there, not even tom's celebrated tony, that had half as much brains as his own bay tony of the ranger horses. so winess came back to us, and everybody was happy again. while the picture was being made, some of the company found a burro mother with a broken leg, and ranger winess mercifully ended her suffering. a tiny baby burro playing around the mother they took to camp and adopted at once. he was so comical with his big velvet ears and wise expression. not bigger than a shepherd dog, the men could pick him up and carry him around the place. tom took him to mixville and the movie people taught him to drink out of a bottle, so he is well on the road to stardom. ranger winess, visiting in new jersey a couple of years later, dropped into a theater where tom mix was in a vaudeville act. mix spied the ranger, and when the act was over he stepped to the edge of the stage and sang out: "hey, winess, i still got that burro!" a dummy that had been used in the picture was left lying quite a distance up the side of a mountain, but quite visible from their movie camp. tom bet his director, lynn reynolds, twenty-five dollars that the dummy was six feet tall. he knew quite well that it was _not_ six feet tall, and knew that reynolds knew so too. but the bet was on. a guide going to the top, was bribed by a ten-dollar bill from tom, to stretch the dummy out to the required length. this guide went up the trail a few hours before tom and reynolds were due to measure the dummy. imagine their feelings when they arrived, and found the money and this note pinned to the object of dispute: "mr. tom mix, deer sir. i streetched the dam thing till it busted. it hain't no higher than me, and i hain't six feet. you'll plees find herein yore money. youers truly, shorty." it is said that reynolds collected in full and then hunted shorty up and bestowed the twenty-five dollars on him. white mountain returned from the north rim full of his trip. he, together with director mather and emerson hough, had been all through the wonderful southern utah country, including bryce canyon and zion national park. mr. hough had just sold his masterpiece, _the covered wagon_, to the _saturday evening post_, and was planning to write a canyon story. he told white mountain he felt that he was not big enough to write such a story but intended to try. his title was to be "the scornful valley." before he could come to the canyon again, he died on the operating table. preparations were made for the visit of general diaz, who came about thanksgiving time. a great deal of pomp and glory surrounded his every movement. he and white mountain were alone for a moment on one of the points overlooking the canyon, and the general, looking intently into the big gorge, said to the chief: "when i was a small boy i read a book about some people that stole some cattle and hid away in the canyon. i wonder if it could have been near here?" white mountain was able to point out a place in the distance that had been a crossing place for cattle in the early days, which pleased the soldier greatly. hopi joe and his indian dancers gave an unusually fine exhibition of their tribal dances for the visitors. the general expressed his appreciation quite warmly to joe after the dance ended, and asked joe to pose with him for a picture. he was recalling other boyhood reading he had done, and his interest in the indians was quite naïve. joe took him into the hopi house and they spent an hour or so going over the exhibition of indian trophies there. after dinner, the general retired to his private car to rest, but the staff remained at the hotel and we danced until well after midnight. the general's own band furnished the music. there were no women in the visitor's party, but there was no lack of partners for the handsome, charming officers. that few of them spoke english and none of us understood italian made no difference. smiles and flirtatious glances speak a universal language, and many a wife kept her wedding-ring out of the lime-light. while we all enjoyed the visit of this famous man, we took a personal interest in marshal foch. and i'm not sure that general diaz would have been entirely pleased could he have seen the extra special arrangements that were made to welcome marshal foch a few days later. every ranger was called in from outlying posts; uniforms were pressed, boots shined, and horses groomed beyond recognition. some of the rangers had served in france, and one tall lanky son of tennessee had won the croix de guerre. to his great disgust and embarrassment, he was ordered to wear this decoration. when the special train rolled in, the rangers were lined up beside the track. the gallant old warrior stepped down from his car and walked along the line. his eye rested on that medal. he rushed up and fingered it lovingly "croix de guerre! oui, oui, croix de guerre!" he kept repeating, as delighted as a child would be at the sight of a beloved toy. the ranger's face was a study. i believe he expected to be kissed on both cheeks, as he probably had been when the medal was originally bestowed upon him. white mountain was presented to the marshal as "le chieftain de le rangeurs," and, as he said later, had a handshake and listened to a few words in french from the greatest general in history! the marshal was the least imposing member of his staff. small, unassuming, and even frail, he gave the impression of being infinitely weary of the world and its fighting, its falseness, and its empty pomp. he spoke practically no english, but when a tiny indian maid crept near in her quaint velvet jacket and little full skirts, he extended a hand and said quite brokenly: "how are you, little one?" in fact he spoke very little even in his own language. several hours were consumed in viewing the canyon and at lunch. then he was taken out to hermit's rest and sat in front of the great fireplace for an hour, just resting and gazing silently into the glowing embers. all the while he stroked the big yellow cat that had come and jumped upon his knee as soon as he was settled. then he walked down the trail a little way, refusing to ride the mule provided for him. when it was explained that his photograph on the mule was desired, he gravely bowed and climbed aboard the animal. our new superintendent, colonel john r. white, had been in france and spoke french fluently. he hung breathlessly on the words of the marshal when he turned to him after a long scrutiny of the depths below. "now," thought colonel white, "i shall hear something worthy of passing along to my children and grandchildren." "what a beautiful place to drop one's mother-in-law!" observed the marshal in french. later he remarked that the canyon would make a wonderful border line between germany and france! hopi joe gave his tribal dances around a fire built in the plaza. after the dance was over, the marshal asked for an encore on the war dance. joe gave a very realistic performance that time. once he came quite near the foreign warrior, brandishing his tomahawk and chanting. a pompous newspaper man decided to be a hero and pushed in between joe and marshal foch. the general gave the self-appointed protector one look, and he was edged outside the circle and told to stay there, while joe went on with his dance. a marvelous navajo rug was presented to the visitor by father vabre, with the information that it was a gift from the indians to their friend from over the sea. he was reminded that when the call came for volunteers many thousands of arizona indians left their desert home and went across the sea to fight for a government that had never recognized them as worthy to be its citizens. the general's face lighted up as he accepted the gift, and he replied that he would carry the rug with him and lay it before his own hearthstone, and that he would tell his children its story so that after he had gone on they would cherish it as he had and never part with it. one likes to think that perhaps during his last days on earth his eyes fell on this bright rug, reminding him that in faraway arizona his friends were thinking of him and hoping for his recovery. a wildcat presented by an admirer was voted too energetic a gift to struggle with, so it was left in the bear cage on the rim. somebody turned it out and it committed suicide by leaping into the canyon. a raw cold wind, such as can blow only at the canyon, swept around the train as it carried marshal foch away. that wind brought tragedy and sorrow to us there at el tovar, for, exposed to its cold blast, mr. brant, the hotel manager, contracted pneumonia. travelers from all parts of the world knew and loved this genial and kindly gentleman. he had welcomed guests to el tovar from the day its portals were first opened to tourists. marshal foch was the last guest he welcomed or waved to in farewell, for when the next day dawned he was fighting for life and in a few days he was gone. he had loved the canyon with almost a fanatic's devotion, and although captain hance had not been buried on its rim as had been his deep desire, mr. brant's grave was located not far from the el tovar, overlooking the great chasm. the tomb had to be blasted from solid rock. all night long the dull rumble of explosives told me that the rangers, led by the wearer of the croix de guerre, were toiling away. the first snow of the season was falling when the funeral cortège started for the grave. white mountain and other friends were pall-bearers, and twenty cowboys on black horses followed the casket. father vabre read the burial service, and george wharton james spoke briefly of the friendship which had bound them together for many years. since that time both the good priest and the famous author have passed on. mr. brant had an airedale dog that was his constant companion. for days after his death this dog would get his master's hat and stick and search all over the hotel for him. he thought it was time for their daily walk. when the dog died they buried him near his master's grave. this had been mr. brant's request. the snow grew deeper and the mercury continued to go down, until it was almost impossible to spend much time outside. but the little iron stove stuffed full of pine wood kept the cabin fairly warm, and the birds and squirrels learned to stay close to the stovepipe on the roof. the squirrels would come to the cabin windows and pat against them with their tiny paws. they were begging for something to eat, and if a door or window were left open a minute it was good-by to anything found on the table. bread, cake, or even fruit was a temptation not to be resisted. one would grab the prize and dart up the trunk of a big pine tree with the whole tribe hot-footing it right after him. one bold fellow waylaid me one morning when i opened the door, and bounced up on the step and into the kitchen. i shoved him off the cabinet, and he jumped on top of the stove. that wasn't hot enough to burn him but enough to make him good and mad, so he scrambled to my shoulder, ran down my arm, and sank his teeth in my hand. then he ran up to the top of the shelves and sat there chattering and scolding until the chief came home and gave him the bum's rush. this same fellow bit the chief, too; but i always felt _he_ had it coming to him. white mountain had a glass jar of piñon nuts, and he would hold them while the squirrels came and packed their jaws full. they looked too comical with their faces puffed up like little boys with mumps. when "bunty" came for his share, the chief placed his hand tightly over the top, just to tease him. he wanted to see what would happen. he found out. bunty ran his paws over the slick surface of the jar two or three times, but couldn't find any way to reach the tempting nuts. he stopped and thought about the situation a while, then it seemed to dawn on him that he was the victim of a practical joke. all at once he jumped on the chief's hand, buried his teeth in his thumb, then hopped to a lumber pile and waited for developments. he got the nuts, jar and all, right at his head. he side-stepped the assault and gloated over his store of piñons the rest of the afternoon. it had been an off year for piñons, so boxes were put up in sheltered nooks around the park and the rangers always put food into them while making patrols. i carried my pockets full of peanuts while riding the trails, and miles from headquarters the squirrels learned to watch for me. i learned to look out for them also, after one had dropped from an overhanging bough to the flank of a sensitive horse i was riding. the fred harvey boys purchased a hundred pounds of peanuts for the little fellows, and the animals also learned to beg from tourists. all a squirrel had to do in order to keep well stuffed was to sit up in the middle of the road and look cunning. one day a severe cold kept me in bed. three or four of the little rascals found an entrance and came pell-mell into the house. one located a cookie and the others chased him into my room with it. for half an hour they fought and raced back and fourth over my bed while i kept safely hidden under the covers, head and all. during a lull i took a cautious look around. there they sat, lined up like schoolboys, on the dresser, trying to get at the impudent squirrels in the glass! failing in that, they investigated the bottles and boxes. they didn't care much for the smell of camphor, but one poke-nosey fellow put his nose in the powder jar and puffed; when he backed away, he looked like a merry old santa claus, his whiskers white with powder and his black eyes twinkling. once the chief gave them some eastern chestnuts and black walnuts. they were bewildered. they rolled them over and over in their paws and sniffed at them, but made no effort to cut into the meat. we watched to see what they would do, and they took those funny nuts out under the trees and buried them good and deep. maybe they thought time would mellow them. but the worst thing those little devils did to me happened later. i had cooked dinner for some of the powers-that-be from washington, and for dessert i made three most wonderful lemon pies. they were dreams! each one sported fluffy meringue not less than three inches thick (and eggs eighty cents a dozen). they were cooling on a shelf outside the door. along comes greedy mr. bunty looking for something to devour. "you go away. i'm looking for real company and can't be bothered with you!" i told him, and made a threatening motion with the broom. he went--right into the first pie, and from that to the middle one; of course he couldn't slight the third and last one, so he wallowed across it. then the horrid beast climbed a tree in front of my window. he cleaned, and polished, and lapped meringue off his gray squirrel coat, while i wiped tears and thought up a suitable epitaph for him. a dirty supai squaw enjoyed the pies. she and her assorted babies ate them, smacking and gabbling over them just as if they hadn't been bathed in by a wild animal. [illustration]. _chapter v: navajo land_ indians! navajos! how many wide-eyed childhood hours had i spent listening to stories of these ferocious warriors! and yet, here they were as tame as you please, walking by my door and holding out their native wares to sell. from the first instant my eyes rested upon a navajo rug, i was fascinated by the gaudy thing. the more i saw, the more they appealed to the gypsy streak in my makeup. each navajo buck that came to my door peddling his rugs and silver ornaments was led into the house and questioned. precious little information i was able to abstract at first from my saturnine visitors. as we became better acquainted, and they learned to expect liberal draughts of coffee sweetened into a syrup, sometimes their tongues loosened; but still i couldn't get all the information i craved regarding those marvelous rugs and how they were made. finally the chief decided to spend his vacation by taking me on a trip out into the painted desert, the home of this nomadic tribe. we chose the early days of summer after the spring rains had brought relief to the parched earth and replenished the water holes where we expected to camp each night. another reason was that a great number of the tribal dances would be in full swing at this time. old "smolley," an antique "navvy," had just disposed of a supply of rugs and was wending his way homeward at the same time. not choosing to travel in solitude, he firmly fastened himself to our caravan. i would have preferred his absence, for he was a vile, smelly old creature with bleary eyes and coarse uncombed gray hair tied into a club and with a red band around his head. his clothes were mostly a pair of cast-off overalls, which had not been discarded by the original owner until he was in danger of arrest for indecent exposure. incessant wear night and day by smolley had not improved their looks. but smolley knew that i never could see him hungry while we ate; consequently he stuck closer than a brother. our hospitality was well repaid later, for he took care that we saw the things we wanted to see in navajo land. the first day we rode through magnificent groves of stately yellow pines which extended from grand canyon out past grand view and the picturesque old stage tavern there which is the property of mr. w. r. hearst. quite a distance beyond there we stopped for lunch on a little knoll covered with prehistoric ruins. i asked smolley what had become of the people who had built the homes lying at our feet. he grunted a few times and said that they were driven out on a big rock by their enemies and then the god caused the rock to fly away with them somewhere else. interesting, if true. i decided that my guess was as good as his, so let the subject drop. it must have been a long time ago, for there were juniper trees growing from the middle of these ruins that the chief said were almost three thousand years old. (he had sawed one down not much larger than these, polished the trunk and counted the annual rings with a magnifying-glass, and found it to be well over that age.) among the rocks and débris, we found fragments of pottery painted not unlike the present zuñi ware, and other pieces of the typical basket pottery showing the marks of woven vessels inside of which they had been plastered thousands of years ago. i fell to dreaming of those vanished people, the hands that had shaped this clay long since turned to dust themselves. what had their owner thought of, hoped, or planned while fashioning this bowl, fragments of which i turned over in my palms aeons later? but the lunch-stop ended, and we moved on. that night we camped at desert view and with the first streak of dawn we prepared to leave the beaten path and follow a trail few tourists attempt. when we reached the little colorado, we followed smolley implicitly as we forded the stream. "chollo," our pack mule, became temperamental halfway across and bucked the rest of the way. i held my breath, expecting to see our cargo fly to the four winds; but the chief had not packed notional mules for years in vain. a few pans rattled, and later i discovered that my hair brush was well smeared with jam. no other damage was done. all day long we rode through the blazing sun. i kept my eyes shut as much as possible, for the sun was so glaring that it sent sharp pains through my head. in front the chief rode placidly on. outside of turning him into a beautiful brick red, the sun seemingly did not affect him. smolley was dozing. but i was in agony with thirst and heat and weariness. my horse, a gift from the chief which i had not been wise enough to try out on a short journey before undertaking such a trip, was as stiff as a wooden horse. i told the chief i knew mescal was knock-kneed and stiff-legged. "oh, no," was the casual reply, "he's a little stiff in the shoulders from his fall." "what fall?" "why, i loaned him to one of the rangers last week and he took him down the hermit trail and mescal fell overboard." "is he subject to vertigo?" i wanted to know. i had heard we should have steep trails to travel on this trip. "no; the ranger loaded him with two water kegs, and when mescal got excited on a steep switchback the ranger lost his head and drove him over the edge. he fell twenty feet and was knocked senseless. it took two hours to get him out again." "some ranger," was my heated comment; "who was it?" "no matter," said the chief. "he isn't a ranger any more." the chief said mescal did not suffer any from the stiffness, but i'll admit that i suffered both mentally and physically. anyway i had that to worry about and it took my mind off the intolerable heat. almost before we knew it a storm gathered and broke directly over our heads. there was no shelter, so we just kept riding. i had visions of pneumonia and sore throat and maybe rheumatism. in fact i began to feel twinges of rheumatics, but the chief scoffed. he said i should have had a twelve-inch saddle instead of a fourteen and if i wasn't so dead set on a mcclellan instead of a western stock i would be more comfortable. he draped a mackinaw around me and left me to my fate. i wasn't scared by the storm, but mescal was positively unnerved. he trembled and cringed at every crash. i had always enjoyed electrical storms, but i never experienced one quite so personal before. cartwheels and skyrockets exploded under my very nose and blue flame wrapped all around us. the chief had gone on in search of the pack mule, and i was alone with smolley. through a lull in the storm i caught a glimpse of him. he slouched stolidly in the saddle as unconcernedly as he had slouched in the broiling heat. in fact i think he was still dozing. as suddenly as the storm had come it was gone, and we could see it ahead of us beating and lashing the hot sands. clouds of earthy steam rose enveloping us, but as these cleared away the air was as cool and pure and sweet as in a new england orchard in may. on a bush by the trail a tiny wren appeared and burst into song like a vivacious firecracker. rock squirrels darted here and there, and tiny cactus flowers opened their sleepy eyes and poured out fragrance. and then, by and by, it was evening and we were truly in navajo land. we made our camp by a water hole replenished by the recent rain. while the chief hobbled the horses i drank my fill of the warm, brackish water and lay back on the saddles to rest. the chief came into camp and put a can of water on the fire to boil. when it boiled he said, "do you want a drink of this hot water or can you wait until it cools?" "oh, i had a good drink while you were gone," i answered drowsily. "where did you get it? the canteens were dry." "why, out of the waterhole, of course"; i was impatient that he could be so stupid. "you did? well, unless god holds you in the palm of his hand you will be good and sick. that water is full of germs. to say nothing of a dead cow or two. i thought you had better sense than to drink water from holes in the ground." i rose up and took another look at the oasis. sure enough, horns and a hoof protruded from one end of the mudhole. i sank back weakly and wondered why i had ever thought i wanted to visit the navajos. i hoped my loved ones back in the virginias would not know how i died. it sounded too unromantic to say one passed out from drinking dead cow! i might as well say here that evidently i was held firmly by the deity, for i felt no ill effects whatever. i couldn't eat any supper, but i knew smolley would soon blow in and it would not be wasted. as dusk settled around us we could almost hear the silence. here and there a prairie owl would whirl low to the ground with a throaty chuckle for a time, but that soon ceased. across the fire i could see the dull glow of the chief's cigarette, but the air was so quiet that not the faintest odor of tobacco drifted to me. while we lolled there, half waking, half dreaming, old smolley stepped noiselessly into camp and at a wave of the chief's hand swiftly emptied the coffeepot and skillet. he wiped his greasy mouth on his sleeve and said: "sing-sing this night. three braves sick. sing 'em well. you wanna see?" did we! i was up and ready before his last word was out. we followed him for ten minutes up a dry wash filled with bowlders and dry brush. i stepped high and wide, fully expecting to be struck by a rattlesnake any minute. i knew if i said anything the chief would laugh at me, so i stayed behind him and looked after my own safety. we reached a little mesa at the head of the coulee and found indians of all shapes and sizes assembled there. two or three huge campfires were crackling, and a pot of mutton stewed over one of them. several young braves were playing cards, watched by a bevy of giggling native belles. the lads never raised their eyes to the girls, but they were quite conscious of feminine observation. three men, grievously ill indeed, and probably made worse by the long ride to the scene of the dance, were lying in a hogan built of cottonwood branches. outside, standing closely packed together, were the navajo bucks and the medicine men. when an indian is sick he goes to the doctor instead of sending for the doctor to visit him. and then invitations are sent out all over the reservation for the singers to come and assist in the cure. the navajos had responded loyally on this occasion and were grouped according to location. one group would sing the weird minor wail for half an hour and then another bunch would break in for a few minutes, only to have still a third delegation snatch the song away from them. so closely did they keep time and so smoothly did one bunch take up where another left off that we, standing less than twenty feet away, could not tell which group was singing except when the tuba city crowd took up the plaint. their number was so small that they couldn't get out much noise. the indians had discarded their civilized garb for the occasion and were clad mostly in atmosphere helped out with a gee-string of calico. some had streaks of white and black paint on them. i fell to dreaming of what it would have meant to be captured by such demons only a few years ago, and it wasn't long until i lost interest in that scene. i was ready to retreat. we watched the medicine men thump and bang the invalids with bunches of herbs and prayer sticks a few minutes longer; then with smolley as our guide we wandered over to the squaw dance beside another bonfire, located at a decorous distance from the improvised hospital hogan. the leading squaw, with a big bunch of feathers fastened to a stick, advanced to the fire and made a few impressive gestures. she was garbed in the wide, gathered calico skirt, the velvet basque trimmed with silver buttons, and the high brown moccasins so dear to feminine navajos. the orchestra was vocal, the bucks again furnishing the music. after circling around the spectators a few times the squaw decided on the man she wanted and with one hand took a firm grasp of his shirt just above the belt. then she galloped backward around him while he was dragged helplessly about with her, looking as sheepish as the mutton simmering in the kettle. other squaws picked partners and soon there were numerous couples doing the silly prance. silly it looked to us, but i thought of a few of our civilized dances and immediately reversed my opinion. the squaws occasionally prowled around among the spectators, keeping in the shadows and seeking white men for partners. these, mostly cowboys and trading-post managers, were wary, and only one was caught napping. it cost him all the loose silver he had in his pocket to get rid of the tiny fat squaw that had captured him. we were told that dances and races would continue for several days, and so, firmly bidding good night to smolley, we went back to camp and fell asleep with the faint hubbub coming to us now and then. almost before the chief had breakfast started the next morning smolley stepped into the scene and took a prominent seat near the steaming coffeepot. "you arrive early," i remarked. "now how could you know that breakfast was so near ready?" this last a trifle sarcastically, i fear. "huh, me, i sleep here," pointing to the side of a rock not ten feet from my own downy bed. that settled me for keeps. i subsided and just gazed with a fatal hypnotism at the flapjacks disappearing down his ample gullet. it was fatal, for while i was spellbound the last one disappeared and i had to make myself some more or go without breakfast. when smolley had stilled the first fierce pangs of starvation he pulled a pair of moccasins out of the front of his dirty shirt and tossed them to me. (the gesture had somewhat the appearance of tossing a bone to an angry dog.) anyway the dog was appeased. the moccasins had stiff rawhide soles exactly shaped to fit my foot, and the uppers were soft brown buckskin beautifully tanned. they reached well above the ankles and fastened on the side with three fancy silver buttons made by a native silversmith. a tiny turquoise was set in the top of each button. i marveled at the way they fitted, until the chief admitted that he had given smolley one of my boudoir slippers for a sample. eventually the other slipper went to a boot manufacturer and i became the possessor of real hand-made cowboy boots. breakfast disposed of, we mounted and went in search of a rug factory, that being the initial excuse for the journey. a mile or two away we found one in operation. the loom consisted of two small cottonwood trees with cross-beams lashed to them, one at the top and the other at the bottom. a warp frame with four lighter sticks forming a square was fastened within the larger frame. the warp was drawn tight, with the threads crossed halfway to the top. different-colored yarns were wound on a short stick, and with nimble fingers a squaw wove the pattern. there was no visible pattern for her to follow. she had that all mapped out in her brain, and followed it instinctively. i asked her to describe the way the rug would look when finished, and she said, "no can tell. me know here," tapping her forehead. i liked the way the weaving was begun, and so i squatted there in the sunshine for two hours trying to get her to talk. finally i gave her ten dollars for the rug when it should be finished and little by little she began to tell me the things i wanted to know. we made no real progress in our conversation until i learned that she had been a student at sherman indian institute for eight years. when she found that i knew the school well and some of the teachers, a look of discontent and unhappiness came over her face. she said that she had been very, very happy at sherman. with a wave of her slender brown hand she said: "look at this!" her eyes rested with distaste on the flock of sheep grazing near, turned to the mud-daubed hogan behind us, and swept on across the cactus-studded desert. "they teach us to sleep in soft, white beds and to bathe in tile bathtubs. we eat white cooking. we cook on electric stoves. we are white for years, and then they send us back to this! we sleep on the earth, we cook with sheep-dung fires; we have not water even for drinking. we hate our own people, we hate our children when they come!" i was so startled at the outburst. her english was faultless. i had enough sense to keep still, and she went on more quietly: "when i left sherman i hoped to marry a boy there who was learning the printer's trade. then we could have lived as your people do. my father sold me for ten ponies and forty sheep. i am a squaw now. i live as squaws did hundreds of years ago. and so i try to be just a squaw. i hope to die soon." and there it was, just as she said. turned into a white girl for eight years, given a long glimpse of the promised land, then pushed back into slavery. we saw lots of that. it seemed as though the ones that were born and lived and died without leaving the reservation were much happier. "what is your name?" i asked after we had been silent while her swift, nervous fingers wove a red figure into a white background. "i'm mollie, smolley's daughter." so the greedy old dog had sold his own child. that is the usual thing, mollie said. girls are sold to the highest bidder, but fortunately there is a saving clause. in case the girl dislikes her husband too much she makes him so miserable he takes her back to her father and they are divorced instantly. the father keeps the wedding gifts and sells her again for more sheep and horses. the flocks really belong to the women, but i can't see what good they do them. the women tend them and shear them and even nurse them. they wash and dye and card and weave the wool into rugs, and then their lordly masters take the rugs and sell them. a part of the money is gambled away on pony races or else beaten into silver jewelry to be turned into more money. a certain number of rugs are turned in to the trading-post for groceries, calico, and velvet. navajos never set a table or serve a meal. they cook any time there is anything to cook, and then when the grub is done, eat it out of the pot with their fingers. they have no idea of saving anything for the next meal. they gorge like dogs, and then starve perhaps for days afterward. mollie had two children, a slim, brown lad perhaps ten years old, who was watching the sheep near by, and a tiny maid of three, sitting silently by her mother. the boy seemed to have inherited some of his mother's rebellion and discontent, but it appeared on his small face as wistfulness. he was very shy, and when i offered him a silver coin he made no move to take it. i closed his fingers around it, and he ran to his mother with the treasure. as he passed me going back to his sheep, he raised his great, sad black eyes and for a second his white teeth flashed in a friendly grin. the men folks had wandered on to the races a mile away, and mollie, the babe, and i followed. there was no business of closing up house when we left. she just put the bright wool out of the reach of pack rats and we were ready. i admired her forethought, for only the night before i had lost a cake of soap, one garter, and most of my hairpins. of course the rat was honest, for he had left a dried cactus leaf, a pine cone, and various assorted sticks and straws in place of what he took. that's why this particularly vexing rodent is called a "trade rat." i used to hear that it takes two to make a bargain. that knowledge has not penetrated into pack-ratdom. a few hopi and supai indians were darting around on show ponies, spotted and striped "paints," as they call them. a navajo lad came tearing down upon us, riding a most beautiful sorrel mare. it seemed that he would ride us down; but i never did run from an indian, so i stood my ground. with a blood-chilling war whoop he pulled the mare to her haunches and laughed down at me. he was dressed as a white man would be and spoke perfect english. he was just home from sherman, he explained, and was going to race his mare against the visitors. i took his picture on the mare, and he told me where to send it to him after it was finished. "i hope you win. i'm betting on you for mollie," i told him and gave him some money. he did win! around the smooth hillside the ponies swept, and when almost at the goal he leaned forward and whistled in the mare's ear. she doubled up like a jackknife and when she unfolded she was a nose ahead of them all. every race ended the same way. he told me he won two hundred silver dollars all told. i am wearing a bracelet now made from one of them. very seldom does one see a rattlesnake portrayed in any hopi or navajo work, but i had my heart set on a rattlesnake bracelet. silversmith after silversmith turned me down flat, until at last mollie and the boy told me they would see that i got what i wanted. a month later a strange indian came to my house, handed me a package with a grunt, and disappeared. it was my bracelet. i always wear it to remind me of my visit to navajo land. [illustration] _chapter vi: "they killed me"_ white mountain and i walked out to the cemetery one evening at sunset, and i asked him to tell me about the four sleeping there. one trampled grave, without a marker, was the resting-place of a forest ranger who had died during the flu epidemic. at that time no body could be shipped except in a metal casket, and since it had been impossible to secure one he was buried far from his home and people. the mother wrote she would come and visit the grave as soon as she had enough money, but death took her too and she was spared seeing his neglected grave. the chief stood looking down at the third grave, which still held the weather-beaten débris of funeral wreaths. "cap hance is buried here," he said. "he was a dear friend of mine." from his tone i scented a story, and as we strolled back to headquarters he told me something of the quaint old character. in the days that followed, i heard his name often. travelers who had not been at the canyon for several years invariably inquired for "cap" as soon as they arrived. i always felt a sense of personal shame when i heard a ranger directing them to his grave. he had begged with his last breath to be buried in the canyon, or else on the rim overlooking it. "god willing, and man aiding," as he always said. however, his wish had been ignored, for the regular cemetery is some distance from the rim. this captain john hance was the first settler on the rim of the grand canyon. the hance place is located about three miles east of grand view point. here he built the old hance trail into the canyon, and discovered numerous copper and asbestos mines. many notables of the early days first saw the canyon from his home, staging in there from flagstaff, seventy miles away. he had an inexhaustible fund of stories, mostly made up out of whole cloth. these improbable tales were harmless, however, and in time he became almost an institution at the canyon. the last years of his life were spent at el tovar, regaling the tourists with his colorful and imaginary incidents of the wild and woolly days. he was quite proud of his munchausenian abilities. another old-timer at the canyon, w. w. bass, who is still alive, was cap's best friend. cap hance was often heard to declare: "there are three liars here at the canyon; i'm one and bass is the other two." romantic old ladies at el tovar often pressed him for a story of his early fights with the indians. here is one of his experiences: "once, a good many years ago when i was on the outs with the navajos, i was riding the country a few miles back from here looking up some of my loose horses. i happened to cast my eye over to one side and saw a bunch of the red devils out looking for trouble. i saw that i was outnumbered, so i spurred old roaney down into a draw at the left, hoping that i hadn't been seen. i got down the draw a little piece and thought i had given them the slip, but the yelling told me that they were still after me. i thought i could go down this draw a ways and then circle out and get back to my ranch. but i kept going down the canyon and the walls kept getting steeper and steeper, and narrower and narrower until finally they got so close together that me and roaney stuck right there." at this point he always stopped and rolled a cigarette. the ladies were invariably goggle-eyed with excitement and would finally exclaim: "what happened then, captain hance?" "oh, they killed me," he'd say simply. another time he was again being chased by indians, and looking back over his shoulder at them, not realizing that he was so near the rim of the canyon, his horse ran right up to the edge and jumped off into space. "i'd a been a goner that time," he said, "if i hadn't a had time to think it over and decide what to do." (he fell something like five thousand feet.) "so when my horse got within about fifteen feet from the ground, i rose up in the stirrups and gave a little hop and landed on the ground. all i got was a twisted ankle." a lady approached him one day while he stood on the rim gazing into the mile-deep chasm. "captain hance," she said, "i don't see any water in the canyon. is this the dry season, or does it never have any water in it?" gazing at her earnestly through his squinty, watery eyes, he exclaimed: "madam! in the early days many's the time i have rode my horse up here and let him drink _right where we stand_!" the old fellow was a bachelor, but he insisted that in his younger days he had married a beautiful girl. when asked what had become of her he would look mournful and tell a sad tale of her falling over a ledge down in the canyon when they were on their honeymoon. he said it took him three days to reach her, and that when he did locate her he found she had sustained a broken leg, so he had to shoot her. as he grew feeble, he seemed to long for the quiet depths of the gorge, and several times he slipped away and tried to follow the old trail he had made in his youth. he wanted to die down at his copper mine. at last, one night when he was near eighty years old, he escaped the vigilance of his friends and with an old burro that had shared his happier days he started down the trail. ranger west got wind of it and followed him. he found him where he had fallen from the trail into a cactus patch and had lain all night exposed to the raw wind. he was brought back and cared for tenderly, but he passed away. prominent men and women who had known and enjoyed him made up a fund to buy a bronze plate for his grave. remembering the size of his yarns, whoever placed the enormous boulders at his head and feet put them nine feet apart. halfway between my cabin and the rim, in the pine woods, is a well-kept grave with a neat stone and an iron fence around it. here lies the body of united states senator ashurst's father, who was an old-timer at the canyon. years ago, while working a mine at the bottom of the canyon, he was caught by a cave-in and when his friends reached him he was dead. they lashed his body on an animal and brought him up the steep trail to be buried. while i was in washington, senator ashurst told me of his father's death and something of his life at the canyon. he said that often in the rush and worry of capitol life he longed for a few peaceful moments at his father's grave. i never saw senator ashurst at the grand canyon, but another senator was there often, stirring up some row or other with the government men. he seemed to think he owned the canyon, the sky overhead, the dirt underneath, and particularly the trail thereinto. his hirelings were numerous, and each and every one was primed to worry uncle sam's rangers. as dogs were prohibited in the park, every employee of the senator's was amply provided with canines. did the tourists particularly enjoy dismounting for shade and rest at certain spots on the trail, those places were sure to get fenced in and plastered with "keep off" signs, under the pretense that they were mining claims and belonged to him. we used to wonder what time this senator found to serve his constituents. uncle sam grew so weary of contesting every inch of the trail that he set himself to build a way of his own for the people to use. several men under the direction of ranger west were set to trail-building. they made themselves a tent city on the north side of the river and packers were kept busy taking mule loads of materials to them daily. hundreds of pounds of tnt were packed down safely, but one slippery morning the horses which had been pressed into service lost their footing, slid over the edge of the trail, and hit bright angel again a thousand feet below. the packers held their breath expecting to be blown away, as two of the horses that fell were loaded with the high explosive. it was several minutes before they dared believe themselves safe. they sent for white mountain, and when he reached the animals he found they were literally broken to pieces, their packs and cargoes scattered all over the side of the mountain. they dragged the dead animals a few feet and dropped them into a deep fissure which was handy. fresh snow was scraped over the blood-stained landscape, and when the daily trail party rode serenely down a few minutes later there was nothing to show that a tragedy had taken place. later an enormous charge of this high explosive was put back of a point that rees griffith, the veteran trail-builder, wished to remove, and the result was awaited anxiously. about four in the afternoon rees called headquarters and reported that the shot was a huge success. he was greatly elated and said his work was about done. it was. an hour later ranger west called for help: rees had climbed to the top to inspect the shot at close range, and a mammoth boulder loosened by the blast came tumbling down, carrying rees to the rocks below. he was terribly crushed and broken, but made a gallant fight to live. in looking over some notes i found a copy of white mountain's report, which tells the story much more completely than i could hope to: "in accordance with instructions, accompanied by nurse catti from el tovar i left headquarters about 6:30 p.m. bound for camp roosevelt, to be of such assistance as possible to rees griffith, who had been injured by a falling rock. "the night was not very cold, rather balmy than otherwise, and the descent into the canyon was made as quickly as possible, the factor of safety being considered. had we been engaged in any other errand the mystical beauty of the canyon, bathed in ethereal moonlight, would have been greatly enjoyed. we reached the packers' camp at pipe creek at nine o'clock and found hot coffee prepared for us. miss catti borrowed a pair of chaps there from one of the boys, as the wind had come up and it was much colder. we were warned to proceed slowly over the remainder of the trail on account of packed ice in the trail. we covered tonto trail in good time, but below the 1,500-foot level on down was very dangerous. the tread of the trail was icy and in pitch darkness, the moonlight not reaching there. however, we reached the bottom without mishap. miss catti never uttered a word of complaint or fear, but urged me to go as fast as i considered safe. "when we reached kaibab suspension bridge a ranger was waiting to take our mules. we walked across the bridge and found other mules there. we thus lost no time in crossing the bridge with animals. "we arrived at camp roosevelt a few minutes after eleven and went immediately to where rees had been carried. examination showed that he had been dead probably fifteen minutes. he had been unconscious since nine-thirty. two fellow-mormons sat with the body the rest of the night. "when morning came arrangements were made with rangers west and peck to pack the body out of the canyon if it should be so ordered. (we would have mounted a platform on a mule's back, lashed the body in place, and packed it out in that manner.) however, we all felt that it would be much better to bury him in the canyon near the place where he lost his life. after conferring with the superintendent by telephone, miss catti, landscape engineer ferris, rangers west, peck, and myself selected a spot considered proper from the point of landscape engineering, high water, surface wash, and proximity to the trail. this place is about five hundred yards west of the bridge in an alcove in the archaean rock which forms the canyon wall. we dug a grave there. "the carpenter made a very good coffin from materials at hand, and we lined it with sheets sent down by mrs. smith for that purpose. she also sent a prayer book and a bible to us by ranger winess, who accompanied the coroner to the scene of the accident. an impaneled jury of six declared the death to be due to unavoidable accident. after the inquest the coroner turned the personal effects of rees over to me. they consisted of a gold watch and two hundred and ninety dollars in a money belt. i hold these subject to instructions from the widow. the body was prepared for burial by wrapping it in white according to mormon custom. the coffin was carried to the grave, and, while our small company stood uncovered, i said a few words to the effect that it was right that this man should be laid to rest near the spot where he fell and where he had spent a great part of his life; that it was fitting and proper that we who had known him, worked with him, and loved him should perform this last duty. then the services for the burial of the dead were read, and we left him there beside the trail he built." in the meantime i had been hovering anxiously at the phone, worried about the dark, icy trail white mountain and nurse had to travel, and fearing to hear that rees was seriously injured. as soon as they reached camp they called and said he had gone before they could get there. he told me to wire the doctor at williams and tell him he was not needed; also to see that a message was sent to the wife and children of the dead man telling them he would have to be buried in the canyon where he was killed. these errands were to be attended to over the local phone, but for some reason the wire was dead. i was in a quandary. just having recovered from a prolonged attack of flu, i felt it unwise to go out in several feet of snow, but that was my only course. dressing as warmly as i could, i started up through the woods to ranger quarters. the snow was above my waist, and i bumped into trees and fell over buried logs before i reached the building. the long hall was in darkness. i knew that most of the boys were out on duty. what if no one were there! i knew my strength was about used up, and that i could never cross the railroad tracks to the superintendent's house. i went down the long cold hall knocking on every door. nothing but silence and plenty of it. i reached the door at the end of the hall and knocked. instantly i remembered that room belonged to rees. his dog, waiting to be taken down into the canyon, leaped against the inside of the door and went into a frenzy of howling and barking. i was panic-stricken, and my nerve broke. i began to scream. ranger winess had slept all through my knocking, but with the first scream he developed a nightmare. he was back in the philippines surrounded by fighting moros and one was just ready to knife him! he turned loose a yell that crowded my feeble efforts aside. finally he got organized and came to my rescue. i told him rees was dead and gave him the chief's message. "all right. i'll get dressed and attend to everything. you better get back to bed." i informed him i would not move an inch until i had company back through the darkness. he then took me home, and went to make arrangements. i called the chief and told him ranger winess was on the job. then i tried to sleep again. coyotes howled. rees' dog barked faintly; a screech owl in a tree near by moaned and complained, and my thoughts kept going with the sad news to the little home rees had built for his family in utah. strange trampling, grinding noises close to the window finally made me so nervous i just had to investigate. taking the chief's "forty-five," which was a load in itself, i opened the rear door and crept around the house. and there was a poor hungry pony that had wandered away from an indian camp, and found the straw packed around our water pipes. he was losing no time packing himself around the straw. i was so relieved i could have kissed his shaggy nose. i went back to bed and slept soundly. [illustration] _chapter vii: a grand canyon christmas_ funny how one can never get over being homesick at christmas. days and weeks and even months can pass by without that yearning for family and home, but in all the years since i hung my stocking in front of the big fireplace in the old home i have never learned to face christmas eve in a strange place with any degree of happiness. i believe the rangers all felt the same way. several days before christmas they began to plan a real "feed." we had moved into our new house now, and it was decided to make a home of it by giving a christmas housewarming. the rangers all helped to prepare the dinner. each one could choose one dish he wanted cooked and it was cooked, even if we had to send to montgomery ward and company for the makin's. ranger fisk opined that turkey dressing without oysters in it would be a total loss as far as he was concerned, so we ordered a gallon from the coast. they arrived three days before christmas, and it was his duty to keep them properly interred in a snow drift until the great day arrived. ranger winess wanted pumpkin pies with plenty of ginger; white mountain thought roast turkey was about his speed. since we would have that anyway, he got another vote. this time he called for mashed turnips and creamed onions. the superintendent, colonel white, being an englishman, asked plaintively if we couldn't manage a plum pudding! we certainly managed one just bursting with plums. that made him happy for the rest of the day. i didn't tell anybody what i intended to have for my own special dish, but when the time came i produced a big, rich fruit cake, baked back home by my own mother, and stuffed full of nuts and fruit and ripened to a perfect taste. all the rangers helped to prepare the feast. one of them rode down the icy trail to indian gardens and brought back crisp, spicy watercress to garnish the turkey. after it became an effort to chew, and impossible to swallow, we washed the dishes and gathered around the blazing fire. ranger winess produced his omnipresent guitar and swept the strings idly for a moment. then he began to sing, "silent night, holy night." that was the beginning of an hour of the kind of music one remembers from childhood. just as each one had chosen his favorite dish, now each one selected his favorite christmas song. when i asked for "little town of bethlehem" nobody hesitated over the words. we all knew it better than we do "star spangled banner!" i could have prophesied what colonel white would call for, so it was no surprise when he swung into "god rest ye merry, gentlemen, let nothing ye dismay." fortunately, most of us had sung carols in our distant youth, and we sang right with the colonel. someone suggested that each one tell of the strangest christmas day he or she had ever spent. for a while none of us were in arizona. ranger winess was in a state of siege in the philippines, while the moros worked themselves into a state of frenzy for the attack that followed; ranger fisk scaled table mountain, lying back of capetown, and there picked a tiny white flower which he had pressed in the bible presented to him there that day; each sailor in port had received a bible that day with this inscription: "capetown, africa, christ's birthday, december 25, 19--." white mountain snowshoed twenty miles in yellowstone to have christmas dinner with another ranger, but when he got there he found his friend delirious with flu. "did he die?" we questioned anxiously. ranger winess and the chief looked at each other and grinned. "do i look like a dead one?" ranger winess demanded. "i couldn't let him die," white mountain said. "we had just lost one government man, mysteriously, and hadn't any more to spare. so i got his dogs and sledge and hauled him into headquarters." of course we wanted to know about the "lost" ranger. it seemed that there had broken out among the buffalo herd in the park a strange malady that was killing them all off. an expert from washington was en route to make a study of the ailment, and was due to arrive just before christmas. days passed into weeks and still he didn't show up. inquiries to washington disclosed that he had started as per schedule. tracing his journey step by step it was discovered that on the train out of chicago he had become ill with flu and had been left in a small town hospital. there he had died without recovering his speech, and had been buried in the potter's field! "well, then what happened to the buffalo?" "washington sent us a german scientist. we loved that nation just about that time, and on his arrival diplomatic relations were badly strained. he was too fat and soft to use snowshoes or skis, so we loaded him on a light truck and started for the buffalo farm. we stalled time and again, and he sat in lordly indifference while we pushed and shoveled out. we seemed hopelessly anchored in one drift, and from his perch where he sat swaddled up like a mummy came his 'vy don't you carry a portable telephone so ve couldt hook it over the vires and call for _them_ to come and pull us oudt?' one of the rangers replied, 'it would be nice for us to telephone ourselves to please pull us oudt. _we_ are the _them_ that does the pulling around here.' "the old boy mumbled and sputtered but rolled out and put a husky shoulder to the wheel, and we went on our way rejoicing. he won our respect at the buffalo farm for he soon discovered the germ that was killing our charges, and he prepared a serum with which we vaccinated the entire herd." "wow!" colonel white exclaimed. "i think i'd rather fight moros than vaccinate buffalo." he, too, had spent years in foreign warfare; his experiences are graphically told in _bullets and bolos_. while we heard about the buffalo, one of the rangers left the room. he came back presently, and white mountain said to me: "don't you want to see your christmas present?" i looked across at my proud new riding-boots, with their fancy stitching, and funny high heels just like those the rangers wore. "i'm crazy about them," i said. but the whole bunch were laughing. white mountain led me to the door, and there i had my first glimpse of tar baby! he was a four-year-old horse that had spent those years running wild on the range. a few months before he had been captured and partly tamed. but he was hard-mouthed, and stiff-necked and hell-bent on having his own way about things. i didn't know all that when i saw him this christmas day. to me he was perfect. he was round and fat, shiny black, with a white star in his forehead, and four white feet. one eye was blue, and the other one the nicest, softest, kindest brown! he was just that kind of a dr. jekyll and mr. hyde horse, too! he was fitted out with a new saddle, a gaudy navajo saddle blanket, and a bridle with silver inlaid fittings. the spade bit was necessary. i found that out later, also. i would have stood there speechless with admiration the rest of the day, but the others reminded me it was time to light the big tree we had planned for the children in the park. the rangers had brought a slender fir into the information room and we had it trimmed within an inch of its life. cranberries and popcorn ropes festooned its branches, and again montgomery ward and company's catalogue had been searched for treasures to load it with. every child in the park, regardless of race or color, was remembered. little brown brothers, whose filipino mothers worked in the laundry, found themselves possessors of strange toys; navajo babies and hopi cupids from the hopi house were well supplied. one small hopi lass wailed loudly at the look of the flaxen-haired doll that fell to her lot. she was afraid to hold it--she wouldn't let anybody else touch it--so she stood it in a corner and squalled at it from a safe distance. when the party was over, an older sister had to carry it for her. i suspect she much preferred her native dolls. after the tree was bare, we all went down to the fred harvey recreation room and danced the rest of the evening away. i could hardly wait for morning to go for a ride on tar baby. ranger west brought him down to the house to saddle him. while i dressed up in my new boots i overheard the conversation between the ranger and the horse. it was a rather one-sided talk, but quite interesting. "whoa there, tar baby!" very firmly and casually. "stand still now!" "hey, now, you black devil, don't you try bitin' me again! yes, he's a nice baby horse," this last remark quite saccharine. a slight silence fell while the cinches were being tightened, then--heels beating a tune on the side of the shed, and sultry, sulphuric remarks being fitted to the tune. about that time i was ready to go out. "have any trouble with tar baby?" "no, oh, no. none whatever. ready to go?" every morning as soon as i was in the saddle we had the same argument. would he go where and as fast as i desired, or would he run as fast and as far as he pleased? sore wrists and a strained disposition were the price i paid for winning the battle. he just went wild if he could race with another horse. of course white mountain put his foot down on such racing, and since the rangers were such good sports their chief never learned that racing was part of the daily program! one day, when some of the washington officials were there, the chief borrowed tar baby to ride. he said it took him half a day to get him to stay on the ground with the other horses. he came home fully determined that i must trade my christmas gift for a more sensible horse. tears and coaxing availed nothing, but i did win his consent to one more ride before i gave him up. ranger west was going to ride the drift fence and i started out with him. tar baby was a handful that day, and i was having all i could do to control him. we passed a bunch of tourists having lunch out of paper sacks, and one of the men had a wonderful idea. he said something to the others, and while they giggled he blew one of the bags full of air and exploded it right under my horse. of course tar baby bolted, and even as he ran away i admired his ability to keep ahead of ranger west, who was running full tilt after us. it was five minutes before i could get the bit out of his teeth and bring the spade device into play. i had to choke him into submission. ranger west and ranger fisk conducted those tourists out of the park, and they had to leave without seeing the canyon. "ve drove here from new york to see this canyon," one complained, and made wide gestures with both hands. "it wouldn't do you any good to see it," ranger west told him grimly. "you'd probably push somebody over the edge to have a little fun." i was sure the chief would take tar baby away after that. but i guess he thought if the horse hadn't killed me with such a good chance as he had, i was safe. he never said another word about selling him. several indians were camped around in the woods near the park, and we visited them quite often. an indian has as many angles in his makeup as a centipede has legs. just about the time you think you have one characteristically placed, you put your finger down and he isn't there. charge one with dishonesty, and the next week he will ride a hundred miles to deliver a bracelet you paid for months before. decide he is cruel and inhuman, and he will spend the night in heart-breaking labor, carrying an injured white man to safety. i suggested hiring a certain navajo to cut some wood, and was told that he was too lazy to eat what he wanted. in a few days this same brave came to headquarters with the pelt of a cougar. he had followed the animal sixty miles, tracking it in the snow on foot without a dog to help him. we knew where he took the trail and where it ended. he killed the big cat, skinned it, and carried the pelt back to the canyon. you won't find many white men with that much grit! a tourist from new york saw the pelt and coveted it. he offered twenty-five dollars. neewah wanted fifty. the tourist tried to beat him down. there wasn't any argument about it. the whole conversation was a monologue. the indian saw that the tourist wanted the skin badly, so he just sat and stared into space while the tourist elaborated on how much twenty-five dollars would buy and how little the pelt had cost the indian! the buck simply sat there until it was about time for the train to pull out, then he picked up the hide and stalked away. mr. tourist hastened after him and shelled out fifty pesos. i expect he told the home folks how he shot that panther in self-defense. ranger west did shoot a big cougar soon afterward. not in self-defense but in revenge. not many deer lived on the south rim then. that was before the fawns were brought by airplane across the canyon! the few that were there were cherished and protected in every possible way. a salt pen was built so high the cattle couldn't get in, and it was a wonderful sight to see the graceful deer spring over that high fence with seemingly no effort at all. ranger west came in one morning with blood in his eye--one of his pets had been dragged down under the rim and half devoured by a giant cougar. a hunt was staged at once. i was told to stay at home, but that didn't stop me from going. ranger fisk always saddled tar baby for me when everybody else thought it best to leave me behind. so i wasn't far away when the big cat was treed by the dogs. he sat close to the trunk of the dead tree, defying the dogs and spitting at them until they were almost upon him. then he sprang up the tree and lay stretched out on a limb snarling until a rifle ball brought him down. he hit the ground fighting, and ripped the nose of an impetuous puppy wide open. another shot stretched him out. he measured eight feet from tip to tip. his skin was tanned by an indian and adorns a bench in the ranger office. [illustration] _chapter viii: the day's work_ the snow had been tumbling down every day for weeks, until several feet lay on the ground. after each storm the rangers took snow plows and cleared the roads along the rim, but the rest of our little world lay among big snow drifts. as we walked around among the houses, only our heads and shoulders showed above the snow. it was like living in alaska. the gloomy days were getting monotonous, and when the chief announced he was going to make an inspection trip over tonto trail, i elected myself, unanimously, to go along. "but it's cold riding down there, even if there is no snow," protested white mountain. "and, besides, your horse is lame." "well, it isn't exactly hot up here, and i'll borrow dixie. i'm going!" ranger west obligingly lent dixie to me and i went. the thermometer registered well below zero when we started down bright angel trail. on account of the icy trail my descent threatened to be a sudden one. dixie slid along stiff-legged, and i was half paralyzed with fright and cold. but every time the chief looked back, i pulled my frozen features into what i considered a cheerful smile. i got more and more scared as we went farther down, and finally had a brilliant idea. "my feet are awfully cold, and couldn't i walk a while?" the chief had probably heard that same excuse from a thousand others, but he gravely assented and helped me dismount. i started down the trail leading dixie. my feet really were so cold they were numb. this was probably a mercy, since dixie kept stepping on them! i began to run to "keep out from in under," and she kept pace until we were almost galloping down the trail. when we got below the snow line, my excuse wouldn't work, and i had to ride again. there was sagebrush and sand and cactus. then sand and cactus and sagebrush. here and there we saw a lop-eared burro, and far away i saw an eagle sailing around. having nothing else to do i counted the burros we passed--seventy. a bunch grazing near the trail looked interesting, so i made a careful approach and took their picture. of course i forgot to roll the film, and a little later friend husband decided to photograph the enormous pillar that gives the name to monument creek. the result was rather amazing when we developed the film a week later. the wild burros were grazing placidly on the summit of a barren rock, a couple of hundred feet in the air, without visible means of ascent or descent. the chief made a few sarcastic remarks about this picture, but i firmly reminded him my burros were there first! he didn't say anything else--aloud. it took a long day's riding to reach hermit's camp just at dusk. we were warmly welcomed by a roaring fire and hot supper. after i ate and then sat a while i was too stiff to move. i knew i would stay awake all night and nurse my aches. that, added to my fear of "phoby cats," made me reluctant to retire. what's a hydrophobia cat? i don't know for sure that it's anything, but the camp man told me to keep my door locked or one would sneak in and bite me. he also said that i would go crazy if one chewed on me. i intended to keep at least one ear cocked for suspicious noises; but when i hit the cot everything was a blank until i heard the chief making a fire in the little tin stove. "wake up and get dressed. breakfast will be ready in a few minutes, and i want you to walk down to the creek and see the trout." "walk?" i never expected even to crawl again. sore! stiff!! i labored all of ten minutes trying to get my boots on. and i had to ride up hermit trail that day. i was glad to ride. i never mentioned walking to warm my feet. the trail wound up and up. today i slid down on dixie's tail, whereas yesterday i had braced my heels against her ears. a young snowslide came down the mountainside, and we almost went on with it. it missed us by such a very slight margin that fugitive snowballs rolled around dixie's feet and left her trembling and cringing with fright. dixie and i had been loitering quite a distance behind, because white mountain had made us a little mad about something; but we decided we really had no right to be killed without letting him know about it, and we kept close to his heels the rest of the way. all too soon we reached near-zero weather again. it got zero, then zero-er, and quickly zero-est. i thought of all the hot things i could remember, endeavoring to raise the temperature. real chili con carne. pennsylvania avenue in august. hornet stings. spankings sustained in my youth! it was useless. i couldn't qualify as a scientist. maybe i lacked concentration, for between looking out for another avalanche and wondering how soon i could decently ask for another cup of coffee from the thermos bottle, my thoughts wandered. perhaps the chief was cold, too. anyway, we stopped at santa maria spring and spread out our lunch. the quaint little shelter over the spring was being rapidly covered with boston ivy. white mountain said earl shirley used to ride down there twice a week after a hard day's work to water the newly set plants so they would grow. one is always learning new things about western men! it was mighty good to find ranger fisk at the top of the trail. he said he thought i would be cold and tired so he brought a flivver to take me the remaining six miles in to headquarters. he had the house warm and had melted snow for drinking-water. all the water pipes had frozen while we were gone, and i washed my face with cold cream for several days. i hadn't more than settled down comfortably when the chief found it necessary to make another trip down. when he mentioned going i played the piano so loud i couldn't hear him. i had no desire to go. not while i could sit in my warm house and read and sew in my comfortable rocking chair. it was without a single qualm that i waved him a floury adieu from the midst of cookie-making. i closed the door and went back to my baking, which was abruptly terminated by a blazing board falling into the crock of dough. the house was burning over my luckless head. i turned around and around a few times in the same spot, then tried to throw a bucket of water up against the ceiling. had i been the conflagration it would have ended then and there, for i was thoroughly drenched. failing to be my own fire engine i ran out and happened to see ranger winess crossing the road. he must have been startled at my war whoop, for he came running. by that time the smoke was rolling out through the roof. while he climbed into the loft and tore pieces of blazing boards away, i gave the emergency call by telephone, and soon we had plenty of help. after the fire was conquered, i went to the hotel and stayed until the chief got back. the months from christmas to april are the dullest at grand canyon. of course tourists still come but not in the numbers milder weather brings. there is little or no automobile travel coming in from the outside world. very few large groups or conventions come except in june, which seems to be the month for brides and large parties. that left the ranger family more time for play, especially in the evenings, and we had jolly parties in our big living-room. the piano was the drawing card, and combined with ranger winess' large guitar manufactured strange music. when the other rangers joined in and sang they managed to make quite a racket. perhaps the songs they sang would not have met with enthusiasm in select drawing-rooms, but they had a charm for all that. cowboy songs, sea chanties, and ballads many years old were often on call. kipling's poems, especially "i learned about women from her" were prime favorites. i soon learned to take my sewing close to the fire and sit there quietly a few minutes in order to be forgotten. there are realms of masculine pleasure into which no mere woman should intrude. besides that, i never could negotiate the weird crooks and turns they gave to their tunes. every time an old favorite was sung, it developed new twists and curves. ranger winess would discover a heretofore unknown chord on his guitar: "get that one, boys. that's a wicked minor!" then for the ensuing five minutes, agonizing wails shattered the smoke screen while they were on the trail of that elusive minor. i had one set rule regarding their concerts--positively no lighted cigarettes were to be parked on my piano! one song ranger winess always rendered as a solo, because all the others enjoyed hearing it too much to join in with him: old roaney i was hangin' 'round the town, and i didn't have a dime. i was out of work and loafin' all the time. when up stepped a man, and he said, "i suppose you're a bronco-buster. i can tell by your clothes." well, i thought that i was, and i told him the same. i asked him if he had any bad ones to tame? "i have an old pony what knows how to buck; at stacking up cowboys he has all the luck."' i asked him what'd he pay if i was to stay and ride his old pony around for a day. "i'll give you ten dollars;" i said, "that's my chance," throwed my saddle in the buckboard and headed for the ranch. got up next morning, and right after chuck went down to the corral to see that pony buck. he was standin' in the corner, standin' all alone--- that pig-eyed pony, a strawberry roan! little pin ears that were red at the tip; the x-y-z was stamped on his hip. narrow in the chest, with a scar on his jaw, what all goes with an old outlaw! first came the bridle, then there was a fight; but i throwed on my saddle and screwed it down tight, stepped to his middle, feelin' mighty fine, said: "out of the way, boys, watch him unwind!" well, i guess old roaney sure unwound; didn't spend much of his time on the ground! went up in the east, come down in the west--- stickin' to his middle, i was doin' my best! he went in the air with his belly to the sun the old sun-fishin' son-of-a-gun! lost both the stirrups and i lost my hat reached for the horn, blinder than a bat. then old roaney gently slid into high, left me sittin' on nothin' but the sky. there ain't no cowboy who is alive can ride old roaney when he makes his high dive! when the piano player stopped and frank struck a few soft chords on his guitar i knew they were getting sentimental. pretty soon someone would begin to hum: "when the dew is on the rose, and the world is all repose." ... those rangers lived close to danger and hardships every day, but they had more real sentiment in their makeup than any type of men i know. maybe it's because women are so scarce around them that they hold all womanhood in high regard. most of them dreamed of a home and wife and children, but few of them felt they had a right to ask a woman to share their primitive mode of living. they might not jump up to retrieve a dropped handkerchief, or stand at attention when a woman entered a room, but in their hearts they had a deep respect for every woman that showed herself worthy. now and then, a certain son of scotland, major hunter clarkson, dropped in. he was a real musician, and while i sewed and the chief smoked he treated us to an hour of true melody. he used to play the bagpipes at home with his four brothers, he said, and he admitted that at times the racket they made jarred his mother's china from the shelves! he had served with the british forces in egypt, and if he could have known how interested we were in his experiences, he would have given us more than a bare hint of the scenes that were enacted during the defense of the dardanelles and the entrance into jerusalem. one night he was telling us something about the habits of the turks they fought, when the telephone rang and interrupted the narrative, which was never finished. the chief had to go and investigate an attempted suicide. it seemed that a lad under twenty, in cleveland, had seen on a movie screen a picture of grand canyon. he tucked that vision away somewhere in his distorted brain, and when he had his next quarrel with his mother he gathered together all his worldly wealth and invested it in a ticket to grand canyon. there he intended to end his troubles, and make his mother sorry she hadn't sewed on a button the instant he had asked her to! that was a touching scene he pictured to himself--his heart-broken mother weeping with remorse because her son had jumped into the canyon. but! when he reached the rim and looked over, it was a long way to the bottom, and there were sharp rocks there. perhaps no one would ever find him, and what's the use of killing one's self if nobody knows about it? something desperate had to be done, however, so he shot himself where he fancied his heart was located (he hit his stomach, which was a pretty close guess) with a cheap pistol he carried, hurled the gun into the canyon, and started walking back to headquarters. he met ranger winess making a patrol and reported to him that he had committed suicide! rangers west and winess took care of him through the night, with nurse catti's supervision, and the next day the chief took him to flagstaff, where the bullet was removed and he was returned to his mother a sadder and a wiser boy. there is some mysterious power about the canyon that seems to make it impossible for a person to face the gorge and throw himself into it. a young man, immensely wealthy, brought his fiancée to the canyon for a day's outing. at williams, where they had lunch, he proposed that she go on to the coast with him, but she refused, saying that she thought it was not the thing to do, since her mother expected her back home that night. he laughed and scribbled something on a paper which he tucked carelessly into a pocket of his overcoat. they went on to the canyon and joined a party that walked out beyond powell's monument. he walked up to the rim and stared into the depths, then turned facing his sweetheart. "take my picture," he shouted; and while she bent over the kodak, he uttered a prayer, threw his arms up, and leaped _backward_ into the canyon. he had not been able to face it and destroy the life god had given him. hours later rangers recovered his body, and in his pocket found the paper on which he had written: "you wouldn't go with me to los angeles, so it's goodbye!" ranger west came in one day and told me that there was a lot of sickness among the children at an indian encampment a few miles from headquarters. i rode out with him to see what was the matter and found that whooping-cough was rampant. for some reason, even though it was a very severe winter, the supai indians had come up from their home in havasu canyon, "land of the sky-blue water," made famous by cadman, and were camped among the trees on a hillside. the barefoot women and dirty children were quite friendly, but the lazy, filthy bucks would have been insolent had i been alone. they lolled in the "hewas," brush huts daubed with mud, while the women dragged in wood and the children filled sacks with snow to melt for drinking purposes. to be sure they didn't waste any of it in washing themselves. they would not let me doctor the children, and several of them died; but we could never find where they were buried. it is a custom of that tribe to bury its members with the right arm sticking up out of the ground. in case it is a lordly man that has passed to the happy hunting ground his pony is shot and propped upright beside the grave with the reins clutched in the dead master's hand. i thought i might be able to reach a better understanding with the women if the men were not present, so i told them to bring all the baskets they made to my house and i would look at them and buy some of them. beautiful baskets were brought by the older squaws, and botched-up shabby ones by the younger generation. sometimes a sick child would be brought by the mother, but there was little i could do for it outside of giving it nourishing food. an indian's cure-all is castor oil. he will drink quarts of that if he can obtain it. the supai women are without dignity or appeal, and i never formed the warm friendships with them that i did with women of other tribes. they begged for everything in sight. one fat old squaw coveted a yellow evening gown she saw in my closet; i gave it to her, also a discarded garden hat with big yellow roses on it. she draped the gown around her bent shoulders and perched the hat on top of her gray tangled hair and went away happier than punch. in a few minutes a whole delegation of squaws arrived to see what they could salvage. wattahomigie, their chief, and dot, his wife, are far superior to the rest of the tribe, and when it was necessary to have any dealing with their people the chief acted through wattahomigie. he had often begged us to visit their canyon home, and we promised to go when we could. he came strutting into our house one summer day and invited us to accompany him home, as the season of peaches and melons was at its height. he had been so sure we would go that he left orders for members of the tribe to meet us at hilltop where the steep trail begins. we listened to him. [illustration] _chapter ix: the doomed tribe_[1] wattahomigie reminded us the next morning that we had promised to go with him, so we rushed around and in an hour were ready to follow his lead. it's a long trail, winding through forest and desert, up hill and down, skirting sheer precipices and creeping through tunnels. and at the end of the trail one stumbles upon the tiny, hidden village where the last handful of a once powerful nation has sought refuge. half-clad, half-fed, half-wild, one might say, they hide away there in their poverty, ignorance, and superstition. but oh, the road one must travel to reach them! i hadn't anticipated arizona trails when i so blithely announced to white mountain, "whither thou goest, i will go." neither had i slept in an indian village when i added, "and where thou lodgest, i will lodge." we loaded our camp equipment into the ford, tied a canvas bag of water where it would be air-cooled, strapped a road-building shovel on the running-board, and were on our way. the first few miles led through forests of piñon and pine. gradually rising, we reached the desert, where only cactus, sagebrush, and yucca grew. as far as we could see the still, gray desert lay brooding under the sun's white glare. surely no living thing could exist in that alkali waste. but look! an ashen-colored lizard darts across the trail, a sage rabbit darts behind a yucca bush, and far overhead a tireless buzzard floats in circles. is he keeping a death watch on the grizzled old "desert rat" we pass a little later? his face burned and seamed with the desert's heat and storms, the old prospector cheerfully waved at us, as he shared his beans and sour dough with a diminutive burro, which bore his master's pack during the long search through the trackless desert for the elusive gold. for us it would be suicide to leave the blazed trail. the chances are that the circling buzzard and hungry coyotes will be the only mourners present at his funeral. now and then we passed a twisted, warped old juniper that was doubtless digging for a foothold while christ walked on earth. the chief said these old junipers vie with the sequoias in age. nothing else broke the monotony of the heat and sand, until we came to the first water hole. it was dry now, for the summer rains were long overdue, and bogged firmly in the red adobe mud was a gaunt long-horned cow. the chief was too tender-hearted to shoot her and drive on, as he knew he should. instead he stopped the car and got out to see if he could possibly "extract" her. failing to frighten her into pulling herself out, he goaded her into a frenzy by throwing sharp stinging rocks at her. one landed on her tender flank and she tossed her horns and struggled. the chief stooped, with his back to her, for another rock, just as she pulled out. "look out. she's coming for you!" i yelled. straight at her rescuer she charged with an angry rumble. round and round a stunted piñon they raced, hot and angry. i was too helpless with mirth to be of any aid, and the chief's gun was in the car. still, an angry range cow on the prod is no joke, and it began to look serious. at last the impromptu marathon ended by the chief making an extra sprint and rolling into the ford just as her sharp horns raked him fore and aft. "well!" he exploded, and glared at me while i wiped the tears out of my eyes. "shall we drive on?" i inquired meekly. we drove on. a few miles along the way a piteous bawling reached us. since even arizona cattle must drink sometimes, a cow had hidden her baby while she went to a distant water hole. three coyotes had nosed him out and were preparing to fill up on unwilling veal. he bobbed about on his unsteady little legs and protested earnestly. the sneaking beasts scattered at our approach, and we drove on thinking the calf would be all right. looking back, however, we saw that the coyotes had returned and pulled him down. this time the chief's forty-five ended the career of one, and the other two shifted into high, getting out of range without delay. the trembling calf was loaded into the machine and we dropped him when the main herd was reached. here he would be safe from attack, but i have often wondered if the mother found her baby again. at the next water hole a lean lynx circled warily around with his eye fixed hungrily on some wild ducks swimming too far from shore for him to reach. it seemed that the sinister desert mothered cruel breeds. we had reached the "indian pasture" now, where the indians kept their ponies. a score of supai bucks were digging a shallow ditch. upon being questioned they said the ditch was a mile long and would carry water to the big dam in their pasture when the rains fell. they were finishing the ditch just in time, for the first of the season's storms was closing down upon us. there was an ominous stillness, then the black cloud was rent with tongues of flame. and the rains descended--more than descended. they beat and dashed and poured until it seemed that the very floodgates of heaven had opened over our unfortunate heads. it was impossible to stay in the glue-and-gumbo road, so we took to the open prairie. since this part of the country is well ventilated with prairie-dog holes, we had anything but smooth sailing. "stop," i shouted, trying to make myself heard above the roar of the storm. "no time to stop now," was the answer. we pulled under a sheltering juniper and slowed up. "what did you want to stop there for? don't you know we have to keep on moving if we reach a shelter tonight?" inquired the pilot of our ship. he had evidently been brooding over my unseemly mirth at the mad cow episode. "oh, all right," i agreed, "but the bedding-roll bounced out and i thought you might want to pick it up." the fugitive bedding recovered, we resumed our journey. the storm ended as suddenly as everything else happens in that topsy-turvy land and in the eastern sky hung a double quivering rainbow. i rubbed my eyes and looked again. it _was_ double! the chief explained that this was due to a mirage, but i placed it to the credit of altitude, like all other arizona wonders. at hilltop we found indian guides with trail ponies to take us the rest of the way. they had been waiting two days for us, they said. strolling to the canyon's brink i encountered a fearful odor. "what in the world is that?" i asked wattahomigie (which by the way means "good watchful indian"). "him pony," was the stolid reply. "but--?" "buck and fall over trail," explained my indian brave. i fled to the chief for comfort and change of air. he investigated and found that when wattahomigie had brought the ponies up from the village one had become unruly and pitched over the rim, landing squarely across the trail a hundred feet below. it was the only trail, but it never occurred to the noble red man to remove the dead horse. no indeed! if it proved impossible to get around the obstacle, why, stay off the trail until providence cleared the way. in other words let nature take its course. the chief procured a few pounds of tnt from the government warehouse located there, and with the aid of that soon cleared the trail. "that good way to clear trail," approved wattahomigie. "no pull, no dig, no nothin'." i hoped no tnt would be left roaming at large for promiscuous experiments by wattahomigie while we were natives of his village. we camped there at hilltop that night, and after a supper of fried sage-rabbit, corn cakes, and coffee, i rolled into the blankets and fell asleep without worrying about the morrow. something awakened me. i certainly _had_ heard something. inch by inch i silently lifted myself from the blankets and peered into the shadows. standing there like a graven image was a beautiful doe with twin fawns playing around her. curiosity had conquered caution and she was investigating our camp. just then a coyote's wild cry sounded from the distance. she lifted her sensitive nose and sniffed the air, then wheeled and glided into the deep shadows. other coyote voices swelled the chorus. hundreds it seemed were howling and shrieking like mad, when i dropped to sleep to dream i was listening to grand opera at the metropolitan. morning dawned clear and crisp. "will it rain today?" i asked an indian. "no rain; three sleeps, then rain," he told me; and this proved correct. wattahomigie had provided a long-legged race horse for me to ride. "will he carry her all right?" the chief asked him. wattahomigie looked me over carefully and one could almost see him comparing me mentally with a vision of his fat squaw, dottie. his white teeth flashed a smile: "sure, my squaw him all time ride that pony." that settled the matter. "him squaw" weighs a good two hundred pounds and is so enveloped in voluminous skirts that the poor horse must feel completely submerged. this trail does not gradually grow steeper--it starts that way. i had been told that all other trails we had traveled were boulevards compared to this one, and it was well that i had been warned beforehand. my place was near the center of the caravan, and i was divided between the fear that i should slide down on top of the unwary indian riding ahead and the one that the chief's horse directly behind would bump me off the trail. it was a cheerful situation. the canyon walls closed in upon us, and the trail grew worse, if that could be possible. the firm rock gave way to shale that slipped and slid under the feet of the horses. it was so narrow that one slip of a hoof would send the horse crashing on the rocks hundreds of feet beneath. still this is the only path it has been possible to make down to the indian retreat. it was carved out by a past generation when they crept down into the valley far below to make their last futile stand. we rounded a point and came out near a sparkling pool of clear, inviting water fed by a stream bursting out of what appeared to be solid rock. i knelt to drink, but was jerked to my feet sharply by a watchful indian. the water is unfit to drink on account of the arsenic it contains. i noticed that none of the hot, tired horses even dipped their dusty noses into the pool. safely away from this unhealthy spot we came into rattlesnake canyon, so named for obvious reasons, where the riding was much easier. twelve miles onward and two thousand feet farther down found us among bubbling springs and magnificent cotton woods. this is where the thousand springs come into the sunlight after their rushing journey through many miles of underground caverns. new springs broke out from the roots of the trees and along the banks of the stream until it was a rushing little river. we were evidently expected, for when we reached the village the natives all turned out to see and be seen: brown children as innocent of clothing as when they first saw the light; fat, greasy squaws with babies on their backs; old men and women--all stared and gibbered at us. "big jim" and "captain burros" headed what seemed to be the committee of welcome. big jim was clad in a full-dress suit and silk hat donated to him by albert, king of the belgians, and with that monarch's medal of honor pinned to his front, jim was, speaking conservatively, a startling vision. captain burros wore the white shirt of ceremony which he dons only for special occasions, with none of the whiteness dimmed by being tucked into his trousers. big jim welcomed us gravely, asking the chief: "did you bring my _fermit_?" this permit, a paper granting big jim a camping location on park grounds, having been duly delivered, jim invited us to share his hewa, but after one look at the surroundings we voted unanimously to camp farther up the stream among the cottonwoods. we chose a level spot near the ruins of an old hewa. while supper was being prepared an aged squaw tottered into camp and sat down. she wailed and beat her breast and finally was persuaded to tell her troubles. it seemed that she and her husband had lived in this hewa until his death a year or two before. then the hewa was thrown open to the sky and abandoned, as is their custom. she disliked to mention his name because he might hear it in the spirit world and come back to see what was being said about him. "don't you want him to come back?" i asked idly, thinking to tease her. her look of utter terror was answer enough and shamed me for my thoughtlessness. these indians have a most exaggerated fear of death. when one dies he and his personal belongings are taken to a wild spot and there either cremated or covered with stones. no white man has ever been permitted to enter this place of the dead. any hour of the day or night that a white man approaches, an indian rises apparently from out of the earth and silently waves him away. until a few years ago the best horse of the dead indian was strangled and sent into the happy hunting ground with its owner, but with the passing of the older generation this custom has been abandoned. from a powerful and prosperous tribe of thousands this nation has dwindled down to less than two hundred wretched weaklings. driven to this canyon fastness from their former dwelling-place by more warlike tribes, they have no coherent account of their wanderings or their ancestors. about all they can tell is that they once lived in cliff dwellings; that other indians drove them away; and that then spaniards and grasping whites pushed them nearer and nearer the canyon until they descended into it, seeking refuge. they are held in low esteem by all other indian tribes and never marry outside of their own people. ridiculous and unreasonable tales about their savage customs have kept timid explorers at a safe distance, and thus little has been learned about them. this last fragment will pass away within a few years and all trace will be lost. tuberculosis claims a dozen yearly; the children are weaklings from diseased parents and the result of intermarriage, so they fall victims of comparatively harmless ailments. a few years ago an epidemic of measles swept through the tribe. poor ignorant creatures, trying to cool the burning fever they spent hours bathing in the cold waters of the stream flowing through the village. more than eighty died in one week from the effects, and others that lived through it are invalids. this was almost too much for their superstitious minds. they were for fleeing from that accursed place, but the old men said: "where can we go? we have no other place but this. let us wait here for death." so they spent hours in dancing and ceremonies to appease the angry gods. they have no favoring gods, only evil spirits which they must outwit or bribe with dances. the peach dance which we had gone to see was for the purpose of celebrating good crops of melons, corn, and other products and to implore the mercy of harmful powers during the winter months. after the sun was out of sight we followed wattahomigie to the scene of the dance. there was no other light than that of the brush fires. a huge circle of howling, chanting indians had formed a wide ring in which a dozen or more bucks and as many squaws were gathered. there seemed to be no prearranged procedure. when one of the dancers would feel so inclined, he, or she, would start a wild screeching and leaping about. this would continue until the singer ran out of breath. occasionally a squaw would grow so enthused she would be quite overcome with emotion and fall to the ground, foaming at the mouth. no notice would be taken except to grab her by the hair and drag her to the edge of the circle. the dance lasted until the gray dawn and was the most ghastly and weird experience i ever went through. all i can compare it to is the nightmare i used to have after too much mince pie. safely back at our camp with a brisk fire crackling under a pot of coffee, i began to throw off the shivering sensation, and by the time the coffee pot was empty i was ready for new adventures. word had gone forth that i would buy all the baskets the squaws brought to me. i hoped in this way to get some first-hand information about the feminine side of affairs. squaws and baskets and information poured in. baskets of all sizes and shapes were brought, some good, some bad, but i bought them all. if i hesitated a moment over one the owner put the price down to a few cents. just a dime or two for a whole week's work. time has no value to them, and the creek banks are covered with the best willows in the world for basket-making. the basket-making art is the only talent these squaws have, while the bucks excel in tanning buckskin and other skins. these they trade to the navajo indians for silver and blankets. then they race their ponies or gamble for the ownership of the coveted blankets. how they do love to gamble! horses, blankets, squaws--anything and everything changes hands under the spell of the magic cards. even the squaws and children gamble for beads and bright-colored calico. when a few pieces of real money are at stake, all is wild excitement. how the black eyes snap, and how taut is every nerve! their hewas are merely shelters of willow, and there is absolutely no privacy about anything. yet they are neither immoral nor unmoral. the girls all marry very young. at the age of twelve or thirteen the girl is chosen by some brave, who bargains with the father for her. a pony or its value in buckskin will buy almost any father's favorite daughter. but the girl is not forced to go with a lover whom she does not approve. the marriage ceremony is not elaborate; after all preliminaries are disposed of, the would-be bridegroom takes his blanket and moves into the hewa of the girl's people. if two or three moons pass without any quarrels between the young people, they move into a hewa of their own, and thus it is known that they are married. divorce is just as simple; he merely sends her back to her father. an indian brave of the supai tribe can have as many wives as he can buy according to the tribal law. but since there is only about one squaw to every three braves, a man is lucky to have any wife, and divorce is rare. when two or more braves center their affections on one fair damsel, things are likely to happen. but three indian judges solemnly sit in council and settle the question. their solution is usually final, although two or three disgruntled braves have journeyed to our home at el tovar sixty miles away to appeal to white mountain for aid. the valley is fertile, and all sorts of fruits and vegetables thrive. in fact the natives live on what they raise in their haphazard way. they have a rude system of irrigation which carries water to every little garden. one other thing grows in abundance there--dogs! such a flock of surly, mangy mongrels one would have to travel far to find. i don't know what they live on, for i never saw one of them being fed. "big sing tonight," said one of the squaws squatting by our campfire. "what is a sing, dottie?" "much sing and dance. medicine man drive away bad spirit from blind man." of course we were present at the "sing," although i would never have called it that. an old half-blind indian afflicted with granulated eyelids was the victim. the night was chilly, but he was clothed only in a look of resignation. the medicine man had a shot-filled gourd, a bunch of dried herbs, and an unlimited capacity for howling. first of all the patient was given a "sweat bath." he was put into a little teepee made of willows closely covered with burlap. hot rocks were introduced and a pan of water thrown on them. more rocks and more water went inside until the poor indian could stand it no longer. he came forth choking and gasping with the perspiration running from him. buckets of cold water were then dashed over him and the medicine man got busy beating him over the head with the bunch of herbs, keeping up an unearthly screeching. this would last until morning, they said, but my interest flagged just about the time the priest found his second wind, and i retired. five beautiful waterfalls are scattered down the valley, and i was most anxious to visit these. for some reason wattahomigie hung back and we had trouble in persuading him to take us there. he reluctantly accompanied us when he saw we intended to go either with him or without. his attitude was explained when we were well along the trail; some freak of formation has made great sounding boxes of the canyon, and these gather the noises of the water and the wind and return them again in shrieks of demoniacal laughter, barking of dogs, and sounds of talking and singing. it is startling to say the least, and no amount of explaining would convince wattahomigie that it is not the revel hall of departed indian spirits. the sun is lost there at midday, and darkness settles down soon after. we camped at mooney falls that night, so called on account of an adventurous prospector of that name losing his life by falling over the ledge there. it took ten months for his comrades to get equipment together and recover his body, which they buried at the foot of the falls. this place naturally holds no attraction for our indian friends, and we had literally to push them from under our feet. they almost sat in the campfire, so determined were they to stay near us. the next day we started to hilltop, with big jim and his squaw with us as an escort of honor. jim rode serenely along, while mary trudged after on foot. "jim," said the chief, "how is it that you ride and mary walks?" jim's voice was reproachfully astonished that anyone could be so dense: "mary, she no got um horse!" the indians gathered to see us off. i looked at the faces before me. even the babies seemed hopeless and helpless. it is a people looking backward down the years with no thought of the morrow. "can't you get them to be more hopeful or cheerful? won't they even try to help themselves?" i asked wattahomigie in desperation. he sadly shook his head. "no help," he said; "plenty for today, maybe no tomorrow." and maybe he's right. not many more morrows for that doomed tribe. [illustration] _chapter x: where they dance with snakes_[2] a few days after our visit to supai, ranger fisk dropped in. "going to the snake dance?" he asked me. "what's a snake dance, and where is it?" "oh, it's over in the hopi reservation, and the crazy redskins hop around with rattlesnakes in their mouths so it'll rain." "i don't believe _that_. i'm going over and ask joe about it," i replied, indignant that charlie would try to tell me anything so improbable. i returned pretty soon from my visit to joe, who is chief of the hopi indians. he made his home with the spencers at the hopi house, and we were tried and true friends. "what did he say?" both the chief and ranger fisk hurled the question at me. "he said rattlesnakes are their brothers and they carry messages to the rain gods telling them of the need for rain in hopi land. he didn't want to tell me much about it. white mountain, let's go. _please!_" so we went. but before we started i managed to gather a little more information about the yearly ceremony that is held in the painted desert country. joe told me that the government at washington was opposed to their snake dance. he told me to bear in mind that water is the very breath of life to the desert dwellers, and that while his people did not like to oppose the agents placed there by the government they certainly intended to continue their dance. we loaded the flivver with food and water, since we knew our welcome would be a shade warmer if we did not draw on the meager water supply in the reservation. we dropped down to flagstaff, and there on every street corner and in every store and hotel the hopi snake dance was the main subject of conversation. it seemed that everybody was going! we left the main road there and swung off across the desert for the hopi villages, built high on rocky mesas overlooking the surrounding country. it was delightful during the morning coolness, but all too soon the sun enveloped us. we met two or three navajo men on their tough little ponies, but they were sullen and refused to answer my waves to them. while we repaired a puncture, a tiny navajo girl in her full calico skirt and small velvet basque drove her flock of sheep near and shyly watched us. i offered her an apple and she shied away like a timid deer. but candy was too alluring. she crept closer and closer, and then i got sorry for her and placed it on a rock and turned my back. she lost no time in grabbing the sweet and darting back to her flock. the road was badly broken up with coulees and dry washes that a heavy rain would turn into embryo colorados. i found myself hoping that the snake dance prayer for rain would not "take" until we were safely back over this road. evening found us encamped at the foot of the high mesa upon which was built the hopi village where the dance would be held this year. close beside was the water hole that furnished the population with a scant supply. it was a sullen, dripping, seeping spring that had nothing in common with our gushing, singing springs of the southern mountains. the water was caught in a scooped-out place under the cliff, crudely walled in with stones to keep animals away. some stray cattle, however, had passed the barrier and perished there, for their bones protruded from the soft earth surrounding the pool. it was not an appetizing sight. rude steps were cut in the rocky trail leading to the pueblo dwellings above two miles away, from whence came the squaws with big ollas to carry the water. this spring was the gossiping ground for all the female members of the mesa. they met there and laughed and quarreled and slandered others just as we white women do over a bridge table. i found myself going to sleep with my supper untasted, and leaving white mountain to tidy up i went to bed with the sand for a mattress and the stars for a roof. some time in the night i roused sufficiently to be glad that all stray rattlers, bull snakes, and their ilk were securely housed in the kivas being prayed over by the priests. at dawn we awakened to see half a score of naked braves dash by and lose themselves in the blue-shadowed distance. while we had breakfast i spoke of the runners. "yes," said the chief, "they are going out to collect the rattlesnakes." "collect the rattlesnakes! haven't they been garnered into the fold yet?" "no, today they will be brought from the north, tomorrow from the west, next day from the south, and last from the east." he glanced at me. "provided, of course, that they don't show up here of their own accord. i _have_ heard that about this time of year every snake within a radius of fifty miles starts automatically for the snake dance village." "well, _i_ shall sleep in the car tomorrow night and the next night and the next one, too." "where will you sleep tonight?" "i'll not sleep. i intend to sit on top of the machine and see if any snakes do come in by themselves. not that i'm afraid of snakes," i hastened to add; "but i'd hate to delay any pious-minded reptile conscientiously bent on reaching the scene of his religious duties." we solved the difficulty by renting a room in one of the pueblo houses. we followed the two-mile trail up the steep cliff to walpi and found ourselves in a human aerie. nobody knows how many centuries have passed since this tribe first made their home where we found them now. living as they do in the very heart of a barren, arid waste, they control very little land worth taking from them and have therefore been unmolested longer than they otherwise would have been. they invite little attention from tourists except during the yearly ceremonial that we had come to witness. what _is_ this snake dance? the most spectacular and weird appeal to the gods of nature that has ever been heard of! to gain an understanding of what rain means to these indians we had only to live in their village the few days preceding the dance. they are compelled to exist on the water from winter's melting snow and the annual summer showers, which they catch in their rude cisterns and water holes. one's admiration for this unconquerable tribe is boundless, as the magnitude of their struggle for existence is comprehended. choosing the most inaccessible and undesirable region they could find in which to make a determined and successful stand against the spanish and the hated friars, they have positively subjugated the desert. its every resource is known and utilized for their benefit. is there an underground irrigation that moistens the soil, they have searched it out and thrust their seed corn into its fertile depths. the rocks are used to build their houses; the cottonwood branches make ladders and supports for the ceilings; the clay is fashioned into priceless pottery; grasses and fiber from the yucca turn into artistic baskets under their skillful fingers. every drop of water that escapes from the springs nourishes beans and pumpkins to be stored away for winter use. practically every plant on the desert is useful to them, either for their own needs or as food for their goats and burros. we knew and were known by many of the younger members of the tribe who had visited at the grand canyon, so we found a warm welcome and ready guides in our stroll around the village. the hopi indians are friendly and pleasant. they always respond to a greeting with a flashing smile and a cheery wave of the hand. this is not the way the sullen navajos greet strangers. we saw many of that nomad tribe walking around the hopi village. they were just as curious as we were about this snake dance. "do the navajos believe your dance will make the rain come?" i asked a young hopi man who was chatting with the chief. "oh, yes. they believe." "well, why don't you hopis make them pay for their share of the rain you bring. it falls on their reservation." that was a new thought to the hopi and we left him staring over the desert, evidently pondering. i hope i didn't plant the seed that will lead to a desert warfare! i watched with fascinated eyes the antics of round, brown babies playing on the three-story housetops. i expected every instant that one would come tumbling off, but nobody else seemed to worry about them. on one housetop an aged hopi was weaving a woolen dress for his wife. what a strange topsy-turvy land this was--where the men do the weaving and the wives build the houses. for the women do build those houses. they are made from stone brought up from the desert far below, and then they are thickly plastered with a mixture of adobe and water. many families live in the same pueblo, but there are no openings from one room to another. each house has its own entrance. there are generally three stories to each pueblo, the second one set back eight or ten feet on the roof of the first, and the third a like distance on the top of the second. this forms a terrace or balcony where many household duties are performed. i noticed that one pueblo was completely fenced in with head and foot pieces of ornate iron beds! evidently the government had at some time supplied each family with a bed and they had all passed into the hands of this enterprising landscape engineer. the houses we peeped into were bare of furniture with the exception of a singer sewing machine. i venture to say there was one in every home up there. many family groups were eating meals, all sitting in a circle around the food placed in dishes on the floor. it was difficult to see what they were serving, on account of the swarms of flies that settled on everything around. i saw corn on the ear, and in many places a sort of bean stew. where there was a baby to be cared for, the oldest woman in the family sat apart and held it while the others ate. one old grandmother called my attention to the child she had on her lap. he was a big-eyed, shrunken mite, strapped flat to his board carrier. the day was broiling hot, but she motioned me to touch his feet. "sick," she said. his tiny feet were like chunks of ice. it was a plain case of malnutrition, and what could i do to help, in the few days i was to be there? many of the school boys and girls from boarding-schools were home for vacation, but they knew little or nothing about the meaning of the different dances and ceremonies that were going on in a dozen underground kivas in the village. one pretty maiden with marvelous masses of gleaming black hair volunteered to help us interview her uncle, an old snake priest, about his religion. we found "uncle" lounging in the sunshine, mending his disreputable moccasins. he was not an encouraging subject as he sat there with only a loin cloth by way of haberdashery. he welcomed us as royally, however, as if he wore a king's robes, and listened courteously while the girl explained our errand. if there is a more difficult feat in the world than extracting information from a reluctant indian i have never come across it. we gave up at last, and waited to see what was going to happen. the exact date of the dance is determined by the snake priest, and announced from the housetops nine days before it takes place. the underground "kivas" are filled with the various secret orders, corresponding to our lodges, going through their mystic ceremonies. from the top of the ladder that extends above the kiva opening, a bunch of turkey feathers hung, notifying outsiders that lodge was in session and that no visitors would be welcome. what candles and a cross mean to good catholics, feathers mean to a hopi. flocks of turkeys are kept in the village for the purpose of making "bahos," or prayer sticks. these little pleas to spirits are found stuck all over the place. if a village is particularly blessed, they have a captive eagle anchored to a roof. and this bird is carefully fed and watered in order that its supply of feathers may not fail. days before the dance, the young men are sent out to bring in the snakes. armed with a little sacred meal, feathers, a long forked stick, and a stout sack, they go perhaps twenty miles from the village. when a snake is located dozing in the sun, he is first sprinkled with the sacred meal. if he coils and shows fight the ever trusty feather is brought into play. he is stroked and soothed with it, and pretty soon he relaxes and starts to crawl away. quick as a flash he is caught directly behind the head and tucked away in the sack with his other objecting brethren. every variety of snake encountered is brought in and placed in the sacred kiva. the legend on which they so firmly base their belief in snake magic is this: an adventurous hopi went on a journey to find the dwelling-place of the rain god, so that he might personally present their plea for plenty of showers. he floated down the colorado until he was carried into the underworld. there he met with many powerful gods, and finally the snake god taught him the magic of making the rain fall on hopi fields. they became fast friends, and when the hopi returned to his home the snake god presented him with his two daughters, one for a wife to the hopi's brother, who belonged to the antelope clan, and the other to become his own bride. when the weddings took place all the snake brothers of the brides attended, and a great dance was made in their honor. since that time a yearly dance and feast is held for the snakes, and they then descend to their snake god father and tell him the hopis still need rain. while the men garner snakes and perform in the kivas, the women are not idle. far from it! pottery-makers are busy putting the last touches of paint on their pottery, and basket makers add the last row of weaving to the baskets. these wares are displayed in every doorway and window, where they are most likely to catch the tourist eye. the best specimens are not put out for sale. i believe the attitude is, "why place pearls before swine?" houses are swept, and new plaster is applied inside and out. the girls chatter over their grinding stones, where they crush the meal for making "piki." others mix and bake this piki, and it is piled high on flat baskets. it is made of cornmeal and water, and is baked on hot flat stones. the stone is first greased with hot mutton tallow, then the cook dips her fingers into the mixture and with one swift swipe spreads it evenly over the scorching surface. how they escape blistered fingers is always a marvel to me. squaws are wearily climbing the steep trail with heavy ollas of water on their backs, held there by a shawl knotted around their foreheads. others pass them going to the spring, where they sit and gossip a while before starting back with their burdens. it takes about the last of the hoarded water to prepare for the dance, since religion demands that every house and street be sprinkled and each and every hopi must have his yearly bath and shampoo. i found a pretty girl having her hair put up in squash blossoms for the first time. her mother told me she was ready to choose her husband now, and that the hairdress would notify the young braves to that effect. in hopi land the girl chooses her own husband, proposes, and then takes him to live in her house. if she tires of him she throws his belongings out, and _he_ "goes back to mother!" after the snake dance my little girl would make her choice. i tried to get advance information, but she blushed and giggled like any other flapper. the old men were going to and from the planting grounds, many miles away in the valley. they went at a sort of dog trot, unless one was rich enough to own a burro; in that case it did the dog trotting. after the fields are planted, brush shelters are built and the infirm members of the tribe stay there to protect the fields from rabbits and burros. who could blame a hungry little burro for making away with a luscious hill of green corn in the midst of a barren desert? and yet if he is caught he has to pay, literally--one of his ears for the ear of corn he has eaten. very few hopi burros retain their original couple of ears. the agents say that the time and strength consumed by the indians in going to and from their fields, and in carrying water up to the village, could better be spent cultivating the crops. therefore, many attempts have been made to move the hopis from their lofty homes on the crags to government houses on the level below. but they steadfastly refuse to be moved. stand at the mesa edge and look out across the enchanting scene. to the far south the snow-crowned san francisco peaks rear their lofty heights. to the north and east the sandy desert stretches away in heart-breaking desolation, relieved only by the tiny green patches of peach trees and corn fields. the blazing sun beats down appallingly. a purple haze quivers over the world. but evening comes, and as the sun drops out of sight a pink glow spreads over the eastern sky, giving a soft radiance to the landscape below. soon this desert glow fades, and shadows creep nearer and nearer, until one seems to be gazing into the sooty depths of a midnight sea. turn again toward the village. firelight darts upward and dies to a glow; soft voices murmur through the twilight; a carefree burst of laughter comes from a group of returned school children. it suddenly dawns on one that this is the home of these people, their home as it was their fathers' and their fathers' home before them. they are contented and happy. why leave their sun-kissed, wind-swept heights, seven thousand feet high, for the scorching desert below? the village was seething at the first hint of dawn on the day of the actual snake dance. crowding the dizzy mesa edges were masses of indians and whites drawn there for the ceremony. somewhere, far below, through the desert dawn, a score of young men were running the grilling race to reach the village. the first to arrive would secure the sacred token bestowed by the head priest. this would insure fruitful crops from his planting next year and, perhaps more important, the most popular girl in the village would probably choose him for a husband. we stood near our squash-blossom girl, and the progress of the race was written on her face. i knew her choice was among the runners, and when the first one to arrive darted, panting, up to the priest and grasped the token, i knew who was her choice! the white visitors spent the forenoon strolling around the mesa, tasting hopi food, feeding candy to the naked, roly-poly babies, or bargaining with visiting navajos for rugs and silver jewelry. french, spaniards, mexicans, germans, americans, and indians jostled each other good-naturedly. cowboys, school teachers, moving-picture men, reporters, missionaries, and learned doctors were all there. one eminent doctor nudged the chief gleefully and displayed a small flask he had hidden under his coat. i wondered if he had fortified himself with liquor in case of snakebite. he surely had! and how? he had heard for years of the secret antidote that is prepared by the snake priest and his wife, to be used all during the nine days the snakes are being handled. he traveled there from chicago to secure a sample of that mixture. he found the ready ear of a hopi youth, who supplied him with a generous sample in return for five dollars. the doctor was satisfied, for the time being, and so was the mischief-loving kid. he told us a few minutes later that he had sold seven such samples on the q.t. and that he was going to have to mix up another brew! "what are you selling them?" i asked, trying to be as stern as possible. "water we all washed in," he said, and we both had a good laugh. at noon the snakes were taken from the big jars and washed in other ollas of water. this is a matter of politeness. since the snake brothers cannot wash themselves, it must be done for them. the middle of the afternoon found the crowd choosing places of vantage for the snake dance, which would begin just before sundown and last perhaps half an hour. owners of houses were charging a dollar a seat on their roofs, and they could have sold many more seats had there been room for them. scarcely a person seemed to realize that they were there to witness a religious ceremony and that to the indians it was as sacred as could be any high church service. shouting and cheering, they waited for the dancers to appear. finally a naked indian, painted white and black and red, with a lot of strung shells draped over his chest, appeared, carrying the olla of snakes. these he deposited in a hut built of willow boughs with a bearskin for a door. following him came twenty priests painted as he was, each with a loin cloth and a coyote skin hanging from the cloth behind. these went around the circle seven times, which seems to be the mystic number used in all these ceremonies. they chanted a weird, wordless tune all the time. then they gathered in front of the kiva, where the snakes could be heard keeping up a constant dull rattling, and chanted this same tune seven times, stamping on the boards that covered the opening to the underworld, in order that the gods down there might know they were on the job. one priest had a piece of board on the end of a strong string and every so often he would step out in front of the others and whirl and whiz that board around until it wailed like a lost soul. _that_ was the wind before the rain! a priest entered the snake kiva and passed a snake out to a priest dancer. the dancer placed this big rattler in his mouth and began the circle. close beside him danced a companion called the "hugger." this protecting indian kept one arm around the dancer's shoulders and his other hand occupied with a bunch of feathers with which he kept the snake's head from coming too close to the dancer's face. entirely around the ring they went until the starting-place had been reached, when, with a quick, sharp jerk of his head, the dancer threw the snake into the center of the plaza. it lay there coiled, sputtering, and rattling in rage for a moment, then started to glide away. quick as a flash a "gatherer" snatched him up and twirled him around his arm. as soon as the first dancer was rid of his snake he went for another, and we noticed that he was always given rattlers. some of the other priests had thin, nervous whip snakes; some had big, sluggish bull snakes; but at least eighty per cent of the snakes were active, angry rattlers. the first dancer was an old man, gray-headed, and rather stooped. he had a poor hugger, for at least three times during the dance the hugger let a rattler strike the old priest. once the priest flinched with pain and let the snake loose from his mouth. it hung on to his cheek with its fangs firmly implanted, and at last he tore him loose with both hands. the blood spurted from the wound, and a hopi man beside me made a nervous clucking sound. "will he die from that bite?" i asked the hopi. "i think not. maybe. i don't know." and i'm sure he didn't know any more about it than i did. but the old fellow continued with his dancing as if nothing had happened. at last about eighty snakes had been danced with and were now writhing, animated bouquets in the hands of the gatherers. a squaw came out and made a circle of sacred meal. into this all the snakes were dumped, and more meal was sprinkled on them. then each carrier, of which there were four, gathered all the snakes he could grasp by thrusting his arms into the squirming mass, and one carrier departed in each direction. we watched one running swiftly down the cliff until he reached the level desert, where he dumped his cargo, and came back to the plaza. there he and his other returned companions lined up on the edge of the mesa and drank a big draught of the secret preparation prepared by the snake priest and his wife. then they let nature take its course. such a heaving, vomiting set of redskins you never saw! this little chore attended to, they removed their paint and prepared to join in the feast and dancing that would last through the night. before i left i hunted up the old snake priest and pressed him for an explanation of why the snake bites did not harm them. this is what he told me. "we do not extract the fangs. we do not cause the snakes to bite at things and exhaust their poison. we do not stupefy them with drugs as you could well see. but we do cleanse the priests so thoroughly that the poison cannot take hold. for nine days they fast, partaking of no food, and only of herb drinks prepared by our wise ones. they have many sweat baths and get the harmful fluids out of their blood. they have absolutely no fear of the snakes, and convey to them no nervousness or anger. just before the dance they have a big drink of the herb brew, and they are painted thickly with an ointment that contains herbs that kill snake poison. then after the dance, the emetic. that is all." "how many of your tribe know of this secret preparation?" "only two. myself and my squaw. should i die my squaw tell the secret to my son. when my squaw die he teach _his_ squaw." probably because this dance is staged at the time of year the rains are due in arizona, it is seldom that twenty-four hours elapse after the dance before a downpour arrives. hopi snake priests are good weather prophets! [illustration] _chapter xi: the terrible badger fight_ when winter ends, spring comes with a rush at the canyon, and flowers pop up over night. they follow the melting snow until the hills are covered with flaming paintbrushes and tender blue lupine. greasewood and manzanita put out fragrant, waxy blossoms, and wild pinks and mariposa lilies hedge the trails. encouraged by the glorious display of wild flowers, i planned, with more enthusiasm than judgment, to have a real flower garden beside our new house. i built a low rock wall around the space i had selected, and piled it full of rich black loam as fine as any green-house could afford. father had sent seeds from the old garden at home, and various friends had contributed from their gardens in the east. these seeds had been planted in boxes which i kept near the stove until frost was gone. they were full of promising plants. hollyhocks, larkspur, pansies, and foxglove were ready to transplant, when a terrible catastrophe occurred--a little neighbor girl called on me, and, finding me gone, was right peeved. she entertained herself by uprooting my posies. with a complete thoroughness she mixed plants and dirt together, stirring water into the mixture with my trowel. if her grown-up cake-making is done as conscientiously as was that job, she'll be a wonderful pastry cook! i discovered the mischief while it was still fresh, and out of the wreckage salvaged a few brave seedlings. they pouted awhile before they took heart, and root, but finally perked up again. time healed their wounds and if an ambitious squirrel hadn't been looking for a place to hide a nut i might still have taken prizes in the state fair. as it was, only a very few sturdy plants lived to grace the garden. they flourished, and i had begun to look in their direction without crossing my fingers when a hungry cow and her yearling boy appeared on the scene. "help yourself, son!" ma cow said, suiting her actions to the advice given. midsummer found a lonely cactus and a horned toad blooming in my garden. the weather got hotter and more hot, and my bird bath was duly appreciated by the feathered population. they gathered there in flocks, and the news went far and wide that water was to be had at the chief's house. all the birds that had been fed during the winter brought their aunts, uncles, and cousins seventy times seven removed, until all i had to do was lie in my hammock and identify them from a book with colored plates. white mountain's special pet was a tiny chickadee. this fragile little speck of birddom fluttered into the house one stormy day, and the chief warmed it in his hands and fed it warm milk and crumbs. from that day on it belonged, brave soul and wee body, to him. as the days grew warmer it spent its time somewhere in the forest, but at mealtime when the chief came home all he had to do was step outside the door and whistle. out of the sky a diminutive atom would hurl itself downward to light on his outstretched palm. while we ate it would perch on white mountain's shoulder and twitter and make soft little noises in its throat, now and then coming across to me but soon returning to its idol. there was something so touching in the confidence of the helpless bird, it brought a tight feeling into one's throat. at the height of the drought a national railroad strike was called, and for a few weeks things looked serious for us poor mortals stranded a hundred miles from our water supply. life took a backward leap and we lived as our forefathers did before us. no water meant no light except oil lamps, and when the oil supply failed we went to bed at dark. flashlights were carefully preserved for emergencies. we learned that tomato juice will keep life in the body even if it won't quench thirst. there was one well four miles away, and rangers were stationed there to see that nothing untoward happened to that supply. the water was drawn with a bucket, and it was some job to water all the park animals. visitors were at that time barred from the park, but one sage-brusher managed to get in past the sentry. he camped at headquarters and sent his ten-year-old boy walking to rowe well to fill a pail with water and carry it back. just before dark that night the chief and i coming in from hilltop met the little fellow, courageously struggling along eight miles from headquarters and getting farther away every step. his bucket was leaky, and little of the precious water remained. we took him back to the well again, filled his bucket, and delivered him to his father. the lad pulled a dime from his pocket and extended it toward the chief. "you keep it, son," said white mountain. "better take it, mister. you hauled me quite a ways." the chief leaned toward him confidentially. "you see it's like this. i work for the government and uncle sam doesn't like for us to take tips." and so the matter rested. the boy had discharged his obligation like a gentleman. he didn't know he had offered the chief ranger a dime for saving his life. a few stray i. w. w.'s ("i won't works," the rangers called them) came in to see that nobody did anything for the santa fe. of course the rangers were put on for guard duty around the railroad station and power house, day and night, and the fact that they protected the railroad's property at odd hours did not relieve them from their own regular duties the rest of the time. for weeks they did the work of three times their actual number, and did it cheerfully. it finally became necessary to import indians from the navajo reservation to help with the labor around the car yard and the boiler yard. these could hardly be described as having a mechanical turn of mind, but they were fairly willing workers, and with careful supervision they managed to keep steam up and the wheels turning. the shop foreman, however, was threatened with apoplexy a dozen times a day during their term of service. when it seemed that we just couldn't endure any more, some boss somewhere pulled a string and train service was resumed. this brought in a mass of tourists, and the rangers were on the alert again to keep them out of messes. one day as the chief and i were looking at some picturegraphs near the head of bright angel trail we saw a simple old couple wandering childlike down the trail. "you mustn't go far down the trail," advised white mountain. "it's very hot today, and you would not be able to make the return trip. it's lots harder coming back, you know." the old folks smiled and nodded, and we went on home. about midnight the phone rang, and the chief groaned before he answered it. a troubled voice came over the wire. "my father and mother went down the trail to the river and haven't come back. i want the rangers to go and find them," said their son. "in the morning," replied the chief. "right _now_!" ordered the voice. "i, myself, told your father and mother not to go down there. they went anyway. they are probably sitting on a rock resting, and if so they are safe. if they are not on the trail the rangers could not find them, and i have no right to ask my men to endanger their lives by going on such a wild-goose chase." the son, a middle-aged man, acted like a spoiled child. he threatened and blustered and raved until the chief hung up the receiver. at dawn the rangers went after the two old babes in the wood and found them creeping slowly up the trail. "ma give out," puffed the husband. "pa was real tuckered hisself," explained ma. "but we had a nice time and we'll know to do what we're told next time." she was a game old sport. son was speedily squelched by ma's firm hand, and the adventure ended. ma confessed to me that she had sat through the night in deadly fear of snakes, catamounts, and other "varmints," but, with a twinkle in her eye: "don't you dare tell them men folks i was a-scairt!" i knew just how she felt. everything was up in the air over the fourth of july celebration that we intended to stage. it was to be a combination of frontier days, wild west show, and home talent exhibition. indians came from the various reservations; cow-hands drifted in from the range; tourists collected around the edges; the rangers were there; and every guide that could be spared from the trail bloomed out in gala attire. we women had cooked enough grub to feed the crowd, and there was a barrel of lemonade, over which a guard was stationed to keep the indians from falling in head first. the real cowboys, unobtrusive in their overalls and flannel shirts, teetered around on their high-heeled tight boots and gazed open-mouthed at the flamboyance of the fred harvey imitations. varied and unique remarks accompanied the scrutiny. pretty soon they began to nudge each other and snicker, and i saw more than one of them in consultation with the rangers. i felt in my bones that mischief was brewing. the usual riding and roping and tying stunts were pulled off, and in the afternoon the indians were challenged to race horses with the white boys. the race was for half a mile and back, around the curve of a hillside. off they went amid the wildest war-whoops and cowboy yells i ever heard. the indians had the advantage, since they burdened their mounts with neither saddle nor bridle. stretched flat along the pony's back, the rider guided him by knee pressure and spurred him to victory by whistling shrilly in a turned back ear. i was amused to see how the wily indians jockeyed for the inside of the track, and they always got it too. not a white man's horse won a dollar in the race. it might have been different, probably would have, in an endurance race, for indian horses are swift only in short runs. they never have grain, and few of them have as much water as they need. just before the sports ended, white mountain announced that some of the cowboys had brought a badger into headquarters with them and that they had another one located. if they succeeded in capturing it, there would be a badger fight at the fred harvey mess hall that night--provided no gambling or betting was done. since the show was to be put on by the cowboys, they themselves should have the honor of picking the men fortunate enough to hold the ropes with which the badgers would be tied. among the rangers broke out a frenzied dispute as to which ones should be chosen. that was more than the guides could stand for. no ranger could put that over on _them_. they pushed in and loudly demanded their rights from the owners of the fightin' badgers. in fair play to both sides, frank winess was chosen from the ranger force and a sheik stage-driver, newly arrived, represented fred harvey. the guides were forced to be satisfied with this arrangement. we disbanded to meet at seven for the fight. in case the other badger made good his escape we could still have a look at the one already in captivity and the evening would not be wasted. "better wear your riding boots," ranger winess advised me. "badgers scratch and fight like forty, and you know your failing when it comes to getting into the middle of a bad fix." i didn't reply to this, but i put on my high boots. at seven we reached the scene of battle. i was not entirely pleased with the idea of letting two frantic animals scratch each other to death, but the chief seemed quite serene and i had the utmost confidence in his kindness to dumb animals. two or three hundred onlookers, including tourists, were circled around an open space, which was lighted with automobile headlights. under each of two big wooden boxes at opposite sides of the circle, a combatant lay. "stand well back," ordered the chief. and the crowd edged away. "hey, you, billy, i said no betting!" billy joint hastily pocketed the roll of bills he had been airing. "what's wrong, frank?" for ranger winess limped into the ring, flinching at every step. "nothin', chief," bravely trying to cover up the pain with a grin. "i asked you what's the matter!" "well, gee whiz, if you have to know everything, one of them broncs piled up with me this afternoon, and i busted my knee." the chief felt sorry for frank, because he knew how his heart was set on the sport in hand. "sorry, winess, but you'll have to step out and let charley take your place." ranger fisk began to protest: "gee, chief, i ain't a fightin' man. i don't hanker to hold that tearing varmint." frank was too crushed to say anything. but shorty--in the foremost ranks stood shorty! no guide so wonderfully chapped, so brightly handkerchiefed, so amazingly shirted, or so loudly perfumed as shorty. he had a tourist girl on his manly arm and he longed for worlds to conquer. he advanced with a firm and determined tread. "look here, chief ranger. your man has been disqualified. the rangers have had their chance. it's up to us guides now. i demand the right to enter this ring." the chief considered the matter. he looked at the rangers, and after a few mutters they sullenly nodded. "all right, shorty. but you are taking all responsibility. remember, whatever happens you have made your own choice. charley, you and frank look out for margie. you know how foolish she is. she's likely to get all clawed up." i was mad enough to bite nails into tacks! foolish! look out for _me_! he was getting awfully careful of me all of a sudden. i jerked my arm loose from ranger fisk when he tried to lead me back from the front, and he reluctantly stayed beside me there. the pretty stage-driver was nervous. with his gloved hand he kept smoothing his hair back and he shifted from one foot to the other, while he grasped the rope firmly. as for shorty, he was entirely unconcerned, as became a brave bold man. he merely traded his sheepskin chaps for a pair of silver-studded leather ones. then he clamped his wide sombrero firmly on his head and declared himself ready. "jerk quick and hard when we raise the boxes," the referee directed. "if they see each other at once, you boys aren't so liable to get bit up." "jerk them out," bellowed frank. they jerked. the onlookers gasped; then howled! then _roared_!! the gladiators fled! nor stood on the order of their going. in the middle of the ring, firmly anchored to the ropes, were two articles of crockery well known to our grand-mothers in the days when the plumbing was all outside. so ended the glorious fourth. [illustration] _chapter xii: grand canyon ups and downs_[3] i was busy baking pies one morning when white mountain sauntered into the kitchen and stood watching me. "how soon can you be ready to start across the canyon?" he asked, as carelessly as though i had not been waiting for that priceless moment nearly two years. "how soon?" i was already untying my apron. "right _now_!" "oh, not that sudden. i mean can you be ready to start in the morning?" and with no more ceremony than that my wonderful adventure was launched. long before dawn the next morning i was up and dressed in breeches, wool shirt, laced boots, and a wide felt hat, and felt like a full-fledged "dude." the chief had insisted that i should ride a mule, but i had my own notions about that and "supai bob" was my mount. this was an indian racing horse, and the pride of wattahomigie's heart, but he cheerfully surrendered him to me whenever i had a bad trail to ride. he was high from the ground, long-legged, long-necked and almost gaunt, but gentle and sure-footed. we left el tovar before anybody was stirring and while the depths of the canyon were still lost in darkness. at the head of the trail i involuntarily pulled up short. "leave hope behind all ye who enter here," flashed through my brain. dante could have written a much more realistic _inferno_ had he spent a few days in the grand canyon absorbing local color. far below, the trail wound and crawled, losing itself in purple shadows that melted before the sun as we descended. the world still slept, with the exception of a few saucy jays who flew about us loudly claiming the heavens, the earth, and the waters beneath, should there be any. two hours of steady descent brought us to the base of the red-wall limestone. in that two hours we had passed from the belt of pine and shrub to the one of sagebrush and cactus. half an hour farther, and we arrived at indian gardens, a clump of willows and cottonwoods shading a stream of cold bubbling water from a never-failing spring. this little stream is full of delicious watercress, and more than once on festive occasions a ranger had gone down and brought back a supply to garnish the turkey. not until i made the ride myself could i appreciate his service. at one time this spot was cultivated by the havasupai indians; hence the name. every dude that has followed a fred harvey guide down the trail remembers this god-given oasis with gratitude. water and shade and a perfectly good excuse for falling out of the saddle! no flopping mule ears; no toothache in both knees; no yawning void reaching up for one. ten whole minutes in paradise, and there's always a sporting chance that gabriel may blow his horn, or an apoplectic stroke rescue one, before the heartless guide yells: "all aboard." we filled our canteens from the spring, for this is really the last good water until the bridge is crossed, and rode across the tonto trail along the plateau for five miles, through sagebrush, cactus, and yucca. here and there a chuckwalla darted across the trail or a rock squirrel sat on his haunches and scolded as we passed. nothing broke the monotony of the ride. at one point on the ride the trail hangs over the edge of pipe creek, a mere little chasm two thousand feet deep. anywhere else this crevice between sheer walls of blackened, distorted, jagged rocks would be considered one of the original seven wonders. placed as it is, one tosses it a patronizing glance, stifles a yawn, and rides on. a mile or so along we crossed a trickle of water coming from wild burro springs, so named because the burros common to this region come there to drink. just as we drew rein to allow our horses to quench their thirst, the sultry silence was shattered beyond repair. such a rasping, choking, jarring sound rolled and echoed back and forth from crag to crag! "what's that?" i gasped, after i had swallowed my heart two or three times. the chief pointed to a rock lying a few feet away. over the top of this an enormous pair of ears protruded, and two big, solemn eyes were glued on us unblinkingly. it was only a wee wild burro, but what a large voice he owned! the thousand or more of these small gray and black animals are a heritage from the day of the prospector. some of them are quite tame. one called "bright angel" was often utilized by tourists as a mount while they had pictures snapped to take to the admiring family left behind. we passed on across the plateau and rounded o'neill butte, named for bucky o'neill, one of roosevelt's rough riders killed at san juan hill, and we suddenly came to the "sure 'nuff" jumping-off place at the edge of granite gorge. one should have at least a week's warning before this scene is thrown upon the screen. i think it was here that irvin cobb tendered his resignation--effective immediately. straight down, fifteen hundred feet beneath one, flows the colorado. there are no words to describe this. one must see it for one's self. down, down, back and forth zigzags that trail, jumping from crag to crag and mesa to mesa, finally running on to the mere thread suspended from wall to wall high above the sullen brown torrent. when once started down this last lap of the journey riverward, one finds that the trail is a great deal smoother than that already traveled. but the bridge! picture to yourself a four-foot wooden road, four hundred and twenty feet long, fenced with wire, and slung on steel cables fifty feet above a rushing muddy river, and you will see what i was supposed to ride across. my indian horse stopped suddenly, planted himself firmly--and looked. i did likewise. "those cables look light," i said, seeking some excuse to stay right where i was. but the chief calmly informed me that they were "heavy enough." i presume he should know, having helped to carry them down that twelve-mile trail. pride alone prevented me from turning and fleeing back up that steep trail like a fly up a wall. i looked at white mountain. he was riding serenely on, never doubting my close attendance at his horse's heels. i told myself that i had undoubtedly reached a bridge that _had_ to be crossed, and so i spoke firmly, or as firmly as possible under the circumstances, to supai bob. no results. bob was as unresponsive as any other indian when he doesn't want to "savvy." i coaxed, i pulled, i pushed. i spanked with a board. bob was not interested in what was across the river. then and there i formed a high regard for that pony's sound judgment and will-power. at last the chief looked back and saw my predicament. he turned his horse loose to continue across alone and came back over the wildly swaying bridge to me. "what's the matter?" just as if he couldn't well see! i glared at him and he grinned. "why don't you talk to him in supai language?" "speak to him yourself," i snapped and stalked out on that heaving horror. i never learned the details of the conversation, but a clatter of hoofs sounded behind me and bob anchored his nose against my shoulder, there to remain until terra firma was regained. i worried all the rest of the way over and back about having to get him across again, but returning, he walked on to the bridge as if crossing it were his life work. on the north end of the bridge where the cables are anchored is a labyrinth of trails crossing and recrossing. the chief explained that bright angel, the little wild burro, had made those at a time when high water had marooned him on that small area. while the bridge was being built he hung around constantly, and when it was completed he was the first animal allowed to cross it. i wonder what he thought of the promised land he had gazed at so longingly for years. poor brighty fell a victim to a tramp who refused to listen to advice, and crossed to the north rim after the snows had come. perhaps he had reasons for hiding away, but he took little brighty from his winter home in the bottom of the canyon to carry his pack for him. after being snowed in for several weeks in a cattle cabin several miles back from the rim, brighty died of starvation and was eaten by the man. brighty had plenty of friends that miss him when they go down into the canyon, and it will fare badly with his murderer if any of the rangers or guides see him again. beside the trail, just across the bridge, is a prehistoric ruin. when major powell landed there on his first trip down the colorado river in 1869, he found broken pottery, an old "matate" and many chipped flints, indicating that this had been the home of an arrowmaker. the mealing stone, or matate, can be seen at phantom ranch, half a mile on along the trail. and just at this point of the trip we came to a tragic spot, the one where rees griffith lies buried beside his own well-built trail. it had been in the dead of winter when rees was buried there by his friends, and now the summer's scorching sun was streaming down on his grave. the colorful lines of the half-breed déprez drifted through my mind: and there he lies now, and nobody knows; and the summer shines, and the winter snows, and the little gray hawk floats aloft in the air, and the gray coyote trots about here and there, and the buzzard sails on, and comes back and is gone, stately and still like a ship on the sea; and the rattlesnake slides and glitters and glides into his rift in a cottonwood tree. just that lonely and already forgotten was the resting-place of the master trail-builder. it was noontime now, and all our grub, with the exception of a box of crackers and a jar of fig jam, likewise our bedding, was far ahead on a pack mule which had decided not to stop for lunch or dinner. since we were not consulted in the matter we lunched on jam and crackers and then dined on crackers and jam. we hung the remainder of the feast in a tree and breakfasted on it a week later on our return trip. when one tries to describe the trail as it was to the north rim in those days, words prove weak. the first twelve miles we had already traveled are too well known to need description; the remaining twenty--all rebuilt since that time--defy it. sometimes the trail ran along in the creek bed for yards and yards. this made it impassable during the spring freshets. arizona horses are trained to drink at every opportunity for fear there may never be another chance, and our mounts had learned their lesson well. they tried to imbibe at every crossing, and long after they were loaded to the gunwales they dipped greedy noses into the current. six miles north of the river we turned aside from the main trail and followed a path a few rods to ribbon falls. we had intended to spend the night there, and i supposed we were to sleep standing up; but there was chollo, our prodigal pack mule, who had found a luscious patch of grass near the falls and decided to make it her first stopping-place. in that manner we recovered the bedding roll. white mountain murmured a few sweet nothings into her innocent ear and anchored her firmly to a stake. that didn't please her at all. she complained loudly to her wild brethren, and they sympathized in heart-comforting brays from all points near at hand. our horses were given grain and turned into the grassy cove, and supper was prepared. and while the coffee boiled we had a refreshing swim in nature's bathtub at the bottom of the falls. high above, the crystal stream bursts forth from the red cliff and falls in a sparkling cascade seventy feet, to strike against a big rock upholstered in softest green. here it forms a morning-glory pool of almost icy coolness. hot coffee and bacon with some of white mountain's famous biscuits baked in a reflector tasted like a feed at sherry's. i watched the chief mix his biscuits while i lay resting against the piled-up saddles. i wondered how he intended to cook them, but managed to keep still and find out for myself. he took a folded piece of tin from his pack and with a few magic passes turned it into a roof-shaped structure resting on its side on two short steel legs. another twist of the wrist lifted a little tin shelf into place. this contraption was set about a yard from the glowing fire and the pan of biscuits was placed on the shelf. as i stared at the open-work baker the biscuits puffed into lightness and slowly turned a rich tempting brown. after we had eaten the last one and the camp was put in order, we sat watching a fat moon wallow lazily up from behind the rim. strange forms crept into sight with the moon-rise--ruined irish castles, fortresses hiding their dread secrets, sculptured groups, and weird goblins. by and by a few stars blossomed--great soft golden splashes, scattered about in an inverted turquoise bowl. the heavens seemed almost at our fingertips from the bottom of this deep southern gorge. while bright angel creek murmured a soft accompaniment, the chief told me how it received its name. an old legend says: among the first spanish explorers a small party attempted to cross the colorado canyon. they wandered down on to the plateau north of the river, and there their food and water gave out. many hundreds of feet below them at the bottom of a sheer precipice flowed the great river. their leader swooned from thirst and exhaustion. it seemed certain that death was near. above them towered a wall they could not surmount. just as they were ready to throw themselves into the river so far below, their leader revived and pleaded with them to keep going a little longer. he said: "in my dreams i have seen a beautiful _luminoso angelo_ with sparkling water dripping from his pinions. he beckons us on, and promises to lead to water." they took fresh courage and struggled on in desperation, when, lo, at their very feet flowed a crystal stream of life-giving water. in remembrance of the vision this stream was called "bright angel." pretty as this legend is, the bestowal of the name is now officially credited to major powell. after the story ended i crept between my blankets, and as soon as i became sufficiently inured to the conversation between chollo and her sympathizers i fell asleep. but along toward morning some inquisitive deer came in to share the grain our horses had scattered, and a big porcupine came home from lodge, quarreling and debating with himself about something. he stopped near us and chattered angrily about it, permanently ending our sleep. after breakfast we followed the trail through more ancient ruins, into a cottonwood grove and then on to a sandy flat. sitting low in my saddle, almost dozing, i revived suddenly at a never-to-be-mistaken b-u-u-z-z-z! the horses recognized it instantly and froze in their tracks. sibilant, wicked, it sounded again, and then a yellow streak slid across the trail and disappeared under a low bush. we waited, and pretty soon a coffin-shaped head came up and waved slowly to and fro. the chief shot him with his forty-five and the snake twisted and writhed into the trail, then lay still. a moment later i had the rattles in my hatband for a souvenir. "look out for his mate," the chief said; but we didn't see it, and a few days later a ranger camping there found it coiled in his bed, and its rattles joined the ones already in my possession. on and on climbed the trail, growing steeper at every turn. i could have walked with a greater degree of comfort, but the chief said: "ride!" so i rode; and i mean just that. i rode every inch of that horse several times over. what time i wasn't clinging to his tail being dragged up a precipice, i was hanging around his neck like a limpet. one time, when the girth slipped, both the saddle and i rode upside down under his belly. some time ago i saw a sloth clinging, wrong end to, to the top bars of his cage. it brought back painful memories of when the saddle slipped. when we reached the blue-wall a mighty roaring was audible. far above, a torrent of water from some subterranean cavern bursts from the ledge with such force that the sound carries for miles. this is called roaring springs. getting up over the blue-wall limestone was arduous. this limestone formation is difficult to conquer wherever it is found. almost straight up, clinging to the horse's mane, we climbed, stopping frequently to let the panting animals breathe. as we neared the north rim, now and then along the trail a wild rose blossomed, and as we climbed higher we threaded a maze of sweet locust, fern, and bracken. it was a fairyland. and then the trail topped out at an elevation of eight thousand feet into the forest primeval. towering yellow pines, with feet planted in masses of flowers, pushed toward heaven. scattered among the rugged pines were thousands of slender aspen trees, swaying and quivering, their white trunks giving an artificial effect to the scene as if the gods had set a stage for some pagan drama. ruffed grouse strutted about, challenging the world at large. our horses' hoofs scattered a brood and sent them scuttling to cover under vines and blossoms. roused from his noonday siesta, a startled deer bounded away. one doe had her fawn secreted near the trail and she followed us for some distance to make sure her baby was safe. as we swung around a curve into an open valley, we came to a decrepit signpost. and what do you suppose it said? merely: "santa fe r. r. and el tovar," while a hand pointed back the way we had come. i wondered how many travelers had rushed madly around the corner in order to catch the santa fe limited. but in those days the north rim seemed to sprout signs, for soon we overtook this one: the jim owens camp guiding tourists and hunting parties a specialty cougars caught to order rates reasonable of course the signing of park lands is contrary to the policies of the national park service, and after white mountain's inspection trip, these were promptly removed. at length we arrived at jim's camp. uncle jim must have caught several cougars to order, for the cabin walls were covered with pelts and murderous-looking claws frescoed the ceiling. uncle jim told us that he has caught more than eleven hundred cougars in the past twenty years. he guided teddy roosevelt on his hunts in arizona, and i doubt if there is a hunter and guide living today that is as well known and loved by famous men as is jim owens. he has retired from active guiding now, and spends his time raising buffalo in the rock house valley. scenery on the north rim is more varied and beautiful than that where we lived at el tovar. do you favor mountains? "i will lift up mine eyes to the hills from whence cometh my help." far across the canyon loom the snow-capped heights of san francisco peaks. truly from those hills comes help. water from a huge reservoir filled by melting snow on their summits supplies water to towns within a radius of a hundred miles. look to the south and you see the navajo reservation, and the glorious, glowing painted desert. if peaceful scenes cloy, and you hanker for a thrill, drop your glance to the colorado river, foaming and racing a mile or so below. sunset from this point will linger in my memory while i live. a weird effect was caused by a sudden storm breaking in the canyon's depths. all sense of deepness was blotted out and, instead, clouds billowed and beat against the jutting walls like waves breaking on some rock-bound coast. point sublime has been featured in poems and paint until it needs little introduction. it was here that dutton drew inspiration for most of his poems of grand canyon, weaving a word picture of the scene, awe-inspiring and wonderful. how many of you have seen the incomparable painting of the grand canyon hanging in the capitol at washington? the artist, thomas moran, visited point sublime in 1873 with major powell, and later transferred to canvas the scene spread before him. deer and grouse and small animals were about us all the way, and i had the pleasure of seeing a big white-tailed squirrel dart around and around a tree trunk. this squirrel is found nowhere else. that evening at sunset we drove with blondy jensen to vt park through the "president's forest." at first we saw two or three deer together, and then we came upon them feeding like herds of cattle, literally hundreds of them. they were all bucks. blondy said the does were still back in the deep woods with their fawns. we reached the diamond bar ranch just as supper was ready, and the cowboys invited us to eat. two big dutch ovens were piled with live coals before the fireplace. i eyed them with a lot of curiosity until a smiling cowboy lifted the lids for me to peep within. one was full of simmering tender beef and the other held biscuits just turning a delicious brown. i made up our minds then, and we all stayed for supper. it was late when we started back to our camp on the rim, and the big car slid along at a great rate. suddenly blondy jammed on the brakes and almost lost me through the windshield. an enormous full-grown deer loomed directly in front of the headlights. there he stood, head thrown back, nostrils distended, monarch of all he surveyed. a moment longer he posed, then leaped away into the darkness, leaving us wondering if we had really seen anything. all too soon it was time for us to start back to the south rim, and we made a reluctant departure. it rained on us part of the way, and loosened rocks made the going perilous. halfway down the steepest part we met half a dozen loose pack mules. one of the first rules of safety for a trail without turnouts is that no loose stock must be allowed on it. my indian horse chose that particular time and place to throw a fit of temperament, and he climbed out of the way of the wild mules by scrambling up a perpendicular rock and flattening out against the hillside. i slid off over his tail and landed in the trail on the back of my neck, but popped up to see what had happened to the chief. the pack mules were being urged on from the rear by a fool mule-skinner, and they had crowded tony, the chief's mount, off the trail on to a good-sized rock that stuck out over the brink. he stood trembling on the rock and the chief stood beside him on the same rock with an arm around the scared horse's neck, talking to him in his usual slow, calm way, all the time stroking tony's ears and patting his neck. inch by inch the rock was parting from the earth holding it, and it seemed to me i would just die of terror. white mountain just kept on talking to the horse and trying to coax him back into the trail. at last tony turned an almost human look on the chief and then stepped back into the trail, just as the boulder gave way and went crashing down the incline, carrying trees, rocks, and earth with it. "why didn't you let him go? why did you just stand there like an idiot?" i raved. the reaction was so great that i entirely lost my temper. "oh, my good new saddle was on him. i couldn't let that go, you know," said white mountain. in the meantime the mules continued to mill and buck in the trail. up rushed mr. mule-skinner. he addressed the chief in about these words: "get the hell outa my way, you ------fool. ain't you got no sense at all?" we will skip the next inch or two of this narrative, and let kind oblivion cover it as cool dusk masks the ravages of burning noon. anyway, this was part of a hunting outfit, including fred stone, bound for the north rim. to this day i can't see any comedy in mr. stone's acting. tony seemed quite unnerved by his encounter, and as we crossed the swinging bridge he became startled at something and plunged wildly against the wire fencing the bridge. the chief threw out a hand to steady himself and his ring, caught on a broken wire, cut into and buried itself in his flesh. when we reached the south end of the bridge we dismounted and tried to care for the painful wound, but with no medicine or water there was little we could do. we bound it up in a handkerchief and went on to the top, the chief suffering agonies with the injury and the intense heat. on top a ranger cut the flesh away and filed the ring off. i added it to my other souvenirs. [illustration] _chapter xiii: sisters under the skin[4]_ "for the colonel's lady and judy o'grady are sisters under the skin!" "and what of the women and children? how do they live?" i have been asked again and again, when speaking of indians of the southwest. and who isn't interested in the intimate details of the home life of our indian sisters? what of their work? their homes? their dress? and--most interesting to us paleface women--what of their love affairs? most of you have seen the stolid squaw, wrapped in a soiled blanket, silently offering her wares to tourists throughout the southwest. does it seem strange to you that this same stoical creature is just bubbling over with femininity? that she loves with devotion, is torn with passionate jealousy, and adorns herself just as carefully within her limited means for the benefit of masculine eyes, as you do? among friends she sparkles, and laughs and gossips with her neighbors over a figurative back fence just as you do in virginia or vermont. just living, loving, joyous, or sorrowing women are these brown-skinned sisters of ours. were i looking for inspiration to paint a madonna i would turn my steps toward the painted desert, and there among the indian people i would find my model. indian mothers are real mothers. their greatest passion is mother-love. not a pampering, sheltering, foolish love, but a great, tender love that seeks always what is best for the child, regardless of the mother's feelings or the child's own desires. the first years of an indian baby's life are very simple. apart from being fed without having to catch his dinner, there is not much to choose between his existence and that of any other healthy young animal. he and his little companions dart about in sunshine and rain, naked as little brown kewpies. i have never seen a deformed indian baby or one with spinal trouble. why? because the mothers grow up living natural lives: they dress in loose-fitting, sensible clothing; they wear flat-heeled shoes or moccasins; they eat plain, nourishing food; and they walk and ride and work until almost the minute the child is born. they take the newborn babe to a water hole, bathe it, then strap it on a straight board with its little spine absolutely supported. here it spends the first six months of its existence. the child's chin is bound round with a soft strip of leather, so that its breathing is done through its nostrils; no adenoids or mouth breathing among the indians, and very little lung trouble as long as they do not try to imitate the white man's ways. different tribes celebrate the birth of a child in different ways. the gift is always welcome when a little new life comes into an indian home. the hopi mother rubs her baby with wood ashes so that its body will not be covered with hair. then a great feast is held and thank-offering gifts are received. each relative brings an ear of corn to the mother and gives a name to the child. it may receive twenty or more names at birth, and yet in later life it will choose a name for itself or be named by its mother. not so much ceremony greets the navajo baby. navajo mothers are far too busy and baby additions are too frequent to get excited about. the mother bathes herself and the newcomer in cold water, wraps him in his swaddling clothes of calico, straps him on his board cradle, suspends it on a limb, and goes on with the spinning or weaving that had occupied her a few minutes before. all indian babies are direct gifts from the powers that be, and a token of said powers' favor. a childless indian wife is pitied and scoffed at by her tribe. after a few months the child is released from his cradle prison and allowed to tumble around the mother's loom while she weaves her blankets. he entertains himself and learns to creep and then to walk without any help. if there is an older child he is left in its care. it is not unusual to see a two or three-year-old youngster guarding a still younger one, and keeping it out of the fire or from under the hoofs of the ponies grazing around the camp. as the children grow older they are trained to work. the boys watch the flocks and help cultivate the fields, if fields there be, and the little girls are taught the household tasks of tanning the sheep hides, drying the meat in the sun, braiding the baskets, carding and spinning wool and making it into rugs, shaping the pottery and painting and baking it over the sheep-dung fires. these and dozens of other tasks are ever at hand for the indian woman to busy herself with. if you think for an instant that you'd like to leave your own house and live a life of ease with the indian woman, just forget it. it is a life of labor and hardship, of toil and endless tasks, from day-break until long after dark, and with the most primitive facilities one can imagine. only on calendars do we see a beauteous indian maiden draped in velvet, reclining on a mossy bank, and gazing at her own image in a placid pool. that indian is the figment of a fevered artist brain in a new york studio. should a real indian woman try that stunt she'd search a long way for the water. then she'd likely recline in a cactus bed and gaze at a medley of hoofs and horns of deceased cows bogged down in a mud hole. such are the surroundings of our real indians. indian women are the home-makers and the home-keepers. they build the house, whether it be the brush hewa of the supai or the stone pueblo of the hopi. they gather the piñon nuts and grind them into meal. they crush the corn into meal, and thresh and winnow the beans, and dry the pumpkin for winter use. they cut the meat into strips and cure it into jerky. they dry the grapes and peaches. they garner the acorns and store them in huge baskets of their own weaving. they shear the sheep, and wash, dye, spin, and weave the wool into marvelous blankets. they cut the willows and gather sweet grasses for the making of baskets and trays. they grind and knead and shape clay into artistic pottery and then paint it with colors gleaned from the earth. they burn and bake the clay vessels until they are waterproof, and they carry them weary miles to the railway to sell them to the tourists so that their children may have food and clothing. the hopi woman brings water to the village up a mile or two of heart-breaking trail, carrying it in great ollas set on her head or slung on her back. she must have water to make the mush for supper, and such trivial things as a shampoo or a bath are indulged in only just before the annual snake dance. religion demands it then! where water is plentiful, however, the indians bathe and swim daily. they keep their hair clean and shining with frequent mud baths! black, sticky mud from the bottom of the river is plastered thickly over the scalp and rubbed into the hair, where it is left for several hours. when it is washed away the hair is soft, and gleams like the sheeny wing of the blackbird. root of the yucca plant is beaten into a pulp and used as a shampoo cream by other tribes. cosmetics are not greatly in use among these women. they grow very brown and wrinkled at an early age, just when our sheltered women are looking their best. this is accounted for by the hard lives they live, exposed to the burning summer suns and biting winter winds, and by cooking over smoky campfires or hovering over them for warmth in the winter. an indian's hands are never beautiful in an artistic sense. how could they be? they dress and tan the sheep and deer hides; they make moccasins and do exquisite bead work; they cut and carry the wood and keep the fires burning. they cook the meals and sit patiently by until the men have gobbled their fill before they partake. they care tenderly for the weaklings among the flocks of sheep and goats. navajo women often nurse a deserted or motherless lamb at their own ample breasts. they make clothes for themselves and their families, although to look at the naked babies one would not think the dress-making business flourished. but with all the duties incumbent on an indian mother she never neglects her children. they are taught all that she thinks will help them live good lives. the girls grow up with the knowledge that their destiny is to become good wives and mothers. they are taught that their bodies must be kept strong and fit to bear many children. and when the years of childhood are passed they know how to establish homes of their own. many interesting customs are followed during courtship among the tribes. the pueblos, among whom are the hopis, have a pretty way by which the maidens announce their matrimonial aspirations. how? by putting their soft black hair, which heretofore has been worn loose, into huge whorls above the ears. this is called the squash-blossom headdress and signifies maturity. when this age is reached, the maiden makes up her mind just which lad she wants, then lets him know about it. the hopi girl does her proposing by leaving some cornmeal piki or other edible prepared by her own hands at the door of the selected victim under cover of darkness. he usually knows who has left it, and then, if "barkis is willin'," he eats out of the same bowl of mush with her, the medicine man holds a vessel of water into which both dip their hands, and the wedding ceremony is finished. he moves into the bride's house and they presumably live happily ever afterward. however, squalls do arise sometimes, and then the husband is likely to come home from work in the fields or a night at the lodge and find his wardrobe done up in his sunday bandanna waiting on the doorstep for him. in that case all he can do is take his belongings and "go home to mother." his wife has divorced him by merely throwing his clothes out of her house. navajo bucks purchase their wives for a certain number of sheep or horses, as do also the supai, cheyenne, apache, and other desert tribes. there is not much fuss made over divorce among them, either. if a wife does not like her husband's treatment of her, she refuses to cook for him or to attend to any of her duties, and he gladly sends her back to her father. he, like solomon of old, agrees that "it is better to dwell alone in the wilderness than with an angry and contentious woman." the father doesn't mind getting her back, because he keeps the original purchase price and will also collect from the next brave that wants to take a chance on her; why should he worry? in a few instances braves have been known to trade wives and throw in an extra pony or silver belt to settle all difficulties. the missionaries are doing much to discourage this practice and are trying to teach the indians to marry in a civilized manner. in case they do succeed let us hope that while the savages embrace the marrying idea they will not emulate civilized people in divorce matters. for a primitive people with all the untrained impulses and natural instincts of animals, there is surprisingly little sexual immorality among the tribes. it seems that the women are naturally chaste. for there is no conventional standard among their own people by which they are judged. if an unmarried squaw has a child, there are deploring clucks, but the girl's parents care tenderly for the little one and its advent makes no difference in the mother's chances for a good marriage. also the child does not suffer socially for its unfortunate birth, which is more humane at least than our method of treating such children. the children of a marriage take the mother's name and belong to her clan. she has absolute control of them until the girl reaches a marriageable age; then dad collects the marriage price. another thing we civilized parents might take into consideration. indian babies are never punished by beating or shaking. it is the indian idea that anything which injures a child's self-respect is very harmful. yet indian children are very well-behaved, and their respect and love for their elders is a beautiful thing. i have never seen an indian child cry or sulk for anything forbidden it. schools for reservation children are compulsory, but whether they are altogether a blessing or not is still doubtful. to take an indian child away from its own free, wild life, teach it to dress in white man's clothes, eat our food, sleep in our beds, bathe in white-tiled bathtubs, think our thoughts, learn our vices, and then, having led them to despise their own way of living, send them back to their people who have not changed while their children were being literally reborn--what does this accomplish? doesn't aesop tell us something of a crow that would be a dove and found himself an outcast everywhere? we are replacing the beautiful symbolism of the indian by our materialism and leaving him bewildered and discouraged. why should he be taught to despise his hogan, shaped after the beautiful rounded curve of the rainbow and the arched course of the sun in his daily journey across the sky--a type of home that has been his for generations? do we ever stop to think why the mud hut is dome-shaped, why the door always faces the east? i have been watching one hopi family for years. in this case simple housekeeping, plain sewing, and suitable cooking have been taught to the girl in school. the mother waits eagerly for the return of the daughter from school so that she can hear and learn and share what has been taught to her girl. her efforts to keep pace with the child are so intense and her pride in her improved home is so great that it is pitiful. isn't there some way the elders can share the knowledge we are trying to give the younger generation, so that parents and children may be brought closer together rather than estranged? no matter what color the skin, feminine nature never varies! let one squaw get a new calico dress, and it creates a stir in every tepee. the female population gathers to admire, and the equivalent to our ohs and ahs fills the air. it takes something like twenty yards of calico to make an indian flapper a skirt. it must be very full and quite long, with a ruffle on the hem for good measure. there is going to be no unseemly display of nether limbs. when a new dress is obtained it is put on right over the old one, and it is not unusual for four or five such billowing garments to be worn at once. a close-fitting basque of velvet forms the top part of this navajo costume, and over all a machine-made blanket is worn. store-made shoes, or more often the hand-made moccasins of soft doeskin trimmed with silver and turquoise buttons, are worn without stockings. the feet of indian women are unusually small and well-shaped. the amount of jewelry that an indian wears denotes his social rank, and, like their white brothers, they adorn the wife, so that it is not unusual to see their women decked out until they resemble prosperous christmas trees. many silver bracelets, studded with the native turquoises, strings and strings of silver beads, and shell necklaces, heavy silver belts, great turquoise earrings, rings and rings, make up the ensemble of navajo jewelry. even the babies are loaded down with it. it is the family pocketbook. when an indian goes to a store he removes a section of jewelry and trades it for whatever takes his fancy. and one thing an indian husband should give fervent thanks for--his wife never wears a hat. our indian sisters are not the slaves of their husbands as we have been led to believe. it is true that the hard work in the village or camp is done by the squaws, but it is done cheerfully and more as a right than as a duty. in olden times the wives kept the home fires burning and the crops growing while the braves were on the warpath or after game. now that the men no longer have these pursuits, it never occurs to them to do their wives' work. nor would they be permitted to do it. after the rugs, baskets, or pottery are finished, the husband may take them to the trading-post or depot and sell them; but the money must be turned over to the wife or accounted for to her full satisfaction. all the indian women are tireless and fearless riders. they ride astride, with or without a saddle, and carry two or three of the smaller children with them. however, if there is only one pony, wifie walks, while her lordly mate rides. that is indian etiquette. [illustration] _chapter xiv: the passing show_ tourists! flocks of them, trainloads and carloads! they came and looked, and passed on, and were forgotten, nine-tenths of them at least. anyone who is interested in the study of human nature should set up shop on the rim of the grand canyon and watch the world go by. i have never been able to determine why eastern people can't act natural in the west! for instance: shy spinster schoolma'ams, the essence of modesty at home, catch the spirit of adventure and appear swaggering along in the snuggest of knickers. they would die of shame should their home-town minister or school president catch them in such apparel. fat ladies invariably wear breeches--tight khaki breeches--and with them they wear georgette blouses, silk stockings, and high-heeled pumps. i have even seen be-plumed chapeaux top the sport outfit. one thing is a safe bet--the plumper the lady, the snugger the breeches! be-diamonded dowagers, hand-painted flappers, timid wives from kansas, one and all seem to fall for the "my god" habit when they peer down into the canyon. ranger winess did tell me of one original damsel; she said: "ain't it cute?" i was standing on the rim one day, watching a trail party through field glasses, when a stout, well-dressed man stopped and asked to borrow my glasses. he spoke of the width and depth of the canyon, and stood seemingly lost in contemplation of the magnificent sight. i had him classified as a preacher, and i mentally rehearsed suitable biblical quotations. he turned to me and asked, "do you know what strikes me most forcibly about this place?" "no, what is it?" i hushed my soul to listen to some sublime sentiment. "_i haven't seen a fly since i've been here!_" i was spluttering to white mountain about it and wishing i had pushed him over the edge, but the chief thought it was funny. he said the man must have been a butcher. it is a strange fact that tourists will not listen to what rangers tell them to do or not to do. the government pays men who have spent their lives in such work to guide and guard strangers when they come into the national parks. many visitors resent advice, and are quite ready to cry for help when they get into difficulties or danger by ignoring instructions. and usually they don't appreciate the risks that are taken to rescue them from their own folly. a young man from new york city, with his companion, walked down the bright angel trail to the colorado river. everybody knows, or should know, that the colorado river is a most treacherous river. one glance at the sullen, silt-filled current tells that story. it seldom gives up its dead. but the new yorker swam it, with his shoes and underclothing on. by the time he reached the far side he was completely exhausted. more than that he was panic-stricken at the undercurrents and whirlpools that had pulled at him and almost dragged him under. he would not swim back. his companion signaled and yelled encouragement, but nothing doing. behind him rose a hundred-foot precipice; his clothes and his friend were on the southern bank. the bridge was four miles above, but unscalable walls made it impossible for him to reach that. furthermore, night was at hand. when his friend knew that it was hopeless to wait any longer, he left him perched on a rock and started to headquarters for help. this was a climb over seven miles of trail that gained a mile in altitude in that distance. disregarding the facts that they had already done their day's work, that it was dark, and that his predicament was of his own making, the rangers went to the rescue. a canvas boat was lashed on a mule, another mule was led along for the victim to ride out on, and with four rangers the caravan was off. it was the plan to follow the trail to the suspension bridge, cross to the northern bank, follow down the river four miles to the cliff above the spot where the adventurer was roosting let the boat down over the ledge to the river, and, when the new yorker got in, pull the boat upstream by means of the ropes until they found a safe place to drag it to shore. when almost down the trail they met the lad coming up, and he was mad! "why didn't they come quicker? why wasn't there a ranger down there to keep him from swimming the river?" and so forth. but no thanks to the men that had gone willingly to his rescue. however, they said they were well paid by the sight of him toiling up the trail in the moonlight, _au naturel_! they loaded him on a mule and brought him to the top. then he refused to pay fred harvey for the mule. i might add _he paid_! i often wondered why people pay train fare across the continent and then spend their time poking around in _our_ houses. they would walk in without knocking, pick up and examine baskets, books, or anything that caught their fancy. one woman started to pull a blanket off my couch, saying "what do you want for this?" it was an old story to members of the park service, and after being embarrassed a few times we usually remembered to hook the door before taking a bath. one day chief joe and i were chatting in front of the hopi house. his indians had just completed one of their entertaining dances. as it happened we were discussing a new book that had just been published and i was interested in his view of the subject, _outline of history_. all at once an imposing dowager bore down upon us with all sails set. "are you a real indian?" "yes, madam," joe bowed. "where do you sleep?" "in the hopi house." "what do you eat?" she eyed him through her lorgnette. "most everything, madam," joe managed to say. luckily she departed before we lost control of ourselves. joe says that he has been asked every question in the category, and then some. i think some of our stage idols and movie stars would be jealous if they could see the number of mash notes joe receives. he is flattered and sought after and pursued by society ladies galore. the fact that he is married to one of his own people and has a fat, brown baby does not protect him. the fred harvey guides could throw interesting lights on tourist conduct if they wished, but they seldom relate their experiences. our card club met in the recreation room of the guide quarters, and sometimes i would get a chance to listen in on the conversation of the guides. their narrations were picturesque to say the least. "what held you up today, ed?" "well," drawled ed, "a female dude wouldn't keep her mule movin' and that slowed up the whole shebang. i got tired tellin' her to kick him, so i jest throwed a loop round his neck and hitched 'im to my saddle horn. she kept up then." "make her mad?" "uh-huh." a pause while he carefully rolled and lighted a cigarette. "i reckon so. when we topped out an' i went to help her down, she wuz right smart riled." "say she wuz goin' to report you to the president of these here united states?" "don't know about that. she gimme a cut across the face with her bridle reins." another pause. "'twas real aggravatin'." personally, i marveled at his calm. "what made you late in toppin' out?" ed asked in his turn. "well, we wuz late in startin' back, anyhow, and then i had to stop fer an hour pickin' cactus thorns outta an old-maid female." "mule unload her in a patch, or did she sit down on one?" ed was interested. "naw, didn't do neither one. she tried to eat a prickly pear offa bush of cactus, and got her tongue full uv stickers. said she always heard tell them cactus apples wuz good eatin'. i propped her mouth open with a glove so she couldn't bite none, and i picked cactus stickers till i wuz plumb weary." "yeh, women is funny that way," philosophized the listener. "they do say eve et an apple when she shouldn't ought to had." another lad was lamenting because he had a pretty girl next to him in the trail party; as he said: "i was sure tryin' to make hay before the sun went down. every time i'd say something low and confidential for her ear alone, a deaf old coot on the tail-end of the line would let out a yarp-"'what'd you say, guide?' or, 'i didn't get _that_, guide.' "i reckon he thought i was exclaimin' on the magnificence of the picturesque beauty of the scenery, and he wasn't gittin' his money's worth of the remarks." one guide said he had trouble getting a man to make the return trip. he was so scared going down he figured he'd stay down there rather than ride back up the trail. every morning, rain, snow, or shine, these guides, in flaming neckerchiefs, equally audible shirts, and woolly chaps, lead their string of patient mules up to the corral at the hotel, where the trail parties are loaded for the trip into the canyon. each mule has a complete set of individual characteristics, and mules are right set in their ways. if one wants to reach over the edge of a sheer precipice and crop a mouthful of grass, his rider may just as well let him reach. mules seldom commit suicide, although at times the incentive must be strong. "powder river," "dishpan," "rastus," and a few other equally hardy mule brethren are allotted to carry helpless fat tourists down the trail. it's no use for a fragile two-hundred-pound female to deny her weight. guides have canny judgment when it comes to guessing, and you can't fool a harvey mule. "saint peter," "crowbar," and "by jingo" are assigned to timid old ladies and frightened gentlemen. if i were issuing trail instructions for canyon parties i would say something like this, basing my directions on daily observation: "the trail party starts about nine o'clock, and the departure should be surrounded with joyous shouts of bravado. after you have mounted your mule, or been laboriously hoisted aboard, let your conscience guide you as to your actions up and down the trail. when you top out at the end of the day and it is your turn to be unloaded, weakly drag your feet out of the stirrups, make sure that the guide is planted directly underneath you, turn loose all holds, and fall as heavily as possible directly on top of him. "after you have been placed on your feet, say about the third time, it might be well to make a feeble effort to stand alone. this accomplished, hobble off to the hotel, taking care to walk as bow-legged as possible. if you have a room with bath, dive into a blistering hot tubful and relax. if you were having a stingy streak when you registered, order a bath at the public bathroom and be thankful you have seventy-five cents with which to pay for it. later take an inventory of your damages and, if they are not too severe, proceed to the dining-room and fill up on the most soul-satisfying meal fred harvey ever placed before the public. "afterward, in the lobby, between examinations of 'i wish you were here' postcards, it might be well to warn newcomers about the dangers of the trip. probably few tourists are as expert riders as you." we liked to poke fun at the saddle-sore dudes, but all the same the trip is a soul-trying one, and the right to boast to home folks about it is hardly earned. it is really a revelation to study the reaction of the canyon on various races. on leaving the train a japanese or korean immediately seeks out a ranger or goes to the park office and secures every bit of information that is to be had. age, formation, fauna, and flora are all investigated. then armed with map, guidebook, and kodak he hikes to the bottom of the trail, and takes everything apart en route to see how it is made. english and german travelers come next in earnest study and observation. i am sorry to say that all foreigners seemed to show more intelligent interest in the canyon than our own native americans. perhaps that is because only the more educated and intellectual foreigners are able to make the trip across the ocean. lots of americans never get farther than el tovar, where they occupy easy chairs, leaving them several times a day to array themselves in still more gorgeous raiment. of course, out of the hundreds of thousands that come to grand canyon, only a stray one now and then causes any anxiety or trouble. it is human nature to remember those that make trouble while thousands of the finest in the land pass unnoticed. any mother can tell you that gentle, obedient mary is not mentioned once, whereas naughty, turbulent jane pops into the conversation continually. rangers feel the same way about their charges. perhaps a hundred people got on the train leaving the canyon one snowy zero night. those people were forgotten instantly, but not so the bellicose dame found wandering around the station asking when _her_ train would go. she had a ticket to new york, and stood on the platform like andy gump while the train with her baggage aboard pulled out. "it was headed the wrong way!" she explained tearfully, and stuck to her story, even when the sorely tried superintendent led her to the tracks and showed her that said track absolutely and finally ended there, without argument or compromise. and she was furious. her former outburst was a mild prelude to what poured forth now. she would _not_ stay there until morning when the next train left. she demanded a special train; she ordered a handcar with which to overtake the recreant train; she called for a taxi to chase across to williams with her, a mere eighty miles of ten-foot snowdrifts. only shortage of breath occasioned by altitude and outraged sensibilities prevented her commandeering an airplane! none of these vehicles being forthcoming, she would stop in washington if she ever made her escape from this god-forsaken hole, and have every park employee fired. the superintendent took her to the hotel, then came to me for help. "please lend her a comb and a nightgown," he begged. "all right." i was used to anything by now. "silk or flannel?" "well," he said thoughtfully. "she acts like red flannel but probably expects crêpe de chine." i sent both over, and never saw either again. my heart went out to a poor little lady, sent by heartless relatives, traveling with only a maid. she was not mentally able to care for herself and certainly should not have been allowed to visit grand canyon. however, she and the maid arrived, with other visitors, and the maid seated her charge on a bench near the rim, then went away about her own business. when she came back, behold, the little lady had vanished. after a long time, the maid reported her absence to the ranger office, and a search was organized. soon after the rangers had set out to look for her, an automobile traveling from flagstaff reported they had met a thinly dressed woman walking swiftly out into the desert. she had refused to answer when they spoke to her, and they were afraid she was not responsible for her actions. ranger winess, the chief, and i climbed into the ever-ready ford and took up the trail. a heavy storm was gathering and the wind cut like a knife. for several miles we saw nothing; then we saw her tracks in the muddy road where the sun had thawed the frozen ground earlier in the day. after a while great flakes of snow came down, and we lost all trace. backtracking ourselves, we found where she had left the road and had hidden behind a big rock while we had passed. for an hour, through the falling snow, with night closing around us, we circled and searched, keeping in touch with each other by calling back and forth continually. it would have been easy enough for the rangers to have lost me, for i had no idea what direction i was moving in. we were about to give up and go back to headquarters for men and lights when ranger winess stumbled over her as she crouched behind a log. she would have frozen to death in a very short time, and her coyote-picked bones would probably never have been discovered. she insisted she knew what she was about, and we had literally to lift her into the car and take her back to el tovar. whether the canyon disorganized their judgment or whether they were equally silly at home i cannot tell, but certainly the two new england school teachers who tried horseback-riding for the first time, well--! i was mixing pie crust when the sound of thundering hoofbeats down through the woods took me to the door. just at my porch some men were digging a deep ditch for plumbing. two big black horses, a woman hanging around the neck of each, came galloping down on us, and as the foremost one gathered himself to leap the ditch, his fainting rider relaxed and fell right into the arms of a young mormon workman. he carried her into my house, and i, not being entirely satisfied with the genuineness of the prolonged swoon, dismissed the workman and dashed the ice-cold pie crust water in her face. she "came to" speedily. her companion arrived about that time and admitted that neither of them had ever been on a horse before, and not wanting to pay for the services of a guide they had claimed to be expert riders. it hadn't taken the horses long to find out how expert their riders were, and they had taken matters into their own hands, or perhaps it might be better to say they had taken the bits in their teeth and started for their stable. the girl on the leading horse said she had been looking for quite a while for a suitable place to fall, and when she saw the mormon she knew that was her chance! it wasn't always the humans that got into trouble, either. i remember a beautiful collie dog that was being given an airing along the rim. he suddenly lost his head, dashed over the low wall, and leaped to his death a thousand feet below. it took an indian half a day of arduous climbing around fissures and bluffs to reach him and return him to his distracted owners for burial. they could not bear to leave the canyon until they knew he was not lying injured and suffering on a ledge somewhere. [illustration] _chapter xv: fools, flood, and dynamite_ the chief and i stayed home for a few days, and life rambled on without untoward incident. i began to breathe easier and stopped crossing my fingers whenever the phone rang. i even grew so placid that i settled myself to make a wedding dress for the little mexican girl who helped me around the house. her father was head of the mexican colony whose village lies just out of headquarters. every member of the clan was a friend of mine, for i had helped them when they were sick and had saved all the colored pictures in magazines for their children. the wedding day dawned early, very early! at five o'clock i dragged myself from my warm bed and went to the schoolhouse where the wedding was staged. father vabre married the couple, and then we all went home with the happy pair. an accordion and a harmonica furnished music enough for several weddings; at least they made plenty of racket. we were seated at the table with the bride and groom. they sat there all day long, she still wearing her long wedding veil. the groom was attired in the niftiest shepherd-plaid suit i ever beheld. the checks were so large and so loud i was reminded constantly of a checker-board. a bright blue celluloid collar topped the outfit. i do not think the bridal couple spoke a word all day. they sat like statues and stonily received congratulations and a kiss on each cheek from all their friends. there was such a lot of dancing and feasting, and drinking the native wine secured for that grand occasion. our plates were loaded with food of all sorts, but i compromised with a taste of the wine and a cup of coffee. the dancing and feasting lasted two or three days, but one day exhausted my capacity for endurance. soon after the wedding, a tiny baby sister of the bride died, and its father came to get permission to bury it in the park cemetery. i asked if i could do anything to help them, and sandoval said i was to make the dress and put it on the baby for them. he produced bright orange organdie and pink ribbons for the purpose. next morning i took the completed dress and some flowers the el tovar gardener had contributed down to their home. i dressed the wee mite in the shroud, which was mightily admired, and placed the crucifix the mother gave me in its tiny waxen fist. then the bride came with her veil and wreath of orange blossoms, and said she wanted to give them to the little sister. the mother spoke no english, but she pointed here and there where she wanted the flowers and bright bows of ribbon pinned. strange, it looked to me, the little dead baby decked out in wedding finery, but the poor mother was content. she patted a ribbon and smoothed the dress, saying to me in spanish: "the madonna will find my baby _so_ beautiful!" one hot august day, the chief and ranger west went down into salt creek basin, at the bottom of the canyon, to look for some government horses that had strayed away. in spite of their feeble protests i tagged along. we had checked up on the stock and were following the trail homeward. ranger west rode in front on black dixie. ordinarily he would have been humming like an overgrown bumblebee, or talking to dixie, who he said was the only female he knew he would tell secrets to. but we had ridden far that day, and the heat radiated from the great ore rocks was almost beyond endurance. now and then we could catch a glimpse of the river directly at the foot of the ledge our trail followed, and the water looked invitingly cool. all at once dixie stopped so suddenly that ranger west almost took a header. a man's hat was lying in the trail. dismounting, the men looked for tracks. a quite legible story was written there for them to read. some tenderfoot, thirst-crazed, had stumbled along that trail since we had passed that way a couple of hours earlier. putting our horses to a lope we rode on until we came to his empty canteen; and a little farther on to a discarded coat and shirt. the tracks in the sand wavered like those of a drunken man. "we'll find his shoes next," the chief called to ranger west; "and then pretty soon the end of the trail for him. can't go far barefoot in this hot sand." "say," ranger west shouted, "white mountain, poison spring is just around the bend. we'll find the poor devil flattened out there sure. _you_ ride slow, margie, and we'll hurry along." i didn't say anything, but i hurried along too. this spring he spoke of was strongly impregnated with arsenic. even the wild burros shunned it; but i hardly dared to hope this desperate man would pass by it. the men rode over the expected shoes without stopping, but i got off of tar baby and got them. i began to think i would stay a little way behind. i felt rather weak and sick. rounding the turn i could see there was nothing at the spring, and in the distance a stumbling figure was weaving along. the men were nearing him, so i spurred to a run. every now and then the man would fall, lie prone for a minute, then struggle to his feet and go on. suddenly my heart stood still. the figure left the trail and headed straight for the edge of the precipice. the river had made itself heard at last. ranger west turned dixie from the trail and rode straight across the plateau to where the man had disappeared behind a big boulder. the chief followed west, but i rode the trail and kept my eyes resolutely ahead of me. i knew i couldn't endure seeing the man jump to certain death when we were at his heels with water and life. when i looked up again ranger west had his rope in his hand widening the loop. white mountain was with him. they were ten or fifteen feet from the man, who was lying on his stomach peering down at the water. as the poor fellow raised himself for the plunge, with a quick flirt of his wrist the ranger tossed the rope across the intervening space, and as the noose settled around the man's arms white mountain and the ranger dragged him back from death. he lay stunned for a space, then twisted himself over, and mumbled through swollen, bleeding lips: "is that really water down there?" they helped him back into the trail and gave him a swallow from a canteen. it took both the men to manage him, for with the first taste of water he went raving crazy. he fought and cursed them, and cried like a baby because he couldn't hold the canteen in his own hands. they laid him in the shade of our horses and poured a few drops down his throat at intervals until a degree of sanity returned. he was then placed on the chief's horse, and the chief and ranger west took turns, one riding dixie while the other helped the man stay in the saddle. we found later he was a german chemist looking for mineral deposits in the canyon. each morning a daily report of the previous day's doings is posted in ranger headquarters. i was curious to know what ranger west's contribution would be for that day. this is what he said: "patrolled tonto trail looking for lost horses. accompanied chief ranger and wife. brought in lost tenderfoot. nothing to report." and that was that. the chief decided to drive out to desert view the afternoon following our canyon experience, and he said i could go if i liked; he said he couldn't promise any excitement, but the lupine was beautiful in long jim canyon, and i might enjoy it. "thank god for a chance to be peaceful. i'm fed up on melodrama," i murmured, and i climbed into that old ford with a breath of relief. we had such a beautiful drive. i waded waist-high in the fragrant lupine, and even took a nap on pine needles while white mountain located the bench mark he was seeking. when he came back to me he said we had better start home. he saw a cloud that looked as if it might rain. before we reached the ford, the rain came down; then more rain came, and then there was a cloudburst. by that time we were well down toward the middle of long jim canyon. this canyon acts just like a big ditch when rain falls. we had to keep going, and behind us a wall of water raced and foamed and reached out for us. it carried big logs with it, and maybe that water didn't make some time on the down grade. "hang on, hold everything!" the chief yelled in my ear, and we were off on as mad a race as john gilpin ever rode. henry would be proud of his offspring if he knew how one _could_ run when it had a flood behind it. "peaceful! quiet!! restful!!!" i hissed at the chief, between bumps. driving was rather hazardous, because the water before us had carried trees and débris into the road almost blocking it at places. now and then we almost squashed a dead cow the flood had deposited in our path. i hoped the gasoline would hold out. i prayed that the tires would last. and i mentally estimated the endurance power of springs and axles. everything was jake, to use a cowboy expression, and we reached the mouth of the canyon where both we and the flood could spread out. "whew!" said the chief, wiping his face. i didn't say anything. i can't remember that anything disastrous happened for two or three days after the flood. life assumed an even tenor, and i yawned occasionally from sheer ennui. to break the monotony i made a salad. that was momentous! salads meant something in our young lives out there. one of the rangers on leave had returned and brought me a fine head of lettuce--an entirely rash way of saying it with flowers. one last can of shrimp reposed on the shelf. it almost had cobwebs on it, we had cherished it so long, saving it for some grand spree. the time had arrived. that salad looked tempting as i sliced the rosy pimiento on top and piled it in the blue and white bowl. the ranger who contributed the lettuce was an invited guest, and he stood on one foot, then on the other, while the dressing was mixed. even white mountain hovered over it anxiously. just then came a knock! a very famous "bugologist" had come to call on us. of course the chief invited him to dinner, while the ranger and i looked glumly at each other. maybe there wouldn't be plenty of salad for four! our guest was deep in his favorite sport, telling us all about the bugs that killed the beautiful yellow pines at the canyon. "have some butter, professor, and try this salad," invited white mountain. "thanks, it looks enticing," answered our distinguished guest, and he placed the bowl with all its contents on his plate. bite by bite the salad disappeared, while he discoursed on the proper method of killing the yellow pine beetle. "why aren't you folks eating some of this delicious salad? you deprive yourself of a treat when you refuse to eat salads. the human body requires the elements found in fresh, leafy plants, etc., etc." i gave the chief's shins a sharp little kick. "we seldom eat salads," murmured white mountain. i think i heard the disappointed ranger mutter: "damn right we don't!" when the last bite was gone we all stepped outside to look for signs of the dread beetle on our own trees. while we stood there a blast was put off by the construction gang on the railway directly in front of our house. rocks, 'dobe, and pine cones rattled down all around us. we beat a retreat into the house and the chief called to the man in charge and warned him that such charges of powder as that must be covered if any more blasting were to be done. again next morning big rocks struck the house, and broke a window. in the absence of a ranger, i walked down and requested the turk in charge of the labor to use a little more discretion. our house was newly painted inside and out. my windows were all clean, new curtains were up, the floors were newly waxed, and we were quite proud of our place of abode. i said to the turk i was afraid the roof would leak if such sharp rocks hit it. he replied insolently that if he blew the roof off, the santa fe would put another on. i went back to the house in fear and trembling, and picked up my sewing. for half an hour i sewed in quiet. then a terrific explosion rent the air. there was ominous silence for an instant, then the house crumpled over my head. the ridgepole came crashing down, bringing part of the roof and ceiling with it. rocks and a great boulder fell into the room, knocking the stove over. ashes and soot went everywhere. one rock grazed me and knocked the sewing basket from my lap. part of a railroad tie carried the window sash and curtains in with it and landed on the piano. i have a vague recollection of searching vainly for my thimble, and then of grimly determining to locate the chief's gun. it is well he wore his arsenal that day, else the usual order of things would have been reversed--a christian would have massacred a turk! while i was aimlessly wandering around through the wreckage, half dazed, white mountain and the superintendent rushed in. they frantically pulled me this way and pushed me that, trying to find out if i were hopelessly injured, or merely killed. they found out i could still talk! then they turned their attention to the turk and his men who came trooping in to view the remains. it seemed they had put down a charge of four sticks and it had failed to explode. so they had added four more and let her ramble. it was _some_ blow-up! at least the turk found it so. "what do you want me to do?" that unfortunate asked me, after the park men finished with him. "oh, go outside and die!" "white mountain, give me your pocketbook. i'm going to buy a ticket to west virginia. i've had enough of the great open spaces," i continued. "why go now?" he wanted to know. "you've escaped death from fire, flood, and fools. might as well stay and see it through." so we started shoveling out the dirt. footnotes [1] reprinted, by permission, with a few changes, from _good housekeeping_. [2] reprinted, by permission, with a few changes, from _good housekeeping_. [3] reprinted, by permission, with a few changes from _good housekeeping_. [4] reprinted, by permission, from the _los angeles times_ sunday magazine. the frontier boys in the grand canyon or, a search for treasure by capt. wyn roosevelt the arthur westbrook company cleveland, ohio, u. s. a. copyright, 1908 by chatterton, peck & company printed in united states of america contents i. a race ii. after antelope iii. the surprise iv. the chase v. on guard vi. within the fort vii. the captain's record viii. the captain's scheme ix. a mountain fire x. the search xi. the captain departs xii. the mesa village xiii. two honors xiv. a night on the mesa xv. the strange country xvi. the river xvii. beginning the boat xviii. the building of the boat xix. we start xx. our first day xxi. a river ambush xxii. the attack xxiii. a close call xxiv. the colorado river xxv. a visitor xxvi. juarez brings us news xxvii. the cliff village xxviii. the face in the rock xxix. a terrible experience xxx. the great gorge--the end frontier boys in the grand canyon chapter i a race "your cayuse is quiet as a lamb now, isn't he, jo," inquired jim. "he ought to be by this time," i replied. "you wouldn't expect him to buck all the way through new mexico, i hope." "it's funny how he began to act up," remarked tom, "just as soon as we got out of colorado." "maybe he doesn't like getting away from the country of his own tribe," i said; "he's a regular little injun i can tell you that." "i can't blame him for his dislike for the apache range," interposed captain graves, "for a more undesirable lot of devils are not to be found in the southwest." "you ought to know, captain," remarked jim, "for you have fought all of them." "that's true," he replied, "but my fighting days are about over. i shall have to leave you boys in a few days and get back to my log cabin on the plateau in the big canyon." "we all wish you did not have to," said jim, "i do not know how we will get along without you." "you boys can take care of yourselves," he replied. "i saw that in our expedition against the indian encampment when you rescued juarez's sister. then if i go much further i will get the old fever in my blood and nothing will stop me." "well, we'll hang on to you then," laughed jim. perhaps the reader is a stranger to jim, tom, myself and the captain, but not if you have read our adventures as recorded in the frontier boys on overland trail, in colorado, and in the rockies. i relate therein how we located captain graves in his log cabin on a plateau in "the big canyon," and there we spent the winter. that is to say, jim and i did, while tom went back to visit our folks in york state. our father, major george darlington, lived in the town of maysville. he had been in the war, and in the early days he had also lived on the frontier. i think he took a pride in our achievements. but our poor mother did not. mothers are not much in favor of the adventurous life as a rule. "here's a good place for a race," cried jim, "before we get into the foot hills." "we had better be saving our ponies," growled tom, "rather than racing them to death. we are a long way from 'the grand canyon of the colorado' yet." "that's all right, tommy," replied jim, "the ponies can rest long enough when we get to the colorado river. the trouble with you is that you are afraid of being beaten. that's what's worrying you." "i'll show you," replied tom, belligerently. "i will start you," suggested the captain, "where is the finish?" "the colorado river," i laughed. "it's that big pine standing out there alone," said jim. "it looks to be a quarter of a mile," said tom, "but we will probably reach it by evening; this clear air is very deceiving." we now proceeded to get in line. our bronchos were as restive as fleas. they were the ponies we had captured from the indians. mine was a buck-skin. tough as rawhide and tireless as a jack rabbit. jim's was a light bay with a white face and wall eyed. three of his feet were marked white. he was a vicious brute at times and only jim could manage him. but he certainly could run. tom's animal was a sorrel with his forefeet white. he was the best looking among the three, but that was not saying much. however for real work they were tireless, and could stand almost anything. we finally got our ponies in line and the captain held his pistol high over his head. "are you ready?" "ready," we replied in unison, grasping tight the lines. then he fired and our ponies scampered away across the level plain. i got the jump on the bunch but jim's bay came up with a rush until his nose was even with my horse's shoulder. the ponies entered into the spirit of the occasion all right. "go it, piute," yelled jim. then he put his spurs into piute's flank and with his own fierce energy he carried him ahead of me. "wow! wow! coyote!" i yelled, "catch him!" coyote certainly went after piute for fair. tom was at my heels. the scant prairie dust flew back from the scampering heels of our flying ponies. it was fun! wild fun for us and how we enjoyed the speed and the rivalry. i was determined that coyote should win. the finish was only a hundred yards away. with all of the energy that i would have put into a foot race i urged coyote along. it was neck and neck between jim and me. tom was out of it, a length behind. "whoop la!" i yelled, as i drove my spurs into coyote's flanks. he responded and with a tremendous scamper of speed he beat piute to the tree by a neck. we put as much energy into it as though there had been a thousand dollars at stake. "well run, boys," said the captain, "who won?" "i did of course," i replied, modestly. "nothing but luck," growled jim, "in another fifty feet i would have beaten you." piute's attainments and qualifications were the one subject on which jim was tender, in all other directions, he was care free and cheerful. "you may call it luck if it will do your feelings any good," i said, "but coyote is the horse if you want to get over the ground." "or go up in the air," said tom. "well yes," i admitted, "he is kind of high-spirited, but i would much rather have that sort than one after the rocking horse style." all that day we rode along the edge of the foothills and to the east of us was the great sweep of plains. we kept a sharp lookout for any signs of indians, for we were now in the land of the apaches and they are the most remorseless and cruel of all the indian tribes. keen-sighted as the eagle, crafty as the coyote, and bloodthirsty as the tiger. "here will be a good place to camp," suggested tom. it was the mouth of a small canyon with a growth of pines and cottonwoods intermingled, and a clear stream tinkling down over the rocks. "no," said the captain, shaking his grey head. "it looks pretty and would be very comfortable, but it isn't safe to make an open camp like that in this county. we will look higher up." so we rode up the canyon for several miles until we found a more lonely and sheltered place. "this appears all right, captain," said jim. "at least for to-night." "yes, it will do nicely," he replied, "and there won't be much chance for a surprise." so we spurred our horses up the rocky side of the canyon over granite boulders until we came to a comparatively level place, where was a growth of pines. back of us was the sheer wall of the canyon and below us for two hundred feet or more the steep slope covered with granite boulders, large and small. it did not take us long to make camp, for we were experienced mountaineers by this time. we soon had the stuff off from our two indian pack horses and the fire was started for supper. "time to turn in," called the captain soon after the evening meal was finished, and in a short time we were sound asleep in our blankets under the pines. we felt perfectly safe in our cozy canyon. the captain's big wolf hound was the only one of the party left on guard. he lay a little in front of us, his nose to the ground, near the edge of the rise, looking down the canyon. i was suddenly awakened by the hound. he was standing erect, growling fiercely through his white fangs, and looking below in the canyon. the captain had gotten up while jim and tom were still sleeping soundly. "do you think it is the apaches?" i said, in a whisper. "hardly," replied the captain. "santa anna wouldn't act that way if it was a case of indians. he would lie low. it may be a coyote." we stood by santa, who was quivering all over, his every hair bristling. we could see nothing distinctly as we peered down into the darkness. "after 'em," ordered the captain, "shake 'em up, santa!" at the word the hound sprang down the rocky slope as if he had just been unleashed. the captain and i followed as quickly as we could. i had only my knife in my belt. when we reached the foot of the hill we heard the sound of a terrible snarling struggle down the canyon a ways. i ran in the direction as fast as i could go, leaving the captain quite a distance behind. almost before i knew it i was upon them. a tremendous wolf, to my eyes he seemed almost as big as a horse, had santa by the throat shaking him like a cat does a mouse. giving a yell i sprang to the rescue of the dog. then in a fury the beast jumped for me with his great snarling teeth. i dodged like a flash and his impetus carried him past me, but in a second he had turned and charged again. this time i was not quite quick enough and was knocked down and he was standing over me. i could feel his hot, fetid breath. instinctively i thrust my elbow up as he shot his jaws down for my throat and i struck at him with the knife, bringing the blood. nothing could have saved me if santa had not returned to the attack. he came in like a flash and the wolf had to turn. for a few seconds they fought over me and i was pretty well trampled. the feet of the wolf were nearly the size of a bear's. i struggled out and now thoroughly infuriated i attacked the wolf with my knife. again he shook santa off and came for me. only a minute had elapsed in all this struggle. as he sprang, i dodged low and to one side. chapter ii after antelope the wolf went over me and before he could turn, a shot rang out. the captain had arrived on the scene. the wolf threw himself in the air and fell with a thud upon the ground. "i hope you will go a little slower next time," said the captain, severely. "it's a wonder that you did not have your throat torn out." it took me about a minute before i recovered so that i could say anything, and then i had nothing to say, for it was a foolish and dangerous performance. "why, don't you know that these wolves are about as dangerous customers as you can find in the mountains?" he remonstrated. "this is certainly a fine specimen, the king of the pack." with some difficulty we got the wolf to the camp. "let's fool the boys if they are asleep," i said. they were sleeping the sleep of the just and making a considerable racket about it too. i leaned his wolfship in position against a rock and propped up his head. then i laid down for a moment. "gracious, tom!" i whispered, "what's that over by that rock?" "where?" he cried, sitting up alarmed by my tone. "there," i said, "don't you see?" "heavens, it's a wolf! where's my rifle?" he cried. "i'm going to catch it," i said, springing up. "wake up, jim," yelled tom, "jo's gone crazy. he's going to catch a live wolf." jim sat up and looked around. "you lumax," he said, "that wolf is dead. you don't suppose a live wolf would stand for all this racket." he went over to examine our prize. "where did you capture him?" asked jim. "down the canyon," i said, "santa and he had a mix up." "in which jo joined," remarked the captain, "a foolhardy affair, but i can understand how jo was carried away for the moment. as we get older we become more cautious." "i see where you landed on him a couple of times with your knife," said jim. "why didn't you wake me up?" "if you are waking call me early, mother dear," i quoted. "never mind your poetry, the next time brer wolf calls, i'm going to answer," said jim. "it will be a nice thing to add to our collection, along with the bear skin," i remarked. we found that santa anna was pretty well chewed up about the neck, and the captain had to doctor him up and also do some surgical work. as we sat around the campfire in the morning eating our breakfast, the captain made a suggestion. "i was thinking, jim," he said, "that we might put in a day or two hunting before we go on. if i remember rightly this is a pretty fair section for game." "it's a fine idea," said jim, "let's start out to-day." "i have done my share of hunting," i said, "and i think i will take a rest." "you have certainly earned it," replied the captain. "the next time you cry 'wolf' to me, i won't pay any attention," said tom. "all right, tommy," i replied, "then i will have to think up something new." "would it not be a good idea to split our party?" suggested the captain. "i think it would," replied jim. "then i and tom will go back into the mountains," continued the captain. "jo and i for the plains," cried jim. "we will look for the mountain sheep," remarked the captain. "jo and i will look for antelope," said jim. "and look out for apaches," said the captain. "keep a sharp lookout for any signs of smoke," he continued, "don't rush into an ambush. keep in the open, watch the ridges and the gullies." "we will remember," promised jim. so we proceeded to saddle our mustangs. we had the heavy, easy riding saddles called mexican, with high pommels and also a high back of carved leather; above the stirrups were also broad bands of carved leather. though heavy they were not in any manner hard on our tough little ponies. the weight was also offset by the fact that we were light, and compared to the stalwart indians we must have seemed like mosquitoes to our ponies. we likewise took along a good quantity of jerked beef, enough to last us several days and also some ground corn, for we were old campaigners enough to prepare for an emergency even if everything appeared safe. we also took our canteens with us. being thus ready we swung into our saddles. "good-bye and luck to you," waved the captain, as we started. "good-bye," we returned, and jim laughingly added, "take good care of tommy." down the rocky slope we went and then trotted slowly down the canyon, sitting loosely in our saddles and moving to the gait of our ponies like the cowboys, and not sitting straight like uncle sam's cavalry. we found this the easiest way and it was not ungraceful; sometimes when we were tired we rode sideways on the saddle, or with one leg over the pommel. we were in high spirits as we jogged down the canyon. we were feeling fine and fit. our constant life out of doors had enured us to hardships and made us impervious to fatigue. our muscles were supple and tireless and we were also much better able to endure thirst, cold, and hunger than we had been at first. in a short time we reached the end of the canyon where grew the pine and cottonwood trees. "let's fill our canteens here," advised jim, "because when we leave the canyon there is no telling when we will strike water again." "all right," i said, and i swung off my horse and filled my canteen as well as jim's. in a short time we left the canyon and rode out on the plains. "it looks to me as if we might have rain to-day," said jim. "it would be a pity if we got wet," i laughed, "might spoil our fine clothes and new sombreros. what makes you think it is going to rain?" "you can generally count on that mackerel sky furnishing a rain," he said. "it looks pretty anyway," i said. it certainly did, the blue morning sky being dappled with numberless little clouds that gave a softness to the sunlight without dimming it to a shadow. "let's keep near the foot hills," i said, "because the brush and rocks give us some shelter and the antelope will not be so apt to see us." "it's a good scheme," assented jim. so we rode southward through the broken country, crossing ravines, riding through the scrub oaks and keeping a wary eye on the plains below. we had gone about five miles, when i called a halt. "what are those specks way off there on the plain?" i enquired. jim took a long look in the direction that i had indicated. "i can see them move," he announced, "they are antelope, all right." "how far do you think they are?" i asked. "about four miles, i reckon," said jim. "it looks perfectly level, how in the mischief are we going to get within range?" jim studied the situation for a while carefully. "there is a ravine that runs into a gully," he said, "that appears to be a half a mile south of them, though it may be further." "we'll try it," i said. so we made our way carefully, keeping ourselves screened as much as possible by the brush and rocks. finally we struck the ravine without being observed by the antelope. we rode down this, until it became a deep, narrow gully. in some places the way was difficult, especially where the gully had been terraced into water falls. occasionally our horses seemed to be standing on their heads as they jumped their way down, nimble as goats. we had to tighten the back cinches to keep the saddles from sliding forward. "talk about circus riding," i cried after i had come near falling off when coyote had jumped down five feet, "this is plenty exciting enough for me." after a while the gully became less broken and broader, the bottom covered with sand, and tall grasses growing wherever there was a foothold. it was hot in the gully as the breeze was shut off and the sun looked down directly upon us. it was "snug" too, because we felt secure from being seen by any wandering parties of apaches. after we had been riding for about a half hour, jim stopped his horse and dismounted, throwing the bridle over piute's head. "i am going to reconnoiter," he said. i watched him as he cautiously climbed up the wall of the gully and looked over the edge through a screen of grass. almost instantly he dropped down again. he motioned for me to dismount and i swung off, throwing the bridle over coyote's head, the ends just trailing on the ground. this is the only kind of hitching post that a broncho needs. chapter iii the surprise "we are almost opposite them now," jim announced. we went down the gulch until we came to a little bench just below the edge. we crawled upon this, and looked cautiously through a fringe of grass. i could see a bunch of half a dozen antelope gently feeding on the level plain. "pick your antelope," whispered jim to me. "i'll take the young buck," i said. "you can have the rest." cautiously we shoved our rifles through the grass and kneeling on one leg we drew a careful aim. "now," exclaimed jim. there came two simultaneous reports and a couple of antelope dropped flat and flaccid. we fired at the remainder as they jumped into the distance. our shots only made them go faster. "well," cried jim, as we stood up, "two isn't so bad." we got on our ponies and were obliged to ride down the gully for half a mile before we could get out where there was a narrow wash down the side. we rode over, to where the two huddled heaps of grey laid on the plain. i had got my young buck all right, while jim had killed a good sized doe. "i tell you, jim, let's take the two of them into the gully, where we will be safe from the apaches seeing us. cut off the best parts, then hunt back towards the camp." "all right," jim acquiesced, rather to my surprise. he was likely to disregard any ordinary caution, but since his training with the captain, he was more apt to be careful and to take fewer chances. so we flung the antelopes across the back of our saddles, tying them securely with the long leather strings and started back for the arroyo. we kept a sharp lookout in all directions over the plains, but saw no indications of indians, and reached our destination in safety. "i believe that we are going to have a thunderstorm," jim remarked. "it certainly looks it," i replied. back of the range heavy thunder clouds were rolling, bringing the higher peaks out with marked distinctness and the shadow was spreading over the plains. "it will be cooler for us, anyway," said jim. it certainly was a relief to have the sun obscured, and we set to work with a will. in a little over a half hour we had the antelopes divided off and securely fastened to the saddles. it did not increase the weight we had to carry much. "i am going to take a look around," said jim, "before we ride out into the open." he crawled up the edge of the gully, barely raising his eyes above the level. in a moment i knew that he had seen something of interest. there was something about his figure as he crouched even lower than at first with his gaze riveted in one direction that spoke louder than words. then he drew slowly back and down. reaching the bottom, he came quickly towards me; there was a smile on his face that i knew well enough. "indians?" i said, breathlessly. "yes," he replied, "there is a hunting party coming out of a small canyon above the ravine we are in." "how many?" i asked. "twenty or more," he replied. "what shall we do?" i inquired, anxiously. "that depends on them," he replied, coolly. "we will stay where we are for the present." "perhaps they will pass to the north of us," i said, "and thus miss our trail." "maybe," he replied. "i am going to take another look." "me too," i said. with extreme caution we climbed to the edge of the gully and looked over. they were still some distance off, and so far were riding parallel to the ravine we had come down. it was the first time that i had had a good view of mounted indians and i could not help feeling impressed. from the wild and stormy background of the thunder clad mountains they rode out upon the shadowed plains. the ponies seemed small compared with the tall, gaunt forms of the indians that rode them. the leader, a gigantic brave, was gesticulating freely with his long snaky arms. i have noticed that indians are apt to be much less stolid when mounted than on foot. with his feathered crest he seemed like a great bird of prey as he scanned the plains. there was something uncannily cruel and treacherous about them that sent a chill all over me. it was the first time that i had seen the dread apaches, the most to be feared among all the tribes of the plains or mountains. if only the dead settlers and their families, those whom the apaches had murdered, could speak, their stories would recall to memory horrors innumerable. "had we not better fight them here?" i asked, "where we have cover?" jim shook his head. "no," he replied, "we might stand them off, but the country hereabouts is alive with indians." "yes, i see," i replied, "and i suppose if they did not overwhelm us, they would starve us out." "there is nothing for us to do but to make a running fight of it," said jim, "if they should cut our trail." "we will stand no show on the plains," i said, "it is too open." "i believe that we can outrun them," he said, "our ponies are apt to be in better condition than theirs and then too we are light riders. we will make for the mountains and when we reach them we ought to be safe." "they are not going to cross the gulch," i said, in a relieved tone, "perhaps they will miss our trail after all." "it looks to me though as if they were going to strike that place where we killed the antelope," said jim. he gave another look at the advancing braves, then he backed down into the gulch. "come, jo," he said, decisively, "we will have to run for it, in a few minutes they will cut our trail. we will only lose by waiting." here is where jim showed his qualities as a leader. i would have waited, hoping to escape detection, and leaving the enemy to make the first move and thus losing seconds that were more valuable than hours under ordinary circumstances. our ponies were very restless, with ears pricked forward and shifting their front feet, first one and then the other. they knew even though they could not see. we swung silently into the saddles. our ready rifles lay just in front of us. "we are going to start now, jo," said jim, in a low, confident voice, "the south side of the gully is low, a hundred feet below us. that's where we show up; it will be a surprise for those beggars. when they see us, pick your indian and fire. remember to throw yourself to the side of your pony when they fire and run for it." i was trembling so that i could scarcely keep my teeth from chattering. jim was naturally brave, but i was just the average as far as courage went. still i was a boy of high spirit, and i struggled hard to throw off my fear as jim was giving me his instructions. then i thought of what the captain had told us of the bravery of the american soldiers in the mexican war. of grant who was so quiet and fearless. at least i was an american. i pulled myself together and was ready. "all ready, jo?" asked jim. "yes," i replied. i shall never forget the thrill of excitement that went through all my nerves as we started down the gully, jim in the lead and my horse close on his hindquarters. the north bank was higher and still screened us, though we bent down to avoid any possibility of being seen. just as we turned out of the gully we heard a great powwow. the apaches had found the place where the antelope had been killed. we were now on the plain in full sight. it seemed to me that we loomed up twice as big as life. we were absolutely stripped naked now of the protection of the gully. our very daring helped us, and we rode directly up the bank of the gully. the apaches were gathered around the place where the antelope had lain. they were examining the ground, then suddenly two of the braves caught sight of us. never was there a more surprised crowd of indians. stealth they could understand, but not such open bravado. for a moment they seemed actually stunned. jim brought his rifle to his shoulder and fired and i promptly followed suit. an indian and a pony fell. two out at the first shot. it warmed our blood with confidence. war was declared. with fierce yells they started in pursuit. firing a volley that went wild, though there was a whistle of bullets over our heads and some spurted the dust on the plain short of us. "now let them go," yelled jim. coyote and piute seemed to fully realize the situation and away they flew, all their pent up energy going into a wild burst of speed that lasted for a half mile. we gained on most of the indians, but the big chief and two others kept nearly parallel with us on the other side of the gully, trying to cut us off from the mountains. chapter iv the chase in the last mile, however, we pulled away from them, as their ponies did not have the well fed strength of ours. we exchanged shots as we rode, but the motion and speed made our aim uncertain, as fortunately too was theirs. i found out later that the nearest call i had, or rather coyote had, was where a bullet struck into the piece of antelope that was swung on my saddle. with a last thrilling dash we charged into the shelter of the foothills among the rocks and pines. here we swung off from our ponies and ran back to check our foremost pursuers. the three who were in the lead had absolutely disappeared. but a half mile below were to be seen the rest of the indians scampering like mad to overtake us. "where have those three gone?" i asked. "they have taken to the ravine," replied jim, "we can't stop here, they would surround us in a jiffy. we will have to go higher up the canyon." there was no chance for us to make our home camp, for the indians that were coming up the plain, would have headed us off. so we sprang on our ponies again. they had recovered their wind in the brief rest we had given them. with the impetus of the great danger just behind us we started on a reckless dash up the canyon. we were determined to find some place we could defend, even if we could not escape. we tore through the brush, jumped fallen logs, scrambled between rocks, zigzagged from this side to that of the ravine that was not precipitous enough for a canyon. we urged our horses to the limit of their strength, and they were perfectly willing. jim was in the lead and his unerring quickness of instinct guided him in finding the best trail. the storm was darkening down the mountains before us and the thunder was rolling from height to height. the gray rain was sweeping down from the summits it seemed to us as if in a solid wall. the ravine now broadened into a sort of a valley with high mountain sides partially clothed with pines, in some places very thick, and on the upper slopes were great granite boulders. we saw above us now a conical hill, several hundred feet high, with a growth of pine upon the slopes and crowned with great rocks. it was half a mile distant and near the center of the valley. "there is the place for us," said jim, "if we are brought to bay." "it looks to me as if we were going to stand these beggars off," i said, "until we can cross over the mountains to our camp." "yes, but you never can tell in this country what is going to happen," said jim. we caught occasional glimpses of our pursuers down the ravine but they had not gained much on us. we skirted the base of the conical hill and had gone on for a short distance; it was growing dusky under the shadow of the storm, when a zigzag flash of lightning revealed the slope above us with startling distinctness. "see what's ahead," i cried, for jim was looking over his shoulder at the indians following us. a party of braves were trailing down the upper slope. one thing and only one thing was left for us to do. instantly we turned our horses squarely around and made for the hill we had just passed. we were not a second too soon, for the first party were coming up the ravine, running swiftly like hounds upon our trail. we fired one volley and then charged up the slope full tilt over rocks, dodging as best we could the trees. it did not take us long to reach the summit. the indians did not attempt to follow us, but spread out under shelter, satisfied apparently to have us surrounded. in a short time the upper party of braves had joined forces with our pursuers. before we had fairly reached the top the rain swept down the mountain valley, giving us protection from the marksmanship of the enemy. "this place is all right," said jim, "we could stand them off for a hundred years if we had food and water." "yes," i joined in, "it is like a regular fort only we can't get the horses up." "we will see to that later," returned jim, "let's examine these rocks." we left our horses below and crawled up a narrow trail between two rocks and found on top a depression with stones surrounding it, in which grew some bushes and scattered tufts of grass. "here is a good place for shelter," suggested jim. "it certainly is," i acquiesced. there was a big flat rock supported on two others and room for us to crawl under if we stooped down. underneath was a large enough space for our camp, the ground covered with clean gravel. "this will be our bedroom," i proposed. "yes," replied jim, "if you don't mind the upper floor in case of fire." "we must get the horses up," i said, "or the indians will be stealing them." "don't you believe it," returned jim, "those beggars are not going to risk their valuable lives. they think they have got us cold without taking any chances. all they will have to do is to squat around and wait for us to be starved out." so we went down below where our ponies were patiently waiting, their heads drooping. they were just about played out. it had been a terrible chase and they had saved our lives by their speed and stamina. we got them up the narrow path between the rocks. only at one point were we exposed to the indian fire and then we got it. an irregular succession of shots rang out and some of the bullets left their splotches on a rock above us, but most of them went very wild. the heavy rain was a veil of protection. one thing we had learned was that the indians were bad marksmen and were easily flurried. they were too anxious to save their own skins to take careful aim. even when they had a good quiet chance they did not seem able to land a direct blow. then it is hard to shoot accurately at a steep angle; the wind too and the rain as suggested, helped us, for the latter blurred everything. so we were not greatly worried by the shooting. in a few seconds we had got the ponies on top. and we thought they were comparatively safe, but there was one side that was lower than the others and the indians kept potting away. "we will soon fix that," said jim. "make coyote lie down out of range." this i had no difficulty in doing. he seemed to know instinctively what was expected of him. "now," said jim, "we will build up that side." so we went to work and dragged up some small fallen trees from the slope below and with stones, large and small, built up a barricade. it seemed to me that jim exposed himself unnecessarily to the fire of the enemy. he seemed to be perfectly happy as the bullets hummed around him, as he put a rock in place on the parapet. in fact he seemed to mind them no more than the pouring rain. it seemed like quite a little battle, with the rifle flashes from behind the brush or rocks and jim's grey figure on the wall of the fort. "that's all hunky dory," said jim. "it beats old fort sumter." "get up piute, coyote," i urged. "they are safe here now as in the old cow pastures at home." the ponies seemed to recognize that they were well protected, for they began to graze around as comfortably as you please in the little hollow with its surrounding rock, yanking at the bunches of tall grass and biting the leaves of the scrub bushes. everything is fodder to a broncho. "let's get the saddles under shelter," said jim. so we dragged them down and put them in our camp under the big rock. next we built a fire in the dry shelter and made coffee in a big tin cup we carried in our haversack. of course the grains were not as fine as though the original coffee had been run through a coffee mill, for we had pounded it up in a hollow cup-shaped rock with another stone for pestle. "hold on, jo," exclaimed jim. "don't waste our canteen water on that coffee, we may need it." "you are not going down to the creek," i cried, in alarm. i knew only too well what lengths jim's bravado would carry him. for i had not forgotten the time that he went down to the creek in our first canyon in colorado, on a moonlight night when we knew that there were indians lurking near. so i was prepared for the worst. "no," he replied, to my intense relief, "i am going to look around here." "you won't find any on top of a hill like this," i said, "the water all runs off." "all right, my boy, but i'm going to look. you can stay in the kitchen and cook the venison." then jim stooped out of the front door and disappeared. in a short time i heard his low, peculiar whistle and i ran out. i found jim between two large rocks. "here you are," he said. i hastened to satisfy my curiosity. i saw quite a little water in a pocket between the rocks. "quite a lake, isn't it?" asked jim. "yes, it is a good deal when you don't expect anything," i replied. "it will help us out all right," remarked jim. "we will have to be mighty careful of our water supply. we can manage for food even if we have to eat coyote." "piute goes first," i retorted, "his name sounds more eatable anyway." "well, we won't quarrel about that now," replied jim. "the next thing on the program is supper." we were quite comfortable in our dry shelter with the rain beating outside and as an added luxury we were not even bothered with the smoke, for there was a crevice in the rock at one side near the end, which made a good chimney, and the smoke drew through that. even though we were comfortable we knew that our situation was desperate and as we sat eating we canvassed our prospects thoroughly. chapter v on guard "the first thing," said jim, "is to find out how long a siege we can stand." "why!" i exclaimed in alarm, "don't you think that the captain and tom will locate us soon and get us out of this?" "perhaps," replied jim, "but they may have troubles of their own. anyhow there must be at least a hundred of these apaches down below, and there is no telling how many more there will be in another day. they will probably have all their howling relatives here within the radius of two hundred miles to join in the picnic." "i believe the captain will find some way out if he can only locate us," i said. "odds are odds," replied jim, doggedly. "i don't want him to run any desperate chance on my account." "what are we to do?" i inquired anxiously. "don't you suppose that we could get through their lines to-night, it is so dark and stormy?" jim shook his head. "i thought of that. we would stand a chance to make our escape on foot, but not with the horses." "leave them," i cried desperately. "you idiot," exclaimed jim, "what would we do in this country without horses? we would never reach the colorado river." "i don't care if we don't," i said irritably. "well, i do," jim replied. "there isn't going to be anything that will stop me from taking that trip. it will take a bigger bunch of apaches than are down there to do it." "well," i said, returning to the original question. "how long will our supply of water last?" "i have been figuring on that and i think it will keep us a going for a week, with what we can get from the water pocket. of course if we have rain we can make out much longer." "and the food?" "well, with coyote to fall back on," laughed jim, "we can hold out until christmas. but without joking, we ought to be able to get along for a month. it was mighty lucky that we got those antelope." "i suppose we will have to stand guard to-night," i said. "yes," replied jim, "we don't dare to take a chance, even though indians do not often make night attacks." "i daresay that there is no danger of them crawling up the rocks. they are too steep, but we will have to watch the trail between the rocks," i remarked. "how shall we divide the time?" jim asked. "it does not make much difference," i replied. "very well, then, you can take it up to midnight, and i will look after the balance." so it was decided. it had now grown dark and we thought it best to look around together. as we came out of our rock shelter we saw our ponies standing with their backs to the storm and heads bent down, looking much dejected. "they look like four-legged ghosts," i said. "if it hadn't been for them we would have been ghosts by this time," remarked jim pleasantly. "what's the use of talking that way?" i said. "perhaps we will be ghosts before we are through with this business." "don't you believe it," said jim cheerily. "i don't know how we are going to get out of this scrape, but perhaps we will have some unusual luck." "here's wishing it," i replied. it looked kind of cheery as we looked back and saw the warm glow from our fire in the rock room that was our temporary camp. we made the rounds of our fort, but could see or hear nothing in the darkness below. no sound but the steady fall of the rain. the rock must have been seventy-five feet or more of sheer descent on all sides except by the narrow trail by which we had come up. "it's time for you to go on guard now," said jim. "all right," i replied, "i'm ready." "be sure to keep awake," he cautioned. we went back to the campfire and i made a careful examination of my rifle. it was all right, and with my faithful friend close at hand in my belt i was ready for what might come. i crawled out in the darkness leaving jim curled up cosily by the fire. i envied him because i did not have much heart to stand out there in the dark and in the rain alone, but there was nothing to do but to make the best of it. i crawled down between the rocks at the upper end of the narrow trail with the rain beating down on me. i could see the horses back of me and their presence was a whole lot of company for me. it is strange how much companionship there is in a horse or dog that you are fond of, especially if it has shared your trips and your dangers. i know that coyote was glad to see me by the way he followed me with his head. the first part of my watch passed monotonously enough. most of the time one would have thought there was nothing of danger or menace in the darkness below as far as sound went. but i felt, though i could not see, the cruel presence of our enemies. once i caught the light of a fire down the valley a ways, in a sheltered place and i could see occasionally the movement of a shadowy form. i brought my rifle up, intending to fire. then thought better of it. what was the use? i had better have my ammunition, and then it would simply arouse jim up to no purpose. sometime later i heard the guttural sounds of the indians as they talked. i imagined that it came from the slope just below, so i went cautiously down between the rocks. when i reached the lower end of the trail that ended abruptly with a step off of several feet, i stopped, listening intently, stooping down and peering into the rainy darkness of the slope below. i could make out a few boulders and further down the dark mass of pines. as my eyes became accustomed to the contour of things, i was sure that i saw a dark, crouching form moving over and among the rocks stealthily as a snake. it was not more than twenty-five yards off. i reached around among the rocks at my feet until i found a stone about the size of the baseball that i used to pitch in my old days at school. as the object stopped and raised up in sudden suspicion i poised myself and fired it with all my strength. my old accuracy had not deserted me. i heard the thud distinctly and the indian dropped like one dead, a mere black outline on the rock. then i saw him being drawn backward almost as it were by invisible hands. i decided not to fire, but crouched low in the rock trail. i did not want to waste a shot, and then i thought the very quietness and mystery of the fellow's injury might impress the superstitious minds of the apaches and i believe that it did, for i heard no further sound or stir from them. after a while i decided to go back to the head of the trail and i proceeded cautiously upwards. just before i reached the top i became conscious that there was something waiting for me. looking down i recognized the long, familiar face of coyote. "hey, old chap," i said, giving him a hearty slap on the shoulder, "so you thought you would start down to see what kept your old boss so long. well, you can go back and go to sleep. it's all over." this may have been reassuring to coyote, but it was not the exact truth, but i could not foresee that. i took my post again at the top of the trail and waited for further developments. i began to think that it was about time for jim to come forward. at least i knew that i would not have many more hours to wait. the rain was now coming down less rapidly and there was promise of the storm lifting. if i had not been so wet i might have dropped off to sleep, but if i had done so i would have had a sudden awakening. no sound came from the indians below and i had relaxed my keen attention, when i heard a noise that aroused me again. something was coming up the rock trail. it did not seem to be an indian but some animal. it was coming quickly, then it saw me and crouched low with that intense menace that shows in a wild beast before it springs. i raised my gun to fire and something held me back. then i saw what it was. "here, santa," i cried, "come, old dog." he stalked up to me as soon as he heard my voice. but he showed no emotion. he was not one of those effusive dogs, who wag their tails and jump around in delight. "where did you come from?" i asked, "where's captain?" santa then began to trail around on top of the hill, and before i could stop him he had jumped down and run under the rock where our camp was. "hello, what is this?" i heard jim exclaim. "it's santa," i said. "where's the captain?" questioned jim. "he seemed to be looking for him," i replied. "perhaps they are in trouble too, or the captain may have sent him out to trail us. anyway, he adds one more to the garrison." "is my time up?" i asked. "yes," he replied, "i will stand guard now and have santa to help me." "all right," i said, "i wouldn't mind having a little sleep." chapter vi within the fort "anything doing?" inquired jim. "i saw one indian," i replied, "when i went down to the end of the rock trail and i hit him with a stone." "struck him out the first thing," grinned jim. "sure." "well, no stones for me," said jim, "if i see one of those red beggars i will give him the lead." "how did you sleep?" i asked. "fine," he replied, "why not? that brush was soft and the fire kept me comfortable." "i'll try it myself," i said and curled up in the nest that jim had just vacated. "now don't be alarmed," said jim, "if you hear an occasional shot. you won't need to show up unless you hear two or three in succession. santa and i will defend the fort now, so you can take things easy." "that suits me," i replied, "don't forget to take your umbrella and be sure and don't get your feet wet." "you needn't worry, my boy, i will take care of myself." then jim crawled out of the door and disappeared in the darkness, followed by santa. i can not explain why, but i felt perfectly comfortable and entirely safe and was soon fast asleep. the next thing i knew, jim was standing over me. "were you going to sleep all day?" he inquired. "why, it is daylight," i exclaimed, sitting up, "and it has cleared too." for i saw a patch of sunshine laid like a mat in front of the door of our camp. "it's a fine day for hunting apaches," remarked jim. "anything happened while i was asleep?" i enquired. "all quiet along the potomac," replied jim. "santa anna had one growling spell, but i guess it was the stomach ache. i skirmished around below the rock but i couldn't find anything." "you idiot," i said, "didn't you know better than that. it's a wonder that they didn't get you." "i guess you scared 'em so when you flung the rock at the dark brother that they haven't dared to peep since." "i suppose that we might as well sit down to our frugal meal," i suggested. it certainly was as i described it and it made me feel pretty gloomy when i thought how short we were for food and water, especially the latter. just then we heard a deep growl from santa, whom jim had left at the head of the trail on guard. in a second jim and i had sprung out on deck to find out the cause of the disturbance. we found santa barring the way so that piute and coyote could not go down the trail. "good dog," said jim, patting him on the head. "the ponies are thirsty, i reckon, and thought that they would go for water. lucky santa stopped them." "we will have to fix it so they can't escape," i said. this we had no great difficulty in doing. it was the most exciting incident of the day. we found that the apaches were on the alert, for whenever one of us showed himself, just the lift of the head, there came a quick shot or the unerring flight of an arrow. "it's lucky for us," remarked jim, "that this is a wide valley instead of a canyon, for if they could climb up anywhere and get the drop on us our goose would be cooked." "look a here," i said, when a lucky shot just grazed the top of my head, "we can improve on this situation by making some loopholes." "sure," replied jim, "that's the idea. why didn't we think of it before?" after this was done we could carry on our observations safely. "hello, look a here, jim," i called some time later. "there's some more indians coming to the rendezvous." jim came over and took a squint through the loophole. "that is a jolly looking crowd coming up the valley. must be fifty of them and they have got on their spring paint too. ain't they beauts?" said jim. to me they looked like demons with horrid creases of red and yellow paint on their faces that gave them a haggard ferociousness. "we haven't had anything to say for a long time," remarked jim, "it's just about time that we showed them that we are taking a little interest in these proceedings." he brought his rifle up and laid his clinched cheek against it as he aimed at the foremost of the pack. one indian whirled suddenly around and dropped, badly wounded. the rest of them disappeared in a flash. there came a fierce volley from a hundred rifles and a white flight of arrows from the concealed indians. they kept it up for awhile, too, in a burst of savage rage that sent a chill to my heart. the rocks around and back of us were spattered with lead, but that was the extent of the damage. "you got a salute that time for fair, jim," i said. "yes," he replied, "and i got the indian." "don't take another chance like that," i begged. "not till the next time," he replied. so the day wore on, with occasional flurries like the above to keep things moving. if the day before had been stormy and rainy, this made up for it. the sun shone with the strong directness of the higher altitudes. all the moisture had been dried up on top of our rock. the horses began to get restless for water. jim moistened their tongues as best he could, but we had to be saving of our little supply of water. the night passed with even less of incident than the previous one. it was evident that the indians were perfectly satisfied with their waiting game, as well they might. it looked a sure thing. the next day things looked bad for us. there seemed a peculiar sultriness in the air that was unusual in the mountains. there was a smoky haze over everything. "it looks like indian summer," said jim. "indeed, it ought to with that crowd down there," i said. "that's a good one," grinned jim, "i wonder if those guys wouldn't appreciate the joke. come up here, big injun, i want to tell you something." but none of them accepted jim's cordial invitation. a few of the more cultured and learned swore at us in bad english. but i guess all swearing is bad english. as the day wore on i began to suffer acutely from thirst. i shall never forget that longing for water. it seemed as if i would be willing to sacrifice my life for a good, full, everlasting drink of the cool mountain stream that was gurgling only a few hundred feet away. but as far as getting to it was concerned, it might just as well have been in york state. "i hope that tom and the captain don't discover us and try to rescue us," said jim, "for i very much fear it would be a great risk to no purpose." "what do you expect to do?" i asked jim. "we can't stand this many days." "we will see to-night," remarked jim, mysteriously. i doubt if he really had any plan in mind. this was just to encourage me with the hope of some way of escape. "just look at the smoke rolling over the mountains, jim!" i exclaimed. it was about the middle of the afternoon and we had been so busy reconnoitering that we probably had not discovered it at first. "it looks like a tremendous forest fire," said jim, "and we will see it before night." "what are we going to do if it comes our way?" i asked. "we will be perfectly helpless." chapter vii the captain's record captain graves was a methodical man, and kept a minute record in the form of a diary of everything that occurred from day to day. there were volumes in his cabin on the plateau that related the adventures and vicissitudes of his life from the time of the mexican war down. they were wonderfully interesting. here is the account of his trip with tom and likewise the opinion that he had formed of us three boys. "it has been a real pleasure for me to have the three boys, jim, jo and tom, with me. one sometimes grows tired of being always alone, even when surrounded by all the beauties of nature and even one's books fail to interest at times. "so it has meant a good deal to me to have the boys as my companions for the past months, to see them through their various adventures and to instruct them in the few things that i know well, such as woodcraft and mountaineering. "i have had tom with me of late, because he seems somewhat isolated from the other two boys by his nature, and though no younger than jo he is smaller and this makes me regard him more carefully. "he is an exceedingly bright lad, though cursed with a rather sharp tongue. the other two, like to stir him up, and since his return from the east they make life interesting for him by joking him about being a tenderfoot. "jo is an interesting boy, and though he is fond of books, i predict that he will be a soldier. he is obedient to orders, and will gain self-reliance as he goes along. physically, he is quick, and has great endurance. "jim is the oldest and the leader. he has in him the making of an ideal scout. he is resourceful, cool headed and has great audacity, which will be tempered by experience as he goes along. jim has also uncommon physical strength, superior to that of most men. "the west is fine training ground for these three, and it will make men of them. sometime they may be of real service to their country and if i can teach them anything from my experience i will consider it a privilege. "now, i must chronicle something of tom's and my hunting trip and the subsequent adventures that befell us. "jo and jim took their cayuses and went down the canyon, where we had made camp, to the plains, looking for antelope, while tom and i went back in the mountains to see if we could not locate some mountain sheep. "i remembered hunting through this region in the old days, some years after the mexican war, and at that time it was a splendid section for big game, but now i did not expect to find a great deal, for the apaches were hunting this region continually. "we worked our way slowly back into the range, but saw no game until near the middle of the afternoon when tom discovered three goats high up on a cliff. tom's eyes are remarkably keen. in this he excels his two brothers, and mine are beginning to show the effect of the years. "the goats saw us coming and jumped up the side of that apparently precipitous rock, nimble as fleas. i knew perfectly well how they would make tracks, so we took a wide detour and came into a high valley on the other side. "we could just make out two white specks among some rocks at the top of the valley and we approached them under cover, but they were wary and i was finally forced to risk a chance shot. "two of them had disappeared over the ridge of the valley to the west, but the old billie stood for a moment poised on a rock looking our way. he was slantways to me. without dismounting i took aim and fired. "to my surprise he slid from that rock in a hurry. tom was jubilant and i was not displeased, for it was one of the prettiest shots that it has been my good fortune to make. "the goat was a very good specimen and as the boys cannot take him along with them on their trip, i shall have his curly horned head in my cabin on the wall, facing the elk's head. "it was too late for us to get back that night to the camp, as we were about a day's trip distant. so we decided to make camp in the valley. i was not worried about jim and jo, for i felt sure that they could take care of themselves, and i did not really expect them to make the canyon camp either. "the next day, we hunted slowly down. about noon we started a bunch of goats and they led us a merry chase. at one time i thought we had them cornered. but they were wiser than the hunters, for just as we were in range, they disappeared into a cave in the precipitous wall of rock. "i decided that we had best be satisfied with our luck, and push on to the camp. it did not take us more than a couple of hours to reach the canyon, but no sooner did we come to the slight trail leading down it, than i made a discovery. "i jumped hastily off from my horse and examined a footprint in a bit of shelving gravel. a little further on i caught it again. "'tom,' i whispered, 'i shall have to scout a little. here's a live apache track only a few minutes old. you stay here and keep watch up the canyon, and i will see what this beggar is up to.' "silently and stealthily i made my way down the canyon. when i came in sight of the camp the two pack horses were nowhere to be seen. then i knew what had happened. "i lost no time in following the indian, who was was driving off our animals. i hoped to catch him before he got out on the plains, and i caught sight of him after i had gone a half a mile. "he was a rather short, squat indian, but powerfully built. i could have shot him in the back, but i hated to do that even to an apache thief. so i followed quickly on his trail. once he turned suspiciously, but i dropped instantly to cover. "with a silent rush i came up behind him and when i was about ten feet away, he turned, and before he had recovered from his instantaneous surprise, i had smashed him down with the butt of my rifle. "my next move was to tie him up good and fast, and then gag him. then i went back for tom, who was much relieved to see me. "'where are the boys?' he inquired anxiously. "'they evidently haven't returned,' i replied, 'but i am sure they are all right.' "but i, too, was worried, though i did not wish to alarm tom. so i put the best face on it that was possible. "'did you see the apache?' asked tom. "'yes, and fortunately before he saw me,' i replied. "'did you get him?' "'just in time,' i replied, 'he was helping himself to our pack animals, when i arrested him with my rifle.' "'where is he now?' tom inquired. "'oh, he is down the canyon a ways snugly tied up in a bundle.' "i determined to get some idea of where the missing boys were. so i left tom to guard the pack animals and i rode down to the mouth of the canyon and found the trail easily, where they had ridden south in the search for antelope. "i was by this time thoroughly alarmed, and the conviction forced itself on me that they had been killed by the apaches, but i shook the thought off. i would not have it so. "that jim and jo were in difficulties of some kind was certain, and it was up to me to get them out of it. but what should i do, and where should i look? then suddenly the problem was solved for me. i had ridden to a place where i could see the whole sweep of plains to the south, but keeping under cover of the growth of oaks that fringed the base of the foot hills, when i saw a war party of apaches at a distance of several miles, making straight for the mountain. "instinctively i recognized their object and i likewise knew that so large a party would not be going back into the mountains so late in the day unless upon some special quest. "in a short time the whole party of braves had disappeared into a canyon whose location i marked exactly. they have got those boys corraled in there, i said to myself, there is no question about that. i bet they are making a brave fight, those two, but they will have reinforcements pretty soon, or my name is not captain graves. "'did you see any signs of them?' inquired tom eagerly, as i came up to him. "'i have them located,' i replied. "'where?' "'only in a general way, but i suspect that the apaches have them located specifically.' "'but not staked out,' said tom. "a shudder went through me, for tom did not realize the significance of the phrase with its suggestion of indian torture. "'no,' i said, 'they won't be staked out if the captain is active enough to get around this section of the country.' "i did not like the canyon, where we had made our camp previously, as it seemed to be a thorough-fare for the apaches, so i decided to make a move even if it was now growing dusk. "'we will make a start this evening, tom,' i said, 'this is a pretty situation, but there are some things i don't like about it.' "'all right, captain,' he replied, 'whatever you say.' "so we started driving our pack horses before us." chapter viii the captain's scheme "dusk had fallen as we made our way out of the canyon, and we proceeded slowly along a rather bare and rounding ridge, under the light of the stars. "from this ridge ran several canyons downwards towards the plains. we passed the heads of two of them, and at the third i stopped. this was the one which i had seen the indians entering from the plain. "'can you make out anything down there in the darkness, tom?' i asked. "tom peered keenly into the gloom below us. "'i believe i can catch a glimpse of a fire down there,' he answered. "but i did not have to depend on tom's eye-sight altogether, for my hearing was acute, even if my sight had become somewhat defective and i was positive that i heard the apache war cry. "i determined, however, to make a closer investigation to see exactly how the land lay. there was a possibility that i might be able to reach the boys in the darkness, if they were besieged in the canyon below, as i now felt positive they were. "the first thing, however, was to find some suitable place for a camp, where i could leave tom with the horses, while i made my reconnaissance. "it was somewhat difficult to do in the darkness, but at last i located a camp on the south side of the south ridge of the canyon. there were some great boulders with a semi-circle of trees or brush shutting in one side of the rocks. "when i had tom safely ensconced in our new camp, i gave him his orders and started to see what i could discover. i was armed with my revolver and a knife in my belt, as i wanted to be free to move quickly, and to fire instantly. "i made no noise as i slipped over the ground in my moccasined feet. i could, from long experience, make myself as stealthy and invisible as any indian and i moved noiselessly down the side of a broad valley, for such it was, rather than a canyon. "i was approaching a high hill that rose in the center of the valley, and was making my way down a narrow hunting trail through some brush, when i became aware that there was someone coming down the trail behind me. "i pressed close into some bushes and waited perfectly silent, as though turned to stone. in a minute i saw a dark figure coming down the trail. it was a gigantic brave and he passed so close to me that he almost stepped on my feet. "it was fortunate he did not, for i must acknowledge a corn on one of my toes. it would have been as much as his life was worth for him to have trod on it. "after he had gone i took up the trail again, but more cautiously. in a short time i had approached within a few hundred yards of the big hill and found myself in a regular nest of indians. they seemed to spring up all around me. all that i could do was to lie still between two rocks. "at any moment i might be stepped on and discovered. i could see the hill rising above me in the darkness, with its great crown of white rock. it was very quiet up there, but once i thought i heard a horse whinny. "i was not sure that the boys were the ones that the apaches had surrounded, as some soldiers or hunters might be the unfortunate object of all this attention from the apaches. "i was beginning to wonder how i was to get out of my predicament, when there seemed to be something preparing on the east side of the hill. i could see dark figures creeping up that side, keeping under the cover of the rocks as much as they could. "i wanted to give the defenders of the fort some signal of warning, but i was perfectly helpless, but i soon found that whoever was on guard was not to be caught napping. "for a succession of shots came from the top of the rock fort. "'no, you don't,' i heard a familiar voice. 'you boys can go right home and go to sleep.' it was jim and it was all that i could do to keep from giving him a cheer. "but if i was going to be of any help to them, i must get out of the situation with a whole scalp. so i took advantage of this diversion to get out of the vicinity of the apaches. "in a few minutes i was free of their lines and was making my way back through the valley, and crossing over the bridge, i approached the place where i had left tom. "my mind was so engrossed with my plans for the morrow that i did not realize that i was so close to the camp until i heard, 'halt, who's that?' from the tone i judged tom was alarmed. "'it's the captain,' i replied promptly. "'i thought it was you, but i wasn't sure,' said tom. 'i'm mighty glad to see you back again.' "'it's a privilege to be here safely,' i admitted. 'i have discovered where jim and jo are.' "'where?' exclaimed tom. "'they are on a high hill in the middle of the valley on the other side of the ridge, surrounded by apaches.' "'can they hold out?' inquired tom anxiously. "'as far as i can judge they can stand them off as long as the water and food hold out. i guess they haven't lost their spunk either. i heard jim yell for them to go home and go to sleep after they had made a demonstration on one side and he had given them a salute of three shots, driving them to cover.' "'that's just like jim,' exclaimed tom in admiration. 'he's the lad with the nerve all right. but what are you going to do to rescue them, captain?' "'we will have to study the situation by daylight to-morrow, and then we will know better what to do.' "'how many apaches were they, captain?' asked tom. "'there was enough to go round, but don't you worry, tom. get a good night's sleep and then you will be ready for whatever comes.' "i guess tom took my advice to heart, for in a few minutes i heard a heavy breathing from his roll of blankets. it was very comfortable in our sheltered camp with the big granite boulders back of us and the screen of trees and bushes in front. "there is something mysterious and wonderful about night in the mountains and though i have lived for years in their presence, this has never become common to me. there is the dim bulk of the mountains all around, the moaning and moving of the mysterious winds through pines and aspens, and overhead the wondrous clearness of the innumerable stars. "i did not pretend to sleep as i lay there in my blankets, but kept turning over in my mind different plans for the morrow. it would do no good to try and join forces, for if by a determined rush we could break through their lines and get into the fort, there would be just two more to feed. "was there any way in which i could get food and water to them? this was the first idea that i wrestled with. perhaps with my craft i might be able to get through on an overcast night with provisions and water. "another idea came to me. i might get the help of the u. s. soldiers from the nearest fort in new mexico, but that was one hundred and fifty miles distant and time was precious. there was no assurance that the boys could hold out until assistance should come. finally, about midnight, i, too, fell asleep, but not soundly, as the situation was always half consciously before me. "i woke up in the early dawn, and it did not take tom and me long to get through our breakfast. after we had watered our horses at a stream in the bottom of a ravine, about a half mile distant, we proceeded to reconnoiter the situation. "i felt that something must be done this day and it was certainly a perplexing condition of affairs, and in many ways it was desperate. the responsibility for the two beleaguered boys weighed on me. "one thing gave me assurance and that was jim darlington's resource and pluck. at least he and jo knew enough not to be taken alive by those fiendish apaches. however, it must not come to that. "we went along below the south side of the ridge until opposite the hill fort, but i was not able to take any observation on account of the thick covering of trees, so i left tom there and worked my way down the valley slope of the mountain until i was within a half mile of the hill. "then i came to a great pine that towered like a commanding general above the rank and file of common trees. i drove my knife deep into its trunk, and this gave me a foothold from which i was able to reach a lower branch. "quickly i clambered up until i was high enough to look over the surrounding trees. cautiously i gazed down from behind the trunk. everything was spread out before me. i could see the two ponies standing on the top of the hill. "jo and jim were moving about inside their defences, apparently indifferent. i could see how cleverly they had built up their fort. if there was only some way in which i could let them know that i was near. "but what appalled me was the number of the apaches. i could see that there were hundreds of them moving like stealthy, cruel snakes through the undergrowth. "my jaw gripped itself and my resolution hardened. something must be done. i descended swiftly from the tree, and as i went back up the slope, my mind was working at high tension. then, when i reached the top of the ridge my plan came to me. and i struck my leg with my clenched hand. 'i have it! i have it!' i exclaimed. "it was a broad, desperate scheme, but it would work, it must work. i took careful note of the weather, not a cloud was to be seen anywhere. 'that's good,' i said, 'no rainstorms to-day. now for a good wind and from the looks of things it's going to come,' and it did. "later it came on to blow, as it only can in the high altitudes. "it was a wind from the new mexican desert, blowing through the canyons and roaring over the summits of the range. the fierce wind that blows from stark, clear horizons." chapter ix a mountain fire it was the afternoon of the third day of our imprisonment that jim and i had first discovered the forest fire. "i suppose we will be like two beautiful browned potatoes with the jackets on," laughed jim, who could not be disconcerted by any crisis. "don't you worry, jo, we will be pretty safe here i'm thinking." we watched the rolling clouds of smoke with decided interest. the whole of the south side of the range seemed involved and no line of battle ever sent up more dense volumes of smoke. "what do you suppose started it?" i asked. "it could happen in several ways," replied jim. "it might be by some wandering indians or a trapper. then again a stroke of lightning might have started it." "they are not uncommon anyway," i remarked. "you can tell that by the thousands of dead trees that are fallen in the mountains." "the new growth comes on quick, that's one good thing," said jim. we stood watching the rolling columns of smoke with fascinated interest. it seemed as if the whole south range had burst into a dozen eruptive volcanoes. "is that roaring sound the fire?" i asked. "no, that must be the wind that is driving it," replied jim. "it won't do a thing to this valley," i said. "just look at the thick brush that covers the mountain side." "yes," remarked jim, "and those pine trees, my! won't they burn?" "i bet it will beat a prairie fire," i said. "that's the one thing that we missed in kansas," remarked jim. "but this will make up for it," i commented quickly. "yes, i reckon it will be more exciting than that cyclone twister that came near wafting us away," jim said. it was a lurid night when the sun went down in the clouds of smoke like a great red ball. then as night came on we saw the glare of the fire in the smoke and the rolling clouds were great red columns flowing in white capitals. "here she comes," cried jim. as he spoke a great pine on the upper crest was transformed into a pillar of flame. the first crackle became a whole roaring volley as the charging fire swept to the summit, its red chargers spurred on by the furious winds. nothing could stop its victorious onslaught. not only were the old warrior pines that had stood the attacks of countless storms and bitter winters overcome, but the tenderer children of the younger growth were devoured and the maiden saplings with them. "it's grand," exclaimed jim in wild enthusiasm. "i'm so glad we came. wouldn't have missed this for a good deal, i can tell you." "i don't care for the panorama," i replied. "i should like to have my money back and go home." "the horses are beginning to wake up too," said jim. "they don't like it." "that's where they show their good sense," i observed. they certainly were becoming nervous. at first they regarded the fire with their heads up and ears pricked forward. then piute began to stampede around the corral, snorting and plunging. i thought that he was going to rear over the fort. "he must think that he is a circus horse," laughed jim. "whoa, my wild arab!" but the wild arab was not be cajoled, and jim had to strong arm him by the means of a rope. then he stood trembling, crazy eyed and with flaming nostrils. it was indeed a terrible sight as the flames swept down the whole mountain slope towards our isolated hill. the entire valley was illuminated with one brilliant glare of flame. however, the fire did not roll down in one solid wave, the pines stood too isolated for that. but each pine rose in a single blaze with a swish, a crackle and a roar, but there were hundreds of them and it was a splendid but awful sight--a riot of fire and the flying embers were like stars in the smoke. "we have only a few minutes now," suddenly announced jim, "quick, get the saddles." "what for?" i asked. "we surely can't ride through the fire." "it's the very luck i was looking for," he exclaimed. "it's our chance to escape, don't you see?" we got the saddles and flung them on the ponies, cinching them good and tight, and then put on the bridles. "we are going to run for it," i cried in sheer amazement. "no," said jim in disgust, "what chance would we have. that fire would catch us before we got fairly started and i don't trust those indians till they have been burned over once. they can scheme as well as we." "don't you think they have skipped out before this?" i asked. "i wouldn't trust 'em to do what any white man might expect. look out, jo, she's coming now." the embers began to fall all around us, but there was nothing for them to catch, as we had taken good care, you may be sure, to have every bit of brush cleared from our fort. fortunately for us our hill was wooded only around the base. even then the heat was intense. it seemed to me as though my skin was shriveling up, and every once in awhile the waves of smoke would almost submerge us in their acrid, stifling vapor. then we were in the midst of it as it swept around our hill on all sides and the great pines below were turned into flaming spears that seemed to thrust themselves at our stronghold. it was like being in the thick of a great battle, the crackling, the roar of the flames and stifling smoke, the crash of falling trees. it seemed like an endless time, but it could only have been a few minutes. gasping, only half-alive, like survivors of a wreck who reach the shore only after having been overwhelmed with terrible seas, we leaned against our cowed ponies (they were originally cow ponies) with our heads down. i hardly recognized jim, his face was blackened with smoke and his eyes reddened, his eyebrows and eyelashes scorched. there was nothing familiar about him, but the white grin of his teeth. "you look like a hunk of smoked beef," he remarked. "it's time we were out of this." the center of the fire had swept in advance down the valley, but the left wing was still fighting along the upper slopes on the opposite side of the valley. "one drink for me at any rate before we start," i cried. my thirst was something awful and i raised the canteen to my lips, but i threw it down with a yell. the very metal seemed hot. "that's a cursed shame, jo," said jim in sympathy. "you wait, we will get water before we camp again. we are going to get out of this hades of a place." this was not profanity but description. "all ready now, jo?" i nodded, for i could not speak, and we started to attempt to escape in the wake of the fire. we made our way slowly down the rock trail and then out on the slope of the hill. a scene of desolation lay around and above us. nor was it all over. there were many blazing trees that had not fallen and there was plenty of light to guide us on our fiery journey. the undergrowth was burnt off and nothing left but black bushes and grey smouldering ashes everywhere. "which way?" i asked jim, when we reached the foot of the hill. "up the mountains, of course," was his command. "where are the apaches?" i questioned. "ask of the winds that far around with fragments strew the sea. they have skedaddled," he continued, lapsing into prose. "i wonder if the captain and tom have been caught in this fire," i cried. a fear struck to my heart. it did not seem possible that anyone could escape the devouring march of the fire. not many would be likely to find the refuge we had. "you may be sure of one thing," replied jim, "and that is this, the captain will take good care of himself and tom too." there was ground for jim's confidence. for the captain was a man of unlimited resource, backed by a remarkable experience and he was, no doubt, far more worried about us than we were about them. for us it was a trying and difficult journey over this burnt section. it was hard on the horses, and must have burnt their feet cruelly. we picked our way as carefully as we could, following the gravelly stretches where it was possible so to do. then again, where we could do so, we would take the line of the creek that ran down the middle of the valley. there was no water in it, for it had been either choked or dried up. after all that rain of the previous day this seemed remarkable. "how much ground do you suppose this fire has swept, jim?" i asked. "it's hard telling," he replied, "but it would not surprise me if we would have to travel several days before we get out of the burnt district." we had now arrived at the top of the mountain, from which the valley sloped down. "which way now, jim?" i asked, stopping a moment for a better view. for answer he swung his horse north, along the ridge. it was comparatively clear here and quite gravelly and a cool breeze, unstained with smoke, swept over the divide, with refreshing life in it for us. it was the next thing to having a drink. "how are your lips, jo?" asked jim. "burnt," i replied. "it's a whole lot better than having the apaches catch you," he reasoned. "then you would have been burnt all over." "it's some consolation," i said. "i don't believe we could have escaped," said jim, "if the fire had not helped us. the only thing we could have done was to have tried to make our escape at night." "we would have fought our way through, perhaps," i suggested. "not more than one chance out of a hundred," replied jim, "and i'm glad, for one, we didn't have to take it." "we get a pretty good view of the conflagration from here," i commented. this was true, for in both directions we could see the solitary blazing trees on the mountain slopes like the fires of a great army, and in the canyon below us on the other side the brush was still blazing. chapter x the search "shall we camp here?" i asked, "this seems to be as good a place as any." jim shook his head. "no, we will work our way north till we can get a view of our old camp. perhaps we will find some trace of tom and the captain." we rode on steadily, following along the top of the ridge. the whole vast, shadowy country blackened and desolate, lighted by the occasional fires, seemed to me quite unrecognizable. "i don't believe we can tell the canyon when we arrive at it," i suggested, "they all look alike to me." "i guess i will know it when we come to it," jim answered. "you are a better mountaineer than i am if you can," i said. "i am," replied jim coolly. i reckon there was no doubt of it, for jim had developed a remarkable sense for locality, and had a natural instinct for direction, while i was easily lost, but i could tell the east when the sun rose and the west where it set. beyond that i was not much of an authority. "here we are," exclaimed jim. we had arrived at the head of a narrow canyon that looked to me much like the one we had just gone by. "how can you tell?" i asked. "never mind," replied jim, "you will see that i am right." jim was not above adding to his reputation by a certain mystery, which gave the impression that he controlled certain occult forces which he did not choose to explain to the ignorant and the uninitiated. "you guessed right," i said after we had ridden down a ways above the wall of the canyon. "you certainly have pretty good luck." "we are above the camp now," said jim, "let's see if we can wake them up?" he put his hands to his lips and gave a yell loud enough to wake the dead. no response. "i'm going down to make sure," he said. so he swung himself off piute, and followed by santa the two soon disappeared, leaving me alone, but i was used to that. so i dismounted to give coyote a rest. i hope jim will be able to find water down there, i said to myself. i did not have very long to wait, when i saw jim, toiling up from below. "what luck?" i asked. he shook his head. "they haven't been around since the fire and the pack horses are gone." my heart sank and a sensation of absolute loneliness came over me. here we were, the two of us, with no one to aid us. only a short supply of ammunition. it certainly was a desperate situation. "cheer up," said jim. "here is something to wet your whistle." he handed over the canteen. i seized it eagerly. i would not have exchanged its old battered tin hulk for diamonds or gold. i raised it eagerly to my lips and let a stream gurgle down my throat. talk about whiskey and its enthusiastic effects, i never tasted anything more intoxicating than that water. it made me feel absolutely dizzy. "what next?" i asked. "there is nothing to do but to look for them." "yes," i said, "i suppose we had better work down to the plains." "not much," replied jim. "you take my word for it that they are back in the range. ten chances to one if we went down we would fall into the hands of the apaches." "back to the woods for me then," i said very promptly. "let's walk a ways and rest the ponies," suggested jim. "all right," i said. "i have been cooped up so long in that fort that i won't mind having a chance to stretch my legs." so we walked up the grade towards the summit we had left a little while before, the ponies following us like obedient dogs, while santa took the lead. in an hour we had reached the top of the long ridge or rather mountain, which dominated the various canyons like little pigs near the mother sow. the fires were still burning everywhere and we could see the skirmish line of the main fire eating its way in irregular outline along the darkened plain. "it's up to you, jim," i said, "which way now? you are the guide for this party." "over the hills and far away," he cried. "all aboard for the grand canyon." and he swung into the saddle. there was something in the cheek of him that called out my admiration, even if i was his brother. to think of the object of our trip when it seemed the most impossible thing in the world to obtain. but it was like jim. "you see the outline of that mountain over there?" he asked, pointing to the west. "the one above the fire line?" "yes," i replied. "that's the one i'm going to make for. when we get to the summit i am going to build a big signal fire that can be seen all over this country. then we shall see 'what we shall see.'" "yes," i replied, "we 'shall see' the whole tribe of apaches." "don't you worry," replied jim. "if we once get our party together we will stand them off." we now left the summit of the long ridge and rode down a long spur that tended down into a deep cross valley. "what time is it?" i asked. "three o'clock," he replied, "we will soon hear the roosters crowing." in an hour's time we had reached the depth of the valley. it must have been beautiful a few hours before, but now it was as black as the valley of the shadow. "look here, jim, there's quite a stream," i cried. "good luck," yelled jim. "now our horses can have a drink." they certainly made the most of it. the water throbbed down their long throats in regular piston strokes. no matter if the water was discolored and tasted of ashes and charcoal, santa, too, made the most of it. after the ponies had satisfied their thirst we crossed to the opposite side and jim scanned the barren bulk of the mountain that rose above us. he was looking for the best line of ascent. "jo, did you hear that?" exclaimed jim in great excitement. "it sounded like two rifle shots close together," i answered. "now, we are in for it. we never will escape the apaches this time." "ho, ho," laughed jim. "apaches! that was the captain's rifle as sure as i stand here. that was no old carbine." we waited, listening intently. then we fired two shots apiece simultaneously. then in a minute came the answering signal. two rifles this time. "hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! whoop la," we yelled. it seemed to me the most joyful moment of my life. the captain and tom found again after the terrible perils we had been through. we urged our ponies in the direction of the shots and santa sprang away in the lead. he would be the first to welcome the captain and tom. in five minutes we saw the dark outlines of two mounted men and two horses following. we met on the spur of the mountain with only the livid light of a burning pine nearby to enable us to distinguish each other. the captain swung from his horse and gripped jim by the hand, then he took my hand likewise. "well met," he exclaimed. for a moment there was silence, then jim spoke up. "that was a deuce of a big fire you started, captain," he said. "you must have been pretty cold." the captain smiled grimly. "i could tell that was you from that remark, but your appearance is deceiving. you look considerably like a nigger." "we thought that we wouldn't see you fellows again," said tom. "you must have been through it, the way you look." "come, boys," said the captain, "the first thing for us to do is to get above the fire line and camp. we thought we had lost santa. how did you get him?" "he got us," i answered. "it's all right now. he went off on a trail of his own," commented the captain. "i'm glad that he located you." we now proceeded up the mountain on the back trail, the captain in the lead. after a while daylight came and it showed a scene of desolation below us. the blackened trees, some standing, thousands fallen, the pallid smoke rising from mountain slopes and curling out of deep canyons. above us, however, was a brighter prospect, for below the snow fields were the unscarred pines and the ravines where were the clear streams. after an hour's hard climb we were among the trees with bushes, and here and there bunches of grasses and of flowers. it seemed like paradise to our fire scorched eyes. we made our camp in a wide ravine, near a pleasant stream. "well, this is jolly," said jim. "i am glad to have a chance to wash my features and comb my hair." we took the saddles off our tired horses and it was a pleasure to see how they took it. the fire was made and once more we were united around the old campfire. depend upon it, we had a long talk and the captain told of his efforts to help us. he and tom had spent several hours in making their preparations. below the ridge at a distance of three hundred yards or more apart they had placed inflammable pitch pine in dry brush and timber. tom had been sent with the pack horses up beyond the danger zone and then with a pitch pine torch the captain started the fire at the eastern end, then full gallop to the west and thus up the line. the wind was blowing a hurricane and scattered fire brands far and wide. it is easy to unleash such a tempest of fire, but once started it is beyond all human control. we told our story and then fixing up a bed of boughs or rather small branches, i rolled up in my blankets and was soon sound asleep. there was comfort in it after the hardships of the past two nights. * * * * * we did not move camp until the next day. by that time we were thoroughly rested and ready for whatever might be ahead of us, whether indians or forest fires. our horses also were feeling good, which they showed by acting badly. the captain scouted out and returning reported no signs of indians. they had been driven away. "well, boys," he said, as we started the next day, "i shall have to leave you as soon as i get you out of these mountains." "we hate to think of it," said jim. "better go with us as far as the river anyway." but the captain shook his head. "no, really jim, i appreciate you boys' friendship and i like to be with you, but i am getting too old for this exciting life and i must get back to my plateau and my books." "i have given the captain one of my books to read," said tom. "gee," laughed jim, "i bet the captain will be thrilled when he reads about the dukes and dukesses and all those high-fliers." "that will do, jim," said the captain. "i value the book as a gift from tom." so nothing more was said on that line. we were now fairly launched for the remainder of our voyage through the mountains and we rode forward in good spirits. chapter xi the captain departs we traveled on for a week through the mountains with only the ordinary incidents of hard riding and quiet camps. we met with no extraordinary adventures, nor did we meet any wandering bands of indians. although we saw the distant smoke of some large camps we did not seek any close acquaintance with the apaches. "you will find many of the tribes in the southwest rather friendly," said the captain, "not like the apaches, or cheyennes. of course you always have to be on your guard. but if you do not arouse their suspicions or deal with them unfairly, there is no danger of that, i know, and you will find them safe." "what are the names of these indian tribes in the southwest?" inquired jim. "well, there are the navajos, a fine tribe in many ways, with rather good features, not like the fierce apaches, much more human. they, too, are skilled in making blankets, stained natural colors of gray and brown and red and woven from sheep's wool. they roam above the san juan. "on the north below the san juan are the tribes of paiutes, while on the south are the suppais and wallapais; in arizona and lower down come the mojaves, cocopas and yumas, more worthless and degraded than the northern tribes. "the most interesting of all the tribes are the pueblos who have villages built in the cliffs or on the great mesas. these people have a civilization of their own." "it certainly will be interesting to see this country," i said. "to me it is the most marvelous region on this continent," resumed the captain, "and has a fascination of its own. as you will soon find for yourselves." late one afternoon, we had been riding through a deep canyon and we came suddenly out upon the strange country with its sunlit vastness. "well!" said jim, "it beats me!" upon the plain below us were several great mesas, with high perpendicular walls, some of grey stone and others of vermilion sandstone, and in the west were pinnacles and towers in varied hues. far away to the southwest were various chains of mountains, rising above an elevated but broken region. the mountains were sharp and clear cut. over all was an atmosphere of wonderful clarity. "the great colorado river flows zigzag through that region," said the captain, indicating the distant mountains. we gazed at it feeling the spell of its fascinating mystery creep over us. there was so much to take in that we sat on our ponies gazing out over this weird land for a long time. later, we watched the faint crimson of evening die away and the azure that precedes the darkness, robe the distant horizon line of mountains. this was our last camp in these mountains and also the last night that the captain was to camp with us. we were talking it over after supper as we sat around the fire. "i don't consider this as good-bye," said the captain, "for i expect to see you at my cabin on the plateau after you return from mexico." "if it is possible, you may count on us," asserted jim. "you will have much of interest to tell me, i know that. i shall like to hear of the old trails that i have travelled years ago." "we shall be just one trail ahead of you and that is down the colorado river," said jim. "you're welcome to it," replied the captain, "from what i have heard of its style of action. as a preliminary i should like to begin with the rapids below niagara." "one thing is in our favor, we are all good swimmers," suggested tom. "yes, that makes me feel some easier," continued the captain. "you must be careful of those maps i made for you, jim, because you will need them from now on, until you reach the river. after that there is just one direction and you can't miss it." "that's down the river, with the current," said tom. "that's it," assented the captain. "if you see juarez, send him along," suggested jim. "we want him." "i reckon he would enjoy it much more than pitching hay on the kansas farm," said the captain. "it's time to turn in now, for you will want to get an early start to-morrow." so we rolled into our blankets for a dreamless sleep on the edge of the land of enchantment that lay stretched out below us under the brilliant stars. we were astir early the next morning and before the sun was up we were all ready to start out on the second division of our journey. our ponies were saddled and the pack horses ready. the only thing that saddened us, was the fact that we had to part with our friend and comrade, the captain. but in the light of a new day and refreshed by a good night's rest it did not seem such a gloomy prospect as on the evening before. we had found that in the hazardous life we had lived so long that when we turned in at night that it was the best way to forget, banish from our minds all worry about the next day. no matter what desperate matters faced us on the morrow. we discovered that things never seemed so bad on the next day when we were on our feet to meet them as when we lay on our backs thinking them over. we were now ready to say good-bye and no ado was made about it either by the captain or ourselves. what was the use? we all instinctively disliked any display of emotion. "how long will it take you, captain?" asked jim, "to get back to the plateau?" "i shall make quick time and use the cutoffs," answered the captain. "it won't be much over a week before i am sitting in the armchair, with my feet on the table reading a book, or looking down the canyon from my open door." "and we will be gliding down the placid colorado about that time," laughed jim, "with tom and jo serenading the indian maidens on the banks as we go drifting by." "it's a beautiful picture," the captain smiled gravely, "but in reality i see you bailing out your boat and dodging rocks and indian missiles." "that's about it," i assented. "by the way, you won't forget to mail our letters home, at the settlement, captain." "not i," replied the captain. "it will be good news for them to hear that you have arrived so far in safety." "we never make much of our little adventures," remarked jim, "when we write home. we want to keep them feeling cheerful." "that's right," returned the captain. "now it is time for you to start, the sun will soon be up. good-bye and the best of luck to you." he shook hands with each of us and there was the strength of friendship in his grip. "good bye," we called. and the captain swung his horse around and headed up the canyon. "don't be surprised if we drop in on you in a year or two," cried jim, after him. "the sooner the better," shouted the captain, and with a salute, which we returned, he disappeared in the depths of the canyon headed north. we rode south down the slope and reaching the plain turned our horses' heads directly west. "it seems fine to be on level stretch," remarked tom, "after going up and down hills, over mountains and through canyons." it did give us a curious sense of freedom and exhilaration, very much as when you are out of sight of land on the ocean and see the blue surges rolling freely to the horizon. "let's have a race," i proposed. "here is a good stretch." "hold on," cried jim, "we aren't kids any longer. we have got to settle down and cut out our foolishness. there is no use in tiring our ponies out at the start, they will need all the go that is in them before we reach the river." jim was right as i recognized in an instant, though my first impulse was one of anger at being called down, but i thought better of it. "all right, old hoss," i replied, "the jog trot for me. how far do you expect to go to-day?" "well, you see the ponies are fine and fit. i calculate to make between sixty and seventy miles." "whew!" i whistled, "you'll wear them out." "don't you believe it," replied jim, "that's nothing awful. why, don't you know that those buck indians will cover seventy-five miles in a day and over mountains too? we'd do forty ourselves and not feel it." "i reckon you are right," came from tom, "this is certainly fine traveling. we ought to make time." it was good going. the plain was covered with short, crisp grass. the sun was just coming up and the blue depths of dawn were broken by the shining arrows of the sun. the shadows were stript slowly from the great mesas and the weird buttes and strange desert sculptures stood out in absolute distinctness. i tell you what, it was fine to be young and fit and free in such a country as lay around us. hardships and sufferings were ahead of us, we knew that, and many dangers; we had experienced them in the past. i wish you could have a picture of us as we jogged along, sitting securely, easily on our ponies, our rifles hung on our back, slouch hats flapping about our ears and hiding the sunburned radiance of our countenances as grey clouds do the sun. moccasins on our feet; our worn but serviceable clothes that did not altogether conceal our muscular figures. we were hard and fit and we ought to have been. our hands were black as any indians and what they gripped they could hold onto. in the rear of the procession trotted the two pack animals. we may have seemed too young to undertake the responsibilities we had. but jim was almost seventeen, the age that the famous scout, kit carson, started on his career in the west. tom and i, the twins, were two years younger. jim was the kingpin and we were auxiliaries. chapter xii the mesa village "i tell you one thing," said jim, "i'm mighty glad to get out of the country of the apaches. our one experience with those beggars will last me the rest of my natural life." "we might run into some roving bands," i said. "i don't believe that they have any regular boundaries to their country." "they don't get beyond their own section, unless they are at war with some other tribes. they ought to be satisfied with all those mountains and plains back of us to hunt over." "say boys, what is that ahead of us on that mesa?" asked tom. "it looks like some houses to me." "houses!" i exclaimed, skeptically, "what would anybody do with houses up on a place like that and who would live in them?" "it's reasonable enough," said jim, "that the indians should build on a high place like that. it's a natural fort and they would be safe from the attacks of their enemies. in a flat country like this where there are no woods or other defense those mesas are just the thing." "i suppose that we had better keep to the north," i said, "because we don't want to mix it with any indians. i don't care for their society, no matter how kind and gentle they are and perhaps it isn't their day at home." "we can't always be dodging around," replied jim, "for we will never reach the colorado river. it's right on our line of march and we might just as well take in all the sights." "perhaps it is just a mirage," i suggested hopefully, "like that beautiful lake we saw on the plains in kansas, with the trees around it. that was nothing but a heated haze and our thirsty imaginations." "that's no mirage, it's the real thing," declared tom. "you'll see in a half hour." "a half hour," laughed jim, scornfully, "you've been in the west all this time and can't tell distance better than that. it will take us a good three hours to reach it." jim hit it about right, for it took us three hours and a half before we came within striking distance of the mesa. "it looks like quite a town up there," said jim, "but nobody seems to be at home." i took off my sombrero and began to brush down my shock of light hair. "i must slick up," i announced, "if we are going into society. lend me your mirror, tommy." "i'll lend you a kick," he offered, as he rode alongside, and shot his moccasined foot out, but missed me and hit coyote in the flanks, making him jump. "you do that again to my horse and i'll bump your nose for you," i cried, hotly. i would not have minded it if he had landed on me. tom knew that i meant business and refrained from further exercises along that line. "just look at the dust on your clothes, thomas, i'm ashamed of you," i continued, after a moment, "and you have no more polish on your moccasins than you have on your manners." "stop your kidding, jo," commanded jim, "you and tom can do your scrapping in camp." "beware of the boss, he bites," i said, warningly. jim grinned, his only response. "look out, tom, he's showing his teeth." but we forgot our little controversy as we drew near to the great mesa. it was as impregnable as a powerful battleship of these later days. there was nothing to detract from its impressiveness as it rose in clear cut symmetry and sheer walls from the level plain. we gazed up at it in admiration. "how high are those walls, do you suppose, jim?" i asked. "all of five hundred feet," he answered, "but i don't see how we are going to get up." "get up!" i exclaimed, "what for, we haven't got any relatives up there that we want to meet." "why jo," expostulated jim, "don't you want to meet and converse with our red brothers and have a great powwow. you know they are the original americans?" "all americans are original," i retorted. "i thought you were in a hurry to see the river." "i am," replied jim, "perhaps we can see it if we climb up there. then i want to see this village; you can't make out much from here. looks something like swallow nests built in the rafters of the old barn." "how do you suppose the indians get up there?" i asked, "ladders?" "hardly," replied jim. "let's look around and find out. you and tom go around the north end and i'll ride the other way." "all right," we responded. so we separated after we had arrived at the middle of the east wall. we rode slowly along, but found no break in the solid grey masonry of the wall. before rounding the northern end we waved our hats to jim in a given signal indicating that we had found nothing so far. the mesa must have been three quarters of a mile in length and the ends about a quarter of a mile. as we came to the west side we saw jim riding slowly along; as yet he had found nothing. then i saw him wave his sombrero. "he's found it," i cried, and we started our horses at full gallop, looking like little pygmies beside the massiveness of the great mesa that loomed above us. "here's the main traveled road," he cried, as we galloped up. "can we make it?" cried tom. "gee! she's narrow," i commented. it extended a mere pencil line zigzaging up the face of the rock. "come on," cried jim. i knew expostulation was useless, a mere waste of breath, so i followed behind jim, as he started up. it was barely wide enough for our horses and though we had taken a few narrower trails in the mountains, we had never followed one up a precipitous cliff before and i vowed we never would again if we ever got down safely. fortunately our horses were as sure footed as goats, but i shall not easily forget the sense of dizziness i felt as i looked down. one slip of coyote and i would fall like lucifer, never to rise again. in some places there was nothing but the narrow two-foot width of rock, with nothing to stop a slide but the earth way down below, but in most places the path was cut into a little gully deepened by the corrosion of the rains. i think that jim by the time we had got up several hundred feet repented himself, of his foolhardy attempt. but there was nothing to do but go on, it was impossible for us to back down, but if jim felt worried he did not show it by word or action to us. there was no wind stirring and the early afternoon sun beat against the blank wall with blinding effect. it was surprisingly hot, intense and dry. every once in awhile we had to stop to spell our horses and they stood with heads held level, and one bent hindfoot, panting with the steep climb. "if the indians up there don't want us they can just toss us down," i said. "it looks suspicious to me. something like an ambush." "i don't see the bush," replied jim, "i guess they are taking their siesta. fine view, isn't it?" i suppose it was, but it did not interest me just then, as i kept my eyes riveted on coyote's ears, not caring to look out or down. if you want to get an idea of how i felt, step out on the jamb of a window of a twenty story building and look down at the street, where the people appear like crawling ants and the street cars like big cockroaches. we were now nearing the top when jim stopped his horse and the whole line halted. he gave a low whistle of surprise. "what's the matter?" i asked, anxiously. "washout on the line," he said. "we're in for it now," i said. "is it dry?" jim dismounted gingerly from his horse and went forward a few steps. then i saw a broken place in the trail with a sheer fall. we were check-mated. it was impracticable for us to go back with the horses, though we could easily go back on foot. it was also impossible to go forward. then i saw jim step back a ways, and with a short run, he made the leap across. it was only five feet, but in such cramped quarters it was very difficult. my heart stopped as jim jumped. his foot slipped as he landed and he saved himself from being killed, by grabbing the outer edge of the trail, a thin knife of rock, then he scrambled up, his moccasined feet aiding him to a secure foothold. "never say die!" he yelled to me. "i'm going to investigate." then he disappeared on top of the mesa. in a few minutes he came back dragging two round poles with him. "lend a hand, jo," he urged. i got off very carefully, not looking down and edged my way past coyote and piute, maintaining a firm grip on them as i went along. my back felt cold and creepy with nothing but the dizzy air back of me. but i got by safely and helped jim lay his bridge. he made several trips and as the poles were fifteen feet long we made quite a secure structure. at first piute absolutely balked. he would not lead at all. then jim got in the saddle and went for him with the spurs. the broncho strain showed up in him and he went across that bridge on the fly and went full gallop up the remaining bit of trail. i led coyote, who made no trouble as piute had broken the ice and the rest of the procession followed. in a minute i was on the deck of the broad mesa and at the threshold of the little town. jim was waiting for me. "welcome to our little city, stranger," he said, "all the indians are asleep, you must be careful not to disturb them." "it's deserted," i said. "i guess the apaches cleared them out." we left our horses and proceeded to investigate this curiously silent village, isolated on the great mesa. the houses were in a good state of preservation and would stay that way for years in this dry climate. they were made of adobe bricks with a mud cement over them, flat roofs, and with a second tier of smaller buildings on them. ladders were used in reaching the roof and we found some that were unbroken lying on the ground. the doors were made of the regulation size and square windows cut through. chapter xiii two honors the houses were not separate, but the whole village was like one big rambling house of many rooms. we cautiously entered one of the houses. as soon as our eyes became accustomed to the dim light we saw that it had been deserted for a long time. there were no marks of recent habitation. on the hard, worn floor were shards of pottery of red and grey clay that had been baked according to the method of the tribe. in the blackened fireplace was a heap of rags. "i bet the apaches have cleared this town out," said jim, reaffirming my previous statement. "there's no doubt of it," i replied. "it's too near their territory anyway. it makes me feel sorry for these people. they must have been comfortable here and they were no doubt superior to the other indian tribes because they have built themselves houses instead of living in tepees." "yes," remarked jim, "and instead of living on wild meat they raised grain. you can see where they have crushed it in this round stone, that's hollowed out." we were standing near the fireplace as jim was speaking, when i saw the rubbish moving slightly, and then a great hairy spider rushed out at us. "look out, jim," i cried, in alarm. "there's a big spider coming for you." and i made for the door. if there's one thing i hate more than another it's spiders. if it had been a roaring mountain lion or a stealthy apache or even a snake, i would not have cared, but a spider! that was my particular horror. it's peculiar about folks; each one has some particular aversion that is natural and not unreasonable. i have known people that would have a fit if you threw a cat at them. actually faint with horror if a cat should jump in their laps. others have the same feeling towards snakes. my horror was spiders. i think if that one should crawl up my arm i would almost expire with horror. that was the reason i took to the door. this fellow was no ordinary customer, i can assure you. his hairy, bent legs carried his body in the center and he had poisonous nippers and wicked little eyes. he rattled across the hard floor straight for jim. my cry caused jim to look down and he jumped to one side just in time to escape the rush of the reptile. i expected to see the spider scurry away to a dark corner. not he, for he came for jim again. then jim picked up a stone and crushed mr. spider with a crunching sound. "come and have a look at him, jo," cried jim. "he's a beaut." "i'll take your word for it," i replied. "i don't want to see it." "did you ever see a spider like that?" asked tom, when jim came out. "that wasn't a spider," jim said. "that was a tarantula. he must have been five inches across. but the gall of him prancing right up to me." "lucky he didn't bite you," i said. "well, i guess yes," remarked jim, "i have heard that their poison will just about lay a man out." "judging from the looks of him i should think as much," i said. "let's have a look at the roof of this village," proposed jim. we searched around until we found a long ladder and we raised it up to the second story of the town. "i feel like i belong to a hook and ladder company," laughed jim. "do you remember what fun we used to have running to the fires at home with the hose carts?" "sure i do," i replied, "and i recollect when we paraded with one of the companies on the fourth of july and you had a belt that was intended for a fat man and it went around you twice and then you had to hold it up and your cap was two sizes too large and the visor was generally over your left ear. you were the feature of the parade." "never mind that now," grinned jim, "you weren't much more of an ornament yourself if i remember rightly. let's see what we can discover up here." so he climbed the ladder, with me at his heels, and tom came tumbling after. we found part of the roofs covered with other houses like those below. the roofs were perfectly flat and with round chimneys of grey adobe standing here and there. there were also square openings to the houses below where a ladder could be used for an inside stair. "what is this long string of something, jim?" i asked. "why that long string of something is dried peppers. i bet these indians used a lot of it. it will be fine to cook with our meat," and he wound it gracefully over his shoulders. we went into one of the houses on the roof and it seemed to be like the others, entirely deserted. this room of the village was larger than any that we had entered so far and it had a wooden door which jim had shoved open without any difficulty. i was standing with my back to the door looking around to see if there were any curiosities in view, when i felt something coming behind me swiftly and stealthily. i had no time to turn before it sprang and one dark skinny arm went around my neck. it was an indian, who held me with a grip like closing steel. i was almost helpless, from the pressure on my throat when jim turned, hearing the scuffle and sprang to my help. it took all his strength to tear the old indian hag loose, for such it was. she was a terrible object to my startled eyes, with her grey bush of hair, parchment withered skin, the lean lines of her throat and the eyes beaming with the weird light of insanity. her strength seemed to leave her suddenly and she sat crouching in a dark corner. keeping her eyes fastened on us and her lips moving in some strange incantation. suddenly she sprang up with her claw-like hands stretched toward us, spitting at us; a very picture of demoniacal fury. then she subsided again. it was more like the rage of a wild beast than of a human being. and it gave me a sensation of horror to think that she had had me in her grip. next to the tarantula she seemed the most repulsive. "the old lady seems to have taken a sudden fancy to you," said jim, as we stood looking at her. "what is she doing up here all alone?" asked tom. "she may have been able to hide when the apaches made their raid," jim replied, "or possibly she was so old that she was worthless and i guess she is something of a sorceress, so they thought it best to leave her alone. she is trying to get the indian sign on jo now." the old hag was pointing at me, with one long skinny finger and muttering; something that repeated the same words over and over again. she started to rise up and i shrunk back. i hated being singled out by her. "sit down you," thundered jim, "down, i tell you. no more of your cursed nonsense." the old woman actually obeyed him and she sank back, her grey head shaking with palsy. i guess she thought that jim was the big chief all right. "come on, boys," he said, "let's call on somebody else. the poor old lady is too eccentric and we don't want to excite her." so we went out, but we found nothing more of especial interest, except that jim unearthed a blanket that had evidently belonged to some navajo. it was thick and warm, with white ground and grey design. after finishing with the village we went out on the mesa to look around. we found that it was covered with quite a depth of soil and there were signs that it once had been well cultivated. "i guess these people grew maize up here. you can see where the soil has been turned over," said jim. "look here, boys, i have found an old plow." we looked at it with real curiosity. it was certainly a primitive article, made of grey weathered wood and the plowshare also of some hard wood, just enough to stir the ground. "these people must have been independent here and happy too," said tom. "it was a shame they had to be run out by those apaches." we had now advanced to the edge of the mesa and were looking off to the west. it was a marvelous view in the afternoon light that brought out the strange and symmetrical lines of the desert architecture with startling distinctness. "there rolls the colorado and hears no sound save its own rolling," said jim, pointing in his most oratorical manner to the southwest. "you can see the zigzag of it through that plateau," i cried. "yes, and way over there in the south is where it plunges into the mountains," said jim. "jove! it makes me anxious to reach it. this will be our last picnic till we reach the river, you can count on that." "down, boys, quick!" cried tom. we dropped into some brush--scrub bushes that grew near the edge of the mesa without waiting to question. tom's eyes were keen and his vision was to be respected. "what is it, brother?" inquired jim, in mock anxiety. "what dost thou see?" "see! there is a party of indians coming out around that butte over there," pointing to the north. then we saw them all right. there was a large party, we could tell that. though the distance was so great that they looked like moving specks. chapter xiv a night on the mesa "do you suppose they saw us?" i asked. "hardly," replied jim. "it's all we can do to make them out and they are mounted." "it's lucky we stopped off here," remarked tom, "because we would have run into them or at least they would have cut our trail." "if they go east of the mesa they will do it anyway," i said, "then what will we do?" "they would have a sweet time getting up here after us," said jim. "but they would starve us out," i said. "don't worry, jo," jim replied. "if they insist on hanging around we will have to turn farmers and till the soil. you and tom would make a nice team to pull that plow, being twins; you are well matched, light bays, warranted kind and gentle." "any lady could drive, especially tom," i said. "i don't believe those fellows will bother us," said jim, who was watching the indians closely. jim never allowed repartee to interfere with business. "you see they are keeping well to the west and in that case they won't see our trail." "we will have to camp up here to-night," i said. "sure," replied jim, "there is nothing else to do. it won't be long till sunset now and we want daylight for that trail." "do you suppose those fellows will try and come up here?" i asked. "what for?" replied jim, "they know that there is nothing here and they are not looking for useless exercise." "are we going to camp in one of those houses?" i inquired. "why not?" said jim, "you are not afraid of the old lady stealing you, are you?" "i don't see any use of our going indoors," i replied. "we always sleep in the open and it don't look like rain. at least not this century." this last observation certainly seemed accurate. though there were a few rolls of white clouds, floating around over the vast extent of blue sky, they were oases in the desert of its extent. though along the eastern horizon were delicate veils of purple or grey showers skirting along. but there seemed no promise of dampness in them. we lay at ease stretched out in perfect safety watching the indians as they came into nearer view. it seemed like something more than a hunting party because they had their squaws and papooses with them. the earth was warm and dry and the sun made us feel comfortable as we basked in it like so many grey lizards. just then a curious little thing darted right in front of my face. i drew back in alarm. but jim reached out quickly and clutched it in his hand. "what is it?" i asked. "it's nothing but a horned toad," he replied. "aren't you afraid that it will poison you?" i inquired. "no," he replied, "the captain told me that they were perfectly harmless." "ugly as sin though," i commented. it was flat in shape, with its rough skin covered with regular coloring of grey and dark brown. above the eyes were two little horns and the center edge of its skin had saw-like indentations. its belly was flat and of a whitish color. "now watch him catch this fly," said jim. the unsuspecting fly was crawling on jim's hand. the horned toad was as quiet as immobile stone. mr. fly came along within a few inches of the toad. then out flashed a little narrow wisp of red tongue and the fly disappeared. "one strike and in," said jim, proud of his new pet. "you see he is just about the color of the earth so that he can't be seen; all he has to do is to keep still and his game comes to him." then jim slipped the horned toad into his pocket. the sun had now sunk down behind the distant sierra. above it glowed a few gold bars of clouds. in the east was a broad band of blue with a crimson veiling above it. this pomp always accompanies a desert sunrise or sunset. "the indians are going to make camp," jim announced. it was true, they had stopped near two hills a couple of miles west of the mesa, where there was a growth of a few stunted trees. the braves slid from their ponies and turned them loose to graze, while the squaws busied themselves gathering wood. the children scampered around free as wild colts and playing as children will whether they are indian or white. "there must be a hundred of them anyway," said tom. "about the number that had us corraled back in those mountains," i said. this was the first time that we had seen a family party of indians and it was an interesting sight. "it is time we made our own camp," said jim. so we backed slowly from the edge of the mesa, keeping under shelter of the brush, until we were far enough away not to be seen, then we stood up and made our way to the deserted village. "i'm not going to sleep in that house," i declared, "and have a tarantula crawl out and grab me." "gee, but you are particular," said jim, "anyway we can cook our food in one of these houses, so that the indians down there won't see the smoke." so we prepared a meal inside of a house for the first time since we had left the captain's cabin on the plateau. if anyone had told us that we were going to have supper in a house on top of a mesa in new mexico we would have thought they were crazy. but strange things happen in a strange country. after supper we prepared to turn in or turn out rather, because we were not going to sleep in the house. "let's go over to the other side first," said jim, "and have a look at the indian camp." this we did. and it gave us a strange sensation, standing near the edge of the mesa with nothing but the void darkness below us for hundreds of feet. it was a picturesque sight, to see the indian fires making little spots of flame out on the plain. sometimes faint sounds come from their direction borne on the evening wind. overhead the innumerable stars were shining with sparkling clearness. the night seemed to be filled with the vague whispering of the wind. as we turned back to the dead village the wind rose; at first it came in gusts and then it blew in steady and ever increasing volume, until it rose to the fierceness of a gale. not a cloud was visible, it came from perfect clearness and it seemed to have more power than if it had been accompanied with rolling clouds. the gravel blew across the mesa, cutting our faces. "are we going to have a cyclone?" inquired tom, anxiously, yelling into jim's ear. "no!" he yelled back. "this country is too broken. it couldn't get started before it's busted." "we can't sleep here to-night," declared tom, "we will be blown away." by this time we had reached the shelter of the village. it seemed uncannily quiet and dead within its walls. "we can sleep here in the court yard," i said, "and we will be protected from the wind." "all right," replied jim, "it's funny to have the horses inside the houses and we out." we made a comfortable bed on the ground of the courtyard with brush that we had cut on the outer mesa. jim made use of his indian blanket and said that it was all right. in a short time jim and tom were sound asleep and their snoring rivaled the wind, but i could not sleep. i was very restless and i turned and tossed. overhead the stars were shining and the wind whistled and roared over the silent roofs around us. i kept listening for every sound. but after awhile i dropped off into a troubled doze. then i heard a rustling near my ear. it was crawling towards me in the darkness. a tarantula coming straight for my face. i flung out one desperate hand and struck a horny object. it was jim's horned toad. thoroughly awake i threw off the blankets and stood up looking around. the wind was still keeping up its furious gait and the sky was clear. i judged it was about midnight. it was a weird situation with those silent deserted houses all around and the gaping blackness of the doors and windows. i moved cautiously towards the center of the court. then i stopped short. a long, pale face was in the upper part of a dark door. i saw it with perfect distinctness. then it moved or rather moved slowly from side to side. "coyote, you rascal! what are you looking at!" i exclaimed, in decided relief. i could not sleep so i sat down on a rude box in the court yard listening to the wind, my rifle across my knees. if ever a place seemed haunted this pueblo village did at that hour. chapter xv the strange country there is a chill isolation about a high wind in the desert, even though the wind be warm. it seemed to me as i sat there i could hear strange voices in the vacant houses. it was the wind no doubt, but the loneliness of the situation made them authentic. as i watched in the darkness of the court yard, i saw a grey patch against the opposite wall. my eyes seemed drawn to it, then i saw it move. i scarcely breathed. it stopped for a moment, apparently listening, then it came forward again at a level of two or three feet from the ground. i raised my rifle to fire, but something held me back. i now made out a dark object, too, behind the grey. it was creeping towards where the boys were sleeping. i tried to yell but my voice was just a squeak. just then a night bird swept low into the court, gave a shrill cry, then away over the roofs. jim sat up wide awake and none too soon, for i saw the object rush forward with one hand upraised to strike. "get out of here," jim's big voice bellowed out. the old indian woman, for such it was, shrank down muttering and then slowly retreated backward to the wall. "where's jo?" cried jim, in alarm. this released the spell i was under and i got up and came over to where jim and tom were. "what are you doing wandering around, this time of night, jo?" jim asked. "i couldn't sleep and your old horned toad tried to cuddle up to me and i thought it was a tarantula," i replied. "gee! but i bet it scared you. what did you do with him?" "i let out with my hand and sent him flying," i replied. "i hope you didn't kill him," jim said. "then i suppose you decided to sit up for the rest of the night." "it is just as well i did sit up," i said, "or that old hag might have scalped me. where is she?" "creeping up behind you," replied jim, "look out." i turned like a flash, but saw nothing. it was simply jim's superfluous sense of humor. however, she had disappeared. "well, i'm going to finish my siesta," said jim, turning into his blankets again, but i knew that it was no use; so i sat up the balance of the night. "be sure and whistle if you see her old nibs coming again," said jim. in a few minutes he was fast asleep. fortunately it was not so very long before the faint light of dawn showed in the eastern sky and i woke the boys up. it gave me a good deal of pleasure to do so because it did not please them and i had grown tired of being all alone in the world. "you might let a fellow sleep a little longer," growled tom. "you would get hide-bound if i would let you," i said. "i wonder if those indians have gone, because we can't start until they are out of sight." "we will go over and look," said jim, "while tom gets the breakfast." tom growled some more, but he was in a minority. so jim and i crossed the mesa, and taking to cover, we looked out over the plain. they were just breaking camp and we could hear their voices borne on the wind. it was an interesting and animated sight as they caught their ponies and took short dashes about the plains, going through different tricks with remarkable celerity. "they will be well started before we are ready," said jim as we made our way back to the camp in the village. "i thought this wind would go down with sunrise, but it whoops it up just the same," i said. "you can't judge this country by any other," said jim. "this is certainly a great wind, it just takes you by the seat of your pants and makes you walk spanish." "i'm glad you got back this morning," said tom, "because there has been an awful row in the roof house above here. i think it was the old lady." "we'll go up and see," said jim. so the committee of investigation proceeded up the ladder to find out the source of the trouble. jim was the first to enter the door. he stopped and looked toward the corner, shaking his head. we could just see a huddled figure. "she's dead, stone dead," said jim. it was true. on a closer view we saw that she sat there, staring with her sightless eyes, seeming to threaten even in death. i could not help but feel that she might spring up at any moment. "do you think that we ought to bury her?" asked tom. "no, no," jim shook his head. "the indians don't bury their dead, and in this dry air she will be kept like a mummy. come on, it's time we were moving." we took one more observation and found that the indians were well on their way to the southeast and could not see us as we came down the trail. "i'm glad this wind doesn't come from the other way," i said. "it would blow us off." "you are a bright one," remarked tom. "if the wind came from the other side, wouldn't the mesa protect us? it could not blow through it, that's sure." "you just want to argue," i said. "i'm not going to pay any attention to you." "wouldn't it be funny if this wind should flatten us into the rock? it almost blows hard enough to. wouldn't it puzzle these scientific fellars if they should find a living representation of tommy in the wall of the mesa? they would sure take him for something prehistoric." "they would probably think you were an aboriginal monkey," replied tom bitterly. "i'm going to walk," i said, after we had safely gotten over jim's bridge of poles. "this is too steep for me." jim and tom followed suit, because it was too hard on the ponies. we made good time going down and were soon on the plain below the mesa. taking up our trail we made our way west. "all aboard for the colorado river," cried jim. "no fooling this time." we had to shout at each other, for the wind was blowing fiercely and the ground between the bunches of grass was brushed clear as a floor, while the gravel was blown up around the roots of the dwarf bushes. we jogged along in the teeth of the wind, making our usual time. when we were several miles out from the mesa, i turned and looked to the southeast. the party of indians were on a low rise several miles distant as we came out of the shelter of the high plateau. they caught sight of us and we saw a number of braves separate from the main body and gallop out in our direction. "we'll soon shake them," said jim, "and not half try." so we started our ponies on the run and they were feeling decidedly like a sprint. in two miles we passed around the corner of a high butte, and jim flung himself off from piute and ran back to watch the effect on the indians of our disappearance. "it's all over," said jim, waving his hands down, "they've quit." "i was afraid our horses would get tired going against the wind," said tom, "but it didn't seem to feaze them." "you couldn't stop these bronchos with a meat axe," said jim. "hello," i said, "the wind has quit as well as the indians. don't it seem quiet though?" it certainly did. it was surprising how quickly the wind had ceased, just as abruptly as it had started in. late in the afternoon we came into closer touch with the desert scenery. we rode over the ridge of a long divide and below us, several miles distant, rose a marvelous outline of red towers and turrets and a great castle mass rising in the midst; also of the prevailing color. in the background stood a great mesa, with dark green walls, possibly of sandstone or granite. "did you ever see anything like that?" said jim. "if that had been built by men it could not be more like a castle. every detail is as sharp and distinct as though it had been carved." "it doesn't look so much like a castle to me," i said, "but it is more like a big cathedral with those two square towers." "what coloring!" said tom. "it's perfectly rich. i never imagined a red like that." "it will be a good place to camp down there," said jim. "how about water?" i asked. "we've got to find some, it's been a throat drying day." "it looks to me that there is a stream running along the base of those cliffs," remarked jim. it was a correct guess. it was true the stream was not very large, but it was much appreciated. "this is the first creek we have seen running in this direction," said jim. "it means that we will soon be at the colorado river." after we had made our camp, we started over towards the great vermilion cliffs and found the formation just as interesting at close quarters as in the distance. we had never seen anything as sharp-cut and symmetrically carved as the buttes and pinnacles that rose around us. "i wish we had time to stop here," said jim, "i would like to take a pick and make an exploration of these cliffs, but i said before that we would have no more picnics and i meant it." chapter xvi the river we now traveled for a week in a northwest direction, going through a country very much like what we had been passing through, except the last three days. during this time we went into the mountains again, following a northward trending valley. the mountains were a much lower range than the rocky mountains of colorado and new mexico. one day, about noon, as we were riding along this valley, jim disappeared around a turn in the trail and we heard him give a yell. i was frightened, thinking that he had been hurt, and putting the spurs into coyote, i dashed after him. rounding the corner i saw what had drawn the yell. below us in a transverse valley we caught sight of a glittering section of the river. at last! we took off our hats in a silent salute. then pressed on to cover the intervening miles as fast as we could. "that isn't the colorado yet, jim?" questioned tom. "no, that is the green river," he replied. "we will come to the colorado after the grand and green meet, that form it." after a while we reached the level mouth of the valley, where it joined the valley of the green. we galloped rapidly to see who would be the first to reach the river. jim and i reached the edge simultaneously. we threw ourselves from our ponies, but jim was a little the quickest and he plunged down the bank and into the river. but our first experience showed us that it was not to be trifled with, for a swift current in shore carried jim down and if he had not caught an overhanging bush, he would have been taken out into the river and drowned. "it certainly is a river," exclaimed tom, "but why do they call it green when it is brown?" "probably it is green further north," answered jim. "it depends on the color of the strata it flows through." "get out," i said, "this river was called green after the man who discovered it. i read it in a book in the captain's cabin on the plateau." "i don't care," said jim, who was apt to be dogmatic when cornered. "my idea is the most reasonable and i bet everybody in the u. s. thinks it's green because of its color. it must be inconvenient to know so much." "it is," i replied hotly, "when you have to associate with an ignoramous all the time." "come on, boys, let's have a swim and cool off," suggested tom. "better make camp first," said jim. we found a good place back a ways from the river in a grove of old cottonwoods. having made everything snug and shipshape we ran down to the river, but further up from the point where jim plunged in. here the stream came in gently in a wide curve and there was quite a stretch of sandy beach. "i tell you, this is fine," cried jim, as he began to peel off his clothes. "i'm in first. haven't had a bath for a month." "you look it," i commented. tom and i got out of our few garments in short order. i was the quickest and beat jim to the water by about five feet as i splashed in. it made me yell. "gosh, but she's cold," i cried, making the water fly as i plunged under. "gee whiz," yelled tom, as he stepped gingerly in. "i should say it was cold. talk about ice water!" "don't talk! get under!" cried jim. and he gave tom a tremendous shove in the back that sent him with a sprawling splash into the water. tom sputtered angrily and jim soused him under. there was a big rock out a ways on the edge of the current. it was a great wedge rock of granite, ten feet broad and twenty-five feet in length. "i dare you to swim out there," challenged jim. "all right," i assented. i was really a fine swimmer, better than jim, though not so daring. this was a dangerous proposition. jim went first, going up stream a ways, then he sprang out into the river. in a minute we saw what a foolhardy attempt it was. the current caught him and sped him along like a straw. we could see his black head as it bobbed along down stream, now and then submerged by a wave that seemed to us a mere ripple. he struggled valiantly to strike across the current, for he must reach the rock or be carried down the river to sure death. we looked on in fascinated terror. nothing but his extraordinary strength saved jim at this juncture. as he was being dashed past the rock he threw out one hand and grasped the edge of it, then the water slammed him against it with great force. for the moment he seemed stunned, but he clung to the rock as the player in a big game does to the ball as he goes over the line. "hold on, jim, tight," we yelled. we saw his muscles strain as he pulled himself slowly out of the hungry water. then he reached the inclined surface of the rock and fell forward, all curled up like a man who is knocked out on the football field. we were pretty well frightened and tom thought he was done for, but i felt sure that jim would come around in a few minutes. we did not have to wait long before jim sat up. he gave his head a shake and was himself again. "don't try it," he yelled to us. "you can't monkey with this river." he need not have warned us, for neither one of us was likely to try the experiment. how was jim to get off that rock? was the question. it was impossible for him to take to the stream again, nor was the rock a desirable permanent residence. in a minute jim began to dance around on the rock, and we thought at first it was his exuberant spirits. but this was not the case. "gee, boys!" he yelled. "this rock is hot, get me off quick before i become a cinder. what are you waiting for? get me a rope." why had i not thought of that before? i jumped out of the river and made a full speed trip to the camp. the sight was a great shock to coyote and piute, and they jumped to one side, snorting and visibly affrighted. i got the rope and made a flying return trip to the river. i soon made a lasso loop and stood poised on the bank, directly opposite jim, ready for the throw. "you stand still now and i bet that i will lasso you," i cried. this accomplishment the captain had taught us and sometimes it came in handy. so i wheeled the loop around my head several times and sent it whirling out over the river. it struck the rock all right, but would have fallen short if jim had not caught it. "pretty good for a first throw," yelled jim. "now, robinson crusoe, fasten it around your chest and under your shoulders," were my shouted instructions. jim did this and it left his arms free. tom and i now took the rope and went up the river a ways to the beach. tom stood on the bank well braced, while i went out in the river as far as i could and have a good foothold. "are you rested enough to try?" i yelled to jim. "sure," he replied. "are you ready?" "ready," i shouted. jim stood poised on the edge of the rock, then with a spring he launched upstream as far as he could. i drew in the slack as quickly as possible, then i felt the force of the current as it clutched at jim. it pulled like a powerful runaway horse. it almost drew us down the river; if jim had not been able to help himself we would never have made it. but with the rope to give him confidence he fought strongly against the current. it certainly tested our strength to the utmost. but the sinewy arms that i had acquired and the knotted muscles at the back again stood us in good stead. i was aroused to the limit, and with a last powerful pull, we got jim into shallow water and carried him to the little beach, for he was about all in, having shipped considerable water. we worked his arms and rolled him in the most approved fashion and he soon came around, but he was perfectly willing to lie for awhile on the warm sand. as we worked there we talked over jim's escapade. "this will be the last time i'll fool with that river," said jim ruefully. "it was just by luck that it did not send me down by the underground route." "you're a pretty game fish to land," i said. "you branded me under the arms all right with that rope," he said. "it did raise quite a welt," remarked tom. "i guess jo thought you were a maverick when he lassoed you." "you fellows look like white men now," said jim, "since you've had a bath." "it seemed mighty good to get to plenty of water," i said, "after coming through the desert." "we'll be tired of water before we get through with this river," remarked tom. "it's the trip for me," said jim cheerfully. "do you know what it means, boys, to tackle a stream like this that hasn't been navigated except by two parties since the world began?" chapter xvii beginning the boat after we had got thoroughly rested, jim from being rescued and tom and i from doing the rescuing act, we went back to our camp. "it's rather nice," remarked jim, "to camp under cottonwoods after having nothing but pines over us, or the sky." "it does seem sort of civilized," said tom. "this is one of the nicest places we have struck. just the kind for a picnic." the broad-leaved trees were over our heads, and there was an open space amongst them for our camp. the trees were old, and some with bent trunks on which we could sit and swing our feet. after the wide and lonely extent of plains that we had been journeying over, our camp among the trees seemed a cosy shelter. but as evening came on our enthusiasm received a severe jolt, for swarms of mosquitoes came in from the levels between the two streams. we began to slap around our ears in frantic efforts at self-protection. "does this remind you of anything?" asked tom. "you bet it does," said jim. "it was way back in kansas where they came near eating us alive. i know when i tried to take aim at some ducks they settled so thick on the gun that i could not see the sight." "yes, i recollect building a smudge back of black carl and setting his tail afire, too," i put in. "we won't stay any longer around here than we have to," said jim. "how long do you suppose before we will be ready to start down the river?" i asked. "we will get to work to-morrow," said jim, "and we won't waste any time. it would not surprise me if we were ready to launch out after two days." the reader will wonder what we will do now that the river is reached. of course we had no boats with us and there was no place within five hundred miles where we could have them made. nor did we have the materials wherewith to construct a boat. as to our ponies we had no other course than to leave them at this point. we could not take them with us because we did not expect to build a noah's ark. if we had been in striking distance of a settlement, jim would have taken the horses and sold them. however, we would not be out anything, as the ponies had cost us nothing, as we had captured them from the indians, but we regretted having to leave our faithful companions who had once saved our lives when we were in desperate straits. of course we had not come so far without some definite plan of action when we struck the river. "i don't think we could have reached the green at a better point than this," said jim, "because we have different kinds of trees to make a raft." "it's a pity we couldn't have a boat," i said. "it would be so much easier to manage than a raft, and it would make better time." "i don't know as it would be any safer," remarked jim. "you could stove in a boat on one of those sharp rocks, but it would take something worse than that to break up a solid raft." "if we are going to get up so early, we might just as well turn in now," said tom. "it will be a good way to keep off the mosquitoes," i said. but we soon found that these pests were very persistent and kept serenading around our ears and settling on any exposed parts of our anatomy, so that we had to keep our head ducked down under the blankets, and thus curled up, we were soon fast asleep. it was not uncomfortably warm, either, as there was a nip in the air that made the blankets seem all right. we slept a little later than was usual with us, for the deep shade of the trees shut out the rays of the sun, and it was a half hour before jim roused us. "get up, boys, or we will miss our train," he cried, and he rolled us out of our blankets onto the ground. we did not resent this, as it saved us the trouble of unrolling ourselves. it did not take us long to stow our breakfast away in the hatches and then, with an eager vim, we sprang to our work. we had packed the necessary supplies and tools to help us in constructing a raft. we each had an axe. there were also big spikes and several sizes of nails. we had plenty of these. jim led the way to the slope of the valley, just above our camp, where grew the tall pines and in a few minutes there was the ring of the axes as we jumped into the work, each anxious to get his tree down before the other. it was jolly work as i made the big yellow chips fly, and swinging into the stroke with all the weight of my body, poised from the toes. jim and tom stood squarely on their feet and struck in only with the weight of their shoulders, and as they sent in their blows with greater rapidity, it looked as if they would surely beat me out. but it was like a bad stroke in rowing, and was hard on their wind and taxed their strength. "oh, you're slow," grinned jim with a gleam of his white teeth as he glanced over his shoulder at me. "i'll have this fellow down before you are half through." my only reply was to send another blow with precision and a big, perfectly blocked chip flew into the air and came down on jim's back. it was my turn to grin. "they laugh best who laugh last." it was true that jim's first tree came down a few seconds ahead of mine, but after that i beat him easily, no matter how hard he struggled. oh, i tell you, it was great work, cheerful and invigorating in that resin fragrant air. we soon stripped off our shirts and, bareheaded, we swung out glittering axes into the trunks of the pines. i don't think that any of the old knights used their great battle axes against the gates of beleaguered cities or on each other's iron top knots with any more enthusiasm than we three boys did as we slew the pines. i imagined that i was ivanhoe or richard coeur de lion and this added more vigor to my blows. i think it would have pleased our old physical director if he could have seen the muscles on our arms and back and shoulders. jim, long and rangy, tom somewhat lighter, but with clear cut development, making for agility, while i was rather lithe, with symmetrical muscles and of tireless activity. it was a pretty strong, three-stand combination. after the trees were cut and trimmed, the next thing was to get them down to the beach where the raft was to be constructed. of course we had felled them as near the selected place as possible. jim decided to press coyote and piute into service for snaking the logs down. then there was something doing every minute, like in a three-ringed circus. jim fixed up a crude harness out of the ropes and hitched our broncho team onto the first log. they bucked and reared and kicked. sometimes they varied matters by falling over backwards. we let into them with the whips, that is tom and i did, while jim held the ribbons or ropes. finally they started to run and the log went snaking down the slope, but in a minute they came to an abrupt stop, turning an unexpected somersault. but after an hour of gymnastics and acrobatics they settled into the harness like respectable animals. after awhile we put tom to work cutting saplings of cottonwood and quaking aspens. these were to be used for cross pieces to hold the raft together. we had all the material gathered at the beach by the middle of the afternoon and we went to work to construct the raft. there was nothing so extremely difficult about it, but there was lots of hard work and it was not such a simple matter as making a raft to float on some quiet pond or down a gentle river. there were some tough questions which came up and it took all of jim's craft and strength to settle them, and tom's ingenuity backed jim up. the very weight of our boat was a problem, but three strong boys buckling into a job of that kind can make pretty good progress. you can imagine how anxious we were to start on our dangerous and memorable journey. the call of the river was continually in our ears, and we would look way down the stretch of water and wonder what lay ahead of us in that far and mysterious land surrounded with weird plateaus and strange ranges. "i'm going to put a keel on our craft," said jim. "that will be the only way to keep her to the current." "i'd like to know where you will find it?" i asked. "don't you worry about that," replied jim. "i'll locate it all right. you fellows rest while i look around." "i don't need a rest," i answered. "you lay out some work for us while you are scouting around." jim stood with his boot upon one log and his hand on his knee, supporting his chin. his eyes had a dull glaze and from this symptom and his attitude, i want you to know that jim was cogitating, and it was a subject worth thinking about, too, for it was of great importance that we should have a raft that would meet the requirements of the river. chapter xviii the building of the boat "all right, jo," said jim, "i'll give you a contract that you can work on until sunset." he looked over our bunch of logs carefully and picked out the three largest and finest. "you can begin on these," he said. "take the adzes and the axes and go to work and hollow them out." "what for?" i asked. "you will see later," he replied. "try to think it out for yourselves." then he took himself off and we went busily to work. we certainly had our task cut out for us. "what do you suppose jim is after?" i asked. "perhaps he is going to have us hollow out a canoe apiece and go sailing down the colorado to see who will reach the end or get drowned first." "maybe he thinks that it will make the logs more buoyant and they will float higher if they are hollow," suggested tom. "it will take us a month or more to finish all these logs," i grumbled. "what shape do you suppose the raft will be?" tom inquired. "something like this," i said, taking my index finger and drawing a square in the sand. tom shook his head. "that would be too clumsy," he said, "and it would be striking on every rock and would be terribly hard to steer." "what's your idea?" i asked. "instead of having it square, i would have it this shape," he answered. and he drew an oblong figure in the sand while i looked on. "yes," i said, "and if it ever swung sideways to the current it would dam the river besides spilling us out." "i would have a long steering oar on the stern and that would keep her head to the current," he replied. "yes, you would have a jolly time where there was cross currents. it would take about ten horse power to steer it." "it's a lot better than yours," he said. no doubt that was correct enough, but i did not take any pride in my ability as a ship constructor. jim was yet to be heard from. and doubtless he would have improvements on both our designs. there was no question but there was room for them. we went to work again at our task of hollowing the logs. we went at it fiercely because we wanted to accomplish something before dark. it was almost sunset now. then we heard jim's voice. "gee! haw! buck! get up, piute! coyote!" "by jove, he's snaking down a big timber with our old plugs. where do you suppose he got it?" exclaimed tom. "swiped it from our next neighbors," i suggested. "it must have been part of the foundation, from the size of it." "hey, jim, where did you corner that?" tom yelled. jim did not deign to reply until he had brought the big timber alongside of the other logs. "i captured that over there on the other side of the valley," he informed us proudly but indefinitely. "where did it come from?" i inquired. "from some of the union pacific bridges, about six hundred miles above here," he replied. "some flood brought it down." "it's a fine stringer," i commented. "there's any quantity of good stuff in the drift over there," jim said, "boards and about everything else we need to make our old raft shipshape. it's time to knock off work, boys, now; you have made a good start on those logs." "i'm going to wash off," i declared. the rest followed my example. it was a close, hot evening and it felt mighty refreshing to get into the river, for we had put in a hard day's work and were dirty and sweaty, though we were not especially tired. "why don't you swim over to that rock, jim?" i asked. "not for me," he said, shaking his head. "i know when i have had enough." we did not stay in the water long and in a short time we were seated in camp, and with ravenous appetites were attacking our supper, our heads still wet and our faces shining red from the water and the sun. we were just tired enough to enjoy sitting on the old bent cottonwood, swinging our feet. you know how you feel if you have been tramping all day or working in the fields, and after a good clean up, sit down to a square meal. we were in high spirits as we had made a good start or rather laid a basis for our work. we certainly felt sturdy and adequate enough for anything. there is a peculiar feeling of strength that comes to one after a day of muscular exercise and we had had that all right. "what are you going to do with that big stick, jim?" i asked. "that goes for the keel," he answered. "you are not going to build a boat, are you?" i inquired. "no," replied jim, "but even with a raft you will have to have something to keep her in the current." we got into our blankets quite early and slept like logs, with never a thought of mosquitoes or anything else. a mountain lion might have crept down and yanked one of us off and the other two would not have been the wiser. jim got us out the next morning before the sun was up and we were down at the beach working like beavers. i tell you it was a busy scene. tom and i, with axes and adzes, hollowing out the two logs. jim went to work on his stringer, shaping it up and also digging it out after he had made some measurements of the log i was working on. when night came, after we had put in twelve hours' steady toil i felt discouraged. it did not seem that we had accomplished much, but jim was cheerful. the following morning, however, after a refreshing night's sleep, it looked much more hopeful as i stood on the beach looking over what had been accomplished on the two previous days. jim's plans began to shape themselves and we saw what our new craft was to be like. his design was far superior to what we had planned. the groundwork was three of the longest and largest logs. the bow was three feet across, the end of the logs being trimmed and shaped together. the stern was made by the spread of the logs and was at least six feet across. this end was also shaped up so as to offer as little surface to the current as possible. the logs were held together by heavy planking that we had recovered from the drift. these were spiked to the logs. before this was done jim had fixed his heavy keel to the middle log. he had hollowed it to the shape of the log so that it fitted to it and made it as much like a boat keel as possible. it was pretty well water soaked and half as heavy as iron. "how are you ever going to launch this craft?" i inquired. "she will be sure to weigh a ton." "we will come to that in a couple of days," replied jim. the crucial time came and we went to work to get the raft into the stream. we were aided by the fact that it had been purposely put together near a steep slope into the river. by means of the leverage of long poles and blocks we raised it up, and with smaller logs placed underneath we rolled it down into the stream. "hurrah!" yelled jim. "she floats like a duck." it was a jubilant moment for us. we had worked hard and carefully, and it was worth while. it was a quiet stretch of water in the bend, but we took extra precautions and had strong ropes at each end fastened to heavy rocks on the shore. jim had also selected a very heavy well-shaped stone, and we used this for an anchor at the stern. "it's taken us a full week to get her launched," said jim, "but before we are through with this river we will be mighty glad that the old tub is so strong and shipshape." we now executed a dance on her main deck, which was more remarkable for action than for grace. "she's steady as an old rock," i said. "what shall we call her?" "the juanita," suggested tom, who was always something of a gallant. "call her 'the colorado,'" i suggested. "hold on," cried jim, "i know a better one than that. we ought to remember our old friend. call her 'the captain.'" "the captain," we cried in chorus, raising our hands in military salute. so our boat was named and well named. "we ought to finish the superstructure in three days," said jim. "you would have thought it was an ocean liner to hear jim talk. "and the oars," i said. "yes and the cabin," put in jim. "of course," he said, smiting his chest, "the commodore must have a cabin and we want a place where we can store things and keep them dry." "she will look like quite a boat," said tom. "i suppose you will want to rig up a sail, too?" "never mind about the sail now, tom," said our new commodore with dignity. "you landlubbers can go ashore, i'm going to sleep abroad." tom and i decided that we preferred to be on _terra firma_ as we were more used to it, so we slept in camp, leaving jim on his beloved yacht. chapter xix we start the next few days were as busy as the preceding ones, except that the work was not as heavy. when we went down to the river in the morning we found jim busily at work. he was bending over, driving a nail in a board on the side and i struck him fairly with a carefully aimed clod of earth. "hello, commodore, how are you this morning?" i inquired. "were you seasick last night?" "what do you beach combers want?" asked the commodore severely. "i haven't anything for you to eat." "we want work," said tom. "come aboard and i'll give you all you want," was the reply. "did she hold all right last night, jim?" i asked. "steady as a scow," he replied. "what are you going to do to-day?" tom inquired. "you and jo can work on the side boards," he replied, "and i will make the oars." so we went cheerily about our work, feeling that in another day we would finish the job. "how many miles do you suppose we will make a day?" i asked. "that depends on the current," replied jim. "the captain said that an old trapper told him that in some places the river went over twenty miles an hour." "that's as fast as some trains," tom said. "of course it averages much below that," continued jim, "probably it is going ten miles by here." "we ought to make a hundred miles a day in some places, then," i said. "you can't tell; sometimes we will have to walk," responded jim. "walk!" exclaimed tom. "how's that?" "well, climb would be the better word," he explained, "because we will come to rapids, where we will have to let it down by ropes while we are climbing along the cliffs." "you might just as well try to hold a dozen runaway horses as that boat going down a steep rapid," protested tom. "that's so," said jim and his face clouded as he thought it over. "never mind, i'll back this craft to go through. 'the captain' is no egg shell of a boat. all we will have to do is to hold on. you can't sink her and i tell you she's put together to stay." "how do you think she will act in the current, being so much broader in the beam than at the bow?" asked tom. "you see if she isn't easier to steer than a flat bottomed scow," said jim. "the way she is cut under fore and aft will help a whole lot. then the logs being hollowed out makes her more buoyant." the evening of the third day after this conversation found us ready to embark the next morning. all our supplies were aboard. what was perishable we had put in the deck house which was a little aft of the center. it was made as near water tight as possible. the cracks between the boards we had filled in with pitch taken from the pine trees. in this house we stored our provisions, which we had put into boxes that we had made from boards that had come down in the drift. our axes and other carpenter tools were fixed securely by strips of leather into which the blades and handles fitted. nothing was left to roll around at hazard. we knew to a certainty that we would have fierce rapids to run and sometimes we would be awash from stern to stern. our rifles had places fixed for them on the outside of the deck house, which was covered with tarpaulin to make it as completely water-tight as possible. now everything was finished and we stood surveying our boat with pardonable pride. it had taken nearly two weeks of unremitting toil, some of the working days being twelve and fourteen hours even. but it was worth it all. it gave us a sense of fitness and security for the perilous trip that we were to start on in the morning. "'the captain' looks like a man of war with all those glittering axes and other weapons. we ought to go out on the spanish main." "if she lines up to her name she will be a man of war," said jim. "i wish it were morning so we could start. let's have supper aboard anyway." this was agreed on, and we soon had a fire built on the beach, and the blue smoke rising in a slender column through the absolutely still air. jim slept aboard, but tom and i decided that it was softer on the sand, so we rolled into our blankets and with the sound of the river in our ears, as it rolled its volume into a narrow ravine below, we were soon asleep. a shrill whistle woke us up. "all aboard, steam's up," cried jim. it did not take us a second to wake up to the glad realization that this was the day we started. it beat all the holidays rolled into one for genuine interest and excitement. full of life and health and young, with a marvelous and exciting trip just before us. "hurrah for 'the captain'," yelled jim. "hurrah for the colorado," cheered tom. "hurrah for us," i cried. a brief breakfast and we were ready to cast off. we had to say good-bye to our ponies. it hurt us more, in a way, than if they had been human beings. they did not seem to mind and the last we saw of them they were grazing peacefully in the meadow along the smaller stream. tears were in jim's eyes as he took a last look at piute. i did not have such a deep affection for animals as jim, though i thought a good deal of coyote. as the sun came up over the eastern height of the adjacent valley, we were ready to start on our perilous trip. "now, shove her off," cried jim. "then to your oars." slowly we pushed her away from the bank, jim at the stern, tom amidship and i in the bow. in a second the current caught her and with a slight clip and rush we went down a little rapid, past the rock that jim had swum to, and then out into the main current of the green, and we were at last on our way to the colorado. for the first ten minutes nothing was said, for we had our hands full taking our first lesson from the river, and learning something of the ways of our boat. i had the bow oar and tom had the other oar just back of me on the opposite side, while jim was at the stern with the big steering oar, which had taken him one day to make and half of another to put in place. it was a mighty essential part of our equipment and jim could guide her in good shape as he stood at the stern, bending it this way and that. we found that we were able to fight the most capricious currents with jim at the stern oar, and i pulling on one side and tom backing water on the other. our first preliminary run was through a ravine, where the river was about two hundred feet wide. i had the most thrilling position in the bow, as i could see first what was ahead. for the first three miles our course lay straight and the water swept steadily along with a tremendous power in it that made us feel our insignificance. but at the end of the three miles the river narrowed to a gorge and i could hear the roar of rapids ahead, the first of many that we were to encounter. it is impossible to describe the peculiar sensation of being dashed along helpless into something that we could not see, and the hazard of which we could not imagine. judgment must be instantaneous and a single mistake meant destruction. chapter xx our first day jim depended on me very largely for his orders, as he had to give his whole attention to the steering oar. "now, jo, watch sharp for rocks," he yelled. i nodded my head. we were almost at the beginning of our first real canyon. it seemed like going into a cave full of hundreds of roaring lions. the white-grey rocks rose up for a thousand feet or more and there was no sunlight at the bottom of the canyon, only a cold, forbidding gloom. we had no time to become frightened, there was always something to do, some quick decision to make, no time for backing out. then we shot down into the gloom of the canyon with resistless force. never shall i forget that turmoil of sensation that was like the turmoil of the river around us. about a hundred yards ahead a great rock divided the river. we were bearing down upon it. "starboard," i yelled, bending my head in the direction, and pulling with all my might, while tom backed water and i could see the bow swerve as jim bent to the steering oar. then we swept sideways from the rack. i thought we were going to be sent square over, flopped like a pancake. we were on a big slant and i could do nothing with my oar. we plunged down into the river and a swift current was bearing us straight to the precipitous wall as fast, it seemed to me, as an arrow from the bow. i had not time to use my oar, so drew it in and picked up a long pole that we had for just such an emergency. tom sprang back to help jim at the steering oar, and their combined strength made the boat swerve. how they pulled! double their ordinary strength. it told though. i braced my feet against the sideboards, near the bow, and as we came slanting to the cliff i shoved against the rock with all my weight and might. the water piled up against the side bow and i swerved it clear by a couple of feet, and with a mighty wrench at the steering oar, we swept by the precipice and out into the river again. "a pretty close call," shouted jim and tom in chorus, and i agreed. there was no time for rest and congratulation. the rapids humped themselves all around us, and we held a straight course amongst them. in a few minutes a greater peril than the one we had just passed through faced us. we could see a line of foam that seemed to extend across the river. an anxious look came into jim's face. it was the first time that i had seen him look worried. it was a quarter of a mile away. there was no place for us to stop, nothing but the precipitous cliffs on either side. we had to decide on a course and quickly. "through the center," yelled jim. "it's our only chance." then i saw a split boulder in mid-stream and the water passing through it. it did not look more than eight feet wide though it may have been ten. we swept down towards it at race horse speed. there was a terrible roar of confused waters all around us. it depended on jim, for we had to draw in our oars entirely, quite a distance before we reached the rock. it seemed as if we were going into the jaws of destruction. one swerve and we would pile up against the rock and be rolled over and over to sure and certain death. escape was impossible in that turbulent and terrible river, with its onrush of water. as our oars were in, tom jumped back to help jim. i knelt in the bow waving my hands to direct them for my voice could not be heard. jim, grim, with tense jaw and lips curled back as if he were snarling at the river that would cow him, guided her straight and true into the jaws of the dragon. on a full tide of water we rushed between the rocks that seemed to dash by as do objects by an express train going at full speed, not a foot to spare on either side. then we plunged like a shot down the streaked incline of foam sprinkled water into the river below. i thought the bow was going clean under, and i ran back toward the stern. talk about going down hill on a sled, this beat it altogether. this was the proper move, because our combined weight in the stern, of nearly four hundred pounds, helped to keep the bow up some. but she shipped a good deal of water. after sliding down hill for a half mile further we ran into quieter water, and within an hour we were out of the narrow canyon into an open and more sluggish current. "tom, you steer now for awhile!" commanded jim. "it's easy, and jo and i will bail." "i bet you feel pretty well used up, jim," i suggested. "it was terrible work for awhile." "i'll feel it in my shoulders to-morrow, i reckon," he admitted. "but what do you think of that last sprint we made between the rocks? that was a 'la-la-peruso.'" this was jim's ultimate term of expression; he never got higher than that and he used it but rarely. "think of it!" i exclaimed. "i don't want to think of it. it makes me dizzy even now. what luck to get through!" jim's face sobered for a moment. "it was partly my steering and partly providential," he said. "otherwise we would never have made it. i don't believe that we will strike anything worse in its way than that." after we had finished bailing, jim sat on the deck house looking over his boat with commendable pride. "well, boys, what do you think of 'the captain?'" he asked. "she looks all right to me." "she certainly is," i replied, "and she don't ship as much water as i expected." "she rides light for such a boat, too, keeps her head well above water," remarked jim, "but one thing has got to be done and that is to cut holes in the sides so the water will drain out quickly. otherwise we will be carrying a good many more hundred pounds than we need to." "you come and try your hand at steering, jo," said tom. "it's lots of fun." "it's a shame to deprive you of the pleasure," i returned. still i had some curiosity to see how she steered, so after awhile i relieved tom. it was interesting work where there were no especial obstructions, and the current was running broadly and smoothly as it was at this point. "she steers fine, jim," i said. "you can get a big purchase on this oar standing up." "see how you can get around that rock ahead," he called. i could see its grey back bulging up from the water ahead, and the foam bubbling around it. i bent to the oar, swinging the bow around, and went by the rock in good shape. "she certainly answers the helm all right," i reported. "we can manage unless there is a string of rocks right across the stream." "it will be easier as we go along," said jim. "not the river, of course, that will get worse, but we will understand it better, all its little curly-cues and cute little ways, like slambanging you into a cliff when you think that she is going to curve the other way." in the early afternoon we ran into a broader canyon with great walls set back from the river and thickly dotted with pines. the walls were magnificent, over two thousand feet in height, reaching in curves ahead of us, and curving down to the stream in bold promontories. "by jove, but this is a fascinating business," called jim, as we approached a great curve in the canyon. "you never knew what is ahead the next minute." "yes," i replied, "it is, but there is an uncertainty about it that i don't like. how do we know but there may be a waterfall just around the corner there?" "it may be rapids, but no waterfall," replied jim. "you needn't expect any niagara to loom up, because the parties who have been down here before would have discovered it and that would have been all that they would have discovered." "i bet that this stream rises sometimes," interposed tom. "just look at that drift caught up there on that cliff, that must be all of thirty feet." "it isn't very low water now," said jim, "which is lucky for us, for we would be knocked out pretty quick if we ran into a whole nest of rocks or at least we would get stalled." "i reckon that only a light skiff could go down here in low water," said tom. "yes," i replied, "but it would be stove in pretty quick if it should strike an outcrop of rock." "i guess 'the captain' is the boat for this business," commented jim. "we will knock through with her somehow." "more rapids," i cried, as we rounded the curve in the canyon. tom and i sprang to our oars, and in five minutes we were fighting our way through a bunch of foaming rocks, then down a bunchy descending current. after a run of fifteen miles we came to a place where the river broadened into quietness, and ahead of us we saw a place where the waters rippled into a cove. "there's the place to land," cried jim. chapter xxi a river ambush we pulled diagonally across the river, and brought "the captain" quietly alongside a gravelly shore that came down quite steep to the water. "let go your bow anchor there," commanded the commodore. splash went the heavy rock overboard with rope attached, and jim let down the other anchor from the stern. it seemed to me fine to be on land again. it was a relief to be out of the savage grip of the river, even for a little while. "how far have we come to-day, jim?" i asked. "between eighty and ninety miles, i reckon," he replied. "i feel as if i had rowed it myself. it gets into your shoulders handling that sweep." "it's work, too, with the oars," i suggested. "we ought to be pretty powerful specimens by the time we have see-sawed down this river for a thousand miles or more." "it's liable to make us muscle bound," declared tom gloomily. "ho! ho! tommy," cried jim, slapping him on the shoulder. "you certainly are a lulu. don't worry, you will never get muscle bound." "but bound to get muscle," i put in. "you needn't knock a fellow down," exclaimed tom, wriggling his shoulder. "might just as well be hit with a brick as have you pat me with that big hand of yours." "it's good for you," said jim. "will make you tough." "i've got too many things to make me tough," declared tom. "we're plumb crazy to be tackling this river. it wasn't intended to be navigated." "perhaps not," responded jim coolly, "but it is going to be navigated this time. i am going to fix our boat now so we won't have to bail when the waves come over." so jim went to work and in a short time he had cut three places on either side so that the water could drain through and back into the river. while he was busy i went back of our camp with my shotgun, looking for game. at this point the walls bent back from the river for over a mile, and there was a growth of brush and of pine and cottonwood trees. i had gone probably half a mile, when i saw a heavy bird rise from the brush ahead of me and light in a tree. it was too big for a grouse and i was puzzled to make it out. keeping cautiously out of sight i crawled up to within range, and, taking aim at a dark bunch among the branches, i fired and down it came kerplunk on the ground. i ran quickly up, and to my surprise i saw that it was a fine turkey, a big gobbler. "my! won't this make the boys open their eyes and their mouths too," i mused to myself. picking up the turkey i continued hunting back towards the receding wall of the canyon. after a half hour's climb over rocks and through brush i came to a dark, narrow slit running westward through the wall of the canyon. i decided not to go any further and perhaps it was just as well. something made me turn around, and i took up the trail for the camp. i had not gone far before i knew that i was being watched and followed. once i caught sight of a stealthy figure crawling from bush to bush. i was not greatly concerned, for i did not think that the object of the indian was an attack, but simply to stalk me, and find out my business. when i reached camp, i found tom and jim busy getting supper. they glanced up as i approached. i had fastened the turkey behind me in my belt. "you're a mighty hunter," jeered jim. "got nothing but exercise as usual." "just bad luck. i'm sorry, boys," i replied meekly. "what's the use of being sorry?" growled tom. "i'm tired of eating nothing but jerked venison. i want a change of diet." "you do, you old growler," i exclaimed. "take that," and i swatted him over the head with the turkey. tom nearly fell over with the shock and the surprise of seeing a real turkey. it was the first that we had seen since we had left the hospitable home of our friends the hoskins, way back in kansas. "thanksgiving has come!" cried jim. "where did you put salt on his tail?" "he was roosting in a tree back there," i replied, "and i just naturally called him down." "glad you did," came from tom. "we will soon have him ready for supper." "that wasn't all i saw," i announced with an air of mystery. "dew tell," remarked jim. "i hope it was cranberries." "no, an indian," i replied. "where is he?" inquired jim. "i didn't bring him in," i said. "i guess he's over there in the brush, looking at us now." "haw, haw!" exclaimed jim, turning in the direction indicated. "come in lo, and have some turkey," he called. but the indian showed no inclination to come forward. "why didn't you shoot him?" asked tom. "i only had the shot gun," i replied, "and then he may belong to a friendly tribe." "that's so," assented jim. "we don't want to make enemies if we don't have to." we slept that night without being disturbed, and the next morning we were ready to start while dusk was still in the canyon, though it had been morning for several hours upon the upper and outer earth. "how do you feel, jim?" i asked. "all right," he replied. "i was a bit lame when i got up. you boys were still sleeping, so i took the gun and went back hunting for turkeys." "what luck?" i asked. "look in the cabin," he replied. "three!" i exclaimed, "that's fine. they will last us four or five days." "i found all three of them roosting on a limb," jim said, "two the first barrel, and the other one the second." we now made preparations to reã«mbark. it did not take us long to weigh anchor and with a hearty shove we were headed down stream. jim was at the sweep and i had my position in the bow. "it seems kind of home-like to be aboard again," announced jim. "it does that," i replied. "we understand our craft now, and feel sure she will take us through if we do our share." this was true. perhaps we did not have the enthusiasm with which we started, but we had a confidence in ourselves and in our boat that had come through dangers and difficulties, encountered and overcome. i felt a thrill of competence and expectation go through me as i gripped the familiar handle of my oar and settled myself ready to pull hard when the time should come. i did not have to wait long, for now we were going through a continuous canyon with great walls of red sandstone, two thousand feet in height. after running a succession of rapids, dodging boulders this way and that, we saw ahead of us the sharpest canyon curve we had yet met. it seemed that the canyon itself ended right there and that the water was piled upon the great red wall opposite. if you want to get the idea in a miniature way, take a board, put it partially across some little stream and see how the water runs up on the board and curves around the end of it. pull as we would we could not overcome the force of the current that was carrying our boat towards the wall. it would have required superhuman strength to have turned our craft. we struggled frantically and jim bent the sweep till it seemed on the point of breaking. the best we could do was to modify the force of the current. we bore down on the cliff like a shot, as if we were about to ram it. but we managed to swerve the boat somewhat, and we struck the rock a glancing blow that jarred our boat through and through. the force of the impact sent me hard against the side of the boat. how jim kept his legs i do not know, but before i had time to struggle to my feet, we had rounded the curve and were taking a dizzying plunge down the current. to you boys of these days, it was comparable only to shooting the chutes. on the downward slant the experience was like that when a buggy goes around a curve on two wheels, almost tipping over. fortunately our boat did not capsize. i sprung and got my oar as we shot down into the boiling river. there was no time to be frightened, only to act. a great rock rose squarely in our way. we were rushing down on it with the speed of an express train. jim bent the sweep into the rushing tide of the river and i buckled to the oar. we grazed by and down the rapids we went. we were becoming used to incidents like this and did not make much ado about them. we had a clear sweep ahead of us, but very rapid. the walls widened some, with ledges and shelves above the water. i was the lookout in the bow when i saw a sight that caused me to yell to jim: "there's a whole lot of indians on the cliff up there waiting for us." "we can't stop," grinned jim. "if they want to say anything they will have to telegraph." this was correct, for we were being borne along on a current that was running fifteen miles an hour, if not more. "do you think they are hostile?" tom inquired anxiously. "it wouldn't surprise me a bit," i replied. "that indian who trailed me last night probably was a scout, and has told his people that we were shooting the river and this is the reception committee." "take to the cabin, boys," commanded jim, "if they commence to fire things. i'll steer." chapter xxii the attack we had only a couple of minutes for anticipation, for we were coming down like a runaway race-horse toward the narrow place in the chasm where they stood. jim swung the boat over to the middle of the stream to get the benefit of the fastest rapids, for it was speed just now that we needed more than anything else. we might have steered in close to the wall under them, but there was a nasty "sag" that would have rendered us helpless, and when we did get into the current again we figured that we would lose headway and make a better target. we could make out that there was great excitement among the indians, on the ledge some four hundred feet above the stream. there was little doubt about their intentions now, and they were not of the peaceful variety. one of them had a carbine which he aimed toward us, a little puff of smoke and then there was a flick in the water back of us. others stood with bows drawn back at full strength as they poised forward and let fly a snow storm of their white feathered darts. swish, swish they cut into the water all around us. "it beats the hail storm way back in kansas," yelled jim. six or more of the arrows struck in the boat. one transfixed the top of the cabin. as if stung, our boat leaped forward down the rapid. now we were almost under the party of indians. as i dodged into the cabin where tom was already curled up, i saw them stand poised with stones, some grasping them above their heads with both hands. then they hurled them down in a regular hail. the water splashed in white foam all around the boat and the spray dashed in all directions. one large round stone struck the bow splintering a board. several more fell crash on the deck. two grazed jim as he dodged, yet stuck valiantly at his post, holding the boat to the current. he was splashed from head to foot with the flying spray. fortunately none of the missiles struck the steering oar. finally a shell,--well it seemed like it, but i mean a stone,--came down fair on the roof of the cabin, splintering through and falling on tom's leg. this smoked us out, and we crawled out on deck. "give those fellows a shot," yelled jim, "make 'em dance, jo." i seized my rifle from the side of the cabin and leveled it back up the canyon at the group of indians, who had given us such a warm reception. it was laughable to see the effect upon them as i aimed. all that could dropped flat to the ledge, making themselves extremely small. some clambered winding up the rough face of the rock. i picked one of the climbing indians and fired, the roar of the concussion in the narrow canyon was startling. it rolled back and forth like the thunder of artillery. at my third shot an indian slipped, it was one below the fellow i was aiming at, caught frantically at the face of the rock, missed the narrow ledge and shot down toward the river, whipped twice over in his fall, and with a great splash, disappeared into the muddy, whirling river. i shall never forget the dark velocity with which that indian fell. it was something appalling and it made me shrink inwardly, even if the fellow was our enemy. "good shot, boy," yelled jim. "he wasn't the fellow i was aiming at," i explained, "it was the one above him." "why didn't you keep still," came from tom, "no one would be the wiser and you might have had the credit of a fine shot." "i don't see it," i replied, "there's no real satisfaction in that sort of a bluff. then, too, you establish a reputation that you can't live up to in case of need and that's no fun." "right you are, jo," commented jim. "don't mind tom's advice because he is going to be a lawyer." "i'm more likely to be a cripple," retorted tom. "that stone came near breaking my leg." "to the oars, boys," suddenly cried jim, "here comes another rapid. never mind the leg now, tom. we will run ashore as soon as we can." so we took our places again. the board on tom's side was smashed by a rock and as we dashed into the rapid we begun to ship water. fortunately this series was nothing like so bad as we had before passed through. in a half hour we got into quieter water and soon sighted a gravel beach at the foot of a cliff that here receded some. "we will run in there and look things over," announced jim. "stand ready to throw over the bow anchor, jo. the river is running strong there. we will have to catch it just right." partly by good luck and good management we did manage to lay alongside the gravel beach, though "the captain" pulled taut at the anchors. "what do you think of that for a scrape?" asked jim. "talk about it raining pitchforks, why, it rained arrows and hailed rocks. i know now something how it would be to be under fire in battle. but this was fun." "you were certainly _under_ fire if i'm a judge," commented tom. "it's a wonder you weren't struck, jim," i said. "it seemed like a miracle to me," he replied. "why, two big rocks just grazed me and an arrow struck right between my feet and i don't know how many swished by me. they simply made a pincushion of the water around me." "i'm the real hero," grinned tom, sarcastically, "because i got wounded. it was a hard bump too." "it's lucky that you had a roof over you," i remarked. "you were just as lucky," he retorted. "all hands and the cook repair ship," commanded jim. "we might just as well get the surplus stones overboard. we don't need so much ballast." there must have been eight stones of various sizes, but mostly round. the largest was about eight inches in diameter. the eight pounder, jim called it. "it made the old boat shiver when that landed," remarked jim. "it's the only one that broke the deck." it had embedded itself in the planking, and when he yanked it out we could see through to the water underneath. the other stones had left bad dents and bruises on the three half-inch planking, but none had gone through except the eight-inch shell above referred to. "lucky we brought those extra boards along," said jim. "we will soon fix up that hole in her bow." "and put a new roof on the cabin," i pleaded, "that's up to tom because the stone that broke it hit him on the leg." "you've got a logical mind, haven't you?" sneered tom. "it wasn' my fault that the coon indian threw the rock that did the smashing." "don't go to arguing, tom," said jim, "but get to work; jo is just guying you, tom," he concluded. it sounded like a carpenter shop set up in that grim canyon, for a while, with the drawn rip of the saw and the ringing of the hammers driving home the nails. every sound was sent bounding and echoing from rock to rock on either side, until the canyon was like one great clangorous workshop. in an hour's time we had everything shipshape again. the bow was repaired, also the hole in the deck and in the cabin roof. the scars remained upon the deck alongside, but these we were rather proud of and we felt we had a right, for our boat had proved herself stanch and strong enough to resist every danger and every attack. the arrows we had extracted and kept for curiosities. they were of darker wood than those of the northern tribes we had skirmished with. they were also tipped with a different variety of stone, with green streaks running through it. while jim and tom were putting the finishing touches to the job i jumped ashore and busied myself looking for specimens among the shingles and small stones on the shore. i always took advantage of every opportunity to get ashore, while jim stuck to his boat like a barnacle and if he had been allowed his choice, he would never have set foot off from her. "you can see where the boat's entire side has been scraped," i said, "she certainly looks like she has been through a battle." "that's where the rock we bumped into took the hide off," admitted jim, "but she's none the worse for wear," he continued. "'the captain' will take us through many a worse scrape than this." i could not blame jim for his confidence and he had a right to his pride in her, for it was his skill that had made her a serviceable boat instead of the clumsy raft tom or i would have planned and constructed. his success showed us the value of patient, hard work in preparing for an expedition that was hazardous at the best and would have been criminally reckless, if we had not had some one with a good head like jim's to guide us through. it wasn't boy's work. chapter xxiii a close call i had a nice time of it, looking for specimens. there is a fascination about the search for some rare or precious stone. you feel that the next step may bring it under your eye or that you may overturn some stones and find it hidden underneath. i moved along carefully, keeping my eyes intent in their search among the small broken rocks and rounded pebbles. suddenly my eye caught a clear glitter and i stooped and picked up a beautiful crystal, with its sharp cut sides and water clearness. a little later i picked up a green stone that looked like jade, through it was not so clear. my last specimen was a smoky topaz of mild, dark transparency. i had been longer in my search than i realized, for i was so intent and interested that i did not note how time was passing. "all aboard, jo," jim yelled. "hurry or you will be left." tom was already pulling up the bow anchor and jim stood ready to hoist the one at the stern. "all right," i called back. then i stooped to look at a peculiar stone. i heard a cry of alarm and glanced up. "for heaven's sake, jo!" was the startled cry that reached my ears. it was all that jim could say. i needed no warning. the boat was drifting away from the shore, carried by the current rapidly towards the outer river. if i could not reach it, i was absolutely lost. the boat could not return and i was shut in by inaccessible cliffs. there was just one thing to do. i took a short run forward and sprang out in the river as far as i could in the direction of the drifting boat. jim and tom were doing all they could, but it was impossible for one oar to effectively hold against the current. jim had his hands full with the steering sweep. as soon as i lit in the icy river,--my leap must have been eighteen feet,--i struck out desperately for the boat. the current helped me, but it seemed to be carrying the craft on faster than i did. it was terrible, i had to catch it or my death was certain. nothing could have saved me. "the captain" seemed as remote and unreachable as though the length in feet that separated us had been miles. if you have ever chased after a train that was gathering momentum every second as it pulls from the station, a train that you feel you must catch, you can have a faint inkling of how i felt. still only a faint idea, for there was no later train for me. i had to fight back a blinding fear and panic. if my heart had become cold like my body i should have not had the slightest chance. i was a strong swimmer and in my desperation i actually pulled up two strokes on her. then she reached a swifter current and pulled away from me rapidly. i struggled on blindly, though i knew i was lost. a mist was before my eyes and i was conscious of nothing but a straining, strangling, struggling sensation. then my hand instinctively grasped something, and i held on with the clutch of desperation. it was a rope. i felt myself being drawn toward the boat. i had sense enough left to help myself onto the craft, then i collapsed. i came out of it, in a few minutes and found myself lying alongside the cabin. for a second i did not realize where i was. i heard the roar of the river all around and saw the great walls of red sandstone towering up and up, almost shutting out the sky. then i saw jim at the steering oar and tom laboring at the bow oar, and it all came over me. i grew suddenly weak as i realized the narrowness of my escape and i clutched the boards and tried to shut out the sound of the river that seemed like a hungry and devouring animal that for a moment had been balked of its prey. "how are you now, jo?" yelled jim, anxiously. "we can't do anything for you for a bit; we are in the rapids." "i'll be all right in a minute," i answered in a hollow voice that i scarcely recognized as my own. i decided that the best thing that i could do was to get to work at the oars and warm up, for i was chilled through and through to the very bone. i staggered to my place and after i had pulled for a few minutes my blood began to circulate and i felt better and in a short time i was pretty well recovered, but i dared not let my mind dwell on the escape that i had just had. that evening we made a cheerless camp, not being able to run out of the canyon and had to tie up at a place that was nothing but a narrow shelf of rock with a few tough and stunted bushes growing on it. a grey rain, began to come down steadily into the canyon, the first that we had experienced, and we decided to sleep on the boat. "why did you let that boat get away?" was the first question i asked. "it wasn't our fault," explained jim. "it happened this way. when tom pulled up the bow anchor the strain was too much on the other rope. it had become worn, i guess, and it parted near the stone." "that was the rope that was trailing behind, i happened to grasp it and that was all that saved me. it was that close," i shuddered. "no more talk about it to-night," said jim, "you need a good sleep." jim rolled up in his blankets on deck, with a tarpaulin over him. while tom and i lay under the cabin, with our extremities sticking out, but covered with canvas. we managed to feel quite comfortable and cozy with the rain coming down gently on the roof over our heads. we were shut in and felt protected from the storm; and the roar of the river that swept by in the darkness only lulled us to sleep for we had become as used to it as a sailor does to the sound of the sea. jim seemed to be perfectly comfortable under his tarpaulin and being on the deck of his beloved yacht, as he called his creation, he was thoroughly contented. the next morning was grey and the rain was still falling but it seemed warmer than ordinarily and we put our clothes in the cabin to keep them dry and it was fun too, as the rain came down in a regular shower bath. we shoved out into the stream and were soon racing down between the narrow walls of dark canyon, as we called it. guiding the boat, and dodging rocks was fast becoming second nature to us and our muscles, those that we had not used much before, were becoming hard and bunchy as rocks. jim's work at the steering oar was the best all-round exercises, as it took in every muscle in his body as he stood bringing the sweep back and then shoving it from him as the boat needed to be guided this way or that. he had developed great power and control and the sweep had become a live part of the boat just as the tail of a fish guides it naturally through the water with an instinctive wave, this way or that. tom and i often took the sweep with several hours of exercise at a time, but when the rapids became very dangerous jim was always at the helm. it was a pleasure to see his sinewy form as it bent to the guiding oar, with a wary glance ahead every now and then. by noon we ran out of the dark canyon and the river broadened out, the walls became lower and stood further back from the stream than at any point we had yet passed. it seemed to give us breathing space after being cramped so long in narrow walls. we also left the storm behind with its dark grey masses piled up on the cliffs of the canyon and the wind was stirring the vapor around and around between the narrow walls as though the storm was boiling there. the sun had come out with all the hot, intense brilliancy of the desert atmosphere. the river seemed plated with the thin silver of the sun and its current was moving lazily along at about four miles an hour. "by jove!" exclaimed tom, "but it's fine to have the sun again after being buried alive in those canyons." "it's nice to loaf along like this too," i said, "after sliding down hill at forty miles an hour for several hundred miles." "better get all our wet duds out," put in jim, "and hang them in the rigging until they get dry." we did this and then we took it easy for several hours. i laid down on the deck with my head on one of the saddles gazing up into the blue sky and basking in the sun. we felt like sailors who have been through days of storm and who run into a calm in which they can sit on deck and mend their clothes and absorb the sun into their frozen systems. we had the whole afternoon of this restful drifting and made a good camp in a comparatively open place. "let's climb to the top of the cliffs and have a look out," proposed jim. it was not particularly hard and we enjoyed having a chance to climb once more. in an hour we reached the top. "what a splendid view," cried jim. it certainly was. the mountains that we had seen first in the distance, stood out with clear distinctness in their marvelous symmetry and sharp outlines, but robed in a mystery of blue enchantment. we saw nearer to us the wide landscape of the plateau land. chapter xxiv the colorado river "see below there!" exclaimed jim. "it looks as if a big river comes in there. it must be the grand." "then we shall be on the colorado river," i said. "i wonder if we will have any trouble navigating where the two of them come together?" "i have read that there is quite a whirlpool, formed by the junction," replied jim, "we will have to be careful." "from the appearance of things we ought to be able to reach it to-morrow," suggested tom. "we certainly will if we have good luck," responded jim. "do you suppose that we will find any gold or precious stones in the country that we run into below the grand?" questioned tom, who never lost sight of the practical side of our cruise. "we stand a first rate chance," replied jim. "one thing is certain and that is that there has not been very many ahead of us to get away with any valuables that might be near the river. i don't suppose that there have been more than a dozen persons down this river since the world first started rolling." "well, i certainly hope that we will find something that will repay us for all the risks that we have run the past months," remarked tom. "just think of the experience you are getting. don't you consider that valuable?" asked jim. "i have got a goldarned sore leg if that's what you mean, where that rock hit me," growled tom. "you've got a sore head, but you always had that," added jim. "it isn't sore from being swelled," tom retorted, bitingly. "if i ever want a lawyer with a razor-backed tongue, i will employ you," laughed jim. "you won't ever have the money, unless you strike something soon," remarked tom. "let's not quarrel among ourselves, so long as we have the river and the indians to scrap with," i suggested. "very well, old sox, we won't," concluded jim, and tom kept silent. so peace was established, until the next outbreak. it was the middle of the afternoon of the following day that we neared the junction of the two rivers, the grand and the green. we had considerable curiosity to see the uniting of the two great streams. we imagined that the surroundings would be "grand and green" as jim phrased it, but we were to be disappointed. the walls were neither so high nor so impressive as those we had already passed through. they appeared to be about twelve hundred feet high and were set back some distance from the river. "we will make a landing," said jim, "before we reach the junction of the two streams and get a bird's eye view of the situation." "it's a good idea," i said, "i'll keep a sharp lookout for a landing." i soon sighted ahead an excellent place in a rocky little cove, where the waters were quiet. here we effected an easy landing and climbed up on a plateau of absolutely bare rock that extended from the river to the cliffs. "what curious looking formation," exclaimed jim. "it looks something like layer cake. a thick red base then a strip of grey and the red again." there were low walls of this formation bordering the rock plateau and much recessed. "isn't that a strange looking rock over there," said tom, "something like a bunty church with a round tower." this expressed it as nearly as possible. two-thirds of it was of the solid red rock with the broad white band of stone placed squarely upon it. but i cannot stop to refer to the many odd and curious formations, that came under our observation, for i would never have done. after a walk of about a half a mile we came to a place where we could look down upon the mingling of the two rivers. they rushed together equally, the grand being the clearer of the two streams. they whirled in a round dance as they met, forming a great whirlpool. "we will have to look out for that," said jim, shaking his head, "but i think we can avoid it all right." we returned to the boat and prepared for the descent. everything was made tight and snug. "the captain" trimmed perfectly and we shoved off. "all ready now?" said jim. "ready," we replied. we were feeling fresh and fit and were prepared to put every ounce of our strength into the pull. we dropped easily down until we came to the junction. there were deep eddies carved in the water upon the outer edge of the whirlpool, within them was the deadly smoothness moving around and around. we could not see whether there was any central suction of a dangerous character and we did not intend to find out by experience. we got into one of the outer eddies and then we pulled until the blades of our paddles bent almost to breaking, while jim threw all his weight and strength against the sweep to cross the eddy that was struggling to get the boat into its slow, powerful control. it was an obstinate, bitter fight. for ten minutes it was an even break, then with a supreme, united effort we burst through the chains of water, stronger than iron and forged out upon the united waters. at last we were upon the back of the colorado, its powerful current carrying us swiftly along. "hurrah!" yelled jim, "we're off." tom and i were too breathless from the past struggle to yell, but we threw up a triumphant hand. we did not look back to see what we had come through. that we could never do on the colorado, for there was always something to look forward to that required immediate attention. "there's a big canyon ahead," i yelled to jim. "it's got the biggest roar of any we have met yet." "all right, jo," answered jim, "we will swing off to the first good landing." this we found without much difficulty and we got a good night's rest to prepare us for the struggle that lay before us. for the next two days we had a terrific struggle with this canyon, the most dangerous that we had so far encountered. in fact it was in many ways the worst we were to go through on the whole trip. there was one place we ran through that struck me with terror. we came upon it early one afternoon. there was a sharp plunge downward of the river and on all sides it was beaten into foam among the rocks. in the center there was a swift, clear run, that ended in big successive waves. we took it fairly in the middle. jim had become too good a steerer to be beaten now. but when we struck the waves our boat plunged as in a heavy sea. much of it would have made one seasick. one big red fellow curved over the bow, knocking me forward and i was only saved from going overboard by grasping the side and holding on for dear life. it seemed as if the deluge held me under for a full minute, but it was only a few seconds. my oar was shattered and i hastened to replace it with an extra one. we carried several for just such emergencies. "hello!" exclaimed tom, after this exciting episode, "just listen to that thunder." "thunder!" cried jim, "that isn't thunder. it's perfectly clear overhead. there is not a storm within a hundred miles." "what is it then?" demanded tom. jim listened for a moment. there was no denying the sound. it was different from the roar of the river. a deep rumbling bass with a grinding sound to it. "i know what it is!" he cried. "it is the big boulders at the bottom of the river being rolled along by the current." "think of the force of it," i exclaimed. "i bet they are as big as a horse." "nearer an elephant!" cried jim. there was something appalling in a power that could play marbles with huge rocks. "that's what helps to cut these gorges," said jim. i can give no adequate idea of this canyon. it was wonderful. in some places the walls were so perpendicular that they seemed to bend over us. but you must not imagine that the walls were all alike, and always perpendicular. for this was not so. there was a wonderful variety. there were rounded summits of rocks standing back from the river giving the effect of their full majesty. the walls averaged nearly three thousand feet. the prevailing color was the red sandstone but there would be broad bands of grey. towards the lower end the walls were shattered into thousands of pinnacles rising in their piercing splendor towards the blue above. occasionally we swept past a narrow side, or lateral canyon. our one quick impression was of narrow gloom between overwhelming walls. "i wish we could stop long enough to investigate some of these side canyons," said jim, "they look mighty interesting." "there are no way stations on this line," i responded, "this is a through train." it was with a feeling of tremendous relief that we finally emerged from this canyon safely. battered and strained, but still alive. "the captain" was still seaworthy and stanch but she showed many marks and wounds of the terrible descent. chapter xxv a visitor our next canyon of importance was just the opposite of the one we had just passed through. it was as the change from bitter winter to smiling, sunny summer. what a relief and pleasure it was to get into the canyon on below the terrible gorge from which we had just emerged. the walls were not so high by half as the upper canyon, but were of the smooth red homogeneous sandstone, in which were formed caves, grottoes and curious formations by the action of the water. this homogeneous sandstone was like smooth broadcloth, compared to the rough serge of the granite or the tweeds of the thin bedded sandstone. there were also groves and glen with broad-leaved trees as well as pines. "this seems like a picnic," said tom, "after tumbling and twisting and turning through that old gorge back there." "you just wait," said jim, "till we come to the granite gorge of the colorado, then you will have something to talk about." "i won't wait," said tom, "i guess i'll go home now." "stay, stay, fair sir," adjured jim, "we will prospect in this canyon for gold and precious gems, the latter of which you can take home to the dukes and other members of the royal family." "you can joke all you please," retorted tom, "the trouble with you guys is that you haven't brains enough to appreciate my kind of books." "the saints be praised for that," ejaculated jim, "i may have my faults of reputation and of character, but no one can accuse me without being shot of reading silly novels about the lady arabella and her lover, lord lumox." tom's face had grown red with repressed anger and suppressed speech. "look, boys!" i cried in alarm. "what is it? what is it?" they both exclaimed. "don't you see behind those bushes? there's a whole bunch of indians." tom made a plunge forward for his rifle. "hold on," cried jim, "don't exert yourself, tom. jo didn't see any indians. it was just his diverting method of breaking up our little discussion." tom was so disgusted that he turned his back on us and became absorbed in the view down the river. in a little while we heard commodore jim's voice. "to the oars, my bonnie lads. we are coming to another dancing, prancing rapid." tom regarded the commodore askance. "what's the matter with jim?" he soliloquized. "he must consider himself a blooming poet. i guess it's because he hasn't had his hair cut for a year." but all further repartee was cut off by the necessity of attending to business. in a short time we ran out of the rapids. after passing a great wide canyon we came to a very remarkable place. at this point the wall was set back well from the river. "make a landing, jim," i cried, "there's a tremendous cave ahead there in the wall." "all right," replied jim. so we swung our boat over into a quiet cave that was sheltered by gently bending branches of some flowering bushes. making our craft perfectly secure we took the trail to this new wonder that was carved in the great cliff. "well, this is immense," exclaimed jim. that expressed it. it was. "it looks just like the entrance to some great and ancient temple." "whatever made it?" asked tom, in amazement. "water," said jim, "by a process popularly known as erosion." "you got that out of the physical geography," said tom. "i didn't say that i invented it," remarked jim, blandly. "how long did this job take?" i inquired. "a few hundred thousands of years, i suppose," said jim. "how do you know?" grunted tom, "you are just giving jo a filler." "well, putting it another way,", said jim, "it took about as long as it would for you to acquire a knowledge of spelling." this was tom's weak point, but all further controversy was cut off by our nearer approach to this temple. there was a broad arch of one hundred feet in the smooth, red sandstone through which we entered. before this arch and almost in the entrance was a screen of cottonwood trees. we stood within, silent, wondering at the majesty of the interior. it was like being under the dome of some great cathedral, though this had the added grace of being natural. the temple was five hundred feet in width, and two hundred in height, with an opening far above in the roof, through which the blue sky was faintly visible. it was not dark, for the light came from the entrance and dusky slants of sunshine came through the opening above. our eyes were soon accustomed to the twilight of the place. "isn't it grand?" said jim. "i never imagined such a place as this." the floor was mostly of bare rock, smooth but not level, as it was worn concave or with rounding ridges. we crossed over to the opposite side facing the entrance, and sat down on a narrow ledge with a comfortable back of sandstone. "let's sing," said jim. "tune up," cried tom. the sound was not echoed, but the dome gave it a deep, sonorous quality that was really impressive. as we sang we forgot all the hardships of the past, the uncertainty of the present and the dangers of the near future. we were back in civilization again and among our home surroundings and folks once more. the warmth of the sentiment softened us and did us good. "way down upon the suwanee river, far, far away, that's where my heart is turning ever, that's where the old folks stay." "all the world am sad and dreary everywhere i roam. oh, darkies, how my heart grows weary longing for the old folks at home." there was something of pathos in our tones as we sang the last line. jim had a good baritone, and tom's voice was really a fine tenor, while mine was of a nondescript variety. we spent hours in this cavern in singing and exploring around. "i'll tell you what let's do," exclaimed tom. "let's carve our names in here." "good idea," i agreed. so we went to work and in a couple of hours we had finished our task. the sandstone was soft, that is, comparatively so, and we enjoyed working in it. there was a peculiar pleasure in our quiet industry in that sheltered place away from the turmoil of the river and the lone, weird desert land through which we were traveling. i finished my name first. "jo darlington." if you ever visit that cavern, which is most improbable, you will see it there. if some future explorer, several thousand years from now chances to drop in, he will also see my name there, as durable as the stone itself. i left the other artists at work and went out to take a look at our boat. i just stepped outside of the entrance, and at my first glance through the screen of cottonwoods i saw something that froze me in my tracks. i made out an indian making his way along a trail towards our boat. who would reach it first? his purpose was evident. to reach the boat and cut it loose and drift with it into the river. then where would we be? stranded high and dry, with neither supplies nor guns, nor boat. i gave one yell to the boys in the interior of the cave, and sprang forward with unleashed energy. the indian started at the same time towards the boat. he had a clearer trail than i did, and leaped forward with the swiftness of a deer. never had i run for such a stake, neither brush nor logs could stop me. i tore through the bushes with tremendous speed and down the slope towards the boat i hurled myself. but the indian was ahead by fifty feet, and sprang on "the captain." then he turned towards me, throwing one hand up, exclaiming: "how, how, jo darlington?" i stopped and sat down in absolute and unbounded amazement. it was juarez hopkins. "hurry, boys," i yelled, "it's juarez." we gathered around him in an excited state, slapping him on the back, wringing his hand, and executing a war dance upon the deck of "the captain." in reply to our numerous questions he told us simply of his trip in search of us with an occasional gleam of his white teeth. he had met the captain and found out our plans, but not knowing exactly where we would start, he had determined to intercept us below, at the crossing of the fathers. he had worn out two bronchos, but was in good condition himself. it was by a curious accident that he had found us in the temple canyon. i will explain how this was later. chapter xxvi juarez brings us news "you look very much as you used to," said jim, "only you have your hair cut. how were your father and mother?" "father and mother are very well," he said, speaking slowly and very distinctly in a low voice; there was only the slightest trace of an accent. "they grew younger when juanita and i came home." "how is juanita?" inquired tom with a deep and courteous interest. juarez smiled with a flash of his strong, white teeth. "ah, juanita, she too is well. very pretty girl. tall and very strong, but no more than that like an indian. her eyes are blue and hair black, and her skin it is not bad either. juanita she likewise is a child. she sent her love and thanks to the three boys who rescued her. how is that for high?" we laughed. his grafting of a slang phrase on his precise english was amusing. "my mother love juanita very much. she is much comfortable for her. i tell father and mother i stay for awhile on the farm, but by and by leave and go with jim and tom and jo. out in the mountains, over the plains, follow the trail once more. see?" "yes, perfectly, juarez," i said. "i tell my own people i cannot sleep under a roof. i die, no air. i cannot drive fat, slow horses to town. i cannot pitch hay into a wagon or dig up the potato from the ground. no, no! they understand. i have one letter for you all from father and mother." he extracted it from the inside of his shirt where it was fastened. we read it, sitting on the top of our ship's cabin. it contained many messages of good will for us and of affection. they said that they were perfectly reconciled to having their son juarez traveling with us. that they realized that he could not be contented on a farm after having spent nearly all his life among the indians. also we must be sure to visit them before we returned east. it was a good letter and we appreciated every word of it. we seemed united with the outside world once more, and we felt doubly fortified to have our tried comrade, juarez, with us. there had been, as you remember, a natural friendship between juarez and jim. but now, juarez accepted both tom and me as comrades, something he had not done before, which we remembered, if you do not. in appearance, juarez was no longer the indian, except for the lithe grace of his movements and his tireless endurance. there was also a certain dignity of reticence that he had derived from them. his dark hair was neatly cut and he wore a grey flannel shirt and blue trousers. the greatest change was in his eyes. they were of a mild brown and had lost that black fierceness of expression and sullen distrust that had haunted them when we had first met him on the captain's plateau, when his sister juanita was still a captive in the power of eagle feather. "what do you think of our boat, juarez?" "you make her?" he inquired. "sure," we replied. he looked "the captain" over from stem to stern, missing no part of its construction under jim's careful explanation. "ah," he said finally, with a smile. "she is a jim dandy." we grinned our appreciation of his pun. "you are a real american," said tom, "or you would have never thought of that." "how did you happen to strike us here?" asked jim, "instead of at the crossing of the fathers as you had first planned." "i wanted to make a search for some treasure that lies in this canyon," he replied. "i have often heard of it through the captives we took from the southern tribe, the pai ute, who in turn had got it from some of these indians who build houses in the cliffs. "i have it down in paper as much as i remember. we will look together if you agree." "there will be no trouble about that, juarez," we said. he took out a worn piece of paper and studied it carefully. "it is gold nuggets, bracelets and gems and one gold cross taken from the early priests by the indians. "by tradition it was left hidden in the canyon. "it is three curves in the river below a great cavern." "there's the cavern, juarez, up there," said jim. "it is five hundred feet in width and two hundred feet high." "so far, so well," he replied. "at the third curve you land on the west bank, you follow up a narrow slit in the wall of the canyon. beyond it upon a rock, there is a natural formation like this sign o. that is a symbol for the indians of this region. it means a great deal to them, but nothing to me." there was a note of contempt in his voice. "it is in the locality of this marked rock that the indian treasure is hidden. there you have it." "but not the treasure, not yet," i said. "i suppose that it is guarded by some dragon or some evil spell." "they say so. if the treasure is not removed and we get near it, we will be struck by blue lightning from red clouds and our bones will be crushed by some terrible beast or devil; i know not which." "there is the dragon that guards this treasure," said jim, pointing to the river, "and it is certainly a terrible one." "how much is it all worth?" asked the calculating tom. "how can i tell?" replied juarez. "many men have sold their lives for it. how much is a man worth, eh? count it that way. the many strange jewels, three big handfuls, are thousands and thousands of money, besides the gold. the box itself is a richness--beaten gold with gems all over it, so they say." tom stood with his mouth open and his eyes shining. jim laughed at him. "i bet you will make a regular old shylock when you grow up. you are money hungry like all those eastern grubs. i tell you now that you and jo only have a third of our share between you, as you happen to be twins. you see, i'm the oldest, therefore i get two-thirds." i grinned, because i knew that jim cared as little for money as it was possible to. in fact, he was entirely indifferent to it. tom should have known this. but money was, with him, too sacred and serious a matter to be taken lightly. he grew white with anger, and picking up a stick made for jim to strike him. juarez stepped between them. "you excite, hot under the collar. you sit down." tom did so suddenly, and with emphasis under juarez guiding hand. "now you give me that stick?" tom did so and juarez tossed it ashore. that was all. jim said nothing and paid no attention to tom's attack. tom felt ashamed of himself, as he had every reason to, and for some time thereafter was a most amiable person, and jim did not aggravate him. "we will get an early start in the morning," announced jim, "and drop down the river and try our luck in looking for this bunch of valuables." "how did these indians get hold of so much, juarez?" i asked, "especially the gems." "there are a good many stones to be picked up in the southwest," he replied, "and this collection has been growing for centuries." "but the gold box," i said. "they did not make it, i suppose." "no," he replied. "they captured it, that is the indians in the early days, from the hispanooles. and there were a lot of these jewels in it as well as the gold." "well, if somebody hasn't robbed the bank," said jim, "we will soon be wearing diamonds." "we will look like a sporty alderman," i said, "when we get rich." "i expect to wear diamonds in my front teeth," said jim, "if i can't dispose of them in any other way." "we can buy a steam yacht, too," i said. "not for me," remarked jim. "'the captain' is a good enough boat for me. can you row, juarez?" "ah, yes, i think so some, yes. i paddle a canoe many, many times." "this is no canoe, but i know you will do," replied jim. "it's mighty lucky you dropped in on us when you did. tom has had a sore leg ever since an indian back there in another canyon dropped a rock on him." "it was luck that juarez did come along now," i joined in. "we will need him bad enough when we come to the 'gorge of the grand canyon.'" "that's the place!" said jim. "i have read that it is over six thousand feet down from the rim of the canyon to the river." "straight up and down?" asked tom. "no," replied jim. "it's nearly thirteen miles across from rim to rim and the precipitous walls of the gorge are only about fifteen hundred feet." "i have heard of it," said juarez. "all the indians know something about it. some say nobody can go through it alive. that the waters go down into the heart of the earth. it is very wonderful, me see. to-morrow we hunt for the treasure." chapter xxvii the cliff village tom was the first awake the next morning. the reason is evident already to the mind of the acute reader. tom wanted to get on the trail of the buried treasure. we were not entirely indifferent ourselves. as soon as breakfast was finished we got on the boat and pulled out, leaving a camping place which we always remembered with pleasure. the charm of the place was in the temple, where we had sung the old songs. in the evening, too, we had given a special concert in honor of juarez. we dragged some big pine logs into the interior, and soon had a great fire started in the center of the temple. it was a really beautiful sight as the flames leaped upward toward the dome, and the auditorium, with its red walls, showed clearly in the ruddy light, and there was the drapery of the shadows gathered in the corners that moved as do the curtains in a gentle breeze. it was weird, too, especially when juarez gave us some of the old indian chants and war songs. the sounds seemed to summon all the savagery of the southwest to the temple. it was easy to imagine it as a great council chamber in which the chiefs were deliberating on matters of grave importance. so it seemed when juarez chanted. finally we had some rollicking negro songs, and ended up with the star spangled banner, sung with tremendous enthusiasm by the entire congregation, and it was stirring, too, as our voices swelled in that great temple. no wonder that we looked back with regret as we shoved off into the turbulent river. we were at our usual positions as our boat took to the current. juarez was our guest, and we would not let him row, not the first day, but we promised that he would have all that he wanted later. so he paced up and down the deck of the liner, watching jim at the sweep and tom and me at the oars. the stream was very mild in this canyon and nothing like the foaming fury that we had been accustomed to. juarez watched everything with a keen and intelligent eye--saw how we steered and avoided the rocks. his searching instinct was at work. "do you think that you can steer the craft down this trail, juarez?" inquired jim. "yes, i can do so, certainly most. i soon get on to its curves." this was to prove true, for his strength and skill were exactly what we needed in the boat. "here's the last bend," i cried. we followed the graceful, sweeping water around it and made an easy landing on the west bank. "suppose we leave tom to look after the boat," i said, "while we chase after the golden chest." even juarez had to laugh at the comical look of dismay that came over tom's face. he saw that i was joking, and a sheepish smile came over his face. "what shall we take with us?" i asked. "something to eat," replied jim. "of course," i said, "but how about the rifles?" "leave them," said jim, "except one. we must travel light and be prepared for stiff climbing." "better take the heavy hammer and an adze," said tom. this showed that tom had been doing some valuable thinking and he could, too, if he was really interested in anything. "you're right, tom," said jim. "that's what we will need and we had better take a couple of big spikes." "what for?" i asked. "to drill with," jim said, "if we find a place that looks likely we will have to investigate, that's the only way to find it. you don't suppose that it will be out in the open." "then if we are going into the mining business, better take some blasting powder." "good," replied jim. "then a rope and pick may be of great benefit," said juarez. "sure, mike," replied jim with a grin. so each one of us contributed to the material we took along. we divided up the tools between ourselves and had them fastened on so that our climbing would not be impeded. "do you think it safe to leave the boat; we may be gone a day or two?" i asked. "certainly," replied jim. "it won't need anything to eat in our absence, and it has plenty of water. besides, i don't imagine that there are many people back of us coming down the river." i could not help but smile myself at the idea of anyone making the terrible trip down the river. "that's so," i replied. "you can't find three such fools as we are every year. there are other easier ways of committing suicide than gliding down the colorado." "but some indians might find a trail over the wall and steal the boat," said tom. "how many trails do you suppose there are to the colorado river within nine hundred miles?" asked jim severely. "i don't know," replied tom. "just three," said jim, "and this isn't one of them. at least not on the west bank." so that was settled and we started out with a great deal of enthusiasm and energy. it was like being let out from the hard school of the river for a holiday. we needed this breathing spell of pleasure too, for there was something depressing to the spirits in going through the deep and gloomy canyons, exposed to constant danger and shut off from the rays of the sun nearly all the time. there was an exhilaration likewise in the search for this hidden treasure. nor were we on a wild goose chase. we had a definite end in view and a definite guide, though there was enough vagueness to give us plenty of trouble. we went whistling along, singing and joking each other, in high spirits. it was a beautiful, sunny day, with that wonderful quality in the air known only to the highest altitudes. our way lay first through glen, with flowering bushes, willow brush and the pleasant cottonwood trees that do so much to enliven the desert places of the west, so that one grows to look on them with a real affection that one would not give to the most beautiful tree of the overburdened tropics. we came to a low, red wall that blocked our way. it was low, however, only by comparison, with the giant wall of other canyons. juarez regarded it carefully and then shook his head. "ah, no!" he determined. "this is not it. we must climb up." this we did, and after a rather easy climb, going up a narrow transverse ravine, then after a steep pull we came out upon the top of the first wall. we saw the greater outer wall of homogeneous sandstone rising about a half mile distant. between us and it was a comparatively level stretch of rock, with a layer of thin soil upon it, from from which grew dwarf bushes, and everywhere were scattered boulders, some of them huge, others smaller. "there is the place," said juarez, nodding at the walls in front of us. they rose up to a height of over a thousand feet. "there we find it." we walked with our long gliding stride, something as the indians do, scarcely raising the foot. (i may as well have a word with you right here about walking, if you don't mind; it will be of use to you in long tramps. there is considerable nonsense in certain popular ideas about walking. don't strut along with the shoulders thrown back. you will never see an indian plainsman, nor any natural walker do that. let the shoulders droop naturally, but keep the chest out. as you start, break the motion at the hips and use the feet as though they were paddles. leave the backbone out of your walk. anything that saves a jar to that makes for tireless endurance. in using this simple method the weight falls on the front part of the foot. move easily, even loosely, at the joints of ankle and knee. that breaks up stiffness, relieves strain and makes for endurance. paddle out with the feet, and as you start, break the motion at the hip by a slight bend. by this method you acquire springiness. it is something the same effect you get as you stand on the end of a springing board ready to make a dive into water. if you are persistent in using this method, you will find it worth while.) "what is that curious formation under the cliff?" asked tom as we approached the outer wall. "that," said juarez, "is what remains of the houses and caches of the cliff dwellers." it was in a great sheltering cave or open cavern in the beautifully smooth sandstone cliff, several hundred feet from the base of it. there stood, almost as a natural granite from the rock, the square, symmetrical ruins of a tiny cliff dwellers' village. there was something extraordinarily quaint and curious about it as it nestled close under the protecting breast of the great rock. at the base of the cliff were the ruins of a lower village. we found several complete specimens of pottery and many broken shards. we could see that the construction of the thick walls of the close set houses was of flat stones held together by dried clay or with nothing but the rocks themselves pieced together. the windows and doors had sides and slabs of smooth, red stone. chapter xxviii the face in the rock "will we find the treasure up there?" asked tom. juarez shook his head. "no, but those people could have told." we did not stop to cut steps up the precipitous sandstone to the village in the cliff, because we had no time to stop for antiquities. "let's divide here in two parties," said juarez. "all right," said jim. "i imagine that this slit may be a very narrow lateral canyon." "maybe," juarez replied. "i take tom, you and jo go together. the one finding it first will fire as a signal to the other party." this was agreed on and we separated. jim and i took the wall to the north and tom and juarez went south. jim had his rifle and juarez a pistol. we made our way carefully, but saw nothing but the blank wall of red sandstone. "what was that?" i asked twenty minutes after we had left tom and juarez. we stopped and listened intently. there was the faint sound of a distant report. "they have found it," exclaimed jim. we took the back trail and we made good time too. in a short while we saw the two of them way down the wall of the canyon. they waved their hands to us. "we have got it," yelled tom when we came within hearing. "what, the treasure?" cried jim. "no, the side canyon," replied tom. "my! how narrow," exclaimed jim, as he got a first view of it. "it looks just as if someone had taken an axe and split the wall right down," i remarked. that expresses it. it was only a few feet across, extending the whole height of the cliff. in most places the light was shut out as in a cave, in other places there was just a narrow piece of blue ribbon for the sky and a little white sunshine spilt along one upper edge. we went single file--in many places there was no other choice. "this is what they call fat man's nursery," said jim. "fortunately we are a lean and hungry lot." "how are we ever going to get out of this lateral?" asked tom. "the gold chest will be high up." "i tell you, tom," said jim. "just put a foot on one side and the other on the other side and straddle up." this really looked possible in some places. the floor of "lean canyon" was mostly of solid rock, worn into hollows and curves by running water. occasionally we came to places where our way was blocked by some huge boulder that had fallen from the cliff above. or there would be one wedged in half way down from the top. it was a curious sort of a place. "if you see an old woman's face in the rock," said juarez, "tell me; that is one sign on this trail." we then realized that juarez had not told us all his secret paper contained. it was the natural secretiveness of the indian that he had not been able to throw off. we traveled thus for half an hour, the canyon broadening, and then we came to a steady and rugged ascent. "there is the face," exclaimed tom suddenly. there was no denying it. it was formed in the end of the western wall of the canyon, a perfect outline of an old woman's face with a pronounced chin and munched-in mouth. "yes, oh, yes," said juarez, a dark flush showing on his cheeks. "she is looking at the place of the sign." with great difficulty we made our way up to the top of the western end of "lean canyon," where we could ask the question of the sphinx who watched the sign of the treasure. in one place that was narrow we had to leap across to the other wall. there was a fall of three hundred feet below us. if we had allowed ourselves to become nervous we might have missed the narrow ledge which gave us footing, but we were too eager in our quest to take account of danger. our moccasined feet helped to give us a secure foothold and we made the jump of six feet with safety. juarez was the first to leap and he did it with a measured nonchalance, while jim, with his long legs, seemed to step lightly across. as jim and juarez stood on either side to catch me, i jumped with confidence. tom, however, got a bad takeoff and would have fallen back into the canyon head first if jim and juarez had not gripped him. it tested their steel sinews to maintain their balance and to keep from being carried down into the canyon below. we made our way without further incident to the top of the canyon and could see the outline of the old woman's face three hundred feet above us. she seemed to be looking at a great cliff about a half mile distant. we scanned every inch of the cliff for something that looked like the mystic sign, but even my imagination could not conjure up anything that resembled it. jim meanwhile had moved off some distance and was studying the old woman in the rock with the keenest interest and intelligence. "say, boys," he exclaimed suddenly, "she is not looking out or up. the old lady is looking down." "it's so," someone exclaimed. "now we may locate it." jim moved from one point to another of observation. finally he came to a pile of stones, something like a surveyor's monument, only it was about ten feet high. this he climbed. no sooner had he taken his position on top of the cairn, for such it seemed to be, than he gave a yell of exultation. "i see it, boys. there's the sign as big as life." we were upon top of the cairn in a moment, that is to say, tom and i were, but juarez would not come up. "no, no," he said, shaking his head. "i take your word, jim, but i will not step up there." "all right, my boy. i won't urge you," said jim good naturedly. he seemed to understand juarez. we followed the pointing of jim's hand and saw the ancient symbol [symbol -o] about seventy feet below the old woman, upon the surface of a rock that curved out. "that must be twelve feet across," said jim, "in both directions." "how do you suppose it was done?" i asked. "by water possibly, and it may have been carved too," jim replied. "and the white coloring?" i inquired. "it comes from some wash above, or it may sweat out of the rock itself." "well," said tom, "let's begin our search." "i'm willing," responded jim. by cutting a few steps in the sandstone we were able to reach the sign. as jim was busily engaged with the pick upon the rock, making the red chips fly, he turned to us who were waiting our turn below. "what does this remind you of, boys?" he asked. "of the moonlight night in our first canyon in colorado," i said, "when we had to dig steps for you to get down from the cliff and an indian took a snap shot at us with an arrow." "right you are," responded jim. "i hope we will get something really valuable this time," remarked tom coolly. "why, don't you value your dear brother?" grinned jim. "he's your guide, philosopher and friend." "never mind about that," said tom. "let's get to work." jim took the hammer and sounded all over the surface of the rock, but found no hollow place. "i'm going to put a blast right in the center of that letter," declared jim. juarez shook his head dubiously. it was evident that he was in dread of something. but jim went ahead and drilled a hole in the center of the sign, and put a fuse to it. we drew back a ways down the rock but not far. we saw the smoke, a mere thread, and an occasional spark. then an explosion that sent pieces of red rock flying up and around us. a big hole was torn in the center of the letter. jim was the first to reach the place. "this is it," he cried. he took the pick and began digging, and we saw that there was a round opening into a natural hollow in the rock. jim was able to crawl partially in and he made a careful search, lighting several matches. then he crawled out, shaking his head. "empty is the cradle," he said. "there's only a few flakes of gold and you can see the place where the box has stood." i crawled in next. sure enough, there was the tarnished place on the rock where it had stood for centuries perhaps. in feeling around my hand touched a small bit of folded bark. without thinking much about it i picked it up and put it in my pocket. tom stayed in the treasure hollow so long that we had to yank him out by the feet. "he is the chief mourner," commented jim. "look out, boys," yelled juarez, "big stone coming." like a great cannon ball it was bounding down the rock towards us. we jumped aside just in time and it smacked between us. "a considerably narrow escape," mused jim. "the old witch up there is offended," said juarez. "i saw a genie fly out when you sent off that blast." "i think the explosion loosened the rock, juarez," said jim. there were the two views. we went back to the boat with more experience but no treasure. chapter xxix a terrible experience that evening as we sat on the bank above we talked over our experience of the day. then i bethought myself of the piece of folded bark and pulled it out of my pocket. "here's something that i picked up in the rock hollow," i remarked. jim seized it eagerly and juarez watched its unfolding with the keenest interest. the word "bark" is only a rough term to describe it. the document was really made of some sort of pulp, whether of wood or cacti i could not say. when it was spread out, the paper was 12x12 inches. there was a curious drawing in the center with words written in spanish, and in one corner was the representation of a mountain. "that's a diagram," commented jim, "but i cannot make much out of it, can you, juarez?" "i see somethings," announced juarez. "that mountain is in mexico. but the lines i do not understand, but we shall see when we go down there." "it is the key to the whereabouts of the treasure box," announced tom, "that drawing is. only we have got to get someone who reads spanish to translate it. let me keep it?" "no," said jim, decisively. "jo found it and he can take care of it." "hold on," suggested tom. "let's make a copy of it for each one of us." "that's the idea," i acceded. "who is the best artist?" "let juarez try his hand at it," said jim, "he's the one." so juarez went steadily to work, and he justified jim's choice, for it was splendidly copied. his trained eyes and hand were evident in the drawing. the next morning we started on the last part of our journey. "heave ho, my hearties," cried jim as we pulled up our stone anchors. "all ashore who are going ashore," and we swung out into the easy current. "this is what i like," cried jim. "give me the boat every time." "you teach me how to steer, jim?" said juarez. "you bet i will," replied the commodore. juarez was an apt pupil and he soon learned to use his lithe strength to the best advantage. it was of the greatest assistance to us, for it gave either jim or juarez a chance to take the other oar on the side back of me. this threw tom out of a job, but he did not mind, as his bruised leg bothered him. jim found him a position, however, for he stationed him back of us to keep a sharp lookout ahead for rocks and other dangers. he was really a pilot and his keen eyes were of great help. by a wave of a hand he indicated the direction to juarez in which to steer, and to jim and me he would call port or starboard. tom liked this. he was quick of decision and was not afraid to take the responsibility. in an easy stretch he would lean against the cabin and shout out his orders in a clarion voice, but in rough water he stood braced on deck, looking keenly ahead. "starboard your helm," he would yell. then we dashed safely by a great rock. "now let her r-r-run," he commanded (slurring his r's) as we came to a clear section of the river. tom assumed considerable style under the impulse of his new authority, and we had to take it out of him at regular intervals. it really was a fine plan, for we could give our whole attention to the oars. then, too, jim and i were much stronger than tom, and with juarez or jim at the steering oar, we managed "the captain" as though she were a skiff. we had need of our skill, too, in the great canyons that were ahead of us. for a week or more we had easy work, as the temple canyon was wide and the rapids not so severe. but it was easy only by comparison with what we had been through. to a fresh voyager it would have seemed terrific. the weather was mostly clear and sunshiny, but one afternoon we ran into a heavy storm almost like a water spout. the roar of the thunder in the narrow gorge that we were going through was terrific and the lightning streaks lit the gloom of the canyon with weird intensity, flashing a strange glare on the red and turbulent river. it was exceedingly dangerous and wonderfully exciting. i do not know how we would have managed if tom had not been free to watch the river ahead. it was so dark in the chasm that we could see only a short distance ahead. and the roar of the river and of the thunder was something terrible. no landing could be made and we dashed blindly down. it was marvelously exciting, and we were keyed to the highest pitch of efficiency. the white line of foam would be the first warning we would have of a rock ahead, then we would bend all our strength and sometimes our boat would tilt on the current that ran off from the rock. it was close. if we had struck head on we would have been in a most critical situation. the lightning was of no real help, only serving to blind us. tom closed his eyes for the second of the flash so that he would not be blinded. fortunately the storm was brief and we saw a beautiful sight when the clouds cleared. on both sides of the canyon, from the cliffs twelve hundred feet in height, sprang numerous little water falls. some amber, others tinged with red or glittering with the silver of the sun. the largest in volume were four or five feet across, but before they reached the river below, they feathered out in spray. these cascades were beautiful indeed. several days after the thunder storm we had an overwhelming experience. it came on us suddenly and without sufficient warning to enable us to reach the shore. it was a clear day and there had been no storm in our vicinity. we were going swiftly down the current, in the midst of a canyon, with towering walls over three thousand feet in height. suddenly my ear caught the sound of a louder roar than the usual tone of the river. i glanced back and in my dismay i could give no word of warning. but the other boys had heard the ominous, thunderous roar filling the narrow depth of the canyon. jim sprang to the steering oar, and without a word juarez leapt to jim's vacant place. a great flood wave was charging down the canyon, filling it from side to side, the center of it bulging and boiling forward in foam. it was a terrific sight. "roll the stern anchor forward," yelled jim. the wave was a quarter of a mile away, coming down upon us with devouring fury. "defy the dragon, will you?" it seemed to roar. "you are caught in its jaws now. no escape." jim looked at it with a sneer of set teeth. "we'll show you," he yelled. "you can't beat us, curse you!" "draw in the oars," he commanded, "into the bows; use the poles." it was almost upon us. the stern began to lift upwards. "stand by to repel boarders." these were the last words we could hear. then we were swallowed up in a tumult of roaring, foaming water, whirled downward like a straw in the furious onset of the flood. by throwing all the weight to the bow we had kept from being swamped. our high, strong sides saved us for the moment. if anything could stand the fury of that charge "the captain" could. powerful, braced like an ironclad, unsinkable. we rose out of the jaws into the back of the dragon, and were surrounded by a chaos of rushing drift and some big logs and timber. this mass held the waves down, and our powerful little craft, wedged in for the moment, was carried along at bewildering speed. it was like going down a cataract. then came a veritable battle of the logs. they tried to ram our boat. we fought them off with poles as best we could. occasionally we received a blow that jarred "the captain" from stem to stern. one log bent a board back by a heavy, glancing blow. in a minute i had it braced back to its old place. without a second's cessation we fought desperately but not wildly. it was like a prize fighter tearing into a powerful opponent with flying, flaying fists to forestall a knockout. the next moment a jam of logs threatened to overwhelm us. it seemed viciously determined to thrust us against the wall of the canyon. something had to be done immediately. juarez was the man. before we could say a word, yea or nay, he leapt from the boat and on to the back of the jam. prying with his pole against the key log of the combination he broke it and the freed logs swept down the current. nothing but his marvelous quickness and indian litheness saved him. just as it broke he sprang, with the nimbleness of a panther from the log that swirled back under the impulse of his leap, to the boat. chapter xxx the great gorge--the end "fine boy, juarez," rang out jim's voice. "we'll beat this roaring devil yet." no sooner had jim spoken than our chance came. a change had taken place in the situation, as there was an opportunity to land on the west shore, as the canyon had ended and there was a break between it and the canyon following. if we did not land now we would probably land at the bottom of the river, for we could not hope to run another canyon. those below were terrific gorges, dangerous under ordinary conditions, but with the rush of the flood waters, absolutely impossible. we were favored for the moment by a change in the condition of the river. the first rush of the drift had passed and there was a comparatively smooth stretch of water, but further up the river great red waves were coming with reinforcements of logs and timbers against our boat. "to the oars," yelled jim, "we must get out of this now or go under." juarez and i sprang forward with lightning quickness, placed the oars in position, and then we pulled, how we pulled! biting the raging current of the river with rapid strokes. exerting his strength to the very utmost, jim fought the boat towards the shore. he seemed animated with a fury equal to the floods. "pull, pull," yelled tom in frenzy. "here comes a log to kill us." it was bearing down toward us with awful swiftness. its great end, three or four feet across, was like a battering ram in the swift swing of the current, ready to demolish us. it was the last blow of the river, escape it and we would be safe. no need to urge us. our oars foamed into the current and "the captain" responded. down it came, flung forward on a wave above jim's head. with a desperate surge of strength juarez and i gave a last pull together and the great log swept by our stern by six inches. we were saved. with a few more strokes under jim's skillful steering, we grounded our boat on the shore. utterly exhausted tom and i fell forward on the ground when we landed, our faces buried in our arms. tom was sobbing hysterically. little wonder! even to stand on the shore and watch the raging river would frighten most of you into a chill. jim now turned and shook his fist at the baffled river. "we fooled you," he yelled. "you don't get us or 'the captain,' either." juarez said nothing, but sat on a rock breathing heavily, his hands hanging down before him. without his help, quickness and skill we would never have made it. we made our camp where we had landed, resting and repairing our boat. the river went down as rapidly as it had come up, for the flood had been due to a cloud burst and not to melting snow or a continuous storm. on the third morning we were all ready to start upon the final round with the colorado river. before us was the marble canyon and the great gorge of the grand canyon. tom and i had recovered our equilibrium by the time we were ready to reã«mbark. we felt reasonably confident of being able to navigate the gorges which were ahead. "i shall be glad when we get through with this hilarious and irregular life," said tom. "i don't believe any of us would have started if we could have known what we would have to go through with." "i would," claimed jim. "we have to hustle sometimes. but if you had stayed in the peaceful east you would have probably have gone bathing in some mill pond and got a cramp and drowned." "you can't stop long enough in these darned canyons to get drowned," growled tom. we all laughed heartily at tom's complaints. he was never so funny as when he was irritable. "another thing," said tom in conclusion, "i'm not going to give up that search for treasure till we find it." about noon of the day we started we saw ahead of us the shining walls of the greatest chasm that we had yet faced. "is that the grand canyon itself?" i asked. "no," said jim, who had been studying the maps carefully during our last stop. "that must be the marble canyon. the little colorado will come in below there somewhere." "is it really marble?" inquired tom. "you can see for yourself soon," said jim. however, names are deceitful things. it was indeed a marvelous gorge into which we entered. where the waves of the river had worked, there shone a beautiful greyish marble, cut in curious deep lines by the action of the water, but above the walls were stained a deep red. there was a massive solidness about this marble canyon that made the sandstone gorges appear light and airy. the walls rose in places to over three thousand feet in height. sometimes the walls were in thousand-foot terraces, sometimes well nigh perpendicular, at least so it seemed. it was, with all its grandeur, only the entrance hall for the grand canyon itself. its peculiarity was in the sharp thrust out cliffs that rose perpendicularly from the river. the little colorado was well named, for the river itself was but a small stream, but the narrow gorge by which it entered was impressive. it is the mingling of the little colorado with marble canyon that constitutes the grand canyon of the colorado. but it in reality is not quite so magically logical as that, since from miles below the entrance of the little colorado, the canyon walls fall away from the river and the canyon is like a great valley with perpendicular walls removed for several miles on either side of the river, and rising to a height of five thousand feet. before us lay the great gorge, where the river seemed to lose itself in granite gloom as it wound downwards. "let's make a camp in this valley," suggested jim, "and do some climbing before we take our last sprint down the river." "i guess it will be our last too," groaned tom, gloomily. "oh shut up!" commanded jim wearily, giving him a kick with his moccasined foot. "you ought to have lived in the times of jeremiah." "you ought to have lived in the stone age," retorted tom, "it would have just suited you." we made camp near a pleasant looking green stretch of shore and on the following day we started out on our little picnic excursion that consumed several days. it would take another book to describe what we saw on that trip. after some remarkably hard work and interesting climbing we reached the rim of the canyon, some six thousand feet above the colorado, that seemed but a narrow rivulet and its long familiar roar was reduced to a gentle purr of sound. we saw below and around us one of the unequalled panoramas of the world. back of us was the black plateau of the great forest land, called the "kaibab," covered with pines, and beneath our feet was the grand canyon itself. twelve miles from rim to rim and in the chasm were towers, pinnacles, terraced plateaus, palaces and temples, and in the distance, faint and fair formations of beauty and of light. the coloring was the most wonderful of all. deep down and far away was the purple gneiss of the gorge, ribboned with granite, then on either side of the river rose the various architectural forms and structures of the canyon. based on purple, then a wonderful brown; widest of all the rich red of the sandstone, while the highest pinnacles, peaks and plateaus had a coping of white limestone to correspond with the eight hundred feet of the same rock just below the rim. but who shall tell of the glories of the sunset as the light fades from the white of the western wall and the vast, vast canyon is filled with the purple shadows! "wouldn't it jar you?" exclaimed jim, the first to break the awestruck silence that bound us, when its immensity first came under our eyes. "yes," said tom, "if you stepped off it would." without foreboding, but with grim determination, we left our pleasant camp on the bank of the river and swinging out into the current we headed for the gorge. then in a moment we were swallowed up between its jaws as a fly goes into the mouth of a lion. we were enured to dangers and terrible hazards, these we were prepared to meet, nor did we encounter anything equal to the flood of the week before. in that the colorado had done its worst. but it was the sombreness and the gloom of that granite gorge that overwhelmed us. it seemed as i have said, as though the river as it plunged and roared downward between the dark and narrow walls, was carrying us down into some nether and long-forgotten hell. we could see little of the glorious upper canyon that was on either side of the gorge whose walls rose perpendicularly above us for fifteen hundred feet. "one good thing about it," said tom, "when we get through with this we are through for certain." "it won't take us long if we keep up this gait," i said, as we swept downward like an express train, and the walls going by as fences do when you look out from a car window. we ran into one terrible rapid where the river was lashed into a mass of foam from wall to wall. the waves poured over into our boat nearly swamping us. we pulled out of it alive and the worst was over. at last, at last, our war worn, battered boat drifted out into the broad sunny reaches of the colorado. behind us was the gloom of the labyrinthine, rock bound prison with the gnashing river within it rushing ever downward, eager to escape. we were glad, glad to have come through our terrific experiences alive and though we were weather beaten, well and uninjured. "thank heaven!" exclaimed jim, as he steered down the broad unhampered river. so after some time of quiet journeying we came to the end of our trip. we found a pleasant camping place near a cove where we anchored our faithful boat. how splendidly it had carried us through. battered and beaten though it was, still perfectly seaworthy, or to be more exact, riverworthy. it had been our home so many weeks that it seemed to be a part of our lives, and we had a real affection for it, like one has for a faithful dog who has been one's companion through trials and dangers. one evening we sat around the campfire, underneath the cottonwood trees with the slow moving colorado in the foreground. we had been talking of home, both in kansas and york state and also of our old friend the captain, when jim spoke up: "gentlemen of the order of the colorado and fellow pioneers," he said, in his most oratorical manner, "i move that we free and untrammeled americans proceed next to the invasion of mexico." this was carried with but one dissenting voice and that was tom's, but that was to be expected. at this point i may say that "the frontier boys in mexico, or mystery mountain," will be a book of varied and exciting incidents which take place in a wonderfully interesting and remarkable country. and now for a brief time i bid you adios. as the reader who has been with us all through this trip from the fight with the apaches to the navigation of the grand canyon seems to be a good fellow he is invited to come along too. you may not learn as much of the grandeurs of nature, which have in considerable measure found place in this book, but with exciting adventure it will be replete. the pony rider boys in the grand canyon or the mystery of bright angel gulch by frank gee patchin contents chapters i. westward ho! ii. a view of the promised land iii. tenderfeet show their skill iv. a night in the crater v. tad lend a helping hand vi. a sight that thrilled vii. on the rim of eternity viii. the city in the skies ix. chunky wants to go home x. escape is wholly cut off xi. a trying time xii. braving the roaring colorado xiii. a battle mightily waged xiv. the dogs pick up a trail xv. the mystery of the rifle xvi. a new way to hunt lions xvii. the whirlwind ball of yellow xviii. the unwilling guest departs xix. the fat boy does a ghost dance xx. in the home of the havasupais xxi. chunky gets a turkish bath xxii. a magical cure xxiii. stacy as an indian fighter xxiv. conclusion chapter i westward, ho! "ow, wow, wow, wow! y-e-o-w!" tad butler, who was industriously chopping wood at the rear of the woodshed of his home, finished the tough, knotted stick before looking up. the almost unearthly chorus of yells behind him had not even startled the boy or caused him to cease his efforts until he had completed what he had set out to do. this finished, tad turned a smiling face to the three brown-faced young men who were regarding him solemnly. "haven't you fellows anything to do?" demanded tad. "yes, but we have graduated from the woodpile," replied ned rector. "i got my diploma the first time i ever tried it," added chunky brown, otherwise and more properly known as stacy brown. "cut a slice of my big toe off. they gave me my diploma right away. you fellows are too slow." "come in the house, won't you? mother'll be glad to see you," urged tad. "surely we will," agreed walter perkins. "that's what we came over to do." "oh, it is, eh?" "didn't think we came over to help you chop wood, did you?" demanded chunky indignantly. "knowing you as i do, i hadn't any such idea," laughed tad. "but come in." the boys filed in through the wood house, reaching the sitting room by way of the kitchen. tad's mother gave them a smiling welcome, rising to extend a warm, friendly hand to each. "sit down, mrs. butler," urged walter. "yes, we will come to you," added ned. "we haven't lost the use of our legs yet, mrs. butler," declared the fat chunky, growing very red in the face as he noted the disapproving glances directed at him by his companions. "i hope you won't mind chunky, mrs. butler," said ned apologetically. "you know he has lived among savages lately, and-----" "yes, ma'am, ned and i have been constant companions for---how long has it been, boys?" "shut up!" hissed ned rector in the fat boy's ear. "i'll whale you when we get outside, if you make any more such breaks." "never mind, boys; stacy and myself are very old, old friends," laughed mrs. butler. "yes, ma'am, about a hundred years old, more or less. oh, i beg your pardon. i didn't mean it just that way," stammered chunky, coloring again and fumbling his cap awkwardly. "now you have said it," groaned walter. "go way back in the corner out of sight and sit down before i start something," commanded ned. "you must excuse us, mrs. butler. it is as chunky has said. we are all savages---some of us more so than others, some less." "it is unnecessary to make apologies. you are just a lot of healthy young men, full of life and spirits." mrs. butler patted tad affectionately on the head. "tad knows what i think of you all and how appreciative we both are over what mr. perkins has done for us. now that i have had a little money left me, i am glad that tad is able to spend more time with you in the open. i presume you will soon be thinking of another trip." "we're always thinking of that, mrs. butler," interrupted ned. "and we couldn't think of a trip without thinking of tad. a trip without tad would be like---like-----" "a dog's tail wagging down the street without the dog," interjected the solemn voice of chunky brown from his new headquarters. "i move we throw chunky out in the wood house," exploded ned. "will you excuse us while we get rid of the encumbrance, mrs. butler?" "sit down and make your peace. i know you boys have some things to talk over. i can see it in your faces. go on with your conference. i'll bring you some lemonade in a few moments," said mrs. butler, as she left the room. "well, fellows, is this just a friendly call or have you really something in mind?" asked tad after all had seated themselves. "i'm the only one with a mind that will hold anything. and i've got plenty in it, too," piped chunky. ned rector sighed helplessly. the other boys grinned, passing hands across their faces that stacy might not observe their amusement. "we want to pow-wow with you," said walter. "that means you've something ahead---another trip?" "yes, we're going to the-----" began young brown. "silence! children should be seen, but not heard," commanded ned. chunky promptly hitched his chair out, joining the circle. "i'm seen," he nodded, with a grimace. "then see that you're not heard. some things not even a pony rider boy can stand. you're one of them." "yes, i'm a pony rider," answered chunky, misapplying ned rector's withering remark. "another trip, eh?" "that's it, tad. walt's father has planned it out for us. and what do you think?" "yes, what d'ye think? he's going-----" "look here, chunky, are you telling this or am i?" demanded ned angrily. "you're trying to, but you're making an awful mess of the whole business. better let me tell it. i know how and you don't." "give ned a chance, can't you, chunky?" rebuked tad, frowning. "all right, i'll give him a chance, of course, if you say so. i always have to take a back seat for everybody. i'm nothing but just a roly-poly fat boy, handy to draw water, pitch and strike camp, gather firewood, wash the dishes, cook the meals, save the lives of my companions when they get into scrapes, and-----" this was too much for the gravity of the pony rider boys. they burst out into a hearty laugh, which served to put all in good humor again. chunky, having relieved his mind, now settled down in his chair to listen. "now, ned, proceed," said tad. "well, mr. perkins thinks it would be fine for us to visit the grand canyon." "of the colorado?" "yes." "tad knows more'n the rest of you. you didn't know where the place was. walt thought it was some kind of a gun that they shot off at sunrise, or-----" no one gave any heed to chunky's further interruption this time. "the grand canyon of the colorado?" repeated tad, his eyes sparkling. "isn't that fine? do you know, i have always wanted to go there, but i hardly thought we should get that far away from home again. but what plans has mr. perkins made?" "well, he has been writing to arrange for guides and so forth. he knows a good man at flagstaff with whom mr. perkins hunted a few years ago. what did he say the name was, walt?" "nance. jim nance, one of the best men in that part of the country. everybody knows jim nance." "i don't," declared chunky, suddenly coming to life again. "there are a lot of other things you don't know," retorted ned rector witheringly. "if there are you can't teach them to me," returned stacy promptly. "as i was saying when _that_ interrupted me, mr. perkins wrote to this man, nance, and engaged him for june first, to remain with us as long as we require his services." "does mr. perkins think we had better take our ponies with us?" "no." "then we shall have to buy others. i hardly think i can afford that outlay," said tad, with a shake of the head. "that is all arranged, tad," interrupted walter. "father has directed mr. nance to get five good horses or ponies." "then professor zepplin is to accompany us?" "yes." "poor professor! his troubles certainly are not over yet," laughed tad. "we must try not to annoy him so much this trip. we are older now and ought to use better judgment." "that's what i've been telling ned," spoke up stacy. "he's old enough to-----" "to---what?" demanded ned. chunky quailed under the threatening gaze of ned rector. he mumbled some unintelligible words, settled back in his chair and made himself as inconspicuous as possible. "pooh! professor zepplin enjoys our pranks as much as do we ourselves. he just makes believe that he doesn't. he's a boy himself." "but an overgrown one," muttered stacy under his breath. "where do we meet the professor?" asked tad. "how about it, walt?" asked ned, turning to young perkins. "i don't think father mentioned that." "we shall probably pick him up on the way out," nodded tad. "well, what do you think of it?" demanded ned. "fine, fine!" "you don't seem very enthusiastic about it." "don't i? well, i am. has mr. perkins decided when we are to start?" "yes, in about two weeks." "i don't know. i am afraid that is too soon for me. i don't even know that i shall be able to go," said tad butler. "why not?" "well, we may not be able to afford it." "pshaw! your mother just said you might go, or words to that effect. of course you'll go. if you didn't, i wouldn't go, and my father would be disappointed. he knows what these trips have done for me. remember what a tender plant i was when we went out in the rockies that time?" "ye---yes," piped stacy. "he was a pale lily of the valley. now walt's a regular daisy." young perkins laughed good-naturedly. he was not easily irritated now, whereas, before beginning to live in the open, the least little annoyance would set his nerves on edge. mrs. butler came in at this juncture, carrying a pitcher of lemonade and four glasses on a tray. the pony riders rose instinctively, standing while mrs. butler poured the lemonade. "oh, i forgot the cookies, didn't i?" she cried. "yes, we couldn't get along without the cookies," nodded chunky. "now don't let your eyes get bigger'n your stomach," warned ned. "remember, we are in polite society now." "i hope you won't forget yourself either," retorted stacy. "i'll stand beside you. if you start to make a break i'll tread on your toes and-----" "try it!" hissed ned rector in the fat boy's ear. the entrance of mrs. butler with a plate heaped with ginger cookies drove all other thoughts from the minds of the boys. "mrs. butler," began ned, clearing his throat, "we---we thank you; from the bottom of our hearts we thank you---don't we, stacy?" "well, i---i guess so. i can tell better after i've tried the cookies. i know the lemonade's all right." "how do you know?" demanded three voices at once. "why, i tasted of it," admitted chunky. "as i was saying, mrs. butler, we-----" "never mind thanking me, ned. i will take your appreciation for granted." "thank you," answered stacy, looking longingly at the plate of cookies. "now help yourselves. don't wait, boys," urged tad's mother, giving the boys a friendly smile before turning to leave the room. "ah, mrs. butler. one moment, please," said ned. "yes. what is it?" "we---ah-----" "oh, let me say it. you don't know how to talk in public," exclaimed chunky. "mrs. butler, we, the pony rider boys, rough riders, indian fighters and general, all-around stars of both plain and mountain, are thinking-----" ned thrust chunky gently aside. had it not been for mrs. butler's presence ned undoubtedly would have used more force. tad sat down grinning broadly. he knew that his mother enjoyed this good-natured badinage fully as much as the boys did. ned rapped on the table with his knuckles. "order, please, gentlemen!" "that's i," chuckled stacy, slipping into a chair. "laying all trimmings aside, mrs. butler, we have come to speak with you first, after which we'll have something to say to your son." mrs. butler sat down in the chair that tad had placed for her. "very good. i shall be glad to hear what you have to say, ned." "the fact is---as i was about to say when interrupted by the irresponsible person at my left-----" "i beg pardon. _i'm_ at your left," remarked walter. "he doesn't know which is his left and which is his right," jeered chunky. "he's usually left, though." "i refer to the person who was sitting at my left at the time i began speaking. i had no intention of casting any aspersion on mr. walter perkins. as i was about to say, we are planning another trip, mrs. butler." "where away this time, ned?" "to the grand canyon-----" "with the accent on the _yon_," added stacy. "the grand canyon of the colorado?" "yes, ma'am. mr. perkins has arranged it for us. everything is fixed. professor zepplin is going along and-----" "that will be fine, indeed," glowed tad's mother. "yes, we think so, and we're glad to know that you do. tad didn't know whether you would approve of the proposed trip or not. we are---ahem---delighted to learn that you do approve of it and that you are willing that tad should go." "oh, but i haven't said so," laughed mrs. butler. "of course she hasn't. you see how little one can depend upon what ned rector says," interjected stacy. ned gave him a warning look. "i should say that you approve of his going. of course we couldn't think of taking this trip without tad. i don't believe mr. perkins would let walt go if tad weren't along. you see, tad's a handy man to have around. i know chunky's people never would trust him to go without tad to look after him. you see, chunky's such an irresponsible mortal-----" "oh, i don't know," interrupted the fat boy. "one never knows what he's going to do next. he needs some one to watch him constantly. we think it is the fault of his bringing up." "or the company i've been keeping," finished chunky. "at any rate, we need tad with us." "then i shall have to say 'yes,'" replied mrs. butler, nodding and smiling. "of course tad may go. i am glad, indeed, that he has such splendid opportunities." "but, mother, i ought to be at work," protested tad. "it is time i were doing something. besides, i think you need me at home." "never mind, tad. when you have finished with these trips you will be all the better for them. you will have erected a foundation of health that will last you all your life. furthermore, you will have gained many things by the experience, when you get at the real serious purpose of your life, you will accomplish what you set yourself to do, with better results." "that---that's what i say," began chunky. "haven't i always told you-----" "stacy is wise beyond his years," smiled mrs. butler. "when he is grown up i look for him to be a very clever young man." the eyes of the boys still twinkled merrily, for chunky, unable to guess whether he were being teased, was still scowling somewhat. however, he kept still for the time being. "yes, tad may go with you," continued mrs. butler. "you start---when?" "in about two weeks," walter replied. "father said he would call to discuss the matter with you." "i shall be glad of that," nodded mrs. butler. "i shall want to talk over the business part of the trip." then the youngsters fell to discussing the articles of outfit they would need. on this head their past experience stood them in good stead. "now, i presume, i have said all that i can say," added mrs. butler, rising. "i will leave you, for i would be of very little use to you in choosing clothing and equipment." before she could escape from the room, however, tad had risen and reached her. without exhibiting a twinge of embarrassment before the other young men, tad held and kissed her, then escorted her to the door. walter and ned smiled their approval. chunky said nothing, but sat blinking solemnly---the best possible proof of his approbation. all of the readers of this series know these young men well. they were first introduced to tad and his chums in the opening volume, "_the pony rider boys in the rockies_." then were told all the details of how the boys became pony riders, and of the way they put their plans through successfully. readers of that volume well recall the exciting experiences and hair-breadth escapes of the youngsters, their hunts for big game and all the joys of living close to nature. their battle with the claim jumpers is still fresh in the minds of all readers. we next met our young friends in the second volume, "_the pony rider boys in texas_." it was on these south-western grazing plains that the lads took part in a big cattle drive across the state. this new taste of cowboy life furnished the boys with more excitement than they had ever dreamed could be crowded into so few weeks. it proved to be one long round of joyous life in the saddle, yet it was the sort of joy that is bound up in hard work. tad's great work in saving a large part of the herd will still be fresh in the mind of the reader. how the lads won the liking of even the roughest cowboys was also stirringly told. from texas, as our readers know, the pony riders went north, and their next doings are interestingly chronicled in "_the pony rider boys in montana_." here the boys had the great experience of going over the old custer trail, and here it was that tad and his companions became involved in a "war" between the sheep and the cattle men. how tad and his chums soon found themselves almost in the position of the grist between the millstones will be instantly recalled. tad's adventures with the blackfeet indians formed not the least interesting portion of the story. it was a rare picture of ranch and indian life of the present day that our readers found in the third volume of this series. perhaps the strangest experiences, as most of our readers will agree, were those described in "_the pony rider boys in the ozarks_." in this wild part of the country the pony rider boys had a medley of adventures---they met with robbers, were lost in the great mountain forests, and unexpectedly became involved in an accident in a great mine. the final discovery of the strange secret of the mountains was the climax of that wonderful saddle journey. from the wooded ozarks to the stifling alkali deserts of nevada was a long jump, but the lads made it. all of our readers remember the rousing description of adventures that were set forth in "_the pony rider boys in the alkali_." this trip through the grim desert with its scanty vegetation and scarcity of water proved to be a journey that fully demonstrated the enduring qualities of these sturdy young men. the life, far away from all connection with civilization, was one of constant privation and well-nigh innumerable perils. the meeting with the crazed hermit of this wild waste formed one of the most thrilling incidents. the whole vast alkali plain presented a maze the solving of which taxed to the utmost the ingenuity of the young men. however, they bore themselves with credit, and came out with a greater reputation than ever for judgment, courage and endurance. our next meeting with these lads, who were fast becoming veterans of the saddle, was in the sixth volume, "_the pony rider boys in new mexico_." here, again, the lads ran upon indian "signs" and experiences, not the least of which was their chance to be present at the weird fire dance of the apaches. the race with the prairie fire, the wonderful discoveries made in the former homes of the cave-dwellers, and the defence of the lost treasure in the home of the ancient pueblo indians are all matters well remembered by our readers. now another journey, to the scene of one of nature's greatest wonders, the grand canyon of the colorado, was absorbing the thought of tad butler and his young friends. "the question is, what'll we take with us?" asked ned rector. "yes, that's one of the things about which we wanted to talk with you," spoke up walter perkins. "you always think of things that none of the rest of us remembers." "oh, i don't know. you're all pretty good planners. in the first place, you know you want to travel light." "we aren't likely to travel any other way," scoffed chunky. "whatever we do, though, let's not travel light on food. i can stand almost anything but food---i mean without food---i mean-----" "i don't believe you know what you do mean," jeered ned. "well, what about it, tad?" "as i was saying, we should travel light. of course, we must take our own equipment---saddles, quirts, spurs, chaps, lasso, guns, canteen, slicker and all that sort of thing. i suppose the guide will arrange for the pack train equipment." "i'll speak to father about that," said walter. "i don't know just what arrangements he has made with the guide." "we can no doubt get what ammunition we need after we get to flagstaff, if that is to be our railway destination. folks usually have ammunition in that country," added tad, with a faint smile. "our uniforms or clothes we know about. we shall no doubt need some good tough boots for mountain climbing-----" "do we have to climb mountains?" demanded stacy. "climb up and fall down," answered walt. "oh, dear me, dear me! it'll be the death of me, i know," wailed the fat boy. "i'd rather ride---up. i can get down all right, but-----" "yes, you certainly can get down," laughed ned. "then we shall want quite a lot of soft, strong rope, about quarter-inch manila. i don't think of anything else. we ought to be able to pick up whatever else we need after we get out there------" "i guess that's all, fellows, isn't it?" asked ned. "all but the shouting," answered stacy. "you are well able to do that. you'd better practise up on those favorite exclamations of yours---" "what are they?" "y-e-o-w and w-o-w!" "who-o-o-p-e-e!" answered chunky in a shrill, high-pitched voice. ned rector clapped a hand over the fat boy's mouth with a resounding smack. chunky was jerked backward, his head striking the chair with a bump that was audible all over the room. "you stop that business. do you forget where you are? that's all right out in the wilds, but not in civilized society," declared ned. "whe---where's the civilized society? don't you do that to me again, or i'll-----" "chunky's all right. let him alone, ned. mother doesn't care how much noise we make in here. in fact, she'd think something was wrong with us if we didn't make a big racket. chunky, if you are so full of steam you might go out and finish the woodpile for me. i've got to cut that wood this afternoon." "no, thank you. i'm willing to hunt for the colored man in the woodpile, but i'm a goat if i'll chop the wood. why, i'd lose my reputation in chillicothe if i were seen doing such a common thing as that." "no, that would be impossible," answered ned sarcastically. "eh? impossible?" questioned stacy. "oh, yes, yes, yes. i'll write it down for you so you'll understand it and-----" "he means that you can't lose what you don't possess," explained walter. chunky grunted his disgust, but made no reply. the boys then fell to discussing the proposed trip. tad got out his atlas and together they pored over the map of arizona. after some time at this task, chunky pulled a much soiled railway map from his pocket. this gave them a more detailed plan of the grand canyon. "you see, i have to show you. when it comes to doing things stacy brown's the one on whom you all have to fall back." "you are almost human at times, stacy. i'm free to admit that," laughed tad. "yes, this is just what we want." chunky inflated his chest, and, with hands clasped behind his back, walked to the window and gazed out into the street, nodding patronizingly now and then to persons passing who had bowed to him. in his own estimation, stacy was the most important person in chillcothe. so confident was he of this that several persons in the community had come almost to believe it themselves. chunky, by his dignified and important bearing, had hopes of converting others to this same belief. as for his three companions---well, a journey without stacy brown would be a tame and uneventful journey at best. the greater part of the afternoon was devoted to making plans for the coming trip, each having his suggestions to make or his criticism to offer of the suggestions of others. though the arguments of the pony riders at times became quite heated, the friendship they held for each other was never really strained. they were bound together by ties that would endure for many years to come. each day thereafter, during their stay at home, they met for consultation, and when two weeks later they had assembled at the railroad station in chillicothe, clad in their khaki suits, sombreros, each with a red bandanna handkerchief tied carelessly about his neck, they presented an imposing appearance and were the centre of a great crowd of admiring boys and smiling grown-ups. there were many exciting experiences ahead of the pony rider boys as well as a series of journeys that would linger in memory the rest of their lives. chapter ii a view of the promised land for nearly three days the pony rider boys had been taking their ease in a pullman sleeping car, making great inroads on the food served in the dining car. it had been a happy journey. the boys were full of anticipation of what was before them. at intervals during the day they would study their maps and enter into long discussions with professor zepplin, the grizzled, stern-looking man who in so many other journeys had been their guardian and faithful companion. the professor had joined them at st. louis, where the real journey had commenced. all that day they had been racing over baked deserts, a cloud of dust sifting into the car and making life miserable for the more tender passengers, though the hardy pony riders gave no heed to such trivial discomforts as heat and dust. they were used to that sort of thing. furthermore, they expected, ere many more days had passed, to be treated to discomforts that were real. suddenly the train dashed from the baked desert into a green forest. the temperature seemed to drop several degrees in an instant. everyone drew a long breath, faces were pressed against windows and expressions of delight were heard in many parts of the sleeper. they had entered a forest of tall pines, so tall that the lads were obliged to crane their necks to see the tops. "this is the beginning of the beginning," announced professor zepplin somewhat enigmatically. "this is the forest primeval." "i don't know," replied chunky, peering through a car window. "it strikes me that we've left the evil behind and got into the real thing." "what is it, professor?" asked tad butler. "as i have said, it is a primeval forest. this great woodland stretches away from the very base of the san francisco mountains southward for a distance of nearly two hundred miles. we are taking a short cut through it and should reach flagstaff in about an hour from now." "hurrah! we're going to see the flagstaff in an hour," cried stacy, his face wreathed in smiles. "a further fact, which is no doubt unknown to you, is that this enormous forest covers an area of over ten thousand square miles, and contains six million, four hundred thousand acres." the boys uttered exclamations of amazement and wonder. "if you'd said ten acres, i'd understand you better," replied stacy. "i never could think in such big figures. i'm like a rich fellow in our town, who doesn't know what money is above a certain sum." "well, what about it?" demanded tad. "up to fifty dollars, he knows how much it is, but for anything above that it's a check," finished chunky, looking about him expectantly. no one laughed. "speaking of checks," said ned rector after an interval of silence, "did you bring along that snaffle bit, tad?" "what snaffle bit?" "the one we were going to put on stacy brown to hold him in check?" a series of groans greeted ned's words. chunky grumbled something about making a checker board of ned's face if he didn't watch out, after which the professor turned the rising tide into other and safer channels by continuing his lecture on the great arizona forest. as the train dashed on the pony riders were greeted with occasional views of a mountain differing from anything they ever had seen. one peak especially attracted their attention. its blackened sides, and its summit bathed in a warm glow of yellow sunshine, gave it a most striking appearance. "what is it, professor?" asked tad, with an inquiring gaze and nod toward the mountain. "sunset mountain," answered professor zepplin. "you should have discovered that." "but it isn't sunset," objected walter. "it is always sunset there. the effect is always a sunset effect." "in the night, too!" questioned chunky. "no, it's moonset then," scoffed rector. "in the same direction you will observe the others of the san francisco mountains. however, we shall have more of this later on. for the present you would do well to gather up your belongings, for we shall be at our journey's end in a few minutes." this announcement caused the boys to spring up, reaching to the racks above for such of their luggage as had been stowed there. all was bustle for the next twenty minutes. then the train drew into the station, the cars covered with the dust of the desert, changing the dark brown of their paint to a dirty gray. the boys found that they had arrived at a typical western town, a tree-surrounded, mountain-shadowed, breeze-blown place set like a gem in a frame of green and gold, nestling, it seemed, at the very base of the towering peaks of the san francisco mountains, whose three rough volcanic peaks stood silent sentinel over the little community clustered at their base. the railroad track lined one side of the main street, while business blocks and public houses were ranged on the opposite side. here the garb of the pony riders failed to attract the same attention that it had done further east. there were many others on the station platform whose clothes and general get-up were similar to those of the boys. but as they descended from the sleeping car, their arms full of their belongings, each carrying a rifle in a case, they caught sight of a man who instantly claimed their attention. he was fully sixty years old, standing straight as a tree and wearing a soft black felt hat, a white shirt and a wing collar. from his chin, extend almost back to the ears, there stood a growth of white bristling whiskers. as he tilted his head backward in an apparent effort to stand still more erect, the whiskers stood out almost at right angles, giving him a most ferocious appearance. tad felt a tug at his sleeve. he turned to find the big eyes of chunky brown gazing up into his face. "is that the wild man of the canyon?" whispered stacy. "i don't know. he looks as if he might be a senator, or-----" "any of you boys know where we can find jim nance?" interrupted the professor. "i reckon we do," drawled a cowboy. "well?" urged the professor somewhat irritably. "wal?" answered the cowboy. "will you please tell us where we may find him, pardner?" spoke up tad, observing how the land lay and wishing to head off friction. "i reckon that's him," answered the cowboy, pointing to the straight, athletic figure of the old man. tad grinned at chunky. "that's our guide, bub." "he looks fierce enough to be a man eater." "i'm afraid of him," whispered stacy. "he's mysterious looking, too; like the canyon." professor zepplin strode up to the old man. "mr. nance, i believe." "y-a-a-s," drawled the old man. the professor introduced himself, then one by one called the boys up and presented them, the old man gazing keenly with twinkling, searching eyes into the face of each one presented to him. chunky said "ouch" when nance squeezed his hand, then backed off. "this is mr. nance, the gentleman who is to be our guide," announced professor zepplin. "we're all glad to see you, mr. nance," chorused the pony riders. "ain't all tenderfeet, eh?" quizzed the guide. "no, not exactly. they have been out for some time. they are pretty well used to roughing it," declared the professor. "good idea. they'll think they haven't before they get through with the old grand." "how about our ponies?" asked tad. "have you engaged them?" "you pick 'em out. i'll take yon to corral after you've had your dinner." all hands walked across the street to a hotel, where they sat down to the first satisfying meal they had eaten since leaving home. "this beats the spirit meals we've been having on board the train," announced stacy, his eyes roving longingly over the heaped up dishes. "don't lick your chops," cautioned ned. "there are some polite folks here, as you can see. "what's that you said about spirit meals?" quizzed the guide after they had gotten started with their dinner. "the kind a fellow i knew used to make for his men on the farm," answered stacy promptly. "tell us about it. i never heard you mention it," urged tad. "he fed his men mostly on spirit soup. ever hear of spirit soup?" "i never did. any of you boys ever hear of spirit soup?" the pony riders shook their heads. they were not particularly interested in chunky's narration. ned frowned and went on with his dinner. "well, this fellow used to make it. he had barrels of the stuff, and-----" "how is the chuck made?" demanded jim nance. "i'll tell you. to make spirit soup you catch a snipe. then you starve him to death. understand?" nance nodded. "after you've starved him to death you hang him up on the sunny side of the house till he becomes a shadow. a shadow, you understand? well, after he's become a shadow you let the shadow drop into a barrel of rainwater. the result is spirit soup. serve a teaspoonful a day as directed," added stacy, coming to a sudden stop as ned trod on his toes with a savage heel. jim nance's whiskers stood out, the ends trembling as if from the agitation of their owner, causing chunky to shrink within himself. "very unseemly, young man," rebuked the professor. "it seems so," muttered walter under his breath; then all hands laughed heartily. the meal being finished, nance ordered a three-seated buckboard brought around. into this the whole outfit piled until the bottom of the vehicle bent almost to the ground. "will it hold?" questioned the professor apprehensively. "i reckon it will if it doesn't break. we'll let the fat boy walk if we've got too big a load," nance added, with a twinkle. "no, i'll ride, sir," spoke up stacy promptly. "i'm very delicate and i'm not allowed to walk, because-----" "how far is it out to the corral, mr. nance?" questioned tad. "'bout a mile as the hawk flies. we'll be there in a jiffy." it appeared that all arrangements had been made by mr. perkins for the stock, through a bank in flagstaff, where he had deposited funds to cover the purchase of stock and stores for the trip through the canyon. this the professor understood. there remained little for the boys to do except for each to pick out the pony be fancied. they looked over the mustangs in the corral, asking the owner about this and that one. "i'll take that one," said chunky, indicating a mild-eyed pinto that stood apparently half asleep. the owner of the herd of mustangs smiled. "kind and sound, isn't he?" questioned the fat boy. "oh, he's sound all right." "do you know how to handle a pinto, boy?" questioned nance. "do i? of course i do. haven't i been riding the toughest critters on the ranges of the rockies for years and years? don't i know how to rope anything that ambles on four legs? well, i guess! gimme that rope. i'll show you how to fetch a sleepy pinto out of his dreams." the black that chunky coveted seemed, at that moment, to have opened his eyes ever so little, then permitted the eyelids to droop. it was not a good sign as tad viewed it, and the pony rider was an excellent horseman. "better be careful, chunky," he warned. "shan't i rope him for you?" "i guess not. if i can't rope him i'd like to see you do it." "sail in. you know best," answered tad, with a grin, winking at ned and the professor. jim nance appeared to take only a passive interest in the matter. he might have his say later provided his advice were needed. chunky ran his rope through his hands, then grasping the hondo, strode boldly into the corral. "i reckon it's time we were climbing the fence," announced tad. "i reckon it is," agreed the guide, vaulting to the top rail, which action was followed by the other two boys, only the owner of the herd and professor zepplin remaining inside the corral with stacy. suddenly stacy let go the loop of his lariat. it dropped over the head of the sleepy pinto. the pinto, at the touch of the rope, sprang into sudden life. then things began to happen in that corral. stacy brown was the center of the happenings. chapter iii tenderfeet show their skill "woof!" exclaimed ned rector. "oh!" cried walter perkins. "good boy! hang on!" shouted tad encouragingly. it is doubtful whether stacy heard either the words of warning or those of encouragement from tad, for at that moment stacy's feet were up in the air. the pinto had leaped forward like a shot the instant it felt the touch of the rope. of course chunky, who had clung to the rope, went along at the same rate of speed. a great cloud of dust rose from the corral. the mustang was darting here and there, bucking, squealing and kicking. in a moment most of the other mustangs were doing likewise. the owner of the herd, calling to the professor, darted out, leaving one bar of the fence down. professor zepplin, becoming confused, missed his way and found himself penned into one corner at the far side, almost the center of a circle of kicking mustangs. tad saw the danger of their companion almost at once. the lad leaped down, and darting among the kicking animals, made his way toward the professor just as stacy's mustang leaped the bars. stacy's toes caught the top rail, retarding his progress for the briefest part of a second, then he shot out into the air after the racing mustang. "leggo!" roared the boys. "let go!" shouted the guide. "the little fool! doesn't he know enough to come in out of the wet?" "you'll find he doesn't, sir. your troubles have only just begun. you'll be demanding an increase of wages before you have followed stacy brown for a full twenty-four hours," prophesied ned. in the meantime tad had reached the professor, regardless of the flying hoofs about him. with his rope the boy drove the animals off just in time. somehow they seemed to have taken it into their heads that the professor was responsible for their having been disturbed and they were opening their hoof batteries upon him. they gave way before the resolute young pony rider almost at once. they recognized that this slender young plainsman and mountaineer was unafraid. the professor was weak in the knees by the time he had been led out. "i didn't know you were in there," apologized nance. "where's stacy?" was the professor's first question. "he's gone by the air line," answered walter. while all this had been taking place chunky had continued in his mad flight for a short distance. he had a long hold on the rope by which the mustang was hauling him. the wary beast, espying a tree whose limbs hung low, changed his course and darted under the lowest of the limbs. its intention was plain to those who knew the habits of these gentle beasts. the mustang intended to "wipe" the pony rider boy free of the line. just before reaching the low-hanging limb the pinto darted to one side, then to the other after an almost imperceptible halt. the result was the rope was drawn under the low limb. a quick leap on the part of the mustang, that exhibited almost human intelligence by this manoeuvre, caused chunky to do a picturesque flop over the limb, falling flat on his back on the other side. this brought the mustang to a quick stop, for the rope had taken a firm hitch around the limb. the sudden jolt and stoppage of his progress threw the mustang on his nose, where he poised for a few seconds, then he too toppled over on his back. the owner of the herd was screaming with, merriment, jim nance was slapping his sides as he ran, while the professor was making for the fat boy with long strides. tad reached stacy first. the fat boy lay blinking, looking up at him. stacy's clothes were pretty well torn, though his body did not seem to be harmed beyond the loss of considerable skin. "let me have that rope," commanded tad. "n-n-no you don't." "let me have that rope, i tell you. i'll attend to the pinto for you." "here, give it to me," ordered jim nance, reaching for the rope which tad butler had taken. "i can handle him, mr. nance." the "handling" was not easy. tad was hauled over the best part of an acre of ground ere he succeeded finally in getting an opportunity to cast his own rope. when, however, he did make the cast, the rope caught the pinto by a hind foot, sending the stubborn little beast to the ground. then tad was jerked this way and that as the animal sought to kick the foot free. "grab the neck rope some of you," he cried. nance was the first to obey the command. it was the work of but a moment temporarily to subdue the pinto. "take him back. we don't want the critter," ordered the guide. "i---i want him," declared stacy, limping up to the former sleepy beast. "i'll break him so i guess stacy can ride him," said tad. "ned, will you fetch my saddle and bridle? i can't let go here just yet. has this fellow ever been ridden?" demanded the boy, looking up at the owner. "i reckon he has, but not much." "why did you let brown rope the pinto, then?" "he said he wanted him." "let him up," directed tad. the mustang had another spell, but ere he had finished his bucking tad had skillfully thrown the saddle on and made fast the saddle girth at the risk of his own life. next came the bridle, which was not so easily put in place. it was secured at last, after which the lad stepped back to wipe the perspiration from his face and forehead. dark spots on his khaki blouse showed where the sweat had come through the tough cloth. "now i'll ride him," butler announced. for the next quarter of an hour there followed an exhibition that won the admiration of all who saw it. all the bucking and kicking that the pinto could do failed to unseat tad butler. when finally he rode back to the group, mr. mustang's head was held straight out. once more the sleepy look had come into his eyes, but it was not the same crafty look that had been there before. he was conquered, at least for the time being. "now, chunky, you may try him." "what do you think of that for riding?" demanded stacy, turning to the guide. "oh, he'll ride one of these days," answered the guide. "i believe you're a grouch," snorted the fat boy, as he swung into the saddle, quickly thrusting his toes into the stirrups, expecting to be bucked up into the air. but nothing of the sort followed. the mustang was as meek as could be. stacy rode the animal up and down the field until satisfied that the pinto was thoroughly broken. stacy was an object of interest to all. he was a very much banged-up gentleman, nor was tad so very far behind him in that respect. young butler chose for his mount a mustang with a white face. already tad had decided to call him silver face. the two very quickly came to an understanding, after a lively but brief rustle about the enclosure. after this tad roped out the pintos for the others of his party. this done, the boys took their mustangs out into the field, where they tried them out. the spectators were then treated to an exhibition of real riding, though the pony riders were not doing this for the sake of showing off. they wanted to try their mounts out thoroughly before deciding to keep those they had chosen. at last they decided that the stock could stand as picked out, with the exception of walter perkins's mustang, which went lame shortly after the boy had started off with him. "i guess we are all right now," announced tad, riding up to where the professor and jim nance were standing. "has either of you any suggestions to offer?" "hain't got no suggestions to offer to the likes of you," grumbled the guide. "where'd you learn to ride like that?" "oh, i don't know. it came natural, i guess," replied tad simply. "the others ride as well as i do." "then we'll be moving. i reckon you are figgering on gitting started to-day?" "yes, we might as well be on our way as soon as you are ready, mr. nance," agreed the professor. "how about the pack train?" asked tad. "the mules are all ready," answered the guide. the lads rode their new horses back to flagstaff. none cared to ride in the buckboard long as there was a horse to ride. even the professor thought he would feel at home in the saddle once more. nance observed that though professor zepplin was not the equal of the pony riders on horseback, yet he was a good man in the saddle. nance was observing them all. he knew they would be together for some weeks and it was well to understand the peculiarities of each one of the party at the earliest possible moment. reaching town the party found that the entire equipment for the pack train had been gotten in readiness. there remained but to pack the mules and they would be ready for their start. this was done with a will, and about two o'clock in the afternoon the outfit set off over the stage road, headed for the grand canyon. it was a happy party, full of song and jest and joy for that which was before them. the way led through the coconino park. some three miles out they halted at the edge of a dry lake basin, in the centre of which was a great gaping hole. the professor pointed to it inquiringly. "there was a lake here up to a few years ago," explained jim. "bottom fell out and the water fell in. ain't no bottom to it now at all" "then---then the water must have leaked out on the other side of the world," stammered chunky, his eyes big with wonder. "i reckon it must have soused a heathen chinee," answered nance, with a grin. "pity it didn't fall out the other way and souse a few guides, eh?" questioned the fat boy, with a good-natured grimace at which nance laughed inwardly, his shaking whiskers being the only evidence of any emotion whatever. "up there is walnut canyon," explained jim. "cliff dwellers lived up there some time ago." "yes, we met some of them down south," nodded chunky. "you mean we saw where they once lived long, long ago," corrected professor zepplin. "yes, we saw where they lived," agreed stacy. the way led on through a forest of pines, the trail underfoot being of lava, as hard and smooth as a road could be. they were gradually drawing nearer to sunset mountain. after a time they turned off to the right, heading straight for the mountain. tad rode back to the professor to find out where they were going. "i thought you boys might like to explore the mountain. you will find some things there well worth scientific consideration." "yes, sir; that will be fine." "you know the mountain was once a great volcano." "how long ago?" interrupted stacy. "a few million years or so." "mr. nance must have been a boy in short trousers then," returned stacy quizzically. the guide's whiskers bristled and stood out straight. the road by this time had lost its hardness. the ponies' hoofs sank deep into the cinders, making progress slow for the party. they managed to get to the base of the mountain, but the mustangs were pretty well fagged. the animals were turned out for the night after having been hobbled so that they could not stray far away. "now each of you will have to carry a pack," announced the guide. "i will tell you what to take." "why, where are we going?" asked tad. "we are going to spend the night in the crater of the extinct volcano," said the professor. "will not that be a strange experience?" "hurrah for the crater!" shouted the boys. "speaking of volcanoes, i wish you wouldn't open your mouth so wide, ned. it makes me dizzy. i'm afraid i'll fall in," growled chunky. chapter iv a night in the crater "what, climb that mountain?" demanded stacy. "surely. you are not afraid of a mountain, are you?" demanded tad. "i'm not afraid of---of anything, but i'm delicate, i tell yau." "just the same, you'll pack about fifty pounds up the side of that hill," jeered ned rector. the pack mules had not yet come up with their driver. the party foreseeing this, had brought such articles as would be needed for the night. taking their blankets and their rifles, together with food and wood for a fire, they began the slow, and what proved to be painful, ascent of sunset mountain. a lava field stretched directly in front of them, barring the way. its forbidding surface had been riven by the elements until it was a perfect chaos of black tumult. by the time the pony rider boys had gotten over this rough stretch, they were ready to sit down and rest. nance would not permit them to do so. he said they would have barely time to reach the crater before dark, as it was, and that they must make the best speed possible. no one grumbled except stacy, but it was observed that he plodded along with the others, a few paces to the rear. the professor now and then would point to holes in the lava to show where explosions had taken place, bulging the lava around the edge and hurling huge rocks to a considerable distance. as they climbed the mountain proper they found that sunset, too, had engaged in some gunnery in those far-away ages, as was shown by many lava bombs lying about the base. the route up the mountain side was over a cider-buried lava flow, the fine cinders under foot soon making progress almost a torture. tad was the first to stand on his head as his feet went out from under him. stacy, in a fit of uproarious laughter, did the next stunt, that of literally standing on his right ear. chunky tried to shout and got his mouth full of cinders. "i'm going back," howled the fat boy. "i didn't come up here to climb slumbering volcanoes." "i'll tell you what i'll do, i'll carry you, stacy," said tad, smiling and nodding toward the cinder-blackened face of his companion. "you mean it?" "of course i mean it." "i guess i can walk. i'm not quite so big a baby as that." "i thought so. have your fun. if you get into trouble you know your friend, tad butler, is always on the job." "you bet i do. but this is an awful climb." it was all of that. one step upward often meant a slide of several short steps backward. the professor's face was red, and unuttered words were upon his lips. jim nance was grinning broadly, his whiskers bobbing up and down as he stumbled up the side of old sunset. "i reckon the tenderfeet will get enough of it before they get to the canyon," chuckled the guide. "say, mr. nance, we don't want to mister you all the time. what shall we call you for short?" asked tad butler. "anything you want." "what d'ye say if we call you whiskers?" called stacy. "stacy!" rebuked the professor sternly. "oh, let the little tenderfoot rant. he's harmless. call me whiskers, if it does ye any good." "i'm no tenderfoot," protested chunky. "nor be i all whiskers," returned the guide, whereat chunky's face turned red. "i guess we'll call you dad, for you'll have to be our dad for some time to come," decided tad. "that'll be all right, providing it suits the fat little tenderfoot." stacy did not reply to this. he was having too much trouble to keep right side up just then to give heed to anything else. "go zig-zag. you'll never get to the top this way," called tad. "you know how a switchback railroad works? well, go as nearly like a switch-back as possible." "that's a good idea," agreed dad. "you'll get there quicker, as the young gentleman says." tad looked at his companions, grinning broadly. as they got nearer to the top the color of the cinders changed from black to a brick red. they began to understand why the peak of sunset always presented such a rosy appearance. it was due to the tint of the cinders that had been thrown from the mouth of the volcano ages ago. "we have now entered the region of perpetual sunset," announced the professor. chunky took advantage of the brief halt to sit down. he slid back several feet on the treacherous footing. still further up the mountain took on a rich yellow color, but near the rim it was almost white. it was a wonderful effect and caused the pony riders to gaze in awe. but darkness was approaching rapidly. the guide ordered them to be on the way, because he desired to reach the rim of the crater while they still were able to see. what his reasons were the boys did not know. they took for granted that dad knew his business, which dad did. he had spent many years in this rough country and knew it well. the grand canyon was his home. he lived in it the greater part of the year. when winter came, dad, with his mustang, his cattle and equipment would descend into the grand canyon far from snow and bitter cold into a land of perpetual summer, where, beside the roaring colorado, he would spend the winter alone with his beloved canyon. dad's was a strange nature. he understood the moods of the great gash in the plateau; he seemed literally to be able to translate the mysterious moans and whispers of the wind as it swirled between the rocky walls and went shrieking up the painted sides of the gulches. but of all this the boys knew nothing as yet. it was all to be revealed to them later. "you'll have a look over the country tomorrow," said dad. "where is the canyon?" asked tad, eager for a view of the wonderful spot. "you'll get a glimpse of it in the morning. you'll know the place when you get to it. here we be at the top. there's the hole." chunky peered into the crater rather timidly. "how do you get down?" he asked. "slide," answered ned. "i can do that, but what's at the bottom?" "the same thing. cinders and lava," answered tad. "what would you expect to find in a volcano?" "i'd never expect to find stacy brown in one, and i'm not sure that i'm going to." "all hands follow me. there's no danger," called the guide, shouldering his pack and leaping and sliding down the sharp incline. he was followed by the boys with shouts of glee. they went tumbling head over heels, laughing, whooping, letting off their excess steam. the professor's grim face relaxed in a smile; dad's eyes twinkled. "we'll take it out of them by and by," he confided to the professor. "you don't know them," answered professor zepplin. "better men than you or i have tried it. remember, they are young. we are old men. of course, it is different with you. you are hardened to the work, still i think they could tire both of us out." "we'll see about that." "whoop-e-e!" came the voice of tad butler far below them. "i'm at the bottom. any wild animals down here, dad?" "only one at present. there'll be three more in a minute." "six, you mean," laughed tad. the others had soon joined him. "how far are we from the surface?" asked walter. "about five hundred feet down. we're in the bowels of the mountain for sure, kid," answered the guide. "that's pretty tough on the mountain. i'm afraid it will have a bad case of indigestion," laughed tad. "you needn't be. it has swallowed tougher mouthfuls than you are," returned the guide, ever ready with an answer. "dad's able to give as good as you send," laughed ned. "that's good. all the better for us," nodded tad. "what about some light?" "unload the wood from your packs. this is where you are glad you did pack some stuff." in a few minutes a fire was blazing, lighting up the interior of the crater. the boys found themselves in a circular opening of almost terrifying roughness and something like a quarter of a mile across. here, in ages past, the forces of nature had been at work with fearful earnestness. weird shadows, mysterious shapes, somewhat resembling moving figures, were thrown by the flickering blaze of the camp fire. while the boys were exploring the crater dad was busy getting the supper ready, talking with professor zepplin as he worked. the voices of the boys echoed from side to side of the crater, sounding strange and unreal. the call to supper put an end to their explorations. they sat down with keen edges to their appetites. it was their first meal in the open on this journey. all were in high spirits. "i think we should agree upon our work for the future," declared the professor. "work?" exclaimed chunky, opening wide his big eyes. "yes. it is not going to be all play during this trip." "we are willing to do our share," answered ned. "yes, of course we are," chorused walt and stacy, though there was no enthusiasm in the fat boy's tone. "i am of the opinion that you boys should take turns in cooking the meals, say one boy to cook for an entire day, another to take the job on the following day." "i'll cook my own," declared the guide. "no tenderfoot experiments in my chuck." "they know how to cook, mr. nance," explained the professor. "all right; they may cook for you," said the guide, with a note of finality in his tone. he glanced up at the sky, held out his hand and shook his head. tad observed the movement. "what is it?" asked the boy. "it's going to snow," said dad. tad laughed, glancing at his companions. "what, snow in june?" questioned stacy. "you must remember that you are a good many thousand feet up," the professor informed him. "up? i thought i was down in a crater." "you are both up and down," spoke up tad. "yes, i'm usually up and down, first standing on my feet then on my head," retorted stacy. "how are we going to sleep?" "same as usual. pick out your beds, then roll up in your blankets," directed dad. "you are used to it, eh?" "well," drawled chunky, "i've slept in a good many different kinds of beds, but this is the first time i ever slept in a lava bed." true to dad's prophecy, the snow came within half an hour. "better turn in before the beds get too wet," advised dad. all hands turned in. sleep did not come to the boys as readily as usual. they had been sleeping in real beds too long. after a time the snow changed to rain in the warmth of the crater. chunky got up disgustedly. "i'm tired of sleeping in the bath tub," he declared. "think i'll move into the hall bedroom." chuckles were heard from beneath other blankets, while stacy, grumbling and growling, fussed about until he found a place that appeared to be to his liking. "when you get through changing beds perhaps you will give us a chance to go to sleep," called the guide. stacy's voice died away to an indistinct murmur. soon after that quiet settled over the dark hole in the mountain. the rain came down harder than ever, but by this time the pony rider boys were asleep. they neither heard nor felt the water, though every one was drenched to the skin. toward morning tad woke up with a start. he thought something had startled him. just then an unearthly yell woke the echoes of the crater. yell upon yell followed for the next few seconds, each yell seeming to be further away than the preceding one, and finally dying out altogether. "it's chunky!" shouted tad, kicking himself free of his blankets and leaping up. "some thing's happened to chunky!" chapter v tad lends helping hand "what is it? what is it?" cried the other boys, getting free of their blankets and in the confusion rolling and kicking about in the cinders. "what is it?" shouted the professor, very much excited. ned, dragging his blanket after him, had started to run about, not knowing which way to turn nor what had occurred. in the meantime the guide and tad had started in the direction from which the yells had seemed to come. "it was this way," shouted tad. ned headed them off running toward the west edge of the crater. all at once a new note sounded. with an unearthly howl ned rector disappeared. they heard his voice growing fainter, too, just as stacy's had done. "they've fallen in!" cried tad. "everybody stand still!" commanded dad. recognizing that he was right, the others obeyed, with the exception of tad butler, who crept cautiously forward, feeling his way with the toes of his boots, that he too might not share the fate of his two companions. dad, from somewhere about his person, produced a bundle of sticks which he lighted. he was prepared for just such an emergency. a flickering light pierced the deep shadows, just enough to show the party that two of their number had disappeared. "there is the place," cried tad. "it's a hole in the ground. they've fallen in." "chunky's always falling in," laughed walter half hysterically. with his rope in hand, tad sprang forward. "light this way, please," called butler. "hello, down there!" he cried, peering into the hole in the ground. "hello!" came back a faint answer from ned rector. "get us out quick." "what happened?" "i don't know. chunky fell in and i fell on him." "is he hurt?" "i don't know. i guess i knocked the wind out of him." "how far down are you?" demanded dad peering in, holding his torch low, exposing a hole about six feet square at the top, widening out as it extended downward. "i---i don't know. it felt like a mile when i came down. hurry. think i want to stay here all night?" "if stacy isn't able to help himself, tie the rope around his waist and we will haul him up," directed tad. "serve him right to leave him here," retorted ned. "all right, we will leave you both there, if you feel that way," answered nance grimly. "he doesn't mean it," said tad. "ned must have his joke, no matter how serious the situation may be." tad lowered his rope, loop first. "well, how about it?" he called. "i've made it fast. haul away." chunky was something of a heavy weight. it required the combined efforts of those at the top to haul him out. dragging stacy to the surface, tad dropped beside the fat boy, giving him a shake and peering anxiously into his eyes, shouting, "stacy! stacy!" chunky opened one eye and winked knowingly at tad. "oh, you rascal! you've made us pull until we are out of breath. why'd you make a dead weight of yourself?" "is---is he all right?" inquired professor zepplin anxiously. "he hasn't been hurt-----" "yes, i have. i'm all bunged up---i'm all shot to pieces. the---the mountain blew up and-----" "well, are you fellows going to leave me down here all the rest of the night?" demanded the far-away voice of ned rector. "yes, you stay there. you're out of the wet," answered stacy. "that's a fine way to talk after i have saved your life almost at the expense of my own." "pshaw! saved my life! you nearly knocked it all out of me when you fell on top of me." "here comes the rope, ned," called tad. "if you can help us a little you will make the haul easier for us." "i'll use my feet." "better take a hitch around your waist in case you should slip," advised butler. ned did so, and by bracing his feet against the side of the rock he was able to aid them not a little in their efforts to haul him to the surface. ned fixed stacy with stern eye. "were you bluffing all the time?" he demanded. "was i bluffing? think a fellow would need to bluff when a big chump like you fell in on him? i thought the mountain had caved in on me, but it was something softer than a mountain, i guess," added stacy maliciously. "what did happen?" demanded ned, gazing at the hole wonderingly. "it's one of those thin crusts," announced the guide, examining the broken place in the lava with critical eyes, in which occupation the professor joined. "yes, it was pretty crusty," muttered chunky. "you see, sir, this occurs occasionally," nodded the guide, looking up at the grizzled face of professor zepplin. "one never knows in this country when the crust is going to give way and let him down. i guess the rain must have weakened the ground." "and i fell in again," growled stacy. "you were bound to fall in sooner or later," answered tad. "perhaps it is just as well that you fell in a soft place." "a soft place?" shouted stacy. "if you think so, just take a drop in there yourself." "i thought it was the softest thing i ever fell on," grinned rector, whereupon the laugh was on stacy. there was no more sleep in the camp in the crater of sunset peak that night. nor was there fire to warm the campers. they walked about until daylight. that morning they made a breakfast on cold biscuit and snowballs at the rim of the crater. but as the sun came out they felt well repaid for all that they had passed through on the previous night. such a vista of wonderful peaks as lay before them none of the pony riders ever had gazed upon. to the west lay the san francisco peaks, those ever-present landmarks of northern arizona. to the south the boys looked off over a vast area of forest and hills, while to the east in the foreground were grouped many superb cinder cones, similar to the one on which they were standing, though not nearly so high. lava beds, rugged and barren, reached out like fingers to the edge of the plateau as if reaching for the far-away painted desert. "where is the canyon?" asked tad in a low voice. "yonder," said dad, pointing to the north over an unbroken stretch of forest. there in the dim distance lay the walls of the grand canyon, the stupendous expanse of the ramparts of the canyon stretching as far as the eye could see. "how far away are they?" asked tad. "more than forty miles," answered dad. "you wait till we get to the edge. you can't tell anything about those buttes now." "what is a butte---how did they happen to be called that?" asked walter. "a butte is a butte," answered the guide. "a butte is a bump on the landscape," interjected stacy. "a butte is a mound of earth or stone worn away by erosion," answered the professor, with an assurance that forbade any one to question the correctness of his statement. "yes, sir," murmured the pony rider boys. "a wart on the hand of fair nature, as it were," added chunky under his breath. "come, we must be on our way," urged dad. "we want to make half the distance to the canyon before night. i reckon the pack train will have gone on. we'll have to live on what we have in our saddle bags till we catch up with the train, which i reckon we'll do hard onto noon." no great effort was required to descend sunset mountain. it was one long slide and roll. the boys screamed with delight as they saw the dignified professor coasting and taking headers down the cinder-covered mountain. by this time the clothes of the explorers had become well dried out in the hot sun. when they reached the camp they found that the pack train had long since broken camp and gone on. "where are the ponies?" cried walter, looking about. "i'll get them," answered dad, circling the camp a few times to pick up the trail. it will be remembered that the animals had been hobbled on the previous afternoon and turned loose to graze. dad found the trail and was off on it running with head bent, reminding the boys of the actions of a hound. while he was away tad cooked breakfast, made coffee and the others showed their appreciation of his efforts by eating all that was placed before them and calling loudly for more. dad returned about an hour later, riding silver face, driving the other mustangs before him. when the boys saw the stock coming in they shouted with merriment. the mustangs had been hobbled by tying their fore feet together. this made it necessary for the animals to hop like kangaroos. the boys named them the kangaroos right then and there. tad had some hot coffee ready for nance by the time dad got back. the guide forgot that he had declared against eating or drinking anything cooked by the pony rider boys. he did full justice to tad's cooking, while the rest of the boys stood around watching the guide eat, offering suggestions and remarks. dad took it all good-naturedly. he would have plenty of opportunities to get back at them. dad was something of a joker himself, though this fact was suspected only by tad butler, who had noted the constantly recurring twinkle in the eyes of the guide. "we shall hear from dad one of these days," was butler's mental conclusion. "all right, we deserve all we get and more, i guess." shortly afterwards the party was in the saddle, setting out for their forty-mile ride in high spirits. they hoped to reach their destination early on the following morning. some of the way was dusty and hot, though the greater part of it was shaded by the giant pines. they caught up with the pack train shortly before noon, as nance had said they would. a halt was made and a real meal cooked while the mustangs were watered and permitted to graze at the ends of their ropes. the meal being finished, saddle bags were stocked as the party would not see the pack train again until some time on the following day. then the journey was resumed again. the pony rider boys were full of anticipation for what they would see when they reached the canyon. dad was in a hurry, too. he could hardly wait until he came in sight of his beloved canyon. but even with all their expectations the lads had no idea of the wonderful sight in store for them when they should first set eyes on this greatest of nature's wonders. that night they took supper under the tall trees, and after a sleep of some three hours, were roughly awakened by the guide, who soon had them started on their way again. chapter vi a sight that thrilled "we'll make camp here for a time, i reckon," announced dad about two o'clock in the morning. "i thought we were going on to the canyon," said tad. "we shall see it in the morning," answered the guide somewhat evasively. "you boys turn in now, and get some sleep, for you will want to have your eyes wide open in the morning. but let me give you a tip: don't you go roaming around in the dark here." "why---why not?" demanded stacy brown. "oh, nothing much, only we're likely to lose your valuable company if you try it. you have a habit of falling in, i am told. you'll fall in for keeps if you go moseying about in this vicinity." "where are we?" asked butler. "'bout half a mile from the el tovar," answered nance. "now you fellows turn in. stake down the pintos. isn't safe to let them roam around on two legs." tad understood. he knew from the words of nance that they were somewhere in the vicinity of the great gash in the earth that they had come so far to see. but he was content to wait until the morrow for the great sight that was before them. the sun was an hour high before they felt the heavy hand of jim nance on their shoulders shaking them awake. the odor of steaming coffee and frying bacon was in the air. "what---sunrise?" cried tad, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "and breakfast?" added ned. "real food?" piped stacy brown. "where do we wash?" questioned walter. "you will have to take a sun bath," answered the guide with a twinkle. "there isn't any water near this place. we will find water for the stock later in the morning." "but where is the canyon?" wondered tad. "you're at it." "i don't see anything that looks like a canyon," scoffed ned. "no, this is a level plateau," returned tad. "however, i guess dad knows what he is talking about. i for one am more interested in what i smell just now than anything else." chunky sniffed the air. "well, it will take more than a smell to satisfy me this morning," declared chunky, wrinkling his nose. "this is my day to cook," called tad. "why didn't you let me get the breakfast, mr. nance?" "i'm doing the cooking this morning. i've had a long walk and feel fine, so i decided to be the cook, the wrangler and the whole outfit this morning. how do you feel, boys?" "fine!" chorused the pony riders. "but we thought we should see the canyon when we woke up this morning." a quizzical smile twitched the corners of dad's mouth. tad saw that the guide had something of a surprise for them. the lad asked no further questions. breakfast finished, the boys cleared away the dishes, packing everything as if for a continuation of their journey, which they fully expected to make. a slight rise of ground lay a few rods ahead of them. tad started to stroll that way. he halted as a party of men and women were seen approaching from the direction of el tovar, where the hotel was located. "now, gentlemen, you may walk along," nodded the guide, smiling broadly. "which way?" asked the professor. "follow the crowd you see there." they saw the party step up to the rise, then a woman's scream smote their ears. tad, thinking something had occurred, dashed forward. he reached the level plateau on the rise, where his companions saw him halt suddenly, throwing both arms above his head. the boys started on a run, followed by the professor, who by this time was a little excited. then all at once the glorious panorama burst upon them. there at their very feet lay the grand canyon. below them lay the wonder of the world, and more than five thousand feet down, like a slender silver thread, rippled the colorado. the first sight of the canyon affects different persons differently. it overwhelmed the pony rider boys, leaving them speechless. they shrank back as they gazed into the awful chasm at their feet and into which they might have plunged had the hour been earlier, for it had burst upon them almost with the suddenness of the crack of a rifle. they had thought to see mountains. there were none. what they saw was really a break in the level plateau. from where they stood they looked almost straight down into the abyss for something more than a mile. gazing straight ahead they saw to the other side of the chasm twelve miles away. to the right and to the left their gaze reached more than twenty miles in each direction. this great space was filled with gigantic architectural constructions, with amphitheaters, gorges, precipices, walls of masonry, fortresses, terraced up to the level of the eyes, temples, mountain high, all brilliant with horizontal lines of color---streaks of hues from a few feet to a thousand feet in width, mottled here and there with all the colors of the rainbow. such coloring, such harmony of tints the pony rider boys never had gazed on before. it seemed to them as if they themselves were standing in midair looking down upon a new and wonderful world. there was neither laughter nor jest upon the lips of these brown-faced, hardy boys now. professor zepplin slowly took off his hat in homage to what was there at his feet. he wiped the perspiration from his forehead. a glance at tad butler showed tear drops glistening on his cheeks. he was trembling. never before had a more profound emotion taken hold of him. ned rector and walter perkins's faces wore expressions of fear. no other moment in the lives of the four boys had been like this. dad's face shone as with a reflected light from the canyon that he loved so well, and that had been his almost constant companion for more than thirty years; whose moods he knew almost as well as his own, and whose every smile or frown had its meaning for him. the travelers each forgot that there was any other human being than himself present. they were drawn sharply to the fact that there were others present, when one of the little party of sight-seers that had come over from the hotel picked up a rock, the weight of which was almost too much for him. the lads watched him with fascinated eyes. the man swung the rock back and forth a few times, then hurled it over the edge. the pony rider boys waited, actually holding their breath, to catch the report when the rock should strike the bottom. no report came. it requires some little time for a rock to fall a mile, and when it does land it is doubtful if those at the other end of the mile would hear the report. the faces of the pony riders actually paled. this was indeed the next thing to a bottomless pit. walter perkins recalled afterwards that his head had spun dizzily, ned that he was too frightened to move a muscle. suddenly the silence was broken by a shout that was really an agonized yell. the voice was stacy brown's. "hold me! somebody hold me!" he screamed the others glanced at him with disapproving eyes. could nothing impress chunky? the fat boy had begun to move forward toward the edge, both hands extended in front of him as to ward off something. "hold me! i'm going to jump! oh, won't somebody hold me?" even then only one in that little party appeared to understand. they were paralyzed with amazement and unable to move a muscle. the one who did see and understand was tad butler. chunky was giving way to an irresistible impulse. he was at that instant being drawn toward the terrible abyss. chapter vii on the rim of eternity tad caught his breath sharply. he, too, for the instant seemed unable to move. then all at once he sprang forward, throwing himself upon the fat boy, both going to earth together, locked in a tight embrace. "leggo! leggo!" shrieked stacy. the fat boy fought desperately. he had appealed for help; now he refused to accept it. he was possessed with a maddened desire to throw himself into the mile-deep chasm. it was all tad butler could do at the moment to keep from being rolled to the rim himself. dad, suddenly discovering the situation, ran at full speed toward the struggling boys. "grab his legs. i will look out for his shoulders," gasped tad, sitting down on chunky's face for a brief respite. "i'll handle him," said the guide quietly. "they get taken that way sometimes when they first look into the hole." by this time the others, having shaken off the spell, started to move toward the scene of the brief conflict. dad waved them back; then, with tad holding up the fat boy's shoulders, dad with chunky's feet in hand, the two carried him back some distance, where they laid him on the ground. stacy did not move. his face was ghastly. "i think he has fainted---fainted away," stammered tad. "let him alone. he'll be all right in a few minutes," directed the guide. "what made him do that?" wondered tad, turning large eyes on nance. "he jest couldn't help it. i told you you'd see something, but i didn't think fatty would be taken quite so hard. you go back." "no, i'll wait. you perhaps had better look after the others, ned or the professor might be taken the same way," answered tad, with a faint smile. nance hurried back. after a time chunky opened his eyes. he sat up, looking dazed then he reached a feeble hand toward tad. "i'd 'a' gone sure, tad," he said weakly. "nonsense!" "i would, sure." "come back and look at it." "not for a million, i wouldn't." "oh, pooh! don't be a baby. come back, i tell you. you've got to get over that fright. we shall have to be around this canyon for some time. if you haven't any nerve, why-----" "nerve? nerve?" queried stacy, rousing himself suddenly. "talk about nerve! don't you think it takes nerve for a fellow to start in to jump off a rock a mile high? well, i guess it does. don't you talk to me about nerve." "there come the others." the professor, the guide and the other boys walked slowly up to them at this juncture. chunky expected that ned would make fun of him. ned did nothing of the sort. both ned and walter were solemn and their faces were drawn. they sighed as if they had just awakened from a deep sleep. "what do you think of it, professor?" asked tad, looking up. "words fail me." "i must have another look," announced butler. he walked straight to the edge of the rim, then lying flat on his stomach, head out over the chasm, he gazed down into the terrible abyss. jim nance nodded approvingly. "he's going to love it just the same as i do." the old man's heart warmed toward tad butler in that moment, when tad, all alone, sought a closer acquaintance with the mystery of the great gash. after a time the others walked back, dad taking chunky by the nape of the neck. perhaps it was the method of approach, or else chunky, having had his fright, had been cured. at least this time he felt no fear. he was lost in wonder. "buck up now!" urged the guide. "i am bucked. leggo my neck. i won't make a fool of myself this time, i promise you." "you can't blame him," said tad, rising from his perilous position and walking calmly back to them. "i nearly got them myself." "got what?" demanded stacy. "the jiggers." "that's it. that describes it." professor zepplin, who had informed himself before starting out, now turned suddenly upon them. "he's going to give us a lecture. listen," whispered tad. "young gentlemen, you have, perhaps, little idea of the vastness of that upon which you are now gazing." "we know it is the biggest thing in the world, professor," said ned. "imagine, if you can," continued the professor, without heeding the interruption, "that this amphitheatre is a real theatre. allowing twice as much room as is given for the seat of each person in the most comfortable theatre in the world, and you could seat here an audience of two hundred and fifty millions of people. these would all be in the boxes on this side." the boys opened their eyes at the magnitude of the figures. "an orchestra of one hundred million pieces and a chorus of a hundred and fifty million voices could be placed comfortably on the opposite side. can you conceive of such a scene? what do you think of it?" "i---i think," stammered chunky, "that i'd like to be in the box office of that show---holding on to the ticket money." without appearing to have heard stacy brown's flippant reply, professor zepplin began again. "now that you are about to explore this fairy land it is well that you be informed in advance as to what it is. the river which you see down there is the colorado. as perhaps some of you, who have studied your geography seriously, may know, the river is formed in southern utah by the confluence of the green and grand, intersecting the north-western corner of arizona it becomes the eastern boundary of nevada and california, flowing southward until it reaches the gulf of california." "yes, sir," said the boys politely, filling in a brief pause. "that river drains a territory of some three hundred thousand square miles, and from its source is two thousand miles long. this gorge is slightly more than two hundred miles long. am i correct in my figures, mr. nance?" demanded the professor, turning to dad, a "contradict-me-at-your-peril" expression on his face. "i reckon you are, sir." "the river has a winding way-----" "that's the way with rivers," muttered chunky to himself. "millions of years have been consumed in the building of this great canyon. in that time ten thousand feet of non-conformable strata have been deposited, elevated, tilted, and washed away; the depression of the canyon surface serving for the depositing of devonian, lower carboniferous, upper carboniferous, permian, triassic, jurassic, cretaceous; the formation of the vast eocene lake and its total disappearance; the opening of the earth's crust and the venting from its angry stomach the foul lavas---the mind reels and whirls and grows dizzy-----" "so do i," almost shouted chunky, toppling over in a heap. "quit it! you make me sea sick-----" "i am amazed," bristled the professor. "i am positively amazed that a young gentleman---" "it was the whirling, reeling suggestion that made his head swim, i think, professor," explained tad, by way of helping out the fat boy. the lecture was not continued from that point just then. the professor postponed the rest of his recital until a more opportune time. "will you go down to-day, or will you wait?" asked the guide. "i think we shall find quite enough here on the edge of the rim to occupy our minds for the rest of the day, nance," returned the professor. the boys agreed to this. they did not feel as if they ever would want to leave the view that fascinated and held them so enthralled. that day they journeyed over to the hotel for dinner. the guests at the quaint hotel were much interested in the pony rider boys, and late in the afternoon quite a crowd came over to visit camp grand, as the lads had named their camp after the pack train had arrived and the tents were pitched. there were four tents all pitched in a row facing the canyon, the tents in a straight line. in front the american flag was planted, the camp fire burning about midway of the line and in front, so that at night it would light up the entire company street. they cooked their own supper, tad attending to this. but the boys were too full of the wonderful things they had seen that day to feel their usual keen-edged appetite. the dishes put away, the professor having become deeply absorbed in an argument with some gentlemen from the hotel regarding the "processes of deposition and subsidence of the uplift," tad slipped away, leaving his chums listening to the conversation. dad was also listening in open-mouthed wonder that any human being could use such long words as were being passed back and forth without choking to death. he was, however, so absorbed in the conversation that he did not at the moment note butler's departure. tad passed out of sight in the direction of the canyon. after a few moments had passed, dad stirred the fire, then he too strolled off toward the rim. tad, fearless, regardless of the peril to himself, was lying flat on his stomach gazing down over the rim, listening to the mysterious voices of the canyon. "i don't want you to be here, boy," said the guide gently. though he had approached silently, without revealing his presence, tad never moved nor started, the tone was so gentle, and then again the boy's mind was full of other things. "why don't you want me here, mr. nance?" dad squatted down on the very edge of the rim, both feet banging over, one arm thrown lightly over tad's shoulders. "you might fall." "what about yourself? you might fall, too. you are in more danger than am i." "dad is not afraid. the canyon is his home---" "you mean you live here?" "the greater part of the year." "where?" "some day i will show you. it is far, far down in my beloved canyon, where the foot of the white man seldom strays. have you heard the strange voices of dad's friend?" "yes, dad, i have heard. i hear them now." both fell silent. the far away roar of the turbulent waters of the colorado was borne to their listening ears. there were other sounds, too, mysterious sounds that came like distant moans, rising and falling, with here and there one that sounded like a sob. "the spirit of the canyon is sad to-night," murmured dad. "why, dad, that was the wind sighing through the canyon." "yes, i know, but back of it all there is life, there is the very spirit of life. i don't know how to explain it, but i feel it deep down inside of me. i think you do, too." "yes, dad, i do." "i know you do. it's a living thing to me, kid, as it will be to you after you know their voices better and they come to know you. all those people," with a sweeping gesture toward the hotel where music and song were heard, "miss it all. what they see is a great spectacle. to see the grand canyon is to feel it in your heart. seeing it in any other way is not seeing it at all." "and do you live down there alone?" "yes. why not?" "i should think you would long for human companionship." "what, with my beloved canyon to keep me company? no, i am never lonely," added jim nance simply. "i shall live and die there---i hope, and i'll be buried down there somewhere there are riches down there too. gold---much gold-----" "why don't you go after it-----" dad shook his head. "it would be like robbing a friend. no, you may take the gold if you can find it, but dad, never. see, the moon is up. look!" it was a new scene that tad gazed upon. vishnu temple, the most wonderful piece of architecture in the canyon, had turned to molten silver. this with newberry terrace, solomon's throne, shinto temple and other lesser ones stood out like some wonderful oriental city. all at once the quiet of the beautiful scene was disturbed by a bowl that was plainly the voice of stacy brown. stacy, his big eyes missing little that had been going on about him, had after a time stolen away after tad and the guide. his curiosity had been aroused by their departure and still more by the time they had been gone. chunky determined to go out and investigate for himself. he had picked his way cautiously toward the canyon when he halted suddenly, his eyes growing large at what he saw. "yeow! look!" cried the fat boy. both jim nance and tad sprang up. those in the camp heard the shout and ran toward the rim, fearing that some harm had befallen stacy. chapter viii the city in the skies "what has happened now?" cried tad, running forward. "look, look!" tad and the guide turned at the same instant gazing off across the canyon. at first tad saw nothing more than he had already seen. "i---i don't-----" "it's up there in the skies. don't you see?" almost shouted stacy, pointing. "what is it? what is it?" shouted the others from the camp, coming up on a run. then tad saw. high up in the skies, as plainly outlined as if it were not more than a mile away, was reflected a city. evidently it was an eastern city, for there were towers, domes and minarets, the most wonderful sight he had ever gazed upon. "a---a mirage!" "yes," said dad. "we see them here some times, but not often. my friends down there are showing you many things this night. yes they never do that unless they are pleased. the spirit of the canyon is well pleased. i was sure it would be." by this time the others had arrived. all were uttering exclamations of amazement, only tad and dad being silent and thoughtful. for several minutes the reflection hung suspended in the sky, then a filmy mist was drawn before it like a curtain. "show's over," announced chunky. "that billion orchestra will now play the overture backwards." "most remarkable thing i've ever seen," announced the professor, whereupon he entered into a long scientific discussion on mirages with the gentlemen from the hotel. tad and the guide followed them slowly back to camp. the conversation soon became general. dad was drawn into it, but he spoke no more about the things he and butler had talked of out on the rim of the canyon, literally hanging between heaven and earth. "well, what about to-morrow, mr. nance?" questioned the professor, after the visitors had left them. "i reckoned we'd go down bright angel trail," answered the guide. "do we take the pack train with us?" nance shook his head. "too hard a trail. besides we can't get anywhere with the mules on that trail. we've got to come back up here." "aren't we going into the canyon to stay?" asked walter. "yes. we'll either go down bass trail or grand view. we can get the pack mules down those trails, but on the bright angel we'll have to leave the pintos before we get to the bottom and climb down." "any indians down there?" asked ned. "sure, there are indians." "what's that, indians?" demanded stacy, alive with quick interest. "yes. there's a havasupai camp down in cataract canyon, then there are always some navajos gunning about to make trouble for themselves and everybody else. the apaches used to come down here, too, but we don't see them very often except when the havasus give a peace dance or there's something out of the ordinary going on." "and do---do we see them?" "see the indians? of course you'll see them." "are they bad?" asked the fat boy innocently. "all indians are bad. however, the havasus won't bother you if you treat them right. don't play any of your funny, sudden tricks on them or they might resent it. they're a peaceable lot when they're let alone." "one of the gentlemen who were here this evening told me the navajos, quite a party of them, had made a camp down near bright angel gulch, if you know where that is," spoke up professor zepplin. dad pricked up his ears at this. "then they aren't here for any good. the agent will be after them if they don't watch out. i'll have a look at those bucks and see what rascality they're up to now," said nance. "any chance of a row?" questioned ned. "no, no row. leastwise not for us. your uncle sam will look after those gentlemen if they get gay. but they won't. it will be some crooked little trick under cover---taking the deer or something of the sort." "will we get any chance to shoot deer?" asked walter. "you will not unless you are willing to be arrested. it's a closed season from now till winter. i saw a herd of antelope off near red butte this afternoon." "you must have eyes like a hawk," declared stacy, with emphasis. "eyes were made to see with," answered nance shortly. "and ears to hear, and feet to foot with, and-----" "young men, it is time you were in bed. i presume mr. nance will be wanting to make an early start in the morning," said the professor. "if we are to get back the same day we'll have to start about daybreak. it's a hard trail to pack. you'll be ready to stretch your legs when we get back to-morrow night." the boys were not ready to use those same legs when they were turned out at daybreak. there was some grumbling, but not much as they got up and made ready their hurried breakfast. in the meantime nance had gotten together such provisions as he thought they would need. these he had packed in the saddle bags so as to distribute the weight. shortly after breakfast they made a start, dad going first, tad following close behind. the first two miles of the bright angel trail was a sort of jacob's ladder, zigzagging at an unrelenting pitch. most of the way the boys had to dig their knees into the sides of their mounts to prevent slipping over the animals' necks. "this is mountain climbing backwards," jeered stacy. "i don't know, but i guess i like it the other way," decided walter, looking down a dizzy slope. "i hope my pony doesn't stumble," answered ned. "you won't know much about it if he does," called tad over his shoulder. "never mind. we'll borrow an indian basket to bring you home," laughed stacy in a comforting voice. the trail was the roughest and the most perilous they had ever essayed. the ponies were obliged to pick their way over rocks, around sharp, narrow corners, where the slightest misstep would send horse and rider crashing to the rocks hundreds of feet below. but to the credit of the pony rider boys it may be said that not one of them lost his head for an instant. "how did this trail ever get such a name?" asked tad of the guide. "yes, i don't see any signs of angels hereabouts," agreed chunky. "you never will unless you mend your ways," flung back nance. "oh, i don't know. there are others." "on the government maps this is called cameron trail, but it is best known by its original name, bright angel, named after bright angel creek which flows down the canyon." "where is bright angel canyon?" asked tad. "that's where the wild red men are hanging out," said stacy. "that's some distance from here. we shan't see it until some days later," replied the guide. "this, in days long ago, was a havasupai indian trail. you see those things that look like ditches?" "yes." "those were their irrigating canals. they knew how to irrigate a long time before we understood its advantages. their canals conveyed large volumes of water from springs to the indian gardens beyond here. yonder is what is known as the battleship iowa," said the guide, pointing to the left to a majestic pile of red sandstone that capped the red wall of the canyon. "don't shoot," cried stacy, ducking. "you'll be shooting down into the colorado," warned nance. "you'd better watch out." the rock indicated did very much resemble a battleship. the boys marveled at it. then a little further on they came upon a sandstone plateau from which they could look down into the indian garden, another plateau rich with foliage, green grass and a riot of flowers. it was like looking into a bit of the tropics. "here is the worst piece of trail we have yet found," called nance. "go carefully," he directed when they reached the "blue lime." for the next few minutes, until they had passed over this most dangerous portion, little was said. the riders were too busy watching out for their own safety, the professor, examining the different strata of rocks that so appeal to the geologist. he was entranced with what he beheld about him. professor zepplin had no time in which to enjoy being nervous. from there on to the garden they rode more at ease in the "boulder bed," where lay large blocks of rock of many shapes and sizes that had rolled from some upper strata. small shrubs and plants grew on every hand, many-hued lizards and inquisitive swifts darted across the trail, acting as if they resented the intrusion. chunky regarded the lizards with disapproving eyes. but his thoughts were interrupted by the voice of the guide pointing out the temple of isis that looks down six thousand feet into the dark depths of the inner abyss, surrounded by innumerable smaller buttes. the wonderful colorings of the rocks did not suffer by closer inspection; in fact, the colors appeared to be even brighter than when viewed from the rim a few thousand feet above them. indian garden was a delight. they wanted to tarry there, but were allowed to do so only long enough to permit horses and riders to refresh themselves with the cold water that trickled down through the canals from the springs far above. reaching the end of angel plateau they gazed down a sheer descent of twelve hundred feet into the black depths of the inner gorge, where flowed the colorado with a sullen roar that now was borne plainly to their ears. "it sounds as i have heard the rapids at niagara do," declared chunky somewhat ambiguously. "all off!" called the guide. "what's off?" demanded chunky. "dismount." "is this as far as we go?" questioned tad. "it is as far as we go on the pintos. we have to climb down the rest of the way, and it's a climb for your life." the boys gazed down the wall to the river gorge. the prospect did not look very inviting. "i guess maybe i'd better stay here and mind the 'tangs'," suggested stacy, a remark that brought smiles to the faces of the other boys. "no, you'd be falling off if we left you here," declared dad. "you'll go along with us." before starting on the final thousand feet of the descent the trappings were removed from the horses, after which the animals were staked down so that they might not in a moment of forgetfulness fall over the wall and be dashed to pieces on the rocks below. dad got out his climbing ropes, the boys watching the preparations with keen interest. "are you going down, professor?" asked tad smilingly. "certainly i am going down. i for one have no intention of remaining to watch the stock," with a grim glance in chunky's direction. chunky saw fit to ignore the fling at him. he was gazing off across the chasm at the temple of isis, which at that moment absorbed his full attention. "now i guess we are ready," announced the guide finally. "i will go first. in places it will be necessary to cling to the rope. don't let go. then, in case you stumble, you won't get the nasty fall that you otherwise would be likely to get." away up, just below the indian garden, they picked up the slender trail that led on down to the roaring river. they had never had quite such a climb, either up or down. every time they looked down they saw a possible fall upon rough, blade-like granite edges. "we'd be sausage meat if we landed on those," declared chunky. "you are likely to go through the machine if you don't pay closer attention to your business," answered dad. carefully, cautiously, laboriously they lowered themselves one by one over the steep and slippery rocks, down, down for hundreds of feet until they stood on the ragged edge of nowhere, a direct drop of several hundred feet more before them. the guide knew a trail further on, so they crept along the smooth wall of the canyon with scarcely room to plant their feet. a misstep meant death. "three hundred feet and we shall be there," came the encouraging voice of the guide. "half an hour more." "i could make it half a minute if i wanted to," said stacy. "but i don't want to. i feel it my duty to stay and look after my friends." "yes, your friends need you," answered ned sarcastically. "if they hadn't i never should have pulled you out of the hole in the crater." "i was just wondering how chunky could resist the temptation of falling in here. he'll never have a better opportunity for making a clean job of said walter. "he has explained why," replied tad. "we need him. of course we do. we need him every hour-----" "and a half," added ned. the roar of the river became louder as they descended. now they were obliged to raise their voices to make themselves heard. the professor was toiling and sweating, but making no complaint of the hardships. he was plucky, as game as any of those hardy boys for whom he was the companion, and they knew it. "hold on here!" cried stacy, halting. all turned to see what was wrong. "i want to know---i want to know before i take another step." "well, what do you want to know?" demanded tad. "if it's all this trouble to climb down, i want to know how in the name of bright angel trail we're ever going to be able to climb up again!" "fall up, of course," flung back the guide. "you said this was mountain climbing backwards. it'll be that way going back," chuckled the guide. "and i so delicate!" muttered the lad, gazing up the hundreds of feet of almost sheer precipice. but ere the pony rider boys scaled those rocks again they would pass through some experiences that were far from pleasurable ones. chapter ix chunky wants to go home instead of a half hour, as had been prophesied, a full hour elapsed before they reached the bottom of the trail that was practically no trail at all. tad was sure that the guide couldn't find his way back over the same ground, or rather rock, to save his life, for the boy could find nothing that looked as if the foot of man had ever trodden upon it before. he doubted if any one had been over that particular trail from the garden on. as a matter of fact, dad had led them into new fields. but at last they stood upon the surer foundation of the bottom of the chasm. "anyone needs to be a mountain goat to take that journey," said tad, with a laugh. "no, a bird would be better," piped stacy. "i'd rather be a bug, then i wouldn't have to climb," spoke up walter. "hurrah! walt's said something," shouted ned. by this time nance and the professor had walked along, climbing over boulders, great blocks of stone that had tumbled from the walls above, making their way to the edge of the river. the others followed, talking together at the tops of their voices, laughing and joking. they felt relieved that the terrible climb had come to an end. as they approached the river, their voices died away. it was a sublime but terrifying spectacle that the pony rider boys gazed upon. "this is more wonderful than niagara," finally announced the professor. "the rapids of the niagara river would be lost in this turbid stream." great knife-like rocks projected from the flood. when the water struck these sharp edges it was cleanly cut, spurting up into the air like geysers, sending a rainbow spray for many yards on either side. what puzzled the lads more than all else were the great leaping waves that rose without apparent cause from spaces of comparatively calm water. these upturning waves, the guide explained, were the terror of explorers who sought to get through the canyon in boats. "has any one ever accomplished it?" asked tad. "yes; that intrepid explorer, major j.w. powell, made the trip in the year 1869, one of the most thrilling voyages that man ever took. several of his men were lost; two who managed to escape below here were killed by the indians." "i think i should like to try it," said tad thoughtfully. "you won't, if i have anything to say about the matter," replied dad shortly. "no one would imagine, to gaze down on this stream from the rim, that it was such a lively stretch of water," remarked the boy. "it doesn't seem possible." "yes, if they had some of this water up on the plateau it would be worth almost its weight in gold," declared nance. "water is what arizona needs and what it has precious little of. speaking of the danger of the river," continued nance, "it isn't wholly the water, but the traveling boulders." "traveling boulders!" exclaimed the boys. "yes. boulders weighing perhaps a score or more of tons are rolled over and over down the river by the tremendous power of the water, almost with the force and speed of projectiles. now and again they will run against snags. the water dashing along behind them is suddenly checked under the surface. the result is a great up-wave, such as you have already observed. they are just as likely to go downward or sideways as upward. you never know." "then that is the explanation of the cause of those up-waves?" asked the professor. "that's the way we figure it out. but we may be wrong. take an old man's advice and don't monkey with the river." "i thought you said dad's beloved canyon would not hurt him," said tad teasingly. "dad's canyon won't. the river isn't dad's the river is a demon. the river would scream with delight were it to get dad in its cruel clutches," answered the old man thoughtfully, his bristling whiskers drooping to his chest. "are you boys hungry?" the boys were. so dad sought out a comfortable place where they might sit down, a shelf some twenty feet above the edge of the river, whence they could see the turbulent stream for a short distance both ways. it was a wonder to them where all the water came from. the professor called attention to his former statement that the river drained some three hundred thousand miles of territory. this explanation made the matter clearer to them. coffee was made, the ever-ready bacon quickly fried and there in the very heart of the grand canyon they ate their midday meal. never before had they sat down to a meal amid such tremendous forces. the meal having been finished and dad having stretched himself out on a rock after his dinner, the boys strolled off along the river, exploring the various crevices. "isn't there gold down here?" asked tad, returning to the shelf. dad sat up, stroking his whiskers thoughtfully. "i reckon you would find tons of it in the pockets of the river if she were to run dry," was the amazing reply. "but," protested tad, "is there no way to get it?" "not that man knows of. the almighty, who made the whole business here, is the only one who is engineer enough to get that gold. no, sir, don't have any dreams about getting that gold. it isn't for man, at least not yet. maybe he to whom it belongs is saving it for some other age, for folks who need it more than we do." "nobody ever will need it more than we do," interposed stacy. "why, just think, i could buy a whole stable full of horses with what i could get out of one of those pockets." "maybe i'll show you where you can pan a little of the yellow out, before you finish your trip." later in the day the guide decided that it was time to start for the surface again. but the boys begged to be allowed to remain in the canyon over night. it was an experience that they felt sure would be worth while. for a wonder, professor zepplin sided with them in this request. "well, i'll go up and water the stock, then if you want to stay here, why, all right," decided dad. "i will go with you," said tad. "professor, i'll leave the rest of the boys in your charge. don't let them monkey with the river. i don't want to lose anybody this trip. fall in there, and you'll bring up in the pacific ocean---what's left of you will. nothing ever'll stop you till you've hit the sandwich islands or some other heathen country." the boys promised and so did the professor, and both men knew the lads would keep their word, for by this time they held that stream in wholesome respect. chunky, after the guide and tad had left, perched himself on the point of a rock where he lifted up his voice in "where the silvery colorado wends its way," ned rector occupying his time by shying rocks at the singer, but chunky finished his song and had gotten half way through it a second time before one of ned's missiles reached him. that put an end to the song and brought on a rough and tumble fight in which ned and stacy were the sole participants. chunky, of course, got the worst of it. the two combatants locked arms and strolled away down the river bank after chunky had been sufficiently punished for trying to sing. night in the canyon was an experience. the roaring of the river which no longer could be seen was almost terrifying. then, too, a strange weird moaning sounded all about them. dad, who had returned, explained that it was supposed to be the wind. he confided to tad that it was the spirit of the canyon uttering its warning. "warning of what?" "i don't know. maybe a storm. but you can believe something's going to come off, kid," answered nance with emphasis. something did come off. tad and nance had fetched the blankets of the party back with them, together with two large bundles of wood for the camp fire, which materials they had let down from point to point at the end of their ropes. tad had learned always to carry his lasso at his belt. it was the most useful part of his equipment. he had gotten the other boys into the habit of doing the same. rifles had been left in the camp above, as they were a burden in climbing down the rocks. but all hands carried their heavy revolvers. a very comfortable camping place was located under an overhanging shelf of rock, the camp fire just outside lighting up the chamber in a most cheerful manner. there after supper the party sat listening to dad's stories of the canyon during some of his thirty years' experience with it. the wind was plainly rising. it drew the flames of the fire first in one direction, then in another. nance regarded the signs questioningly. after a little he got up and strolled out to the edge of the roaring river. tad and chunky followed him. "we are going to have a storm," said dad. "a heavy one?" asked tad. "a regular hummer!" "rain?" "everything. the whole thing. i'm sorry now that we didn't go back up the trail, but maybe we'd never got up before we were caught. however, we're pretty safe down here, unless-----" "unless what?" piped chunky. "unless we get wet," answered nance, though tad knew that was not what was in the guide's mind. just as they were turning back to the camp there came an explosion that seemed as if the walls of the canyon had been rent in twain. chunky uttered a yell and leaped straight up into the air. tad took firm hold of the fat boy's arm. "don't be a fool. that was thunder and lightning. the lightning struck somewhere in the canyon. isn't that it, dad?" nance nodded. "it's always doing that. it's been plugging away at dad's canyon for millions of years, but the canyon is doing business at the same old stand. i hope those pintos are all right up there," added the guide anxiously. "mebby they're struck," suggested stacy. "mebby they are," replied nance. "come, we'll be getting back unless you want to get wet." a dash of rain followed almost instantly upon the words. the three started at a trot for the camp. they found the professor and his two companions anxiously awaiting their return. "that was a severe bolt," said the professor. "always sounds louder down here, you know," replied dad. "echoes." "yes, i understand." "is---is it going to rain?" questioned walter. "no, it's going to pour," returned chunky. "you'll need your rubber boots before long." "move that camp fire in further," directed nance. "it'll be drowned out in a minute." this was attended with some difficulty, but in a few minutes they had the fire burning brightly under the ledge. then the rain began. it seemed to be a cloudburst instead of a rain. lightning was almost incessant, the reports like the bombardment of a thousand batteries of artillery, even the rocks trembling and quaking. chunky's face grew pale. "say, i want to go home," he cried. "trot right along. there's nothing to stop ye," answered the guide sarcastically. "afraid?" questioned ned jeeringly. "no, i'm not afraid. just scared stiff, that's all," retorted the fat boy. the shelf of rock that sheltered them had now become the base of a miniature niagara falls. the water was pouring over it in tons, making a roaring sound that made that of the river seem faint and far away. jim nance was plainly worried. tad butler saw this and so did the professor, but neither mentioned the fact. their location was no longer dry. the spray from the waterfall had drenched them to the skin. no one complained. they were too used to hardships. all at once there came a report louder and different from the others, followed by a crashing, a thundering, a quaking of the rocks beneath their feet, that sent the blood from the face of every man in the party. even dad's face grayed ever so little. the next second each one was thrown violently to the ground. a sound was in their ears as if the universe had blown up. "we're killed!" howled chunky. "help, help!" yelled walter perkins. "what---what is it?" roared the professor. "we're struck!" shouted tad. "lie still. hug the wall!" bellowed the stentorian voice of jim nance, who himself had crept closer to the canyon wall and lay hugging it tightly. the deafening, terrifying reports continued. one corner of the ledge over their heads split off, sending a volley of stones showering over them, leaving the faces of some of the party flecked with blood where the jagged particles had cut into their flesh. it was a terrible moment for the pony rider boys. chapter x escape is wholly cut off not one could collect his thoughts sufficiently to reason out what had taken place. the guide, however, had known from the first. he feared that his charges would be killed, but there was nothing more that he could do. the bombarding continued, some explosions sounding near at hand, others further down or up the canyon, but each of sufficient force to send shivers up and down the spines of the pony rider boys. they never had experienced anything approaching this. "i'm going to stand up," declared tad, rising to his feet. "i won't be killed any quicker standing than lying down. besides, i don't like to shirk." "stand up if you want to, but keep close to the wall," ordered dad, himself rising to his feet. one by one the boys got up, professor zepplin following the example of the guide. they had to shout in speaking in order to make themselves heard above the bombardment, the roaring of the river and the cataract over their heads. "what is going on up there?" shouted tad. "mountain falling in!" "i knew it! i knew it!" yelled chunky. "i knew something would fall down as soon as i got here." no one laughed. the situation was too serious for laughter. "is it a land or a rock slide?" questioned tad further. "both," shouted nance. "mostly boulders." the rain has loosened them and they are raining down on us. we're lucky we had this shelf to get under." "from the present outlook i am afraid the shelf isn't going to protect us much longer," said tad. "keep close to the wall and you will be all right. it won't break off short up to the wall. i've seen rock slides, but never anything quite like this. you see, the spirit of the canyon was right," nodded nance. "spirits? what spirits?" demanded chunky. "is this place haunted? don't tell me it is. haven't i got enough to worry me already without being chased by ghosts? "chased by goats?" shouted the professor. "who said anything about goats?" retorted stacy. "i said g-h-o-s-t-s, spooks, spookees or spookors or whatever you've a mind to call them." "oh, i hope you are not losing your mind, stacy." "might as well lose my mind as to lose my life. mind wouldn't be any use to me after i was dead, would it?" "the storm is dying out," called ned. tad started to step from under the shelf, nance grasped and hauled him back. just then a great boulder, weighing many tons, struck the rock just above their heads, then bounded off into the river, which it struck with a mighty splash. the contact with the rocks sent off a shower of sparks, a perfect rain of them. "i---i guess i need a guardian," said the lad rather weakly. "yes, you probably would have been killed by the smaller pieces that broke off," answered nance. "be content to stay where you are." "how long have we got to stay cooped up in this half cave?" demanded stacy. "all night, maybe," answered dad. "good night!" said the fat boy, slipping down until he had assumed a sitting posture. he lay down and was asleep in a short time. stacy woke with a start when another giant rock smote the wall just above their cave, exploding into thousands of pieces from the violent contact. "stop that noise! how do you suppose a fellow's going to sleep when-----" stacy struggled slowly to his feet when he saw the drawn faces of his companions. "was that another of them?" he asked hesitatingly. "yes," answered tad, with a nod. "it is grand, but terrible." "i don't see anything grand about it. i guess i won't lie down again. i never can sleep any more after being awakened from my first nap," declared the fat boy. no one slept for the rest of the night. the bombardment continued at intervals all through the black, terrifying night. the colorado, into which billions of gallons of water had been dumped, was rising rapidly, an angry, threatening flood. "is there any danger of the river overflowing on us?" asked professor zepplin. "no. no single night's rain would do it. the rain is pretty nearly ended now, as you can see for yourself. but there's no telling how long those fellows will continue to roll down. i've seen the same thing before, but this is the worst," declared dad. "all on account of the pony rider boys," piped stacy. "miss nature is determined to give us our money's worth in experience. i've had mine already. she can't quit any too soon to suit me." after a time the guide crept out, his ears keyed sharply to catch warning sounds from above. nance had been out but a moment when he darted back under the protecting ledge. he was just in time. a giant boulder struck the earth right in front of their place of refuge. from that moment on no one ventured out. about an hour before daylight, the storm having lulled, the failing boulders coming down with less frequency, all hands sank down on their wet blankets one by one, and dropped off to sleep. when they awakened the day had dawned. the sun was glowing on the peaks of pluto pyramid and the algonkin terraces far above them on the opposite side of the gorge. tad butler was the first to open his eyes that morning. he sprang up with a shout. "sleepy heads! turn out!" dad was on his feet with a bound. then came the professor, ned and walter in the order named, with stacy brown limping along painfully at the rear. "how do you feel this fine morning?" glowed tad, nodding at stacy. "i? oh, i'm all bunged up. how's the weather?" "nature is smiling," answered tad. "all right. as long as she doesn't grin, i won't kick. if she grins i'm blest if i'll stand for it." "whose turn is it to get breakfast?" questioned ned. "what little there is to get i will attend to," said tad. "we are long on experience but short on food." still, breakfast was a cheerful meal, even though all were still wet, their muscles stiffened from sleeping in puddles, from which they were obliged to dip the water for their coffee. they enjoyed the meal just as much as if it had been a banquet, however. dad's face did not reflect the general joy that was apparent on the faces of the others. tad observed this, but made no comment. finally stacy brown discovered something of the sort, too. "dad, you've got a grouch on this lovely morning," said stacy. "no, i never have a grouch." "your whiskers are rising. i thought you had." "i'd rather have my whiskers standing out some of the time than to have my tongue hanging out all of the time," replied the guide witheringly. "i guess that will be about all for you, chunky," jeered ned. "do we start as soon as we have finished here?" asked the professor of nance. "we do not," was the brief reply. "may i ask why not?" "because we can't start." "can't?" wondered professor zepplin. tad saw that something was wrong. what that something was he had not the remotest idea. "no, we won't go up bright angel trail to-day." "why not? why won't we?" piped stacy. "because there isn't any bright angel trail to go up," returned the guide grimly. "the bad place in the trail was all torn out by the ripping boulders last night. nothing short of a bird could make its way over that stretch of trail now." "then what are we going to do?" cried the professor. "do? we're going to stay here. escape is for the present wholly cut off-----" "can't we climb up a trail lower down?" asked ned. "ain't no trail this side of the wall by the river, and the river is just as bad as the wall. i reckon we'll stay here for a time at least." the pony rider boys looked at each other solemnly. theirs was, indeed, a serious predicament, much more so than they realized. chapter xi a trying time for a moment following the announcement no one spoke. the professor gazed straight into the stern face of the guide, whose whiskers were still drooping. "we are prisoners here? is that it, nance?" stammered professor zepplin. "that's about it, i reckon. the trail's busted. there ain't no other way to get out that i know of and i reckon i know these canyons pretty well." "then what shall we do?" "well, i reckon we'll wait till somebody misses us and comes down after us." "oh, well, they will do that this morning. of course they will miss us," declared the professor, as if the matter were entirely settled. the expression on dad's face plainly showed that he was not quite so confident as was the professor. there was one factor that professor zepplin had not taken into consideration. food! there was barely enough left for a meal for one person. dad surmised this, so he asked tad just how much food they had left. "our supply," said tad, "consists of three biscuit, one orange and two lemons." the boys groaned. "i'll take the biscuit. you can have the rest," was chunky's liberal offer. "how about it?" "you will get a lemon handed to you at twelve o'clock noon to-day," jeered ned rector. "then i'll pass it along to the one who needs it the most," retorted stacy quickly. "the question is," said the professor, "is there nothing that we can do to attract the attention of others?" "i have been thinking of that," answered nance. "i wish now that we had brought our rifles." "why?" "to shoot and attract attention of whoever may be on the rim." "we might shoot our revolvers," suggested tad. "we will do that. it is doubtful if the reports can be heard above, and even then i am doubtful about any of the tenderfeet understanding what the shots mean. about our only hope is that some one who knows will come down the trail. they won't go further than the gardens, but finding our mustangs there a mountaineer would understand." "shall i take a shot?" asked walter. "yes." walter fired five shots into the river. after an interval chunky let go five more. this continued until each had fired a round of five shots. after each round they listened for an answering shot from above, but none came. thus matters continued until noon, when the remaining food was distributed among the party. "this is worse than nothing," cried chunky. "this excites my appetite. if you see me frothing at the mouth don't think i've got a dog bite. that's my appetite fighting with my stomach. i'll bet my gun that the appetite wins too." the day wore away slowly. tad made frequent trips down the river as far as he could get before being stopped by a great wall of rock that rose abruptly for nearly a thousand feet above him. he gazed up this glittering expanse of rock until his neck ached, then he went back to camp. an idea was working in tad's mind, but it was as yet undeveloped. at intervals the shots were tried again, though no reply followed. night came on. before dark dad had gathered some driftwood that he found in crevices of the rocks. the wood was almost bone dry and a crackling, cheerful fire was soon burning. "if we only had something to eat now, we'd be all right," said walter mournfully. "you want something to eat?" questioned chunky. "i should say i do." "oh, well, that's easily fixed." stacy stepped over to a rock, made a motion as if ringing a telephone bell, then listened. "hello! hello! is that the hotel, el tovar hotel? very well; this is brown. brown! yes. well, we want you to send out dinner for six. six! can't you understand plain english? yes, six. oh, well, i think we'll have some porter house steak smothered in onions. smothered! we'll have some corn cakes and honey, some--some---um---some baked potatoes, about four quarts of strawberries. and by the way, got any apple pie? yes? well, you might send down a half dozen pies and-----" chunky got no further. with a howl, ned rector, tad butler and walter perkins made a concerted rush for him. ned fell upon the unfortunate fat boy first. stacy went down in a heap with ned jamming his head into the dirt that had been washed up by the river at flood time. a moment more and ned was at the bottom of the heap with stacy, the other two boys having piled on top. "here, here!" shouted the professor. "let 'em scrap," grinned dad. "they'll forget they're hungry." they did. after the heap had been unpiled, the boys got up, their clothes considerably the worse for the conflict, their faces red, but smiling and their spirits considerably higher. "you'll get worse than that if you tantalize us in that way again," warned tad. "we can stand for your harmless jokes, but this is cruel-----" "---ty to animals," finished chunky. "what you'll get will make you sure of that." "come over here and get warm, brown," called the guide. "oh, he's warmed sufficiently," laughed tad. "we have attended to that. he won't get chills to-night, i promise you." breathing hard, their eyes glowing, the boys squatted down around the camp fire. no sooner had they done so than a thrilling roar sounded off somewhere in a canyon to their right, the roar echoing from rock to rock, from canyon to canyon, dying away in the far distance. "for goodness' sake, what is that?" gasped stacy. "mountain lion," answered the guide shortly. "can---can he get here?" stammered walter. "he can if he wants to." "i---i hope he changes his mind if he does want to," breathed stacy. "i wish we had our rifles," muttered ned. "what for?" demanded dad. "to shoot lions, of course." "humph!" "couldn't we have a lion hunt while we are out here?" asked tad enthusiastically. "you could if the lion didn't hunt you." "wouldn't that be great, fellows?" cried tad. "the pony rider boys as lion hunters." "great," chorused the boys. "when shall it be?" added ned. "it won't be till after we get out of this hole," declared dad. "and from present indications, that won't be to-night." "tell us something about the lions," urged walter. "are they ugly?" "well, they ain't exactly household pets," answered the guide, with a faint smile. "is it permitted to hunt them?" interjected the professor. "yes, there's no law against it. the lions kill the deer and the government is glad to be rid of the lions. but you won't get enough of them to cause a flurry in the lion market." "no, there's more probability of there being a panic in the pony rider market," chuckled tad. "i'm not afraid," cried stacy. "no, chunky isn't afraid," jeered ned. "he doesn't want to go home when the marbles roll down from the mountain! oh, no, he isn't afraid! he's just looking for dangerous sport." their repartee was interrupted by another roar, louder than the first. but though they listened for a long time there was no repetition of the disturbing roar of the king of the canyons. soon after that the lads went to bed. tonight they slept soundly, for they had had little sleep the previous night, as the reader knows. when they awakened on the following morning the conditions had not changed. they were still prisoners in the grand canyon not far from the foot of bright angel trail. all hands awoke to the consciousness that unless something were done, and at once, they would find themselves face to face with starvation. it was not a cheerful prospect. there was no breakfast that morning, though chunky, who had picked up a cast-away piece of orange peel, was munching it with great satisfaction, rolling his eyes from one to the other of his companions. "don't. you might excite your appetite again," warned ned. tad, who had been out for another exploring tour along the river, had returned, walking briskly. "well, did you find a trail?" demanded chunky. "no, but i have found a way out of this hole," answered tad, with emphasis. "what?" exclaimed dad, whirling on him almost savagely. "yes, i have found a way. i'm going to carry out a plan and i promise that with good luck i'll get you all out of here safely. i shall need some help, but the thing can be done, i know." "what is your plan?" asked the professor. "i'll tell you," said tad. "but don't interrupt me, please, until i have finished." chapter xii braving the roaring colorado the pony riders drew closer, dad leaned against the rocky wall of the canyon, while the professor peered anxiously into the lad's face. "i'll bet it's a crazy plan," muttered stacy. "we will hear what you have to say and decide upon its feasibility afterwards," announced the professor. "mr. nance, if a man were below the horseshoe down the canyon there, he would be able to make his way over to the bright angel trail, would he not?" "yes. a fellow who knew how to climb among the rocks could make it." "he could get right over on our own trail, could he not?" "sure! but what good would that do us?" "couldn't he let down ropes and get us out?" "i reckon he could at that." "you don't think we are going to be discovered here until perhaps it is too late, do you, mr. nance?" "we always have hopes. there being nothing we can do, the only thing for us is to sit down and hope." "and starve? no, thank you. not for mine!" "nor mine. it's time we men did something," declared stacy pompously. "as i have had occasion to remark before, children should be seen and not heard," asserted ned rector. "kindly be quiet. we are listening to master tad," rebuked the professor. "go ahead, tad." "there isn't much to say, except that i propose to get on the other side of the horseshoe and climb back over the rocks to our trail. if i am fortunate enough to get there the rest will be easy and i'll have you up in a short time. how about it, dad?" asked the boy lightly, as if his proposal were nothing out of the ordinary. dad took a few steps forward. "how do ye propose to get across that stretch of water there to reach the other side of the horseshoe?" "swim it, of course." the guide laughed harshly. "swim it? why, kid a boat wouldn't live in that boiling pot for two minutes. what could a mere man hope to do against that demon?" "it is my opinion that a man would do better for a few moments against the water than a boat would. i think i can do it." "no, if anybody does that kind of a trick it will be jim nance." "do you swim?" "like a chunk of marble. living on the plains all a fellow's life doesn't usually make a swimmer of him." "i thought so. that makes me all the more determined to do this thing." "somebody hold me or i'll be doing it myself," cried chunky. no one paid any attention to the fat boy's remark. "i can't permit it, tad," said the professor, with an emphatic shake of the head. "no, you could never make it. it would be suicide." "i'm going to try it," insisted the pony rider. "you most certainly are not." "but there is little danger. don't you see i should be floating down with the current. almost before i knew it i should be on the other side of the horseshoe there. besides you would have hold of the rope." "rope?" demanded dad. "yes, of course." "where are you going to get ropes? they're all up there on the mountainside." "we still have our lassoes." "explain. i don't understand," urged professor zepplin. "it is my plan to tie the lassoes together. we have six of them. that will make nearly two hundred feet. one or two of you can take hold of the free end of the rope, the other end being about my waist. in case i should be carried away from the shore, why all you have to do will be to haul me back. isn't that a simple proposition?" "it's a crazy one," nodded the professor. "come to think it over, i believe it could be done," reflected nance. "if i could swim at all i'd do it myself, but i'd drown inside of thirty seconds after i stepped a foot in the water. why, i nearly drown every time i wash for breakfast." stacy was about to make a remark, but checked himself. it was evidently not a seemly remark. it must have been more than ordinarily flippant to have caused chunky to restrain himself. "i move we let tad try it, professor," proposed ned. "i don't approve of it at all. no, sir, i most emphatically do not." "but surely, professor, there can be no danger in it at all. it is very simple," urged young butler. tad knew better. it was not a simple thing to do. it was distinctly a perilous, if not a foolhardy feat. nance knew this, too, but he had grown to feel a great confidence in tad butler. he believed that if anyone could brave those swirling waters and come out alive, that one was tad butler. but it was a desperate chance. still, with the rope tied around the lad's waist, it was as the boy had said, they could haul him back quickly. "professor, i am in favor of letting him try it if he is a good swimmer," announced the guide. "pshaw, you couldn't drown tad," declared ned. "no, you couldn't drown tad," echoed chunky. "not any more than you could drown me." "perhaps you would like to try it yourself?" grinned nance. "yes, i can hardly hold myself. i am afraid every minute that i'll jump right into that raging flood there and strike out for the other side of the horseshoe," returned stacy, striking a diving attitude. they laughed, but as quickly sobered. tad was already at work making firm splices in the two ropes that he held in his hand. "pass over your ropes, boys. we have no time to lose. the river is getting higher every minute now, and there's no telling what condition it will be in an hour from now." the others passed over their ropes, some willingly enough, others with reluctance. tad spliced them together, tested each knot with all his strength and nodded his approval. "i guess they will hold now," he said, stripping off his coat after having thrown his hat aside and tossed off his cartridge belt and revolver. "walt, you take care of those things for me, please, and in case i get you folks out, fetch them up with you." walter perkins nodded as he picked up the belongings of his chum. "mr. nance," said tad, "i think you and ned are the strongest, so i'll ask you two to take hold of the rope when i get started. if you need help the professor will lend a hand." professor zepplin shook his head. he did not approve of this at all. however, it seemed their only hope. tad started for the lower end of the walled-in enclosure, the others following him. the lad made the rope fast around his waist, twisting it about so that the knot was on the small of his back. thus the rope would not interfere with his swimming. he then uncoiled the rope, stretching it along the ground to make sure that there were no kinks in it. "there, everything appears to be in working order. don't you envy me my fine swim, boys?" tad laughed cheerfully. "yes, we do," chorused the boys. it must not be thought that tad butler did not fully realize the peril into which he was so willingly going. he knew there was a big chance against his ever making his goal, but he was willing to take the slender remaining chance that he might make it. "all ready," he said coolly. dad and ned took hold of the rope. "don't hold on to it at all unless i shout to you to do so. i must be left free. let me be the judge if i am to be hauled back or not." with a final glance behind, to see that all was in readiness, tad stepped to the edge of the water. chunky pressed up close to him. "is there any last request that you want me to make to relatives or friends, tad?" asked the fat boy solemnly. "tell them to be good to my chunky, for he's such a tender plant that he will perish unless he has the most loving care. here i go!" with a wave of his hand, tad plunged into the swirling waters. though his plunge was seen, the sound of it was borne down by the thunderous roar of the river. as butler vanished it was as though he had gone to his instant doom. instinctively the two men holding the rope tightened their grip, beginning to haul in. but tad's head showed and they eased off again. just a few moments more, and tad was seized by the waters and hurled up into the air. "he jumps like a bass," chuckled chunky. "quit that talk!" ordered ned sharply. "poor tad, we've let him go to a hopeless death!" all watched tad breathlessly---whenever they could see him. more often the boy was invisible to those on land. a strong swimmer, and an intelligent one, tad had more than found his match in these angry, cruel waters. though the current was in the direction that he wanted to go, the eddies seemed bent on dragging him out to the middle of the stream, where he must be most helpless of all. tad was fighting with all the strength that remained to him when an up-wave met him, caught him and hurled him back fully ten feet. butler now found his feet entangled in the rope. "he's having a fearful battle!" gasped walter, whose face had gone deathly pale. professor zepplin nodded, unable to speak. by a triumph of strength, backed by his cool head and keen judgment, tad brought himself out of this dangerous pocket of water, only to meet others. his strength seemed to be failing now. "haul him back!" ordered the professor hoarsely. "haul him back!" they tried, but at that moment the rope parted---sawed in two over a sharp edge of rock! chapter xiii a battle mightily waged the land end of the rope fell limp in the hands of jim nance and ned rector. "it's gone---gone!" wailed ned. "that settles him," answered the guide in a hopeless tone. "oh, he's lost, he's lost!" cried walter. "can no one do anything?" chunky, with sudden determination, threw off his coat, and started on a run for the river. dodging the professor's outstretched hands, chunky sprang into the water. with a roar dad hurled the rope toward the fat boy. the guide had no time in which to fashion a loop, but he had thrown the rope doubled. fortunately the coil caught chunky's right foot and the lad was hauled back feet first, choking, half drowned, his head being dragged under water despite his struggles to get free. the instant they hauled him to the bank the professor seized the lad and began shaking him. "leggo! lemme go, i tell you. i'm going after tad!" stacy brown was terribly in earnest this time. he was fighting mad because they had pulled him back from what would have been sure death to him. they had never given stacy credit for such pluck, and ned and walter gazed at him with new interest in their eyes. it was necessary to hold the fat boy. he was still struggling, determined to go to tad's rescue. in the meantime their attention had been drawn from tad for the moment. when they looked again they failed to find him. "there he is," shouted ned, as the boy was seen to rise from the water and plunge head foremost into it again. tad did not appear to be fighting now. "he's helpless! he's hurt!" cried the professor. "i reckon that's about the end of the lad," answered nance in a low tone. "there's nothing we can do but to wait." "i see him again!" shouted walter. they could see the lad being tumbled this way and that, hurled first away from the shore, then on toward it. nance was regarding the buffeted pony rider keenly. he saw that tad was really nearing the shore, but that he was helpless. "what has happened to him?" demanded the professor hoarsely. "is he drowned?" "it's my opinion that he has been banged against a rock and knocked out. i can't tell what'll be the end of it, but it looks mighty bad. there he goes, high and dry!" fairly screamed dad, while his whiskers tilted upwards at a sharp angle. tad had been hurled clear of the water, hurled to the dry rocks on which he had been flung as if the river wanted no more of him. the watchers began to shout. they danced about almost beside themselves with anxiety. no one could go to tad's assistance, if, indeed, he were not beyond assistance. a full twenty minutes of this nerve-racking anxiety had passed when dad thought he saw a movement of tad's form. a few moments later the boy was seen to struggle to a sitting posture, where he sat for a short time, both hands supporting his head. such a yell as the pony rider boys uttered might have been heard clear up on the rim of the grand canyon had there been any one there to hear it. dad danced a wild hornpipe, the professor strode up and down, first thrusting his hands into his pockets, then withdrawing and waving them above his head. stacy had settled down on the rocks with the tears streaming down his cheeks. stacy wasn't joking now. this emotion was real. they began to shout out tad's name. it was plain that he heard them, for he waved a listless hand then returned to his former position. "that boy is all iron," breathed the admiring guide. the noise of the river was so great that they could not ask him if he were hurt seriously. but tad answered the question himself a few minutes later by getting up. he stood for a moment swaying as if he would fall over again, then staggered to the wall, against which he leaned, still holding his head. "he must have got an awful wallop," declared dad. shortly after that tad appeared to have recovered somewhat, for he was seen to be gazing up over the rocks, apparently trying to choose a route for himself. "how can he ever make that dizzy climb in his condition?" groaned the professor. "we'll see. i think he can do anything," returned nance. tad walked back and forth a few times, exercising his muscles, then turned toward the rocks which he began to climb. he proceeded slowly and with great caution, evidently realizing the peril of his undertaking, but taking no greater chances than he was obliged to do. little by little he worked his way upward, now and then halting, clinging to the rocks for support while he rested. after a time he looked down at his companions. nance waved a hand, signaling tad to turn to the right. tad saw and understood the signal and acted accordingly. once he stood up and gazed off over the rugged peaks, sharp knife-like edges and sheer wails before him. there seemed not sufficient foothold for a bird where he was standing, and though a thousand feet above the river, he seemed not to feel the height at all nor to be in the least dizzy. it was dangerous work, exhausting work; but oh! what self-reliance, what pluck and levelheadedness was tad butler displaying. had he never accomplished anything worth while in his life, those who saw him now could but admire the lad's wonderful courage. they hung upon his movements, scarcely breathing at all, as little by little the lad crept along, now swinging by his hands from one ledge to another, now creeping around a sharp bend on hand and knees, now hanging with nothing more secure than thin air underneath him, with face flattened against a rock, resting. it was a sight to thrill and to make even strong men shiver. for a long time tad disappeared from view. the watchers did not know where he had gone, but nance explained that he had crept around the opposite side of the butte where he had last been seen, hoping to discover better going there, which jim was of the opinion he would find. this proved to be the case when after what seemed an interminable time, the pony rider once more appeared, creeping steadily on toward the trail above the broken spot. this went on for the greater part of two hours. "he's safe. thank god!" cried the guide. the pony rider boys whooped. "you stay here!" directed the guide. nance began clambering up the rocky trail to a point from which he would be able to talk to the boy. arriving at this spot, dad waited. at last tad appeared, dragging himself along. "good boy! fine boy! dad's canyon is proud of you, boy!" tad sank down, shaking his head, breathing hard, as the guide could see, even at that distance. after a time tad recovered his wind sufficiently to be able to talk. "what happened to you?" called dad. "i got a bump. i don't really know what did occur. the ropes are all washed away, dad. i don't know how i'm going to help you up here now that i have got up. aren't there any vines of which i could make a ladder?" "nary a vine that'll make a seventy-five-foot ladder." "then there is only one thing for me to do." "what's that?" "hurry to the rim and get ropes." "i reckon you'll have to do that, kid, if you think you're able. are you much knocked out?" "i'm all right. tell them not to worry. i may be gone some time, but i shall be back." "good luck! i wish i could help you." "i don't need help now. there is no further danger. are my friends down there hungry?" "stacy brown is thinking of nibbling rocks." tad laughed, then began climbing up the trail. nance, watching him narrowly, saw that the boy was very weary, being scarcely able to drag himself along. after a time tad passed out of sight up what was left of bright angel trail. nance, with a sigh, turned to begin retracing his steps down to the pony rider boys' party. "well, he made it, didn't he?" cried ned. "we have been watching him all the time." "there's a real man," answered the guide, with an emphatic nod. "pity there aren't more like him." "there is one like him," spoke up chunky. "who?" "little me," answered the fat boy, tapping his chest modestly. "that's so; chunky did jump into the raging flood," said walter. "we mustn't forget that he acted the part of a brave man while we were standing there shivering and almost gasping for breath." "brave?" drawled ned sarcastically. "ned rector, you know you were scared stiff," retorted walter. "well, i'll be honest with you, i was. who wouldn't have been? even the professor's mustache changed color for the moment." the afternoon passed. it was now growing dark, for the night came on early down there in the canyon. on the tops of the peaks the lowering sun was lighting up the red sandstone, making it appear like a great flame on the polished walls. "isn't it time tad were getting back?" asked the professor anxiously. "well, it's a long, hard climb, you know. all of seven miles the way one has to go. that makes fourteen miles up and back, and they're real miles, as you know." "i hope nothing has happened to the boy." "leave it to him. he knows how to take care of himself." no one thought of lying down to sleep. in the first place, all were too hungry. then, again, at any moment tad might return. midnight arrived. suddenly nance held up his hands for silence. "whoo-oo!" it was a long-drawn, far-away call. "that's tad," said nance. "we'd better gather up our belongings and get up to the break in the trail." the guide answered the call by a similar "whoo-oo," after which all began climbing cautiously. in the darkness it was dangerous business, but a torch held in the hands of jim nance aided them materially. far up on the side of the canyon they could see three flickering points of light. "it's the kid. he's got somebody with him. i thought he'd do that. he's a wise one," chuckled the guide. the climb was made in safety. the party ar rived at the base at last, the boys shouting joyously as they saw tad waving a torch at them. at least they supposed it was tad. "what do you think about waiting until daylight for the climb?" shouted butler. "i'll see what they say," answered nance. "what about it, gentlemen?" "i think it perhaps would be safer." this from the professor. "what, spend another night in this hole?" demanded stacy. "no, sirree." "please let us go on up, professor," begged walter. "yes, we don't want to stay down here. we can climb at night as well as in daylight," urged chunky. "what have you got, ropes?" called nance. "i've brought down some rope ladders, which i have spliced-----" "i hope you've done a better job on the splicing than you did on your own rope when you sailed across the horseshoe bend," shouted stacy. "if you haven't, i refuse to trust my precious life to your old rope." "too bad about your precious life," laughed ned. "well, professor, what do you say?" "is it safe, nance?" "as safe now as at any other time." "all right." "let down your ladder," called the guide. "be sure that it is well secured. how many have you with you?" "three men, if that is what you mean." "very good." the rope ladder was let down. those below were just able to reach it with their hands. it came within less than a foot of being too short. "who is going up first?" asked the guide. "the professor, of course," replied chunky magnanimously. "that is very thoughtful of you, stacy," smiled professor zepplin. "yes, you are the heaviest. if the rope doesn't break with you, it's safe for the rest of us," answered chunky, whereat there was a general laugh. "very good, young man. i will accommodate you," announced the professor grimly, grasping the rope and pulling himself up with the assistance of nance and the boys. the rope swayed dizzily. "hold it there!" shouted the professor. nance had already grasped the end of the ladder and was holding to it with his full weight. after a long time a shout from above told them that professor zepplin had arrived safely at the top. walter went up next, then chunky and ned, followed finally by jim nance himself after their belongings had been hauled to the top. professor zepplin embraced tad immediately upon reaching the trail above. the boys joked butler about being such a poor swimmer. about that time they discovered that tad had a gash nearly four inches long on his head where he had come in contact with the sharp edge of a rock in the river. tad had lost much blood and was still weak and pale from his terrific experiences. nance wrung tad butler's hand until tad winced. "ain't a man in the whole grand who could have done what you did, youngster," declared dad enthusiastically. "the question is, did you fetch down anything to eat?" demanded chunky. "yes, of course i did." "where is it? lead me to it," shouted the fat boy. "i left the stuff up at the garden, where the mustangs are. we will go up there, the professor and mr. nance approving." the professor and mr. nance most certainly did approve of the suggestion, for both were very hungry. the men who had come down with tad led the way with their torches. it was a long, hard climb, the use of the ropes being found necessary here and there for convenience and to save time. tad had had none of these conveniences when he went up. how he had made the trip so easily as he appeared to make it set the boys to wondering. baskets of food were found at the garden. the party did full justice to the edibles, then, acting on the suggestion of nance, they rolled up in their blankets and went to sleep. first, however, professor zepplin had examined the wound in tad's head. he found it a scalp wound. the professor washed and dressed the wound, after which tad went to bed. on the following morning they mounted their mustangs and started slowly for the rim, where they arrived some time after noon. the pony rider boys instantly went into camp near the hotel, for it had been decided to take a full day's rest before starting out on the long trip. this time they were to take their pack train with them and cut off from civilization for the coming few weeks, they would live in the canyon, foraging for what food they were unable to carry with them. the guests at the hotel, after hearing of tad butler's bravery, tried to make a hero of the lad, but tad would have none of it. he grew red in the face every time anyone suggested that he had done anything out of the ordinary. and deep down in his heart the lad did not believe that he had. professor zepplin, however, called a surgeon, who took five stitches in the scalp wound. on the following morning camp was struck and the party started out for bright angel gulch and cataract canyon, in both of which places some interesting as well as exciting experiences awaited them. nance had brought three of his hunting dogs with him in case any game were started. the boys were looking forward to shooting a lion, though, there being no snow on the ground, it would be difficult for the dogs to strike and follow a trail. how well they succeeded we shall see. chapter xiv the dogs pick up a trail the man in charge of the pack train having deserted them before the travelers got back from the rim, dad picked up a half breed whom the boys named chow, because he was always chewing. if not food, chow was forever munching on a leaf or a twig or a stick. his jaws were ever at work until the boys were working their own jaws out of pure sympathy. the march was taken up to bass trail, which they reached about noon of the second day and started down. no unusual incident occurred during this journey. they found the trail in good condition, and though steep and precipitous in places, it gave the pony rider boys no worry. after having experienced the perils of the other trail, this one seemed tame. from bass trail they worked their way down and across into bright angel gulch, where they made camp and awaited the arrival of chow and the mules with their tents and provisions. chow arrived late the same day. tents were pitched and settled. it was decided for the present to make this point their base of supplies. when on short journeys they would travel light, carrying such equipment as was absolutely necessary, and no more. this gulch was far from the beaten track of the ordinary explorer, a vast but attractive gash in the plateau. in spots there was verdure, and, where the water courses reached in, stretches of grass with here and there patches of gramma grass, grease wood and creosote plants with a profusion of flowers, mostly red, in harmony with the prevailing color of the rocks that towered high above them. at this point the walls of the canyon reached nearly seven thousand feet up into the air. down there on the levels the sun glared fiercely at midday, but along toward night refreshing breezes drifted through the canyon, making the evenings cool and delightful. but there were drawbacks. there were snakes and insects in this almost tropical lower land. the boys were not greatly disturbed over these things. by this time they were pretty familiar with insects and reptiles, for it will be remembered that they had spent much time in the wilder places of their native country. for the first twenty-four hours of their stay in "camp butler," as they had named their base in honor of tad himself, they did little more than make short excursions out into the adjoining canyons. the professor embraced the opportunity to indulge in some scientific researches into the geology of the canyon, on which in the evening he was wont to dwell at length in language that none of the boys understood. but they listened patiently, for they were very fond of this grizzled old traveler who had now been their companion for so long. the third night the dogs appeared restless. they lay at the end of their leashes growling and whipping their tails angrily. "what is the matter with the dogs?" demanded tad butler. "i think they must have fleas," decided chunky wisely. "no, it isn't fleas," said dad, who had been observing them for the past few minutes. "it's my opinion that there's game hereabouts." "deer?" questioned ned. "no. more likely it's something that is after the deer." "lions?" asked tad. "i reckon." "have you seen any signs of them?" "what you might call a sign," nance nodded. "i found, up in mystic canyon this afternoon, all that was left of a deer. the lions had killed it and stripped all the best flesh from the deer. so it's plain enough that the cats are hanging around. i thought we'd come up with some of them down here." "wow for the king of beasts!" shouted chunky, throwing up his sombrero. "nothing like a king," retorted jim nance. "the mountain lion isn't in any class with african lions. the lion hereabouts is only a part as big. a king---this mountain lion of ours? you'd better call the beast a dirty savage, and be satisfied with that." "but we're going to go after some of them, aren't we?" asked ned. "surely," nodded nance. "when?" pressed walter. "is it safe?" the more prudent professor zepplin wanted to know. "safe?" repeated jim nance. "well, when it comes to that, nothing down in this country can be called exactly safe. all sorts of trouble can be had around here for the asking. but i reckon that these young gentlemen will know pretty well how to keep themselves reasonably safe---all except mr. brown, who'll bear some watching." even long after they had turned in that night the boys kept on talking about the coming hunts of the next few days. they fairly dreamed lions. in the morning the hunt was the first thing they thought of as they ran to wash up for breakfast. in the near distance could be heard the baying of hounds, for dad's dogs were no longer chained up. "i let the dogs loose," nance explained, noting the eager, questioning glances. "the dogs have got track of something. hustle your breakfasts! we'll get away with speed." breakfast was disposed of in a hurry that morning. then the boys hustled to get ready for the day's sport. when, a few minutes later, they set off on their ponies, with rifles thrust in saddle boots, revolvers bristling from their belts, ropes looped over the pommels of their saddles, the pony rider boys presented quite a warlike appearance. "if you were half as fierce as you look i'd run," declared dad, with a grin. "which way do we go?" questioned the professor. "we'll all hike up into the mystic canyon. there we'll spread out, each man for himself. one of us can't help but fall to the trail of a beast if he is careful." after reaching the mystic they heard the dogs in a canyon some distance away. ned and walter were sent off to the left, tad to the north, while the rest remained in the mystic canyon to wait there, where the chase should lead at some time during the day. "three shots are a signal to come in, or to come to the fellow who shoots," announced the guide. "look out for yourselves." silence soon settled down over mystic canyon. chunky was disappointed that he had not been assigned to go out with one of his companions, he found time hanging heavily on his hands with nance and the professor, but he uttered no complaint. the professor and guide had dismounted from their ponies and were seated on a rock busily engaged in conversation. chunky, after glancing at them narrowly, shouldered his rifle and strolled off, leaving his pony tethered to a sapling. he walked further than he had intended, making his way to a rise of ground about a quarter of a mile away, with the hope that he might catch a glimpse of some of his companions. once on the rise, which was quite heavily wooded, he seemed to hear the hounds much more plainly than before. it seemed to stacy that they were approaching from the other side, opposite to that which the rest were watching. he glanced down into the canyon, but could see neither of the two older men. "most exciting chase i've ever been in," muttered the fat boy in disgust, throwing himself down on the ground with rifle across his knees. "lions! i don't believe there are any lions in the whole country. dad's been having dreams. it's my private opinion that dad's got an imagination that works over time once in a while. i think-----" the words died on the fat boy's lips. his eyes grew wide, the pupils narrowed, the whites giving the appearance of small inverted saucers. stacy scarcely breathed. there, slinking across an open space on the rise, its tail swishing its ears laid flat on its cruel, cat-like head, was a tawny, lithe creature. stacy brown recognized the object at once. it was a mountain lion, a large one. it seemed to chunky that he never had seen a beast as large in all his life. the lion was alternately listening to the baying of the hounds and peering about for a suitable tree in which to hide itself. stacy acted like a man in a trance. without any clear idea as to what he was doing, he rose slowly to his feet. at that instant the lion discovered him. it crouched down, its eyes like sparks of fire, scintillating and snapping. all at once stacy threw his gun to his shoulder and pulled the trigger. at least he thought he did. but no report came. a yellow flash, a swish and the beast had leaped clear of the rise and disappeared even more suddenly than he had come. "wha---wha-----" gasped chunky. then he made a discovery. chunky was holding the rifle by the barrel with the muzzle against his shoulder, having aimed the butt at the crouching lion. chunky had had a severe attack of "buck fever." with a wild yell that woke the echoes and sent jim nance and professor zepplin tearing through the bushes, stacy dashed down the steep slope, forgetting to take his rifle with him in his hurried descent. he met the two men running toward him. "what is it? what's happened?" shouted the professor. "i saw him! i saw him!" yelled stacy, almost frantic with excitement. nance grabbed the boy by the shoulder, shaking him roughly. "speak up. what did you see?" "i su---su---saw a lu---lu---lion, i di---did." "where?" demanded nance. "up there." chunky's eyes were full of excitement. "why didn't you shoot him?" "i---i tried to, but the gu---gun wouldn't go off. i---i had it wrong end to." dad relaxed his grip on the fat boy's arm and sat down heavily. "of all the tarnal idiots---of all! professor, if we don't tie that boy to a tree he'll be killing us all with his fool ways. why, you baby, you ain't fit to carry a pop-gun. by the way, where is your gun?" "i---i guess, i lost it up---up there," stammered stacy. dad started for the top of the rise in long strides, chunky gazing after him in a dazed sort of way. "i---i guess i did make a fool of myself, didn't i, professor?" he mourned. "i am inclined to think you did---several different varieties of them," answered professor zepplin in a tone of disgust. chapter xv the mystery of the rifle "i can't help it, i saw a lion, anyway," muttered the fat boy. "come up here!" it was dad's voice calling to them. "where's that rifle?" "i---i dropped it, i told you." "where did you drop it?" "right there." "show me." stacy climbed to the top of the rise and stepped confidently over to where he had let go the rifle before rushing down after having tried to shoot the lion. he actually stooped over to pick up the gun, so confident was he as to its location. then a puzzled expression appeared on stacy's face. "oh, it's there, is it?" "why---i---i------say, you're trying to play a joke on me." "i rather think you've played it on yourself," jeered the guide. "where did you leave it?" "right there, i tell you." "sure you didn't throw it over in the bushes down the other side?" "i guess i know what i did with it," retorted chunky indignantly. "well, it isn't here." dad was somewhat puzzled by this time. he saw that stacy was very confident of having left the gun at that particular place, but it could not be found. "maybe somebody's stolen it," suggested the boy. "nonsense! who is there here to steal it, in the first place? in the second, how could any one slip in here at the right moment and get away with your rifle?" "you have no---no idea what has become of it---no theory?" asked the professor. "not the least little bit," replied the guide. "most remarkable---most remarkable," muttered professor zepplin. "i cannot understand it." "we'll look around a bit," announced dad. the three men searched everywhere, even going all the way down to the base of the rise on either side, but nowhere did they find the slightest trace of the missing rifle. after they had returned to the summit, dad, a new idea in mind, went over the rocks and the ground again in search of footprints. the only footprints observable were those of their own party. there was more in the mystery than dad could fathom. "well, this gets me," declared the guide, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. "this certainly does." "is---is my rifle lost?" wailed chunky. "i reckon you'll never see that pretty bit of firearms again," grinned jim. "but it must be here," insisted stacy. "but it isn't. fortunately we have plenty of guns with us. you can get another when we go back to camp." "yes, but this one is mine-----" "was yours," corrected nance. "it is mine, and i'm going to have it before i leave this miserable old hole," declared the boy. "i hope you find it. i'd like to know how the thing ever got away in that mysterious manner." "maybe the lion took it." "mebby he did. funny i hadn't thought of that," answered nance gravely. then both he and the professor burst into a shout of laughter. they made their way slowly back to the point where they were to meet the others of the party. chunky, now being without a rifle, was well content to remain with the guide and the professor. while all this was going on tad and walter were picking their way over the rough ridges, through narrow canyons, riding their ponies where a novice would hardly have dared to walk. the ponies seemed to take to the work naturally. not a single misstep was made by either of them. they, too, could hear the dogs, but the latter were far away most of the time, even though, for all the riders knew, they might have been just the other side of the rocky wall along which the two boys were traveling. they kept on in this way until late in the afternoon, when they stopped and dismounted, deciding that they would have a bite to eat. "it doesn't look as if we were going to have any luck, does it, tad?" asked walter in a disappointed tone. "no, it doesn't. but one never can tell. in hunting game you know it comes upon one suddenly. you have to be ever on the alert. we know that the dogs have been on the trail of something." "perhaps deer," suggested walter. "yes, it is possible, though i don't know whether those dogs will trail deer or not. you know they may be trained to hunt lions. i didn't hear mr. nance say." they were munching biscuit and eating oranges as they rested, which must have tasted good to them. the temperature was going down with the day, though the light was strong in the canyon where they were standing. above them the jagged, broken cliffs rose tier on tier until they seemed to disappear far up in the fleecy clouds that were drifting lazily over the canyon. all at once silver face, tad's pony, exhibited signs of restlessness, which seemed to be quickly communicated to the other animal. the pintos stamped, shook their heads and snorted. "whoa! what's wrong with you fellows?" demanded tad, eyeing the ponies keenly. "smell something, eh?" "maybe they smell oats," suggested walter. "i guess not. they are a long way from oats at the present moment." tad paused abruptly. a pebble had rattled down the rocky wall and bounded off some yards to the front of them. silver face started and would have bounded away had not a firm hand been at that instant laid on the bridle rein. to one unaccustomed to the mountains the incident might have passed unnoticed. by this time tad butler was a pretty keen woodsman as well as plainsman. he had learned to take notice of everything. even the most trivial signs hold a meaning all their own for the man who habitually lives close to nature. the lad glanced sharply at the rocks. "see anything?" asked walter. "no." "what did you think you heard?" "i didn't hear anything but that pebble. the horses smelled something, though." while he was speaking the lad's glances were traveling slowly over the rocks above. all at once he paused. "don't stir, walt. look up." "where?" "in line with that cloud that looks like a dragon. then lower your glance slowly. i think you will see something worth while." it was a full moment before walter perkins discovered that to which his attention had been called. "it's a cat," breathed walt, almost in awe. "yes, that's a lion. he is evidently hiding up there, where he has gone to get away from the dogs. we will walk away a bit as if we were leaving. then we'll tether the horses securely. don't act as if you saw the beast. i know now what was the matter with the mustangs. they scented that beast up there." the ponies were quickly secured, after which the boys crouched in the brush and sought out the lion again. he was still in the same place, but was now standing erect, head toward them, well raised as if in a listening attitude. "my, isn't he a fine one!" whispered walt. walter perkins was not suffering from the same complaint that chunky had caught when he first saw his lion over in the other canyon, an offshoot from the bright angel canyon, and where he had lost his rifle so mysteriously. "take careful aim; then, when he turns his side toward us, let him have it," directed tad. "oh, no, you discovered him. he is your game. you shoot, tad." butler shook his head. "i want you to shoot. i have already killed a cougar. this is your chance to distinguish yourself." walter's eyes sparkled. he raised his rifle, leveling it through the crotch of a small tree. "wait till he turns," whispered tad, fingering his own rifle anxiously. he could hardly resist the temptation to take a shot at the animal where it stood facing them far up the side of the canyon wall. "now!" tad's tone was calm, steady and low. walter's rifle barked. "you've hit him!" yelled tad. "look out! he's up again!" warned the boy. the beast had not been killed by the shot. he had been bowled over, dropping down to a lower crag, where he sprang to his feet and with a roar of rage bounded up the mountainside. "shoot! shoot!" cried butler. but walter did not even raise his rifle. a sudden fit of trembling had taken possession of him. his was the "buck fever" in another form. bang! butler had let go a quick shot. a roar followed the shot. "bang!" "there, i guess that settled him," decided tad butler, lowering his rifle. "i---i should say it did," gasped walter. the tawny beast was throwing himself this way and that, the boys meanwhile watching him anxiously. "i'm afraid he's going to stick up there," cried walter, dancing about shouting excitedly. "no, he isn't. there he comes." "hurray!" "duck!" tad grabbed his companion, jerking the latter back and running with him. they were just at the spot where the ponies had been tethered, when a heavy body struck the ground not far from where they had been standing. silver face leaped right up into the air, then settled back on his haunches in an attempt to break the hitching rope. tad struck the animal against the flank with the flat of his hand, whereat the mustang bounded to his feet. "whoa, you silly old animal!" cried tad. "look out, walt, don't get too near that lion. you may lose some of your clothes if he shouldn't happen to be dead. i'll be there in a moment, as soon as i can get these horses quieted down." in a moment tad was running toward his companion. "is he settled?" "i don't know. his---his eyes are open," stammered walter, standing off a safe distance from the prostrate beast. tad poked the animal with the muzzle of his rifle. "yes, he's a dead one. one less brute to make war on the deer. won't old dad be surprised when we trail into camp with this big game?" exulted the pony rider boy. "yes, but---but how are we going to get the fellow there?" wondered walter. "get him there? well, i guess we'll do it somehow. i'll tell you what, i'll take him over the saddle in front of me. that's the idea. you bring out silver face and we'll see how he feels about it. i wouldn't be surprised if he raised a row." silver face did object most emphatically. the instant the pony came in sight of the dead lion he sat down on his haunches. tad urged and threatened, but not another inch would the pinto budge. "i guess i know how to fix you," gritted the boy. he was on the back of the sitting mustang, his feet in the stirrups, before the pony realized what had happened. a reasonably sharp rowel, pressed into the pinto's side, brought him a good two feet clear of the ground. then began a lively battle between the boy and the horse. "don't let him tread on the beast," shouted walter. "n-n-no danger of that," stammered tad. it was a lively battle while it lasted, but silver face realized, as he had never done before, that he had met his master. after some twenty minutes of fight, in which the pinto made numerous futile attempts to climb the sheer side of the canyon at the imminent danger of toppling over backwards and crushing his master, the brute gave up. "now you hold him while i load on the beast," directed tad, riding up. this called for more disturbance. silver face fought against taking a lion on his back. he drew the line at that. just the same, after another lively scrimmage, mr. lion was loaded on, but no sooner had tad swung into the saddle than he swung out again. he hadn't even time to get his toes in the stirrups before he was flying through the air, head first. walter had difficulty in determining which was boy and which was lion. the lion struck the ground first, tad landing on top of him. with rare presence of mind, walter had seized the pinto and was having a lively set-to with the beast, with the odds in favor of silver face, when tad sprang up and ran to his companion's assistance. tad's temper was up. the way he grilled silver face that animal perhaps never forgot. not that tad abused his mount. he never would be guilty of abusing a horse. he was too fond of horseflesh to do such a thing, but he knew how to punish an animal in other and more effective ways. silver face was punished. "now, my fine fellow, let's see who's boss here!" laughed tad. "hold him while i put aboard the baggage, walt." the pony submitted to the ordeal a second time. this time there was no bucking, and shortly afterwards the lads started for their companions bearing the trophy of their hunt with them. chapter xvi a new way to hunt lions long before they reached the meeting point they heard the long-drawn "woohoo!" of jim nance calling them in. they were the only ones out at that time. tad set up a series of answering "woos-hoos" that caused silver face to wiggle his ears disapprovingly, as if this were some new method of torture invented for his special benefit. as they got in sight of the rest of the party, the boys set up a shout. their companions, about that time, discovered that tad was carrying something before him on the pony. chunky and ned started on a run to meet tad and walter. how chunky did yell when he discovered what that something was. "they've got a cat! they've got a cat!" he howled, dancing about and swinging his arms. "i tell you, they've got a cat!" tad rode into camp smiling, flinging the lion to the ground, which caused tad's pony to perform once more. "who shot him?" cried the professor, fully as excited as the boys. "this is a partnership cat," laughed tad. "we both have some bullets in him. how many did you fellows get?" "well, i had one, but he got away," answered stacy, his face sobering instantly. "and---and he carried off my rifle too." "what's that?" demanded tad. chunky explained briefly. but he had little opportunity to talk. dad, who had been examining the dead lion, straightened up and looked at tad. "good job, boys. it's a dandy. must weigh nigh onto three hundred pounds. have much of a tussle with him?" "not any. he was dead when he got down to us." "very fine specimen," decided the professor, examining the dead beast from a respectable distance. "you lads are to be congratulated." "say, i'm going with you to-morrow," cried stacy. "these folks don't know how to hunt lions." "do you?" demanded nance witheringly. stacy colored violently. "at least i know how to stalk them," he answered. "if i lose my gun in the excitement that doesn't mean that i'm not a natural born lion chaser. anybody can shoot a lion, but everybody can't sit still and charm the lion right up to him." they admitted that the fat boy was right in this assertion. chunky had done all of that. upon their return to camp, walter and tad had asked numerous questions about the loss of the gun. there was little additional information that either stacy or the two men could give them. the gun had most mysteriously disappeared, that was all. nance was more puzzled than any of the others and he groped in vain for an explanation of the mystery, but no satisfactory explanation suggested itself to his mind. after supper the guide cut some meat from the cat and fed it to the weary dogs, who had not succeeded in treeing a single lion, though they had come near doing so several times. but they had sent the cats flying for cover, which had given chunky and the other two boys opportunity to use their guns, though stacy brown, in his excitement, had failed to take advantage of the opportunity offered to him. it was decided that the hunt should be taken up again on the following morning. nance said stacy might go with tad this time, nance taking charge of the other three boys. this was satisfactory to chunky and tad. the morning found the camp awake at an early hour. chunky and tad set off together, the former having been equipped with a rifle from the extra supply carried by the party, the guide having administered a sarcastic suggestion that chunky tie the rifle to his back so that he would not lose this one. chunky made appropriate reply, after which they rode away. the early part of the day was devoid of success. they did not even hear the bay of a hound all the forenoon. tad took their quest coolly, undisturbed. he had already gotten one lion and could well afford not to get one this time. it was different with stacy. he was anxious to distinguish himself, to make amends for his blunders of the previous day. about an hour after they had eaten their lunch they heard the bounds for the first time. tad listened intently for a few minutes. "i think they are coming this way, chunky." "if they do, you give me the first shot. i've simply got to meet another cat." "you shall have it, providing you are on the job and ready. these cats don't wait around for a fellow to get ready to shoot, as you have no doubt observed." "don't remind me of disagreeable things, please," growled stacy. "i've had my chance and i lost it. next time i see a cat i'm going to kill him on the spot. wait; i'm going to take an observation." "don't go far," warned tad. "no, i won't. just want to have a look at the landscape," flung back stacy, hurrying away, while tad stretched out for a little rest, well satisfied to have stacy do the moving about until there was something real to be done, when tad would be on hand on the jump. stacy had not taken his gun. in fact, he wholly forgot to do so, not thinking for an instant that he would have opportunity to use it. this was where the fat boy made another serious mistake. a hunter should never be beyond reaching distance of his gun when out on the trail for game. it is a mistake that has cost some men their lives, others the loss of much coveted game. choosing a low, bushy pinyon tree as best suited to the purposes of a lazy climber, stacy climbed it, grunting and grumbling unintelligibly. he had hopes that he might discover something worth while, something that would distinguish him from his fellows on that particular day. "i feel as if something were going to happen," he confided to the tree, seating himself in a crotch formed by a limb extending out from the main body of the tree, then parting the foliage for a better view. "it's funny how a fellow feels about these things some times. hello, there, i actually believe those are deer running yonder. or maybe they're cows," added stacy. "anyhow i couldn't shoot them, whichever they are, so i won't get excited over them." chunky fixed his eyes on the opposite side of the tree a little above where he was perched. "i thought i saw something move there. hello, i hear the hounds again. they've surely gotten on track of something. and-----" once more the fat boy paused. he saw something yellow lying along a limb of the tree, something at first sight that he took to be a snake. but he knew of no snakes that had fur on their bodies. the round, furry thing that he thought might be a snake at first now began whipping up and down on the limb, curling at its end, twisting, performing strange antics. what could it mean? stacy parted the foliage a little more, then once again, as had been the case on the previous day, his eyes opened wide. he saw now what was at the other end of the snake-like appendage. and seeing he understood that he was in a predicament. but chunky's voice failed him. there on the opposite limb of the tree, less than ten feet away, crouched the biggest mountain lion stacy brown ever had seen. and it grew larger with the seconds. the beast was working its tail, its whiskers bristled, its eyes shone like points of steel. it seemed as if the beast were trying to decide whether to attack the boy within such easy reach or to leap to the ground and flee. the deep baying of the dogs in the distance evidently decided the cat against the latter plan. then, too, perhaps the howls that chunky now emitted had something to do with the former question. tad butler, stretched out on the ground, found himself standing bolt upright as if he had been propelled to that position by a spring. the most unearthly howls he had ever heard broke upon the mountain stillness. "wow! ow-wow-wow! tad! help, help, help! quick!" tad was off like a shot himself, not even pausing to snatch up his gun which lay so near at hand. and how he did run! "where, chunky? where are you? shout quick!" "wow! ow-wow-wow!" was the only answer stacy brown could make, but the sound of his voice unerringly guided tad to the location. but stacy could not be found. "in the name of-----" "wow! ow-wow-wow!" howled the agonized voice of the fat boy from the branches of the pinyon tree. tad peered up between the branches. he saw stacy looking down upon him with panic stricken gaze. "for the love of goodness, what's the matter, stacy? you nearly frightened me to death." "look out!" the words, shouted at the top of the fat boy's voice, were so thrilling that tad leaped back instinctively. "see here, don't make a fool of me, too. what's the matter with you? come down out of that." "i can't. he'll get me." "what will get you? nothing will get you, you ninny!" "the lion will get me." "have you gone raving mad on the subject of lions?" jeered butler. "look, if you don't believe me. he's up here. he's trying to get a bite out of me. shoot him, as you love me, tad; shoot and shoot straight or i'm a dead one." for the first time since his arrival on the scene tad began to realize that stacy was not having fun with him. something really was up that tree---something besides a pony rider boy. "you don't mean to tell me there's a cat up there-----" "yes, yes! he's over there on the other side. shoot, shoot!" "i haven't my gun with me." the fat boy groaned helplessly. "i'm a dead one! nothing can save me. tell them i died like a man; tell them i never uttered a squeal." tad had sprung around to the side of the pinyon tree indicated by chunky. up there on a bushy limb, clear of the heavier foliage, lay a sleek, but ugly looking cat, swishing its tail angrily. first, its glances would shoot over to stacy brown, then down to tad butler. the lion, as tad decided on the spot, had gone into the tree to hide from the dogs as had the one that had been shot on the canyon wall the previous afternoon. this time the proposition was a different one. both boys were in dire peril, as tad well knew. at any second the cat might spring, either at him or at stacy. and neither boy had a gun in his hands. tad's mind worked with lightning-like rapidity. it was a time for quick thinking if one expected to save one's skin from being torn by those needle-like claws. butler thought of a plan. he did not know whether there were one chance in a million of the plan working. he wanted that lion a great deal more than the lion wanted him. he was going to take a desperate chance. an older and more experienced man might not have cared to try what tad butler was about to attempt. the pony rider boy's hand slipped down to the lasso hanging from his belt. he was thankful that he had that. the lasso was always there except when he was in the saddle, when it was usually looped over the pommel. "chunky, yell! make all the noise you can." "i am. wow-ow-wow. y-e-o-w wow!" "that's right, keep it up. don't stop. make faces at him, make believe you're going to jump at-----" "say, anybody would think this were a game of croquet and that i was trying to make the other fellow miss the wicket. don't you think-----" "i'm trying to get you to attract his attention-----" "i don't want to attract his attention. i want the beast to look the other way," wailed the fat boy. "i want to get out of here." "well, why haven't you?" "i dassent." while carrying on this conversation with his chum, tad was watching the cat narrowly. the animal was showing signs of greater excitement now. the boy decided that the beast was preparing to jump one way or another---which way was a matter of some concern to both boys at that particular instant. the cat took two long paces in stacy's direction. stacy emitted the most blood-curdling yell tad had ever heard. it served butler's very purpose. the beast halted with one hind foot poised in the air, glaring at stacy, who was howling more lustily than ever. swish! tad's lariat shot through the air. his aim was true, his hand steady and cool. chapter xvii the whirlwind ball of yellow when the startled cat felt the touch of the raw-hide rope against its leg it made a tremendous leap straight ahead. "too late!" clicked tad. "that loop is taut on you now!" "m-m-murder! look out!" bellowed stacy. for the cat's leap had carried it straight at the fat boy. in fact one sharp set of claws raked the lad from shoulder to waist, though without more than breaking the skin. that blow settled stacy. "i'm dead---ripped to pieces!" he yelled. without waiting to jump from the tree, stacy simply fell. over and over on the ground he rolled until he was a dozen yards away from the tree. "if you're dead," tad grinned, "get up and come over here, and tell me about it." stacy slowly rose to his feet. he was badly shaken, covered with dirt and with some blood showing through the rents in his clothes. "nothing but my presence of mind and my speed saved me, anyway," chunky grumbled ruefully. all in a twinkling that whirling yellow ball shot out of the tree, striking the ground before tad butler could draw the rope taut. however, the rope still hung over a limb. how the dirt flew! tad realized that swift action must come ere the beast should make a leap at them. stacy started away, but butler's sharp tone halted him. "chunky!" tad panted. "what?" "get hold of this rope with me. shake yourself. what ails you? have you got a streak of yellow in you?" "i can thrash the fellow who says i have?" roared the fat boy, springing to his feet. "that's the way to talk. come, hurry---get hold here! he's too much for me and he's going to get away from me if you don't lend a hand." "wh-what do you want me to do?" "grab hold of this rope, i tell you." chunky did so, but keeping a wary eye on the rolling, tumbling, spitting yellow ball, which was a full grown mountain lion, and an ugly brute. the king of the canyons, however, was in a most humiliating position for a king of any sort. he had been roped by his left hind foot, the other end of the rope being in the hands of the intrepid pony rider boy, thaddeus butler. tad knew well that he had a good thing and he proposed to hang on as long as there was an ounce of strength left in his body. by this time stacy had gotten a grip on the rope. "now pull steadily until i tell you to stop." slowly, digging his claws into the dirt, biting at the rope that held him fast, the cat was drawn toward the pinyon tree despite all his struggles. tad's object was to pull the beast off its feet, in which position it would be unable to do very much damage. perhaps the cat realized something of this, for all of a sudden it sprang to the base of the tree and with a roar landed up among the lower limbs. ere the beast even felt the touch of the tree limb under its feet, the brave chunky was several rods away peering from behind a rock, howling like a comanche indian. tad, too, had made some lively moves. the instant he saw that the cat was going to jump he took a quick twist about the tree, shortening the rope until it was taut. he made a quick knot, then leaped back out of the way. but none too soon. the cat pounced on the spot where he had been standing, narrowly missing the boy. but the rope was free of the limb of the tree over which it had been first drawn. the beast was free to gambol about as far as the rope would permit. the boy's mind was still working rapidly. "run to the guns, chunky. shoot and keep shooting until you attract the attention of the rest of the party. we've got to have help. we never shall be able to handle him ourselves, and i want to save him." stacy hesitated. "run, i tell you!" shouted butler. "don't stand there like a statue. go!" chunky jumped as if he had been hit, and ran limping toward the place where they had left their weapons and their mustangs. he found both, though chunky was too excited to notice the ponies at all. already they were restless, having scented the mountain lion. snatching up his own rifle, stacy fired six shots in rapid succession. then grabbing the other gun, he let six more go, but continued snapping the firing pin on the empty chamber after all the cartridges had been exploded, before he realized that he was not shooting at all. stacy in trying to reload fumbled and made a mess of it, spilling a lot of shells on the ground, most of which he was unable to find again. "we got him! we got him!" the fat boy kept chuckling to himself. "we certainly have done it this time." finally he got one gun loaded, and had fired it off six times when he heard tad butler's "whoo-e-e-e-e." chunky hurried back to his companion. "they've answered," called tad. in the meantime the latter had been having a lively time. he knew that were he to give the least possible chance the beast would bite the rope off and escape even if he did no worse. it was to prevent this that the boy exerted all his ingenuity and effort. this consisted of whoops and howls, throwing rocks at the animal, dodging in now and then to whack the lion with a piece from a limb that had been broken down by the cat in its thrashing above. the dust was flying. at times it seemed as if the lion must have gotten the hardy pony rider boy. at such times the lithe, active form of tad butler could be seen leaping from the cloud of dust while the beast followed with savage lunges to the end of its rope. it seemed impossible to tire out either boy or cat. it was this condition of affairs that stacy brown came upon on his return. he stood gazing at the scene, fascinated. "look out, tad! he'll get you!" shouted the boy. "get in here and give him a poke in the ribs," cried butler. "not for a million dollars, badly as i need money," returned the fat boy. "what do you take me for, an animal trainer?" "then i'll have to keep on doing it till mr. nance gets here to help me. this is the greatest thing we've ever done, old boy!" "yes, it'll be a great thing when the brute hands you one from those garden rakes of his. get away and i'll shoot him," directed stacy, swinging his rifle into position. "put that gun down!" thundered tad. "you'll be winging me next thing you do. put it down, i say!" stacy grumblingly obeyed. meanwhile the gymnastic exercise continued with unabated vigor. there was not an instant's pause. the mountain lion was busier perhaps than it ever had been in its life. it was battling for its life, too, and it knew it. once tad was raked from head to foot by a vicious claw, but the pony rider boy merely laughed. his endurance, too, was most remark able. stacy would hardly get within gun-shot of the beast, always standing near a tree convenient for climbing. tad was not saying much now. he was rather too busy for conversation. at last the report of a rifle was heard not far away. "answer them. it's the gang," called tad. chunky fired a shot into the air, following it with four others. it was only a short time before jim nance with professor zepplin and the two other boys came dashing up, shouting to know where tad and chunky were. they saw chunky first, on guard with his rifle as if holding off an enemy. "what's the trouble?" cried nance. "we've got him! we've got him!" yelled stacy. about that time nance discovered the swirling cloud of dust, from which at intervals emerged a yellow ball. the guide caught the significance of the scene at a single glance. "it's a cat," howled ned. "let me shoot him." "put away your guns. i guess we know how to catch lions in a scientific manner," declared stacy. "they've roped the cat," snapped the guide. "beats anything i ever heard of." he was off his mustang instantly and running toward tad. "keep him busy, keep him busy, boy. i'll fix him for you in a minute." "i don't want you to kill him." "i'm not going to. we've got to stretch him." tad did not know what stretching meant in this particular instance, but he was soon to learn. nance got off to one side of the busy scene, then directed tad to ease up a bit. the boy did so. he saw that dad, too, was planning to use his lariat, though the boy had no idea in what way. the cat instantly sat down and began tearing at its bonds. all at once nance's rope shot through the air. it caught the lion fairly around the neck. for a few moments the air was full of streaks of yellow. the cat was now fast at both ends. the neck hold was the worse of the two, for it choked the beast and soon tired him out. "now stretch him," directed the guide. "how do you mean?" "take a single hitch about the tree with your rope, so that we can straighten him out." this tad did, while nance performed a similar service on his own line, being careful not to choke the lion to death. during this latter part of the proceeding the party that had up to that time held off, now approached. "will he bite?" asked walter. "stick your finger in his mouth and see?" jeered chunky. "he can scratch, too. but we got him, didn't we? we're the original lion tamers from the wild and woolly west." "come, who is going to tie those claws together, stacy?" demanded the guide. "do what?" "tie the cat's feet together." "let the professor do it. he hasn't done anything yet on this trip. besides, i've got to stand here ready to shoot if the lion gets away. if it weren't for that i'd tie his feet." "here, you tie his feet, then. i'll handle the gun," volunteered ned, stepping forward. chunky drew back. "if some one will hold my end of the line i'll attend to that little matter," said tad. "i guess it's time i did something around here," interjected ned. "what do you want me to do, mr. nance?" "take your rope, watch your opportunity and rope the forward legs. after that is done have somebody hold the rope while you tie the feet securely together." ned roped the feet without further question, then handing the line to walter perkins, he calmly tied together the feet of the snarling, spitting beast. the same was done with the hind feet, though the latter proved to be much more dangerous than the forward feet. but the mouth of the animal was still free. he could bite and he did make desperate efforts to get at his captors. they took good care that he did not reach them. chunky suggested that they pull the cat's teeth, so he couldn't bite. tad wanted to know if they couldn't put a muzzle on. "the question is what are you going to do with him, now that you have him?" demanded the professor. "that's the first sane word that's been spoken since we arrived here," grinned nance. "we are going to take him back to camp, of course," declared tad. "of course we are. don't you understand, we're going to take him back to camp," affirmed stacy. "what's your plan, butler?" asked nance. "if you leave it to me, i'll show you." "go ahead." tad cut a long, tough sapling. this, after some effort, he managed to pass through the loop made by the bound legs of the lion. this strung the beast on the pole. "now, we'll fasten the two ends to two ponies," decided the lad. silver face and walter's pony having been broken in on the previous day, these two were chosen to carry the prize. they did not object, and in a short time the procession started off for camp, with the lion, back down, strung on the pole between two ponies, snarling, spitting, roaring out his resentment, while chunky, leading the way, was singing at the top of his voice: _"tad butler is the man; he goes to all the shows, he sticks his head in the lion's mouth and tells you all he knows. who-o-o-pe-e-e!"_ chapter xviii the unwilling guest departs jim nance didn't say much, but from the way he looked at tad butler, a quizzical smile playing about the corners of his mouth, it was plain that he was filled with admiration for the young pony rider who could take a lion practically single-handed. as yet the story of the capture had not been told. their prize must first be taken care of. this part of the affair nance looked after personally. he found a few strands of wire in his kit and with these he made a collar and a wire leader that led out to where the tough lariat began. to this the lion was fastened, his forefeet left bound, the hind feet being liberated in this condition he was tied to a tree in the camp in bright angel gulch. chunky was not sure that he liked the arrangement. he was wondering whether lions were gifted with the proverbial memory of elephants. if so, and if the big cat should get loose in the night, chunky knew what would happen to himself. the boy determined to sleep with one eye open, his rifle beside his bed. he would die fighting bravely for his life. he was determined upon that. around the camp fire a jolly party of boys gathered that night after supper, their merry conversation interrupted occasionally by a snarling and growling from the captive. "now, young gentlemen, we are anxious to hear the story of the capture," said the professor. "oh, it was nothing," answered stacy airily. "it was nothing for us. shooting cats is too tame for such hunters as tad and me. we just saw him up a tree---that is, i saw him, and-----" "where were you?" interrupted nance. "i was up the same tree," answered stacy. "i'll bet the cat treed him," shouted ned rector. "how about it, tad?" "chunky's telling the story. let him tell it in his own way." "i'll tell you about it, fellows. i was up a tree looking for lions. i found one. he was sitting in the same tree with me. he was licking his chops. you see, he wanted a slice of me, i'm so tender and so delicious-----" "so is a rhinoceros," interjected ned. "if the gentleman will wait until i have finished he may have the floor to himself. well, that's about all. i yelled for tad. he came running, and he roped the cat." "then what did you do?" questioned walter. "oh, i fell out of the tree. look at this!" shouted stacy as soon as he was able to make himself heard above the laughter, pointing to his ripped clothes. "that's where the beast made a pass at me. i'm wounded, i am; wounded in a hand-to-hand conflict with the king of the canyon. how would that read in the chillicothe 'gazette' i'm going to dash off something after this fashion to send them: 'stacy brown, our distinguished fellow citizen, globe-trotter, hunter of big game and nature lover, was seriously wounded last week in the grand canyon of arizona-----'" "in what part of your anatomy is the grand canyon located?" questioned ned rector. "i rise for information." "the grand canyon is where the pony rider boys store their food," returned stacy quickly. "where did i leave off?" "you were lost in the canyon," reminded walter. "oh, yes. 'was seriously wounded in the grand canyon in a desperate battle with the largest lion ever caught in the mountains. assisted by thaddeus butler, also of chillicothe, mr. brown succeeded in capturing the lion alive, after his bloodstained garments had been nearly stripped from his person.'" "the lion's bloodstained garments?" inquired walter mildly. "no, mine, of course. 'mr. brown, it is said, will recover from his wounds, though he will bear the scars of the conflict the rest of his life.' ahem! i guess that will hold the boys on our block for a time," finished chunky, swelling out his chest. "yes, that'll make them prisoners for life," agreed ned rector. "i think i shall have to edit that account before it goes to the paper," declared professor zepplin. "how can you edit it when you didn't see the affair?" demanded chunky. "editors are not supposed to see beyond the point of the pencil they are using," answered ned. "but they know the failings of the fellows who do the writing." "what do you know about it? you never were an editor," scoffed stacy. "no, but i'd like to be for about an hour after your article reached the 'gazette' office." "how about giving that cat something to eat, mr. nance?" asked tad, thus changing the subject. the guide shook his head. "he wouldn't eat; at least not for a while." "what do lions eat?" asked walter. "that one tried to eat me," replied stacy. "i don't like the look in his eye at all. it says, just as plain as if it were printed, 'i'd like to have you served up _a-la-mode_.'" at this juncture, jim nance walked over; with a burning brand in hand, to look at the cat's fastenings. the lion jumped at him. jim poked the firebrand into the animal's face, which sent the cat back the full length of his tether. after examining the fastenings carefully, nance pronounced them so secure that the beast would not get away. the ponies had been tethered some distance from where the prize was tied, the dogs being placed with the ponies so that they might not be disturbed by the captive during the night and thus keep the camp awake with their barks and growls. after a time all hands went to bed, crawling into their blankets, where they were soon fast asleep. late in the night nance sat up. he thought he had heard the lion growl. stepping to the door of the tent he listened. not a sound could be heard save the mysterious whisperings of the canyon. jim went back to bed, not to awaken until the sun was up on the following morning. tad butler, hearing the guide rise after daylight, turned out at the same time. tad stepped outside, his first thought being for the captive. the pony rider boy's eyes grew large as he gazed at the tree where the cat had been left the evening before. there was no lion there. "hey, mr. nance, did you move the cat?" "no. why?" "he isn't where we left him last night." "what?" nance was out on the jump. "sure as you're alive he's gone. now doesn't that beat all?" tad had hurried over to the place where he stood gloomily surveying the scene. "i wonder where the rope and wire are?" "that's so. he must have carried the whole business with him." "how could he? how could he have untied the wire from the tree? there is something peculiar about this affair, dad." whatever dad's opinion might have been, he did not express it at the moment. instead he got down on all fours, examining the ground carefully, going over every inch of it for several rods about the scene. "well this does git me," he declared, standing up, scratching his head reflectively. by that time the rest of the party had come out. "the lion's gone," shouted tad. "what, my lion got away?" wailed chunky. "and he didn't take a chunk out of me to carry away with him?" "i had no idea we could hold him. of course he gnawed the rope in two," nodded the professor. "he didn't get loose of his own accord, sir," replied the guide. "then you don't mean to tell me that some person or persons liberated him?" "i don't mean to tell you anything, because i don't know anything about it. i never was so befuddled in my life. i'm dead-beat, professor." tad was gloomy. he had hoped to take the lion home with them, having already planned where he would keep the beast until the town, which he thought of presenting it to, had prepared a place for the gift. now his hopes had been dashed. he had no idea that they would be able to get another lion. it was not so easy as all that. but how had the beast gotten away? there was a mystery about it fully as perplexing as had been the loss of stacy's rifle. tad was beginning to think, with dad, that mysterious forces were, indeed, at work in the grand canyon. while he was brooding over the problem, chunky, emulating the movements of the guide, was down on hands and knees, examining the ground. "find any footprints?" called ned in a jeering voice. stacy did not reply. his brow was wrinkled; his face wore a wise expression. "look out that you don't get bitten," warned walter mischievously. "by what?" demanded stacy, glancing up. "footprints," answered ned. "could any person have gotten in here and let the cat go without our having heard him, mr. nance?" asked tad butler. "i reckon he couldn't." "did you hear anything in the night, nance?" questioned the professor. "come to think of it, i did get up once. i heard the cat growling, or thought i did, but after i had looked out and seen nothing, nor heard anything, i went back to bed again and didn't know anything more till sun-up. i guess i'm pretty slow. i'm getting old for a certainty." "no; there is something peculiar, something very strange about this affair, professor," spoke up tad. "due wholly to natural causes," declared the professor. "no, i reckon you're wrong there, professor," said nance. "i'd have understood natural causes. it's the unnatural causes that gets a fellow." "i've spotted it, i've spotted it! i know who freed the lion!" howled stacy. all hands rushed to him. "who, what, how, where, when?" demanded five voices at once. "yes, sir, i've found it. that lion-----" "don't joke," rebuked the professor. "i'm not joking. i know what i'm talking about. that cat was let go by a one-legged indian. now maybe you won't say i'm not a natural born sleuth," exclaimed the fat boy proudly. chapter xix the fat boy does a ghost dance "a one-legged indian?" chorused the lads. "he's crazy," grumbled dad. "he has cat on the brain." "that's better than having nothing but hair on the brain," retorted stacy witheringly. "how do you know a one-legged indian has been here?" questioned tad, seeing that chunky was in earnest. "look here," said the boy, pointing to a moccasin print in the soft turf at that point. "there's the right foot. where's the left? why there wasn't any left, of course. he had only one foot." "then he must have carried a crutch," laughed ned. "look for the crutch mark and then you'll have the mystery solved." jim nance chuckled. stacy regarded the guide with disapproving eyes. "tell me so i can laugh too," begged chunky soberly. "why, you poor little tenderfoot, don't you know how that one track got there?" chunky shook his head. "well, that cowardly half breed that you call chow was crossing the rocks here when the cat made a pass at him. chow made a long leap. one foot struck there, the other about ten feet the other side. he hadn't time to put the second foot down else the cat would have got him. a one-legged indian! oh, help!" "haw-haw-haw!" mocked stacy, striding away disgustedly while the shouts of his companions were ringing in his burning ears. but the mystery was unsolved. tad did not believe it ever would be, though he never ceased puzzling over it for a moment. that day no one got a lion, though on the second day following ned rector shot a small cat. tad did not try to shoot. he wandered with chunky all over the peaks and through the canyon in that vicinity trying to rope more lions. "you let that job out," ordered the guide finally. "don't you know you're monkeying with fire? first thing you know you won't know anything. one of these times a cat'll put you to sleep for a year of sundays." "i guess you are right. not that i am afraid, but there is no sense in taking such long chances. i'll drop it. i ought to be pretty well satisfied with what i have done." tad kept his word. he made no further attempts to rope mountain lions. in the succeeding few days three more cats were shot. it was on the night of the fourth day after the escape of the captive that at something very exciting occurred in camp butler. the camp was silent, all its occupants sound asleep, when suddenly they were brought bounding from their cots by frightful howls and yells of fear. the howls came from the tent of stacy brown. stacy himself followed, leaping out into what they called the company street, dancing up and down, still howling at the top of his voice. clad in pajamas, the fat boy was unconsciously giving a clever imitation of an indian ghost dance. professor zepplin was the first to reach the fat boy. he gave chunky a violent shaking, while nance was darting about the camp to see that all was right. he saw nothing unusual. "what is the meaning of this, young man?" demanded the professor. "i seen it, i seen it," howled stacy. "what did you see?" "a ghost! i seen a ghost!" "you mean you 'saw' a ghost, not you 'seen'," corrected the professor. "i tell you i _seen_ a ghost. i guess if you'd seen a ghost you wouldn't stop to choose words. you'd just howl like a lunatic in your own natural language-----" dad hastily threw more wood on the dying camp fire. "i guess you had a nightmare," suggested tad. "it wasn't a mare, it was a man," persisted stacy. "he's crazy. pity he doesn't catch sleeping sickness," scoffed ned. "tell us what you did see," urged the professor in a milder tone. "i---i was sleeping in---in there when all at once i woke up-----" "you thought you did, perhaps," nodded walter. "i didn't think anything of the sort. i know i did. maybe i'd heard something. well, i woke up and there---and there-----" chunky's eyes grew big, he stared wildly across the camp fire as if the terrifying scene were once more before him. "i woke up." "you have told us that before," reminded dad, who had joined the group. "i woke up-----" "that makes four times you woke up," laughed ned. "you must, indeed, have had a restless night." "i woke up-----" "what again?" "you wouldn't laugh if you'd seen what i saw" retorted the fat boy, with serious face. "there, right at the entrance of the tent, was a ghost!" "what kind of a ghost?" asked dad. "just a ghost-ghost. it was all white and shiny and---br-r-r-r!" shivered the boy. "it grinning. i could see right through it!" "you must be an x-ray machine," declared tad, chuckling. "it didn't need anything of that sort. he was so shimmery that you could see right through him." "what became of the spook? did he fly up?" asked the guide. "no, the spook just spooked," replied stacy. "how do you mean?" questioned professor zepplin. "he thawed out like a snowball, just melted away when i yelled." "very thrilling, very thrilling. most remarkable. a matter for scientific investigation," muttered the professor, but whether he were in earnest or not the boys could not gather from his expressionless countenance. "what did chunky have for supper?" asked walter. "what didn't he have?" scoffed the guide. "we have to eat fast or we wouldn't get enough to keep up our strength." "i guess i don't get any more than my share," retorted stacy. "i have to work for that, too." "well, i'm going to bed," announced ned rector. "you fellows may sit up here and tell ghost stories all the rest of the night if you want to. it's me for the feathers." "you're right, ned," agreed tad. "we are a lot of silly boys to be so upset over a fellow who has had a crazy nightmare. professor, don't you think you ought to give stacy some medicine?" "yes, give him something to make him sleep," chuckled walter. the boy was interrupted by a roar from ned rector's tent. ned was shouting angrily. he burst out into the circle of light shed by the camp fire, waving his hands above his head. "they've got mine, they've got mine!" he yelled, dancing about with a very good imitation of the ghost dance so recently executed by the fat boy. "got what?" demanded dad sternly, striding forward. "somebody's stolen my rifle. the spook's robbed me. it's gone and all my cartridges and my revolver and-----" the camp was in an uproar instantly. chunky was nodding with satisfaction. "it wasn't stolen. the spook just spooked it, that's all," he declared convincingly. "but you must be in error, ned," cried the professor. "i'm not. it's gone. i left it beside my bed. it isn't there now. i tell you somebody's been in this camp and robbed me!" a sudden silence settled over the camp. the boys looked into each other's faces questioningly. was this another mystery of the bright angel gulch? they could not understand. "mebby the kid did see a ghost after all," muttered the guide. "the kid did. and i guess the kid ought to know," returned stacy pompously. chapter xx in the home of the havasupais an investigation showed that ned rector was right in his assertion. his rifle had been taken, likewise his revolver and his cartridges. it lent color to stacy's statement that he had seen something, but no one believed that that something had been a ghost, unless perhaps the guide believed it, for having lived close to nature so long, he might be a superstitious person. there was little sleep in the camp of the pony rider boys for the rest of the night. they were too fully absorbed in discussing the events of the evening and the mysteries that seemed to surround them. first, stacy had lost his rifle, the captive lion had mysteriously disappeared, and now another member of their party had lost his rifle and revolver. dad directed the boys not to move about at all. he hoped to find a trail in the morning, a trail that would give him a clue in case prowlers had been in the camp. a search in the morning failed to develop anything of the sort. not the slightest trace of a stranger having visited the camp was discovered. they gave up---the mystery was too much for them. that day nance decided to move on. their camp was to remain at the same place, but the half breed was directed to sleep by day and to stay on guard during the night. jim proposed to take his charges into the wonderful cataract canyon, where they would pay a visit to the village of the havasupai indians. this appealed to the pony riders. they had seen no indians since coming to the grand canyon. they did not know that there were indians ranging through that rugged territory, red men who were as familiar with the movements of the pony rider boys as were the boys themselves. they arrived at the cataract canyon on the morning of the second day, having visited another part of bright angel gulch for a day en route. at the entrance to the beautiful canyon the guide paused to tell them something about it. "i will tell you," he said, "how the havasupais came to select this canyon for their home. when the several bands of red men, who afterwards became the great tribes of the south-west, left their sacred canyon---mat-aw-we'-dit-ta---by direction of their moses---ka-that-ka-na'-ve---to find new homes, the havasupai family journeyed eastward on the trail taken by the navajos and the hopi. one night they camped in this canyon. early the next day they took up their burdens to continue on their journey. but as they were starting a little papoose began to cry. the kohot of the family, believing this to be a warning from the great spirit, decided to remain in the canyon. "they found this fertile valley, containing about five hundred acres of level land. they called the place ha-va-sua, meaning 'blue water,' and after a time they themselves were known, as havasupai---'dwellers by the blue water'. they have been here ever since." "most interesting, most interesting," breathed the professor. "but how comes it that this level stretch of fertile land is found in this rugged, rocky canyon, nance?" "that's easily answered. during hundreds of years the river has deposited vast quantities of marl at the upper ends of this valley. thus four great dams have been built up forming barriers across the canyon. these dams have quite largely filled up, leaving level stretches of land of great richness." "do they work the land?" asked tad. "in a primitive way, they do, probably following the methods they learned from the cliff dwellers, who occupied the crude dwellings you have seen all along these walls in the canyons here." the cataract canyon proved to be the most interesting of all that the boys had seen for variety and beauty. the havasu river, foaming in torrents over supai and navajos falls, fifty and seventy-five feet high, respectively, they found gliding through a narrow canyon for half a mile, in a valley matted with masses of trees, vines and ferns, the delicate green of whose foliage contrasted wonderfully with the dead gray walls of the deep, dark canyon at that point. for some three miles below this the pony riders followed the smoothly-gliding stream through a canyon whose straight up and down walls of gray limestone seemed to meet overhead in the blue of the sky. below they seemed to be in the tropics. during that first day in the cataract they saw another wonder, that of the filmy clouds settling down and forming a roof over the canyon. it was a marvelous sight before which the pony rider boys were lost in wonder. the bridal veil falls they thought the most beautiful wonder of its kind they had ever seen. here they saw the crystal waters dashing in clouds of spray through masses of ferns, moss and trees, one hundred and seventy-five feet perpendicularly into a seething pool below. their delight was in the innumerable caves found along the canyon. in these were to be seen flowers fashioned out of the limestone, possessing wonderful colors, scintillating in the light of the torches, reds that glowed like points of fire, stalactites that glistened like the long, pointed icicles they had seen hanging from the eaves of their homes in chillicothe. they discovered lace-work in most delicate tints, masses and masses of coral and festoons of stone sponges in all the caves they visited. there were little caves leading from larger caves, caves within caves, caves below caves, a perfect riot of caves and labyrinths all filled with these marvelous specimens of limestone. "i think i would be content to live here always," breathed tad after they had finished their explorations of the caves and passed on into a perfect jungle of tropical growth on their way to ko-ho-ni-no, the canyon home of the havasupais. "you'd never be lonesome here," smiled nance. "why don't you live down here, then?" asked ned. "perhaps i don't live so far from here, after all," rejoined the guide. "do they have ghosts in this canyon?" asked chunky apprehensively. "full of them!" "br-r-r!" shivered the fat boy. "a wonderful place for scientific research," mused the professor. "why don't you stay in bright angel for a while and study ghosts?" suggested stacy. "i decline to be drawn into so trivial a discussion," answered professor zepplin severely. "you wouldn't think it was trivial were you to see one of those things." "perhaps the professor, too, has overloaded his stomach some time before going to bed," spoke up tad butler. "you are mistaken, young man. i never make a glutton of myself," was the grim retort. "now will you be good, tad butler?" chuckled walter perkins. "yes, i have nothing more to say," answered tad, with a hearty laugh. "we are getting down on the level now," the guide informed them. halting suddenly, nance pointed to an overhanging ledge about half a mile down the valley. the boys gazed, shading their eyes, wondering what nance saw. "i see," said tad. "then you see more than do the rest of us," answered ned. "what is it?" "it looks to me like a man." "you have good eyes," nodded nance. "is it a---a man?" questioned chunky. "yes, it is an indian lookout. he sees us and is trying to decide whether or not our mission is a friendly one." "indians! wow!" howled chunky. "we are in their home now, so behave yourself," warned nance. the havasu river, which the riders followed, extended right on through the village, below which were many scattering homes of the red men, but the majority of them lived in the village itself. almost the entire length of the creek, both in the village and below, the river is bordered with cottonwood, mesquite and other green trees, that furnish shade for the quaint village nestling in the heart of the great canyon. the boys followed the water course until finally they were approached by half a dozen men---indians---who had come out to meet them. nance made a sign. the indians halted, gazed, then started forward. in the advance was the kohot or native chief. "hello, tom," greeted the guide. "how!" said the chief. "tom is a funny name for an indian," observed chunky. "his name is chick-a-pan-a-gi, meaning 'the bat'," answered jim smilingly. "he looks the part," muttered the fat boy. "tom, i've brought some friends of mine down to see you and your folks. have you anything to eat?" "plenty eat." "good." "plenty meala, meula. kuku. no ski," answered the chief, meaning that they were stocked with flour, sugar, but no bacon. "i know that language," confided stacy to tad. "it's hog latin." "magi back-a-tai-a?" asked the chief. "higgety-piggety," muttered chunky. "he means, 'have we come from the place of the roaring sound?'" translated nance. "you bet we have. several of them," spoke up ned. "doesn't he speak english?" asked walter. "yes, he will soon. he likes a confidential chat with me in his own language first. by 'the place of the roaring sound' he means the big canyon. how is jennie, tom?" "chi-i-wa him good." "that's fine. we'll be moving along now. we are tired and want to rest and make peace with chick-a-pan-gi and his people," said nance. the kohot bowed, waved a hand to his followers, who turned, marching stolidly back toward the village, followed by the chief, then by nance and his party. "this sounds to me as if it were going to be a chow-chow party," grinned stacy. "for goodness' sake, behave yourself. don't stir those indians up. they are friendly enough, but indians are sensitive," advised tad. "so am i," replied chunky. "you may be sorry that you are if you are not careful. i shall be uneasy all the time for fear you'll put your foot in it," said tad. "just keep your own house in order. mine will take care of itself. there's the village." "surely enough," answered tad, gazing inquiringly toward the scattered shacks or ha-was, as the native houses were called. these consisted of posts set up with a slight slant toward the center, over which was laid in several layers the long grass of the canyon. ordinarily a bright, hued indian blanket covered the opening. a tall man could not stand upright in a havasupai ha-wa. they were merely hovels, but they were all sufficient for these people, who lived most of their lives out in the open. the street was full of gaunt, fierce-looking dogs that the boys first mistook for coyotes. the dogs, ill-fed, were surly, making friends with no one, making threatening movements toward the newcomers in several instances. one of them seized the leg of chunky's trousers. "call your dog off, chief chickadee!" yelled the fat boy. the indian merely grunted, whereupon the fat boy laid a hand on the butt of his revolver. a hand gripped his arm at the same time. the hand was tad butler's. "you little idiot, take your hand away from there or i'll put a head on you right here! the dog won't hurt you." tad was angry. "no, you've scared him off, now. of course he won't bite me, but he would have done so if he hadn't caught sight of you." "i must be good dog medicine then," replied tad grimly. "but, never mind," he added, with a smile, "just try to behave yourself for a change." about that time chief tom was leading out his squaw by an ear. "white man see chi-i-wa," grinned the chief. chi-i-wa gave them a toothless smile. she was the most repulsive-looking object the boys ever had looked upon. chi-i-wa's hair came down to the neck, where it had been barbered off square all the way around. this was different from her august husband's. his hair lay in straight strands on his shoulders, while a band of gaudy red cloth, the badge of his office, was twisted over the forehead, binding the straight, black locks at the back of the head. the squaw wore baggy trousers bound at the bottom with leggings, while over her shoulder was draped a red and white indian blanket that was good to look upon. the brilliant reds of the blankets all through the village lent a touch of color that was very pleasing to the eye. the chief's son was then brought out to shake hands with the white men, while chi-i-wa squatted down and appeared to lose all interest in life. dogs and children were by this time gathered about in great numbers regarding the new comers with no little curiosity. the chief's son was introduced to the boys by nance as "afraid of his face." stacy surveyed the straight-limbed but ugly faced young buck critically. "i don't blame him," said the fat boy. "don't blame him for what?" snapped nance. "for being afraid of his face. so am i." the boys snickered, but their faces suddenly sobered at a sharp glance from the piercing eyes of the kohot. "mi-ki-u-la," said afraid of his face, pointing to the much-soiled trousers of stacy brown. "he likes your trousers, he says," grinned the guide. "well, he can't have them, though he certainly does need trousers," decided stacy reflectively, studying the muscular, half-naked limbs of the young buck. "he couldn't very well appear in polite society in that rig, could he, tad?" "not unless he were going in swimming," smiled tad. it was at this point that tad butler himself came near getting into difficulties. the chief's son, having been ordered in a series of explosive guttural sounds to do something, had started away when a yellow, wolfish looking cur got in way. afraid of his face gave the dog a vicious kick, then as if acting upon second thought he grabbed up the snarling dog, and twisting its front legs over on its back, dropped the yelping animal, giving it another kick before it touched the ground. tad's face went fiery red. he could not stand idly and witness the abuse of an animal. the lad leaped forward and stood confronting the young buck with flaming face. tad would have struck the indian had nance not been on the spot. with a powerful hand he thrust tad behind him, saying something in the indian language to afraid of his face, which caused the buck to smile faintly and proceed on his mission. "if you had struck him you never would have gotten out of here alive," whispered the guide. stacy had been a witness to the proceeding. he smiled sarcastically when tad came back to where the fat boy was standing. "folks who live in glass houses, should not shy rocks," observed the fat boy wisely. by that time the squaws were setting out corn cakes, dried peaches and a heap of savory meat that was served on a bark platter. the meal was spread on a bright blanket regardless of the fact that grease from the meat was dripping over the beautiful piece of weaving. the boys thought it a pity to see so wonderful a piece of work ruined so uselessly, but they made no comment. then all sat down, the indians squatting on their haunches, while the white men seated themselves on the ground. there were neither knives nor forks. fingers were good enough for the noble red man. first, before beginning the meal, the kohot lighted a great pipe and took a single puff. then he passed it to professor zepplin, who, with a sheepish look at the pony rider boys, also took a puff. stacy came next. the chief handed the pipe to the fat boy in person. stacy's face flushed. "thank you, but i don't smoke," he said politely. the lines of the chief's face tightened. it was an insult to refuse to smoke the pipe of peace when offered by the kohot. chapter xxi chunky gets a turkish bath "put it to your lips. you don't have to smoke it," whispered dad. "it won't do to refuse." stacy placed the stem to his lips, then, to the amazement of his fellows, drew heavily twice, forcing the smoke right down into his lungs. stacy's face grew fiery red, his cheeks puffed out. smoke seemed to be coming out all over him. ned declared afterwards that stacy must be porous, for the smoke came out of his pockets. then all of a sudden the fat boy coughed violently, and tumbled over backwards, choking, strangling, howling, while the professor hammered him between the shoulders with the flat of his hand. "you little idiot, why did you draw any of the stuff in?" whispered professor zepplin. "da---da---dad to---to---told me to! ackerchew! oh, wow!" more choking, more sneezing and more strangling. the professor laid the boy on the grass a little distance from the table, where not a smile had appeared on a single face. the indians were grave and solemn, the pony rider boys likewise, although almost at the explosive point. the others had merely passed the pipe of peace across their lips and handed it on to the next. in this manner it had gone around the circle. then all hands began dipping into the meat with their fingers. this was too much for the red-faced boy lying on the grass. he sat up, uttered a volley of sneezes then unsteadily made his way back to the blanket table and sat down in his place. the indians paid no attention to him, though sly glances were cast in his direction by his companions. for once, ned rector was discreet enough not to make any remarks. he knew that any such would call forth unpleasant words from stacy. the fat boy helped himself liberally to the meat. he tasted of it gingerly at first, then went at it greedily. "that is the finest beef i ever ate," he said enthusiastically. "you shouldn't make remarks about the food," whispered tad. "they may not like it." "i hope they don't like it. there'll be all the more left for me." "i don't mean the food, i mean your remarks about it." "oh!" "how many persons are there in your tribe, chief?" asked the professor politely. the chief looked at dad. "two hundred and fifty, professor," the guide made answer for their host. "they are a fine lot of indians, too." "including the squaws, two hundred and fifty?" "yes." "do they not sit down with us?" asked professor zepplin, glancing up at chi-i-wa and some of her sisters, who were standing muffled in their blankets, despite the heat of the day, gazing listlessly at the diners. "certainly not in the presence of the white man or heads of other tribes," answered jim. "say, what is this meat?" whispered chunky again, helping himself to another slice. "don't you know what that is?" answered ned rector. "no. if i did, i shouldn't have asked." "why, that's lion meat." "li---li---lion meat?" gasped the boy. "sure thing." stacy appeared to suffer a sudden loss of appetite. he grew pale about the lips, his head whirled dizzily. whether it were from the pipe of peace or the meat, he never knew. he did know that he was a sick boy almost on the instant. with a moan he toppled over on his back. "i'm going to die," moaned the fat boy. "carry me off somewhere. i don't want to die here," he begged weakly. they placed him under the shade of a tree but instead of getting better the boy got worse: the professor was disturbed. "put pale-face boy in to-hol-woh," grunted the chief. "to-hol-woh!" he exclaimed sharply. three squaws ran to a low structure of branches that were stuck into the ground, bent in and secured at the middle until it resembled an esquimo hut in shape. the frame made by the branches was uncovered, but the women quickly threw some brightly colored blankets over the frame, the boys watching the proceeding with keen interest. they then hauled some hot rocks from a fire near by, thrusting these under the blankets into the enclosure, after which a pail of water also was put inside. "put fat boy in," commanded the kohot. "take um clothes off." chunky demurred feebly at this. the professor glanced at dad inquiringly. dad nodded, grinning from ear to ear. "it's a sort of russo-turkish bath. it'll do him good. wouldn't mind one myself right now," said nance. "all right, boys, fix him up and get him in." "dress him down, you mean," chuckled ned. at a word from the chief the squaws stumped listlessly to their ha-was and were seen no more for some time. about this time the medicine man, a tall, angular, eagle-eyed havasu, appeared on the scene, examining the to-hol-woh critically. "what shall we do with him now?" called tad, after they had stripped off all of chunky's clothes except his underwear. "chuck him in," ordered the guide. the pony rider boys were filled with unholy glee at the prospect. they picked up the limp form of their companion, stacy being too sick to offer more than faint, feeble protests. they tumbled him into what ned called "the hole in the wall." by this time the hot stones in the enclosure had raised the temperature of the to-hol-woh considerably. stacy did not realize how hot it was at first, but he was destined to learn more about it a few minutes later. now the medicine man began to chant weirdly, calling upon the havasupai gods, hoko-ma-ta and to-cho-pa, which translated by the guide was: _"let the heat come and enter within us, reach head, face and lungs, go deep down in stomach, through arms, body, thighs. thus shall we be purified, made well from all ill, thus shall we be strengthened to keep back all that can harm, for heat alone gives life and force."_ _"let heat enter our heads, let heat enter our eyes, let heat enter our ears, let heat enter our nostrils---"_ up to this time no sounds had come from the interior of the to-hol-woh. but now the fat boy half rolled out, gasping for breath. ned, having picked up a paddle that lay near this impromptu turkish bath, administered a resounding slap on stacy's anatomy, while tad and walter threw him back roughly into the to-hol-woh. chunky moaned dismally. "i'm being burned alive," he groaned. "they're torturing me to death." _"let heat enter the feet, let heat enter the knees, let heat enter the legs---"_ "lemme out of here!" yelled the sick boy, thrusting a tousled head through between the blankets covering the opening. they pushed him back. "it's the paddle for yours, and hard, if you come out before we tell you," cried ned. "stay in as long as you can, stacy. i am satisfied the treatment will benefit you," advised the professor. "i'm cooking," wailed chunky. "that's what you need. you've been underdone all your life," jeered rector. throughout all of this the havasus had sat about apparently taking no particular interest in the performance. they had all seen it before so many, many times. but jim nance's sides were shaking with laughter, and the pony rider boys were dancing about in high glee. they did not get such a chance at stacy brown every day in the year, and were not going to miss a single second of this sort of fun. "a brave lion tamer ought not to be afraid of a little heat," suggested walt. "that's so," agreed ned. "for heat alone gives life and force," crooned the medicine man. he repeated the words of his chant twice over, naming pretty much every member in the body. it was a long process, but no one save stacy brown himself wearied of it. at the conclusion of the second round of the chant, the medicine man, stooping over, sprinkled water upon the hot stones, reaching in under the blankets to do so. instantly the to-hol-woh was filled with a cloud of fierce, biting steam, that made each breath seem a breath of fire. the pony rider boys, understanding what this meant to the boy inside, unable to restrain themselves longer, gave vent to ear-splitting shouts of glee. even the indians turned to gaze at them in mild surprise. "take me out! i'm on fire!" yelled the fat boy lustily. the medicine man thrust half a dozen other hot stones in, then sprinkled more water upon them. "there's one more steaming for chunky," sang tad. "there's one more roast for him," chanted ned. "we'll roast him till he's done," added walter. the medicine man sprinkled on more water. "ow, wow! yeow, wow-wow!" anguished howls burst from the interior of the to-hol-woh. then something else burst. the peak of the bath house seemed to rise right into the air. the sides burst out, flinging the blankets in all directions. then a red-faced boy leaped out, and with a yell, fled on hot feet to the silvery havasu river, where he plunged into a deep pool, the water choking down his howls of rage and pain. the fat boy's russo-turkish bath had succeeded beyond the fondest expectations of his torturers. chapter xxii a magical cure pandemonium reigned in the havasu village for a few minutes. the medicine man had been bowled over in stacy's projectile-like flight. the medicine man leaped to his feet, eyes flashing. some one pointed toward the creek. the medicine man leaped for the river. dad spoke sharply to the chief, whereupon the latter fired a volley of gutturals at the fleeing medicine man, who stopped so suddenly that he nearly lost his balance. "is the water deep in there?" cried the professor. "about ten feet," answered the guide. "he'll drown!" "no he won't drown, professor," called tad. "chunky can swim like a fish. there he is now." a head popped up from the water, followed by a face almost as red as the sandstone rocks on the great cliffs glowing off there in the afternoon sun. "oh, wow!" bellowed stacy chokingly, as the waters swallowed him up again. he came up once more and struck out for the bank, up which he struggled, then began racing up and down the edge of the stream yelling: "i'm skinned alive! i'm flayed, disfigured! i'm parboiled! pour a bottle of oil over me. i tell you i'm-----" "you're all right. stop it!" commanded tad sharply. "sprinkle me with flour the way mother used to do." tad walked over and laid a firm hand on the arm of the fat boy. "you go back there and wipe off, then put on your clothes, or i'll skin you in earnest. i wouldn't be surprised if they'd scalp you if you continue to carry on in this way." "sea---scalp me?" stammered stacy. "yes. you surely have done enough to them to make them want to. did you know you knocked over the medicine man?" "did i?" "you did." stacy grinned. "i'm glad of it. but that isn't a circumstance to what i'd like, to do to him if i could do it and get away with it. "well, how does it feel to be roasted?" questioned the grinning ned rector, approaching them at this juncture. "who put up this job on me?" demanded stacy angrily. "job? why, it wasn't a job. you were a very sick man. your case demanded instant treatment---" "say, what was that meat we had for dinner, tad?" asked chunky suddenly. "deer meat." "oh, fiddle! ned said it was cat meat and i---i got sick. i'll get even with him for that." "how do you feel?" asked the smiling professor, coming up and slapping the fat boy on the shoulder. "i---i guess i'm well, but i don't believe i'll be able to sit down or lie down all the rest of the summer. no, don't ask me to put on my clothes. i can't wear them. my skin's all grown fast to my underwear. i'll have to wear these underclothes the rest of the season if i don't want to lose my skin. oh, i'm in an awful fix." "but you're well, so what's the odds?" laughed tad. "it does brace a fellow up to have that---that---what do you call it?" "hole in the wall bath," nodded ned. "that's just the trouble. there wasn't any hole in the wall to let the heat out. oh, it was awful. if you don't think it was, then some of you fellows get in there for a roast. oh, i'm sore!" stacy limped off by himself, then stood leaning against a rock, still in his underwear, gazing moodily at the waters of havasu river. stacy was much chastened for the time being. all at once the lad started. ned rector had laid a hand on his shoulder. "oh, it's you?" "yes. you aren't angry with me, are you, chunky?" "angry with you?" "yes." "did you ever have a sore lip, ned?" "of course i have," laughed rector. "when you couldn't have laughed at the funniest story you ever heard?" "i guess that about describes it." "well, i've got a sore lip all over my body. if i were to be cross with you i'd crack the one big, sore lip and then you'd hear me yell," answered the fat boy solemnly. "no, i'm not angry with you, ned." rector laughed softly. "i don't want you to be. i'm always having a lot of fun with you and i expect to have a lot more, for you are the biggest little idiot i ever saw in my life." "yes, i am," agreed stacy thoughtfully. "but how can you blame me, with the company i keep?" "i've got nothing more to say, except that if you'll come back to what's his name's camp i'll help you put on your clothes. come along. don't miss all the fun." stacy decided that he would. by the time he had gotten on his clothes he felt better. he wandered off to another part of the village, where his attention was drawn to a game going on between a lot of native children who had squatted down on the ground. stacy asked what the game was. they told him it was "hui-ta-qui-chi-ka," which he translated into "have-a-chicken." most of these children were pupils at a school established by the united states government in the canyon, and could speak a little english. chunky entered into conversation with them at once, asking the names of each, but he never remembered the name of any of them afterwards. there was little pu-ut, a demure faced savage with a string of glass beads around her neck; somaja, round and plump, because of which she got her name, which, translated meant "watermelon." then there was vesna and many other names not so easy. chunky decided that he would like to play "have-a-chicken," too. the little savages were willing, so he took a seat in the semicircle with them. before the semicircle was a circle of small stones, with an opening at a certain point. this opening was called, chunky learned, "yam-si-kyalb-yi-ka," though the fat boy didn't attempt to pronounce it after his instructor. in the centre of the circle was another flat stone bearing the musical name of "taa-bi-chi." sides were chosen and the game began. the first player begins by holding three pieces of short stick, black on one side, white on the other. these sticks are called "toh-be-ya." the count depends upon the way the sticks fall. for instance, the following combinations will give an idea as to how the game is counted: three white sides up, 10; three blacks, 5; two blacks and a white up, 3; two whites and a black up, 2, and so on in many different combinations. the reader may think this a tame sort of game, but chunky didn't find it so. it grew so exciting that the fat boy found himself howling louder than any of the savages with whom he was playing. he was as much a savage as any of them, some of whom were of his own age. every time he made a large point, stacy would perform a war dance, howling, "have-a-chicken! have-a-chicken!" the chief's son, who also had come into the game without being invited, was playing next to stacy. stacy in one of these outbursts trod on the bare feet of the young buck. afraid of his face, adopting the methods of his white brethren, rose in his might and smote the fat boy with his fist. now, the spot where the fist of afraid of his face landed had been parboiled in the "hole in the wall." stacy brown howled lustily, then he sailed in, both fists working like windmills. the indian youngsters set up a weird chorus of yells and war whoops, while all hands from the chief's ha-wa started on a run for the scene. chapter xxiii stacy as an indian fighter in the meantime there was a lively scrimmage going on near the "have-a-chicken" circle. the stones of the circle had been kicked away, the younger savages forming a human ring about the combatants. afraid of his face was much the superior of the fat boy in physical strength, but he knew nothing of the tricks of the boxer. therefore stacy had played a tattoo on the face of the indian before the latter woke up to the fact that he was getting the worst of it. in an unguarded moment the young buck put a smashing blow right on stacy's nose, now extremely sensitive from its near boiling in the "hole in the wall." not being fast enough in the get away, the young buck received on his own face some of the blood that spurted from brown's nose. "ow-wow!" wailed chunky, rendered desperate by the severe pain at this tender point. but his rage made him cooler. chunky made a feint. as afraid of his face dodged the feint stacy bumped the young indian's nose. "have another," offered stacy dryly, as his left drove in a blow that sent the young indian to his back on the turf. frightened screams came from some of the young indian girls, who gazed dismayed at the human whirlwind into which stacy had been transformed. "ugh!" roared afraid of his face, and reached his feet again. "ugh! boy heap die! plenty soon!" again the combatants closed in. there was a rattling give-and-take. "here! stop that!" ordered professor zepplin, striding forward. the chief and his indians were coming up also. the chief caught at one of the professor's waving arms and drew him back. "let um fight," grunted the chief. he next spoke a few guttural words of command to his own people, who fell back, giving the combatants plenty of room. "yes, let 'em have it out!" roared the boys. "stacy never will learn to behave, but this ought to help." stacy, having it all his own way with his fists, now received a kick from the buck that nearly ended the fight. "wow! that's your style, is it?" groaned chunky, then he ducked, came up and planted a smashing blow on the buck's jaw that sent the latter fairly crashing to earth. that ended the fight. afraid of his face made a few futile struggles to get to his feet, then lay back wearily. chunky puffed out his chest and strutted back and forth a few times. "huh!" grunted chick-a-pan-a-gi. "fat boy heap brave warrior." "you bet i am. but it's nothing. you ought to see me in a real fight." "hurrah for chunky!" shouted ned rector. "hip, hip, hurrah!" professor zepplin now strode forward, laying a heavy hand on the fat boy's shoulder. "ouch!" groaned chunky. "don't do that don't you know i haven't any skin on my body?" "you don't deserve to have any. be good enough to explain how this trouble arose?" the chief was asking the same question of the other young savages in his own language and they were telling him in a series of guttural explosions. "it was this way, i was playing the game with them when i stepped on elephant face's foot. he didn't like it. i guess he has corns on his feet as well as on his face. he punched me. i punched him back. then the show began. we had a little argument, with the result that you already have observed," answered stacy pompously. "you needn't get so chesty about it," rebuked ned. "chief," said the professor, turning to chick-a-pan-a-gi, "i don't know what to say. i am deeply humiliated that one of our party should engage in a fight with---" "i didn't engage in any fight," protested stacy. "it wasn't a fight, it was just a little argument." "silence!" thundered the professor. "i trust you will overlook the action of this boy. he was very much excited and-----" "fat boy him not blame. fat boy him much brave warrior," grunted the chief. "afraid of his face he go ha-wa. stay all day, all night. him not brave warrior." the chief accentuated his disgust by prodding his homely son with the toe of a moccasin. afraid of his face got up painfully, felt gingerly of his damaged nose, and with a surly grunt limped off toward his own ha-wa, there to remain in disgrace until the following day. "fat boy come smoke pipe of peace," grunted the chief. "no, thank you. no more pieces of pipe for mine. i've had one experience. that's enough for a life time," answered stacy. "stacy, if i see any more such unseemly conduct i shall send you home in disgrace," rebuked the professor as they walked back to the village. "the boy wasn't to blame, professor," interceded dad. "the buck pitched into him first. he had to defend himself." "no, don't be too hard on chunky," begged tad. "you must remember that he wasn't quite himself. first to be boiled alive, then set upon by an indian, i should say, would be quite enough to set anyone off his balance." the professor nodded. perhaps they were right, after all. so long as the chief was not angry, why should he be? the chief, in his unemotional way, seemed pleased with the result of the encounter. but professor zepplin, of course, could not countenance fighting. that was a certainty. with a stern admonition to chunky never to engage in another row while out with the pony rider boys, the professor agreed to let the matter drop. the day was well spent by that time, and the party was invited to pass the night in the village, which they decided to do. the chief gave the professor a cordial invitation to share his ha-wa with him, but after a sniff at the opening of the hovel professor zepplin decided that he would much prefer to sleep outside on the ground. the others concluded that they would do the same. the odors coming from the ha-was of the tribe were not at all inviting. after sitting about the camp fire all the evening, the pony rider boys wrapped themselves in their blankets and lay down to sleep under the stars with the now gloomy walls of the canyon towering above them, the murmur of the silvery havasu in their ears. chapter xxiv conclusion the night was a restful one to most of the party, except as they were aroused by the barking of the dogs at frequent intervals, perhaps scenting some prowling animal in search of food. chunky was awakened by tad at an early hour. the fat boy uttered a familiar "oh, wow!" when he sought to get up, then lay back groaning. "why, what's the matter?" demanded butler. "my skin's shrunk," moaned stacy. "it fits me so tight i---i can't move." "his skin's shrunk," chorused the pony rider boys. "his skin is a misfit." "take it back and demand a new suit if you don't like it," laughed ned rector. "it isn't any laughing matter. i tell you it's shrunk," protested stacy. "all right, it will do you good. you'll know you've got a skin. last night you said it was all roasted off from you." "it was. this is the new skin, about a billionth of an inch thick, and oh-h-h-h," moaned the lad, struggling to his feet. "i wish you had my skin, ned rector. no, i don't, either i---i wish yours were drawn as tightly as mine." "come on for a run and you will feel better" cried tad, grasping the fat boy by an arm and racing him down to the river and back, accompanied by a series of howls from stacy. but the limbering-up process was a success. stacy felt better. he was able to do full justice to the breakfast that was served on the greasy blanket shortly afterwards. for breakfast the white men shared their bacon with the chief, which the indian ate, grunting appreciatively. before leaving, the boys bought some of the finer specimens of the indian blankets, which they got remarkably cheap. they decided to do up a bale of these and send them home to their folks when they reached a place where there was a railroad. at present they were a good many miles from a railway, with little prospect even of seeing one for a matter of several weeks. after breakfast they bade good-bye to the chief. chunky wanted to shake hands with afraid of his face, but the chief would not permit his young buck to leave the ha-wa. chi-i-wa, the chief's wife, bade them a grudging good-bye without so much as turning her head, after which the party rode away, chunky uttering dismal groans because the saddle hurt him, for the fat boy was still very tender. "i know what i'll do when i get home," he said. "so do i," laughed tad. "well, what'll i do, if you know so much about it?" "why, you will puff out your chest and strut up and down main street for the edification of the natives of chillicothe," answered tad. "that's what he'll do, for sure," jeered ned. "but we'll be on hand to take him down a peg or two. don't you forget that, chunky." joking and enjoying themselves to the fullest, these brown-faced, hardy young travelers continued on, making camp that night by the roaring river, reaching camp butler the following forenoon. chow, the half breed pack-train man, met them with a long face. the party saw at once that something was wrong. "what's happened?" snapped nance. "the dogs." "what about them? speak up." "him dead," announced the half breed stolidly. "dead?" cried dad and the boys in one voice. "him dead." "what caused their death?" the half breed shook his head. all he knew was that two mornings before he had come in for breakfast, and upon going out again found the dogs stretched out on the ground dead. that there was another mystery facing them the boys saw clearly. nance examined the carcasses of the dead hounds. his face was dark with anger when he had finished. "it's my opinion that those hounds were poisoned," he declared. "poisoned!" exclaimed the boys. "yes. there's some mysterious work being done around this camp. i'm going to find out who is at the bottom of it; then you'll hear something drop that will be louder than a boulder falling off the rim of the grand canyon." "this is a most remarkable state of affairs." said the professor. "surely you do not suspect the man chow?" "no, i don't suspect him. it's someone else. i had a talk with chief tom. he told me some things that set me thinking." "what was it?" asked tad. "i'm not going to say anything about it just now, but i am going to have this camp guarded after to-night. we'll see whether folks can come in here and play tag with us in this fashion without answering to jim nance." "i'll bet the ghost has been here again," spoke up stacy. "ghost nothing!" exploded nance. "that's what you said before, or words to that effect," answered the fat boy. "you found i was right, though. yes, sir, there are spirits around these diggings. one of them carried away my gun." "we will divide the night into watches after this. i am not going to be caught napping again," announced nance. that night the guide sat up all night. nothing occurred to arouse his suspicion. next day they went out lion hunting without dogs. nance got a shot at a cat, but missed him. the next day the professor killed a cub that was hiding in a juniper tree. it was his first kill and put the professor in high good humor. he explained all about it that night as they sat around the camp fire. then the boys made him tell the story over again. nance took the first watch that night, remaining on duty until three in the morning, when he called tad. the latter was wide awake on the instant, the mark of a good woodsman. taking his rifle, he strolled out near the mustangs, where he sat down on a rock. tad was shivering in the chill morning air, but after a time he overcame that. he grew drowsy after a half hour of waiting with nothing doing. all of a sudden the lad sat up wide awake. he knew that he had heard something. that something was a stealthy footstep. the night was graying by this time, so that objects might be made out dimly. tad stood up, swinging his rifle into position for quick use. for some moments he heard nothing further, then out of the bushes crept a shadowy figure. "chunky's ghost," was the thought that flashed into the mind of the young sentry. "no, i declare, if it isn't an indian!" it was an indian, but the light was too dim to make anything out of the intruder. the indian was crouched low and as tad observed was treading on his toes, choosing a place for each step with infinite care. the watcher now understood why no moccasin tracks had been found about the camp, for he had no doubt that this fellow was the one who was responsible for all the mysterious occurrences in camp up to that time. the pony rider boy did not move. he wanted to see what the indian was going to do. step by step the red man drew near to the canvas covered storage place, where they kept their supplies, arms, ammunition and the like. into this shack the indian slipped. tad edged closer. "i wonder what he's after this time?" whispered the lad. tad thrilled with the thought that it had been left for him to solve the mystery. his question was answered when, a few moments later, the silent figure of the indian appeared creeping from the opening. he had something in his hands. "i actually believe the fellow is carrying away our extra rifles," muttered the boy. that was precisely what the redskin was doing. after glancing cautiously about, he started away in the same careful manner. tad could have shot the man, but he would not do it, instead, he raised the rifle. "halt!" commanded the pony rider boy sharply. for one startled instant the indian stood poised as if for a spring. then he did spring. still gripping the rifles, he leaped across the opening and started away on fleet feet. he was running straight toward where the ponies were tethered. tad fired a shot over the head of the fleeing man, then started in pursuit. the indian slashed the tether of buckey, stacy brown's mustang, and with a yell to startle the animal, leaped on its back and was off. "that's a game two can play at," gritted the pony rider, freeing his own pony in the same way and springing to its back. the shot and the yell had brought the camp out in a twinkling. no one knew what had occurred, but the quick ears of the guide catching the pounding hoofs of the running mustangs, he knew that tad was chasing someone. "everybody stay here and watch the camp!" he roared, running for his own pinto, which he mounted in the same way as had the indian and tad butler. tad, in getting on silver face, had fumbled and dropped his rifle. there was no time to stop to recover it if he expected to catch the fleeing indian. under ordinary circumstances the boy knew that silver face was considerably faster than buckey. but pursuit was not so easy, though the indian, for the present, could go in but one direction. the spirited mustang on which tad butler was mounted, appearing to understand what was expected of him, swept on with the speed of the wind. small branches cut the face of the pony rider like knife-blades as he split through a clump of junipers, then tore ahead, fairly sailing over logs, boulders and other obstructions. the pony rider boy uttered a series of earsplitting yells. his object was to guide jim nance, who, he felt sure, would be not far behind him. the yells brought the guide straight as an arrow. tad could plainly hear the foot beats of buckey as the two riders tore down the canyon, each at the imminent risk of his life. "if he has a loaded gun, i'm a goner," groaned the lad. "but the ones he stole are empty, thank goodness! there he goes!" the indian had made a turn to the left into a smaller canyon. by this time the light was getting stronger. tad was able to make out his man with more distinctness. the boy urged his pony forward with short, sharp yelps. the indian was doing the same, but tad was gaining on him every second. now the boy uttered a perfect volley of shouts, hoping that nance would understand when he got to the junction of the smaller canyon, that both pursued and pursuer had gone that way. nance not only understood, but he could hear tad's yells up the canyon upon arriving at the junction. "stop or i'll shoot!" cried the boy. the indian turned and looked back. then he urged buckey on faster. that one act convinced tad that the redskin had no loaded rifle, else he would have used it at that moment. with a yell of triumph the boy touched the pony with the rowels of his spurs. silver face shot ahead like a projectile. he was a tough little pony, and besides, his mettle was up. now tad gained foot by foot. he was almost up to the indian, yelling like an indian himself. the redskin tried dodging tactics, hoping that tad would shoot past him. tad did nothing of the sort. the boy was watching his man with keen but glowing eyes. the call of the wild was strong in tad butler at that moment. suddenly the boy drew alongside. utterly regardless of the danger to himself, he did a most unexpected thing. tad threw himself from his own racing pony, landing with crushing force on top of the indian. of course the two men tumbled to the ground like a flash. then followed a battle, the most desperate in which tad ever had been engaged. the boy howled lustily and fought like a cornered mountain lion. of course his strength was as nothing compared with that of the indian. all tad could hope to do would be to keep the indian engaged until help arrived. help did arrive within two minutes; help in the shape of jim nance, who, with the thought of his slain hounds rankling in his mind, was little better than a savage for the time being. "here!" shouted tad. "take him---hustle!" then young butler drew back, for nance, seeing things red before his eyes, was hardly capable of knowing friend from foe. whack! bump! buff! how those big fists descended! for three or four seconds only did the redskin make any defense. then he cowered, stolidly, taking a punishment that he could not prevent. "don't kill the poor scoundrel, dad!" yelled tad, dancing about the pair. but still nance continued to hammer the now unresisting indian. "stop it, dad---stop it!" tad called sternly. then, as nothing else promised to avail, tad rushed once more into the fray. dad was weakening from his own enormous expenditure of strength. "don't go any farther, dad," tad coaxed, catching one of nance's arm and holding on. "i guess i have about given the fellow what he needed," admitted the guide, rising. as he stood above the indian, dad saw that the man did not move. "i hope you didn't kill him, dad," tad went on swiftly. "why?" asked jim nance curiously. "i don't like killings," returned tad briefly. he bent over the indian, finding that the latter had been only knocked out. "we'd better take the redskin back to camp, hadn't we?" queried tad, and jim silently helped. in camp, the indian was bound hand and foot. the camp fire was lighted and tad went to work to resuscitate the red man. at last the camp's prisoner was revived. "now, let's ask him about the thieveries that have been going on," suggested ned rector. "humph!" grinned dad. "if you think you can make an indian talk when he has been caught red-handed, then you try it." not a word would the indian say. he even refused to look at his questioners, but lay on the ground, stolidly indifferent. "he's a prowling navajo," explained nance. "you may be sure this is the fellow, brown's 'spirit,' behind all our troubles. he's the chap who stole brown's rifle, who raided this camp, who set the lion free and who poisoned my dogs---so they wouldn't give warning." "but why should he want to turn the lion loose?" tad wanted to know. "because the navajo indians hold the mountain lion as sacred. the navajo believes that his ancestors' spirits have taken refuge in the bodies of the mountain lions." "i believe there must be a strong strain of mountain lion in this fellow, by the way he fought me," grimaced tad. "what shall we do with this redskin?" chunky asked. "shall we give him a big thrashing, or make him run the gauntlet?" "neither, i guess," replied jim nance, who had cooled down. "the wisest thing will be for us to take him straight to the indian agency. uncle sam pays agents to take care of indian problems." it was late that afternoon when the boys and their poisoner arrived at the agency. "i'll talk to him," said the agent, after he had ordered that the indian be taken to a room inside. an hour later the agent came out. "the navajo confesses to all the things you charge against him," announced the government official. "i thought i could make him talk. the redskin justifies himself by saying that your party made an effort to kill navajo ancestors at wholesale." "humph!" grunted jim nance. "what happens to the navajo?" walter asked curiously. "he'll be kept within bounds after this," replied the agent. "for a starter he will be locked up for three months. some other navajos were out, but we got them all back except this one. going back into the canyon?" indeed they were. late that afternoon the pony rider boys began their journey of one hundred miles to the lower end of the canyon. from that latter point they were to go on into still newer fields of exploration, in search of new thrills, and were far more certain than they realized at that time of experiencing other adventures that should put all past happenings in the shade. for the time being, however, we have gone as far as possible with the lads. we shall next meet them in the following volume of this series, which is published under the title, "_the pony rider boys with the texas rangers; or, on the trail of the border bandits_." a rare treat lies just ahead for the reader of this new narrative, in which acquaintance will also be made with one of the most famous bodies of police in all the world, the texas rangers. the end online distributed proofreaders team through the grand canyon from wyoming to mexico by e.l. kolb with a foreword by owen wister new edition with additional illustrations (72 plates) from photographs by the author and his brother 1915 dedication to the many friends who "pulled" for us, if not with us during the one hundred one days of our river trip, this volume is respectfully dedicated. foreword it is a dogged courage of which the author of this book is the serene possessor--shared equally by his daring brother; and evidence of this bravery is made plain throughout the following pages. every youth who has in him a spark of adventure will kindle with desire to battle his way also from green river to the foot of bright angel trail; while every man whose bones have been stiffened and his breath made short by the years, will remember wistfully such wild tastes of risk and conquest that he, too, rejoiced in when he was young. whether it deal with the climbing of dangerous peaks, or the descent (as here) of some fourteen hundred miles of water both mysterious and ferocious, the well-told tale of a perilous journey, planned with head and carried through with dauntless persistence, always holds the attention of its readers and gives them many a thrill. this tale is very well told. though it is the third of its kind, it differs from its predecessors more than enough to hold its own: no previous explorers have attempted to take moving pictures of the colorado river with themselves weltering in its foam. more than this: while the human race lasts it will be true, that any man who is lucky enough to fix upon a hard goal and win it, and can in direct and simple words tell us how he won it, will write a good book. perhaps this planet does somewhere else contain a thing like the colorado river--but that is no matter; we at any rate in our continent possess one of nature's very vastest works. after the river and its tributaries have done with all sight of the upper world, have left behind the bordering plains and streamed through the various gashes which their floods have sliced in the mountains that once stopped their way, then the culminating wonder begins. the river has been flowing through the loneliest part which remains to us of that large space once denominated "the great american desert" by the vague maps in our old geographies. it has passed through regions of emptiness still as wild as they were before columbus came; where not only no man lives now nor any mark is found of those forgotten men of the cliffs, but the very surface of the earth itself looks monstrous and extinct. upon one such region in particular the author of these pages dwells, when he climbs up out of the gulf in whose bottom he has left his boat by the river, to look out upon a world of round gray humps and hollows which seem as if it were made of the backs of huge elephants. through such a country as this, scarcely belonging to our era any more than the mammoth or the pterodactyl, scarcely belonging to time at all, does the colorado approach and enter its culminating marvel. then, for 283 miles it inhabits a nether world of its own. the few that have ventured through these places and lived are a handful to those who went in and were never seen again. the white bones of some have been found on the shores; but most were drowned; and in this water no bodies ever rise, because the thick sand that its torrent churns along clogs and sinks them. this place exerts a magnetic spell. the sky is there above it, but not of it. its being is apart; its climate; its light; its own. the beams of the sun come into it like visitors. its own winds blow through it, not those of outside, where we live. the river streams down its mysterious reaches, hurrying ceaselessly; sometimes a smooth sliding lap, sometimes a falling, broken wilderness of billows and whirlpools. above stand its walls, rising through space upon space of silence. they glow, they gloom, they shine. bend after bend they reveal themselves, endlessly new in endlessly changing veils of colour. a swimming and jewelled blue predominates, as of sapphires being melted and spun into skeins of shifting cobweb. bend after bend this trance of beauty and awe goes on, terrible as the day of judgment, sublime as the psalms of david. five thousand feet below the opens and barrens of arizona, this canyon seems like an avenue conducting to the secret of the universe and the presence of the gods. is much wonder to be felt that its beckoning enchantment should have drawn two young men to dwell beside it for many years; to give themselves wholly to it; to descend and ascend among its buttressed pinnacles; to discover caves and waterfalls hidden in its labyrinths; to climb, to creep, to hang in mid-air, in order to learn more and more of it, and at last to gratify wholly their passion in the great adventure of this journey through it from end to end? no siren song could have lured travellers more than the siren silence of the grand canyon: but these young men did not leave their bones to whiten upon its shores. the courage that brought them out whole is plain throughout this narrative, in spite of its modesty.--owen wister. preface this is a simple narrative of our recent photographic trip down the green and colorado rivers in rowboats--our observations and impressions. it is not intended to replace in any way the books published by others covering a similar journey. major j.w. powell's report of the original exploration, for instance, is a classic, literary and geological; and searchers after excellence may well be recommended to his admirable work. neither is this chronicle intended as a handbook of the territory traversed--such as mr. f.s. dellenbaugh's two volumes: "the romance of the grand canyon," and "a canyon voyage." we could hardly hope to add anything of value to his wealth of detail. in fact, much of the data given here--such as distances, elevations, and records of other expeditions--is borrowed from the latter volume. and i take this opportunity of expressing our appreciation to mr. dellenbaugh for his most excellent and entertaining books. we are indebted to mr. julius f. stone, of columbus, ohio, for much valuable information and assistance. mr. stone organized a party and made the complete trip down the green and colorado rivers in the fall and winter of 1909, arriving at needles, california, on november 27, 1909. he freely gave us the benefit of his experience and presented us with the complete plans of the boats he used. one member of this party was nathan galloway, of richfield, utah. to him we owe much of the success of our journey. mr. galloway hunts and traps through the wilds of utah, colorado, and arizona, and has a fame for skill and nerve throughout this entire region. he makes a yearly trip through the upper canyons, usually in a boat of his own construction; and in addition has the record of being the only person who has made two complete trips through the entire series of canyons, clear to needles. he it is who has worked out the type of boats we used, and their management in the dangerous waters of the colorado. we have tried to make this narrative not only simple, as we say, but truthful. however, no two people can see things in exactly the same light. to some, nothing looks big; to others, every little danger is unconsciously magnified out of all proportion. for instance, we can recall rapids which appeared rather insignificant at first, but which seemed decidedly otherwise after we had been overturned in them and had felt their power--especially at the moment when we were sure we had swallowed a large part of the water that composed them. the reader will kindly excuse the use of the first person, both singular and plural. it is our own story, after all, and there seems to be no other way than to tell it as you find it here. +contents+ chapter page i. preparations at green river city, wyoming 1 ii. interesting sights of southern wyoming 12 iii. the gateway of all the canyons 22 iv. suspicious hosts 36 v. the battle with lodore 50 vi. hell's half mile 64 vii. jimmy goes over the mountain 71 viii. an inland excursion 83 ix. canyon of desolation 93 x. hospitable ranchmen 102 xi. wonders of erosion 111 xii. could we succeed? 121 xiii. a companion voyager 129 xiv. a patient amid the cataracts 142 xv. placer gold 156 xvi. a warning 169 xvii. a night of thrills 178 xviii. marble halls and marble walls 190 xix. signalling our canyon home 203 xx. one month later 219 xxi. what christmas eve brought 235 xxii. short of provisions in a sunless gorge 249 xxiii. the last portage and the last rapids 267 xxiv. on the crest of a flood 280 xxv. four days to yuma 290 xxvi. across the mexico border 303 xxvii. the gulf of california 321 illustrations the grand canyon near the mouth of ha va su creek _frontispiece_ after a difficult picture. e. c. kolb on rope................... 2 in the grand canyon near the little colorado.................... 6 the start at green river, wyoming............................... 10 fire hole chimneys.............................................. 10 a typical butte formation....................................... 14 boats and crew. photo taken in the grand canyon................. 18 skeleton found in the grand canyon.............................. 22 inside of the first canyons..................................... 26 tilted rocks at kingfisher canyon............................... 26 "immense rocks had fallen from the cliff"....................... 36 ashley falls, looking down-stream............................... 40 the rocks were dark red; occasional pines grew on the ledges, making a charming combination of colour....................... 44 "we stopped at one hay ranch close to the utah-colorado line"... 48 remarkable entrance to lodore canyon............................ 52 "the river cut a channel under the walls" at lower disaster falls......................................................... 56 "everything was wet"............................................ 56 a colorado river salmon......................................... 60 lodore canyon as seen from brown's park......................... 60 "the canyon was gloomy and darkened with shreds of clouds"...... 64 "it took nine loads to empty one boat".......................... 68 "an upright log was found wedged between the boulders".......... 68 echo cliffs. "this was the end of lodore"....................... 72 end of echo cliffs. the mouth of the yampa river is on the right.......................................................... 72 marvels of erosion.............................................. 76 "here was one end of the rainbow of rock that began on the other side of the mountains".................................. 80 pat lynch: the canyon hermit.................................... 84 each bed was placed in a rubber and a canvas sack............... 90 "now for a fish story" ......................................... 100 the centre of three symmetrical formations in the double bow knot.......................................................... 114 the buttes of the cross......................................... 118 "the land of standing rocks was like a maze".................... 122 rocks overhanging the colorado's gorge.......................... 122 thirteen hundred feet above the green river..................... 124 the junction of the green and the grand rivers.................. 128 looking west into cataract canyon............................... 132 charles smith and his boat...................................... 132 a narrow channel at rapid no. 22................................ 136 developing tests................................................ 136 rapid no. 22 in cataract canyon................................. 140 the _edith_ in a cataract....................................... 144 a seventy-five-foot drop in three-fourths of a mile............. 144 camp in the heart of cataract canyon............................ 148 lower cataract canyon. boats tandem............................. 152 beginning of a natural bridge. glen canyon...................... 152 pictographs in glen canyon...................................... 158 cliff ruins near san juan river................................. 162 rainbow natural bridge, looking south........................... 162 rainbow natural bridge, looking north........................... 166 glen canyon near navajo mountain................................ 170 upper marble canyon............................................. 170 placer dredge at lee's ferry.................................... 174 badger creek rapid.............................................. 180 bands of marble in marble canyon................................ 180 a peaceful camp in marble canyon................................ 184 the soap creek rapid; a little above lowest stage. photo published by permission of julius f. stone.................... 188 "it was too good a camp to miss"................................ 192 arch in marble canyon........................................... 192 walls of marble canyon.......................................... 196 approaching the grand canyon.................................... 200 end of marble canyon, from the mouth of the little colorado..... 204 cataracts of the little colorado river.......................... 204 end of hance trail. small white line is an intrusion of quartz in the algonkian.............................................. 208 below the sockdologer........................................... 210 the rust tramway. span four hundred and fifty feet.............. 214 bright angel creek and canyon................................... 218 leaving home, dec. 19, 1911..................................... 222 a composite picture of marble canyon walls and a grand canyon rapid......................................................... 222 the _edith_ (on left of central rock) in granite falls.......... 226 rough water in hermit creek rapid............................... 230 type of rapid in the granite near bass trail.................... 234 the inner plateau, thirteen hundred feet above the river........ 238 bert lauzon, above separation rapid............................. 238 the break in the _edith_........................................ 242 merry christmas. the repair was made with bilge boards, canvas, paint, and tin................................................ 242 pulling clear of a rock......................................... 246 a shower bath................................................... 246 grand canyon at the mouth of ha va su canyon. medium high water. frontispiece shows same place in low water............. 250 "morning revealed a little snow," on the top.................... 252 new year's eve was spent in this section between the highest sheer walls in the lower gorge................................ 252 lava falls. lava on left, hot springs on right.................. 254 swift water in tapeets creek rapid.............................. 260 lauzon, equipped with a life preserver on a rope, on guard below a rapid................................................. 260 in the last granite gorge....................................... 260 capt. burro: a ha va supai...................................... 266 the last portage. the rocks were ice-filmed. note potholes...... 270 mooney falls: ha va su canyon................................... 274 watching for the signal fire. mrs. emery and edith kolb......... 278 the granite gorge near bright angel trail....................... 282 the grand canyon from the head of bright angel trail............ 286 the cork screw: lower end of bright angel trail................. 290 zoroaster temple from the end of bright angel trail............. 298 winter in the grand canyon from the rim......................... 308 winter in the grand canyon at the river......................... 308 a vaquero in the making......................................... 318 cliff swallows' nests. found from wyoming to mexico............. 318 steam vents beside volcanic lake................................ 326 cocopah mountain, mexico........................................ 326 ten miles from the gulf of california. coming up on a twenty-foot tide.............................................. 332 sunset on the lower colorado river.............................. 332 [illustration] through the grand canyon from wyoming to mexico chapter i preparations at green river city, wyoming early in september of 1911 my brother emery and i landed in green river city, wyoming, ready for the launching of our boats on our long-planned trip down the green and colorado rivers. for ten years previous to this time we had lived at the grand canyon of arizona, following the work of scenic photography. in a general way we had covered much of the country adjacent to our home, following our pack animals over ancient and little-used trails, climbing the walls of tributary canyons, dropping over the ledges with ropes when necessary, always in search of the interesting and unusual. after ten years of such work many of our plans in connection with a pictorial exploration of the grand canyon were crowned with success. yet all the while our real ambition remained unsatisfied. we wanted to make the "big trip"--as we called it; in other words, we wanted a pictorial record of the entire series of canyons on the green and colorado rivers. the time had come at last, after years of hoping, after long months of active preparation. we stood at the freight window of the station at green river city asking for news of our boats. they had arrived and could be seen in their crates shoved away in a corner. it was too late to do anything with them that day; so we let them remain where they were, and went out to look over the town. green river city proved to be a busy little place noisy with switch engines, crowded with cattle-men and cowboys, and with hunting parties outfitting for the jackson hole country. a thoroughly western town of the better sort, with all the picturesqueness of people and surroundings that the name implies. it was busier than usual, even, that evening; for a noisy but good-natured crowd had gathered around the telegraph office, eager for news of a wrestling match then taking place in an eastern city. as we came up they broke into a cheer at the news that the american wrestler had defeated his foreign opponent. there was a discussion as to what constituted the "toe-hold," three boys ran an impromptu foot-race, there was some talk on the poor condition of the range, and the party began to break up. the little excitement over, we returned to the hotel; feeling, in spite of our enthusiasm, somewhat lonesome and very much out of place. our sleep that night was fitful and broken by dreams wherein the places we had known were strangely interwoven with these new scenes and events. through it all we seemed to hear the roar of the rio colorado. we looked out of the window the next morning, on a landscape that was novel, yet somehow familiar. the river, a quarter of a mile away, very clear and unruffled under its groves of cottonwood, wound through low barren hills, as unlike as could be to the cliffs and chasms we knew so well. but the colours--gray, red, and umber, just as moran has painted them--reassured us. we seemed not so far from home, after all. it was wyoming weather, though; clear and cold, after a windy night. when, after breakfast, we went down to the river, we found that a little ice had formed along the margin. the days of final preparation passed quickly--with unpacking of innumerable boxes and bundles, checking off each article against our lists; and with a long and careful overhauling of our photographic outfit. this last was a most important task, for the success of our expedition depended on our success as photographers. we could not hope to add anything of importance to the scientific and topographic knowledge of the canyons already existing: and merely to come out alive at the other end did not make a strong appeal to our vanity. we were there as scenic photographers in love with their work, and determined to reproduce the marvels of the colorado's canyons, as far as we could do it. in addition to three film cameras we had 8 ã� 10 and 5 ã� 7 plate cameras; a plentiful supply of plates and films; a large cloth dark-room; and whatever chemicals we should need for tests. most important of all, we had brought a motion-picture camera. we had no real assurance that so delicate an apparatus, always difficult to use and regulate, could even survive the journey--much less, in such inexperienced hands as ours, reproduce its wonders. but this, nevertheless, was our secret hope, hardly admitted to our most intimate friends--that we could bring out a record of the colorado as it is, a live thing, armed as it were with teeth, ready to crush and devour. there was shopping to do; for the purchases of provisions, with a few exceptions, had been left to the last. there were callers, too--an embarrassing number of them. we had camped on a small island near the town, not knowing when we did so that it had recently been put aside for a public park. the whole of green river city, it seemed, had learned of our project, and came to inspect, or advise, or jeer at us. the kindest of them wished us well; the other sort told us "it would serve us right"; but not one of our callers had any encouragement to offer. many were the stories of disaster and death with which they entertained us. one story in particular, as it seems never to have reached print--though unquestionably true--ought to be set down here. three years before two young men from st. louis had embarked here, intending to follow the river throughout its whole course. they were expert canoeists, powerful swimmers, and equipped with a steel boat, we were told, built somewhat after the style of a canoe. they chose the time of high water--not knowing, probably, that while high water decreases the labour of the passage, it greatly increases the danger of it. they came to the first difficult rapid in red canyon, seventy odd miles below green river city. it looked bad to them. they landed above it and stripped to their underclothing and socks. then they pushed out into the stream. almost at once they lost control of the boat. it overturned; it rolled over and over; it flung them off and left them swimming for their lives. in some way, possibly the currents favouring, they reached the shore. the boat, with all its contents, was gone. there they were, almost naked, without food, without weapons, without the means of building a fire; and in an uninhabited and utterly inhospitable country. for four days they wandered, blistered by the sun by day; nearly frozen at night, bruised by the rocks, and torn by the brambles. finally they reached the ranch at the head of the canyons and were found by a half-breed indian, who cared for them. their underwear had been made into bindings for their lacerated feet; they were nearly starved, and on the verge of mental collapse. after two weeks' treatment in the hospital at green river city they were partially restored to health. quite likely they spent many of the long hours of their convalescence on the river bank, or on the little island, watching the unruffled stream glide underneath the cottonwoods. such tales as this added nothing to our fears, of course--for the whole history of the colorado is one long story of hardship and disaster, and we knew, even better than our advisors, what risks lay before us. we told our newfound friends, in fact, that we had lived for years on the brink of the grand canyon itself, a gorge deeper and more awful, even, than lodore; with a volume of water ten times greater. we knew, of course, of the river's vast length, of the terrible gorges that confined it, of the hundreds of rapids through which a boat would have to pass. we knew, too, how major powell, undismayed by legends of underground channels, impassable cataracts, and whirlpools; of bloodthirsty tribes haunting its recesses,--had passed through the canyons in safety, measuring and surveying as he went. we also knew of the many other attempts that had been made--most of them ending in disaster or death, a very few being successful. well, it had been done;[1] it could be done again--this was our answer to their premonitions. we had present worries enough to keep us from dwelling too much on the future. it had been our intention to start two weeks earlier, but there had been numerous unavoidable delays. the river was low; "the lowest they had seen it in years" they told us, and falling lower every day. there were the usual difficulties of arranging a lot of new material, and putting it in working order. at last we were ready for the boats, and you may be sure we lost no time in having them hauled to the river, and launching them. they were beauties--these two boats of ours--graceful, yet strong in line, floating easily, well up in the water, in spite of their five hundred pounds' weight. they were flat-bottomed, with a ten-inch rake or raise at either end; built of white cedar, with unusually high sides; with arched decks in bow and stern, for the safe storing of supplies. sealed air chambers were placed in each end, large enough to keep the boats afloat even if filled with water. the compartment at the bow was lined with tin, carefully soldered, so that even a leak in the bottom would not admit water to our precious cargoes. we had placed no limit on their cost, only insisting that they should be of materials and workmanship of the very best, and strictly in accordance with our specifications. in every respect but one they pleased us. imagine our consternation when we discovered that the hatch covers were anything but water-tight, though we had insisted more upon this, perhaps, than upon any other detail. loose boards, with cross-pieces, fastened with little thumbscrews--there they were, ready to admit the water at the very first upset. there was nothing to be done. it was too late to rebuild the hatches even if we had had the proper material. owing to the stage of water it was imperative that we should start at once. bad as it would be to have water in our cargo, it would be worse to have too little water in the rock-obstructed channels of red canyon, or in the "flats" at brown's park for instance. certainly the boats acted so beautifully in the water that we could almost overlook the defective hatches. emery rowed upstream for a hundred yards, against a stiff current, and came back jubilant. "they're great--simply great!" he exclaimed. we had one real cause for worry, for actual anxiety, though; and as each hour brought us nearer to the time of departure, we grew more and more desperate. what about our third man? we were convinced that a third man was needed; if not for the duties of camp making, helping with the cooking and portaging; at least, for turning the crank of the motion-picture camera. emery and i could not very well be running rapids, and photographing ourselves in the rapids at the same time. without a capable assistant, therefore, much of the real purpose would be defeated. our first move, accordingly, had been to secure the services of a strong, level-headed, and competent man. friends strongly advised us to engage a canadian canoe-man, or at least some one familiar with the management of boats in rough water. it was suggested, also, that we might secure the help of some one of the voyagers who had been members of one of the previous expeditions. but--we may as well be frank about it--we did not wish to be piloted through the colorado by a guide. we wanted to make our own trip in our own way. if we failed, we would have no one but ourselves to blame; if we succeeded, we would have all the satisfaction that comes from original, personal exploration. in other words, we wanted a man to execute orders, not to give them. but that man was hard to find! there had been many applicants; some of them from distant parts of the country. one by one they were sifted out. at length we decided on one man; but later he withdrew. we turned elsewhere, but these applications were withdrawn, until there remained but a single letter, from a young man in san francisco. he seemed in every way qualified. we wrote accepting his application, but while waiting to hear from us a civil service position had been offered and accepted. "he was sorry"; and so were we, for his references proved that he was a capable man. later he wrote that he had secured a substitute. we replied on the instant, by wiring money for transportation, with instructions for the new man to report at once at green river. we took very much for granted, having confidence in our friends' sincerity and knowledge of just what was required. the time had passed, two days before; but--no sign of our man! we wrote, we telegraphed, we walked back and forth to every train; but still he did not come. had this man, too, failed us? then "jimmy" came--just the night before we were to leave. and never was a man more heartily welcome! with james fagen of san francisco our party was complete. he was an irish-american, aged 22 years, a strong, active, and willing chap. to be sure, he was younger, and not so experienced at "roughing it" as we had hoped. but his good qualities, we were sure, would make up for what was lacking. evening found us encamped a half mile below the town, the county bridge. our preparations were finished--even to the final purchase of odds and ends; with ammunition for shot-gun and rifle. we threw our sleeping-bags on the dry ground close to the river's edge, and, all our anxieties gone, we turned our faces to the stars and slept. at daybreak we were aroused by the thunder of hoofs on the bridge above us, and the shouts of cowboys driving a large herd of half-broken horses. we tumbled into our clothes, splashed our faces with ice-cold water from the river, and hurried over to the hotel for a last breakfast. then we sat down--in the little hotel at green river city--as others had done before, to write last messages to those who were nearest and dearest to us. a telegram to our parents in an eastern city; and another to emery's wife and little girl, at bright angel, more than eight hundred miles down this self-same river--these, somehow, took longer to write than the letters themselves. but whatever we may have felt, we finished this final correspondence in silence, and hurried back to the river. something of a crowd had gathered on the bridge to wish us _bon voyage_. shouting up to them our thanks for their hospitality, and telling them to "look pleasant," we focussed the motion-picture camera on them, emery turning the crank, as the boat swung out into the current. so began our journey, on friday, september the 8th, 1911, at 9.30 a.m., as entered in my journal. chapter ii interesting sights of southern wyoming all this preparation--and still more, the vexatious delays--had been a heavy tax upon us. we needed a vacation. we took it--six pleasant care-free days--hunting and fishing as we drifted through the sixty miles of southern wyoming. there were ducks and geese on the river to test our skill with the shot-gun. only two miles below green river city emery secured our first duck, a promise of good sport to follow. an occasional cottontail rabbit was seen, scurrying to cover through the sage-brush, when we made a detour from the boats. we saw many jack-rabbits too--with their long legs, and exaggerated ears--creatures swifter, even, than the coyotes themselves. we saw few people, though an occasional rancher hailed us from the shore. men of the open themselves, the character of our expedition appealed to them. their invitations to "come up to the ranch, and spend the evening" were always hearty, and could seldom be refused if the day was nearly gone. the logan boys' ranch, for instance, was our first camp; but will be one of the last to be forgotten. the two logan boys were sturdy, companionable young men, full of pranks, and of that bubbling, generous humour that flourishes in this western air. we were amused by their kindly offer to allow jimmy to ride "the little bay"--a beautiful animal, with the shifty eye of a criminal. but jimmy, though city-bred, was not to be trapped, and declined; very wisely, as we thought. we photographed their favourite horses, and the cabin; also helped them with their own camera, and developed some plates in the underground storm-cellar,--a perfect dark-room, as it happened. we took advantage of this pleasant camp to make a few alterations about our boats. certain mechanical details had been neglected in our desire to be off, our intention being to look after them as occasion demanded. our short run had already shown us where we were weak or unprepared. the rowlocks needed strengthening. one had come apart in our first brush with a little riffle. the rowlocks were of a little-used type, but very serviceable in dangerous waters. inside the usual rowlock a heavy ring was hung, kept in place by strong set-screws, but allowing full play in every direction. these rings were slipped over the oars; then the usual leather collar was nailed on the oar, making it impossible for the rings to become separated from the oars. the holes for the set-screws were too shallow, so we went over the entire lot to deepen them. we foresaw where a break might occur, and hung another lock of the open type on a cord, beside each oar, ready for instant use in case of emergency. the logan boys, seeing our difficulties in making some of these changes, came to our relief. "help yourselves to the blacksmith shop," they said heartily. here was an opportunity. much time was consumed in providing a device to hold our extra oars--out of the way on top of the deck, but available at a moment's notice. thanks to the logan boys and their blacksmith shop, these and many other little details were corrected once for all; and we launched our boats in confidence on the morning of september 10. a few miles below we came to the locally famous fire hole chimneys, interesting examples of the butte formation, so typical of the west. there were several of these buttes, about 800 feet high, composed of stratified rock; in colour quite similar to the rocks at green river city, but capped with rock of a peculiar burnt appearance, though not of volcanic origin. some of the buttes sloped up from the very edge of the river; others were separated from the river by low flats, covered with sage-brush and bunch-grass,--that nutritious food of the range stock. at the water's edge was the usual fringe of willows, cottonwoods, and shrubs innumerable,--all mirrored in the limpid surface of green river. at the foot of the cliffs were a number of wild burros, old and young--fuzzy little baby-burros, looking ridiculously like jack-rabbits--snorting their indignation at our invasion of their privacy. strange, by the way, how quickly these wild asses lose their wildness of carriage when broken, and lapse into the utmost docility! just below the chimneys emery caught sight of fish gathered in a deep pool, under the foliage of a cottonwood tree which had fallen into the river. our most tempting bait failed to interest them; so emery, ever clever with hook and line, "snagged" one just to teach them better manners. it was a colorado river salmon or whitefish. that evening i "snagged" a catfish and used this for salmon bait, a fourteen-pound specimen rewarding the attempt. these salmon were old friends of ours, being found from one end to the other of the colorado, and on all its tributaries. they sometimes weigh twenty-five or thirty pounds, and are common at twenty pounds; being stockily built fish, with large, flat heads. they are not gamey, but afford a lot of meat with a very satisfying flavour. on september 11, about forty miles below green river, we passed black's fork, a tributary entering from the west. it is a stream of considerable length, but was of little volume at that time. the banks were cliffs about 300 feet high, rugged, dark, and overhanging. here were a half dozen eagles and many old nests--proof enough, if proof were needed, that we were in a little visited country. what strong, splendid birds they were; how powerful and graceful their flight as they circled up, and up, into the clear blue sky! our next camp was at the holmes' ranch, a few miles below black's fork. we tried to buy some eggs of walter holmes, and were told that we could have them on one condition--that we visit him that evening. this was a price we were only too glad to pay, and the evening will linger long in our memories. mr. holmes entertained us with stories of hunting trips--after big game in the wilds of colorado; and among the lakes of the wind river mountains, the distant source of the green river. mrs. holmes and two young ladies entertained us with music; and jimmy, much to our surprise, joined in with a full, rich baritone. it was late that night when we rolled ourselves in our blankets, on the banks twenty feet above the river. next morning we were shown a group of mrs. holmes' pets--several young rabbits and a kitten, romping together in the utmost good fellowship. the rabbits had been rescued from a watery grave in an irrigation ditch and carefully nursed back to life. we helped her search for a lame wild duck that had spurned the offer of a good home with civilized ducklings, and had taken to the sage-brush. mrs. holmes' love of wild animals, however, failed to include the bald-headed eagle that had shown such an appetite for her spring chickens. a few miles below this ranch we passed bridger crossing, a ford on an old trail through southern wyoming. in pioneer days jim bridger's home was on this very spot. but those romantic days are long since past; and where this world-famous scout once watched through the loopholes of his barricade, was an amazed youngster ten or eleven years old who gazed on us, then ran to the cabin and emerged with a rifle in his hands. we thought little of this incident at the time, but later we met the father of the boy and were told that the children had been left alone with the small boy as their only protector, and that he stood ready to defend the home against any possible marauders. no doubt we looked bad enough to him. just below the ford the channel widened, and the river became very shallow, the low rolling hills falling away into a wide green prairie. we camped that night on a small island, low and treeless, but covered with deep, rank grass. next morning our sleeping-bags were wet with frost and dew. a hard pull against a heavy wind between gradually deepening rocky banks made us more than glad to pitch camp at noon a short distance above the mouth of henry's fork, a considerable stream flowing from the west. in the afternoon emery and i decided to walk to linwood, lying just across the utah line, four miles up henry's fork. jimmy preferred to remain with the boats. between the river and a low mesa lay a large ranch of a different appearance from those others which we had passed. those past were cattle ranches, with stock on the open range, and with little ground fit for cultivation, owing to the elevation. here we found great, broad acres, fenced and cultivated, with thoroughbred stock--horses and cattle--contentedly grazing. this pastoral scene, with a background of rugged mountains, appealed strongly to our photographic instincts. after three or four exposures, we climbed the farthest fence and passing from alfalfa to sage-brush in one step, were at the foot of the mesa. climbing to the summit, we beheld the village in the distance, in a beautiful green valley--a splendid example of mormon irrigation and farming methods. linwood proved to be the market-place for all the ranchers of this region. dotting the foot-hills where water was less plentiful were occasional cabins, set down in the middle of hay ranches. all this husbandry only emphasized the surrounding desolation. just beyond, dark in the southern sky, rose the great peaks of the uintah range, the mountains we were so soon to enter. storm-clouds had been gathering about one great snow-covered peak, far in the distance. these clouds spread and darkened, moving rapidly forward. we had taken the hint and were already making all possible haste toward the town, hoping to reach it before the storm broke. but it was useless. long before we had gained the edge of the valley the rain had commenced in the mountains,--small local storms, resembling delicate violet-coloured veils, hung in the dense pall of the clouds. there were far flashes of lightning, and the subdued roar of distant thunder, rapidly growing louder as the storm approached. unable to escape a drenching, we paused a moment to wonder at the sight; to marvel--and shrink a little too--at the wild, incessant lightning. the peaks themselves seemed to be tumbling together, such was the continuous roar of thunder, punctuated by frequent deafening crashes. then the storm came down upon us. such torrents of rain we have seldom witnessed: such gusts of driving wind! at times we could scarcely make headway against it, but after most strenuous effort we neared the village. we hoped to find shelter under a bridge, but found innumerable muddy streams running through the planks. so we resumed our plodding, slipping and sliding in the black, bottomless mud. the storm by this time had passed as quickly as it came. wet to our skins, we crawled into the little store and post-office combined, and found it filled with ranch hands, waiting for the weekly mail. we made a few purchases, wrote some letters, then went to a large boarding-house near by and fortified ourselves with a generous, hot supper. there were comments by some of the men on our venture, but they lacked the true green river tang. here, close to the upper canyons, the unreasonable fear of the rapids gave way to a reasonable respect for them. here we heard again of the two young men from st. louis, and the mishaps that had befallen them. here too we were to hear for the first time of the two snyders, father and son, and the misfortunes that had overtaken them in lodore canyon, twenty years before. we were to hear more of these men later. we made what haste we could back to our boats, soon being overtaken by a horseman, a big-hearted swede who insisted on carrying our load as long as we were going in his direction. how many just such instances of kindliness we were to experience on our journey down the river! how the west abounds with such men! it was dark when he left us a mile from the river. here there was no road to follow, and we found that what had been numerous dry gullies before were now streams of muddy water. two or three of these streams had to be crossed, and we had a disagreeable half hour in a marsh. finally we reached the river, but not at the point where we had left our boats. we were uncertain whether the camp was above or below us, and called loudly for jimmy, but received no answer. emery felt sure that camp was upstream. so upstream we went, keeping back of the bushes that fringed the banks, carefully searching for a sign. after a few minutes' hunt we heard a sound: a subdued rumble, not unlike the distant thunder heard that afternoon, or of boats being dragged over the pebbles. what could it be? we listened again, carefully this time, and discovered that it came from a point about thirty feet away, on the opposite side of the bushes. it could be only one thing. jimmy's snore had brought us home! hurriedly securing some dry clothes from the rubber sacks, which contained our sleeping-bags as well, we made a quick change, and slid into the beds, inflating the air mattresses with our lungs after we were inside. then we lay down contentedly to rest. chapter iii the gateway of all the canyons we awoke the next morning full of anticipation. something new lay ahead of us, a promise of variety. in plain sight of our camp lay the entrance to flaming gorge, the gateway to the entire series of canyons. hurriedly finishing our camp duties, we loaded the boats, fastened down the hatches, and shoved off into the current, eager to be on our way. it was cloudy overhead and looked as if we were to have more rain. even then it must have been raining away to the north, for a dirty, clay-colored torrent rushed through the dry arroyo of the night before, a stream large enough to discolour the water of the green itself. but we thought little of this. we were used to seeing muddy water in the colorado's gorges; in fact we were surprised to find clear water at all, even in the green river. rowing downstream we found that the country sloped gently towards the mountains. the river skirted the edge of these foot-hills as if looking for a possible escape, then turned and entered the mountain at a sharp angle. the walls sloped back considerably at first, and there was a little shore on either side. somewhere near this point runs the dividing line of wyoming and utah. we considered the gateway a subject worthy of a motion picture, if taken from the deck of the boat; but doubted if it would be a success owing to the condition of the light and the motion of the boat. still it was considered worthy of a trial, and the film was run through. the colour of the rocks at the entrance was a light red, but not out of the ordinary in brilliancy. the rock formation was stratified, but displaced; standing at an angle and flexed over on top with a ragged break here and there, showing plainly the great pressure to which the rocks had been subjected. the upheaval was not violent, the scientists tell us, but slow and even, allowing the river to maintain its old channel, sawing its way through the sandstone. the broken canyon walls, when well inside the gorge, were about 600 to 700 feet high. the mountains beyond and on either side were much higher. the growth on the mountain sides was principally evergreen; douglas fir, the bull-pine and yellow pine. there was a species of juniper, somewhat different from the utah juniper, with which we were familiar at the grand canyon. bushes and undergrowth were dense above the steep canyon walls, which were bare. willows, alder-thickets, and a few cottonwood trees lined the shores. meanwhile the current had quickened, almost imperceptibly at first, but enough to put us on our guard. while there were no rapids, use was made of what swift water we found by practising on the method we would use in making a passage through the bad rapids. as to this method, unused as yet by either of us, we had received careful verbal instruction from mr. stone, who had made the trip two years before our own venture; and from other friends of nathan galloway, the trapper, the man who first introduced the method on the green and colorado rivers. our experience on water of any kind was rather limited. emery could row a boat, and row it well, before we left green river, but had never gone over any large rapids. while he was not nearly so large or heavy as i,--weighing no more than 130 pounds, while i weighed 170 pounds,--he made up for his lighter weight by a quickness and strength that often surprised me. he was always neat and clever in his method of handling his boat, taking a great deal of pride in keeping it free from marks, and avoiding rocks when making a landing. i had done very little rowing before leaving green river, so little that i had difficulty in getting both oars in the water at the same time. of course it did not take me long to learn that; but i did not have the knack of making clean landings, and bumped many rocks that my brother missed. still i was improving all the time and was anxious to get into the rough water, feeling sure i would get through somehow, but doing my best in the meantime to get the knack of handling the boat properly before the rough water was reached. an occasional rock would stick up above the surface; the swift water would rush up on it, or drive past on either side. instead of pulling downstream with might and main, and depending on a steersman with a sweep-oar to keep us clear of obstructions--the method usually adopted on large rivers, and by the earlier parties on the colorado--by our method the single oarsman reversed his boat so that it was turned with the stern downstream, giving the oarsman a view of what was ahead; then by pulling upstream the boat was held in check. we allowed ourselves to be carried in a direct line with the rocks ahead, approaching them as closely as we dared; then, with a pull on one oar, the boat was turned slightly at an angle to the current, and swung to one side or the other; just as a ferry is headed into the current, the water itself helping to force it across. the ferry is held by a cable; the boat, by the oarsman; the results are quite similar. the boats, too, were somewhat unusual in design, having been carefully worked out by galloway after much experience with the problem, and after building many boats. he finally settled on the design furnished us by mr. stone. the flat bottom, sloping up from the centre to either end, placed the boats on a pivot one might say, so that they could be turned very quickly, much more quickly than if they had had a keel. there was a four foot skag or keel under the stern end of the boat, but this was only used when in quiet water; and as it was never replaced after being once removed we seldom refer to it. being flat-bottomed, they drew comparatively little water, a matter quite important on low water such as we found in the green river. while each boat carried a weight of seven hundred pounds in addition to its own five hundred pounds, they often passed over rocks less than ten inches below the surface, and did so without touching. while the boats were quite large, the arched decks made them look even larger. a considerable amount of material could be stored under these decks. the only part of the boat that was entirely open or unprotected from the waves was the cockpit, or mid-section occupied by the oarsman. this was only large enough for one man. a second man had to sit on the deck behind the oarsman, with his feet hanging into the cockpit. jimmy occupied this place of honour as we drifted through the placid water; first on one boat, then on the other, entertaining us meanwhile with his songs. we encountered two splashy little rapids this day, but with no rocks, or any dangerous feature whatever. any method, or none at all, was safe enough in these rapids. the colouring of the rocks changed as we proceeded, and at the lower end of the short canyon we saw the flaming patch of colour that had suggested its name to major powell, forty-two years before. intensified on that occasion by the reflected light of a gorgeous sunset, it must have been a most brilliant spectacle. two beavers slid into the water when we were close beside them, then rose to the surface to stare curiously when we had passed. we left them undisturbed. some geese decoyed us into an attempt to ambush them, but they kept always just out of reach of our guns. wise fellows, those geese! a geological fault accompanied by the breaking down of the walls marks the division between flaming gorge and horseshoe canyon, which immediately follows. we nooned here, opposite a deserted cabin. a trail dropped by easy stages over the slope on the east side; and fresh tracks showed that sheep had recently been driven down to the water's edge. passing through horseshoe,--another very short canyon,--we found deep, placid pools, and sheer, light red walls rising about four hundred feet on either side, then sloping back steeply to the tree-covered mountains. in the middle of this canyon emery was startled out of a day-dream by a rock falling into the water close beside him, with never a sound of warning. years spent in the canyons had accustomed emery and me to such occurrences; but jimmy, unused to great gorges and towering cliffs, was much impressed by this incident. after all, it is only the unusual that is terrible. jimmy was ready enough to take his chances at dodging bricks hurled by a san francisco earthquake, but never got quite used to rocks descending from a source altogether out of sight. small wonder, after all! later we were to experience more of this thing, and on a scale to startle a stoic! we halted at the end of horseshoe, early in the afternoon of september 14, 1911, one week out from green river city. camp no. 6 was pitched on a gravelly shore beside sheep creek, a clear sparkling stream, coming in from the slopes of the uintah range. just above us, on the west, rose three jagged cliffs, about five hundred feet high, reminding one by their shape of the three brothers of yosemite valley. here, again, we were treated to another wonderful example of geologic displacement, the rocks of horseshoe canyon lying in level strata; while those of kingfisher, which followed, were standing on end. sheep creek, flowing from the west, finds an easy course through the fault, at the division of the canyons. the balance of this day was spent in carefully packing our material and rearranging it in our boats, for we expected hard work to follow. tempted by the rippling song of the brook, and by tales of fish to be found therein, we spent two hours fishing from its banks on the morning of the 15th. but the foliage of overhanging trees and shrubs was dense, making it difficult to cast our lines, or even to climb along its shores, and our small catch of two trout, which were fried with a strip of bacon to add flavour, only whetted our appetites for more. it was a little late in the season for many birds. here in kingfisher canyon were a few of the fish-catching birds from which the canyon took its name. there were many of the tireless cliff-swallows scattered all through these canyons, wheeling and darting, ever on the wing. these, with the noisy crested jays, an occasional "camp-robber," the little nuthatches, the cheerful canyon wren with his rollicking song, the happy water-ousel, "kill-deer," and road-runners and the water birds,--ducks, geese, and mud-hens, with an occasional crane,--made up the bird life seen in the open country and in these upper canyons. earlier in the season it must be a bird's paradise, for berries and seeds would then be plentiful. we resumed our journey at 10 a.m., a very short run bringing us to the end of kingfisher canyon. the three canyons passed through approximate hardly more than ten miles in length, different names being given for geological reasons, as they really form only one canyon. the walls at the end were broken down, and brilliantly tinted talus of many hues covered the slopes, the different colours intermingling near the bottom. the canyon-walled river turned southeast here, and continued in this general direction for many miles, but with many twists and turns. we had previously been informed that red canyon, the next to follow, while not considered bad when compared to others, gave one the experience most necessary to combat the rapids farther down. it was not without danger, however, as a review of previous expeditions showed: some had lost their lives, still others, their boats; and one of major powell's parties had upset a boat in a red canyon rapid. the stage of water was so different on these previous attempts that their experiences were of little value to us one way or the other. a reference to pictures taken by two of these parties showed us there was considerable more water when they went through--six, and even eight feet higher in places. possibly this would be the best stage on which to make the voyage in heavy boats. the unfortunate ones had taken the spring rise, or flood water, with disastrous results to themselves or their boats. we soon found that our passage was to be hard on account of having too little water. in the quiet water above we had been seldom bothered with shoals; but now that we were in swifter water, there was scarcely any depth to it at all, except in the quiet pools between the rapids. for a description of our passage through this upper end of red canyon we refer to our journal: sketchy notes jotted down, usually in the evening just before retiring, by the light of a camp-fire, or the flickering flame of a candle. under the date of friday, september the 15th, we find the following: "end of kingfisher: long, quiet pools and shoals where we grounded a few times; several small, splashy rapids; then a larger one near an old boat landing. looked the rapid over from the shore. jim remained at the lower end with a life-preserver on a rope, while we ran the rapid. struck one or two rocks, lightly; but made the run in safety." "at the third rapid we saw some geese--but they got away. at noon we ate a cold lunch and because of the low water removed the skags, carrying them in the cockpit. the scenery in upper red canyon is impressive: pines and fir come down on the sloping sides to the river's edge; the rocks are reddish brown in colour, often broken in squares, and looking like great building blocks piled one upon another. the canyon is about fifteen hundred feet deep; the river is clear again, and averages about two hundred feet in width. we have seen a few deer tracks, but have not seen any deer. we also saw some jumping trout in a splashy little rapid. doubtless they came from a little creek, close by, for we never heard of trout being found in the green river." "we made a motion picture, while dropping our boats down with lines, over the first rapid we considered bad. emery remained in the boats, keeping clear of the rocks with a pole. powell's second party records an upset here. we passed kettle creek about 5 p.m. in the fifth rapids below kettle creek i got on the wrong side of the river and was carried into a very rocky rapid--the worst so far encountered. i touched a rock or two at the start, but made the run in safety; while emery ran the opposite side without trouble. we camped beside a small stream on the south, where there were signs of an old camp." "_saturday, september 16_. clear and cold in the early morning. started about 9 a.m. lined our boats past a difficult rapid. too many rocks, not enough water. two or three miles below this i had some difficulty in a rapid, as the pin of a rowlock lifted out of the socket when in the middle of rough water. emery snapped a picture just as it happened. a little later e.c.[2] ran a rocky rapid, but had so much trouble that we concluded to line my boat. noon. just a cold lunch, but with hot coffee from the vacuum bottles. then at it again." "the scenery is wonderful; the canyon is deeper than above; the river is swift and has a decided drop. we proceed cautiously, and make slow progress. we camp for the day on the north side close to a little, dry gully, on a level sage and bunch-grass covered bottom back from the river's edge. an abruptly descending canyon banked with small cottonwood trees coming in from the opposite side contains a small stream. put up our tent for the second time since leaving green river, wyoming. we are all weary, and glad to-morrow is sunday--a day of rest." "_sunday, september 17._ e.c. and i follow a fresh deer track up a game trail and get--a rabbit. climb out about 1300 feet above the river to the top of the narrow canyon. here is a sloping plateau, dotted with bunch-grass and grease-wood, a fourth of a mile wide. then rounded mountains rise beyond the plateau, some of the peaks reaching a height of 4000 feet above the river. the opposite side is much the same, but with a wider plateau. we had no idea before what a wonderful country this is. it is a picture to tempt an artist. high on the mountain tops is the dark blue-green of pines and firs, reds and yellows are mixed in the quaking aspen,--for the frost comes early enough to catch the sap in the leaves; little openings, or parks with no trees, are tinted a beautiful soft gray; 'brownstone fronts' are found in the canyon walls; and a very light green in the willow-leafed cottonwoods at the river's edge, and in all side canyons where there is a running stream. the river glistens in the sunlight, as it winds around the base of the wall on which we stand, and then disappears around a bend in the canyon. turn where we will, we see no sign of an opening, nothing but the rounded tops of wooded mountains, red and green, far as the eye can reach, until they disappear in the hazy blue. finally emery's keen eyes, aided by the binoculars, discover a log cabin at the foot of a mountain, on the plateau opposite us about three miles away." "we hurry back to camp and write some letters; then jim and i cross the river and climb out over the rocky walls to the plateau above. in two hours we reach the cabin. it is new--not yet finished. a woman and four children are looking over a garden when we arrive. they are a little frightened at first, but soon recover. the woman gladly promises to take out our mail when they go to the nearest town, which happens to be vernal, utah, forty-five miles away. three other families live near by, all recently moved in from vernal. the woman tells us that galloway hunts bear in these timbered mountains, and has killed some with a price on their heads--bear with a perverted taste for fresh beef."[3] "thanking the woman, we make our way back to the river. we see some dried-out elk horns along our trail; though it is doubtful if elk get this far south at present. a deer trail, leading down a ravine, makes our homeward journey much easier. it has turned quite cold this evening, after sunset. we finish our notes and prepare to roll into our beds a little earlier than usual." chapter iv suspicious hosts we awoke bright and early the next morning, much refreshed by our day of rest and variety. with an early start we were soon pulling down the river, and noon found us several miles below the camp, having run eleven rapids with no particular difficulty. a reference in my notes reads: "last one has a thousand rocks, and we could not miss them all. my rowing is improving, and we both got through fairly well." in the afternoon they continued to come--an endless succession of small rapids, with here and there a larger one. the canyon was similar to that at our camp above, dark red walls with occasional pines on the ledges,--a most charming combination of colour. at 2.30 p.m. we reached ashley falls, a rapid we had been expecting to see for some time. it was a place of singular beauty. a dozen immense rocks had fallen from the cliff on the left, almost completely blocking the channel--or so it seemed from one point of view. but there was a crooked channel, not more than twelve wide in places, through which the water shot like a stream from a nozzle. we wanted a motion picture of our dash through the chute. but the location for the camera was hard to secure, for a sheer bank of rock or low wall prevented us from climbing out on the right side. we overcame this by landing on a little bank at the base of the wall and by dropping a boat down with a line to the head of the rapid where a break occurred in the wall. jimmy was left with the camera, the boat was pulled back, and we prepared to run the rapid. we first had to pass between two square rocks rising eight feet above the water so close together that we could not use the oars; then, when past these, pull ten feet to the right in order to clear the large rock at the end of the main dam, or barrier, not more than twenty feet below. to pull down bow first and try to make the turn, would mean to smash broadside against this rock. it could only be done by dropping stern first, and pulling to the right under the protection of the first rocks; though it was doubtful if even this could be accomplished, the current was so swift. the _defiance_ was ready first, the _edith_ was to follow as closely as safety allowed. almost before i knew it i was in the narrow channel, so close to the right rock that i had to ship that oar, and pull altogether on the left one. as soon as i was through i made a few quick strokes, but the current was too strong for me; and a corner of the stern struck a bang when i was almost clear. she paused as a wave rolled over the decks, then rose quickly; a side current caught the boat, whirling it around, and the bow struck. i was still pulling with all my might, but everything happened so quickly,--with the boat whirling first this way, then that,--that my efforts were almost useless. but after that second strike i did get in a few strokes, and pulled into the quiet pool below the line of boulders. emery held his boat in better position than i had done, and it looked for a while as if he would make it. but the _edith_ struck on the stern, much as mine had done. then he pulled clear and joined me in the shelter of the large rock, as cool and smiling as if he had been rowing on a mill-pond. we were delighted to find that our boats had suffered no damage from the blows they had received. striking on the ends as they did, the shock was distributed throughout the whole boat. this completed our run for that day, and we went into camp just below the "falls." emery painted the name _edith_ on the bow of his boat, at this camp. the name was given in honour of his four-year-old daughter, waiting for us at the grand canyon. i remarked that as no one loved me, i would name my boat the _defiance_. but i hesitated about putting this name on the bow. i would look rather foolish, i thought, if the _defiance_ should be wrecked in the first bad rapid. so the christening of my boat was left until such time as should have earned the title, although she was constantly referred to as the _defiance_. we remained until noon of the following day at ashley falls, exploring, repairing, and photographing this picturesque spot. the canyon walls here dropped down to beautiful, rolling foot-hills eight or nine hundred feet high tree covered as before but more open. the diversity of rocks and hills was alluring. there was work to be done and no pleasanter spot could be found in which to do it. among other things that had to be looked after were some adjustments to the motion-picture camera--usually referred to by us as the m.p.c.--this delicate work always falling to emery, for he alone could do it. there was much to interest us here. major powell reported finding the name "ashley" painted under an overhanging rock on the left side of the river. underneath was a date, rather indistinct, but found to have been 1825, by dellenbaugh, after carefully tracing the career of colonel ashley who was responsible for the record. accompanied by a number of trappers, he made the passage through this canyon at that early day. we found a trace of the record. there were three letters--a-s-h--the first two quite distinct, and underneath were black spots. it must have been pretty good paint to leave a trace after eighty-six years! resuming our journey we passed into deep canyon again,--the deepest we had found up to this time,--with steeply sloping, verdure-covered walls about 2700 feet high. the rapids still continued. at one rapid the remark was made that "two feet of water would cover two hundred rocks so that our boats would pass over them." but we did not have the two feet needed. we had previously been informed that some of these mountains were the hiding-places of men who were "wanted" in the three states which bordered near here. some escaping prisoners had also been traced to the mountains in this direction; then all tracks had ceased. the few peaceable ranchers who lived in these mountains were much alarmed over these reports. we found one such rancher on the plateau above the canyon, whom we will call johnson for convenience,--living in one of the upper canyons. he sold us some provisions. in return he asked us to help him swim some of his horses across the river. he said the high water had taken out his own boat. the horses were rounded up in a mountain-hidden valley and driven into the water ahead of the boat. after securing the horses, johnson's welcome seemed to turn to suspicion and he questioned our reasons for being there, wanting to know what we could find in that wild country to interest us. johnson's sons, of whom there were several, seemed to put in most of their time at hunting and trapping, never leaving the house without a gun. the cabin home looked like an arsenal, revolvers and guns hanging on all the walls--even his daughters being familiar with their use. although we had been very well treated after all, mrs. johnson especially having been very kind to us, we felt just a little relieved when the johnson ranch was left behind. we use, in fact, a fictious name, not caring to visit on them the suspicions we ourselves felt in return. another morning passed in repairing the m.p. camera, and another afternoon's work was necessary to get us out of the walls and the rapids of red canyon. but on the evening of the 20th, we did get out, and pulled into an open country known as brown's park, one week after entering flaming gorge. it had not been very fast travelling; but we were through, and with no mishap more serious than a split board on the side of my boat. under favourable conditions, and in experienced hands, this distance might have been covered in three days. but meanwhile, we were gaining a lot of experience. about the lower end of red canyon the river turned directly east, paralleling the northern boundary of utah, and continued to flow in this general direction until it crossed into colorado. on emerging from red canyon we spied a ranch house or log cabin close to the river. the doors were open and there were many tracks in the sand, so we thought some one must be about. on approaching the house, however, we found the place was deserted, but with furniture, books, and pictures piled on the floor in the utmost confusion, as if the occupants had left in a great hurry. this surmise afterward proved to be correct; for we learned that the rancher had been murdered for his money, his body having been found in a boat farther down the river. suspicion pointed to an old employee who had been seen lurking near the place. he was traced to the railroad, over a hundred miles to the north; but made his escape and was never caught. we found brown's park, once known as brown's hole, to be a beautiful valley several miles in width, and thirty-five or forty miles in length. the upper end of the valley was rugged in places, with rocky hills two or three hundred feet high. to the south, a few miles away, were the mountains, a continuation of those we had come through. we saw many cattle scattered over some of these rocky hills, grazing on the bunch-grass. at one place our course led us through a little canyon about two miles long, and scarcely more than two hundred feet deep. this was swallow canyon--a name suggested by the many birds of that species which had covered the canyon's walls with their little clay nests. the openings of some of these nests were so small that it scarcely seemed possible for a bird to enter. the water was deep and quiet in this short canyon, and a hard wind blowing up the stream made it difficult for us to gain any headway. in this case, too, the forms of the boat were against us. with the keel removed and with their high sides catching the wind, they were carried back and forth like small balloons. well, we could put up with it for a while, for those very features would prove most valuable in the rough-water canyons which were to follow! emerging from the canyon at last, we saw a ferry loaded with sheep crossing the stream. on the left shore was a large corral, also filled with sheep which a half dozen men were driving back and forth into different compartments. later these men told us there were 2400 sheep in the flock. we took their word for it, making no attempt to count them. the foreman of the ranch agreed to sell us some sugar and honey,--these two articles being a welcome addition to our list of supplies, which were beginning to show the effects of our voracious appetites. we found many other log cabins and ranches as we proceeded. some of them were deserted; at others men were busily engaged in cutting hay or the wild grass that grew in the bottoms. the fragrance of new-mown hay was in the air. young boys and women were among these busy workers, some of the women being seated on large harvesters, handling the horses with as much dexterity as any of the men. the entire trip through this pretty valley was full of interest. we were hailed from the shore by some of the hay ranchers, it being a novel sight to them to see a river expedition. at one or two of these places we asked the reason for the deserted ranches above, and were given evasive answers. finally we were told that cattle rustlers from the mountains made it so hard for the ranchers in the valleys that there was nothing for them to do but get out. they told us, also, that we were fortunate to get away from johnson's ranch with our valuables! our former host, we were told, had committed many depredations and had served one term for cattle stealing. officers, disguised as prospectors, had taken employment with him and helped him kill and skin some cattle; the skins, with their telltale brands, having been partially burned and buried. on this evidence he was afterwards convicted. our cool welcome by the johnsons, their suspicions of us, the sinister arsenal of guns and pistols, all was explained! quite likely some of these weapons had been trained against us by the trappers on the chance that we were either officers of the law, or competitors in the horse-stealing industry. for that matter we were actually guilty of the latter count, for come to think of it, we ourselves had helped them steal eight horses and a colt! the entire trip through this pretty valley was full of interest. it was all so different from anything seen above. there were great bottoms that gave evidence of having recently been overflooded, though now covered with cottonwood trees, gorgeous in their autumn foliage. we had often wondered where all the driftwood that floated down the colorado came from; but after seeing those unnumbered acres of cottonwoods we ceased to wonder. there were many beaver slides on the banks; and in places, numberless trees had been felled by these industrious animals. on one or two occasions we narrowly escaped splitting the sides of our boats on snags of trees which the beavers had buried in the bottom of the stream. we saw no beaver dams on the river; they were not necessary, for deep, quiet pools existed everywhere in brown's park. we saw two beavers in this section. one of these rose, porpoise-like, to the top of the water, stared at us a moment, then brought his tail down with a resounding smack on the top of the water, and disappeared, to enter his home by the subterranean route, no doubt. the river was gradually losing its clear colour, for the sand-bars were beginning to "work out," or break, making the water quite roily. in some sections of brown's park we grounded on these sand-bars, making it necessary for us to get out into the water, pushing and pulling on the boats until deeper water was reached. sometimes the deep water came when least expected, the sand-bars having a disconcerting way of dropping off abruptly on the downstream side. jimmy stepped off the edge of one of these hidden ledges while working with a boat and was for some time in no condition to appreciate our ill-concealed mirth. often we would be passing along on perfectly smooth water, when suddenly a turmoil would rise all about us as though a geyser had broken out below the surface. if we happened to be directly over it, the boat would be rocked back and forth for a while; then all would be peaceful again. this was most often caused by the ledges of sand, anywhere from three to ten feet high breaking down or falling forward as their bases were undermined. in a single night a bar of this kind will work upstream for a distance of several feet; then the sand will be carried down with the current to lodge again in some quiet pool, and again be carried on as before. this action gives rise to long lines of regular waves or swells extending for some distance down the stream. these are usually referred to as sand-waves. these waves increase in size in high water; and the monotonous thump, thump of the boat's bottom upon them is anything but pleasant, especially if one is trying to make fast time. so, with something new at every turn, we pulled lazily through brown's park, shooting at ducks and geese when we came near them, snapping our cameras when a picture presented itself, and observing the animal life along the stream. we stopped at one hay-ranch close to the utah-colorado line and chatted awhile with the workers. a pleasant-faced woman named mrs. chew asked us to deliver a message at a ranch a mile or two below. here also was the post-office of lodore, colorado, located a short distance above the canyon of the same name. mrs. chew informed us that they had another ranch at the lower end of lodore canyon and asked us to look them up when we got through, remarking: "you may have trouble, you know. two of my sons once tried it. they lost their boat, had to climb out, and nearly starved before they reached home." the post-office at the ranch, found as described, without another home in sight, was a welcome sight to us for several reasons. one reason was that it afforded shelter from a heavy downpour of rain that greeted us as we neared it, and a better reason still was, that it gave us a chance to write and mail some letters to those who would be most anxious to hear from us. among the messages we mailed was a picture post-card of coney island at night. in some way this card had slipped between the leaves of a book that i had brought from the east. i sent it out, addressed to a friend who would understand the joke; writing underneath the picture, "we have an abundance of such scenery here." the young woman who had charge of the office looked at the card in amazement. it was evidently something new to her. she told us she had never been to the railroad, and that her brother took the mail out on horse-back to steamboat, colorado, 140 miles distant. the rain having ceased, we returned to our boats pausing to admire a rainbow that arched above the canyon in the mountains, toward which we were headed. we remarked, jokingly, to jimmy that this was a good sign. he replied without smiling that he "hoped so." jimmy's songs had long since ceased, and we suspected him of homesickness. with the exception of a short visit to some friends on a large ranch, jimmy had never been away from his home in san francisco. this present experience was quite a contrast, to be sure! we did what we could to keep him cheered up, but with little success. jimmy had intimated that he would prefer to leave at the first opportunity to reach a railroad, and we willingly agreed to help him in every possible way. emery and i also agreed between ourselves that we would not take any unnecessary risks with him; but would leave him out of the boats at all rapids, if there was any passage around them. the river had taken a sharp turn to the south soon after passing the post-office, heading directly towards the mountains. camp was pitched just above the mouth of lodore. this twenty-mile canyon bears a very unsavory reputation, having a descent of 425 feet in that short distance, the greater part of the fall occurring in a space of twelve miles. this would mean wild water somewhere! we were camped on a spot recently occupied by some engineers of the united states conservation department, who had been trying to determine if it was feasible to dam the river at this place. the plan was to flood the hole of brown's park and divert the water through the mountains by a tunnel to land suitable for cultivation and in addition, allow the muddy water to settle and so prevent the vast amount of silt from being washed on down, eventually to the mouth of the colorado. the location seemed admirably suited for this stupendous project. but holes drilled beside the river failed to find bottom, as nothing but quicksand existed even at a depth of nearly three hundred feet; and without a strong foundation, such a dam would be utterly useless. chapter v the battle with lodore camp routine was hurriedly disposed of the next morning, saturday, september the 23d. everything was made snug beneath the hatches, except the two guns, which were too long to go under the decks, and had to be carried in the open cockpits. "camp no. 13, at the head of lodore," as it is entered in my journal, was soon hidden by a bend in the river. the open, sun-lit country, with its pleasant ranches and its grazing cattle, its rolling, gray, sage-covered hills and its wild grass and cottonwood-covered bottoms, was left behind, and we were back in the realm of the rock-walled canyon, and beetle-browed, frowning cliffs with pines and cedars clutching at the scanty ledges. we paused long enough to make a picture or two, with the hope that the photographic record would give to others some idea of the geological and scenic wonder--said to be the greatest known example of its kind--which lay before us. here is an obstructing mountain raised directly in the river's path. yet with no deviation whatever the stream has cut through the very centre of the peak! the walls are almost sheer, especially at the the bottom, and are quite close together at the top. a mile inside the mountain on the left or east side of the gorge is 2700 feet high. geologists say that the river was here first and that the mountain was slowly raised in its pathway--so slowly that the river could saw away and maintain its old channel. the quicksand found below the present level would seem to indicate that the walls were once even higher than at present, and that a subsidence had taken place after the cutting. the river at the entrance of this rock-walled canyon was nothing alarming, four small rapids being passed without event. then a fifth was reached that looked worse. the _edith_ was lined down. this was hard work, and dangerous too, owing to the strength of the current and the many rocks; so i concluded that my own boat, the _defiance_, must run the rapid. jimmy went below, with a life-preserver on a rope. emery stood beside the rapid with a camera and made a picture as i shot past him. fortunately i got through without mishap. i refused to upset even to please my brother. we were beginning to think that lodore was not so bad after all. rapid followed rapid in quick succession, and all were run without trouble; then we came to a large one. it was upper disaster falls; so named by major powell, for it was here that one of his boats was wrecked on his first voyage of exploration. this boat failed to make the landing above the rapid and was carried over. she struck a rock broadside, turned around and struck again, breaking the boat completely in two. this boat was built of 3/4-inch oak reã«nforced with bulkheads. when this fact is taken into consideration, some idea may be had of the great power of these rapids. the three men who occupied the boat saved themselves by reaching an island a short distance below. this all happened on a stage of water much higher than the present one, so we did not let the occurrence influence us one way or the other, except to make us careful to land above the rapid. we found a very narrow channel between two submerged boulders, the water plunging and foaming for a short distance below, over many hidden rocks. still, there was only one large rock near the lower end that we greatly feared, and by careful work that might be avoided. the _edith_ went first and grazed the boulder slightly, but no harm was done as e.c. held his boat well in hand. i followed, and struck rocks at the same instant on both sides of the narrow channel with my oars. it will be remembered that we ran all these dangerous rapids facing downstream. the effect of this was to shoot the ends of both oars up past my face. the operator said that i made a grimace just as he took a picture of the scrimmage. we landed on the island below and talked of camping for the night, as it was getting late; but the island so rocky and inhospitable that we concluded to try the lower part of the rapid. this had no descent like the upper end; but it was very shallow, and we soon found ourselves on rocks, unable to proceed any farther. it took an hour of hard labour to work our heavy boats safely to the shore. we had been hoping for a rest the next day--sunday--but the island was such a disagreeable place to camp that it seemed necessary to cross to the mainland at least. a coil of strong, pliable wire had been included in our material. here was a chance to use it to advantage. the stream on the left side of the island could be waded, although it was very swift; and we managed to get the wire across and well fastened at both ends. elevating the wire above the water with cross-sticks, our tent and camp material were run across on a pulley, and camp was pitched a hundred yards below, on the left shore of the river. there were fitful showers in the afternoon, and we rested from our labour, obtaining a great deal of comfort from our tent, which was put up here for the third time since leaving green river city. always, when the weather was clear, we slept in the open. monday, the 25th, found us at the same camp. having concluded that disaster falls was an ideal place for a moving picture, we sent the balance of the material across on the pulley and wire, making a picture of the operation; stopping often because it continued to shower. between showers we resumed our work and picture making. the picture was to have been concluded with the operation of lining the boat across. e.c. stood on the shore about sixty feet away, working with the camera; jimmy was on the island, paying out the rope; while i waded in the water, holding the bow of the boat as i worked her between the rocks. having reached the end of the rope, i coiled it up, advising jimmy to go up to a safe crossing and join my brother while i proceeded with the boat. all was going well, and i was nearing the shore, when i found myself suddenly carried off my feet into water beyond my depth, and drifting for the lower end of the rapid. meanwhile i was holding to the bow of the boat, and calling lustily to my brother to save me. at first he did not notice that anything was wrong, as he was looking intently through the finder. then he suddenly awoke to the fact that something was amiss, and came running down the boulder-strewn shore, but he could not help me, as we had neglected to leave a rope with him. things were beginning to look pretty serious, when the boat stopped against a rock and i found myself once more with solid footing under me. it was too good a picture to miss; and i found the operator at the machine, turning the crank as i climbed out. we developed some films and plates that evening, securing some satisfactory results from these tests. it continued to rain all that night, with intermittent showers next morning. the rain made little difference to us, for we were in the water much of the following day as he boats were taken along the edge of another unrunnable rapid, a good companion rapid for the one just passed. this was lower disaster falls, the first of many similar rapids we were to see, but this was one of the worst of its kind. the swift-rushing river found its channel blocked by the canyon wall on the right side, the cliff running at right angles to the course of the stream. the river, attacking the limestones, had cut a channel under the wall, then turned and ran with the wall, emerging about two hundred feet below. standing on a rock and holding one end of a twenty-five foot string we threw a stone attached to the other end across to the opposite wall. the overhanging wall was within two feet of the rushing river; a higher stage of water would hide the cut completely from view. think what would happen if a boat were carried against or under that wall! we thought of it many times as we carefully worked our boats along the shore. between the delays of rain, with stops for picture making, portaging our material, and "lining" our boats, we spent almost three days in getting past the rapids called upper and lower disaster falls, with their combined fall of 50 feet in little more than half a mile. on the evening of september the 26th we camped almost within sight of this same place, at the base of a 3000-foot sugar-loaf mountain on the right, tree-covered from top to bottom. things were going too easily for us, it seemed; but we were in for a few reverses. it stormed much of the night and still drizzled when we embarked on the following morning. the narrow canyon was gloomy and darkened with shreds of clouds drifting far below the rim. the first rapid was narrow, and contained some large boulders. the _edith_ was caught on one of these and turned on her side, so that the water flowed in, filling the cockpit. the boat was taken off without difficulty, and bailed out. we found that the bulkheads failed to keep the water out of the hatches. some material from the _edith_ was transferred to the _defiance_. a bed, in a protecting sack of rubber and canvas, was shoved under the seat and we proceeded. less than an hour later i repeated my brother's performance, but i was not so fortunate as he. the _defiance_ was carried against one rock as i tried to pull clear of another, and in an instant she was on her side, held by the rush of water. i caught the gunwale, and, climbing on to the rock that caused the disaster, i managed to catch the rope and held the boat. in the meantime emery was in a whirlpool below, trying to land on the right side; but was having a difficult time of it. jimmy stood on the shore unable to help. the bed was washed out of the boat and went bobbing over the waves, then before i knew what had happened, the rope was jerked from my hands and i was left stranded on my rock. seeing this, jimmy ran with all his might for a pool at the end of the rapid, bravely rescuing the boat and the bed as well, just as the _edith_ was landed. a rope was soon thrown to me, after the inevitable picture was made. then i jumped and was pulled to shore. on making an inventory we found that our guns were lost from the boat. being too long to go under the hatches, they had been left in the cockpit. the _defiance_ had an ugly rap on the bottom, where she struck a rock, the wood being smashed or jammed, but not broken out. nearly all material in the two boats was wet, so we took everything out and piled it on a piece of canvas, spread out on the sand. we worked rapidly, for another storm had been threatening all the morning. we were engaged in putting up our little tent when a violent wind which swept up the canyon, followed by a downpour of rain interrupted our work; and if anything missed a soaking before, it certainly received it then. the sand was beaten into our cameras and everything was scattered helter-skelter over the shore. we were fortunate in only one respect. the wind was away from the river instead of toward it. we finally got the tent up, then threw everything into it in an indiscriminate pile, and waited for the storm to pass. emery proposed that we do a song and dance just to show how good we felt; but any appearance of merriment was rather forced. had the builders of the boats been there, we fear they would have had an uncomfortable half-hour; for nearly all this loss could have been avoided had our instructions regarding the hatch covers been followed. and for the sake of their saving a few dollars we had to suffer! the rain soon passed and we went to work, first starting a fire and getting a hurried lunch, for we had not eaten our noon meal, and it was then 4 p.m. we put up our dark-room tent, then went to work to find what was saved, and what was lost. we were surprised to find that all our small films and plates had escaped a soaking. protected in tin and cardboard boxes, wrapped with adhesive tape, and covered with a coating of paraffine melted and poured over them, they had turned the water in nearly every instance. the motion-picture film was not so fortunate. the paraffine had worn off the tin boxes in spots, the water soaked through the tape in some instances, and entered to the film. one roll, tightly wrapped, became wet on the edges; the gelatine swelled and stuck to the other film, thus sealing the inner portion or picture part of the film, so that roll was saved. the motion-picture camera was filled with water, mud and sand; and the other cameras fared likewise. we cleaned them out as best we could, drying them over small alcohol lamp which we had included in our duffle. our job seemed endless. jimmy had retired early, for he could help us but little in this work. it rained again in torrents, and the wind howled about the tent. after midnight, as we still toiled, a land-slide, loosened by the soaking rains, thundered down the mountain side about a fourth of a mile below our camp. we hoped jimmy would not hear it. we retired soon after this. smaller slides followed at intervals, descending over the 3000-foot precipices. thunder reverberated through the canyon, and altogether it was a night long to be remembered. these slides made one feel a little uncomfortable. "it would be most inconvenient," as we have heard some one say, "to wake in the morning and find ourselves wrapped up in a few tons of earth and rock." emery woke me the next morning to report that the river had risen about six feet; and that my boat--rolled out on the sand but left untied--was just on the point of going out with the water. it had proven fortunate for us all emery was a light sleeper! there was no travelling this day, as the boat had to be repaired. emery, being the ship's carpenter, set to work at once, while jimmy and i stretched our ropes back and forth, and hung up the wet clothes. then we built a number of fires underneath and soon had our belongings in a steam. things were beginning to look cheerful again. the rain stopped, too, for a time at least. a little later jimmy ran into camp with a fish which he had caught with his hands. it was of the kind commonly called the bony-tail or humpback or buffalo-fish, a peculiar species found in many of the rivers of the southwest. it is distinguished by a small flat head with a hump directly behind it; the end of the body being round, very slender, and equipped with large tail-fins. this specimen was about sixteen inches long, the usual length for a full-grown fish of this species. now for a fish story! on going down to the river we found a great many fish swimming in a small whirlpool, evidently trying to escape from the thick, slimy mud which was carried in the water. in a half-hour we secured fourteen fish, killing most of them with our oars. there were suckers and one catfish in the lot. you can judge for yourself how thick the water was, that such mudfishes as these should have been choked to helplessness. our captured fish were given a bath in a bucket of rain-water, and we had a fish dinner. in the afternoon we made a test of the water from the river, and found that it contained 20 per cent of an alkaline silt. when we had to use this water, we bruised the leaf of a prickly pear cactus, and placed it in a bucket of water. this method, repeated two or three times, usually clears the muddiest water. we also dug holes in the sand at the side of the river. the water, filtering through the sand, was often clear enough to develop the tests we made with our films. jimmy continued to feel downhearted; and this afternoon he told us his story. our surmise about his being homesick was correct, but it was a little more than that. he had an invalid mother, it seemed, and, aided by an older brother, he had always looked after the needs of the family. when the proposition of making the river trip came up, serious objections were raised by the family; but when the transportation arrived he had determined to go, in spite of their objections. now he feared that his mother would not live, or that we would be wrecked, and he would not know where to turn, or what to do. no wonder he felt blue! all we could do was to promise to help him leave the river at the very first opportunity. this would quite likely be at jensen, utah, still fifty miles farther downstream. it continued to rain by spells that night and the next morning. about 11 a.m. we resumed our work on the river. a short distance below our camp we saw the land-slide which we heard the night before--tons of earth and shattered rock wrapped about the split and stripped trunks of a half-dozen pines. the slide was started by the dislodged section of a sheer wall close to the top of the 2700-foot cliff. we also saw a boat of crude construction, pulled above the high-water mark; evidently abandoned a great while before. any person who had to climb the walls at that place had a hard job to tackle, although we could pick out breaks where it looked feasible; there were a few places behind us where it would be next to impossible. we had only gone over a few rapids when we found a long pool, with driftwood eddying upstream, and knew that our run for the day was over--the triplet rapids were ahead of us. we found this rapid to be about a fourth of a mile long, divided into three sections as its name indicated, and filled with great boulders at the base of a sheer cliff on the right--another unrunnable rapid. taking the camp material from the boats, we carried it down and pitched our tent first of all, then, while emery prepared supper, jimmy and i carried the remaining duffle down to camp. one of the boats was lined down also. then after supper we enjoyed the first rest we had taken for some time. camp ideal we called it, and it well deserved the name. at the bottom of a tree-covered precipice reaching a height of 2700 feet, was a strip of firm, level sand, tapering off with a slope down to the water, making a perfect landing and dooryard. a great mass of driftwood, piled up at the end of the rapid, furnished us with all fuel we needed with small effort on our part. our tent was backed against a large rock, while other flat rocks near at hand made convenient shelves on which to lay our camp dishes and kettles. it started to drizzle again that night, but what cared we? with a roaring fire in front of the tent we all cleaned up for a change, sewed patches on our tattered garments, and, sitting on our beds, wrote the day's happenings in our journals. then we crawled into our comfortable beds, and i was soon dreaming of my boyhood days when i "played hookey" from school and went fishing in a creek that emptied into the allegheny river, or climbed its rocky banks; to be awakened by jimmy crying out in his sleep, "there she goes over the rapids." jimmy was soon informed that he and the boats were perfectly safe, and i was brought back to a realization of the fact that i was not going to get a "whaling" for going swimming in dog-days; but instead was holed up in lodore canyon, in the extreme northwestern corner of colorado. chapter vi hell's half mile we began our work the next morning where we left off the night before by bringing the remaining boat down along the edge of the "triplets." then, while emery cooked the breakfast, jimmy and i "broke camp." the beds came first. the air had been released from the mattresses before we got up,--one way of saving time. a change of dry clothing was placed with each bed, and they were rolled as tightly as the two of us could do it, after which they were strapped, placed in a rubber sack, with a canvas sack over that, both these sacks being laced at the top. the tent--one of those so-called balloon silk compositions--made a very small roll; the dark-room tent, with its three plies of cloth, made the largest bundle of the lot. everything had been taken from the boats, and made quite a pile of dunnage, when it was all collected in a pile ready for loading. after the dishes were washed they were packed in a box, the smoke-covered pots and pans being placed in a sack. everything was sorted and piled before the loading commenced. an equal division of nearly everything was made, so that the loss of one boat and its cargo would only partially cripple the expedition. the photographic plates and films, in protecting canvas sacks, were first disposed of, being stored in the tin-lined hatches in the bow of the boats. two of the smaller rolls containing bedding, or clothing; a sack of flour, and half of the cameras completed the loads for the forward compartments. five or six tin and wooden boxes, filled with provisions, went into the large compartments under the stern. a box containing tools and hardware for the inevitable repairs, and the weightier provisions--such as canned milk and canned meats--went in first. this served as ballast for the boats. then the other provisions followed, the remaining rolls of bedding and tents being squeezed in on top. this compartment, with careful packing, would hold as much as two ordinary-sized trunks, but squeezing it all in through the small hatchway, or opening on top, was not an easy job. one thing we guarded very carefully from this time on was a waterproofed sack containing sugar. the muddy water had entered the top of this sack in our upset, and a liquefied sugar, or brown-coloured syrup, was used in our coffee and on our breakfast foods after that. it gradually dried out, and our emptied cups would contain a sediment of mud in the bottom. such was our morning routine, although it was not often that everything was taken from the boats, and it only happened in this case because we made a portage the night before. our work was all undone an hour later, when we came to the sharp descent known as hell's half mile, a section of a cliff had fallen from above, and was shattered into a hundred fragments, large and small; gigantic rocks were scattered on both shores and through the river bed, not an orderly array of rocks such as that found at ashley falls, but a riotous mass, looking as though they had been hurled from the sky above. the stripped trunk of an eight-foot tree, with roots extending over the river, had been deposited by a recent flood on top of the principal barrier. all this was found about fifty yards below the beginning of the most violent descent in lodore canyon. it would have been difficult enough without this last complication; the barrier seemed next to insurmountable, tired and handicapped with heavy boats as we were. with a weary sigh we dropped our boats to the head of the rapid and prepared to make the portage. our previous work was as nothing to this. rounded limestone boulders, hard as flint and covered with a thin slime of mud from the recent rise, caused us to slip and fall many times. then we dragged ourselves and loads up the sloping walls. they were cut with gullies from the recent rains; low scraggy cedars caught at our loads, or tore our clothes, as we staggered along; the muddy earth stuck to our shoes, or caused our feet to slip from under us as we climbed, first two or three hundred feet above the water, then close to the river's edge. three-fourths of a mile of such work brought us a level place below the rapid. it took nine loads to empty one boat. darkness came on before our boats were emptied, so they were securely tied in quiet water at the head of the rapid, and left for the morning. the next day found emery and me at work on the boats, while jimmy was stationed on the shore with the motion-picture camera. this wild scene, with its score of shooting currents, was too good a view to miss. with life-preservers inflated and adjusted, emery sat in the boat at the oars, pulling against the current, lessening the velocity with which the boat was carried down toward the main barrier, while i followed on the shore, holding a rope, and dropped him down, a little at a time, until the water became too rough and the rocks too numerous. all directions were given with signals; the human voice was of little avail in the turmoil. we kept the boats in the water as long as it was safe to do so, for it greatly lessened the hard work of a portage. with one end of the boat floating on the water, an ordinary lift would take the other end over a rock with insufficient water above it to float the boat. then the boat was balanced on the rock, the opposite end was lifted, she was shoved forward and dropped in the water again and another threatening rock was passed. foot by foot we fought our way, now on the shore, now waist deep in the water below some protecting boulder, threatened every moment by the whirling water that struggled to drag us into the torrent. the sand and water collecting in our clothes weighted us down; the chill of standing in the cold water numbed our limbs. finally the barrier was reached and the boats were run out close to the end, and tied in a quiet pool, while we devised some method of getting them past or over this obstruction. directly underneath and beyond the roots of the tree were large rounded boulders, covered with slippery mud. past this barrier the full force of the water raced, to hurl itself and divide its current against another rock. it was useless to try to take a boat around the end of the rock. the boat's sides, three-eighths of an inch thick, would be crushed like a cardboard box. if lifted into the v-shaped groove, the weight of the boats would wedge them and crush their sides. fortunately an upright log was found tightly wedged between these boulders. a strong limb, with one end resting on a rock opposite, was nailed to this log; a triangle of stout sticks, with the point down, was placed opposite this first limb, on the same level, and was fastened to the upright log with still another piece; and another difficulty was overcome. with a short rope fastened to the iron bar or hand-hold on the stern, this end was lifted on to the cross-piece, the bow sticking into the water at a sharp angle. the short rope was tied to the stump, so we would not lose that we had gained. the longer rope from the bow was thrown over the roots of the tree above, then we both pulled on the rope, until finally the bow was on a level with the stern. she was pulled forward, the ropes were loosened and the boat rested on the cross-pieces. the motion-picture camera was transferred so as to command a view of the lower side of the barrier, then the boat was carefully tilted, and slid forward, a little at a time, until she finally gained headway, nearly jerking the rope from our hands, and shot into the pool below. we enjoyed the wildest ride we had experienced up to this time in running the lower end of this rapid. the balance of the day was spent in the same camp below the rapid. our tent was put up in a group of box elder trees,--the first trees of this species we had seen. red cedar trees dotted the rocky slopes, while the larger pines became scarce at the river's edge, and gathered near the top of the canyon's walls. the dark red rocks near the bottom were covered with a light blue-tinted stratum of limestone, similar to the fallen rocks found in the rapid above. in one land-slide, evidently struck with some rolling rock, lay the body of a small deer. we saw many mountain sheep tracks, but failed to see the sheep. many dead fish, their gills filled with the slimy mud from the recent rise, floated past us, or lay half buried in the mud. these things were noticed as we went about our duties, for we were too weary to do any exploring. the next morning, monday, october the 2d saw us making arrangements for the final run that would take us out of lodore canyon. no doubt it was a beautiful and a wonderful place, but none of us seemed sorry to leave it behind. for ten days we had not had a single day entirely free from rain, and instead of having a chance to run rapids, it seemed as if we had spent an entire week in carrying our loads, or in lining our boats through the canyon. the canyon walls lost much of their precipitous character as we neared the end of the canyon. a short run took us over the few rapids that remained, and at a turn ahead we saw a 300-foot ridge, brilliantly tinted in many colours,--light and golden yellows, orange and red, purple and lavender,--and composed of numberless wafer-like layers of rock, uptilted, so that the broken ends looked like the spines of a gigantic fish's back. a sharp turn to the left soon brought us to the end of this ridge, close to the bottom of a smooth, sheer wall. across a wide, level point of sand we could see a large stream, the yampa river, flowing from the east to join its waters with those of the green. this was the end of lodore canyon. chapter vii jimmy goes over the mountain the yampa, or bear river, was a welcome sight to us in spite of its disagreeable whitish yellow, clay colour; quite different from the red water of the green river. the new stream meant more water in the channel, something we needed badly, as our past tribulations showed. the recent rise on the green had subsided a little, but we now had a much higher stage than when we entered lodore. quite likely the new conditions gave us six feet of water above the low water on which we had been travelling. would it increase or diminish our dangers? we were willing, emery and i, even anxious, to risk our chances on the higher water. directly opposite the yampa, the right shore of the green went up sheer about 700 feet high, indeed it seemed to overhang a trifle. this had been named echo cliffs by powell's party. the cliffs gave a remarkable echo, repeating seven words plainly when shouted from the edge of the yampa a hundred yards away, and would doubtless repeat more if shouted from the farther shore of the yampa. echo cliffs, we found, were in the form of a peninsula and terminated just below this point where we stood, the river doubling back on the other side of the cliff. on the left side of the river, the walls fell back, leaving a flat, level space of about twenty-five acres. here was a little ranch of which mrs. chew had told us. the chew ranch lay back from the river on top of the cliffs. we found no one at home here at this first ranch, but there was evidence of recent habitation. there were a few peach trees, and a small garden, while beyond this were two buildings,--little shacks in a dilapidated condition. the doors were off their hinges and leaned against the building, a few logs being placed against the doors. past the dooryard, coming out of a small canyon above the ranch, ran a little brook; up this canyon was a trail, the outlet to the ranch above. we camped near the mouth of the stream. it had been agreed upon the night before, that we should endeavour to make arrangements to have jimmy taken out on horseback over the mountains. before looking for the ranch, however, we asked him if he did not wish to reconsider his decision to leave here. we pointed out that jensen, utah, was only fifty miles away, half that distance being in quiet water, and that the worst canyon was behind us. but he said he had enough of the river and preferred to see what could be done. while i busied myself about camp, he and emery left for the ranch. about seven o'clock that evening they returned in great spirits. they had found the ranch without any trouble nearly three miles from our camp. mrs. chew was there and gave them a hearty welcome. she had often wondered what had become of us. she invited the boys to remain for supper, which they did. they talked over the matter of transportation for jimmy. as luck would have it, mrs. chew was going to drive over to jensen, and vernal, utah, in two days' time, and agreed to take jimmy along. early the next morning two boys, one about fourteen years old the other a little older, rode down from the ranch. some of their horses were pastured across the river and they had come after these. after a short visit they got into the _edith_ with emery and prepared to cross over to the pasture, which was a mile or more downstream. they were soon out of our sight. jimmy and i remained at the camp, taking pictures, packing his belongings, and finding many odd jobs to be done. in about three hours the boys returned with their horses. the horses were quite gentle, and they had no difficulty in swimming them across. a young colt, too feeble to swim, placed its fore feet on its mother's flanks and was ferried across in that way. then they were driven over a narrow trail skirting the cliff, 300 feet above the river. no one, looking from the river, would have imagined that any trail, over which horses could be driven, existed. the boys informed us that we were expected at the ranch for dinner, and would listen to no refusal so up we went, although we would have to make a second trip that day. the view of the ranch was another of those wonderful scenic changes which we were to meet with everywhere in this region. the flat on which we stood was simply a pocket, shut in by the round-domed mountains, with a pass, or an opening, to the east side. a small stream ran down a mountain side, spreading over the rocks, and glistening in the sunlight. this same stream passed the ranch, and ran on down through the narrow canyon up which we had come. the ranch itself was refreshing. the buildings were new, some were under construction; but there was considerable ground under cultivation. cattle were scattered up the valley, or dotted the rocky slopes below the mountains. a wild spot this, on the borderland of the three states. none but people of fortitude, or even of daring, would think of taking up a homestead in this secluded spot. the same rumours of the escaped prisoners had drifted in here. it was mr. chew who gave us the information we have previously quoted concerning the murdered man. he had found the body in the boat, in front of the post-office. he further stated that others in the mountains would not hesitate at anything to drive out those who were trying to improve a homestead as he was doing, and that it was a common event to find the carcasses of his own horses or cattle which had been ruthlessly slaughtered. this was the reason for putting the horses across the river. there they were safe, for none could approach them save by going past the ranch, or coming through lodore canyon. mr. chew also told us of the snyders, who had lost their boat in upper lodore canyon, and of how he had given them a horse and provisions to aid them in reaching the settlements. this did not prevent the elder snyder from coming back to trap the next year, much to mr. chew's disgust. he thought one experience should be enough for any man. while we were talking, a very old, bearded man rode in on a horse. he was pat lynch, the owner of the little ranch by the river. he was a real old-timer, having been in brown's park when major powell was surveying that section of the country. he told us that he had been hired to get some meat for the party, and had killed five mountain sheep. he was so old that he scarcely knew what he was talking about, rambling from one subject to another; and would have us listening with impatience to hear the end of some wonderful tale of the early days, when he would suddenly switch off on to an entirely different subject, leaving the first unfinished. in spite of his years he was quite active, having broken the horses on which he rode, bareback, without assistance. we were told that he placed a spring or trap gun in his houses at the river, ready to greet any prying marauder the last we saw of him he was on his way to the post-office, miles away, to draw his pension for service in the civil war. returning to the transportation of jimmy, it was settled that the chews were to leave early the next morning. they also agreed to take out our exposed films and plate for us--something we had not counted on, but too good a chance to lose. we all three returned to the boats and packed the stuff that was to go out; then went back to the ranch with jimmy. it was late--after midnight--when we reached there, and we did not disturb any one. jimmy's blankets were unrolled in the wagon, so there would be no question about his going out. he was to go to jensen, or vernal, and there await us, keeping our films until we arrived. we knew they were in good hands. it was with some difficulty that we found our way back to our camp. the trail was difficult and it was pitch dark. my boat had been taken down to where emery left the _edith_ when the horses were driven across, and this extra distance was added to our walk. we were laggard the next morning, and in no hurry to resume our work. we rearranged our loads in the boats; with one less man and considerable less baggage as well, they were lighter by far. our chances looked much more favourable for an easier passage. not only were these things in our favour, but in addition we felt that we had served our apprenticeship at navigation in rapid water, and we were just as capable of meeting the rapids to follow as if we had years of experience to our record. on summing up we found that the river had dropped 1000 feet since leaving green river, wyoming, and that 5000 feet remained, to put us on a level with the ocean. our difficulties would depend, of course, on how this fall was distributed. most of the fall behind was found in lodore and red canyons. it was doubtful indeed if any section would have a more rapid fall than lodore canyon. there is a certain verse of wisdom which says that "pride goeth before a fall," but perhaps it was just as well for us if we were a little bit elated by our past achievements as long as we had to go through with the balance of our self-imposed task. confidence, in a proper degree, is a great help when real difficulties have to be surmounted. we were full of confidence that day when we pulled away about noon into whirlpool canyon, whirlpool canyon being next on the list. the camp we were about to leave was directly opposite lodore canyon, where it ran against the upended cliff. the gorgeous colours were the same as those on the opposite side, and, to a certain degree, were also found in whirlpool canyon. our two and a half hours' dash through the fourteen miles of rapid water in whirlpool canyon put us in a joyful frame of mind. rapid after rapid was left behind us without a pause in our rowing, with only a hasty survey standing on the deck of the boats before going over. others that were free from rocks were rowed in bow first, the big waves breaking over our boats and ourselves. we bailed while drifting in the quiet stretches, then got ready for the next rapids. two large rapids only were looked over from the shore and these were run in the same manner. we could hardly believe it was true when we emerged from the mountain so quickly into a little flat park or valley sheltered in the hills. this was island or rainbow park, the latter name being suggested by the brilliant colouring of the rocks, in the mountains to our left. perhaps the form of the rocks themselves helped a little, for here was one end of the rainbow of rock which began on the other side of the mountains. jagged-edged canyons looking almost as if their sides had been rent asunder came out of these mountains. there was very little dark red here except away on top, 2300 feet above, where a covering of pines made a soft background for light-cream and gorgeous yellow-coloured pinnacles, or rocky walls of pink and purple and delicate shades of various hues. large cottonwoods appeared again along the river banks, in brilliant autumn colours, adding to the beauties of the scene. back from the river, to the west, stretched the level park, well covered with bunch-grass on which some cattle grazed, an occasional small prickly pear cactus, and the ever present, pungent sage. verdure-covered islands dotted the course of the stream, which was quiet and sluggish, doubling back and forth like a serpent over many a useless mile. nine miles of rowing brought us back to a point about three miles from the mouth of whirlpool canyon; where the river again enters the mountain, deliberately choosing this course to one, unobstructed for several miles, to the right. the next gorge was split mountain canyon, so named because the stream divided the ridge length-wise, from one end to the other. it was short, only nine miles long, with a depth of 2700 feet in the centre of the canyon. three miles of the nine were put behind us before we camped that evening. these were run in the same manner as the rapids of whirlpool, scarcely pausing to look them over, but these rapids were bigger, much bigger. one we thought was just formed or at least increased in size by a great slide of rock that had fallen since the recent rains. we just escaped trouble in this rapid, both boats going over a large rock with a great cresting wave below, and followed by a very rough rapid. emery was standing on top of a fifteen-foot rock below the rapid when i went over, and for a few moments could see nothing of my boat, hardly believing it possible that i had come through without a scratch. these rapids with the high water looked more like rapids we had seen in the grand canyon, and were very unlike the shallow water of a week previous. we had only travelled a half day, but felt as if it had been a very complete day when we camped at the foot of a rock slide on the right, just above another big rapid. on thursday, october 5, camp no. 20 was left behind. the rapid below the camp was big, big enough for a moving picture, so we took each other in turns as we ran the rapid. more rapids followed, but these were not so large. a few sharp-pointed spires of tinted rock lifted above us a thousand feet or more. framed in with the branches of the near-by cottonwood trees, they made a charming picture. less than three hours brought us to the end of split mountain canyon, and the last bad water we were to have for some time. just before leaving the canyon, we came to some curious grottos, or alcoves, under the rock walls on the left shore. the river has cut into these until they overhang, some of them twenty-five feet or over. in one of these was a beaver lying on a pile of floating sticks. although we passed quite close, the beaver never moved, and we did not molest it. another shower greeted us as we emerged into the uinta valley as it is called by the ute indians. this valley is eighty-seven miles long. it did not have the fertileness of brown's park, being raised in bare rolling hills, runnelled and gullied by the elements. the water was quiet here, and hard rowing was necessary to make any progress. we had gone about seven miles when we spied a large placer dredge close to the river. to the uninitiated this dredge would look much like a dredging steamboat out of water, but digging its own channel, which is what it really does. great beds of gravel lay on either side of the river and placer gold in large or small quantities, but usually the latter is likely to exist in these beds. when a dredge like the one found here is to be installed, an opening is made in the river's bank leading to an excavation which has been made, then a large flatboat is floated in this. the dredging machinery is on this float, as well as most of the machinery through which the gravel is passed accompanied by a stream of water; then with quicksilver and rockers of various designs, the gold is separated from the gravel and sand. numerous small buildings were standing near the dredge, but the buildings were empty, and the dredge lay idle. we saw many fresh tracks of men and horses aid were welcomed by a sleek, well-fed cat, but found the place was deserted. all buildings were open and in one was a telephone. we were anxious to hear just where we were, so we used the telephone and explained what we wanted to know. the "central" informed us that we were about nine miles from jensen, so we returned to the boats and pulled with a will through a land that was no longer barren, but with cozy ranch houses, surrounded by rows of stately poplars, bending with the wind, for it was storming in earnest now. about six o'clock that evening we caught sight of the top of the jensen bridge; then, as we neared the village, the sun broke through the pall of cloud and mist, and a rainbow appeared in the sky above, and was mirrored in the swollen stream, rainbow and replica combined nearly completing the wondrous arc. there was a small inn beside the bridge, and arrangements were made for staying there that night. we were told that jim and mrs. chew had passed through jensen about four hours before we arrived. they had left word that they would go on through to vernal, fifteen miles distant from the river. chapter viii an inland excursion jensen was a small village with two stores and a post-office. a few scattered houses completed the village proper, but prosperous-looking ranches spread out on the lowland for two or three miles in all directions on the west side of the river. avenues of poplar trees, fruit trees, and fields of alfalfa gave these ranches a different appearance from any others we had passed. we found some mail awaiting us at the post-office, and were soon busily engaged in reading the news from home. we conversed awhile with the few people at the hotel, then retired, but first made arrangements for saddle horses for the ride to vernal. next morning we found two spirited animals, saddled and waiting for us. we had some misgivings concerning these horses, but were assured that they were "all right." a group of grinning cowboys and ranch hands craning their necks from a barn, a hundred yards distant, rather inclined us to think that perhaps our informant might be mistaken. nothing is more amusing to these men of the range than to see a man thrown from his horse, and a horse that is "all right" for one of them might be anything else to persons such as we who never rode anything except gentle horses, and rode those indifferently. we mounted quickly though, trying to appear unconcerned. the horses, much to our relief, behaved quite well, emery's mount rearing back on his hind legs but not bucking. after that, all went smoothly. leaving the irrigated ranches on the bottom lands, we ascended a low, rolling mesa, composed of gravel and clay, unwatered and unfertile, from which we caught occasional glimpses of the mountains and the gorge from which we had emerged, their brilliant colours softened and beautified by that swimming blue haze which belongs to this plateau region. then we rode down into the beautiful ashley valley, watered by ashley creek, a good-sized stream even after it was used to irrigate all the country for miles above. the valley was several miles wide. the stream emptied into the river about a mile below jensen. all parts of the valley were under cultivation. it is famous for its splendid deciduous fruits, apples, pears, peaches; splendid both in appearance and flavour. it excelled not only in fruits, however, but in all products of the field as well. "vernal honey," which is marketed far and near, has a reputation for fine flavour wherever it is known. a thick growth of the bee-blossom or bee-weed crowded the road sides and hugged the fences. the fragrance of the flower can easily be noticed in the sweetness of the honey. the pity of it was that bushels of fruit lay rotting on the ground, for there were no transportation facilities, the nearest railroad being 90 miles distant. there were stock ranches too, with blooded stock in the fence-enclosed fields. some of the splendid horses paced along beside us on the other side of the fence. we heard the rippling song of some meadow-larks this day, the only birds of this species we remember having seen on the western plateaus. all these ranches were laid out in true mormon style, that is, squared off in sections, fenced, and planted with shade-trees before being worked. the roads are usually wide and the streets exceptionally so. except in the business streets, a large garden usually surrounds the home building, each family endeavouring to raise all their own vegetables, fruits, and poultry. they usually succeed. the shade trees about vernal were lombardy poplars. they attained a height that would give ample shade under most conditions, and too much when we were there, for the roads were very muddy, although they had dried in all other sections. nearing vernal, we passed nathan galloway's home, a cozy place set back some distance from the road. we had hoped to meet galloway and have an opportunity of talking over his experiences with him, but found he was absent on a hunting trip, in fact was up in the mountains we had come through. on nearing the town we were greeted by a busy scene. numerous wagons and horses stood in squares reserved for that purpose, or were tied to hitching posts in front of the many stores. ranchers and their families were everywhere in evidence; there were numerous prospectors in their high-topped boots just returning from the mountains, and oil men in similar garb, muddy from head to foot. later we learned that oil had recently been discovered about forty miles distant, this fact accounting for much of the activity. the town itself was a surprise; we found it to be very much up-to-date considering its isolated position. two of the streets were paved and oiled and were supplied with drinking fountains. there were two prosperous looking banks, two well-stocked and up-to-date drug stores, several mercantile stores, and many others, all busy. many of the buildings were of brick; all were substantial. near a hotel we observed a group of men surrounding some one who was evidently keeping them interested. on approaching them we found it was jimmy, giving a graphic description of some of our difficulties. his story was not finished, for he saw us and ran to greet us, as pleased to see us as we were to see him. he had little idea we would be along for two or three days and naturally was much surprised. on entering the hotel we were greeted by an old grand canyon friend, a civil engineer named duff, who with a crew of men had been mapping the mountains near whirlpool canyon. you can imagine that it was a gratifying surprise to all concerned to find we were not altogether among strangers, though they were as hospitable as strangers could be. the hotel was a lively place that night. there was some musical talent among duff's men, and duff himself was an artist on the piano. many of the young people of the town had dropped in that evening, as some one had passed the word that there might be an impromptu entertainment at the hotel. there was. duff played and the boys sang. jimmy was himself again and added his rich baritone. the town itself was not without musical talent, and altogether it was a restful change for us. perhaps we should have felt even better if we had been dressed differently, for we wore much the same clothes as those in which we did our work on the river--a woollen shirt and overalls. besides, neither emery nor i had shaved since starting, and it is quite likely that we looked just a little uncouth. appearances count for little with these people in the little-settled districts, and it is a common enough sight to them to see men dressed as we were. they did everything they could to make us feel at ease. as one person remarked, "the wealthiest cattle man, or the owner of the richest mine in the country, usually looks worse than all others after a month on the range or in the hills." if wealth were indicated on an inverse ratio to one's good appearance, we should have been very wealthy indeed. we felt as if it would take us a week to get rested and lost little time in getting to bed when the party broke up. we imagine most of the residents of vernal were mormons. it is part of their creed to give "the stranger within their gates" a cordial welcome. this however, was accorded to us, not only among the mormons, but in every section of our journey on the green and colorado rivers. the following day was a busy one. arrangements had been made with a local photographer to get the use of his dark room, and we proceeded to develop all plates and many of our films. these were then to be packed and shipped out. we were informed at the local express office, that it might be some time before they would go, as the recent rains had been very bad in colorado and had washed out most of the bridges. vernal had passenger transportation to the railway--a branch of the d. & r.g. running north into colorado--by automobile, the route lying across the green and also across the white river, a tributary to the green. a steel structure had been washed away on the white river, making it impossible to get through to the station. the high water below here must have been a flood, judging from all reports. about ten bridges, large and small, were reported as being washed away on numerous branch streams leading into the green river. fortunately vernal had another means of communication. this was a stage running southwest from vernal, over 125 miles of rough road to price, utah--price being a station on the main line of the d. & r.g. jimmy concluded that he would take this road, in preference to the uncertainties of the other route, and noon that day found him on board the stage. he promised to write to us, and was anxious to hear of our success, but remarked that when he once got home he would "never leave san francisco again." there was a final hand clasp, a cheer from the small group of men, and the stage drove away with jimmy, a happy boy indeed. our work on the developing progressed well, and with very satisfying results on the whole, and that evening found us with all plates packed ready for shipment to our home. the moving-picture film was also packed and shipped to be developed at once. this was quite a load off our minds. the following day we prepared to depart, but did not leave until the afternoon. then, with promises to let them know the outcome of our venture, we parted from our friends and rode back to jensen. we planned on leaving the following morning. the river had fallen one foot since we had landed, and we were anxious to have the benefit of the high water. we were told that it was six feet above the low-water stage of two weeks before. on monday, october the 9th, after loading our boat with a new stock of provisions,--in which was included few jars of honey, and a few dozen of eggs, packed in sawdust,--we began what might be called the second stage of our journey; the 175-mile run to blake or green river, utah, a little west of south from jensen. ten miles below jensen was a ferry used by the auto and wagons. here also was a ranch house, with a number of people in the yard. we were invited to land and did so. they had been informed by telephone of our coming and were looking for us; indeed they had even prepared dinner for us, hoping we would reach there in time. not knowing all this, we had eaten our cold lunch half an hour before. the women were busy preserving fruits and garden truck, and insisted on us taking two or three jars along. this was a welcome change to the dried fruit, which was one of our principal foods. these people made the usual request--"drop us a post card if you get through." the memory of these people that we met on this journey will linger with us as long as we live. they were always anxious to help us or cheer us on our way. we passed a dredge that evening and saw a man at work with a team and scoop shovel, the method being to scoop up the gravel and sand, then dump it in an iron car. this was then pulled by the horses to the top of a derrick up a sloping track and dumped. a stream of water pumped up from the river mixed with the gravel, the entire mass descended a long zigzagging chute. we paused a few minutes only and did not examine the complicated process of separating the mineral from the gravel. this dredge had been recently installed. we camped early, half a mile below the dredge. emery had been feeling poorly all this day. he blamed his indisposition to having eaten too many good things when in vernal--a break in training, as it were. this was our excuse for a short run that day. i played nurse and gave him some simple remedy from the little supply that we carried; and, after he was in his sleeping bag, i filled some hot-water bags for the first time on the trip, and soon had him feeling quite comfortable. a hard wind came up that night, and a little rain fell. i had a busy half-hour keeping our camp from being blown away. the storm was of short duration, and all was soon quiet again. on the following morning emery felt so good that i had a hard time in keeping up with him and i wondered if he would ever stop. towards evening, after a long pull, we neared the reservation of the uinta utes, and saw a few indians camped away from the river. here, again, were the cottonwood bottoms, banked by the barren, gravelly hills. we had been informed that there was a settlement called ouray, some distance down the river, and we were anxious to reach it before night. but the river was sluggish, with devious and twisting channels, and it was dark when we finally landed at the ouray ferry. chapter ix canyon of desolation ouray, utah, consisted of a large store to supply the wants of the indians and ranchers, a small hotel, and a few dwellings. the agency proper was located some distance up the uinta river, which stream emptied into the green, just below ouray. supper was taken at the hotel, after which we visited a young man in charge of the store, looking over his curios and listening to tales of his life here among these indians. they were peaceable enough now, but in years gone by were a danger to be reckoned with. we slept in our own beds close to our boats by the river. the following morning, when we were ready to leave, a small crowd gathered, a few indians among them. most of the indians were big, fat, and sleepy-looking. apparently they enjoyed the care of the government. a mile below we passed several squaws and numerous children under some trees, while on a high mound stood a lone buck indian looking at us as we sped by, but without a single movement that we could see. he still stood there as we passed from sight a mile below. it might be interesting if one could know just what was in his mind as he watched us. a mile below the uinta river, which entered on the west, we passed another stream, the white river, entering from the east, the two streams adding considerable water to the green river. we passed another idle dredge, also some mineral workings in tunnels, and saw two men camped on the shore beside them. we saw numerous indian carvings on the rocks, but judged they were recent because horses figured in most of them. in all the open country the river was fringed with large cottonwood trees, alders and willow thickets. a number of islands followed, one of them very symmetrical in shape, with cottonwood trees in the centre, while around the edge ran a fringe of bushes looking almost like a trimmed hedge. the autumn colouring added to its beauty. the hedge, as we called it, was dark red, brown, yellow, and green; the cottonwoods were a light yellow. after we had passed this island, a deer, confused by our voices, jumped into the river fifty yards behind us, leaping and swimming as he made for the shore. we had no gun, but emery had the moving-picture camera at hand, and turned it on the deer. the hour was late, however, and we had little hopes of its success as a picture. the country back from the river stretched in rolling, barren hills 200 or 300 feet high--a continuation of the bad lands of utah, which lay off to the west. with the next day's travel the hills lost some of their barren appearance. some cattle were seen early in the afternoon of the following day. we passed a cattle man working at a ferry, who had just taken some stock across, which other men had driven on ahead. he was busy, so we did not interrupt him, merely calling to him from the boats, drifting meanwhile with the current. soon we saw him riding down the shore and waited for him to catch up. he invited us to camp with him that evening, remarking that he had "just killed a beef." we thanked him, but declined, as it was early and we had only travelled a short distance that day. we chatted awhile, and he told us to look out for rapids ahead. he was rather surprised when he learned that we had started at green river, wyoming, and had already come through a few rapids. "where are you going to stop?" he then asked. on being told that our destination was needles, california, he threw up his hands with an expressive gesture, then added soberly, "well, boys, i sure wish you luck," and rode back to his camp. we had difficulty in making a suitable landing that evening, as the high water had deposited great quantities of black mud over everything, making it very disagreeable when we left the boats. we finally found a place with less mud to wade through than on most of the banks seen, and tied up to the roots of a tree. while lying in our beds that night looking at the starlit sky--such a sky as is found only on these high plateaus--we discovered a comet directly above us. an astronomer would have enjoyed our opportunities for observing the heavens. no doubt this comet had been heralded far and wide, but we doubt if any one saw it to better advantage than did we. later, some coyotes, possibly in chase of a rabbit, gave vent to their yodeling cry, and awakened us from a sound sleep. they were in a little lateral canyon, which magnified and gave a weird, organ-like echo to their calls long after the coyotes themselves had passed from hearing. the nights were getting warmer as we travelled south, but not so warm that we were bothered with insects. the same reason accounted for the absence of snakes or scorpions, for no doubt there were plenty of both in warm weather in this dry country. when there was no wind, the silence of the nights was impressive, with no sound save the lapping of the water against the banks. sometimes a bird in the trees above would start up with a twitter, then quiet down again. on occasions the air chambers in our boats would contract on cooling off, making a noise like the boom of a distant gun, every little sound being magnified by the utter stillness of the night. there were other times when it was not so quiet. hundreds of birds, geese, ducks and mud-hens had been seen the last few days. also there were occasional cranes and herons, over a thousand miles from their breeding place at the mouth of the colorado. as dusk settled, we would see these birds abandon their feeding in the mud, and line up on the shore, or on an island, and go to sleep. occasionally one of these birds would start up out of a sound sleep with an unearthly squawk. possibly an otter had interrupted its dreams, or a fox had pounced on one as it slept. it may be that it was only a bad dream of these enemies that caused their fright, but whatever it was, that first call would start up the entire flock and they would circle in confusion like a stampeded herd of cattle, their discordant cries putting an end to the stillness of the night. finally they would settle down in a new spot, and all would be quiet once more. we saw a few birds that were strangers to us,--water birds which we imagined belonged to the salt water rather than the inland streams, making a little excursion, perhaps, away from their accustomed haunts. one type we saw on two occasions, much like a gull, but smaller, pure white as far as we could tell, soaring in graceful flight above the river. camp no. 26 was close to the beginning of a new canyon. the country had been changing in appearance from rather flat plains to small bare hills, gradually increasing in height with smooth, rounded sides, and going up to a point, usually of a dirty clay colour, with little vegetation of any kind on them. the river for miles past had swept in long graceful curves, the hills being close to the river on the outside of the curve, leaving a big flat on the inside. this flat gradually sloped back to hills of an equal height to those opposite. then the curve would reverse, and the same conditions would be met with again, but on opposite sides from the previous bend. after passing a creek the evening before, the hills became higher, and from our camp we could see the first place where they came close on both sides to the river. we felt now that our beautiful tree-covered canyons were behind us and from now on we would be hemmed in by the great eroded canyons of the southwest. we were sorry to leave those others behind, and could easily understand why major powell had named this desolation canyon. as the canyon deepened the cliffs were cut into fantastic shapes, as is usual in rocks unprotected by vegetation. there was a hard rock near the top in places which overhung a softer formation. this would erode, giving a cornice-like effect to the cliffs. others were surmounted by square towers and these were capped by a border of little squares, making the whole look much like a castle on the rhine. for half a day we found no rapids, but pulled away on a good current. the walls gradually grew higher and were more rugged; a few trees cropped out on their sides. at noon our boats were lashed together and lunch was eaten as we drifted. we covered about three miles in this way, taking in the scenery as we passed. we saw a great stone arch, or natural bridge, high on a stupendous cliff to our right, and wondered if any one had ever climbed up to it. our lunch was no more than finished when the first rapid was heard ahead of us. quickly unlashing our boats, we prepared for strenuous work. friday the 13th proved to be a lucky day; thirteen large rapids and thirteen small ones were placed behind us before we camped at rock creek--a splashing, laughing mountain stream, no doubt containing trout. the following morning we found there was a little ranch house below us, but, though we called from our boats, no one came out. we wondered how any one could reach this out-of-the-way place, as a road would be almost an impossibility. later we found a well-constructed trail on the right-hand side all the way through the canyon. we saw a great many cattle travelling this trail. some were drinking at the river when we swept into view. our boats filled them with alarm, and they scrambled for the hillsides, looking after us with frightened expressions as we left them to the rear. we put in a full day at running rapids, one after another, until fifteen large ones were passed, no count being kept of the smaller ones. some of these rapids resembled dams from six to twelve feet high, with the water falling abruptly over a steep slope. others were long and rough, with swift water in places. above one of these we had landed, then found we could get a much better view from the opposite shore. emery crossed and landed, i followed. we had been having heavy winds all day. when crossing here i was caught by a sudden gust of wind and carried to the head of the rapid. i heard emery call, "look out for the big rock!" then over i went. the wind and water together had turned my boat sideways, and try as i would i could not get it turned around. i saw the rock emery referred to straight ahead of me. it was about fifteen feet square and about fourteen feet from the shore, with a powerful current shooting between the rock and the shore. it seemed as if i must strike the rock broadside, and i ceased my struggle, but held out an oar with both hands, hoping to break the blow. but it never came. the water struck this rock with great force, then rebounded, and actually kept me from even touching the rock with the oar, but it caught the boat and shot it through the narrow channel, bow first, as neatly as it could possibly be done, then, turned the boat around again as i scrambled to regain my hold on both oars. no other rocks threatened however, and besides filling the cockpit with water, no damage was done. emery had no desire to follow my passage and crossed back to the other side. shooting over the upper end of the rapid, his boat ran up on a rounded rock, the stern sticking high in the air; it paused a moment, the current slowly turning it around as if on a pivot, and the boat slid off; then down he came lurching and plunging, but with no more difficulty. many times in such places as these we saw the advantage of our flat-bottomed boats over one with a keel, for these would surely be upset when running up on such a rock. chapter x hospitable ranchmen the appearance of desolation canyon had changed entirely in the lower end. instead of a straight canyon without a break, we were surrounded by mountain peaks nearly 2500 feet high, with many side canyon between them and with little level parks at the end of the canyons beside the river. the tops were pine-covered; cedars clung to the rocky slopes. some of these peaks were not unlike the formations of the grand canyon, as seen from the inner plateau, and the red colouring was once more found in the rocks. these peaks were gradually dropping down in height; and at one open section, with alfalfa and hay fields on gently sloping hillsides, we found a small ranch, the buildings being set back from the river. we concluded to call and found three men, the rancher and two young cowboys, at work in a blacksmith shop. emery had forgotten to remove his life-preserver, and the men looked at him with some astonishment, as he was still soaking wet from the splashing waves of the last rapid. when i joined him he was explaining that no one had been drowned, and that we were merely making an excursion down the river. mr. mcpherson, the rancher, we learned, owned all the cattle seen up the river. the little cabin at our last camp was a sort of headquarters for his cowboys. the cattle were just being driven from the mountains before the snows came, and were to be wintered here in the canyons. some of these cattle were much above the usual grade of range cattle, being thoroughbreds, although most of them ran loose on the range. this ranch had recently lost a valuable bull which had been killed by a bear up in the mountains--not unlike similar conflicts in more civilized sections of the country. mcpherson camped on this bear's trail for several days and nights before he finally hung his pelt on a tree. he was a large cinnamon-coloured grizzly. four other bears had been killed this same year, in these mountains. mcpherson's home had burned down a short time before our visit, and his family had removed to green river, utah. a number of tents were erected, neatly boarded up, and we were informed that one of these was reserved for company, so we need not think of going any farther that day. these men, while absolutely fearless in the saddle, over these rough mountain trails, had "no use for the river" they told us; in fact, we found this was the usual attitude of the cattle men wherever we met them. mcpherson's respect for the river was not without reason, as his father, with two others, had been drowned while making a crossing in a light boat near this point, some years before. some accident occurred, possibly the breaking of a rowlock, and they were carried into a rapid. mcpherson's men found it necessary to cross their cattle back and forth, but always took the wise precaution to have on some life-preservers. the cork preservers hung in the blacksmith shop, where they could easily be reached at a moment's notice. desolation canyon, with a slight breaking down of the walls for a short distance only, gave place to gray canyon below the mcpherson ranch. a good sized mountain stream, part of which irrigated the ranch above, found its way through this division. we had been told that more rapids lay ahead of us in gray canyon, but they were not so numerous in our next day's travel. what we did find were usually large, but we ran them all without difficulty. about noon we met five men in a boat, rowing up the stream in a long, still stretch. they told us they were working on a dam, a mile or two below. they followed us down to see us make the passage through the rapid which lay above their camp. the rapid was long and rocky, having a seventeen-foot fall in a half mile. we picked our channel by standing up in the boat before entering the rapid and were soon at the bottom with no worse mishap than bumping a rock or two rather lightly. we had bailed out and were tying our boats, when the men came panting down the hill up which they had climbed to see us make this plunge. a number of men were at work here, but this being sunday, most of them had gone to green river, utah, twenty-one miles distant. among the little crowd who came down to see us resume our rowing was a lady and a little girl who lived in a rock building, near the other buildings erected for the working-men. emery showed the child a picture of his four-year-old daughter, edith, with her mother--a picture he always carried in a note-book. then he had her get in the boat with him, and we made a photograph of them. they were very good friends before we left. in a few hours we emerged from the low-walled canyon into a level country. a large butte, perhaps 700 feet high, stood out by itself, a mile from the main cliffs. this was gunnison butte, an old landmark near the gunnison trail. we were anxious to reach blake or green river, utah, not many miles below, that evening; but we failed to make it. there were several rapids, some of them quite large, and we had run them all when we came to a low dam that obstructed our passage, while looking it over, seeing how best to make a portage, a young man whom we had just seen remarked: "well, boys, you had better tie up and i will help you in the morning." it was 5.30 then, and we were still six miles from green river, so we took his advice and camped. on seeing our sleeping bags, tightly strapped and making rather small roll, he remarked: "well, you fellows are not mormons; i can tell by the size of your beds!" our new friend gave the name of wolverton. there was another man named wilson who owned a ranch just below the dam. both of these men were much interested in our experiences. wolverton had considerable knowledge of the river and of boats; very little persuasion would have been necessary to have had him for a companion on the balance of our journey. but we had made up our minds to make it alone, now, as it looked feasible. both wilson and wolverton knew the country below green river, utah, having made surveys through much of the surrounding territory. wolverton said we must surely see his father, who lived down the river and who was an enthusiast on motor boats. a few minutes' work the next morning sufficed to get our boats over the dam. the dam was constructed of loose rock and piles, chinked with brush and covered with sloping planks,--just a small dam to raise the water for irrigation purposes. much of the water ran through the canal; in places the planks were dry, in others some water ran over. the boats, being unloaded were pulled up on these planks, then slid into the water below. wilson had a large water wheel for irrigation purposes, the first of several such wheels which we were to see this day. these wheels, twenty feet or more in height,--with slender metal buckets each holding gallons of water, fastened at intervals on either side,--were placed in a swift current, anchored on the shore to stout piles, or erected over mill-races cut in the banks. there they revolved, the buckets filling and emptying automatically, the water running off in troughs above the level of the river back to the fertile soil. some of these wheels had ingenious floating arrangements whereby they accommodated themselves to the different stages of a rising or falling river. we took a few pictures of wilson's place before leaving. he informed us that he had telephoned to certain people in green river who would help us in various ways. two hours' rowing, past many pretty little ranches, brought us to the railroad bridge, a grateful sight to us. a pumping plant stood beside the bridge under charge of captain yokey, one of wilson's friends. yokey owned a large motor boat, which was tied up to the shore. our boats were left in his charge while we went up to the town, a mile distant. another of wilson's friends met us, and secured a dark room for us so that we could do a little developing and we prepared for work on the following day. that night a newspaper reporter hunted us out, anxious for a story. we gave him what we had, making light of our previous difficulties, which were exciting enough at times; but owing to the comparatively small size of the stream, we seldom thought our lives were in any great danger. the papers made the most of these things, and the stories that came out had little semblance to our original statements. we have since learned that no matter how much one minimizes such things, they are seldom published as reported. we put in a busy day unpacking new films and plates developing all films from the smaller cameras and sending these home. a new stock of provisions had to be purchased, enough for one month at least, for there was no chance of securing supplies until we reached our canyon home, about 425 miles below. we had a valuable addition to our cargo in two metal boxes that had been shipped here, as it was not possible to get them before leaving wyoming. these cases or trunks were sent from england, and were water-tight, if not waterproof, there being a slight difference. well constructed, with rubber gaskets and heavy clamps, every possible precaution had been taken, it seemed, to exclude the water and still render them easy of access. they were about thirty inches long, fifteen wide, and twelve high, just the thing for our photographic material. up to this time everything had to be kept under the deck when in bad water. these boxes were placed in the open section in front of us, and were thoroughly fastened to the ribs to prevent loss, ready to be opened or closed in a moment, quite a convenience when pictures had to be taken hurriedly. the following day we went over the boats, caulking few leaks. the bottoms of the boats were considerably the worse for wear, owing to our difficulties in the first canyons. we got some thin oak strips and nailed them on the bottom to help protect them, when portaging. sliding the boats on the scouring sand and rough-surfaced rock was hard on the half-inch boards on the bottom of the boats. this work was all completed that day, and everything was ready for the next plunge. in passing the station, we noticed the elevation above sea-level was placed at 4085 feet, and remembered that green river, wyoming, was 6080 feet, showing that our descent in the past 425 miles had been close to 2000 feet. we had not found it necessary to line or portage any rapids since leaving lodore canyon; we were hopeful that our good luck would continue. nothing was to be feared from what remained of the green river, 120 miles or more, for motor boats made the journey to its junction with the grand, and we were told even ascended the grand for some distance. below this junction was the colorado river, a different stream from the one we were still to navigate. before leaving, we ate a final hearty breakfast at the boarding-house where we had been taking our meals. a number of young men, clerks in some of the business houses here, were among the boarders. the landlady a whole-souled german woman and an excellent cook, was greatly worried over their small appetites, thinking it was a reflection on her table. she remarked that she hoped we had good appetites, and i am sure she had no complaint to make so far as we were concerned. we had never stinted ourselves when on the river, but the change and the rest seemed to give us an abnormal appetite that could not be satisfied, and we would simply quit eating because we were ashamed to eat more. less than half an hour after one of these big meals, i was surprised to see my brother in a restaurant with a sheepish grin on his face, and with a good-sized lunch before him. chapter xi wonders of erosion _thursday, october the 19th_. we embarked again with two of our new-found friends on board as passengers for a short ride, their intention being to hunt as they walked back. they left us at a ranch beside the san rafael river, a small stream entering from the west. they left some mail with us to be delivered to mr. wolverton, whose son we had met above. about 20 miles below green river we reached his home. judging by a number of boats--both motor and row boats--tied to his landing, mr. wolverton was an enthusiastic river-man. after glancing over his mail, he asked how we had come and was interested when he learned that we were making a boating trip. he was decidedly interested when he saw the boats and learned that we were going to our home in the grand canyon. his first impression was that we were merely making a little pleasure trip on the quiet water. going carefully over the boats, he remarked that they met with his approval with one exception. they seemed to be a little bit short for the heavy rapids of the colorado, he thought. he agreed that our experience in the upper rapids had been good training, but said there was no comparison in the rapids. we would have a river ten times as great as in lodore to contend with; and in numerous places, for short distances, the descent was as abrupt as anything we had seen on the green. wolverton was personally acquainted with a number of the men who had made the river trip, and, with the one exception of major powell's expeditions, had met all the parties who had successfully navigated its waters. this not only included galloway's and stone's respective expeditions, which had made the entire trip, but included two other expeditions which began at green river, utah, and had gone through the canyons of the colorado.[4] these were the brown-stanton expedition, which made a railroad survey through the canyons of the colorado; and another commonly known as the russell-monnette expedition, two of the party making the complete trip, arriving at needles after a voyage filled with adventure and many narrow escapes. mr. wolverton remarked that every one knew of those who had navigated the entire series of canyons, but that few people knew of those who had been unsuccessful. he knew of seven parties that had failed to get through cataract canyon's forty-one miles of rapids, with their boats, most of them never being heard of again. these unsuccessful parties were often miners or prospectors who wished to get into the comparatively flat country which began about fifty miles below the junction of the green and the grand rivers. here lay glen canyon, with 150 miles of quiet water. nothing need be feared in this, or in the 120 miles of good boating from green river, utah, to the junction. between these two points, however, lay cataract canyon, beginning at the junction of the two rivers. judging by its unsavory record, cataract canyon was something to be feared. among these parties who had made short trips on the river was one composed of two men. phil foote was a gambler, stage robber, and bad man in general. he had broken out of jail in salt lake city and, accompanied by another of similar character, stole a boat at green river, utah, and proceeded down the river. soon after entering cataract canyon, they lost their boat and provisions. finding a tent which had been washed down the river, they tore it into strips and constructed a raft out driftwood, tying the logs together with the strips of canvas. days of hardship followed, and starvation stared them in the face; until finally foote's partner gave up, said he would drown himself. with an oath foote drew his revolver, saying he had enough of such cowardice and would save him the trouble. his companion then begged for his life, saying he would stick to the end, and they finally got through to the hite ranch, which lay a short distance below. they were taken care of here, and terminated their voyage a short distance beyond, going out over land. foote was afterwards shot and killed while holding up a stage in nevada. the hite ranch also proved to be a place of refuge for others, the sole survivors of two other parties who were wrecked, one person escaping on each occasion. hite's ranch, and lee's ferry, 140 miles below hite, had mail service. we had left instructions at the post-office to forward our mail to one or the other of these points. these were also the only places on our 425-mile run to bright angel trail where we could expect to see any people, so we were informed. we were about to descend into what is, possibly, the least inhabited portion of the united states of america. a party of civil engineers working here, joined us that evening at wolverton's home. a young man in the party asked us if we would consent to carry a letter through with us and mail it at our destination. he thought it would be an interesting souvenir for the person to whom it was addressed. we agreed to do our best, but would not guarantee delivery. the next morning two letters were given us to mail, and were accepted with this one reservation. before leaving mr. wolverton showed us his motor boat with much pardonable pride. on this boat he sometimes took small parties down to the beginning of the colorado river, and up the grand, a round trip of three hundred miles or more. the boat had never been taken down the colorado for the simple reason that the rapids began almost immediately below the junction. wolverton, while he had never been through the rapids in a boat, had followed the river on foot for several miles and was thoroughly familiar with their nature. on parting he remarked, "well, boys, you are going to tackle a mighty hard proposition, but i'm sure you can make it if you are only careful. but look out and go easy." wolverton was no novice, speaking from much experience in bad water, and we were greatly impressed by what he had to say. five uneventful days were spent in labyrinth and stillwater canyons, through which the green peacefully completed its rather violent descent. in the upper end we usually found rough water in the canyons and quiet water in the open sections. here at least were two canyons, varying from 300 feet at their beginning to 1300 in depth, both without a rapid. the first of these was labyrinth canyon, so named from its elaborately winding course as well as its wonderful intricate system of dry, lateral canyons, and its reproduction in rock of architectural forms, castles, arches, and grottos; even animals and people were represented in every varying form. our sunday camp was beside what might be called a serpentine curve or series of loops in the river. this was at the centre of what is known as the double bow knot, three rounded loops, very symmetrical in form, with an almost circular formation of flat-topped rock, a mile or more in diameter in the centre of each loop. a narrow neck of rock connects these formations to the main mesa, all being on the same level, about 700 feet above the river. the upper half of the rock walls was sheer; below was a steep boulder-covered slope. the centre formation is the largest and most perfect, being nearly two miles in diameter and almost round; so much so, that a very few minutes are necessary to climb over the narrow neck which connects this formation to the mesa. it took 45 minutes of hard rowing on a good current to take us around this one loop. the neck is being rapidly eroded, two hundred feet having disappeared from the top, and at some distant day will doubtless disappear entirely, making a short cut for the river, and will leave a rounded island of rock standing seven hundred feet above the river. a bird's-eye view of the three loops would compare well in shape to the little mechanical contrivance known as the "eye" in the combination of "hook and eye." all women and many men will get a clear idea the shape of the double bow knot from this comparison. we recorded an interesting experiment with the thermometer at this camp, showing a great variety of temperatures, unbelievable almost to one who knows nothing of conditions in these semi-arid plateaus. a little ice had formed the night before. under a clear sky the next day at noon, our thermometer recorded 54 degrees in the shade, but ran up to 102 degrees in the sun. at the same time the water in the river was 52 degrees far. the effect of being deluged in ice-cold waves, then running into deep sunless canyons with a cold wind sweeping down from the snow on top, can be easier imagined than described. this is what we could expect to meet later. the colouring of the rocks varied greatly in many localities, a light red predominating. in some places the red rock was capped by a gray, flint-like limestone; in others this had disappeared, but underneath the red were regular strata of various-coloured rocks, pink, brown, light yellow, even blue and green being found in two or three sections. the forms of erosion were as varied as the rock itself, each different-coloured rock stratum presenting a different surface. in one place the surface was broken into rounded forms like the backs of a herd of elephants. in others we saw reproductions of images, carved by the drifting sands--a diana, with uplifted arm, as large as the goddess of liberty; a billiken on a throne with a hundred worshippers bowed around. covered with nature-made ruins and magnificent rock structures, as this section is, it is not entirely without utility. it is a grazing country. great numbers of contented cattle, white-faced, with red and white, or black and white patches of colour on their well-filled hides, were found in the open spaces between the sheer-walled cliffs. dusty, well-beaten trails led down through these wide canyons, trails which undoubtedly gained the top of the level, rocky plateau a few miles back from the river. as is usual in a cattle country at the end of the summer season, the bunch-grass, close to the water supply--which in this case happened to the river--was nibbled close to the roots. the cattle only came here to drink, then travelled many miles, no doubt, to the better grazing on the upper plateaus. the sage, always gray, was grayer still, with dust raised by many passing herds. there was a band of range horses too, those splendid wild-eyed animals with kingly bearing, and wind-blown tails and manes, lean like a race-horse, strong-muscled and tough-sinewed, pawing and neighing, half defiant and half afraid of the sight of men, the only thing alive to which they pay tribute. it is a never ending source of wonder, to those unacquainted with the semi-arid country, how these animals can exist in a land which, to them, seems utterly destitute and barren. to many such, a meadow carpeted with blue grass or timothy is the only pasture on which grazing horses or grazing cattle can exist; the dried-out looking tufts of bunch-grass, scattered here and there or sheltered at the roots of the sage, mean nothing; the grama-grass hidden in the grease-wood is unnoticed or mistaken for a weed. but if the land was bare of verdure, the rock saved it from being monotonous. varied in colour, the red rock predominated--blood-red at mid-day, orange-tinted at sunset, with gauze-like purple shadows, and with the delicate blue outlines always found in the western distances; such a land could never be called uninteresting. the banks of the stream, here in the open, were always green. from an elevation they appeared like two emerald bands through a land of red, bordering a stream the tint of the aged pottery found along its shores. we were continually finding new trees and strange shrubs. beside the cottonwoods and the willows there was an occasional wild-cherry tree; in the shrubs were the service-berry, and the squaw-berry, with sticky, acid-tasting fruit. the cacti were small, and excepting the prickly pear were confined nearly altogether to a small "pin-cushion" cactus, growing a little larger as we travelled south. and always in the mornings when out of the deep canyons the moist, pungent odour of the sage greeted our nostrils. it is inseparable from the west. there is no stuffy germ-laden air there, out in the sage; one is glad to live, simply to breathe it in and exhale and breathe again. in stillwater canyon the walls ran up to 1300 feet in height, a narrow canyon, with precipitous sides. occasionally we could see great columns of rock standing on top of the mesa. late one evening we saw some small cliff dwellings several hundred feet above the river, and a few crude ladders leaning against the cliff below the dwellings. a suitable camp could not be made here, or we would have stopped to examine them. the shores were slippery with mud and quicksands, and there was no fire-wood in sight. from here to the end of the canyons we would have to depend almost entirely on the drift-piles for fire-wood. a landing was finally made where a section of a cliff had toppled from above, affording a solid footing leading up to the higher bank. we judged from our maps that we were within a very few miles of the colorado river. here some footprints and signs of an old boat landing, apparently about a week old, were seen in the sand. this surprised us somewhat, as we had heard of no one coming down ahead of us. chapter xii could we succeed? an hour or two at the oars the next morning sufficed to bring us to the junction of the green and the grand rivers. we tied up our boats, and prepared to climb out on top, as we had a desire to see the view from above. a mile back on the green we had noticed a sort of canyon or slope breaking down on the west side, affording a chance to reach the top. loading ourselves with a light lunch, a full canteen, and our smaller cameras, we returned to this point and proceeded to climb out. powell's second expedition had climbed out at this same place; wolverton had also mentioned the fact that he had been out; so we were quite sure of a successful attempt before we made the climb. the walk close to the river, over rocks and along narrow ledges, was hard work; the climb out was even more so. the contour maps which we carried credited these walls with 1300 feet height. if we had any doubt concerning the accuracy of this, it disappeared before we finally reached the top. what we saw, however, was worth all the discomfort we had undergone. close the top, three branches of dry, rock-bottomed gullies carved from a gritty, homogeneous sandstone, spread out from the slope we had been climbing. these were less precipitous. taking the extreme left-hand gully, we found the climb to the top much easier. at the very end we found an irregular hole a few feet in diameter not a cave, but an opening left between some immense rocks, touching at the top, seemingly rolled together. gazing down through this opening, we were amazed to find that we were directly above the colorado itself. it was so confusing at first that we had to climb to the very top to see which river it was, i contending that it was the green, until satisfied that i was mistaken. the view from the top was overwhelming, and words can hardly describe what we saw, or how we were affected by it. we found ourselves on top of an irregular plateau of solid rock, with no earth or vegetation save a few little bushes and some very small cedars in cracks in the rocks. branching canyons, three or four hundred feet in depth, and great fissures ran down in this rock at intervals. some were dark and crooked, and the bottom could not be seen. between these cracks, the rock rounded like elephants backs sloping steeply on either side. some could be crossed, some could not. others resembled a "maze," the puzzle being how to get from one point to another a few away. the rock was a sandstone and presented a rough surface affording a good hold, so there was little danger of slipping. we usually sat down and "inched" way to the edge of the cracks, jumping across to little ledges when possible, always helping each other. the rock at the very edge of the main canyon overhung, in places 75 to 100 feet, and the great mass of gigantic boulders--sections of shattered cliffs--on the steep slope near the river gave evidence of a continual breaking away of these immense rocks. to the north, across the canyon up which we had climbed, were a great number of smooth formations, from one hundred to four hundred feet high, rounded on top in domes, reminding one of bagdad and tales from the arabian nights. "the land of standing rocks," the utes call it. the rock on which we stood was light gray or nearly white; the river walls at the base for a thousand feet above the river were dark red or chocolate-brown; while the tops of the formations above this level were a beautiful light red tint. but there were other wonders. on the south side of the colorado's gorge, miles away, were great spires, pointing heavenward, singly and in groups, looking like a city of churches. beyond the spires were the blue mountains, to the east the hazy lasalle range, and nearest of all on the west just north of the colorado lay the snow-covered peaks of the henry mountains. directly below us was the colorado river, muddy, swirllng, and forbidding. a mile away boomed a rapid, beyond that was another, then the river was lost to view. standing on the brink of all this desolation, it is small wonder if we recalled the accounts of the disasters which had overtaken so many others in the canyon below us. many who had escaped the water had climbed out on to this death trap, as it had proven to be for them, some to perish of thirst and starvation, a few to stagger into the ranch below the canyon, a week or more after they had escaped from the water. small wonder that some of these had lost their reason. we could only conjecture at the fate of the party whose wrecked boat had been found by the stone expedition, a few miles below this place, with their tracks still fresh in the sand. no trace of them was ever found. for the first time it began to dawn on us that we might have tackled a job beyond our power to complete. most of the parties which had safely completed the trip were composed of several men, adding much to the safety of the expedition, as a whole. others had boats much lighter than ours, a great help in many respects. speaking for myself, i was just a little faint-hearted, and not a little overawed as we prepared to return to the boats. while returning, we saw evidences of ancient indians--some broken arrow-heads, and pottery also, and a small cliff ruin under a shelving rock. what could an indian find here to interest him! we had found neither bird, nor rabbit; not even a lizard in the land of standing rocks. perhaps they were sun worshippers, and wanted an unobstructed view of the eastern sky. that at least could be had, in unrivalled grandeur, here above the rio colorado. the shadows were beginning to lengthen when we finally reached our boats at the junction. camp was made under a large weeping willow tree, the only tree of its kind we remembered having seen on the journey. while emery prepared a hasty meal i made a few arrangements for embarking on the colorado river the next morning. we were prepared to bid farewell to the green river--the stream that had served us so well. in spite of our trials, even in the upper canyons, we had found much enjoyment in our passage through its strange and beautiful surroundings. from a scenic point of view the canyons of the green river, with their wonderful rock formations and stupendous gorges, are second only to those of the colorado itself. it is strange they are so little known, when one considers the comparative ease with which these canyons on the lower end can be reached. some day perhaps, surfeited globe-trotters, after having tired of commonplace scenery and foreign lands, will learn what a wonderful region this is, here on the lower end of the green river. then no doubt, wolverton, or others with similar outfits, will find a steady stream of sight-seers anxious to take the motor boat ride down to this point, and up to moab, utah, a little mormon town on the grand river. a short ride by automobile from moab to the d. & r.c. railway would complete a most wonderful journey; then the transcontinental journey could be resumed. so i mused, as i contrived an arrangement of iron hooks and oak sticks to hold on a hatch cover, from which all the thumb screws had been lost. more than likely my dream of a line of sight-seeing motor boats will be long deferred; or they may even meet the fate of brown's and stanton's plans for a railroad down these gorges. as a reminder of the fate which overtakes so many of our feeble plans, we found a record of stanton's survey on a fallen boulder, an inscription reading "a 81 + 50. sta. d.c.c. & p.r.r.," the abbreviations standing for denver, colorado canyons, and pacific railroad. it is possible that the hands that chiselled the inscription belonged to one of the three men who were afterwards drowned in marble canyon. emery--being very practical--interrupted my revery and plans for future sight-seers by announcing supper. the meal was limited in variety, but generous in quantity, and consisted of a dried-beef stew, fried potatoes and cocoa. a satisfied interior soon dispelled all our previous apprehensiveness. we decided not to run our rapids before we came to them. the water still gave indications of being higher than low-water mark, although it was falling fast on the green river. each morning, for three days previous to our arrival at the junction, we would find the water about six inches lower than the stage of the evening before. strange to say, we gained on the water with each day's rowing, until we had almost overtaken the stage of water we had lost during the night. more than likely we would have all the water we needed under the new conditions which were before us. beginning with the colorado river, we made our journals much more complete in some ways, giving all the large rapids a number and describing many of them in detail. this was done, not only for our own satisfaction, but for the purpose of comparison with others who had gone through, for many of these rapids have histories. it was often a question, when on the green river, where to draw the line when counting a rapid; this was less difficult when on the colorado. while the descent was about the same as in some of the rapids above, the increased volume of water made them look and act decidedly different. we drew the line, when counting a rapid, at a descent having a decided agitation of the water, hidden rocks, or swift descent and with an eddy or whirlpool below. major powell considered that many of these drops in the next canyon were above the ordinary rapid, hence the name, cataract canyon. at one of the camps below green river, utah boat had been christened the _defiance_, by painting the name on the bow. after leaving the green we referred to the boats by their respective names, being in the _edith_, i in the _defiance_. [illustration: the junction of the two rivers. the grand river is on the right. note boats.] chapter xiii a companion voyager thursday morning, october the 26th, found emery feeling very poorly, but insisting on going ahead with our day's work, so camp no. 34 was soon behind us. we were embarked on a new stream, flowing west-southwest, with a body of water ten times the size of that which we had found in the upper canyons of the green. our sixteen-foot boats looked quite small when compared with the united currents of the green and the grand rivers. the colorado river must have been about 350 feet wide here just below the junction, with a three-mile current, and possibly twenty-five feet deep, although this is only a guess. the grand river appeared to be the higher of the two streams, and had a decidedly red colour, as though a recent storm was being carried down its gorges; while the colour of the green was more of a coffee colour--coffee with a little cream in it. a fourth of a mile below the junction the two currents began to mix, with a great ado about it, with small whirlpools and swift eddies, and sudden outbursts from beneath as though a strangled current was struggling to escape from the weight which overpowered it. the boats were twisted this way and that, and hard rowing was necessary to carry us down to the steadied current, and to the first rapid, which we could hear when yet far above it. soon we were running rapids again, and getting a lot of sport out of it. there were some rocks, but there was water enough so that these could be avoided. if one channel did not suit us, we took another, and although we were drenched in every rapid, and the cockpit was half filled each time, it was not cold enough to cause us any great discomfort, and we bailed out at the end of each rapid, then hurried on to tackle the next. each of these rapids was from a fourth to a third of a mile in length. the average was at least one big rapid to the mile. when no. 5 was reached we paused a little longer, and looked it over more carefully than we had the others. it had a short, quick descent, then a long line of white-topped waves, with a big whirlpool on the right. there were numerous rocks which would take careful work to avoid. the waves were big,--big enough for a motion picture,--so emery remained on shore with both the motion-picture camera and the 8x10 plate camera in position, ready to take the picture, while i ran my boat. at the head of this rapid we saw footprints in the sand, but not made with the same shoe as that which we had noticed above the junction. we had also seen signs of a camp, and some fishes' heads above this point, and what we took to be a dog's track along the shore. at the head of the next rapid we saw them again, but on opposite side of the river, and could see where boat had been pulled up on the sand. this next rapid was almost as bad as the one above it, but with a longer descent, instead of one abrupt drop. the following rapid was so close that we continued along the shore to look it over at the same time, saving a stop between the two rapids. the shores were strewn with a litter of gigantic boulders--fallen sections of the overhanging cliffs. we found more of this in cataract canyon than in any of the canyons above. this was partly responsible for the violence of the rapids, although the descent of the river would make rough water even if there were no boulders. working back along the shore, we were suddenly electrified into quick action by seeing the _edith_ come floating down the river, close to the shore and almost on the rapid. emery was a short distance ahead and ran for the _defiance_; i caught up a long pole and got on a projecting rock, hoping i might steer her in. she passed me, and was soon in the midst of the rapid before emery had launched the boat. three gigantic boulders extended above the water about fifty feet from shore, with a very crooked channel between. down toward these boulders came the _edith_, plunging like a thing possessed. how it was done i could never tell, but she passed through the crooked channel without once touching, and continued over the rapid. meanwhile emery had run the other side and had gained on the _edith_, but only caught her when close to the next rapid; so he turned her loose and came to the shore for me. emery had not been feeling his best and i advised him to remain on shore while i took the boat. as we made the change we again observed the boat, bounding through the next rapid, whirling on the tops of the waves as though in the hands of a superhuman juggler. i managed to overtake her in a whirlpool below the rapid, and came to shore for her captain. he was nearly exhausted with his efforts; still he insisted on continuing. a few miles below we saw some ducks, and shot at them with a revolver. but the ducks flew disdainfully away, and landed in the pool below. by 4.30 p.m. we were twelve miles below the junction, a very good day's run considering the kind of water we were travelling on, and the amount of time we spent on the shore. we had just run our twelfth rapid, and were turning the boats around, when we saw a man back from the shore working over a pile of boxes which he had covered with a piece of canvas. a boat was tied to the water's edge. we called to him, and he answered, but did not seem nearly as much interested in seeing companion travellers as we were, and proceeded with his work. we landed, and, to save time, introduced ourselves, as there seemed to be a certain aloofness in his manner. he gave the name of smith--with some hesitation, we thought. smith was about medium size, but looked tough and wiry; he had a sandy complexion, with light hair and mustache. he had lost one eye, the other was that light gray colour that is usually associated with indomitable nerve. he had a shrewd, rather humorous expression, and gave one the impression of being very capable. dressed in a neat whipcord suit, wearing light shoes and a carefully tied tie, recently shaved--a luxury we had denied ourselves, all this time--he was certainly an interesting character to meet in this out-of-the-way place. we should judge he was a little over forty years old; but whether prospector, trapper, or explorer it was hard to say. some coyote skins, drying on a rock, would give one the impression that he was the second, with a touch of the latter thrown in. these coyotes were responsible for the tracks we had seen, and had mistaken for dog tracks, but of all the canyons we had seen he was in the last place where we would expect to find a trapper. the coyotes evidently reached the river gorge through side canyons on the left, where we had seen signs of ancient trails. apart from that there was no sign of animal life. with the last of the wooded canyons, the signs of beaver had disappeared. there were a few otter tracks, but they are wily fellows, and are seldom trapped. while there are laws against the trapping of beaver, they seldom prevent the trappers from taking them when they get the chance; they are only a little more wary of strangers; the thought occurred to us that this trapper may have secured some beaver in the open sections above, and mistrusted us for this reason. it was too late to go any farther that evening, so we camped a hundred yards below him, close to where our boats were pulled out. at this place there was a long, wide flat in the canyon, with plenty of driftwood, so we saw no reason why we should quarrel with our neighbour. smith accepted our invitation to supper, stating that he had just eaten before we arrived, but enjoyed some pineapple which we had kept for some special occasion, and which was served for dessert. over the table we became better acquainted, and, after learning what we were doing, he recounted his experiences. he told us he had left green river, utah, a month before, and had been trapping as he came along. he knew there was a canyon, and some rapids below, but had no idea they were so bad, and thought they were about ended. no one had warned him, for he had told no one what he intended doing. he had bought an old water-logged boat that had been built by galloway, and seeing the uselessness of trying to run the rapids with it, worked it down along the shores by holding it with a light chain. once he had been pulled into the river, twice the boat had been upset, and he was just about dried out from the last spill when we arrived. he had heard us shooting at the ducks, so rather expected company--this in brief was his amazing story. we were surprised when we examined the boat closely. it had been well made, but was so old and rotten that it seemed ready to fall to pieces. in places, the nail heads had pulled through the boards. it was entirely open on top--a great risk in such water. his boxes were tied in to prevent loss. these boxes were now piled on the shore, with a large canvas thrown over them. this canvas, fastened at the top and sloping to the ground, served him for a tent; his bed was underneath. a pair of high-topped boots, placed bottom up over two sticks, stuck in the sand beside the camp-fire, explained the different tracks we had seen above. smith evidently was not much alarmed over his situation. about the only thing that seemed to bother him was the fact that his smoking tobacco had been wet several times. that evening we got out our guide-book--dellenbaugh's "a canyon voyage"--and tried to give him an idea of what was ahead. the walls ahead grew higher, and closer together; sometimes there was a shore on one side, sometimes on the other, at one or two places there was no shore on either side, and the rapids continued to get worse,--so we gathered from dellenbaugh's experience. above this point there were several places where one could climb out,--we had even seen signs of ancient trails in two side canyons,--below here few such places existed. smith listened to all this attentively, then smiled and said "i guess there will be some way through." after a short visit he returned to his camp. we noticed that he slept on his gun,--to keep it dry, no doubt, for it looked like rain. morning found us very sorry that we had not erected our tent, for it rained nearly all night, but when once in our beds it was a question which was preferable; to get out in the rain and put up our tent, or remain in our comfortable beds. we remained where we were. as we prepared to leave, we offered smith a chance to accompany us through cataract canyon, telling him that we would help him with his boat until the quiet water of glen canyon was reached. he declined the opportunity, saying that he would rather travel slowly and do what trapping he could. he welcomed a chance to take a ride on the _defiance_, however. we took him over two small rapids, and gave him an insight into our method of avoiding the dangers. he was very enthusiastic about it. on reaching the next rapid we all concluded it would be very unwise to carry any passengers, for it was violent water, so he got out on the shore. smith had once seen some moving pictures of japanese shooting rapids, but he said they were nothing compared to these, remarking that a bronco could hardly buck any harder. the next rapid was just as bad, rapid no. 14 for cataract canyon, and smith helped us secure a motion picture. then he prepared to return to his camp. just before leaving he explained rather apologetically, that ranchers, or others, were usually very unfriendly to a stranger coming into their section of the country. he had heard us shooting at the ducks and he imagined we belonged in some of the side canyons or on the top. this explained his puzzling attitude at our first meeting. if he had any beaver skins in his pack this would make him even more suspicious of strangers. we wished him nothing but the best of luck, and were good friends when we parted. his decision to make the trip alone, poorly equipped as he was, seemed like suicide to us. he promised to write to us if he got out, and with a final wave of the hand we left him on the shore. the rapid just passed was possibly the scene of the disaster discovered by the stone expedition. they found a clumsy boat close to the shore, jammed in a mass of rocks, smashed and abandoned. there were tracks of three people in the sand, one track being a boy's. a coat was left on the shore. the tracks disappeared up a box canyon. mr. stone corresponded with the only settlements in all that region, few in number, and far distant; but nothing was ever heard of them, two other parties have left green river, utah, within a year of this find and disappeared in like manner. this seemed to be the usual result of these attempts. in nearly every case they have started in boats that are entirely unfitted for rough water, and, seemingly without any knowledge of the real danger ahead, try to follow where others, properly equipped, have gone through. what a day of excitement that was! we always thought we needed a certain amount of thrills to make life sufficiently interesting for us. in a few hours' time, in the central portion of cataract canyon, we experienced nearly enough thrills to last us a lifetime. in one or two of the upper canyons we thought we were running rapids. now we were learning what rapids really were. no sooner were we through one than another presented itself. at each of them we climbed along the boulder-strewn shores--the lower slopes growing steeper, the walls above towering higher--clear to the end of the rapid. looking upstream we could pick out the submerged rocks hidden in the muddy water, and looking like an innocent wave from above. twice we had picked out channels in sharp drops, after carefully observing their actions and deciding they were free from obstructions, when suddenly the waves would part for an instant and disclose a hidden rock--in one case as sharp as a hound's tooth--sure disaster if we ever struck it. as soon as we had decided on a channel we would lose no time in getting back to our boats and running it for we could feel our courage oozing from our finger tips with each second's delay. time and again we got through just by a scratch. success bred confidence; i distinctly remember feeling that water alone would not upset the boat; that it would take a collision with a rock to do it. and each time we got through. twice i almost had reason to reverse my impression of the power of water. first the stern rose up in front of me, as if squaring off at the tops of the cliffs, then descended, until it seemed to be trying to plumb the depths of the river. the waves, rolling over me, almost knocked me out of the boat, i lost my hold on the oars and grabbed the sides of the boat; then, regaining the oars, i finished the run by pulling with the bow headed downstream, for the boat had "swapped ends" in the interval, and was heavy with about three barrels of water in the cockpit. i bailed out with a grocery box, kept under the seat for that purpose. it had been growing quite cold, and emery's indisposition--or what was really acute indigestion--had weakened him for the past two days, but he pluckily declined to stop. i was soaked with my last immersion and chilled with the wind, so concluded there was no use having him go through the same experience and i ran his boat while he made a picture. we were both ready to camp then, but there was no suitable place and we had to push on to the next rapid. on looking it over we almost gave up our intention of running it. it was about a fourth of a mile long; a mass of submerged rocks extended entirely across the river; the entire rapid seemed impossible. we finally concluded it might be run by shooting up, stern first, on a sloping rock near the shore, then return as the current recoiled and ran back, dividing on either side of the rock. the only clear channel was one about twelve feet wide, between this rock and the shore. a projecting shore above prevented a direct entrance to this channel. we threw logs in and watched their action. in each case they paused when within five or six feet of the top of the slope, then returned with the current, whirled back to the side and shot through close to the shore. we planned to go through as close together as possible. emery was ready first, i held back in a protecting pool, waiting for him to get out of the way. he got his position, facing stern downstream, gave the slightest shove forward, and the released boat whizzed down for fifty feet and ran up on the rock. she paused a moment, as the water prepared to return. he gave two quick pulls, shooting back again, slightly to the right, until he struck the narrow channel, then reversed his course and went through stern first exactly as we had planned it. the square stern, buoyed up by the air-chamber, lifted the boat out of the resulting wave as he struck the bottom of the descent. this much of the rapid had only taken a few seconds. i followed at once, but was not so fortunate. the _defiance_ was carried to the left side, where some water dropped over the side of the rock, instead of reversing. i pulled frantically, seeing visions, meanwhile, of the boat and myself being toppled off the side of the rock, into the boulders and waves below. my rowing had no effect whatever, but the boat was grabbed by the returning wave and shot, as if from a catapult, back and around to the right, through the sloping narrow channel,--my returning course describing a half circle. instead of rising, the pointed bow cut down into the waves until the water was on my shoulders. emery turned his head for an instant to see what success i was having, and his boat was thrown on to a rock close to the shore. i passed him and landed, just before going into the next rapid. i then went back and helped him off the rock, and he continued his course over the leaping waves. he broke a rowlock before he landed, and had to use the substitute we had hung beside it. we found a good spot for a camp just above the next rapid. our tent was stretched in front of a large boulder. a large pile of driftwood gave us all the fuel needed, and we soon had a big fire going and our wet clothes steaming on the line. chapter xiv a patient amid the cataracts an hour or so after making our camp, we began to doubt the wisdom of our choice of a location, for a downpour of rain threatened to send a stream of water under the tent. the stream was easily turned aside, while a door and numerous boards found in the drift pile, made a very good floor for the tent and lifted our sleeping bags off the wet sand. we had little trouble in this section to find sufficient driftwood for fires. the pile at this camp was enormous, and had evidently been gathering for years. some of it, we could be sure, was recent, for a large pumpkin was found deposited in the drift pile twenty-five feet above the low-water stage on which we were travelling. this pumpkin, of course, could only have come down on the flood that had preceded us. what a mixture of curios some of those drift piles were, and what a great stretch of country they represented! the rivers, unsatisfied with washing away the fertile soil of the upper country, had levied a greedy toll on the homes along their banks, as well. almost everything that would float, belonging to a home, could be found in some of them. there were pieces of furniture and toilet articles, children's toys and harness, several smashed boats had been seen, and bloated cattle as well. a short distance above this camp we had found two cans of white paint, carefully placed on top of a big rock above the high-water mark, by some previous voyager.[5] the boats were beginning to show the effect of hard usage, so we concluded to take the paint along. at another point, this same day, we found a corked bottle containing a faded note, undated, requesting the finder to write to a certain lady in delta, colorado. a note in my journal, beneath a record of this find, reads: "aha! a romance at last!" judging by the appearance of the note it might have been thrown in many years before. delta, we knew, was on the gunnison river, a tributary of the grand river. the bottle must have travelled over two hundred miles to reach this spot. a letter which i sent out later brought a prompt answer, with the information that this bottle and four others with similar notes were set adrift by the writer and four of her schoolmates, nearly two years before. an agreement was made that the one first receiving an answer was to treat the others to a dinner. our find was the second, so this young lady was a guest instead of the host. emery took but little interest in our camp arrangements this evening, and went to bed as soon as it was possible for him to do so. he said little, but he was very weak, and i could tell from his drawn face that he was suffering, and knew that it was nothing but nervous energy that kept him at his work--that, and a promise which he had made to build a fire, within a stated time now less than two weeks away, in bright angel creek canyon, nearly three hundred miles below this camp, a signal to his wife and baby that he would be home the next day. i was worried about his condition and i feared a fever or pneumonia. for two or three days he had not been himself. it was one thing to battle with the river when well and strong; it would be decidedly different if one of us became seriously ill. for the first time in all our experiences together, where determination and skill seemed necessary to success, i had taken the lead during the past two days, feeling that my greater weight and strength, perhaps, would help me pull out of danger where he might fail. in two or three rapids i felt sure he did not have the strength to pull away from certain places that would smash the boats. after running the _defiance_ through these rapids i suggested to him that; he would take a picture while i brought the _edith_ down. he would stay near the _defiance_, ready to aid in case of emergency. after being once through a rapid i found it quite a simple matter to run the second boat, and the knowledge that he would save me in case of an upset greatly lessened any danger that might have existed. he was too nervous to sleep, and asked me to take a last look at the boats before going to bed. they were pulled well up on the shore and securely tied, i found, so that it would take a flood to tear them loose. the rain, which had stopped for a while, began again as i rolled into the blankets; the fire, fed with great cottonwood logs, threw ghostly shadows on the cliffs which towered above us, and sputtered in the rain but refused to be drowned; while the roar of rapids, nos. 22 and 23 combined, thundered and reverberated from wall to wall, and finally lulled us to sleep. the rain continued all night, but the weather cleared in the morning. emery felt much the same as he had the day before, so we kept the same camp that day. we took some pictures, and made a few test developments, hanging the dark-room, or tent, inside the other tent for want of a better place to tie to. sunday, october the 29th, we remained at the same place, and by evening were both greatly benefited by the rest. on monday morning we packed up again, leaving only the moving-picture camera out, and pictured each other, alternately, as the boats made the plunge over the steep descent in rapid no. 23. both boats disappeared from sight on two or three occasions in this rapid and emerged nearly filled with water. the section just passed is credited with the greatest descent on the rivers, a fall of 75 feet in 3/4 of a mile. this includes the three rapids: nos. 21, 22, and 23. proceeding on our way the canyon narrowed, going up almost sheer to a height of 2500 feet or over. segregated spires, with castle-like tops, stood out from the upper walls. the rapids, or cataracts, compared well with those passed above, connected in some instances by swift-rushing water instead of the quiet pools which were usually found between the rapids. we ran ten rapids this day, but several of these which were counted as one were a series of two or three rapids, which might be one in high water. all had a shore on one side or the other, but caution was imperative when crossing in the swift water between the rapids. a mishap here meant destruction. we figured that we had travelled about ten miles for this day's run. the menacing walls continued to go higher with the next day's travel, until they reached a height of 2700 feet. the left wall was so sheer that it almost seemed to overhang. the little vegetation which we had found on the lower slope gradually disappeared as the walls grew steeper, but a few scattered shrubs, sage-brush, and an occasional juniper grew on the rocky sides, or in one or two side canyons which entered from the south. these side canyons had the appearance of running back for considerable distances, but we did not explore any of them and could tell very little about them from the river. after our noon lunch this day, in order to keep our minds from dwelling too much on the rather depressing surroundings, we proposed having a little sport. on two or three occasions we had made motion pictures from the deck of the boats as we rowed in the quiet water; here we proposed taking a picture from the boats as we went over the rapids. the two boats were fastened stern to stern, so that the rowing would be done from the first boat. my brother sat on the bow behind with the motion-picture camera in front of him, holding it down with his chin, his legs clinging to the sides of the boat, with his left hand clutching at the hatch cover, and with his right hand free to turn the crank. in this way we passed over two small rapids. after that one experience we never tried it in a large rapid. as smith had said a few days before the boat bucked like a broncho, and emery had a great deal of difficulty to stay with the boat, to say nothing of taking a picture. once or twice he was nearly unseated but pluckily hung on and kept turning away at the crank when it looked as if he and the camera would be dumped into the river. at one point in the lower end of cataract canyon we saw the name and date a.g. turner, '07. below this, close to the end of the canyon, were some ruins of cliff dwellings, and a ladder made by white men, placed against the walls below the ruins. on reaching a very deep, narrow canyon entering from the south, locally known as dark canyon, we knew that we were nearing the end of the rapids in cataract canyon. dark canyon extends a great distance back into the country, heading in the mountains we had seen to the south, when we climbed out at the junction of the green and the grand. pine cones and other growths entirely foreign to the growth of the desert region were found near its mouth. a flood had recently filled the bottom of this narrow canyon to a depth of several feet, but the water had settled down again and left a little stream of clear water running through the boulders. the rapid at the end of this canyon was one of the worst of the entire series, and had been the scene of more than one fatality, we had been told. it had a very difficult approach and swung against the right wall, then the water was turned abruptly to the left by a great pile of fallen boulders. the cresting waves looked more like breakers of the ocean than anything we had seen on the river. we each had a good scare as we ran this rapid. emery was completely hidden from my view, he was nearly strangled and blinded by the waves for a few seconds while struggling in the maelstrom; the _edith_ was dropped directly on top of a rock in the middle of this rapid, then lifted on the next wave. i also had a thrilling experience but avoided the rock. in the lower part of the rapid a rowlock pulled apart; and to prevent the boat from turning sideways in the rapid, i threw up my knee, holding the oar against it for a lever until i was in quieter water, and could get the other rowlock in position. separated from my brother in this instance, i had an opportunity to see the man and water conflict, with a perspective much as it would have appeared to a spectator happening on the scene. i was out of the heat of the battle. the excitement and indifference to danger that comes with a hand-to-hand grapple was gone. i heard the roar of the rapid; a roar so often heard that we forgot it was there. i saw the gloom of the great gorge, and the towering, sinister shafts of rock, weakened with cracks, waiting for the moment that would send them crashing to the bottom. i saw the mad, wild water hurled at the curving wall. jagged rocks, like the bared fangs of some dream-monster, appeared now and then in the leaping, tumbling waves. then down toward the turmoil--dwarfed to nothingness by the magnitude of the walls--sped the tiny shell-like boat, running smoothly like a racing machine! there was no rowing. the oar-blades were tipped high to avoid loss in the first comber; then the boat was buried in foam, and staggered through on the other side. it was buffeted here and there, now covered with a ton of water, now topping a ten-foot wave. like a skilled boxer--quick of eye, and ready to seize any temporary advantage--the oarsman shot in his oars for two quick strokes, to straighten the boat with the current or dodge a threatening boulder; then covered by lifting his oars and ducking his head as a brown flood rolled over him. time and again the manoeuvre was repeated: now here now there. one would think the chances were about one to a hundred that he would get through. but by some sort of a system, undoubtedly aided, many times, by good luck, the man and his boat won to land. after running a small rapid, we came to another, in the centre of which was an island,--the last rapid in cataract canyon. while not as bad as the one at dark canyon it was rather difficult, and at this point we found no shore on either side. the south side was rendered impassable by great boulders, much higher than the river level, which were scattered through the channel. the opposite channel began much like the rapid at dark canyon, sweeping under the wall until turned by a bend and many fallen rocks below the end of the island, then crossed with a line of cresting waves to the opposite side, where it was joined by the other stream, and the left wall was swept clean in like manner. we ran it by letting our boats drop into the stream, but pulled away from the wall and kept close to the island, then when its end was reached crossed the ridge of waves and pulled for the right-hand shore. in such rapids as this we often found the line of waves in the swift-rushing centre to be several feet higher than the water along the shore. then our thoughts reverted to smith. what would he do when he came to this rapid? the only escape was a narrow sloping ledge on the right side, beginning close to the water some distance above the rapid, reaching a height of sixty or seventy feet above the water at the lower end, while a descent could be made to the river some distance below here. it would be possible for him to climb over this with his provisions, but the idea of taking his boat up there was entirely out of the question, and, poorly equipped as he was, an attempt to run it would surely end in disaster. the breaking of an oar, the loss of a rowlock, or the slightest knock of his rotten boat against a rock, and smith's fate would be similar to those others whose bones lay buried in the sands. in the next four miles we had no more rapids, but had some fine travelling on a very swift river. it was getting dusk, but we pulled away, for just ahead of us was the end of cataract canyon. we camped by a large side canyon on the left named mille crag bend, with a great number of jagged pinnacles gathered in a group at the top of the walls, which had dropped down to a height of about 1300 feet. we felt just a little proud of our achievement, and believed we had established a record for cataract canyon, having run all rapids in four days' travelling, and come through in safety. we had one rapid to run the next morning at the beginning of narrow canyon, the only rapid in this nine-mile long canyon. the walls here at the beginning were twelve or thirteen hundred feet high, and tapered to the end, where they rise about four hundred feet above the dirty devil river. narrow canyon contains the longest straight stretch of river which we remembered having seen. when five miles from its mouth we could look through and see the snow-capped peak of mt. ellsworth beyond. this peak is one of the five that composes the henry mountains, which lay to the north of the river. three hours' rowing brought us to the end. we paused a few minutes to make a picture or two of the dirty devil river,--or the frã©mont river as it is now recorded on the maps. this stream, flowing from the north, was the exact opposite of the bright angel creek, that beautiful stream we knew so well, two hundred and fifty miles below this point. the dirty devil was muddy and alkaline, while warm springs containing sulphur and other minerals added to its unpalatable taste. after tasting it we could well understand the feeling of the jack sumner, whose remark, after a similar trial, suggested its name to major powell. a short distance below this we saw a tent, and found it occupied by an old-timer named kimball. among other things he told us that he had a partner, named turner, who had made the trip through the canyons above, and arrived at this point in safety. this was the man whose name we had seen on the walls in cataract canyon. less than two miles more brought us to the hite ranch, and post-office. john hite gave us a cordial reception. he had known of our coming from the newspapers; besides, he had some mail for us. we spent the balance of the day in writing letters, and listening to hite's interesting experiences of his many years of residence in this secluded spot. hite's home had been a haven for the sole survivor of two expeditions which had met with disaster in cataract. in each case they were on the verge of starvation. hite kept a record of all known parties who had attempted the passage through the canyons above. less than half of these parties, excepting galloway's several successful trips, succeeded in getting through cataract canyon without wrecking boats or losing lives. after passing the frã©mont river the walls on the right or north side dropped down, leaving low, barren sandstone hills rolling away from the river, with a fringe of willows and shrubs beside the water, and with the usual sage-brush, prickly pear, cactus and bunch-grass on the higher ground. we had seen one broken-down log cabin, but this ranch was the only extensive piece of ground that was cultivated. judging by the size of his stacks of alfalfa, hite had evidently had a good season. the banks of the south side of the river were about two hundred feet high, composed of a conglomerate mass of clay and gravel. this spot has long been a ferry crossing, known far and wide as dandy crossing, the only outlet across the river for the towns of southeastern utah, along the san juan river. the entire 150 miles of glen canyon had once been the scene of extensive placer operations. the boom finally died, a few claims only proving profitable. one of these claims was held by bert loper, one of the three miners who had gone down the river in 1908. loper never finished, as his boat--a steel boat, by the way--was punctured in a rapid above dark canyon but was soon repaired. his cameras and plates being lost, he sent from hite out for new ones. his companions--chas. russell, and e.r. monette--were to wait for him at lee's ferry, after having prospected through glen canyon. some mistake was made about the delivery of the cameras and, as hite post-office only had weekly communication with the railroad, a month elapsed before he finally secured them. lee's ferry had been discontinued as a post-office at that time, and, although he tried to get a letter in to them, it was never delivered. his disappointment can be imagined better than described, when he reached lee's ferry and found his companions had left just a few days previous. they naturally thought if he were coming at all he would have been there long before that, and they gave him up, not knowing the cause of the delay. they left a letter, however, saying they would only go to the bright angel trail, and the trip could be completed together on the following year. loper spent many hard days working his boat, with his load of provisions, back against the current, and located a few miles below the hite ranch. chapter xv placer gold we passed loper's claim after resuming our journey the next day. his workings were a one-man proposition and very ingenious. we found a tunnel in the gravel a hundred feet above the river, and some distance back from the river bank. a track of light rails ran from the river bank to these workings; the gravel and sand was loaded into a car, and hauled or pushed to the bank, then dumped into a chute, which sent it down to the river's edge. loper was not at his work however, neither did we find him at his ranch, a mile down the river. he had a neat little place, with fruit trees and a garden, a horse or two, and some poultry. after resuming our rowing, when about a mile down the river, some one called to us from the shore, and loper himself came running down to meet us. john hite had requested us to stop and see his brother, cass hite, who owned a ranch and placer working nearly opposite where loper had halted us; so loper crossed with us, as he was anxious to know of our passage through the canyons. we found, in cass hite, an interesting "old-timer," one who had followed the crowd of miners and pioneers, in the west, since the discovery of gold on the coast. he was the discoverer of the white canyon natural bridges, of southern utah, located between this point and the san juan river, and had been the first to open the ferry at dandy crossings. hite had prospected navajo mountain, southwest of this point, in the early sixties, about the time of the navajos' trouble with the united states army, under the leadership of kit carson, who dislodged them from their strongholds in the mountains after many others had failed. hite's life was saved on more than one occasion by warnings from a friendly chief, or head man of the western navajos, known as hoskaninni, who regarded him as a brother, and bestowed on him the name, hosteen pes'laki, meaning "silver man." he is still known by this name, and refers to his pretty ranch as tick a bo, a ute word for "friendly." hite proudly quoted a poem written by cy warman about the theme of the indian's regard for his white friend. warman had followed the crowd in to this spot at the time of the boom, looking for local colour--human local colour, not the glitter in the sands. it was at john hite's home where warman had composed the one time popular song, "sweet marie." it would be safe to say that he brought his inspiration with him, for this was decidedly a man's country. we were told that it had only been visited by one woman in the past twelve years. hite insisted on our remaining until the following morning, and we concluded that the rest would do us good. he loaded us up with watermelons, and with raisins, which he was curing at that time. we spent a pleasant afternoon under a shaded arbour, listening to his reminiscences, and munching at the raisins. that evening loper told us his story of their canyon expedition. he felt a little bitter about some newspaper reports that had been published concerning this expedition, these reports giving the impression that his nerve had failed him, and that for this reason he had not continued on the journey. we mollified his feelings somewhat, when we told him that his companions were not responsible for these reports; but rather, that short telegraphic reports, sent out from the grand canyon, had been misconstrued by the papers; and that this accounted for the stories which had appeared. his companions had remained at the grand canyon for two days following their arrival at bright angel trail. they gave loper credit, to our certain knowledge, of being the only one of the party who knew how to handle the boats in rough water when they began the trip, and had stated that he ran all the boats through certain rapids until they caught the knack. they could not know of his reasons for the delay, and at that time had no knowledge of his arrival at lee's ferry, after they had gone. naturally they were very much puzzled over his non-appearance. it got quite cold that night, and we were glad to have shelter of hite's hospitable roof. in our trip down the river to this point we had seemed to keep even with the first cold weather. in all places where it was open, we would usually find a little ice accompanied by frost in the mornings, or if no ice had frozen the grass would be wet with dew. in the canyons there was little or no ice, and the air was quite dry. naturally we preferred the canyons if we had a choice of camps. loper looked as though he would like to accompany us as we pulled away the next morning, after having landed him on the south side of the stream. we, at least, had full confidence in his nerve to tackle the lower colorado, after his record in cataract canyon. the five scattered peaks of the henry mountains were now to the north-northwest of us, rugged and snow-capped, supreme in their majesty above this desolate region. signs of an ancient indian race were plentiful in this section. there were several small cliff dwellings, walled up in ledges in the rocks, a hundred feet or so above a low flat which banked the river. at another place there were hundreds of carvings on a similar wall which overhung a little. drawings of mountain-sheep were plentiful; there was one representing a human figure with a bow and arrow, and with a sheep standing on the arrow--their way of telling that he got the sheep, no doubt. there were masked figures engaged in a dance, not unlike some of the hopi dances of to-day, as they picture them. there were geometrical figures, and designs of many varieties. a small rock building half covered with sand and the accumulations of many years stood at the base of the cliff; and quantities of broken pottery were scattered about the ruin. farther down the river a pathway was worn into the sandstone where countless bare and moccasined feet had toiled, and climbed over the sloping wall to the mesa above. the ruins in this section were not extensive, like those found in the tributary canyons of the san juan river, for instance, not a very great distance from here. possibly this people stopped here as they travelled back and forth, trading with their cousins to the north; or the dwellings may have been built by the scattered members of the tribe, when their strongholds were assailed by the more warlike tribes that crowded in on them from all sides. what a story these cliffs could tell! what a romance they could narrate of various tribes, as distinct from each other as the nations of europe, crowding each other; and at the last of this inoffensive race, coming from the far south, it may be; driven from pillar to post, making their last stand in this desert land; to perish of pestilence, or to be almost exterminated by the blood-thirsty tribes that surrounded them--then again, when the tide changed, and a new type of invader travelled from the east, pushing ever to the west, conquering all before them! but like the sphinx, the cliffs are silent and voiceless as the hillocks and sand-dunes along the nile, that other desert stream, with a history no more ancient and momentous than this. that night we camped opposite the ruins of a dredge, sunk in the low water at the edge of the river. this dredge had once represented the outlay of a great deal of money. it is conceded by nearly all experts that the sands of these rivers contain gold, but it is of such a fine grain--what is known as flour gold--and the expense of saving it is so great, that it has not paid when operated on such a large scale. a few placers in glen canyon have paid individual operators, some of these claims being in gravel deposits from six hundred to eight hundred feet above the present level of the river. on the following day we again entered deep canyon; sheer for several hundred feet, creamy white above, with a dark red colour in the lower sandstone walls. that afternoon we passed a small muddy stream flowing from the north, in a narrow, rock-walled canyon. this was the escalante river, a stream rising far to the north, named for one of the spanish priests who had travelled this country, both to the north and the south of this point, as early as the year 1776, about the time when the new england colonists were in the midst of their struggle with the mother country. just below the escalante river, the canyon turned almost directly south, continuing in this general direction for several miles. a glimpse or two was had of the top of a tree-covered snow-capped peak directly ahead of us, or a little to the southwest. this could be none other than navajo mountain, a peak we could see from the grand canyon, and had often talked of climbing, but debated if we could spare the time, now that we were close to it. in all this run through glen canyon we had a good current, but only one place resembling a rapid. here, below the escalante, it was very quiet, and hard pulling was necessary to make any headway. we were anxious to reach the san juan river that evening, but the days were growing short, and we were still many miles away when it began to grow dusk; so we kept a lookout for a suitable camp. the same conditions that had bothered us on one or two previous occasions were found here; slippery, muddy banks, and quicksand, together with an absence of firewood. we had learned before this to expect these conditions where the water was not swift. the slower stream had a chance to deposit its silt, and if the high water had been very quiet, we could expect to find it soft, or boggy. in the canyons containing swift water and rapids we seldom found mud, but found a firm sand, instead. here in glen canyon we had plenty of mud, for the river had been falling the last few days. time and again we inspected seemingly favourable places, only to be disappointed. the willows and dense shrubbery came down close to the river; the mud was black, deep, and sticky; all driftwood had gone out on the last flood. meanwhile a glorious full moon had risen, spreading a soft, weird light over the canyon walls and the river; so that we now had a light much better than the dusk of half an hour previous, our course being almost due south. finally, becoming discouraged, we decided to pull for the san juan river, feeling sure that we would find a sand-bar there. it was late when we reached it, and instead of a sand-bar we found a delta of bottomless mud. we had drifted past the point where the rivers joined, before noticing that the stream turned directly to the west, with canyon walls two or three hundred feet high, and no moonlight entered there. instead, it was black as a dungeon. from down in that darkness there came a muffled roar, reverberating against the walls, and sounding decidedly like a rapid. there was not a minute to lose. we pulled, and pulled hard--for the stream was now quite swift close to the right shore, and a sheer bank of earth about ten feet high made it difficult to land. jumping into the mud at the edge of the water, we tied the boats to some bushes, then tore down the bank and climbed out on a dry, sandy point of land. at the end or sharp turn of the sheer wall we found a fair camp, with driftwood enough for that night. emery, weak from his former illness and the long day's run, went to bed as soon as we had eaten a light supper. i looked after the cooking that evening, making some baking-powder bread,--otherwise known as a flapjack,--along with other arrangements for the next day; but i fear my efforts as a cook always resulted rather poorly. we had breakfast at an early hour the next morning and were ready for the boats at 7.15, the earliest start to our record. our rapid of the night before proved to be a false alarm, being nothing more than the breaking of swift water as it swept the banks of rocks at the turn. it was quite different from what we had pictured in our minds. we had long looked forward to this day. navajo mountain, with bare, jagged sides and tree-covered dome, was located just a few miles below this camp. it was a sandstone mountain peak, towering 7000 feet above the river, the steep slope beginning some five or six miles back from the stream. the base on which it rested was of sandstone, rounded and gullied into curious forms, a warm red and orange colour predominating. the north side, facing the river, was steep of slope, covered with the fragments of crumbled cliffs and with soft cream-tinted pinnacles rising from its slope. the south side, we had reason, to believe, was tree-covered from top to bottom; the north side held only a few scattered cedar piã±on we had often seen the hazy blue dome from the grand canyon, one hundred and twenty miles away, and while it was fifty miles farther by the river, we felt as if we were entered on the home stretch; as if we were in a country with which we were somewhat familiar. the colorado and the san juan rivers form the northern boundary of the navajo indian reservation, comprising a tract of land as large as many eastern states, extending over a hundred miles, both east and west from this point. embodied in this reservation, and directly opposite our camp, was a small section of rugged land set aside for some utes, who had friendly dealings, and who had intermarried with the navajo. but if we expected to find the navajo, or utes on the shore, ready to greet us, we were doomed to disappointment. we explored a few side canyons this morning, hoping to find a spot where some of major powell's party--particularly those men who were afterwards killed by the indians--had chiselled their names, which record we were told was to be found near the san juan, but on which side we were not sure. while in one of these canyons, or what was really nothing more than a crooked overhanging slit in the rocks, containing a small stream, emery found himself in some soft quicksand, plunged instantly above his knees, and sinking rapidly. he would have had a difficult time in getting out of this quicksand without help, for a smooth, rock wall was on one side, the other bank of the stream was sheer above him for a few feet, and there was nothing solid which he could reach. we had seen a great deal of quicksand before this, but nothing of this treacherous nature. usually we could walk quickly over these sands without any danger of being held in them, or if caught--while lifting on a boat for instance--had no difficulty in getting out. when once out of this canyon we gave up our search for the carved record. but it was not the hope of shortening our homeward run, or the prospect of meeting indians on the shores, or of finding historical records, even, that caused us to make this early start. it was the knowledge that the wonderful rainbow natural bridge, recently discovered, and only visited by three parties of whites, lay hidden in one of the side canyons that ran from the north slope of navajo mountain. no one had gone into it from the river, but we were told it could be done. we hoped to find this bridge. the current was swift, and we travelled fast, in spite of a stiff wind which blew up the stream, getting a very good view of the mountain from the river a few miles below our camp, and another view of the extreme top, a short distance below this place, not over six miles from the san juan. we had directions describing the canyon in which the bridge was located, our informant surmising that it was thirty miles below the san juan. we thought it must be less than that, for the river was very direct at this place, and a person travelling over the extremely rough country which surrounded this side of the mountain slope would naturally have to travel much farther, so began to look for it about twelve miles below camp. but mile after mile went by without any sign of the landmarks that would tell us we were at the "bridge canyon." then the river, which had circled the northern side of the peak, turned directly away from it, and we knew that we had missed the bridge. at no point on the trip had we met with a disappointment to equal that; even the loss of our moving-picture film, after our spill in lodore, was small when compared with it. on looking back over the lay of the land, we felt sure that the bridge was at one of the two places, where we had seen the top of the mountain from the river. to go back against the current would take at least three days. our provisions were limited in quantity and would not permit it; the canyon had deepened, and a second bench of sheer cliffs rose above the plateau, making it impossible to climb out: so we concluded to make the best of it, and pulled down the stream, trying to put as many miles as possible between ourselves and our great disappointment. this afternoon we passed from utah into arizona. for the remainder of the trip we would have arizona on one side of the river at least. we had much the same difficulty this evening as we had the night before in finding a camp. judging by the evidence along the shore, the high water which came down the san juan had been a torrent, much greater than the flood on the colorado and its upper tributaries. chapter xvi a warning we camped that night at the ute ford, or the crossing of the fathers; a noted landmark of bygone days, when escalante (in 1776) and others later followed the inter-tribal trails across these unfriendly lands. later marauding navajo used this trail, crossing the canyon to the north side, raiding the scattered mormon settlements, bringing their stolen horses, and even sheep, down this canyon trail. then they drove them across on a frozen river, and escaped with them to their mountain fastness. the mormons finally tired of these predatory visits, and shut off all further loss from that source by blasting off a great ledge at the north end of the trail. this ruined the trail beyond all hope of repair, and there is no travel at present over the old ute crossing. the fording of the river on horseback was effected by dropping down to the river through a narrow side canyon, and crossing to the centre on a shoal, then following a centre shoal down quite a distance, and completing the crossing at a low point on the opposite side. this was only possible at the very lowest stage of water. the morning following our arrival here, we walked about a mile up the gravelly slope on the south side, to see if we could locate the pass by which the trail dropped down over these 3000-foot walls. the canyon had changed in appearance after leaving the mountain, and now we had a canyon; smaller, but not unlike the grand canyon in appearance, with an inner plateau, and a narrow canyon at the river, while the walls on top were several miles apart, and towering peaks or buttes rose from the plateau, reaching a height almost equal to the walls themselves. the upper walls were cream-tinted or white sandstone, the lower formation was a warm red sandstone. we could not discover the pass without a long walk to the base of the upper cliffs, so returned to the boats. about this time we heard shots, seeming to come from some point down the river, and on the north side. later a dull hollow sound was heard like pounding on a great bass drum. we could not imagine what it was, but knew that it must be a great distance away. we had noticed instances before this, where these smooth, narrow canyon had a great magnifying effect on noises. in the section above the san juan, where the upper walls overhung a little, a loud call would roll along for minutes before it finally died. a shot from a revolver sounded as if the cliff were falling. our run this morning was delightful. the current was the best on which we had travelled. the channel swung from side to side, in great half circles, with most of the water thrown against the outside bank, or wall, with a five-or six-mile an hour current close to the wall. we took advantage of all this current, hugging the wall, with the stern almost touching, and with the bow pointed out so we would not run into the walls or scrape our oars. then, when it seemed as if our necks were about to be permanently dislocated, from looking over one shoulder, the river would reverse its curve, the channel would cross to the other side, and we would give that side of our necks a rest. once in a great while i would bump a rock, and would look around sheepishly, to see if my brother had seen me do it. i usually found him with a big grin on his face, if he happened to be ahead of me. we rowed about twenty miles down the river before we learned what had caused the noises heard in the morning. on rounding a turn we saw the strange spectacle of fifteen or twenty men at work on the half-constructed hull of a flat-bottomed steamboat, over sixty feet in length. this boat was on the bank quite a distance above the water, with the perpendicular walls of a crooked side canyon rising above it. it was a strange sight, here in this out-of-the-way corner of the world. some men with heavy sledges were under the boat, driving large spikes into the planking. this was the noise we had heard that morning. the blasting, we learned later, was at some coal mines, several miles up this little canyon, which bore the name of warm creek canyon. a road led down through the canyon, making it possible to haul the lumber for the boat, clear to the river's edge. the nearest railroad was close to two hundred miles from this place, quite a haul considering the ruggedness of the country. the material for the boat had been shipped from san francisco, all cut, ready to put together. the vessel was to be used to carry coal down the river, to a dredge that had recently been installed at lee's ferry. the dinner gong had just sounded when we landed, and we were taken along with the crowd. there were some old acquaintances in this group of men, we found, from flagstaff, arizona. these men had received a flagstaff paper which had published a short note we had sent from green river, utah. they had added a comment that no doubt this would be the last message we would have an opportunity to send out. very cheering for emery's wife, no doubt. fortunately she shared our enthusiasm, and if she felt any apprehension her few letters failed to show it. we resumed our rowing at once after dinner, for we wished to reach lee's ferry, twenty-five miles distant, that evening. we had a good current, and soon left our friends behind us. we pulled with a will, and mile after mile was covered in record time, for our heavy boats. the walls continued to get higher as we neared our goal, going up sheer close to the river. we judged the greatest of these walls to be about eleven hundred feet high. after four hours of steady pulling we began to weary, for ours were no light loads to propel; but we were spurred to renewed effort by hearing the sounds of an engine in the distance. on rounding a turn we saw the end of glen canyon ahead of us, marked by a breaking down of the walls, and a chaotic mixture of dikes of rock, and slides of brilliantly coloured shales, broken and tilted in every direction. just below this, close to a ferry, we saw the dredge on the right side of the river. we were quite close to the dredge before we were seen. some men paused at their work to watch us as we neared them, one man calling to those behind him, "there come the brothers!" a whistle blew announcing the end of their day's labour, and of ours as well, as it happened. there was some cheering and waving of hats. one who seemed to be the foreman asked us to tie up to a float which served as a landing for three motor boats, and a number of skiffs. a loudly beaten triangle of steel announced that the evening meal was ready at a stone building not far from the dredge. we were soon seated at a long table with a lot of others as hungry as we, partaking of a well-cooked and substantial meal. we made arrangements to take a few meals here, as we wished to overhaul our outfits before resuming our journey. the meal ended, we inquired for the post-office, and were directed to a ranch building across the paria river, a small stream which entered from the north, not unlike the frã©mont river in size and appearance. picking our way in the darkness, on boulders and planks which served as a crossing, we soon reached the building, set back from the river in the centre of the ranch. a man named johnson, with his family, had charge of the ranch and post-office as well. mail is brought by carrier from the south, a cross-country trip of 160 miles, through the hopi and navajo indian reservations. johnson informed us that an old-time friend named dave rust had waited here three or four days, hoping to see us arrive, but business matters had forced him to leave just the day before. we were very sorry to have missed him. rust lived in the little mormon town of kanab, utah, eighty miles north of the grand canyon opposite our home. in addition to being a cattle man and rancher, he had superintended the construction of a cable crossing, or tramway, over the colorado river, beside the mouth of bright angel creek, not many miles from our home. he also maintains a cozy camp at this place, for the accommodation of tourists and hunting parties, which he conducts up bright angel creek and into the kaibab forest. it was while returning from such a hunting trip that we first met rust. many are the trips we have taken with him since then, emery, with his wife and the baby, even, making the "crossing" and the eighty-mile horseback ride to his home in kanab, while i had continued on through to salt lake city. rust had been the first to tell us of galloway and his boating methods; and had given us a practical demonstration on the river. naturally there was no one we would have been more pleased to see at that place, than rust. in our mail we found a letter from him, stating, among other things, that he had camped the night before on the plateau, a few hundred feet above a certain big rapid, well known through this section as the soap creek rapid. this locality is credited with being the scene of the first fatality which overtook the brown-stanton expedition; brown being upset and drowned in the next rapid which followed, after having portaged the soap creek rapid. rust wrote also that there was a shore along the rapid, so there would be no difficulty in making the portage; and concluded by saying that he had a very impressive dream about us that night, the second of its kind since we had started on our journey. we understood from this that he had certain misgivings about this rapid, and took his dream to be a sort of a warning. rust should have known us better. with all the perversity of human nature that letter made me want to run that rapid if it were possible. why run the rapid, and get a moving picture as it was being done. then we could show rust how well we had learned our lesson! so i thought as we returned to the buildings near the dredge, but said nothing of what was in my mind to emery, making the mental reservation that i would see the rapid first and decide afterwards. the foreman of the placer mines called us into his office that evening, and suggested that it might be a good plan to go over our boats thoroughly before we left, and offered us the privilege of using their workshop, with all its conveniences, for any needed repairs. he also let us have a room in one of the buildings for our photographic work. this foreman mourned the loss of a friend who had recently been drowned at the ferry. it seemed that the floods which had preceded us, especially that part which came down the san juan river, had been something tremendous, rising 45 feet at the ferry, where the river was 400 feet wide; and rising much higher in the narrow portions of glen canyon. great masses of driftwood had floated down, looking almost like a continuous raft. when the river had subsided somewhat, an attempt was made to cross with the ferry. the foreman and his friend, with two others, and a team of horses hitched to a wagon, were on the ferry. when in midstream it overturned in the swollen current. three of the men escaped, the other man and the horses were drowned. a careful search had been made for the body to a point a few miles down the river, then the canyon closed in and they could go no farther. the body was never recovered. it is seldom that the colorado river gives up its dead. the heavy sands collect in the clothes, and a body sinks much quicker than in ordinary water. any object lodged on the bottom is soon covered with a sand-bar. the foreman knew this, of course; yet he wished us to keep a lookout for the body, which might, by some chance, have caught on the shore, when the water receded. this was as little as any one would do, and we gave him our promise to keep a careful watch. chapter xvii a night of thrills we declined the offer of a roof that night, preferring to sleep in the open here, for the evening was quite warm. we went to work the next morning when the whistle sounded at the dredge. beyond caulking a few leaks in the boats, little was done with them. the tin receptacles holding our photographic plates and films were carefully coated with a covering of melted paraffine; for almost anything might happen, in the one hundred miles of rapid water that separated us from our home. lee's ferry was an interesting place, both for its old and its new associations. this had long been the home of john d. lee, well known for the part he took in the mountain meadow massacre, and for which he afterwards paid the death penalty. here lee had lived for many years, making few visits to the small settlements to the north, but on one of these visits he was captured. there were six or seven other buildings near the large stone building where we took our meals, so arranged that they made a short street, the upper row being built against a cliff of rock and shale, the other row being placed halfway between this row and the river. these buildings were all of rock, of which there was no lack, plastered with adobe, or mud. one, we were told, had been lee's stronghold, it was a square building, with a few very small windows, and with loopholes in the sides. at the time of our visit it was occupied by two men; one, a young englishman, recently arrived from south africa--a remittance-man, in search of novelty--the other a grizzled forty-niner. much could be written about this interesting group of men, and their alluring employment. there were some who had followed this work through all the camps of the west--to colorado, to california, and to distant alaska as well, they had journeyed; but it is doubtful if, in all their wanderings, they had seen any camp more strangely located than this, hemmed in with canyon walls. to us, their dredge and the steamboat up the river seemed as if they had been taken from the pages of some romance, or bit of fiction, and placed before us for our entertainment. there were other men as well, just as interesting m their way as the "old-timers," the sons of some of the owners of this proposition,--clean-cut young fellows,--working side by side with the veterans, as enthusiastic as if on their college campus. one feature about the dredge interested us greatly. this was a tube, or sucker, held suspended by a derrick above a float, and operated by compressed air. the tube was dropped into the sand at the bottom of the river, and would eat its way into it, bringing up rocks the size of one's fist, along with the gravel and sand. in a few hours a hole, ten or fifteen feet in depth and ten feet in diameter, would be excavated. then the tube was raised, the float was moved, and the work started again. the coarse sand and gravel, carried by a stream of water, was returned to the river, after passing over the riffles; the screenings which remained passed over square metal plates--looking like sheets of tin--covered with quicksilver. these plates were cleaned with a rubber window-cleaner, and the entire residue was saved in a heavy metal pot, ready for the chemist. one day only was needed for our work, and by evening we were ready for the next plunge. we might have enjoyed a longer stay with these men, but stronger than this desire was our anxiety to reach our home, separated from us by a hundred miles of river, no extended part of the distance being entirely free from rapids. we had written to the grand canyon, bidding them look for our signal fire in bright angel creek canyon, in from seven to ten days, and planned to leave on the following morning. nothing held us now except the hope that the mail, which was due that evening, might bring us a letter, although that was doubtful, for we were nearly a week ahead of our schedule as laid out at green river, utah. as we had anticipated, there was no mail for us, so we turned to inspect the mail carrier. he was a splendid specimen of the navajo indian,--a wrestler of note amoung his people, we were told,--large and muscular, and with a peculiar springy, slouchy walk that gave one the impression of great reserve strength. he had ridden that day from tuba, an agency on their reservation, about seventy miles distant. this was the first sign of an indian that we had seen in this section, although we had been travelling along the northern boundary of their reservation since leaving the mouth of the san juan. these indians have no use for the river, being children of the desert, rather than of the water. beyond an occasional crossing and swimming their horses at easy fords, they make no attempt at its navigation, even in the quiet water of glen canyon. some of the men showed this indian our boats, and told him of our journey. he smiled, and shrugged his massive shoulders as much as to say, he "would believe it when he saw it." he had an opportunity to see us start, at least, on the following morning. before leaving, we climbed a 300-foot mound on the left bank of the paria river, directly opposite the lee ranch. this mound is known as lee's lookout. whether used by lee or not, it had certainly served that purpose at some time. a circular wall of rock was built on top the mound, and commanded an excellent view of all the approaches to the junction of the rivers. this spot is of particular interest to the geologist, for a great fault, indicated by the vermilion cliffs, marks the division between glen canyon and marble canyon. this line of cliffs extends to the south for many miles across the painted desert, and north into utah for even a greater distance, varying in height from two hundred feet at the southern end to as many thousand feet in some places to the north. looking to the west, we could see that here was another of those sloping uplifts of rock, with the river cutting down, increasing the depth of the canyon with every mile. we had now descended about 2900 feet since leaving green river city, wyoming, not a very great fall for the distance travelled if an average is taken, but a considerable portion of the distance was on quiet water, as we have noted, with a fall of a foot or two to the mile, and with alternate sections only containing bad water. we were still at an elevation of 3170 feet above the sea-level, and in the 283 miles of canyon ahead of us--marble canyon and the grand canyon combined--the river descends 2330 feet, almost a continuous series of rapids from this point to the end of the grand canyon. after a hasty survey from our vantage point, we returned to the river and prepared to embark. as we left the dredge, the work was closed down for a few minutes, and the entire crowd of men, about forty in number, stood on an elevation to watch us run the first rapid. the indian had crossed to the south side of the to feed his horse and caught a glimpse of us as we went past him. running pell-mell down to his boat, he crossed the river and joined the group on the bank. about this time we were in the grip of the first rapid, a long splashy one, with no danger whatever, but large enough to keep us busy until we had passed from view. a few miles below this, after running a pair of small rapids, we reached a larger one, known as the badger creek rapid, with a twenty-foot drop in the first 250 feet, succeeded by a hundred yards of violent water. emery had a little difficulty in this rapid, when his boat touched a rock which turned the boat sideways in the current, and he was nearly overturned in the heavy waves which followed. as it was, we were both drenched. about the middle of the afternoon, twelve miles below lee's ferry, we reached the soap creek rapid of which we had heard so much. the rapid had a fall of twenty-five feet, and was a quarter of a mile long. most of the fall occurred in the first fifty yards. the river had narrowed down until it was less than two hundred feet wide at the beginning of the descent. many rocks were smattered all through the upper end, especially at the first drop. on the very brink or edge of the first fall, there was a submerged rock in the centre of the channel, making an eight-foot fall over the rock. a violent current, deflected from the left shore, shot into this centre and added to the confusion. twelve-foot waves from the conflicting currents, played leap-frog, jumping over or through each other alternately. clearly there was no channel on that side. on the right or north side of the stream it looked more feasible, as the water shot down a sloping chute over a hundred feet before meeting with an obstruction. this came in the shape of two rocks, one about thirty feet below the other. to run the rapid this first rock would have to be passed before any attempt could be made to pull away from the second rock, which was quite close to the shore. once past that there was a clear channel to the end of the rapid, if the centre, which contained many rocks, was avoided. below the rapid was the usual whirlpool, then a smaller rapid, running under the left wall. this second rapid was the one that had been so fatal for brown. the soap creek rapid in many ways was not as bad as some we had gone over in cataract canyon, but there were so many complications that we hesitated a long time before coming to a decision that we would make an attempt with one boat, depending on our good luck which had brought us through so many times, as much as we depended on our handling of the boat. it was planned that i should make the first attempt while emery remained with the motion-picture camera just below the rock that we most feared, with the agreement that he was to get a picture of the upset if one occurred, then run to the lower end of the rapid with a rope and a life-preserver. after adjusting life-preservers i returned to my boat and was soon on the smooth water above the rapid, holding my boat to prevent her from being swept over the rock in the centre, jockeying for the proper position before i would allow her to be carried into the current. once in, it seemed but an instant until i was past the first rock, and almost on top of the second. i was pulling with every ounce of strength, and was almost clear of the rock when the stern touched it gently. i had no idea the boat would overturn, but thought she would swing around the rock, heading bow first into the stream, as had been done before on several occasions. instead of this she was thrown on her side with the bottom of the boat held against the rock while i found myself thrown out of the boat, but hanging to the gunwale. then the boat swung around and instantly turned upright while i scrambled back into the cockpit. looking over my shoulder, when i had things well in hand again, i saw my brother was still at the camera, white as a sheet, but turning at the crank as if our entire safety depended on it. after i landed the water-filled boat, however, he confessed to me that he had no idea whether he had caught the upset or not, as he may have resumed the work when he saw that i was safe. then we went to work to find out what damage was done. first we found that the case, which was supposed to be waterproof, had a half-inch of water inside, but fortunately none of our films were wet. some plates which we had just exposed and which were still in the holders were soaked. the cameras also had suffered. we hurriedly wiped off the surplus water and piled these things on the shore, then emptied the boat of a few barrels of water. this one experience, i suppose, should have been enough for me with that rapid, but i foolishly insisted on making another trial at it with the _edith_, for i felt sure i could make it if i only had another chance, and the fact that emery had the empty boat at the end of the rapid and could rescue me if an upset occurred greatly lessened the danger. the idea of making a portage, with the loss of nearly a day, did not appeal to me. emery agreed to this reluctantly, and advised waiting until morning, for it was growing dusk, but with the remark "i will sleep better with both boats tied at the lower end of the rapid," i returned to the _edith_. to make a long story short i missed my channel, and was carried over the rock in the centre of the stream. the _edith_ had bravely mounted the first wave, and was climbing the second comber, standing almost on end, seemed to me, when the wave crested over the stern while the current shooting it from the side struck the submerged bow and she fell back in the water upside down. it was all done so quickly, i hardly knew what had occurred, but found myself in the water, whirling this way and that, holding to the right oar with a death-grip. i wondered if the strings would hold, and felt a great relief when the oar stopped slipping down,--as the blade reached the ring. it was the work of a second to climb the oar, and i found i was under the cockpit. securing a firm hold on the gunwale, which had helped us so often, i got on the outside of the boat, thinking i might climb on top. about that time one of the largest waves broke over me, knocking me on the side of the head as if with a solid object, nearly tearing me from the boat. after that i kept as close to the boat as possible, paddling with my feet to keep them clear of rocks. then the suction of the boat caught them and dragged them under, and for the rest of the rapid i had all i could do to hang to the boat. as the rapid dwindled i began to look for emery, but was unable to see him, for it was now growing quite dark, but i could see a fire on shore that he had built. i tried to call but was strangled with the breaking waves; my voice was drowned in the roar of the rapid. one of the life-preservers was torn loose and floated ahead of me. finally i got an answer, and could see that emery had launched his boat. as he drew near i told him to save the life-preserver, which he did, then hurriedly pulled for me. i remarked with a forced laugh, to reassure him, "gee, emery, this water's cold." he failed to join in my levity, however, and said with feeling, "thank the good lord you are here!" and down in my heart i echoed his prayer of thanks. somehow i had lost all desire to successfully navigate the soap creek rapid. but our troubles were not entirely over. emery had pulled me in after a futile attempt or two, with a hold sometimes used by wrestlers, linking his arm in mine, leaning forward, and pulling me in over his back i was so numbed by the cold that i could do little to help him, after what, i suppose, was about a quarter of an hour's struggle in the water; although it seemed much longer than that to me. we then caught the _edith_ and attempted to turn her over, but before this could be done we were dragged into the next rapid. emery caught up the oars, while i could do nothing but hold to the upturned boat, half filled with water, striving to drag us against the wall on the left side of the stream. it was no small task to handle the two boats in this way, but emery made it; then, when he thought we were sure of a landing, the _edith_ dragged us into the river again. two more small rapids were run as we peered through the darkness for a landing. finally we reached the shore over a mile below the soap creek rapid. we were on the opposite side of the stream from that where we had unloaded the _defiance_. this material would have to stay where it was that night. while bailing the water from the _edith_ we noticed a peculiar odour, and thought for a while that it might be the body of the man who was drowned at the ferry, but later we found it came from a green cottonwood log that had become water-soaked, and was embedded in the sand, close to our landing. it was emery's turn to do the greater part of the camp work that night, while i was content to hug the fire, wrapped in blankets, waiting for the coffee to boil. chapter xviii marble halls and marble walls there was little of the spectacular in our work the next day as we slowly and laboriously dragged an empty boat upstream against the swift-running current, taking advantage of many little eddies, but finding much of the shore swept clean. i had ample opportunity to ponder on the wisdom of my attempt to save time by running the soap creek rapid instead of making a portage, while we carried our loads over the immense boulders that banked the stream, down to a swift piece of water, past which we could not well bring the boats or while we developed the wet plates from the ruined plate-holders. it was with no little surprise that we found all the plates, except a few which were not uniformly wet and developed unevenly, could be saved. it took a day and a half to complete all this work. marble canyon was now beginning to narrow up with a steep, boulder-covered slope on either side, three or four hundred feet high; with a sheer wall of dark red limestone of equal height directly above that. there was also a plateau of red sandstone and distant walls topped with light-coloured rock, the same formations with which we were familiar in the grand canyon. the inner gorge had narrowed from a thousand feet or more down to four hundred feet, the slope at the river was growing steeper and gradually disappearing, and each mile of travel had added a hundred feet or more to the height of the walls. soon after resuming our journey that afternoon, the slope disappeared altogether, and the sheer walls came down close to the water. there were few places where one could climb out, had we desired to do so. this hard limestone wall, which major powell had named the marble wall, had a disconcerting way of weathering very smooth and sheer, with a few ledges and fewer breaks. we made a short run that day, going over a few rapids, stopping an hour to make some pictures where an immense rock had fallen from the cliff above into the middle of the river bed, leaving a forty-foot channel on one side, and scarcely any on the other. below this we found a rapid so much like the soap creek rapid in appearance that a portage seemed advisable. it was evening when we got the _edith_ to the lower end of this rapid after almost losing her, as we lined her down, and she was wedged under a sloping rock that overhung the rapid. we had two ropes, one at either end, attached to the boat in this case. emery stood below the rock ready to pull her in when once past the rock. there was a sickening crackling of wood as the deck of the boat wedged under and down to the level of the water, and at emery's call i released the boat, throwing the rope into the river, and hurried to help him. he was almost dragged into the water as the boat swung around fortunately striking against a sand-bank, instead of the many rocks that lined the shore. we were working with a stream different from the green river, we found, and the _defiance_ was taken from the water the next day and slowly worked, one end at a time, over the rocks, up to a level sand-bank, twenty-five or thirty feet above the river. then we put rollers under her, and worked her down past the rapid. this work was little to our liking, for the boats, now pretty well water-soaked, weighed considerably more than their original five hundred pounds' weight. a few successful plunges soon brought back our former confidence, and we continued to run all other rapids that presented themselves. this afternoon we passed the first rapid we remembered having seen, where we could not land at its head before running it. a slightly higher stage of water, however, would have made many such rapids. just below this point we found the body of a bighorn mountain-sheep floating in an eddy. it was impossible to tell just how he came to his death. there was no sign of any great fall that we could see. he had a splendid pair of horns, which we would have liked to have had at home, but which we did not care to amputate and carry with us. on this day's travel, we passed a number of places where the marble--which had suggested this canyon's name to major powell--appeared. the exposed parts were checked, or seamed, and apparently would have little commercial value. we passed a shallow cave or two this day, then found another cave or hole, running back about fifteen feet in the wall, so suitable for a camp that we could not refuse the temptation to stop, although we had made but a very short run this day. the high water had entered it, depositing successive layers of sand on the bottom, rising in steps, one above the other, making convenient shelves for maps and journals, pots and pans; while little shovelling was necessary to make the lower level of sand fit our sleeping bags. a number of small springs, bubbling from the walls near by, gave us the first clear water that we had found for some time, and a pile of driftwood caught in the rocks, directly in front of our cave, added to its desirability for a camp. firewood was beginning to be the first consideration in choosing a camp, for in many places the high water had swept the shores clean, and spots which might otherwise have made splendid camps were rendered most undesirable for this reason. so camp number 47 was made in this little cave, with a violent rapid directly beneath us, making a din that might be anything but reassuring, were we not pretty well accustomed to it by this time. the next day, sunday, november the 12th, was passed in the same spot. the air turned decidedly cold this day, a hard wind swept up the river, the sky above was overcast, and we had little doubt that snow was falling on the kaibab plateau, which we could not see, but which we knew rose to the height of 5500 feet above us, but a few miles to the northwest of this camp. the sheer walls directly above the river dropped down considerably at this point, and a break or two permitted us to climb up as high as we cared to go on the red sandstone wall, which had lost its level character, and now rose in a steep slope over a thousand feet above us. these walls, with no growth but the tussocks of bunch-grass, the prickly pear cactus, the mescal, and the yucca, were more destitute of growth than any we had seen, excepting the upper end of desolation canyon, even the upper walls lacking the growth of piã±on pine and juniper which we usually associated with them. we were now directly below the painted desert, which lay to the left of the canyon, and no doubt a similar desert was on the right-hand side, in the form of a narrow plateau; but we had no means of knowing just how wide or narrow this was, before it raised again to the forest-covered buckskin mountains and the kaibab plateau. the rapid below our camp was just as bad as its roar, we found, on running it the next day. most of the descent was confined to a violent drop at the very beginning, but there was a lot of complicated water in the big waves that followed. emery was thrown forward in his boat, when he reached the bottom of the chute, striking his mouth, and bruising his hands, as he dropped his oars and caught the bulkhead. an extra oar was wrenched from the boat and disappeared in the white water, or foam that was as nearly white as muddy water ever gets. i nearly upset, and broke the pin of a rowlock, the released oar being jerked from my hand, sending me scrambling for an extra oar, when the boat swept into a swift whirlpool. emery caught my oar as it whirled past him; the other was found a half-mile below in an eddy. some of the rapids in the centre of marble canyon were not more than 75 feet wide, with a corresponding violence of water. the whirlpools in the wider channels below these rapids were the strongest we had seen, and had a most annoying way of holding the boats just when we thought we had evaded them. sometimes there would be a whirlpool on either side, with a sharply defined line of division in the centre, along which it was next to impossible to go without being caught on one side or the other. these whirlpools were seldom regarded as serious, for our boats were too wide and heavy to be readily overturned in them, although we saved ourselves more than one upset by throwing our weight to the opposite side. a small boat would have upset. on two occasions we were caught in small whirlpools, where a point of rock projected from the shore, turning upstream, splitting a swift current and making a very rapid and difficult whirl, where the boats were nearly smashed against the walls. below all such places were the familiar boils, or fountains, or shoots, as they are variously termed. these are the lower end of the whirlpools, emerging often from the quiet water below a rapid with nearly as much violence as they disappeared in the rapids above. these would often rise when least expected, breaking under the boats, the swift upshoot of water giving them such a rap that we sometimes thought we had struck a rock. if one happened to be in the centre of a boil when it broke, it would send them sailing down the stream many times faster than the regular current was travelling, rowing the boat having about as little effect on determining its course as if it was loaded on a flat-car. the other boat, at times just a few feet away, might be caught in the whirlpools that formed at the edge of the fountains, often opening up suddenly under one side of the boat, causing it to dip until the water poured over the edge, holding it to that one spot in spite of every effort to row away. then we would strike peaceful water again, a mile or perhaps, so quiet that a thin covering of clear water over the top of the silt-laden pool beneath, reflecting the tinted walls and the turquoise sky beneath its limpid surface. gems of sunlight sparkled on its bosom and scintillated in the ripples left behind by the oars. when seated with our backs to the strongest light, and when glancing along the top of such a pool instead of into it, the mirror-like surface gave way to a peculiar purplish tone which seemed to cover the pool, so that one would forget it was roily water, and saw only the iridescent beauty of a mountain stream. the wonderful marble walls--better known to the miners as the blue limestone walls--now rose from the water's edge to a height of eight or nine hundred feet, the surface of its light blue-gray rock being stained to a dark red, or a light red as the case might be, by the iron from the sandstone walls above. there were a thousand feet of these sandstone layers, red in all its varying hues, capped by the four-hundred foot cross-bedded sandstone wall, breaking sheer, ranging in tone from a soft buff to a golden yellow, with a bloom, or glow, as though illuminated from within. as we proceeded, another layer could be seen above this, the same limestone and with the same fossils--an examination of the rock-slides told us--as the topmost formation at the grand canyon. this was not unlike the cross-bedded sandstone in colour, but lacked its warmth and richness of tint. a close, examination of the rocks revealed many colours, that figured but little in the grand colour scheme of the canyon as a whole--the detailed ornamentation of the magnificent rock structure. a fracture of wall would show the true colour of the rock, beneath the stain; lime crystals studded its surface, like gems glinting in the sunlight; beautifully tinted jasper, resembling the petrified wood found in another part of arizona, was embedded in the marble wall,--usually at the point of contact with another formation,--polished by the sands of the turbid river. all this told us that we were coming into our own. four of the seven notable divisions of rock strata found in the grand canyon were now represented in marble canyon, and soon the green shale, which underlies the blue limestone, began to crop out by the river as the walls grew higher and the stream cut deeper. one turn of the canyon revealed a break where stanton hid his provisions in a cave--after a second fatality in which two more of this ill-fated expedition lost their lives--and climbed out on top. afterwards he re-outfitted with heavier boats and tackled the stream again. just below this break the scene changed as we made a sharp turn to the left. vasey's paradise--named by major powell after dr. geo. w. vasey, botanist of the united states department of agriculture--was disclosed to view. beautiful streams gushed from rounded holes, fifty yards above the river. the rock walls reminded one of an ivy-covered castle of old england, guarded by a moat uncrossed by any drawbridge. it was trellised with vines, maidenhair ferns, and water-moss making a vivid green background for the golden yellow and burnished copper leaves which still clung to some small cottonwood trees--the only trees we had seen in marble canyon. in our haste to push on, we left the brass motion-picture tripod head on an island, from which we pictured this lovely spot. a rapid was put behind us before we noticed our loss, and there was no going back then. another turn revealed a gothic arch, or grotto, carved at the bend of the wall by the high water, with an overhang of more than a hundred feet, and a height nearly as great, for the flood waters ran above the hundred-foot stage in this narrow walled section. then came a gloomy, prison-like formation, with a "bridge of sighs" two hundred feet above a gulch, connecting the dungeon to the perpendicular wall beyond; and with a hundred cave-like openings in its sheer sides like small windows, admitting a little daylight into its dark interior. the sullen boom of a rapid around the turn sounded like the march of an army coming up the gorge, so we climbed back into our boats after a vain attempt to climb up to some of the caves, and advanced to meet our foe. this rapid--the tenth for the day--while it was clear of rocks, had an abrupt drop, with powerful waves which did all sorts of things to us and to our boats; breaking a rowlock and the four pieces of line which held it, and flooding us both with a ton of water. we went into camp a short distance below this, in a narrow box canyon running back a hundred yards from the river, a gloomy, cathedral-like interior with sheer walls rising several hundred feet on three sides of us, and with the top of the south wall 2500 feet above us in plain sight of our camp, the one camp in marble canyon where our sleep was undisturbed by the roar of a rapid. but instead of the roar of a rapid, a howling wind swept down from the painted desert above, piling the mingled desert sands and river sands about our beds, scattering our camp material over the bottom of the narrow gorge. soon after this camp--the fourth and the last in marble canyon--was left behind us, the walls began to widen out, especially on the north-northwest, and by noon we had passed from the narrow, direct canyon, into one with slopes and plateaus breaking the sheer walls, the wall on the left or southeast side being much the lower of the two, and more nearly perpendicular, rising to a height of 3200 feet, while the northwest side lifted up to the kaibab plateau, one point--miles back from the river--rising 6000 feet above us. we halted at noon beside the nancoweep valley. a wide tributary heading many miles back in the plateau the right, with a ramified series of canyons running into it, and with great expanses of sage-covered flats between. deer tracks were found on these flats, deer which came down from the forest of the buckskin mountains. this was the point selected by major powell for the construction of a trail when he returned from his voyage of exploration to study the geology of this section. the trail, although neglected for many years, is still used by prospectors from kanab, utah, who make a yearly trip into the canyons to do some work on a mineral ledge a few miles below here. what a glorious, exhilarating run we had that day! from here to the end of marble canyon the rapids were almost continuous, with few violent drops and seldom broken by the usual quiet pools. it was the finest kind of water for fast travelling, and we made the most of it. the only previous run we had made that could in any way compare with it was in whirlpool and split mountain canyons, when the high water was on. as we travelled, occasional glimpses were had of familiar places on greenland point--that thirty-mile peninsula of the kaibab plateau extending between marble canyon and the grand canyon--where we had gone deer-hunting, or on photographic expeditions with rust. another valley from the right was passed, then a peak rose before us close to the river, with its flat top rising to a height equal to the south wall. this was chuar butte. once more we were in a narrow canyon, narrowing by this peak, but a canyon just the same. soon we were below a wall we once had photographed from the mouth of the little colorado; then the stream itself came into view and we were soon anchored beside it. this was the beginning of the grand canyon. chapter xix signalling our canyon home how long we had waited for this view! how many memories it recalled--and how different it seemed to our previous visit there! then, the high water was on, and the turquoise-tinted mineral water of the colorado chiquito was backed up by the turbid flood waters of the rio colorado, forty feet or more above the present level. now it was a rapid stream, throwing itself with wild abandon over the rocks and into the colorado. there was the same deserted stone hut, built by a french prospector, many years before, and a plough that he had packed in over a thirty-mile trail--the most difficult one in all this rugged region! there was the little grass-plot where we pastured the burro, while we made a fifteen-mile walk up the bed of this narrow canyon! what a hard, hot journey it had been! a year and a half ago we sat on that rock, and talked of the day when we should come through here in boats! even then we talked of building a raft, and of loading the burro on it for a spin on the flood waters. lucky for us and for the burro that we didn't! we understand the temper of these waters now. cape desolation, a point of the painted desert on the west side of the little colorado, was almost directly above us, 3200 feet high. chuar butte, equally as high and with walls just as nearly perpendicular, extended on into the grand canyon on the right side, making the narrowest canyon of this depth that we had seen. the navajo reservation terminated at the little colorado, although nothing but the maps indicated that we had passed from the land of the red man to that of the white. both were equally desolate, and equally wonderful. with the entrance of the new stream the canyon changes its southwest trend and turns directly west, and continues to hold to this general direction until the northwest corner of arizona is reached. but we must be on again! soon familiar segregated peaks in the grand canyon began to appear. there was wotan's throne on the right, and the "copper mine mesa" on the left. three or four miles below the junction a four-hundred foot perpendicular wall rose above us. the burro, on our previous visit, was almost shoved off that cliff when the pack caught on a rock, and was only saved by strenuous pulling on the neck-rope and pack harness. soon we passed some tunnels on both sides of the river where the mormon miners had tapped a copper ledge. at 4.15 p.m. we were at the end of the tanner trail, the outlet of the little colorado trail to the rim above. it had taken seven hours of toil to cover the same ground we now sped over in an hour and a quarter. major powell, in 1872, found here the remnant of a very small hut built of mesquite logs, but whether the remains of an indian's or white man's shelter cannot be stated. the trail, without doubt was used by the indians before the white man invaded this region. the canyon had changed again from one which was very narrow to one much more complex, greater, and grander. the walls on top were many miles apart; comanche point, to our left, was over 4000 feet above us; desert view, moran point, and other points on the south rim were even higher. on the right we could see an arch near cape final on greenland point, over 5000 feet up, that we had photographed, from the top, a few years before. pagoda-shaped temples--the formation so typical of the grand canyon--clustered on all sides. the upper walls were similar in tint to those in marble canyon, but here at the river was a new formation; the algonkian, composed of thousands of brilliantly coloured bands of rock, standing at an angle--the one irregularity to the uniform layers of rock--a remnant of thousands of feet of rock which once covered this region, then was planed away before the other deposits were placed. all about us, close to the river, was a deep, soft sand formed by the disintegration of the rocks above, as brilliantly coloured as the rocks from which they came. what had been a very narrow stream above here spread out over a thousand feet wide, ran with a good current, and seemed to be anything but a shallow stream at that. we had travelled far that day but still sped on,--with a few rapids which did not retard, but rather helped us on our way, and with a good current between these rapids,--only stopping to camp when a three-hundred foot wall rose sheer from the river's edge, bringing to an end our basin-like river bottom, where one could walk out on either side. it was not necessary to hunt for driftwood this evening, for a thicket of mesquite--the best of all wood for a camp-fire--grew out of the sand-dunes, and some half-covered dead logs were unearthed from the drifted sand, and soon reduced to glowing coals. meanwhile, we were enjoying one of those remarkable arizona desert sunsets. ominous clouds had been gathering in the afternoon, rising from the southwest, drifting across the canyon, and piling up against the north wall. a few fleecy clouds in the west partially obscured the sun until it neared the horizon, then a shaft of sunlight broke through once more, telegraphing its approach long before it reached us, the rays being visibly hurled through space like a javelin, or a lightning bolt, striking peak after peak so that one almost imagined they would hear the thunder roll. a yellow flame covered the western sky, to be succeeded in a few minutes by a crimson glow. the sharply defined colours of the different layers of rock had merged and softened, as the sun dropped from sight; purple shadows crept into the cavernous depths, while shafts of gold shot to the very tiptop of the peaks, or threw their shadows like silhouettes on the wall beyond. then the scene shifted again, and it was all blood-red, reflecting from the sky and staining the rocks below, so that distant wall and sky merged, with little to show where the one ended and the other began. that beautiful haze, which tints, but does not obscure, enshrouded the temples and spires, changing from heliotrope to lavender, from lavender to deepest purple; there was a departing flare of flame like the collapse of a burning building; a few clouds in the zenith, torn by the winds so that they resembled the craters of the moon, were tinted for an instant around the crater's rims; the clouds faded to a dove-like gray; they darkened; the gray disappeared; the purple crept from the canyon into the arched dome overhead; the day was ended, twilight passed, and darkness settled over all. we sat silently by the fire for a few minutes, then rose and resumed our evening's work. this camp was at a point that could be seen from the grand view hotel, fourteen miles from our home. we talked of building a signal fire on the promontory above the camp, knowing that the news would be telephoned to home if the fire was seen. but we gave up the plan. although less than twenty miles from bright angel trail, we were not safely through by any means. two boats had been wrecked or lost in different rapids less than six miles from this camp. the forty-foot fall in the hance or red canyon rapid was three miles below us; the sockdologer, the grapevine, and other rapids nearly as large followed those; we might be no more fortunate than the others, and a delay after once giving a signal would cause more anxiety than no signal at all we thought, and the fire was not built. particular attention was paid to the loading of the boats the next morning. the moving-picture film was tucked in the toes of our sleeping bags, and the protecting bags were carefully laced. we were not going to take any chances in this next plunge--the much-talked-of entrance to the granite gorge. a half-hour's run and a dash through one violent rapid landed us at the end of the hance trail--unused for tourist travel for several years--with a few torn and tattered tents back in the side canyon down which the trail wound its way. we half hoped that we would find some of the prospectors who make this section their winter home either at the tanner or the hance trail, but there was no sign of recent visitors at either place, unless it was the numerous burro tracks in the sand. these tracks were doubtless made by some of the many wild burros that roam all the lower plateaus in the upper end of the grand canyon. after a careful inspection of the hance rapid we were glad the signal fire was not built. it was a nasty rapid. while reading over our notes one evening we were amused to find that we had catalogued different rapids with an equal amount of fall as "good," "bad," or "nasty," the difference depending nearly altogether on the rocks in the rapids. the "good rapids" were nothing but a descent of "big water," with great waves,--for which we cared little, but rather enjoyed if it was not too cold,--and with no danger from rocks; the "bad rapids" contained rocks, and twisting channels, but with half a chance of getting through. a nasty rapid was filled with rocks, many of them so concealed in the foam that it was often next to impossible to tell if rocks were there or not, and in which there was little chance of running through without smashing a boat. the hance rapid was such a one. such a complication of twisted channels and protruding rocks we had not seen unless it was at hell's half mile. it meant a portage--nothing less--the second since leaving that other rapid in lodore. so we went to work, carrying our duffle across deep, soft sand-dunes, down to the middle of the rapid, where quieted for a hundred yards before it made the final plunge. the gathering dusk of evening found all material and one boat at this spot, with the other one at the head of the rapid, to be portaged the next day. but we did not portage this boat. a good night's rest, and the safeguard of a boat at the bottom of the plunge made it look much less dangerous, and five minutes after breakfast was finished, this boat was beside its mate, and we had a reel of film which we hoped would show just how we successfully ran this difficult rapid. while going over the second section, on the opposite side of the river, emery was thrown out of his boat for an instant when the _edith_ touched a rock in a twenty-five mile an hour current, similar to my first upset in the soap creek rapid--the old story: out again; in again; on again--landing in safety at the end of the rapid not one whit the worse for the spill. this rapid marks the place where the granite, or igneous rock, intrudes, rising at a sharp angle, sloping upward down the stream, reaching the height of 1300 feet about one mile below. it marks the end of the large deposit of algonkian. the granite, when it attains its highest point, is covered with a 200-foot layer of sedimentary rock called the tonto sandstone. the top of this formation is exposed by a plateau from a quarter of a mile to three miles in width, on either side of the granite gorge; the same walls which were found in marble canyon rise above this. the temples which are scattered through the canyon--equal in height, in many cases, to the walls--have their foundation on this plateau. these peaks contain the same stratified rock with a uniform thickness whether in peak or wall, with little displacement and little sign of violent uplift, nearly all this canyon being the work of erosion: 5000 feet from the rim to the river; the edges of six great layers of sedimentary rock laid bare and with a narrow 1300-foot gorge through the igneous rock below--the grand canyon of arizona. the granite gorge seemed to us to be the one place of all others that we had seen on this trip that would cause one to hesitate a long time before entering, if nothing definite was known of its nature. another person might have felt the same way of the canyons we had passed, lodore or marble canyon, for instance. a great deal depends on the nerves and digestion, no doubt; and the same person would look at it in a different light at different times, as we found from our own experiences. our digestions were in excellent condition just at that time, and we were nerved up by the thought that we were going "to the plate for a home run" if possible, yet the granite gorge had a decidedly sinister look. the walls, while not sheer, were nearly so; they might be climbed in many places to the top of the granite; but the tonto sandstone wall nearly always overhangs this, breaks sheer, and seldom affords an outlet to the plateaus above, except where lateral canyons cut through. the rocks are very dark, with dikes of quartz, and with twisting seams of red and black granite, the great body of rock being made up of decomposed micaceous schists and gneiss, a treacherous material to climb. the entrance to this gorge is made on a quiet pool with no shore on either side after once well in. but several parties had been through since major powell made his initial trip, so we did not hesitate, but pushed on with the current. now we could truly say that we were going home. the hance rapid was behind us; bright angel creek was about twelve miles away. soon we were in the deepest part of the gorge. great dikes and uplifts of jagged rocks towered above us; and up, up, up, lifted the other walls above that. bissell point, on the very top, could plainly be seen from our quiet pool. then came a series of rapids quite different from the hance rapid, and many others found above. those others were usually caused in part by the detritus or deposit from side canyons, which dammed the stream, and what might be a swift stream, with a continuous drop, was transformed to a succession of mill-ponds and cataracts, or rapids. in nearly every case, in low water such as we were travelling on, the deposit made a shore on which we could land and inspect the rapid from below. the swift water invariably makes a narrow channel if it has no obstruction in its way; it is the quiet stream that makes a wide channel. but the rapids we found this day were nearly all different. they were seldom caused by great deposits of rock, but appeared to be formed by a dike or ledge of hard rock rising from the softer rock--the same intrusion being sometimes found on both sides of the stream--forming a dam the full width of the channel, over which the water made a swift descent, with a long line of interference waves below. but for a cold wind which swept up the stream, this style of rapid was more to our fancy. these were "good rapids," the "best" we had seen. there were few rocks to avoid. some of the rapids were violent, but careful handling took us past every danger. there was little chance to make a portage at several of these places had we desired to do so. we gave them but a glance from the decks of the boats, then dropped into them. in one instance i saw the _edith_ literally shoot through a wave bow first, both ends of the boat being visible, while her captain was buried in the foam. we had learned to discriminate by its noise, long before we could see a rapid, whether it was filled with rocks, or was merely a descent of big water. the latter, often just as impressive as the former, had a sullen, steady boom; the rocky rapids had the same sound, punctuated by another sound, like the crack of regiments of musketry. all were greatly magnified in sound by the narrow, echoing walls. we became so accustomed to this noise that we almost forgot it was there, and it was only after the long, quiet stretches that the noise was noticed in a few instances only we noticed the shattering vibration of air that is associated with waterfalls. still there is noise enough in many rapids so that their boom can be heard several miles away from the top of the canyons. guided by these sounds, and aided by our method of holding the boat in mid-stream, while making a reconnaissance, we were quite well aware of what we were likely to find before we anchored above a rapid. we were never fearful of being drawn into a cataract without having a chance to land somewhere. the water is strangely quiet, to a comparatively close distance above nearly all rapids. we usually tied up anywhere from fifty feet to a hundred yards above a drop, before inspecting it. if it was a "big-water" rapid, we usually looked it over standing on the seat in the boats, then continued. by signals with the hands, the one first over would guide the other, if any hidden rocks or dangerous channel threatened. while we did not think much about it, we usually noted the places where one might climb out on the plateau. little could be told about the upper walls from the river. a chilling wind swept up the river, penetrating our soaked garments. but we paid little attention to this, only pulling the harder, not only to keep the circulation going, but every pull of the oars put us that much nearer home. we never paused in our rowing until we anchored at 4.30 p.m. under rust's tramway, close to the mouth of bright angel creek. according to the united states geological survey there is a descent of 178 feet from the head of the hance rapid to the end of bright angel trail one mile below the creek. we would have a very moderate descent in that mile. the run from the hance rapid had been made in less than five hours. our boats were tied in the shadow of the cage hanging from a cable sixty feet above. it stretched across a quiet pool, 450 feet across--for the river is dammed by dã©bris from the creek below, and fills the channel from wall to wall. hurriedly we made our way up to rust's camp,--closed for the winter; for heavy snows would cover the north rim in a few days or a few weeks at the farthest, filling the trails with heavy drifts and driving the cougar into the canyon where dogs and horses cannot follow. but the latch-string was out for us, we knew, had we cared to use the tents. our signal fire was built a mile above the camp, at a spot that was plainly visible on a clear day from our home on the other side, six miles away as the crow flies. we had often looked at this spot, with a telescope, from the veranda of our studio, watching the hunting and sight-seeing parties ride up the bed of the stream. we rather feared the drifting clouds and mists would hide the fire from view, but now and then a rift appeared, and we knew if they were looking they could see its light. camp no. 51 was made close to bright angel creek, that evening, thursday, october the 16th, two months and eight days from the time we had embarked on our journey. three or four hours were spent in packing our material the next morning, so it could be stored in a miners' tunnel, near the end of the trail. we would pack little of this out, as we intended to resume our river work in a week or ten days. a five-minute run took us over the rapid below bright angel creek, and down to a bend in the river, just above the cameron or bright angel trail. two men--guides from the hotel--called to us as our boats swept into view. we made a quick dash over the vicious little drop below the bend,--easy for our boats, but dangerous enough for lighter craft on account of a difficult whirlpool,--and were soon on shore greeting old friends. up on the plateau, 1300 feet above, a trail party of tourists and guides called down their welcome. the stores were put in the miners' tunnel as we had planned, and the boats were taken above the high-water mark; placed in dry dock one might say. the guides had good news for us and bad news too. emery's wife had been ill with appendicitis nearly all the time we were on our journey. we had received letters from her at every post-office excepting lee's ferry, but never a hint that all was not well. she knew it would break up the trip. pretty good nerve, we thought! ragged and weary, but happy; a little lean and over-trained, but feeling entirely "fit,"--we commenced our seven-mile climb up the trail, every turn of which seemed like an old friend. when 1300 feet above the river, our little workshop beside a stream on the plateau--only used at intervals when no water can be had on top, and closed for three months past--gave us our first cheerless greeting. although little more than a hundred feet from the trail, we did not stop to inspect it. cameron's indian garden camp was also closed for the day, and we were disappointed in a hope that we could telephone to our home, 3200 feet above. but the tents, under rows of waving cottonwoods, and surrounded by beds of blooming roses and glorious chrysanthemums, gave us a more cheerful welcome than our little building below. we only stopped to quench our thirst in the bubbling spring, then began the four-mile climb that would put us on top of the towering cliff. soon we overtook the party we had seen on the plateau. some of the tourists kindly offered us their mules, but mules were too slow for us, and they were soon far below us. calls, faint at first, but growing louder as we advanced, came floating down from above. on nearing the top our younger brother ernest, who had come on from pittsburg to look after our business, came running down the trail to greet us. one member of a troupe of moving-picture actors, in cowboy garb, remarked that we "didn't look like moving-picture explorers"; then little edith emerged from our studio just below the head of bright angel trail and came skipping down toward us, but stopped suddenly when near us, and said smilingly: "is that my daddy with all those whiskers?" chapter xx one month later naturally we were very impatient to know just what success we had met with in our photographic work. some of the motion pictures had been printed and returned to us. my brother, who meanwhile had taken his family to los angeles, sent very encouraging reports regarding some of the films. among the canyon visitors who came down to inspect the results of our trip were thomas moran, the famous artist, with his daughter, miss ruth, whose interest was more than casual. thomas moran's name, more than any other, with the possible exception of major powell's, is to be associated with the grand canyon. it was his painting which hangs in the capital at washington that first acquainted the american public with the wonders of the canyon. this painting was the result of a journey he made with major powell, from salt lake city to the north side of the canyon, thirty-eight years before. in addition he had made most of the cuts that illustrated major powell's government report; making his sketches on wood from photographs this expedition had taken with the old-fashioned wet plates that had to be coated and developed on the spot--wonderful photographs, which for beauty, softness, and detail are not excelled, and are scarcely equalled by more modern plates and photographic results. the only great advantage of the dry plates was the fact that they could catch the action of the water with an instantaneous exposure, where the wet plates had to have a long exposure and lost that action. thomas moran could pick up almost any picture that we made, and tell us at once just what section it came from and its identifying characteristics. his daughter, miss ruth, was just as much interested in our trip and its results. she was anxious to know when we would go on again and planned on making the trail trip down to the plateau to see us take the plunge over the first rough rapid. she was just a little anxious to see an upset, and asked if we could not promise that one would occur. a month passed before my brother returned from los angeles. his wife, who had remained there, was in good health again, and insisted on his finishing the trip at once. we were just as anxious to have it finished, but were not very enthusiastic about this last part on account of some very cold weather we had been having. on the other hand, we feared if the trip was not finished then it might never be completed. so we consoled ourselves with the thought that it was some warmer at the bottom than it was on top, and prepared to make the final plunge--350 miles to needles, with a 1600-foot descent in the 185 miles that remained of the grand canyon. a foot of snow had fallen two nights before we planned on leaving. the thermometer had dropped to zero, and a little below on one occasion, during the nights for a week past. close to the top the trail was filled with drifts. the walls were white with snow down to the plateau, 3200 feet below; something unusual, as it seldom descends as snow lower than two thousand feet, but turns to rain. but a week of cold, cloudy weather, accompanied by hard winds, had driven all warmth from the canyon, allowing this snow to descend lower than usual. under such conditions the damp cold in the canyon, while not registered on the thermometer as low as that on top, is more penetrating. very little sun reaches the bottom of the inner gorge in december and january. it is usually a few degrees colder than the inner plateau above it, which is open, and does get some sun. these were the conditions when we returned to our boats december the 19th, 1911, and found a thin covering of ice on small pools near the river. our party was enlarged by the addition of two men who were anxious for some river experience. one was our younger brother, ernest. we agreed to take him as far as the bass trail, twenty-five miles below, where he could get out on top and return to our home. the other was a young man named bert lauzon, who wanted to make the entire trip, and we were glad to have him. lauzon, although but 24 years old, had been a quartz miner and mining engineer for some years. coming from the mountains of colorado, he had travelled over most of the western states, and a considerable part of mexico, in his expeditions. there was no question in our minds about lauzon. he was the man we needed. to offset the weight of an extra man for each boat, our supplies were cut to the minimum, arrangements having been made with w.w. bass--the proprietor of the bass camps and of the mystic springs trail--to have some provisions packed in over his trail. what provisions we took ourselves were packed down on two mules, and anything we could spare from our boats was packed out on the same animals. as we were about ready to leave a friendly miner said: "you can't hook fish in the colorado in the winter, they won't bite nohow. you'd better take a couple of sticks of my giant-powder along. that will help you get 'em, and it may keep you from starving." under the circumstances it seemed like a wise precaution and we took his giant-powder, as he had suggested. the river had fallen two feet below the stage on which we quit a month before. a scale of foot-marks on a rock wall rising from the river showed that the water twenty-seven feet deep at that spot. no measurement was made in the middle of the river channel. the current here between two small rapids flows at five and three-fourths miles per hour. the width of the stream is close to 250 feet. the high-water mark here is forty-five feet above the low-water stage, then the river spreads to five hundred feet in width, running with a swiftness and strength of current and whirlpool that is tremendous. the highest authentic measurement in a narrow channel, of which we know, is one made by julius f. stone in marble canyon. he recorded one spot where the high-water mark was 115 feet above the low-water mark. these figures might look large at first, but if they are compared with some of the floods on the ohio river, for instance, and that stream were boxed in a two hundred foot channel the difference would not be great, we imagine. one of the young men who greeted us when we landed came down with a companion to see us embark. on the plateau 1300 feet above, looking like small insects against the sky-line, was a trail party, equally interested. they did not stand on the point usually visited by such parties but had gone to a point about a mile to the west, where they had a good view of a short, rough rapid, the little rapid below the trail, while it was no place that one would care to swim in, had no comparison with this other rapid in violence. we had promised the party that we would run this rapid that afternoon, so we spent little time in packing systematically, but hurriedly threw the stuff in and embarked. less than an hour later we had made the two-mile run and the dash through the short rapid, to the entire satisfaction of all concerned. we camped a short distance below the rapid, just opposite a grave of a man whose skeleton had been found halfway up the granite, five years before. judging by his clothes and hob-nailed shoes he was a prospector. he was lying in a natural position, with his head resting on a rock. an overcoat was buttoned tightly about him. no large bones were broken, but he might have had a fall and been injured internally. more likely he became sick and died. the small bones of the hands and feet had been taken away by field-mice, and no doubt the turkey-buzzards had stripped the flesh. his pockets contained los angeles newspapers of 1900; he was found in 1906. the pockets also contained a pipe and a pocket-knife, but nothing by which he could be identified. the coroner's jury--of which my brother was a member--buried him where he was found, covering the body with rocks, for there was no earth. such finds are not unusual in this rugged country. these prospectors seldom say where they are going, no track is kept of their movements, and unless something about their clothes tells who they are, their identity is seldom established. the proximity of this grave made us wonder how many more such unburied bodies there were along this river. we thought too of our friend smith, back in cataract canyon, and wondered if we would hear from him again. our helpers got a lot of experience in motion-picture making the next day, while we ran our boats through a number of good, strong rapids, well known locally as the salt creek rapid, granite falls or monument rapid, the hermit, the bouchere, and others. this was all new to the boys, and provided some thrilling entertainment for them. when a difficult passage was safely made bert would wave his hat and yell "hoo" in a deep, long call that would carry above the roar of the rapids, then he and ernest would follow along the shore with their cameras, as these rapids all had a shore on one side or the other. the sun shone on the river this day, and we congratulated ourselves on having made the most of our opportunities. in our first rapid the next morning, we had to carry our passengers whether we wanted to or not. there was no shore on either side. in such plunges they would lie down on the deck of the boat behind the oarsman, holding to the raised bulkhead, ducking their heads when an oncoming wave prepared to break over them. then they would shake themselves as a water-spaniel does, and bert with a grin would say, "young fellows, business is picking up!" ernest agreed, too, that he had never seen anything in pittsburg that quite equalled it. if the rapid was not bad, they sat upright on the deck, but this made the boats top-heavy, and as much of the oarsman's work depended on swinging his weight from side to side, it was important that no mistake should be made about this distribution of weight. often the bottom of a boat would show above the water as it listed to one side. at such a time a person sitting on the raised deck might get thrown overboard. before starting on this last trip we had thought it would be only right to give our younger brother a ride in a rapid that would be sure to give him a good ducking, as his experience was going to be short. but the water and the wind, especially in the shadows, was so very cold that we gave this plan up, and avoided the waves as much as possible. he got a ducking this morning, however, in a place where we least expected it. it was not a rapid, just smooth, very swift water, while close to the right shore there was one submerged rock with a foot of water shooting over it, in such a way that it made a "reverse whirl" as they are called in alaska--water rolling back upstream, and from all sides as well, to fill the vacuum just below the rock. this one was about twelve feet across; the water disappeared as though it was being poured down a manhole. the least care, or caution, would have taken me clear this place; but the smooth water was so deceptive, and was so much stronger than i had judged it to be, that i found myself caught sideways to the current, hemmed in with waves on all sides of the boat, knocked back and forth, and resisted in all my efforts to pull clear. the boat was gradually filling with the splashing water. ernest was lying on the deck, hanging on like grim death, slipping off, first on one side, then on the other, and wondering what was going to happen. so was i. to be held up in the middle of a swift stream was a new experience, and i was not proud of it. the others passed as soon as they saw what had happened, and were waiting in an eddy below. perhaps we were there only one minute, but it seemed like five. i helped ernest into the cockpit. about that time the boat filled with splashing water and sunk low, the stream poured over the rock and into the boat, and she upset instantly. ernest had on two life-preservers, and came up about thirty feet below, swimming very well considering that he was weighted with heavy clothes and high-topped shoes. the boys pulled him in before he was carried against a threatening wall. meanwhile, i held to the boat, which was forced out as soon as she was overturned, and climbed on top, or rather on the bottom. i was trying to make the best of things and was giving a cheer when some one said, "there goes your hatch cover and you've lost the motion-picture camera." perhaps i had. my cheering ceased. the camera had been hurriedly shoved down in the hatch a few minutes before. on being towed to shore, however, we found the camera had not fallen out. it had been shoved to the side less than one inch, but that little bit had saved it. it was filled with water, though, and all the pictures were on the unfinished roll in the camera, and were ruined. we had been in the ice-cold water long enough to lose that glow which comes after a quick immersion and were chilled through; but what bothered me more than anything else was the fact that i had been caught in such a trap after successfully running the bad rapids above. we made a short run after that so as to get out of sight of the deceptive place, then proceeded to dry out. the ruined film came in handy for kindling our camp-fire. we were now in the narrowest part of the upper portion of the grand canyon, the distance from rim to rim at one point being close to six miles. the width at bright angel varied from eight to fourteen miles. the peaks rising from the plateau, often as high as the canyon walls, and with flat tops a mile or more in width, made the canyon even narrower, so that at times we were in canyons close to a mile in depth, and little over four miles across at the tops. in this section of the granite there were few places where one could climb out. nearly all the lateral canyons ended quite a distance above the river, then fell sheer; the lower parts of the walls were quite often smooth-surfaced, where they were polished by the sands in the stream. the black granite in such cases resembled huge deposits of anthracite coal. sections of the granite often projected out of the water as islands, with the softer rock washed away, the granite being curiously carved by whirling rocks and the emery-like sands. holes three and four feet deep were worn by small whirling rocks, and grooves were worn at one place by growing willows working back and forth in the water, the sand, strange to say, having less effect on the limbs than it had on the hard rocks. about noon of the day following this upset we reached the end of the bass trail and another cable crossing, about sixty feet above the water. three men were waiting for us, and gave a call when we rowed in sight of their camp. one was lauzon's brother, another was cecil dodd, a cowboy who looked after bass' stock, and the breaking of his horses, the third was john norberg, an "old timer" and an old friend as well, engaged at that time in working some asbestos and copper claims. the granite was broken down at this point, and another small deposit of algonkian was found here. there were intrusions, faults, and displacements both in these formations and in the layers above. these fractures exposed mineral seams and deposits of copper and asbestos on both sides of the river, some of which bass had opened up and located, waiting for the day when there would be better transportation facilities than his burros afforded. this was not our first visit to this section. on other occasions we had descended by the mystic spring (or bass) trail, on the south side, crossed on the tramway and were taken by bass over some of his many trails, on the north side. we had visited the asbestos claims, where the edge of a blanket formation of the rock known as serpentine, containing the asbestos, lay exposed to view, twisting around the head of narrow canyons, and under beetling cliffs. we went halfway up the north rim trail, through shinumo and white canyons, our objective point on these trips being a narrow box canyon which contained a large boulder, rolled from the walls above, and wedged in the flume-like gorge far above our heads. this trail continues up to the top, going over the narrow neck which connects powell's plateau--a segregated section of thickly wooded surface several miles in extent--with the main extent of the kaibab plateau. ernest, though slightly affected with tonsillitis, was loath to leave us here. it was zero weather on top, we were told, and it looked it. the walls and peaks were white with snow. he would not have an easy trip. the drifted snow was only broken by the one party that we found at the river, and quite likely it would be very late when he arrived at the ranch. john went up with him a few miles to get a horse for the ride home the next day. ernest took with him a few hurriedly written letters and the exposed plates. the film we were going to save was lost in the upset. on inspecting the provisions which were packed in here we found the grocers had shipped the order short, omitting, besides other necessities, some canned baked beans, on which we depended a great deal. this meant one of two things. we would have to make a quicker run than we had planned on, or would have to get out of the canyon at one of the two places where such an exit could easily be made. the m. p. as our motion-picture camera was called--and which was re-christened but not abbreviated by bert, as "the member of parliament"--had to be cleaned before we could proceed. it took all this day, and much of the next, to get the moisture and sand out of the delicate mechanism, and have it running smoothly again. after it was once more in good condition emery announced that he wanted to work out a few scenes of an uncompleted "movie-drama." the action was snappy. the plot was brief, but harmonized well with the setting, and the "props." dodd, who was a big texan, was cast for the role of horse thief and bad man in general. bert's brother, morris lauzon, was the deputy sheriff, and had a star cut from the top of a tomato can to prove it. john was to be a prospector. he would need little rehearsing for this part. in addition, he had not been out where he could have the services of a barber for six months past, which was all the better. john had a kind, quiet, easy-going way that made friends for him on sight. he was not consulted about the part he was to play, but we counted on his good nature and he was cast for the part. emery, who was cast for the part of a mining engineer, arrived on the scene in his boat, after rounding the bend above the camp, tied up and climbed out over the cliffs to view the surrounding country. the hidden desperado, knowing that he was being hunted, stole the boat with its contents, and made his escape. the returning engineer arrived just in time to see his boat in the middle of the stream, and a levelled rifle halted him until the boat was hidden around the bend. at that moment the officer joined him, and a hurried consultation was held. then the other boat, which had been separated from its companion, pulled into sight, and i was hailed by the men on shore. they came aboard and we gave chase. could anything be better? the thief naturally thought he was safe, as he had not seen the second boat! after going over a few rapids, he saw a fire up in the cliffs, on the opposite side of the river. he landed, and climbed up to the camp where john was at work. john shared his camp fare with him, and directed him to a hidden trail. the pursuers, on finding the abandoned boat, quietly followed the trail, and surprised dodd in john's camp. he was disarmed and sent across the river in the tramway, accompanied by the deputy, and was punished as he richly deserved to be. this was the scenario. bert handled the camera. emery was the playwright, director, and producer. all rights reserved. everything worked beautifully. the film did not get balled up in the cogs, as sometimes happened. the light was good. belasco himself could not have improved on the stage-setting. the trail led over the wildest, and most picturesque places imaginable. dodd made a splendid desperado, and acted as if he had done nothing but steal horses and dodge the officers all his life. a pile of driftwood fifty feet high and with a tunnel underneath made a splendid hiding place for him while the first boat was being tied. being a cowpuncher, it may be that he did not handle the oars as well as an experienced riverman, but any rapid could be used for an insert. the deputy, though youthful, was determined and never lost sight of the trail. the engineer acted his part well and registered surprise and anger, when he found how he had been tricked. john, who had returned, humoured us, and dug nuggets of gold out of limestone rocks, where no one would have thought of looking for them. the fact that the tramway scene was made before any of the others did not matter. we could play our last act first if we wanted to. all we had to do was to cut the film and fasten it on to the end. emery was justly proud of his first efforts as a producer. we were sorry this film had not been sent out with ernest. this thrilling drama will not be released in the near future. one day later we found that a drop of water had worked into the lens cell at the last upset. this fogged the lens. we focussed with a scale and had overlooked the lens when cleaning the camera. nothing but a very faint outline showed on the film. we had all the film we needed for a week after this, for kindling our fires. chapter xxi what christmas eve brought in recording our various mishaps and upsets in these pages, it may seem to the reader as if i have given undue prominence to the part i took in them. if so, it has not been from choice, but because they happened in that way. no doubt a great deal of my trouble was due to carelessness. after i had learned to row my boat fairly well i sometimes took chances that proved to be anything but advisable, depending a good deal on luck, and luck was not always with me. my brother was less hasty in making his decisions, and was more careful in his movements, with the result that his boat had few marks of any kind, and he had been more fortunate than i with the rapids. it is my duty to record another adventure at this point, in which we all three shared, each in a different manner. this time i am going to give my brother's record of the happenings that overtook us about four o'clock in the afternoon of december the 24th, less than three hours after we left our friends at the bass trail with "best wishes for a merry christmas," and had received instructions from john "to keep our feet dry" my brother's account follows: "the fourth rapid below the bass trail was bad, but after looking it over we decided it could be run. we had taken chances in rapids that looked worse and came through unharmed; if we were successful here, it would be over in a few minutes, and forgotten an hour later. so we each made the attempt." "lauzon had gone near the lower end of the rapid, taking the left shore, for a sixty-foot wall with a sloping bench on top rose sheer out of the water on the right. the only shore on the right was close to the head of the rapid, a small deposit or bank of earth and rock. the inner gorge here was about nine hundred feet deep." "ellsworth went first, taking the left-hand side. i picked out a course on the right as being the least dangerous; but i was scarcely started when i found myself on a nest of jagged rocks, with violent water all about me, and with other rocks, some of them submerged, below me. i climbed out on the rocks and held the boat." "if the others could land below the rapid and climb back, they might get a rope to me and pull me off the rocks far enough to give me a new start, but they could not pull the boat in to shore through the rough water. a person thinks quickly under such circumstances, i had it all figured out as soon as i was on the rocks. the greatest trouble would be to hold the boat if she broke loose." "then i saw that the _defiance_ was in trouble. she caught in a reverse whirl in the very middle of the pounding rapid, bouncing back and forth like a great rubber ball. finally she filled with the splashing water, sank low, and the water pouring over the rock caught the edge of the twelve-hundred pound boat and turned her over as if she were a toy; my brother was holding to the gunwale when she turned. still she was held in the whirl, jumping as violently as ever, then turned upright again and was forced out. ellsworth had disappeared, but came up nearly a hundred feet below, struggling to keep on top but going down with every breaking wave. when the quieter water was reached, he did not seem to have strength enough to swim out, but floated, motionless, in a standing position, his head kept up by the life-preservers. the next rapid was not over fifty yards below. if he was to be saved it must be done instantly." "i pried the boat loose, jumped in as she swung clear, and pulled with all my might, headed toward the centre of the river. i was almost clear when i was drawn over a dip, bow first, and struck a glancing blow against another rock i had never seen. there was a crash, and the boards broke like egg-shells. it was all done in a few moments. the _edith_ was a wreck, i did not know how bad. my brother had disappeared. lauzon was frantically climbing over some large boulders trying to reach the head of the next rapid, where the boat was held in an eddy. my boat was not upset, but the waves were surging through a great hole in her side. she was drawn into an eddy, close to the base of the wall, where i could tie up and climb out. it seemed folly to try the lower end with my filled boat. climbing to the top of the rock, i could see half a mile down the canyon, but my brother was nowhere to be seen and i had no idea that he had escaped. i was returning to my wrecked boat when bert waved his arms, and pointed to the head of the rapid. going back once more, i saw him directly below me at the base of the sheer rock, in an opening where the wall receded. he had crawled out twenty feet above the next rapid. returning to my wrecked boat, i was soon beside him. he was exhausted with his struggle in the icy waves; his outer garments were frozen. i soon procured blankets from my bed, removed the wet clothes, and wrapped him up. lauzon, true to our expectations of what he would do when the test came, swam out and rescued the _defiance_ before she was carried over the next rapid. he was inexperienced at the oars and had less than two hours practice after he had joined us. it was a tense moment when he started across, above the rapid. but he made it! landing with a big grin, he exclaimed, 'young fellows, business is picking up!' then added, 'and we're losing lots of good pictures!'" "these experiences were our christmas presents that year. they were not done up in small packages." "we repaired the boat on christmas day. three smashed side ribs were replaced with mesquite, which we found growing on the walls. the hole was patched with boards from the loose bottom. this was painted; canvas was tacked over that and painted also, and a sheet of tin or galvanized iron went over it all. this completed the repair and the _edith_ was as seaworthy as before." this is emery's account of the "christmas rapid." i will add that the freezing temperature of the water and the struggle for breath in the breaking waves left me exhausted and at the mercy of the river. an eddy drew me out of the centre of the stream when i had given up all hope of any escape from the next rapid. i had seen my brother on the rock below the head of the rapid and knew there was no hope from him. as i was being drawn back into the current, close to the end of the sheer wall on the right, my feet struck bottom on some dã©bris washed down from the cliff. i made three efforts to stand but fell each time, and finally crawled out on my hands and knees. i had the peculiar sensation of seeing a rain-storm descending before my eyes, although i knew no such thing existed; every fibre in my body ached and continued to do so for days afterward; and the moment i would close my eyes to sleep i would see mountainous waves about me and would feel myself being whirled head over heels just as i was in that rapid; but this rapid, strange to say, while exceedingly rough and swift, did not contain any waves that we would have considered large up to this time. in other words, it depended on the circumstances whether it was bad or not. when standing on the shore, picking a channel, it appeared to be a moderately bad rapid, in which a person, aided with life-preservers, should have little difficulty in keeping on top, at least half the time. after my battle, in which, as far as personal effort went, i had lost, and after my providential escape, that one rapid appeared to be the largest of the entire series. it is difficult to describe the rapids with the foot-rule standard, and give an idea of their power. one unfamiliar with "white water" usually associates a twelve-foot descent or a ten-foot wave with a similar wave on the ocean. there is no comparison. the waters of the ocean rise and fall, the waves travel, the water itself, except in breakers, is comparatively still. in bad rapids the water is whirled through at the rate of ten or twelve miles an hour, in some cases much swifter; the surface is broken by streams shooting up from every submerged rock; the weight of the river is behind it, and the waves, instead of tumbling forward, quite as often break upstream. such waves, less than six feet high, are often dangers to be shunned. after being overturned in them we learned their tremendous power, a power we would never have associated with any water, before such an experience, short of a waterfall. there is a certain amount of danger in the canyons,--plenty of it. still, in most cases, with care and forethought, much of it can be avoided. we think we are safe in saying that half of the parties who have attempted a passage through these canyons have met with fatalities. most of these have occurred in cataract canyon, not because it is any worse than other sections,--certainly no worse than the grand canyon,--but because it is easily entered from the quiet, alluring water of the lower green river. without a doubt each successful expedition is responsible in a way for others' attempts. in nearly every instance the unfortunate ones have underestimated the danger, and have attempted the passage with inadequate boats, such as smith had for instance, undecked and without air chambers. both of these are imperative for safety. we had the benefit of the experiences of others. in addition, our years of work in the canyons had robbed them of their imaginary dangers, and--while we trust that we are not entirely without imagination--much of their weirdness and glamour with which they are inseparable to the idealist and the impressionist. each of these upsets could have been avoided by a portage had we desired to make one, but success in other rapids made us a little reckless and ready to take a chance. beyond getting our flour wet on the outside, we suffered very little loss to our cargo. we placed the two flour sacks beside the fires each evening, until the wet flour dried to a crust. we continued to use out of the centre of the sacks as though nothing had ever happened. bert and i each had a little cough the next morning, but it disappeared by noon. beyond that, we suffered no great inconvenience from our enforced bath. sleeping in the open, with plenty of healthful exercise, kept us physically fit. the cold air and the cold water did not seem to bother the others, but i could not get comfortably warm during this cold snap. added to this, it took me some time to get over my scare, and i could see all kinds of danger, in rapids, where emery could see none. i insisted on untying the photographic cases from the boats, and carrying them around a number of rapids before we ran them. it is hardly necessary to say that no upset occurred in these rapids. then came a cold day, with a raw wind sweeping up the river. a coating of ice covered the boats and the oars. we had turned directly to the north along the base of powell's plateau, and were nearing the end of a second granite gorge, with violent rapids and jagged rocks. emery made the remark that he had not had a swim for some time. in a half-hour we came to a rapid with two twelve-foot waves in the centre of the stream, with a projecting point above that would have to be passed, before we could pull out of the swift-running centre. emery got his swim there. i was just behind and was more fortunate. i never saw anything more quickly done. before the boat was fully overturned he swung an oar, so that it stuck out at an angle from the side of the boat, and used the oar for a step; an instant later he had cut the oar loose, and steered toward the shore. bert threw him a rope from the shore, and he was pulled in. he was wearing a thin rubber coat fitting tightly about his wrists, tied about his neck, and belted at the waist. this protected him so thoroughly that he was only wet from the waist down. if we were a little inclined to be proud of our record above bright angel we had forgotten all about it by this time. we were scarcely more than sixty miles from home and had experienced three upsets and a smashed boat, all in one week. just at the end of the second granite section we made our first portage since leaving bright angel. bert and i worked on the boats, while emery cooked the evening meal. hot rice soup, flavoured with a can of prepared meat, was easily and quickly prepared, and formed one of the usual dishes at these meals. it contained a lot of nutriment, and the rice took up but little space in the boats. sometimes the meat was omitted, and raisins were substituted. prepared baked beans were a staple dish, but were not in our supply on this last part of the trip. we often made "hot cakes" twice a day; an excuse for eating a great deal of butter and honey, or syrup. none of these things were luxuries. they were the best foodstuff we could carry. we seemed to crave sweet stuff, and used quantities of sugar. we could carry eggs, when packed in sawdust, without trouble but did not carry many. we had little meat; what we had was bacon, and prepared meats of the lunch variety. cheese was our main substitute for meat. it was easily carried and kept well. dried peaches or apricots were on the bill for nearly every meal, each day's allowance being cooked the evening before. we tried several condensed or emergency foods, but discarded them all but one, for various reasons. the exception was erbeswurst, a patent dried soup preparation. other prepared soups were carried also. i must not forget the morning cereal. it was cream of wheat, easily prepared; eaten--not served, perhaps devoured would be a better word--with sugar and condensed cream, as long as it lasted, then with butter. any remainder from breakfast was fried for other meals. each evening, we would make some baking-powder biscuit in a frying-pan. a dutch oven is better, but had too much weight. the appellation for such bread is "flapjack" or "dough-god." when i did the baking they were fearfully and wonderfully made. cocoa, which was nourishing, often took the place of coffee. in fact our systems craved just what was most needed to build up muscle and create heat. we found it was useless to try to catch fish after the weather became cold. the fish would not bite. on the upper end of our journey we carried no tobacco, as it happened that jimmy as well as ourselves were not tobacco users. there were no alcoholic stimulants. when bert joined us, a small flask, for medicinal purposes only, was taken along. the whiskey was scarcely touched at this time. bert enjoyed a pipe after his meals, but continued to keep good-natured even when his tobacco got wet, so tobacco was not absolutely necessary to him. uninteresting and unromantic these things may be, but they were most important to us. we were only sorry the supply was not larger. while we never stinted ourselves, or cut the allowance of food, the amount was growing smaller every day, and it was not a question any more whether we would go out or not, to get provisions, to "rustle" as bert called it, but where we would go out. we might go up cataract creek or ha va su creek, as it is sometimes called. we had been to the mouth of this canyon on foot, so there would be no danger of missing it. the ha va supai indians, about two hundred in number, lived in this lateral canyon about seven or eight miles from the river. an agent and a farmer lived with them, and might be able to sell us some provisions; if not, it would be fifty miles back to our home. the trail was much more direct than the river. the great drawback to this course was the fact that ha va su canyon, sheer-walled, deep, and narrow, contained a number of waterfalls, one of them about 175 feet high. the precipice over which it fell was nothing but a mineral deposit from the water, building higher every year. formerly this was impassable, until some miners, after enlarging a sloping cave, had cut a winding stairway in it, which allowed a descent to be made to the bottom of the fall. a recent storm had remodelled all the falls in cataract creek canyon, cutting out the travertine in some places, piling it up in others. a great mass of cottonwood trees were also mixed with the dã©bris. the village, too, had been washed away and was then being rebuilt. we had been told that the tunnel was filled up, and as far as we knew no one had been to the river since the flood. the other outlet was diamond creek canyon, much farther down the river. we would decide when we got to ha va su just what we would do. tapeets creek, one mile below our camp,--a stream which has masqueraded under the title of thunder river, and about which there has been considerable speculation,--proved to be a stream a little smaller than bright angel creek, flowing through a narrow slot in the rocks, and did not fall sheer into the river, as has been reported. perhaps a small cascade known as surprise falls which we passed the next day has been confused with tapeets creek. this stream corkscrews down through a narrow crevice and falls about two hundred feet, close to the river's edge. we are told that the upper end of tapeets creek is similar to this, but on a much larger scale. just opposite this fall a big mountain-sheep jumped from under an overhanging ledge close to the water, and stared curiously at us, as though he wondered what strange things those were coming down with the current. it is doubtful if he ever saw a human being before. this sight sent us scrambling in our cases for cameras and firearms; and it was not the game laws, but a rusted trigger on the six-shooter instead, that saved the sheep. he finally took alarm and scampered away over the rocks, and we had no mutton stew that night. we had one night of heavy rain, and morning revealed a little snow within three hundred feet of the river, while a heavy white blanket covered the upper cliffs. it continued to snow on top, and rained on us nearly all this day. emery took this opportunity to get the drop of moisture out of the lens, and put the camera in such shape that we could proceed with our picture making. a short run was made after this work was completed. the camp we were just leaving was about three miles above kanab canyon. the granite was behind us, disappearing with a steep descent much as it had emerged at the hance trail. there was also a small deposit of algonkian. this too had been passed, and we were back in the limestone and sandstone walls similar to the lower end of marble canyon. while the formations were the same, the canyon differed. the layers were thicker, the red sandstone and the marble walls were equally sheer; there was no plateau between. what plateau this canyon contained lay on top of the red sandstone. few peaks rose above this. the canyon had completed its northern run and was turning back again to the west-southwest with a great sweep or circle. less than an hour's work brought us to kanab canyon. chapter xxii short of provisions in a sunless gorge in the mud at kanab canyon we saw an old footprint of some person who had come down to the river through this narrow, gloomy gorge. it was here that major powell terminated his second voyage, on account of extreme high water. a picture they made showed their boats floated up in this side canyon. our stage was much lower than this. f.s. dellenbaugh, the author of "a canyon voyage," was a member of this second expedition. this book had been our guide down to this point; we could not have asked for a better one. below here we had a general idea of the nature of the river, and had a set of the government maps, but we had neglected to provide ourselves with detailed information such as this volume gave us. evening of the following day found us at cataract creek canyon, but with a stage of water in the river nearly fifty feet lower than that which we had seen a few years before. the narrow entrance of this great canyon gives no hint of what it is like a few miles above. the indian village is in the bottom of a 3000-foot canyon, half a mile wide and three miles long, covered with fertile fields, peach and apricot orchards. it even contained a few fig trees. below the village the canyon narrowed to a hundred yards, with a level bottom, covered with a tangle of wild grape vines, cactus, and cottonwood trees. this section contained the two largest falls, and came to an end about four miles below the first fall. then the canyon narrowed, deep and gloomy, until there was little room for anything but the powerful, rapidly descending stream. at the lower end it was often waist deep and fifteen or twenty feet wide. it was no easy task to go through this gorge. the stream had to be crossed several times. the canyon terminated in an extremely narrow gorge 2500 feet deep, dark and gloomy, one of the most impressive gorges we have ever seen. the main canyon was similar, with a few breaks on the sides, those breaks being ledges, or narrow sloping benches that would extend for miles, only to be brought to an abrupt end by side canyons. there are many mountain-sheep in this section, but we saw none either time. we could see many fresh tracks where they had followed these ledges around, and had gone up the narrow side canyon. it was cold in the main canyon, and no doubt the sheep could be found on the plateaus, which were more open, and would get sun when the sun shone. this plateau was 2500 feet above us. at the turn of the canyon we could see the other walls 2000 feet above that. the rapids in the section just passed had been widely separated and compared well with those of marble canyon, not the worst we had seen, but far from being tame. there was plenty of shore room at each of these rapids. cactus of different species was now a feature of the scenery. the ocotilla or candlewood with long, lash-like stalks springing from a common centre--that cactus, which, when dried, needs only a lighted match to set it afire--flourishes in the rocky ledges. a species of small barrel-cactus about the size of a man's head, with fluted sides, or symmetrical vertical rows of small thorned lumps converging at the top of the "nigger-head," as they are sometimes called, grows in great numbers in crevices on the walls. the delicate "pin cushion" gathered in clusters of myriad small spiny balls. the prickly pear, here in ha va su canyon, were not the starved, shrivelled, mineral-tinted cactus such as we found at the beginning of our trip. instead they were green and flourishing, with large fleshy leaves joining on to each other until they rise to a height of three feet or more and cover large patches of ground to the utter exclusion of all other growth. what a display of yellow and red these desert plants put forth when they are in bloom! a previous visit to ha va su was made in the month of may when every group of prickly pear was a riot of pure colour. all this prolific growth is made possible by the extreme heat of the summer months aided in the case of those plants and trees which flourish in the fertile soil of ha va su by the sub-irrigation and the spray from the fall. after making an inventory of our provisions we concluded not to try the tedious and uncertain trip up cataract creek. with care and good fortune we would have enough provisions to last us to diamond creek. with our run the next day the inner gorge continued to deepen, the walls drew closer together, so that we now had a narrow gorge hemming us in with 3000-foot walls from which there was no escape. they were about a fourth of a mile apart at the top. a boat at the foot of one of these walls was merely an atom. the total depth of the canyon was close to 4500 feet. there is nothing on earth to which this gorge can be compared. storm-clouds lowered into the chasm in the early morning. the sky was overcast and threatening. we were travelling directly west again, and no sunlight entered here, even when the sun shone. the walls had lost their brighter reds, and what colour they had was dark and sombre, a dirty brown and dark green predominating. the mythology of the ancients, with their inferno and their river styx, could hardly conjure anything more supernatural or impressive than this gloomy gorge. there were a few bad rapids. one or two had no shore, others had an inclination to run under one wall and had to be run very carefully. if we could not get down alongside of a rapid, we could usually climb out on the walls at the head of the rapid and look it over from that vantage point. the one who climbed out would signal directions to the others, who would run it at once, and continue on to the next rapid. they would have its course figured out when the last boat arrived. one canyon entered from the left, level on the bottom, and about one hundred feet wide; it might be a means of outlet from this canyon, but it is doubtful, for the marble has a way of ending abruptly and dropping sheer, with a polished surface that is impossible to climb. new year's eve was spent in this section. the camp was exceptionally good. a square-sided, oblong section of rock about fifty feet long had fallen forward from the base of the cliff. this left a cave-like opening which was closed at one end with our dark-room tent. high water had placed a sandy floor, now thoroughly dry, in the bottom. under the circumstances we could hardly ask for anything better. of driftwood there was none, and our camp-fires were made of mesquite which grew in ledges in the rocks; in one case gathered with a great deal of labour on the shore opposite our camp, and ferried across on our boats. if a suitable camp was found after 3.30 p.m., we kept it, rather than run the risk of not finding another until after dark. another day, january 1, 1912, brought us to the end of this gorge and into a wider and more open canyon, with the country above covered with volcanic peaks and cinder cones. blow-holes had broken through the canyon walls close to the top of the gorge, pouring streams of lava down its sides, filling the bottom of the canyon with several hundred feet of lava. this condition extended down the canyon for twenty miles or more. judging by the amount of lava the eruption must have continued for a great while. could one imagine a more wonderful sight--the turbulent stream checked by the fire flood from above! what explosions and rending of rocks there must have been when the two elements met. the river would be backed up for a hundred miles! each would be shoved on from behind! there was no escape! they must fight it out until one or the other conquered. but the fire could not keep up forever, and, though triumphant for a period, it finally succumbed, and the stream proceeded to cut down to the original level. two miles below the first lava flow we saw what we took to be smoke and hurried down wondering if we would find a prospector or a cattle rustler. we agreed, if it was the latter, to let them off if they would share with us. but the smoke turned out to be warm springs, one of them making quite a stream which fell twenty feet into the river. here in the river was a cataract, called lava falls, so filled with jagged pieces of the black rock that a portage was advisable. the weather had not moderated any in the last week, and we were in the water a great deal as we lifted and lined the boats over the rocks at the edge of the rapids. we would work in the water until numbed with the cold, then would go down to the warm springs and thaw out for a while. this was a little quicker than standing by the fire, but the relief was only temporary. this portage was finished the next morning. another portage was made this same day, and the wide canyon where major powell found some indian gardens was passed in the afternoon. the indians were not at home when the major called. his party felt they were justified in helping themselves to some pumpkins or squash, for their supplies were very low, and they could not go out to a settlement--as we expected to do in a day or two--and replenish them. we found the fish would not bite, just as our friend, the miner, had said, but we did succeed in landing a fourteen-pound salmon, in one of the deep pools not many miles from this point, and it was served up in steaks the next day. if our method of securing the salmon was unsportsmanlike, we excused ourselves for the methods used, just as major powell justified his appropriation of the indians' squash. if that fish was ever needed, it was then, and it was a most welcome addition to our rapidly disappearing stock of provisions. we were only sorry we had not taken more "bait." the next day we did see a camp-fire, and on climbing the shore, found a little old prospector, clad in tattered garments, sitting in a little dugout about five feet square which he had shovelled out of the sand. he had roofed it with mesquite and an old blanket. a rapid, just below, made so much noise that he did not hear us until we were before his door. he looked at the rubber coats and the life-preservers, then said, with a matter-of-fact drawl, "well, you fellows must have come by the river!" after talking awhile he asked: "what do you call yourselves?" this question would identify him as an old-time westerner if we did not already know it. at one time it was not considered discreet to ask any one in these parts what their name was, or where they were from. he gave us a great deal of information about the country, and said that diamond creek was about six miles below. he had come across from diamond creek by a trail over a thousand foot ridge, with a burro and a pack mule, a month before. he had just been out near the top on the opposite side, doing some assessment work on some copper claims, crossing the river on a raft, and stated that on a previous occasion he had been drawn over the rapid, but got out. when he learned that we had come through utah, he stated that he belonged near vernal, and had once been upset in the upper canyons, about twenty years before. he proved to be the snyder of whom we had heard at linwood, and also from the chews, who had given him a horse so he could get out over the mountains. yet here was, a thousand miles below, cheerful as a cricket, and sure that a few months at the most would bring him unlimited wealth. he asked us to "share his chuck" with him, but we could see nothing but a very little flour, and a little bacon, so pleaded haste and pushed on for diamond creek. the mouth of this canyon did not look unlike others we had seen in this section, and one could easily pass it without knowing that it ran back with a gentle slope for twenty miles, and that a wagon road came down close to the river. it contained a small, clear stream. the original tourist camp in the grand canyon was located up this canyon. we packed all our plates and films, ready to take them out. the supplies left in the boats when we went out the next morning were: 5 pounds of flour, partly wet and crusted. 2 pounds mildewed cream of wheat. 3 or 4 cans (rusty) of dried beef. less than one pound of sugar. we carried a lunch out with us. this was running a little too close for comfort. the mouth of diamond creek canyon was covered with a growth of large mesquite trees. cattle trails wound through this thorny thicket down to the river's edge. the trees thinned out a short distance back, and the canyon widened as it receded from the river. a half mile back from the river was the old slab building that had served as headquarters for the campers. here the canyon divided, one containing the small stream heading in the high walls to the southeast; while the other branch ran directly south, heading near the railroad at the little flag-station of peach springs, twenty-three miles distant. it was flat-bottomed, growing wider and more valley-like with every mile, but not especially interesting to one who had seen the glory of all the canyons. floods had spoiled what had once been a very passable stage road, dropping 4000 feet in twenty miles, down to the very depths of the grand canyon. some cattle, driven down by the snows, were sunning themselves near the building. our appearance filled them with alarm, and they "high tailed it" to use a cattle man's expression, scampering up the rocky slopes. a deer's track was seen in a snow-drift away from the river. on the sloping walls in the more open sections of this valley grew the stubby-thorned chaparral. the hackberry and the first specimens of the palo verde were found in this vicinity. the mesquite trees seen at the mouth of the canyon were real trees--about the size of a large apple tree--not the small bushes we had seen at the little colorado. all the growth was changing as we neared the lower altitudes and the mouth of the grand canyon, being that of the hot desert, which had found this artery or avenue leading to the heart of the rocky plateaus and had pushed its way into this foreign land. even the animal life of the desert has followed this same road. occasional gila monsters, which are supposed to belong to the hot desert close to the mexico line, have been found at diamond creek, and lizards of the mojave desert have been seen as far north as the foot of bright angel trail. but we saw little animal life at this time. there were occasional otters disporting themselves near our boats, in one instance unafraid, in another raising a gray-bearded head near our boat with a startled look in his eyes. then he turned and began to swim on the surface until our laughter caused him to dive. tracks of the civet-cat or the ring-tailed cat--that large-eyed and large-eared animal, somewhat like a raccoon and much resembling a weasel--were often seen along the shores. the gray fox, the wild-cat, and the coyote, all natives of this land, kept to the higher piã±on-covered hills. the beaver seldom penetrates into the deep canyons because of the lack of vegetation, but is found in all sections in the open country from the headwaters to the delta in mexico. we went out by this canyon on january the 5th, and returned sunday, january the 8th, bringing enough provisions to last us to the end of the big canyon. we imagined we would have no trouble getting what we needed in the open country below that. we sent some telegrams and received encouraging answers to them before returning. with us were two brothers, john and will nelson, cattle men who had given us a cattle man's welcome when we arrived at peach springs. there was no store at peach springs, and they supplied us with the provisions that we brought back. they drove a wagon for about half the distance, then the roads became impassable, so they unhitched and packed their bedding and our provisions in to the river. the nelsons were anxious to see us run a rapid or two. we found the nights to be just as cold on top as they ever get in this section--a little below zero--although the midday sun was warm enough to melt the snow and make it slushy. i arrived at the river with my feet so swollen that i had difficulty in walking, a condition brought on by a previous freezing they had received, being wet continually by the icy water in my boat--which was leaking badly since we left bright angel--and the walk out through the slush. i was glad there was little walking to do when once at the river, and changed my shoes for arctics, which were more roomy and less painful. on the upper part of our trip there were occasional days when emery was not feeling his best, while i had been most fortunate and had little complaint to make; now things seemed to be reversed. emery, and bert too, were having the time of their lives, while i was "getting mine" in no small doses.[6] we had always imagined that the grand canyon lost its depth and impressiveness below diamond creek. we were to learn our mistake. the colour was missing, that was true, for the marble and sandstone walls were brown, dirty, or colourless, with few of the pleasing tones of the canyon found in the upper end. but it was still the grand canyon. we were in the granite again--granite just as deep as any we had seen above, it may have been a little deeper, and in most cases it was very sheer. there was very little plateau, the limestone and sandstone rose above that, just as they had above kanab canyon. the light-coloured walls could not be seen. many of the rapids of this lower section were just as bad as any we had gone over; one or two have been considered worse by different parties. two hours after leaving the nelsons we were halted by a rapid that made us catch our breath. it was in two sections--the lower one so full of jagged rocks that it meant a wrecked boat. the upper part fell about twenty feet we should judge and was bad enough. it was a question if we could run this and keep from going over the lower part! if we made a portage, our boats would have to be taken three or four hundred feet up the side of the cliff. the rapid was too strong to line a boat down. we concluded to risk running the first part. bert climbed to the head of the second section of the rapid, where a projecting point of granite narrowed the stream, and formed a quiet eddy just above the foaming plunge. if we could keep out of the centre and land here we would be safe. our shoes were removed, our trousers were rolled to our knees and we removed our coats. if we had to swim there, we were going to be prepared. the life-preservers were well inflated, and tied; then we made the plunge, emery taking the lead, i following close behind. our plan was to keep as near the shore as possible. once i thought it was all over when i saw the _edith_ pulled directly for a rock in spite of all emery could do to pull away. nothing but a rebounding wave saved him. i went through the same experience. several times we were threatened with an upset, but we landed in safety. the portage was short and easy. flat granite rocks were covered with a thin coat of ice. the boats were unloaded and slid across, then dropped below the projecting rock. the _defiance_ skidded less than two feet and struck a projecting knob of rock the size of a goose egg. it punctured the side close to the stern, fortunately above the water line, and the wood was not entirely broken away. two miles below this we found another bad one. this was lined while bert got supper up in a little sloping canyon; about as uncomfortable a camp as we had found. many of the rapids run the next day were violent. the river seemed to be trying to make up for lost time. we passed a canyon coming from the south containing two streams, one clear, and one muddy. the narrowest place we had seen on the river was a rapid run this day, not over forty feet wide. evening brought us to a rapid with a lateral canyon coming in from each side, that on the right containing a muddy stream. the walls were sheer and jagged close to the rapid, with a break on the rugged slopes here and there. a sloping rock in the middle of the stream could be seen in the third section of the rapid. this was separation rapid, the point where the two howland brothers and dunn parted company with major powell and his party. from our camp at the left side we could easily figure out a way to the upper plateau. above that they would have a difficult climb as far as we could tell. that they did reach the top is well known. they met a tragic fate. the second day after getting out they were killed by some indians--the shewits utes--who had treated them hospitably at first and provided them with something to eat. that night a visiting indian brought a tale of depredations committed by some miners against another section of their tribe. these men were believed to be the guilty parties, and they were ambushed the next morning. their fate remained a mystery for a year; then a ute was seen with a watch belonging to one of the men. later a mormon who had a great deal of influence with the indians got their story from them, and reported to major powell what he had learned. it was a deplorable and a tragic ending to what otherwise was one of the most successful, daring, and momentous explorations ever undertaken on this continent. we find there is a current belief that it was cowardice and fear of this one rapid that caused these men to separate from the party. the more one hears of this separation, the more it seems that it was a difference of opinion on many matters, and not this one rapid, that caused them to leave. these men had been trappers and hunters, one might say pioneers, and one had been with major powell before the river exploration. they had gone through all the canyons, and had come through this far without a fatality. they had seen a great many rapids nearly as bad as this, and several that were worse, if one could judge by its nature when we found it. they were not being carried by others, but had charge of one boat. they did smash one boat in disaster rapid in lodore canyon, and at that time they claimed major powell gave them the wrong signal. this caused some feeling. at the time of the split, the food question was a serious one. there were short rations for a long time; in fact there was practically no food. after an observation, major powell informed them that they were within forty-five miles of the virgin river, in a direct line. much of the country between the end of the canyon and the virgin river was open, a few mormon settlements could be found up the virgin valley. he offered them half of the small stock of provisions, when they persisted in leaving, but they refused to take any provisions whatever, feeling sure that they could kill enough game to subsist on. this one instance would seem to be enough to clear them of the stigma of cowardice. the country on top was covered with volcanic cinders. there was little water to be found, and in many ways it was just as inhospitable as the canyon. the cook had a pan of biscuits, which he left on a rock for them, after the men had helped the party lift the boats over the rocks at the head of the rapid. after landing in safety around a bend which hid them from sight, the boating party fired their guns, hoping they would hear the report, and follow in the abandoned boat. it is doubtful if they could hear the sound of the guns, above the roar of the rapid. if they did, they paid no attention to it. the younger howland wished to remain with the party, but threw his lot with his brother, when he withdrew. while these men did not have the major's deep scientific interest in the successful completion of this exploration, they undoubtedly should have stayed with their leader, if their services were needed or desired. it is more than likely that they were insubordinate; they certainly made a misguided attempt, but in spite of these facts it scarcely seems just to brand them as cowards. two days after they left, the boating party was camped at the end of the canyons. chapter xxiii the last portage and the last rapids the first section of separation rapid was run the first thing in the morning, a manoeuvre that was accomplished by starting on the left shore and crossing the swift centre clear to the other shore. this allowed us to reach some quiet water near a small deposit of rock and earth at the base of the sheer wall. two feet of water would have covered this deposit; likewise two feet of water would have given us a clear channel over this second section. as it was, the rapid was rough, with many rocks very near the surface. directly across from us, close to the left shore, was what looked like a ten-foot geyser, or fountain of water. this was caused by a rock in the path of a strong current rebounding from the shore. the water ran up on the side near the wall, then fell on all sides. it was seldom the water had force enough to carry to the top of a rock as large as that. this portage of the second section was one of the easiest we had made. by rolling a few large rocks around we could get a stream water across our small shore large enough to float an empty boat with a little help, so we lightened them of the cargo and floated them through our canal. while running the third section the _edith_ was carried up on the sloping rock in the middle of the stream; she paused a moment, then came down like a shot and whirled around to the side without mishap. this made the thirteenth rapid in which both boats were lined or portaged. in three other rapids one boat was run through and one was portaged. half of all these rapids were located in the grand canyon. all this time we were anxiously looking forward to a rapid which mr. stone had described as being the worst in the entire series, also the last rapid we would be likely to portage and had informed us that below this particular rapid everything could be run with little or no inspection. naturally we were anxious to get that rapid behind us. it was described as being located below a small stream flowing from the south. the same rapid was described by major powell as having a bold, lava-capped escarpment at the head of the rapid, on the right. we had not seen any lava since leaving diamond creek, and an entry in my notes reads, "we have gone over stone's 'big rapid' three times and it is still ahead of us." the knowledge that there was a big rapid in the indefinite somewhere that was likely to cause us trouble seemed to give us more anxious moments than the many unmentioned rapids we were finding all this time. we wondered how high the escarpment was, and if we could take our boats over its top. we tried to convince ourselves that it was behind us, although sure that it could not be. but the absence of lava puzzled us. after one "bad" rapid and several "good" rapids we came to a sharp turn in the canyon. emery was ahead and called back, "i see a little stream"; bert joined with "i see the lava"; and the "bold escarpment rapid," as we had been calling it for some time, was before us. it was more than a nasty rapid, it was a cataract! what a din that water sent up! we had to yell to make ourselves heard. the air vibrated with the impact of water against rock. the rapid was nearly half a mile long. there were two sections near its head staggered with great rocks, forty of them, just above or slightly submerged under the surface of the water. our low stage of water helped us, so that we did not have to line the boats from the ledge, eighty feet above the water, as others had done. the rapid broke just below the lower end of the sheer rock, which extended twenty feet beyond the irregular shore. the _edith_ went first, headed upstream, at a slight angle nearly touching the wall, dropping a few inches between each restraining stroke of the oars. bert crouched on the bow, ready to spring with the rope, as soon as emery passed the wall and headed her in below the wall. jumping to the shore, he took a snub around a boulder and kept her from being dragged into the rapid. then they both caught the _defiance_ as she swung in below the rock, and half the battle was won before we tackled the rapid. our days were short, and we did not take the boats down until the next day; but we did carry much of the camp material and cargo halfway down over ledges a hundred feet above the river. for a bad rapid we were very fortunate in getting past it as easily as we did. logs were laid over rocks, the boats were skidded over them about their own length and dropped in again. logs and boats were lined down in the swift, but less riotous water, to the next barrier, which was more difficult. a ten-foot rounded boulder lay close to the shore, with smaller rocks, smooth and ice-filmed, scattered between. powerful currents swirled between these rocks and disappeared under two others, wedged closely together on top. three times the logs were snatched from our grasp as we tried to bridge them across this current, and they vanished in the foam, to shoot out end first, twenty feet below and race away on the leaping water. a boat would be smashed to kindling-wood if once carried under there. at last we got our logs wedged, and an hour of tugging, in which only two men could take part at the same time, landed both boats in safety below this barrier. we shot the remainder of the rapid on water so swift that the oars were snatched from our hands if we tried to do more than keep the boats straight with the current. that rapid was no longer the "bold escarpment," but the "last portage" instead, and it was behind us. the afternoon was half gone when we made ready pull away from the last portage. there were other rapids, but scarcely a pause was made in our two-hour run, and we camped away from the roar of water. the canyon was widening out a little at a time; the granite disappeared in the following day's run, at noon. grass-covered slopes, with seeping mineral springs, took the place of precipitous walls; they dropped to 2500 feet in height; numerous side canyons cut the walls in regular sections like gigantic city blocks, instead of an unbroken avenue. small rapids continued to appear, there were a few small islands, and divided currents, so shallow they sometimes kept us guessing which one to take, but we continued to run them all without a pause. we would have run out of the canyon that day but for one thing. five mountain-sheep were seen from our boats in one of the sloping grassy meadows above the river. we landed below, carried our cameras back, and spent half an hour in trying to see them again, but they had taken alarm. placer claim locations and fresh burro tracks were seen in the sand at our last grand canyon camp, and a half mile below us we could see out into open country. we found the walls, or the end of the table-land, to be about two thousand feet high, with the canyon emerging at a sharp angle so that a narrow ridge, or "hogs-back" lay on the left side of the stream. once out in the open the walls were seen to be quite steep, but could be climbed to the top almost any place without trouble. saturday, january the 13th, we were out of the canyon at last, and the towering walls, now friendly, now menacing, were behind us. three hundred and sixty-five large rapids, and nearly twice as many small rapids, were behind us and the dream of ten years was an accomplished fact. but best of all, there were no tragedies or fatalities to record. perhaps we did look a little the worse for wear, but a few days away from the river would repair all that. the boats had a bump here and there, besides the one big patch on the _edith_; a little mending and a little caulking would put both the _edith_ and _defiance_ in first-class condition. there is little of interest to record of our 175-mile run to needles, california. it was a land of desolation--an extension of the mojave desert on the south, and the alkaline flats and mineral mountains of nevada on the north, of death valley and the funeral mountains of california to the northwest--a burned-out land of grim-looking mountains extending north and south across our way; a dried-out, washed-out, and wind-swept land of extensive flats and arroyos; a land of rock and gravel cemented in marls and clay; ungraced with any but the desert plants,--cactus and thorny shrubs,--with little that was pleasing or attractive. a desert land it is true, but needing only the magic touch of water to transform much of it into a garden spot. even as it was, a few months later it would be covered with the flaming blossoms of the desert growth, which seem to try to make amends in one or two short months for nearly a year of desolation. a wash ran along the base of the plateau from which we had emerged. an abandoned road and ferry showed that this had once been a well-travelled route. the stream had a good current and we pulled away, only stopping once to see the last of our plateau before a turn and deepening banks hid it from view. we wondered if the water ever dropped in a precipitous fall over the face of the wall and worked back, a little every year, as it does at niagara. we could hardly doubt that there were some such falls back in the dim past when these canyons were being carved. in the middle of the afternoon we passed a ranch or a house with a little garden, occupied by two miners, who hailed us from the shore. a half-mile below was the scanlon ferry, a binding tie between arizona, on the south and what was now nevada, on the north, for we had reached the boundary line shortly after emerging from the canyon. we still travelled nearly directly west. the ferry was in charge of a cornishman who also had as pretty a little ranch as one could expect to find in such an unlikely place. a purling stream of water, piped from somewhere up in the hills, had caused the transformation. the ranch was very homey with cattle and horses, sheep and hogs, dogs and cats, all sleek and contented-looking. the garden proved that this country had a warm climate, although we were not suffering from heat at that time. an effort was being made to grow some orange trees, but with little promise of success; there were fig trees and date-palms, with frozen dates hanging on the branches, one effect of the coldest winter they had seen in this section. the rancher told us he could not sell us anything that had to be brought in, for it was seventy miles to the railroad, but we could look over such supplies as he had. it ended by his selling us a chicken, two dozen eggs, five pounds of honey, and ten pounds of flour,--all for $2.50. we did not leave until the next morning, then bought another jar of honey, for we had no sugar, and two-thirds of the first jar was eaten before we left the ferry. we pulled away in such a hurry the next morning that we forgot an axe that had been carried with us for the entire journey. a five-hour run brought us to the mouth of the virgin river, a sand-bar a mile wide, and with a red-coloured stream little larger than cataract creek winding through it. we had once seen this stream near its head waters, a beautiful mountain creek, that seemed to bear no relation to this repulsive-looking stream that entered from the north. a large, flat-topped, adobe building, apparently deserted, stood off at one side of the stream. this was the head of navigation for flat-bottomed steamboats that once plied between here and the towns on the lower end of the river. they carried supplies for small mines scattered through the mountains and took out cargoes of ore, and of rock salt which was mined back in nevada. it was here at the virgin river that major powell concluded his original voyage of exploration. some of his men took the boats on down to fort mojave, a few miles above needles; afterwards two of the party continued on to the gulf. the country below the virgin river had been explored by several parties, but previous to this time nothing definite was known of the gorges until this exploration by this most remarkable man. the difficulties of this hazardous trip were increased for him by the fact that he had lost an arm in the civil war. it is usually taken for granted that the united states government was back of this exploration. this was true of the second expedition, but not of the first. major powell was aided to a certain extent by the state college of illinois, otherwise he bore all the expense himself. we received $10,000 from the government to apply on the expenses of the second trip. we felt that we had some reason to feel a justifiable pride for having duplicated, in some ways, this arduous journey. it was impossible for us to do more than guess what must have been the feelings and anxieties of this explorer. added to the fact that we had boats, tested and constructed to meet the requirements of the river, and the benefit of others' experiences, was a knowledge that we were not likely to be precipitated over a waterfall, or if we lost everything and succeeded in climbing out, that there were a few ranches and distant settlements scattered through the country. but we had traversed the same river and the same canyons which change but little from year to year, and had succeeded beyond our fondest hopes in having accomplished what we set out to do. the black mountains, dark and forbidding, composed of a hard rock which gave a metallic clink, and decorated with large spots of white, yellow, vermilion, and purple deposits of volcanic ashes, were entered this afternoon. the peaks were about a thousand feet high. the passage between is known as boulder canyon. here we met two miners at work on a tunnel, or drift, who informed us that it was about forty miles to las vegas, nevada, and that it was only twenty-five miles from the mouth of las vegas wash, farther down the river, to this same town and the railroad. fort callville--an abandoned rock building, constructed by the directions of brigham young, without windows or roof, and surrounded by stone corrals--was passed the next day. at las vegas wash the river turned at right angles, going directly south, holding with very little deviation to this general direction until it empties into the gulf of california nearly five hundred miles away. the river seemed to be growing smaller as we got out in the open country. like all western rivers, when unprotected by canyons, it was sinking in the sand. sand-bars impeded our progress at such places as the mouth of the wash. but we had a good current, without rapids in black canyon, which came shortly below, and mile after mile was put behind us before we camped for the night. an old stamp-mill, closed for the time, but in charge of three men who were making preparations to resume work, was passed the next day. they had telephone communication with searchlight, nevada, twenty odd miles away, and we sent out some telegrams in that way. more sand-bars were encountered the next day, and ranches began to appear on both sides of the river. we had difficulty on some of these bars. in places the river bed was a mile wide, with stagnant pools above the sand, and with one deep channel twisting between. at fort mojave, now an indian school and agency, we telephoned to some friends in needles, as we had promised to do, telling them we would arrive about noon of the following day. we made a mistake in not camping at the high ground by the "fort" that night, for just below the river widened again and the channel turned out in the centre. it was getting dark and we had entered this before noticing which way it turned, and had a hard pull back to the shore, for we had no desire to camp out there in the quicksand. the shore was little more desirable. it was a marsh, covered with a growth of flags and tules but with the ground frozen enough so that we did not sink. our last camp--no. 76--was made in this marsh. there we spent the night, hidden like hunted savages in the cane-brake, while an indian brass band played some very good music for an officers' ball, less than half a mile away. we were up and away with the sun the next morning. on nearing needles, a friend met us on the outskirts of the town and informed us that they had arranged what he called an official landing and reception. at his request we deferred going down at once, but busied ourselves instead at packing our cargo, ready for shipping. our friend had secured the services of a motion-picture operator and our own camera was sent down to make a picture of the landing, which was made as he had arranged. we landed in needles january 18, 1912; one month from the time of our start from bright angel trail, with a total of one hundred and one days spent along the river. in that time our camps had been changed seventy-six times. our two boats, highly prized as souvenirs of our twelve hundred mile trip, and which had carried us through three hundred and sixty-five big rapids, over a total descent of more than five thousand feet, were loaded on cars ready for shipment; the _edith_ to los angeles, the _defiance_ to the grand canyon. among other mail awaiting us was the following letter, bearing the postmark of hite, utah: "kolb bros., "dear friends: "well i got here at last after seventeen days in cataract canyon. the old boat will stand a little quiet water but will never go through another rapid. i certainly played 'ring-a-round' some of those rocks in cataract canyon; i tried every scheme i had ever heard of, and some that were never thought of before. at the last rapid in cataract i carried all my stuff over the cliff, then tried to line the boat from the narrow ledge. the boat jerked me into the river, but i did not lose my hold on the chain and climbed on board. i had no oars, but managed to get through without striking any rocks, and landed a mile and a half below the supplies. i hope the 'movies' are good.[7] "sincerely yours, "chas. smith." conclusion. how i went to mexico chapter xxiv on the crest of a flood a westward-bound train was bearing me across the mojave desert one day in may. in a few swiftly passing hours we had made a six-thousand foot descent from the plateau with its fir and aspen-covered mountain, its cedar and piã±on-clothed foot-hills, and its extensive forests of yellow pine. crimson and yellow-flowered cactus, sage and chaparral, succeeded the pines. the cool mountains had given way to burned-out, umber-coloured hills, rock-ribbed arroyos, and seemingly endless desert; and the sun was growing hotter every minute. if the heat continued to increase, i doubted if i would care to take a half-planned colorado river trip down to the gulf. visions of the california beaches, of fishing at catalina and of horseback rides over the sierra's trails, nearly unsettled my determination to stop at needles, on the california side of the river. this was my vacation! why undergo all the discomfort of a voyage on a desert stream, when the pleasures and comforts of the pacific beckoned? one thing was sure, if i was not successful in securing a boat at needles, the very next train would find me on board, bound for the western slope. by mid-afternoon the chaparral had disappeared and only the cactus remained--the ocotilla, covered with a million flowers, wave upon wave of crimson flame, against the yellow earth. violet-veiled mountains appeared in the west, marking the southern trend of the colorado. the air was suffocating. the train-created wind was like a blast from a furnace; yet with the electric fans whirring, with blinds drawn and windows closed to keep the withering air _out_, it seemed a little less uncomfortable in the car, in spite of the unvitalized air, than under the scorching sun. we were beside the colorado at last. i had a good view of the stream below, as we crossed the bridge--the colorado in flood, muddy, turbulent, sweeping onward like an affrighted thing,--repulsive, yet with a fascination for me, born of an intimate acquaintance with the dangers of this stream. the river had called again! the heat was forgotten, the visions of the coast faded, for me the train could not reach needles, ten miles up the river, quickly enough. with my brother, i had followed this stream down to needles, through a thousand miles of canyon. i had seen how it carved its way through the mountains, carrying them on, in solution, toward the ocean. at last i would see what became of all these misplaced mountains. i would see the tidal bore as it swept in from the gulf. i had heard there were wild hogs which burrowed through the cane-brake. it may be that i would learn of a vessel at some port down on the mexican coast, which i might reach and which would take me around the lower california peninsula. i felt sure there was such a port. no doubt i could have found books to tell me exactly what i would see, but too much information would spoil all the romance of such an adventure. it was all very alluring. with the spring flood on, the river could not help but be interesting and exciting, a pretty good imitation of the rapids, perhaps. if i could only secure a boat! half an hour later i was meeting old acquaintances about the hotel, connected with the station. the genial hotel manager, with the irish name, was smilingly explaining to some newcomers that this was not hot; that "a dry heat at 110 degrees was not nearly as bad as 85 degrees back in chicago," "and as for heat," he continued, "why down in yuma"--then he caught sight of me, with a grin on my face, and perhaps he remembered that i had heard him say the same thing two years before, when it was even hotter; and he came over with out-stretched hand,--calling me uncomplimentary names, under his breath, for spoiling the effect of his explanation; all which was belied by his welcome. it takes an irishman to run a big hotel in the middle of the desert. a few inquiries brought out the information that i was not likely to get a boat. the stores did not keep them. i should have given my order two weeks before to an indian who built boats to order at $2.00 a foot. this was a new one on me. suppose a fellow wanted--well say, about $15.00 worth. it would look something like a tub, wouldn't it? perhaps it was to be the coast, for me, after all. the colorado river in flood is a terrible stream. unlike the eastern rivers, there are no populous cities--with apologies to needles and yuma--along its shores, to be inundated with the floods. unlike the rivers of the south, few great agricultural districts spread across its bottoms. along the upper seven hundred miles there are not a half-dozen ranches with twenty-five acres under cultivation. but if destructive power and untamed energy are terrible, the colorado river, in flood, is a terrible stream. after changing into some comfortable clothes i sauntered past the railway machine shops down to the river, and up to where a fight was being waged to save the upper part of the town from being torn away by the flood. for a month past, car after car of rock had been dumped along the river bank, only to disappear in the quicksands; and as yet no bottom had been reached. up to this point the fight was about equal. the flood would not reach its crest until two or three weeks later. beyond a fisherman or two there were few men by the river. the workmen had finished their day's labour. a ferryman said that i might talk an indian into selling his boat, but it was doubtful. my next job was to find such an indian. a big, greasy mojave buck lay on an uncovered, rusty bed spring, slung on a home-made frame, before his willow and adobe home, close to the colorado river. in answer to my repeated question he uncoiled and stretched the full length of his six foot six couch, grunted a few words in his native tongue to other indians without a glance in my direction, then indifferently closed his eyes again. a young indian in semi-cowboy garb,--not omitting a gorgeous silk handkerchief about his neck,--jabbered awhile with some grinning squaws, then said in perfectly understandable english, "he will sell his boat for $18.00. it is worth $30.00." this was decisive for an indian. it usually takes a half-day of bickering to get them to make any kind of a bargain. i told him i would take it in the morning. it was a well-constructed boat, almost new, built of inch pine, flat-bottomed, and otherwise quite similar in shape to the boats my brother and i had used on our twelve hundred mile journey through the canyons of the green and colorado rivers,--but without the graceful lines and swells that made those other boats so valuable to us in rapids. the boat was nearly new and well worth $30.00, as boat prices went in that town. why he was willing to sell it for $18.00, or at the rate of $1.00 a foot, i could not imagine. it was the first bargain an indian had ever offered me. but if i paid for it that evening, there were doubts in my mind if i should find it in the morning, so i delayed closing the bargain and went back again to inspect the boat. that evening i inquired among my acquaintances if there was any one who would care to accompany me. if so i would give them passage to yuma, or to the gulf of california in mexico, if they wished it. but no one could go, or those who could, wouldn't. one would have thought from the stories with which i was regaled, that the rapids of the grand canyon were below needles, and as for going to the gulf, it was suicide. i was told of the outlaws along the border, of the firearms and opium smugglers, who shot first and questioned afterward, and of the insurrectos of lower california. the river had no real outlet to the ocean, they said, since the break into salton sea, but spread over a cane-brake, thirty miles or more in width. many people had gone into these swamps and never returned, whether lost in the jungles or killed by the cocopah indians, no one knew. they simply disappeared. it was all very alluring. my preparations, the next day, were few. i had included a sleeping bag with my baggage. it would come in equally handy whether i went down on the colorado or up into the coast range. a frying-pan, a coffee-pot a few metal dishes and provisions for a week were all i needed. some one suggested some bent poles, and a cover, such as are used on wagons to keep off the sun. this seemed like a good idea; and i hunted up a carpenter who did odd jobs. he did not have such a one, but he did have an old wagon-seat cover, which could be raised or dropped at will. this was even better, for sometimes hard winds sweep up the river. the cover was fastened to the sides of the boat. the boat, meanwhile, had been thoroughly scrubbed. it looked clean before, but i was not going to take any chances at carrying indian live-stock along with his boat. my surplus baggage was sent on to los angeles, and twenty-four hours after i had landed in needles, i was ready to embark. my experience in camping trips of various sorts has been that the start from headquarters occupies more time than any similar preparation. once on the road, things naturally arrange themselves into some kind of a system, and an hour on the road in the evening means several hours gained the next morning. added to this, there are always a number of loafers about railroad towns, and small things have a way of disappearing. with this in mind, i determined to make my start that evening, and at 7 p.m. on the 23d of may, 1913, i embarked on a six to eight mile an hour current, paced by cottonwood logs, carried down by the flood from the head waters in wyoming, utah, and colorado. when sailing on the unruffled current one did not notice its swiftness--it sped so quietly yet at the same time with such deadly intent--until some half submerged cottonwood snags appeared, their jagged, broken limbs ploughing the stream exactly like the bow of a motor-driven boat, throwing two diverging lines of waves far down the stream. one would almost think the boat was motionless, it raced so smoothly,--and that the snags were tearing upstream as a river man had said, the day before, "like a dog with a bone in his teeth." a sunken stone-boat, with a cabin half submerged, seemed propelled by some unseen power and rapidly dwindled in the distance. so fascinating were these things that i forgot the approaching night. i first noticed it when the stream slackened its mad pace and spread over its banks into great wide marshes, in divided and subdivided channels and over submerged islands, with nothing but willow and fuzzy cattail tops to indicate that there was a bottom underneath. here there was no place to camp had i wished to do so. once i missed the main channel and had a difficult time in finding my way back in the dark. after two or three miles of this quiet current, the streams began to unite again, and the river regained its former speed. i was growing weary after the first excitement, and began to wish myself well out of it all and safely anchored to the shore. but i knew there was a level bank above the river close to the bridge, which would make a good camping place; so i rested on my oars facing down the stream with eyes and ears alert for the treacherous snags. then the stars began to appear, one by one, lighting up the cloudless sky; a moist, tropical-like breeze moved up the stream, the channel narrowed and deepened, the snags vanished, and the stream increased its swiftness. and with eyes wide open, but unseeing, i dozed. it was the lights of a passenger train crossing the bridge, just a short distance away, that made me realize where i was. the train thundered into the darkness; but louder than the roar of the train was that of the water directly ahead, and hidden in the impenetrable shadow over on the right shore was a noise much like that made by a grand canyon rapid. wide awake now, i pulled for the left, and after one or two attempts to land, i caught some willow tops and guided the boat to the raised bank. beyond the willows was a higher ground, covered with a mesquite thicket, with cattle trails winding under the thorny trees. here i unrolled my sleeping bag, then went up to interview the operator and the watchman, and to get a drink of clear water, for i had no desire to drink the liquid mud of the colorado until it was necessary. in answer to a question i told them of my little ride. one of the men exclaimed, "you don't mean to say that you came down on the flood after dark!" on being informed that i had just arrived, he exclaimed: "well i reckon you don't know what the colorado is. it's a wonder this whirlpool didn't break you against the pier. you ought to have brought some one with you to see you drown!" chapter xxv four days to yuma before sunrise the following morning, i had completed my few camp duties, finished my breakfast and dropped my boat into the whirlpool above the bridge. my two friends watched the manoeuvre as i pulled clear of the logs and the piers which caused the water to make such alarming sounds the night before; then they gave me a final word of caution, and the information that the parker bridge was sixty miles away and that yuma was two hundred and fifty miles down the stream. they thought that i should reach yuma in a week. it seemed but a few minutes until the bridge was a mile up the stream. now i was truly embarked for the gulf. by the time i had reached the spire-like mountainous rocks a few miles below the bridge, which gave the town of needles its name, the sun was well up and i was beginning to learn what desert heat was, although i had little time to think of it as i was kept so busy with my boat. here, the stream which was spread a mile wide above, had choked down to two hundred feet; small violent whirlpools formed at the abrupt turns in this so-called canyon and the water tore from side to side. in one whirl my boat was twice carried around the circle into which i had allowed it to be caught, then shot out on the pounding flood. soon the slag-like mountains were passed and the country began to spread, first in a high barren land, then with a bottom land running back from the river. the willow bushes changed to willow trees, tall and spindly, crowded in a thicket down to the river's edge. the chemehuevi indians have their reservation here. on rounding an abrupt turn i surprised two little naked children, fat as butterballs, dabbling in a mud puddle close to the stream. the sight, coupled with the tropical-like heat and the jungle, could well make one imagine he was in africa or india, and that the little brown bodies were the "alligator bait" of which we read. only the 'gators were missing. the unexpected sight of a boat and a white man trying to photograph them started them both into a frightened squall. then an indignant mother appeared, staring at me as though she would like to know what i had done to her offspring. farther along were other squaws, with red and blue lines pencilled on their childlike, contented faces, seated under the willows. their cotton garments, of red and blue bandanna handkerchiefs sewed together, added a gay bit of colour to the scene. below this were two or three cozy little ranch houses and a few scattered cattle ranches, with cattle browsing back in the trees. all this time it was getting hotter, and i was thankful for my sheltering cover. my lunch, prepared in the morning, was eaten as i drifted. except in a few quiet stretches i did little rowing, just enough to keep the boat away from the overhanging banks and in the strong current. the bottom lands began to build up again with banks of gravel and clay, growing higher with every mile. the deciduous trees gave way to the desert growths: the cholla, "the shower of gold," and the palo verde and the other acacias. here were the california or valley-quail; and lean, long-legged jack-rabbits. here too were the coyotes, leaner than the rabbits, but efficient, shifty-eyed, and insolent. one could admire but could hardly respect them. i had entertained hopes of reaching parker that evening, but supposed the hour would be late if i reached it at all. imagine my surprise, then, when at half-past four i heard the whistle of a train, and another turn revealed the parker bridge. i had been told by others that it had taken them three or four days to reach this point on a low stage of water. evidently the high water is much better for rapid and interesting travel. here at the bridge, which was a hundred feet above the river, was a dredge, and an old flat-bottomed steamboat, a relic of a few years past, before the government built the laguna dam above yuma, and condemned the colorado as a navigable stream. those were the days which the colorado steamboat men recall with as much fond remembrance as the old-time boatmen of the mississippi remember their palmy days. in spite of the fact that the boats were flat-bottomed and small, it was real steamboating of an exciting nature at least. at times they beat up against the current as far as the mouth of the rio virgin. in low water the channels shifted back and forth first choked with sand on one side of the stream, then on the other. while the total fall from fort mojave, a few miles above needles, to the gulf is only 525 feet, considerable of that fall came in short sections, first with a swift descent, then in a quiet stretch. even in the high-water stage i was finding some such places. parker stood a mile back from the river, on top of the level gravelly earth which stretched for miles on either side of the river clear to the mountains. this earth and gravel mixture was so firmly packed that even the cactus had a scant foothold. the town interested me for one reason only, this being, that i could get my meals for the evening and the following morning, instead of having to cook them myself. after i had eaten them, however, there was a question in my mind if my own cooking, bad as it was, would not have answered the purpose just as well. the place was a new railroad town on an indian reservation, a town of great expectations, somewhat deferred. it was not as interesting to me as my next stop at ahrenburg, some fifty miles below parker. this place while nothing but a collection of dilapidated adobe buildings, had an air of romance about it which was missing in the newer town. ahrenburg had seen its day. many years ago it was a busy mining camp, and the hope is entertained by the faithful who still reside in its picturesque adobe homes that it will come back with renewed vigour. here at ahrenburg i met a character who added greatly to the interest of my stay. he was a gigantic, raw-boned frenchman, at that time engaged in the construction of a motor boat; but a miner, a sailor, and a soldier of fortune in many ways, one who had pried into many of the hidden corners of the country and had a graphic way of describing what he had seen. i was his guest until late that night, and was entertained royally on what humble fare he had to offer. we both intended to renew our acquaintance in the morning, but some prowling mexicans near my boat, croaking frogs, and swarms of mosquitos gave me a restless night. with the first glimmer of daylight i was up, and half an hour later i was away on the flood. this was my big day. the current was better than much of that above; i was getting used to the heat, and, instead of idly drifting, i pulled steadily at the oars. the river twisted back and forth in great loops with the strong current, as is usual, always on the outside of the loops, close to the overhanging banks. i would keep my boat in this current, with a wary lookout over my shoulder for fallen trees and sudden turns, which had a way of appearing when least expected. at some such places the stream was engaged at undermining the banks which rose eight and ten feet above the water. occasional sections, containing tons of earth and covered with tall, slender willow trees, would topple over, falling on the water with the roar of a cannon or a continued salute of cannons; for the falling, once started, quite often extended for half a mile down the stream. at one such place eighteen trees fell in three minutes, and it would be safe to say that a hundred trees were included in the extended fall. the trees, sixty feet high, resembled a field of gigantic grass or unripened grain; the river was a reaper, cutting it away at the roots. over they tumbled to be buried in the stream; the water would swirl and boil, earth and trees would disappear; then the mass of leaf-covered timber, freed of the earth, would wash away to lodge on the first sand-bar, and the formation of a new island or a new shore would begin. then again, the banks were barren, composed of gravel and clay, centuries older than the verdure-covered land, undisturbed, possibly, since some glacial period deposited it there. but a shifting of the channel directed the attack against these banks. here the swift current would find a little irregularity on the surface and would begin its cutting. the sand-laden water bored exactly like an auger, in fast-cutting whirls. one such place i watched for a half-hour from the very beginning, until the undermined section, fourteen feet high, began to topple, and i pulled out to safety, but not far enough to escape a ducking in the resulting wave. below this, instead of a firm earth, it was a loose sand and gravel mixture twenty feet above the river. here for half a mile the entire bank was moving, slowly at the top, gathering speed at the bottom. while close to this i heard a peculiar hissing as of carbonated water all about me. at first i thought there were mineral springs underneath, but found the noise was caused by breaking air bubbles carried under the stream with the sands. all this day such phenomena continued, sliding sand-banks and tumbling jungles. in these latter places some cattle had suffered. their trails ran parallel with the stream. no doubt they had one or two places where they drank cut down to the stream knowing nothing of the cutting underneath, they had been precipitated into the flood, and now their carcasses were food for swarms of vultures gathered for an unholy feast. what powerful, graceful birds these scavengers are, stronger than the eagle even, tireless and seemingly motionless as they drift along searching every nook and cranny for their provender! but aside from a grudgingly given tribute of admiration for their power, one has about as much respect for them as for the equally graceful rattlesnake, that other product of nature which flourishes in this desert land. the bird life along this lower part of the river was wonderful in its variety. the birds of the desert mingled with those of the fertile lands. the song-birds vied with those of gorgeous plume. water-birds disported themselves in the mud-banks and sloughs. the smaller birds seemed to pay little attention to the nearness of the hawks. kingfisher perched on limbs overhanging the quiet pools, ready to drop at the faintest movement on the opaque water; the road-runner chased the festive lizard on the desert land back of the willows. here also in the mesquite and giant cactus were thrush and western meadow-larks and mocking-birds mimicking the call of the cat-bird. down in the brush by the river was the happy little water-ousel, as cheerful in his way as the dumpy-built musical canyon wren. the mexican crossbill appeared to have little fear of the migrating northern shrike. there were warblers, cardinals, tanagers, waxwings, song-sparrows, and chickadees. flitting droves of bush-tit dropped on to slender weeds, scarcely bending them, so light were they. then in a minute they were gone. in the swamps or marshes were countless red-winged blackbirds. the most unobservant person could not help but see birds here. i had expected to find water-fowl, for the colorado delta is their breeding place; but i little expected to find so many land birds in the trees along the river. instead of having a lonesome trip, every minute was filled with something new, interesting, and beautiful and i was having the time of my life. i camped that night at picachio,--meaning the pocket,--eighty miles below ahrenburg. this is still a mining district, but the pockets containing nuggets of gold which gave the place its name seem to have all been discovered at the time of the boom; the mining now done is in quartz ledges up on the sides of grim, mineral-stained hills. i was back in the land of rock again, a land showing the forces of nature in high points of foreign rock, shot up from beneath, penetrating the crust of the earth and in a few places emerging for a height of two hundred feet from the river itself, forming barren islands and great circling whirlpools, as large as that in the niagara gorge, and i thought, for a while, almost as powerful. in one i attempted to keep to the short side of the river, but found it a difficult job, and one which took three times as long to accomplish as if i had allowed myself to be carried around the circle. then the land became level again, and the chocolate mountains were seen to the west. a hard wind blew across the stream, so that i had to drop my sunshade to prevent being carried against the rocks. this day i passed a large irrigation canal leading off from the stream, the second such on the entire course of the colorado. here a friendly ranchman called to me from the shore and warned me of the laguna dam some distance below. he said the water was backed up for three miles, so i would know when i was approaching it. in spite of this warning, i nearly came to grief at the dam. the wind had shifted until it blew directly down the stream. the river, nearly a mile wide, still ran with a powerful current; i ceased rowing and drifted down, over waves much like those one would find on a lake driven by a heavy wind. i saw some high poles and a heavy electric cable stretched across the stream, and concluded that this was the beginning of the dam. i began to look ahead for some sign of a barrier across the stream, far below, but i could see nothing of the kind; then as i neared the poles it suddenly dawned on me that there was no raised barrier which diverted all the water through a sluice, but a submerged dam, over which the flood poured, and that the poles were on that dam. my sail-like sunshade was dropped as quickly as i could do it, and, grabbing the oars, i began to pull for the california shore. it was fortunate for me that i happened to be comparatively near the shore when i began rowing. as it was, i landed below the diverting canal, and about a hundred yards above the dam. on examination the dam proved to be a slope about fifty feet long. a man in charge of the machinery controlling the gates told me that the dam lacked seven feet of being a mile wide, and that approximately seven feet of water was going over the entire dam. great cement blocks and rocks had been dropped promiscuously below the dam to prevent it from being undermined. even without the rocks it was doubtful if an uncovered boat could go through without upsetting. the great force of the water made a trough four or five feet lower than the river level, all water coming down the slope shooting underneath, while the river rolled back upstream. on two occasions boatmen had been carried over the dam. in each case the boat was wrecked, but the occupants were thrown out and escaped uninjured. i could not help but be amused, and feel a little uncomfortable too, when i saw how nearly i came to being wrecked here, after having escaped that fate in the rapids of the canyons. i ran my boat back to the diverting canal, then rowed down to the massive cement gates, which looked to me like a small replica of some of the locks on the panama canal. with the help of an indian who was ready for a job my boat was taken out, rolled around the buildings on some sections of pipe, and slid over the bank into the canal below the gates. in spite of a desire to spend some time inspecting the machinery of this great work,--which, with the canal and other improvements, had cost the government over a million dollars--i immediately resumed my rowing. it was mid-afternoon, and measured by the canal, which was direct, it was twelve miles to yuma. but i soon learned that great winding curves made it much farther by the river. in some cases it nearly doubled back on itself. the wind had shifted by this time and blew against me so hard that it was almost useless to attempt rowing. in another place there were no banks, and the water had spread for three miles in broken sloughs and around half-submerged islands, the one deep channel being lost in the maze of shallow ones. with these things to contend with it was dusk long before i neared the town, the twelve miles having stretched to twenty. finally i saw a windmill partly submerged. some distance away was a small ranch house also in the water. the house, with lights in the upper story, was a cheering sight; the windmill looked out of place in the midst of all this desolation of water. soon other houses appeared with lights showing through the windows. once i lost my way and spent a half hour in getting back to the right channel. somewhere in the dark, i never knew just when, i passed the mouth of the gila river. in a similar way in broad daylight i had passed the bill williams fork above ahrenburg. at last i neared the town. i could discern some buildings on top of a small hill, evidently one of the back streets of yuma. after tying my boat, i hid my small load in some mesquite trees, then climbed the hill and passed between two peculiar stone houses dark as dungeons. they puzzled me from the outside, but when once past them, i was no longer in doubt. i had entered the open gateway leading to the courtyard of the yuma penitentiary. no wonder the buildings looked like dungeons. this was a new experience for me, but somehow i had always imagined just how it would look. i was considering beating a retreat when a guard hailed me and asked me if i was not lost. with the assistance of the guard, i escaped from the pen and found my way to the streets of yuma, just four days after leaving the needles bridge. chapter xxvi across the mexico border "mexico is a good place to keep away from just at present." this was the invariable answer to a few casual inquiries concerning what i would be likely to meet with in the way of difficulties, a possible companion for the voyage to the gulf, and how one could get back when once there. i received little encouragement from the people of yuma. the cautions came not from the timid who see danger in every rumour, but from the old steamboat captains, the miners, and prospectors who knew the country and had interests in mineral claims across the border. these claims they had lost in many cases because they had failed for the last two years to keep up their assessment work. there were vague suggestions of being stood up against an adobe wall with a row of "yaller bellies" in front, or being thrown into damp dungeons and held for a ransom. the steamboat men could give me little information about the river. the old channel had filled with silt, and the river was diverted into a roundabout course little more than a creek in width, then spread over whole delta. the widely spread water finally collected into an ancient course of the colorado, known as the hardy or false colorado. as nearly as i could learn no one from yuma had been through this new channel beyond a certain point called volcanic lake. two or three parties had come back with stories of having attempted it, but found themselves in the middle of a cane-brake with insufficient water to float a boat. with a desire to be of real assistance to me, one old captain called a yuma indian into his office and asked him his opinion, suggesting that he might go along. "mebbe so get lost in the trees, mebbe so get shot by the cocopah," the indian replied as he shook his head. the captain laughed at the last and said that the yuma and cocopah indians were not the best of friends, and accused each other of all sorts of things which neither had committed. some mexicans and certain outlawed whites who kept close to the border for different reasons, and the possibilities of bogging in a cane-brake were the only uncertainties. in so many words he advised me against going. still i persevered. i had planned so long on completing my boating trip to the gulf, that i disliked to abandon the idea altogether. i felt sure, with a flood on the colorado, there would be some channel that a flat-bottomed boat could go through, when travelling with the current; but the return trip and the chances of being made a target for some hidden native who had lived on this unfriendly border and had as much reason for respecting some citizens of the united states as our own indians had in the frontier days, caused me considerable concern. i knew it was customary everywhere to make much of the imaginary dangers, as we had found in our other journeys; but it is not difficult to discriminate between sound advice and the croakings which are based on lack of real information. i knew this was sound advice, and as usual i disliked to follow it. at last i got some encouragement. it came from a retired wild west showman,--the real thing, one who knew the west from its early days. he laughed at the idea of danger and said i was not likely to find any one, even if i was anxious to do so, until i got to the la bolso ranch near the gulf. they would be glad to see me. he thought it was likely to prove uninteresting unless i intended to hunt wild hogs, but that was useless without dogs, and i would have trouble getting a gun past the custom officers. his advice was to talk with the mexican consul, as he might know some one who could bring me back by horseback. in the consul i found a young spaniard, all affability, bows, and gestures; and without being conscious of it at first i too began making motions. he deplored my lack of knowledge of the spanish language, laughed at any suggestion of trouble, as all trouble was in eastern sonora, he said, separated from the coast by two hundred miles of desert, and stated that the non-resident owner of the la bolsa cattle ranch happened to be in the building at that moment. in a twinkling he had me before him and explained the situation. this gentleman, the owner of a 600,000-acre grant, and the fishing concession of the gulf, stated that the ranch drove a team to yuma once a week, that they would bring me back; in the interval i must consider myself the guest of the rancho la bolsa. the consul gave me a passport, and so it was all arranged. in spite of the consul's opinion, there were many whispered rumours of war, of silent automobiles loaded with firearms that stole out of town under cover of the night and returned in four days, and another of a river channel that could be followed and was followed, the start being made, not from yuma, but from another border town farther west. a year before there had been an outbreak at this place of certain restless spirits,--some whites included,--and they went along the northern line of mexico, sacking the ranches and terrorizing the people. the la bolsa ranch was among those that suffered. the party contained some discharged vaqueros who were anxious to interview the ranch foreman, but fortunately for him he was absent. then they turned south to chihuahua and joined the army of madero. war, to them, meant license to rob and kill. they were not insurrectos, but bandits, and this was the class that was most feared. meanwhile i had not given up the idea of a possible companion. before coming to yuma i had entertained hopes of getting some one with a motor boat to take me down and back, but there were no motor boats, i found. the nearest approach to a power boat was an attempt that was being made to install the engine from a wrecked steam auto on a sort of flat-bottomed scow. i heard of this boat three or four times, and in each case the information was accompanied by a smile and some vague remarks about a "hybrid." i hunted up the owner,--the proprietor of a shooting gallery,--a man who had once had aspirations as a heavy-weight prize fighter, but had met with discouragement. so he had turned his activities to teaching the young idea how to shoot--especially the "mexican idea" and those other border spirits who were itching for a scrap. the proprietor of the shooting gallery drove a thriving trade. since he had abandoned his training he had taken on fat, and i found him to be a genial sort of giant who refused to concern himself with the serious side of life. even a lacing he had received in san francisco at the hands of a negro stevedore struck him as being humorous. he did not seem to have much more confidence in his "power boat" than the others, but said i might talk with the man who was putting it together, ending with the remark "phillipps thinks he can make her run, and he has always talked of going to the gulf." on investigation i found al phillipps was anxious to go to the gulf, and would go along if i would wait until he got his boat in shape. this would take two days. phillipps, as he told me himself, was a jayhawker who had left the farm in kansas and had gone to sea for two years. he was a cowboy, but had worked a year or two about mining engines. in yuma he was a carpenter, but was anxious to leave and go prospecting along the gulf. phillipps and i were sure to have an interesting time. he spoke spanish and did not fear any of the previously mentioned so-called dangers; he had heard of one party being carried out to sea when the tide rushed out of the river, but as we would have low tide he thought that, with caution, we could avoid that. at last all was ready for the momentous trial. the river bank was lined with a crowd of men who seemed to have plenty of leisure. some long-haired yuma indians, and red and green turbaned papagos, gathered in a group off a little to one side. a number of darkies were fishing for bullheads, and boys of three colors besides the mexicans and a lone chinaman clambered over the trees and the boats along the shore. it was a moment of suspense for phillipps. his reputation as an engineer and a constructor of boats hung in the balance. he also had some original ideas about a rudder which had been incorporated in this boat. now was his chance to test them out, and his hour of triumph if they worked. the test was a rigid one. the boat was to be turned upstream against an eight-mile current with big sand-waves, beginning about sixty feet from the shore, running in the middle of the river. if the engine ran, and the stern paddle-wheel turned, his reputation was saved. if she was powerful enough to go against the current, it was a triumph and we would start for the gulf at once. on board were phillipps, a volunteer, and myself. before turning the boat loose, the engine was tried. it was a success. the paddle-wheel churned the water at a great rate, sending the boat upstream as far as the ropes would let her go. we would try a preliminary run in the quiet water close to the shore, before making the test in the swift current. the order was given to cast off, and for two men, the owner and another, to hold to the ropes and follow on the shore. the engine was started, the paddle-wheel revolved, slowly at first but gathering speed with each revolution. we began to move gently, then faster, so that the men on shore had difficulty in keeping even with us, impeded as they were with bushes and sloping banks. flushed with success, the order was given to turn her loose, and we gathered in the ropes. now we were drifting away from the shore and making some headway against the swift current. the crowd on shore was left behind. but as we left the bank the river increased in speed and the boat gradually lost. then she stood still, but began to turn slowly, broadside to the current. this was something we had not foreseen. with no headway the rudder was of no avail. there was no sweep-oar; we had even neglected to put an oar on the boat. with pieces of boards the stranger and i paddled, trying to hold her straight, but all the time, in spite of our efforts, she drifted away from the land and slowly turned. a big sand-wave struck her, she wheeled in her tracks and raced straight for a pier, down the stream. about this time our engineer began having trouble with his engine. at first we feared it would not run, now it seemed it would not stop. a great shout went up from the shore, and a bet was made that we would run to the gulf in less than a day. a darky boy fell off a boat in the excitement, the indians did a dance, men pounded each other and whooped for joy. then a bolt came loose, and the engine ran away. driving-rod and belts were whirled "regardless," as the passenger afterwards said, about our heads. then the crash came. our efforts to escape the pier were of no avail. i made a puny effort to break the impact with a pole, but was sent sprawling on the deck. al tumbled headlong on top of the engine, which he had stopped at last, our passenger rolled over and over, but we all stayed with the ship. each grabbing a board, we began to paddle and steered the craft to the shore. with the excitement over, the crowd faded away. only two or three willing hands remained to help us line the craft back to the landing. the owner, who had to run around the end of the bridge, came down puffing and blowing, badly winded, at the end of the first round. without a word from any one we brought the boat back to the landing. al was the first to speak. "well, what are you going to do?" he asked. "me? i'm going to take my boat and start for the gulf in ten minutes. i'll take nothing that i cannot carry. if i have to leave the river i will travel light across the desert to calexico. i think that i can get through. if you want to go along, i'll stick with you until we get back. what do you think about it?" it was a long speech and a little bitter perhaps. i felt that way. the disappointment on top of the three days' delay when time was precious could not be forgotten in a moment. and when my speech was said i was all through. al said he would be ready in half an hour. our beds were left behind. al had a four-yard square of canvas for a sail. this would be sufficient covering at night in the hot desert. we had two canteens. the provisions, scarcely touched before arriving here, were sufficient for five days. i was so anxious to get started that i did not take the time to replenish them in yuma, intending to do so at the custom-house on the arizona side twelve miles below, where some one had told me there was a store. i counted on camping there. after a hurriedly eaten luncheon we were ready to start, the boat was shoved off, and we were embarked for mexico. half an hour later we passed the abandoned imperial canal, the man-made channel which had nearly destroyed the vast agricultural lands which it had in turn created. just such a flood as that on which we were travelling had torn out the insufficiently supported head-gates. the entire stream, instead of pushing slowly across the delta, weltering in its own silt to the gulf, poured into the bottom of the basin nearly four hundred feet below the top of this silt-made dam. in a single night it cut an eighty-foot channel in the unyielding soil, and what had once been the northern end of the california gulf was turned into an inland sea, filled with the turbid waters of the colorado, instead of the sparkling waters of the ocean. nothing but an almost superhuman fight finally rescued the land from the grip of the water. a short distance below, just across the mexican line, on the california side, was the new canal, dug in a firmer soil and with strongly built gates anchored in rock back from the river. half a mile away from the stream, on a spur railway, was the mexican custom-house. i had imagined that it would be beside the river, and that guards would be seen patrolling the shore. but aside from an indian fishing, there was no one to be seen. we walked out to the custom-house, gave a list of the few things which we had, assured them that we carried no guns, paid our duty, and departed. we had imagined that our boat would be inspected, but no one came near. the border line makes a jog here at the river and the arizona-mexico line was still a few miles down the stream. we had passed the mouth of the old silt-dammed colorado channel, which flowed a little west of south; and we turned instead to the west into the spreading delta or moraine. about this time i remarked that i had seen no store at the custom-house and that i must not neglect to get provisions at the next one or we would be rather short. "we passed our last custom-house back there." al replied, "that's likely the last place we will see until we get to the ranch by the gulf." no custom-house! no store! this was a surprise. what was a border for if not to have custom-houses and inspectors? with all the talk of smuggling i had not thought of anything else. and i could tell by al's tone that his estimation of my foresight had dropped several degrees. this was only natural, for his disappointment and the jibes still rankled. at last we were wholly in mexican territory. with the states behind, all of our swiftly running water had departed, and we now travelled on a stream that was nearly stagnant. all the cottonwood logs which had finally been carried down the stream after having been deposited on a hundred shores, found here their final resting place. about each cluster of logs an island was forming, covered with a rank grass and tules. ramified channels wound here and there. two or three times we found ourselves in a shallow channel, and with some difficulty retraced our way. all channels looked alike, but only one was deep. then the willow trees which were far distant on either shore began to close in and we travelled in a channel not more than a hundred feet wide, growing smaller with every mile. this new channel is sometimes termed the bee river. it parallels the northern mexico line; it also parallels a twenty-five mile levee which the united states government has constructed along the northern edge of this fifty-mile wide dam shoved across the california gulf by the stream, building higher every year. except for the river channel the dam may be said to reach unbroken from the arizona-sonora mesa to the cocopah mountains. the levee runs from a point of rocks near the river to lone mountain, a solitary peak some distance east of the main range. this levee, built since the trouble with the canal, is all that prevents the water from breaking into the basin in a dozen places. we saw signs of two or three camp-fires close to the stream, and with the memory of the stories haunting us a little we built only a small fire when we cooked our evening meal, then extinguished it, and camped on a dry point of land a mile or two below. i think we were both a little nervous that night; i confess that i was, and if an unwashed black-bearded individual had poked his head out from the willows and said, "woof!" or whatever it is that they say when they want to start up a jack-rabbit, we would both have stampeded clear across the border. in fact i felt a little as i did when i played truant from school and wondered what would happen when i was found out. daybreak found us ready to resume our journey, and with a rising sun any nervousness vanished. what could any one want with two men who had nothing but a flat-bottomed boat? all the morning we travelled west, the trees ever drawing closer as our water departed on the south, running through the willows, arrow-weed, and cat-tails. then the channel opened into volcanic lake, a circular body of water, which is not a lake but simply a gathering together of the streams we had been losing, and here the water stands, depositing its mud. all the way across had no depth but a bottomless mud, so soft it would engulf a person if he tried to wade across. on the west there was no growth. the shore was nothing but an ash-like powder, not a sand, but a rich soil blown here and there, building in dunes against every obstruction, ever moving before the wind. here were boiling, sputtering mud pots and steam vents building up and exhausting through mud pipe-stems, rising a foot or two above the springs. here was a shelter or two of sun-warped boards constructed by those who come here crippled with rheumatism and are supposed to depart, cured. here we saw signs of a wagon track driven toward calexico, the border town directly north of the lake. the heat was scorching, the sun, reflected from the sand and water, was blistering, and we could well imagine what a walk across that ash-like soil would mean. mirages in the distance beckoned, trees and lakes were seen over toward the mountains where we had seen nothing but desert before; heat waves rose and fell. our mouths began to puff from the reflected sun, our faces burned and peeled, black and red in spots. there was no indication of the slightest breeze until about three o'clock, when the wind moved gently across the lake. we had skirted the northern part of the circle, passing a few small streams and then found one of the three large channels which empty the lake. as it happened we took the one on the outside, and the longest. the growth grew thicker than ever, the stream choked down to fifty feet. now it began to loop backward and forward and back again, as though trying to make the longest and crookedest channel possible in the smallest space. the water in the channel was stagnant, swift streamlets rushed in from the tules on the north, and rushed out again on the south. it was not always a simple matter to ascertain which was the main channel. others just as large were diverted from the stream. twice we attempted to cut across, but the water became shallow, the tules stalled our boats, and we were glad to return, sounding with a pole when in doubt. then we began to realize that we were not entirely alone in this wilderness of water. we saw evidence of another's passage, in broken cat-tails and blazed trees. in many places he had pushed into the thickets. we concluded it must be a trapper. at last, to our surprise, we saw a telephone equipment, sheltered in a box nailed on a water-surrounded tree. the line ran directly across the stream. here also we could see where a boat had forced a way through, and the water plants had been cut with a sharp instrument. what could it be? we were certain no line ran to the only ranch at the gulf. we had information of another ranch directly on the border line, but did not think it came below the levee, and as far as we had learned, there were no homes but the wickiups of the cocopah in the jungles. it was like one of those thrilling stories of old sleuth and dead shot dick which we read, concealed in our schoolbooks, when we were supposed to be studying the physical geography of mexico. but the telephone was no fiction, and had recently been repaired, but for what purpose it was there we could not imagine. after leaving the lake there was no dry land. at night our boat, filled with green tules for a bed, was tied to a willow tree, with its roots submerged in ten feet of water. never were there such swarms of mosquitos. in the morning our faces were corrugated with lumps, not a single exposed spot remaining unbitten. the loops continued with the next day's travel, but we were gradually working to the southwest, then they began to straighten out somewhat, as the diverted streams returned. we thought early in the morning that we would pass about ten miles to the east of the coast range, but it was not to be. directly to the base of the dark, heat-vibrating rocks we pulled, and landed on the first shore that we had seen for twenty-four hours. here was a recently used trail, and tracks where horses came down to the water. here too was the track of a barefooted cocopah, a tribe noted for its men of gigantic build, and with great feet out of all proportion to their size. if that footprint was to be fossilized, future generations would marvel at the evidence of some gigantic prehistoric animal, an alligator with a human-shaped foot. these indians have lived in these mud bottoms so long, crossing the streams on rafts made of bundles of tules, and only going to the higher land when their homes are inundated by the floods, that they have become a near approach to a web-footed human being. our stream merely touched the mountain, then turned directly to the southeast in a gradually increasing stream. now we began to see the breeding places of the water-birds of which we had heard. there was a confusion of bird calls, sand-hill cranes were everywhere; in some cases with five stick-built nests in a single water-killed tree. a blue heron flopped around as though it had broken a wing, to decoy us from its nest. the snowy white pelican waddled along the banks and mingled with the cormorants. there were great numbers of gulls, and occasional snipe. we were too late to see the ducks which come here, literally by the million, during the winter months. there were hawks' nests in the same groups of trees as the cranes, with the young hawks stretching their necks for the food which was to be had in such abundance. and on another tree sat the parent hawks, complacently looking over the nests of the other birds, like a coyote waiting for a horse to die. at cocopah mountain a golden eagle soared, coming down close to the ground as we rested under the mesquite. then as we travelled clear streams of water began to pour in from the north and east, those same streams we had lost above, but cleared entirely of their silt. now the willows grew scarce, and instead of mud banks a dry, firm earth was built up from the river's edge, and the stream increased in size. soon it was six or seven hundred feet wide and running with a fair current. this was the hardy river. we noticed signs of falling water on the banks as though the stream had dropped an inch or two. in a half-hour the mark indicated a fall of eight inches or more; then we realized we were going out with the tide. a taste of water proved it. the river water was well mixed with a weak saline solution. we filled our canteens at once. we saw a small building and a flagpole on the south shore, but on nearing the place found it was deserted. a few miles below were two other channels equally as large as that on which we travelled, evidently fed by streams similar to our own. there were numerous scattered trees, some of them cottonwood, and we saw some grazing cattle. we began to look for the ranch house, which some one had said was at the point where the colorado and the hardy joined, and which others told us was at the gulf. chapter xxvii the gulf of california that the head of the gulf of california has a big tide is well known. choked in a narrowing cone, the waters rise higher and higher as they come to the apex, reaching twenty-five feet or over in a high tide. this causes a tidal bore to roll up the colorado, and from all reports it was something to be avoided. the earliest spanish explorers told some wonderful tales of being caught in this bore and of nearly losing their little sailing vessels. this was my first experience with river tides. it was somewhat of a disappointment to me that i could not arrange to be here at a high tide, for we had come at the first quarter of the moon. out on the open sea one can usually make some headway by rowing against the ebb or flow of the tide: here on the colorado, where it flowed upstream at a rate of from five to eight miles an hour, it was different. when we reached the head of the tide, it was going out. unfortunately for us the day was gone when the current began to run strong. it hardly seemed advisable to travel with it after dark. we might pass the ranch, or be carried against a rock-bound coast, or find difficulty in landing and be overwhelmed by the tidal bore. so when darkness fell we camped pulling our boat out in a little slough to prevent it from being carried away. evidently we were too near the headwaters for a tidal bore, for at eleven p.m. the waters turned and came back as quietly as they ran out. we launched our boat before the break of day, and for four hours we travelled on a good current. the channel now had widened to a half-mile, with straight earthy banks, about fifteen feet high. still there was no sign of a ranch, and it began to look to us as if there was little likelihood of finding any. the land was nearly level and except for a few raised hummocks on which grew some scattered trees, it was quite bare. this was not only because it did not get the life-giving water from the north, but because at times it was submerged under the saline waters from the south. near the shores of the river, and extending back for fifty feet, was a matted, rank growth of grass; beyond that the earth was bare, baked and cracked by the burning sun. this grass, we found, was a favorite resort of rattlesnakes. we killed two of them, a large one and a vicious little flat-headed sidewinder. all this land was the south rim of the silt dam, which extended from the line of cliffs or mesa on the east to the mountains on the west. the other rim, a hundred feet higher, lay at least fifty miles to the north. here was the resting-place of a small portion of the sediment carved away by the colorado's floods. how deep it is piled and how far it extends out under the waters of the gulf would be hard to say. we felt sure that we would get to the gulf with this tide, but when the time came for it to turn we were still many miles away. there was nothing to do but to camp out on this sun-baked plain. we stopped a little after 9.30 a.m. now that we were nearing the gulf we were sure there would be a tidal bore. as we breakfasted a slight rushing sound was heard, and what appeared to be a ripple of broken water or small breaker came up the stream and passed on. this was a disappointment. with high water on the river and with a low tide this was all the tidal bore we would see. in four hours the water rose fourteen feet, then for two hours the rise was slower. within three feet of the level it came. the opposite side, rounded at the edges, looked like a thread on top of the water, tapered to a single silken strand and looking toward the gulf, merged into the water. to all appearances it was a placid lake spread from mountain to mesa. our smaller canteen was still filled with the fresh water secured the evening before. the other had been emptied and was filled again before the return of the tide, but considerable taste of the salt remained. what we did now must be done with caution. so far we had not seen the ranch. we were in doubt whether it was somewhere out on the coast or back on one of the sloughs passed the evening before. we had heard of large sail-boats being hauled from yuma and launched by the ranch. this would seem to indicate that it was somewhere on the gulf. we had provisions sufficient for one day, one canteen of fresh water, and another so mixed with the salt water that we would not use it except as a last resort. a little after 3.30 p.m. the tide changed; we launched our boat and went out with the flood. as we neared the mouth of the stream we found that the inrush and outrush of water had torn the banks. here the river spread in a circular pool several miles across. it seemed almost as if the waters ran clear to the line of yellow cliffs and to the hazy mountain range. then the shores closed in again just before the current divided quite evenly on either side of a section of the barren plain named montague island. we took the channel to the east. our last hope of finding the ranch was in a dried-out river channel, overgrown with trees. but although we looked carefully as we passed, there was no sign of a trail or of human life. some egrets preened their silken feathers on the bank; sand-hill cranes and two coyotes, fat as hogs and dragging tails weighted with mud, feasted on the lively hermit-crabs, which they extracted from their holes--and that was all. the sun, just above the lilac-tinted mountains, hung like a great suspended ball of fire. the cloudless sky glared like a furnace. deep purple shadows crept into the canyons slashing the mountain range. the yellow dust-waves and the mirages disappeared with the going down of the sun. still we were carried on and on. we would go down with the tide. now the end of the island lay opposite the line of cliffs; soon we would be in the gulf. so ended the colorado. two thousand miles above, it was a beautiful river, born of a hundred snow-capped peaks and a thousand crystal streams; gathering strength, it became the masterful river which had carved the hearts of mountains and slashed the rocky plateaus, draining a kingdom and giving but little in return. now it was going under, but it was fighting to the end. waves of yellow struggled up through waves of green and were beaten down again. the dorsal fins of a half-dozen sharks cut circles near our craft. with the last afterglow we were past the end of the island and were nearing the brooding cliffs. still the current ran strong. the last vestige of day was swallowed in the gloom, just as the colorado was buried 'neath the blue. a hard wind was blowing, toward the shore; the sea was choppy. a point of rocks where the cliffs met the sea was our goal. would we never reach it? even in the night, which was now upon us, the distance was deceptive. at last we neared the pile of rocks. the sound of waters pounding on the shore was heard, and we hurriedly landed, a half-mile above it, just as the tide turned. the beach was a half-mile wide, covered with mud and sloughs. there was no high shore. but an examination showed that the tide ran back to the cliffs. one of us had to stay with the boat. telling phillipps to get what sleep he could, i sat in the boat, and allowed the small breakers which fox-chased each other to beat it in as the tide rose. an arctic explorer has said that having an adventure means that something unexpected or unforeseen has happened; that some one has been incompetent. i had the satisfaction of knowing that the fault of this adventure, if such it could be called, was mine. here we were, at our goal in mexico, supposed to be a hostile land, with scant provisions for one day. it was a hundred miles along the line of cliffs, back to yuma. so far, we had failed to find the ranch. it was not likely that it was around the point of rocks. we knew now that the colorado channel was fifteen miles from the mouth of the river, and was not a slough as we had supposed. doubtless the ranch was up there. our best plan was to return to the head of the tide, going up the colorado, then if we did not find the ranch we would abandon the boat, snare some birds, keep out of the scorching heat, and travel in the morning and evening. two active men should be able to do that without difficulty. so the hours passed, with the breakers driving the boat toward the line of cliffs. when it had reached its highest point, i pulled into a slough and tied up, then woke al as we had agreed. while i slept, he climbed the cliffs to have a last look. an hour after daybreak he returned. nothing but rock and desert could be seen. we dragged the boat down in the slime of the slough until we caught the falling tide. then al rigged up his sail. with the rising sun a light breeze blew in from the gulf. here was our opportunity. slowly we went up against the falling tide. then as the breeze failed, the tide returned. fifty feet away a six foot black sea bass floated; his rounded back lifted above the water. with the approach of the boat he was gone. the sharks were seen again. two hours later we had entered the mouth of the river carried by the rising tide. several miles were left behind. another breeze came up as the tide failed, and the sail was rigged up again. things were coming our way at last. al knew how to handle a boat. running her in close to the top of the straight falling banks i could leap to the land, take a picture, then run and overtake the boat, and leap on again. then the wind shifted, the tide turned, and we tied up, directly opposite the point where we had camped the afternoon before. it was the hottest day we had seen whirlwinds, gathering the dust in slender funnels, scurried across the plains. mirages of trees bordering shimmering lakes and spreading water such as we had come through below yuma were to be seen, even out towards the sea. then over toward the cliffs where the old colorado once ran we saw a column of distant smoke. perhaps it was a hunter; it could hardly be the ranch. as we could do nothing with the boat, we concluded to walk over that way. it was many miles distant. taking everything we had, including our last lunch, we started our walk, leaving a cloth on a pole to mark the point where our boat was anchored. but after going four miles it still seemed no nearer than before, so we returned. it was evening. the water was drinkable again; that was something to be thankful for. by ten o'clock that night the tide would come up again. after dark we found that our boat was being beached. so we ran it down and began pulling it along over a shoal reaching far out from the shore. as we tugged i was sure i heard a call somewhere up the river. what kind of a land was this! could it be that my senses were all deceiving me as my eyes were fooled by the mirage? i had heard it, al had not, and laughed when i said that i had. we listened and heard it again, plainly this time, "can't you men find a landing? we have a good one up here," it said. we asked them to row down, advising them to keep clear of the shoal. we waded out, guided by their voices, in the pitch darkness and neared the boat. one shadowy form sat in either end of a flat-bottomed boat. there was a mast, and the boat was fitted for two oarsmen as well. evidently the load was heavy, for it was well down in the water. the sail cloth was spread over all the boat, excepting one end where there was a small sheet-iron stove, with a pan of glowing wood coal underneath. the aroma of coffee came from a pot on the stove. as i steadied myself at the bow i touched a crumpled flag,--mexican, i thought,--but i could not see. both figures sat facing us, with rifles in their hands, alert and ready for a surprise. smugglers! i thought; guns, i imagined. they could not see our faces in the dark, neither could we distinguish theirs. judging by their voices they were young men. i thought from the first that they were mexicans, but they talked without accent. they could see that we carried no arms, but their vigilance was not relaxed. they asked what our trouble was and we told them of the beached boat, what we had been doing, and why we were there. they said they were out for a little sight-seeing trip down in the gulf. they might go to tiburone island. one of them wondered if it was true that the natives were cannibals. he said he would not care about being shot, but he would hate to be put in their stew-pot. we asked them how much water they carried. a fifteen-gallon keg was all they hoped to get more along the coast. it is quite well known there is none. they professed to be uninformed about the country, did not know there was a ranch or a tidal bore, and thanked us for our information about the tides, and the advice to fill their keg when the water was lowest, which would be in half an hour. they could not sell any provisions, but gave us a quart of flour. as we talked an undermined bank toppled over, sounding like shots from a gun. one cocked his rifle on the impulse, then laughed when he realized what it was. just before we parted one of them remarked, "you came through the bee river four days ago, near a telephone, didn't you?" "yes, but we didn't see any one," i replied. "no? but we saw you!" and we felt the smiles we could not see. they said the large ranch had some chinamen clearing the highest ground, and building levees around it to keep the water out. the telephone and a motor boat connected the different ranches. their advice to us was to keep to the river, not to look for the ranch, but to get on the telephone and raise a racket until some one showed up. then we parted to go to our respective landings, with mutual wishes for a successful journey. the boat was pulled down. the tide was on the point of turning, but it would be an hour before there would be any strength to it. i went to shore and built a fire of some driftwood, for the long stand in the water had chilled me. al stayed with the boat. earlier in the day, i cautiously shook the sticks loose from the matted grass, fearing the rattlers which were everywhere. in this case nothing buzzed. but i had no sooner got my fire well started when a rattler began to sing, roused by the light and the heat, about twenty feet away. my fire was built beside one of the many sloughs which cut back through the grass and ended in the barren soil. these sloughs were filled with water when the tide was in and made ideal landing places, especially if one had to avoid a big tidal bore. getting on the opposite side of the fire, i tossed a stick occasionally to keep him roused. soon another joined, and between them they made the air hum. by this time i was thoroughly warmed and felt that the boat would be the best place for me. carefully extinguishing my fire, i went down to the river just as the tide returned. without any sign or call from the shore we were carried up with the tide. we were both weary but i dared not sleep, so i merely kept the boat away from the shores and drifted, while phillipps slept. i had picked out a guiding star which i little needed while the current was running strong, but which would give us our course when the tide changed, for we could be carried out just as easily. but an hour after we left our camp another light appeared, growing larger and larger. it was one of two things. either my fire was not extinguished, or a match thrown down by one of the others had fired the deep dry grass. i consoled myself that it could not spread, for the sloughs and the barren soil would cut it off. i had a grim satisfaction when i thought of the snakes and how they would run for the desert land. this was a real guiding star, growing larger and larger as we were carried up the stream. i slept on shore when the tide would take us no farther. phillipps got breakfast. we were now about three miles from the slough. after breakfast we alternately towed the boat, for there was no wind to carry us up this morning, and two hours later arrived at the diverging streams. near by we saw some mules showing evidence of having been worked. it was clear now that the ranch was near. there was still a chance that we would take the wrong stream. over on the opposite side was a tall cottonwood tree. this i climbed, and had the satisfaction of seeing some kind of a shed half a mile up the east stream. the land between proved to be a large island. as we neared the building two swarthy men emerged and came down to the shore. "buenos dã­as," al called as we pulled in to the landing. "buenos dã­as, seã±or," they answered with a smile. they were employees of the rancho la bolso, which was a half-mile up the stream. did we make the big fire which had burned until morning? our answer seemed to relieve their minds. what would we do with our boat? it was theirs to do with as they pleased. leading two horses from out of the building, they mounted and told us to climb on behind, and away we rode across some water-filled sloughs. hidden in the trees we came to the buildings--three or four flat-topped adobe houses. some little brown children scattered to announce our coming. as we dismounted two white men approached. "why, hello, phillipps!" the ranch boss said when he saw my companion. "this is a long walk from yuma. you fellows are just in time to grub!" notes [footnote 1: the various expeditions which are credited with continuous or complete journeys through all the canyons and the dates of leaving green river, wyoming, are as follows: major powell, 1st journey. may 24, 1869. major powell, 2nd journey. may 22, 1871. discontinued at kanab canyon in the grand canyon. galloway. sept. 20, 1895 and 1896. flavell. aug. 27, 1896. stone. sept. 12, 1909. kolb. sept. 8, 1911. for a more complete record of the earlier parties see appendix.] [footnote 2: the initials e.c. apply to my brother, emery c. kolb; e.l. to myself. these initials are frequently used in this text. for several years the nick-name "ed" has been applied to me, and in my brothers' narratives i usually figure as ed.] [footnote 3: it is not unusual for certain individual animals to be outlawed or to have a price set on their heads by the stockmen's associations, in addition to the regular bounty paid by the counties. at the time this is written there is a standing reward of $200 for a certain "lobo," or timber wolf which roams over the kaibab forest directly opposite our home in the grand canyon. in addition to this there is a bounty of $10 offered by the county. this wolf has taken to killing colts and occasional full-grown horses, in addition to his regular diet of yearling calves.] [footnote 4: brown-stanton. may 25, 1889. russell-monnette. sept. 20, 1907. for a more complete record of these expeditions, as well as others who attempted the passage of the canyons below this point, see appendix.] [footnote 5: left by the stone expedition.] [footnote 6: while major powell was making his second voyage of exploration, another party was toiling up these canyons towing their boats from the precipitous shores. this party was under the leadership of lieutenant wheeler of the u.s. army. the party was large, composed of twenty men, including a number of mojave indians, in the river expedition, while others were sent overland with supplies to the mouth of diamond creek. by almost superhuman effort they succeeded in getting their boats up the canyon as far as diamond creek. while there is no doubt that they reached this point, there were times when we could hardly believe it was possible when we saw the walls they would have to climb in this granite gorge. in some places there seemed to be no place less than five hundred feet above the river where they could secure a foothold. their method was to carry a rope over these places, then pull the boats up through the rapids by main force. it would be just as easy to pull a heavy rowboat up the gorge of niagara, as through some of these rapids. their best plan, by far, would have been to haul their boats in at diamond creek and make the descent, as they did after reaching this point. the only advantage their method gave them was a knowledge of what they would meet with on the downstream run. lieutenant wheeler professed to disbelieve that major powell had descended below diamond creek, and called his voyage the completion of the exploration of the colorado river. in a four days' run they succeeded in covering the same distance that had taken four weeks of endless toil, to bring their boats up to this point.] [footnote 7: see appendix, history of cataract canyon.] by f. s. dellenbaugh the north-americans of yesterday a comparative study of north-american indian life, customs, and products, on the theory of the ethnic unity of the race. 8º. fully illustrated. net, $4.00 the romance of the colorado river a complete account of the discovery and of the explorations from 1540 to the present time, with particular reference to the two voyages of powell through the line of the great canyons. 8º. fully illustrated. net, $3.50 breaking the wilderness the story of the conquest of the far west, from the wanderings of cabeza de vaca to the first descent of the colorado by powell, and the completion of the union pacific railway, with particular account of the exploits of trappers and traders. 8º. fully illustrated. net, $3.50 a canyon voyage the narrative of the second powell expedition down the green-colorado river from wyoming, and the explorations on land in the years 1871 and 1872. 8º. fully illustrated. net, $3.50 g. p. putnam's sons new york london [illustration: the grand canyon looking south from the kaibab plateau, north rim, near the head of bright angel creek, the canyon of which is seen in the foreground. the san francisco mountains are in the distance. on the south rim to the right, out of the picture, is the location of the hotel tovar. the width of the canyon at the top in this region is about twelve miles, with a depth of near 6000 feet on the north side, and over 5000 on the south. total length, including marble canyon division, 283 miles. sketch made in colour on the spot by f. s. dellenbaugh, june 4, 1903.] a canyon voyage the narrative of the second powell expedition down the green-colorado river from wyoming, and the explorations on land, in the years 1871 and 1872 by frederick s. dellenbaugh artist and assistant topographer of the expedition "come on, sir; here's the place. stand still. how fearful and dizzy 't is to cast one's eyes so low!" _king lear._ with fifty illustrations g. p. putnam's sons new york and london the knickerbocker press 1908 copyright, 1908 by frederick s. dellenbaugh the knickerbocker press, new york to h. o. d. my companion on the voyage of life. preface this volume presents the narrative, from my point of view, of an important government expedition of nearly forty years ago: an expedition which, strangely enough, never before has been fully treated. in fact in all these years it never has been written about by any one besides myself, barring a few letters in 1871 from clement powell, through his brother, to the chicago _tribune_, and an extremely brief mention by major powell, its organiser and leader, in a pamphlet entitled _report of explorations in 1873 of the colorado of the west and its tributaries_ (government printing office, 1874). in my history, _the romance of the colorado river_, of which this is practically volume two, i gave a synopsis, and in several other places i have written in condensed form concerning it; but the present work for the first time gives the full story. in 1869, major powell made his famous first descent of the green-colorado river from the union pacific railway in wyoming to the mouth of the virgin river in nevada, a feat of exploration unsurpassed, perhaps unequalled, on this continent. several of the upper canyons had been before penetrated, but a vague mystery hung over even these, and there was no recorded, or even oral, knowledge on the subject when powell turned his attention to it. there was a tale that a man named james white had previously descended through the great canyons, but mr. robert brewster stanton has thoroughly investigated this and definitely proven it to be incorrect. powell's first expedition was designed as an exploration to cover ten months, part of which was to be in winter quarters; circumstances reduced the time to three. it was also more or less of a private venture with which the government of the united states had nothing to do. it became necessary to supplement it then by a second expedition, herein described, which congress supported, with, of course, major powell in charge, and nominally under the direction of the smithsonian institution, of which professor henry was then secretary and professor baird his able coadjutor, the latter taking the deeper interest in this venture. powell reported through the smithsonian; that was about all there was in the way of control. the material collected by this expedition was utilised in preparing the well-known report by major powell, _exploration of the colorado river of the west, 1869-1872_, the second party having continued the work inaugurated by the first and enlarged upon it, but receiving no credit in that or any other government publication. as pointed out in the text of this work, a vast portion of the basin of the colorado was a complete blank on the maps until our party accomplished its end; even some of the most general features were before that not understood. no canyon above the virgin had been recorded topographically, and the physiography was unknown. the record of the first expedition is one of heroic daring, and it demonstrated that the river could be descended throughout in boats, but unforeseen obstacles prevented the acquisition of scientific data which ours was specially planned to secure in the light of the former developments. the map, the hypsometric and hydrographic data, the geologic sections and geologic data, the photographs, ethnography, and indeed about all the first information concerning the drainage area in question were the results of the labours of the second expedition. owing, perhaps, to major powell's considering our work merely in the line of routine survey, no special record, as mentioned above, was ever made of the second expedition. we inherited from the first a plat of the river itself down to the mouth of the paria, which, according to professor thompson, was fairly good, but we did not rely on it; from the mouth of the paria to catastrophe rapid, the point below diamond creek where the howlands and dunn separated from the boat party, a plat that was broken in places. this was approximately correct as far as kanab canyon, though not so good as above the paria. from the kanab canyon, where we ended our work with the boats, to the mouth of the virgin we received fragments of the course owing to the mistake made in dividing the notes at the time of the separation; a division decided on because each group thought the other doomed to destruction. thus howland took out with him parts of both copies which were destroyed by the shewits when they killed the men. after howland's departure, the major ran in the course to the mouth of the virgin. professor thompson was confident that our plat of the course, which is the basis of all maps to-day, is accurate from the union pacific railway in wyoming to catastrophe rapid, for though we left the river at the kanab canyon, we were able by our previous and subsequent work on land to verify the data of the first party and to fill in the blanks, but he felt ready to accept corrections below catastrophe rapid to the virgin. for a list of the canyons, height of walls, etc., i must refer to the appendix in my previous volume. while two names cover the canyon from the paria to the grand wash, the gorge is practically one with a total length of 283 miles. i have not tried to give geological data for these are easily obtainable in the reports of powell, dutton, gilbert, walcott, and others, and i lacked space to introduce them properly. in fact i have endeavored to avoid a mere perfunctory record, full of data well stated elsewhere. while trying to give our daily experiences and actual camp life in a readable way, i have adhered to accuracy of statement. i believe that any one who wishes to do so can use this book as a guide for navigating the river as far as kanab canyon. i have not relied on memory but have kept for continual reference at my elbow not only my own careful diary of the journey, but also the manuscript diary of professor thompson, and a typewritten copy of the diary of john f. steward as far as the day of his departure from our camp. i have also consulted letters that i wrote home at the time and to the buffalo _express_, and a detailed draft of events up to the autumn of 1871 which i prepared in 1877 when all was still vividly fresh in mind. in addition, i possess a great many letters which professor thompson wrote me up to within a few weeks of his death (july, 1906), often in reply to questions i raised on various points that were not clear to me. each member of the party i have called by the name familiarly used on the expedition, for naturally there was no "mistering" on a trip of this kind. powell was known throughout the length and breadth of the rocky mountain region as "the major," while thompson was quite as widely known as "prof." some of the geographic terms, like dirty devil river, unknown mountains, etc., were those employed before permanent names were adopted. in my other books i have used the term amerind for american indian, and i intend to continue its use, but in the pages of this volume, being a narrative, and the word not having been used or known to us at that time, it did not seem exactly appropriate. some readers may wish to provide themselves with full maps of the course of the river, and i will state that the u. s. geological survey has published map-sheets each 20 by 16-1/2 inches, of the whole course of the green-colorado. these sheets are sent to any person desiring them who remits the price, five cents the sheet, by post-office money order addressed: "director u. s. geological survey, washington, d. c.," with the names of the sheets wanted. the names of the seventeen sheets covering the canyoned part are: green river(?), ashley, yampa,(?) price river, east tavaputs, san rafael, la sal, henry mountains, escalante, echo cliffs, san francisco mountains, kaibab, mount trumbull, chino, diamond creek, st. thomas, and camp mohave. several parties have tried the descent through the canyons since our voyage. some have been successful, some sadly disastrous. the river is always a new problem in its details, though the general conditions remain the same. major powell was a man of prompt decision, with a cool, comprehensive, far-reaching mind. he was genial, kind, never despondent, always resolute, resourceful, masterful, determined to overcome every obstacle. to him alone belongs the credit for solving the problem of the great canyons, and to professor thompson that for conducting most successfully the geographic side of the work under difficulties that can hardly be appreciated in these days when survey work is an accepted item of government expenditure and congress treats it with an open hand. i am indebted to mr. robert brewster stanton, who completed the brown expedition triumphantly, for valuable information and photographs and for many interesting conversations comparing his experiences with ours; to the geological survey for maps and for the privilege of using photographs from negatives in the possession of the survey; and to mr. john k. hillers for making most of the prints used in illustrating this book. my thanks are due to brigadier-general mackenzie, u. s. engineers, for copies of rare early maps of the region embraced in our operations, now nearly impossible to obtain. in 1902 when i informed major powell that i was preparing my history of the colorado river, he said he hoped that i would put on record the second trip and the men who were members of that expedition, which i accordingly did. he never ceased to take a lively interest in my affairs, and the year before he wrote me: "i always delight in your successes and your prosperity, and i ever cherish the memory of those days when we were on the great river together." professor thompson only a month before he died sent me a letter in which he said: "you are heir to all the colorado material and i am getting what i have together." these sentiments cause me to feel like an authorised and rightful historian of the expedition with which i was so intimately connected, and i sincerely hope that i have performed my task in a way that would meet the approval of my old leader and his colleague, as well as of my other comrades. one learns microscopically the inner nature of his companions on a trip of this kind, and i am happy to avow that a finer set of men could not have been selected for the trying work which they accomplished with unremitting good-nature and devotion, without pecuniary reward. professor thompson possessed invaluable qualities for this expedition: rare balance of mind, great cheerfulness, and a sunny way of looking on difficulties and obstacles as if they were mere problems in chess. his foresight and resourcefulness were phenomenal, and no threatening situation found him without some good remedy. some of the illustrations in powell's _report_ are misleading, and i feel it my duty to specially note three of them. the one opposite page 8 shows boats of the type we used on the second voyage with a middle cabin. the boats of the first expedition had cabins only at the bow and stern. the picture of the wreck at disaster falls, opposite page 27, is nothing like the place, and the one opposite page 82 gives boats in impossible positions, steered by rudders. a rudder is useless on such a river. long steering sweeps were used. time's changes have come to pass. you may now go by a luxurious santa fé train direct to the south rim of the greatest chasm of the series, the grand canyon, and stop there in a beautiful hotel surrounded by every comfort, yet when we were making the first map no railway short of denver existed and there was but one line across the rocky mountains. perhaps before many more years are gone we will see mr. stanton's denver, colorado canyon, and pacific railway accomplished through the canyons, and if i then have not "crossed to killiloo" i will surely claim a free pass over the entire length in defiance of all commerce-regulating laws. frederick s. dellenbaugh. cragsmoor, august, 1908 contents chapter i a river entrapped--acquaintance not desired--ives explores the lower reaches--powell the conqueror--reason for a second descent--congressional appropriation--preparation--the three boats--the mighty wilderness--ready for the start 1 chapter ii into the wilderness--the order of sailing--tobacco for the indians comes handy--a lone fisherman and some trappers--jack catches strange fish--the snow-clad uintas in view--a larder full of venison--entrance into flaming gorge 9 chapter iii the first rapid--horseshoe and kingfisher canyons--a rough entrance into red canyon--capsize of the _nell_--the grave of a bold navigator--discovery of a white man's camp--good-bye to frank--at the gate of lodore 19 chapter iv locked in the chasm of lodore--rapids with railway speed--a treacherous approach to falls of disaster--numerous loadings and unloadings--over the rocks with cargoes--library increased by _putnam's magazine_--triplet falls and hell's half mile--fire in camp--exit from turmoil to peace 34 chapter v a remarkable echo--up the canyon of the yampa--steward and clem try a moonlight swim--whirlpool canyon and mountain sheep--a grand fourth-of-july dinner--a rainbow-coloured valley--the major proceeds in advance--a split mountain with rapids a plenty--enter a big valley at last 49 chapter vi a lookout for redskins--the river a sluggard--a gunshot!--someone comes!--the tale of a mysterious light--how, how! from douglas boy--at the mouth of the uinta--a tramp to goblin city and a trip down white river on a raft--a waggon-load of supplies from salt lake by way of uinta agency--the major goes out to find a way in 61 chapter vii on to battle--a concert repertory--good-bye to douglas boy--the busy, busy beaver--in the embrace of the rocks once more--a relic of the cliff-dwellers--low water and hard work--a canyon of desolation--log-cabin cliff--rapids and rapids and rapids--a horse, whose horse?--through gray canyon to the rendezvous 72 chapter viii return of the major--some mormon friends--no rations at the elusive dirty devil--captain gunnison's crossing--an all-night vigil for cap. and clem--the land of a thousand cascades--a bend like a bow-knot and a canyon labyrinthian--cleaving an unknown world--signs of the oldest inhabitant--through the canyon of stillwater to the jaws of the colorado 94 chapter ix a wonderland of crags and pinnacles--poverty rations--fast and furious plunging waters--boulders boom along the bottom--chilly days and shivering--a wild tumultuous chasm--a bad passage by twilight and a tornado with a picture moonrise--out of one canyon into another--at the mouth of the dirty devil at last 115 chapter x the _cañonita_ left behind--shinumo ruins--troublesome ledges in the river--alcoves and amphitheatres--the mouth of the san juan--starvation days and a lookout for rations--el vado de los padres--white men again--given up for lost--navajo visitors--peaks with a great echo--at the mouth of the paria 135 chapter xi more navajos arrive with old jacob--the lost pack-train and a famished guide--from boat to broncho--on to kanab--winter arrives--wolf neighbours too intimate--preparing for geodetic work--over the kaibab to eight-mile spring--a frontier town--camp below kanab--a mormon christmas dance 152 chapter xii reconnoitring and triangulating--a pai ute new year's dance--the major goes to salt lake--snowy days on the kaibab--at pipe spring--gold hunters to the colorado--visits to the uinkaret county--craters and lava--finding the hurricane ledge--an interview with a cougar--back to kanab 174 chapter xiii off for the unknown country--a lonely grave--climbing a hog-back to a green grassy valley--surprising a ute camp--towich-a-tick-a-boo--following a blind trail--the unknown mountains become known--down a deep canyon--to the paria with the _cañonita_--john d. lee and lonely dell 195 chapter xiv a company of seven--the _nellie powell_ abandoned--into marble canyon--vasey's paradise--a furious descent to the little colorado--a mighty fall in the dismal granite gorge--caught in a trap--upside down--a deep plunge and a predicament--at the mouth of the kanab 215 chapter xv a new departure--farewell to the boats--out to the world through kanab canyon--a midnight ride--at the innupin picavu--prof. reconnoitres the shewits country--winter quarters in kanab--making the preliminary map--another new year--across a high divide in a snow-storm--down the sevier in winter--the last summons 242 index 269 illustrations facing page the grand canyon _frontispiece_ looking south from the kaibab plateau, north rim, near the head of bright angel creek, the canyon of which is seen in the foreground. the san francisco mountains are in the distance. on the south rim to the right, out of the picture, is the location of the hotel tovar. the width of the canyon at top in this region is about twelve miles, with a depth of near 6000 feet on the north side, and over 5000 on the south. total length, including marble canyon division, 283 miles. sketch made in colour on the spot by f. s. dellenbaugh, june 4, 1903. the toll 1 unidentified skeleton found april, 1906, by c. c. spaulding in the grand canyon 300 feet above the river, some miles below bright angel trail. there were daily papers in the pocket of the clothes of the early spring of 1900. photograph by kolb bros. 1906, grand canyon, arizona. red canyon 6 photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871. before the start at green river city, wyoming 9 the dark box open. andy, clem, beaman, prof. steward, cap., frank, jones, jack, the major, fred, _cañonita_, _emma dean_, _nellie powell_. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871. flaming gorge 17 the beginning of the colorado river canyons, n. e. utah. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871. horseshoe canyon 21 photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871. red canyon 25 photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871. red canyon 28 ashley falls from below. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871. in red canyon park 29 photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871. the head of the canyon of lodore 34 just inside the gate. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871. canyon of lodore 37 low water. photograph by j. k. hillers, 1874. the heart of lodore 40 f. s. dellenbaugh. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871. canyon of lodore--dunn's cliff 43 2800 feet above river. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871. canyon of lodore 44 jones, hillers, dellenbaugh. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871. echo park 49 mouth of yampa river in foreground, green river on right. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871. whirlpool canyon 54 mouth of bishop creek--fourth of july camp. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871. split mountain canyon 59 photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871. canyon of desolation 81 steward. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871. colorado river white salmon 98 photograph by the denver, colorado canyon and pacific railway survey under robert brewster stanton, 1889. dellenbaugh butte 102 near mouth of san rafael. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871. labyrinth canyon--bowknot bend 108 the great loop is behind the spectator. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871. stillwater canyon 110 photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871. cataract canyon 119 clement powell. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871. cataract canyon 128 photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871. narrow canyon 133 photograph by best expedition, 1891. mouth of the fremont river (dirty devil) 135 photograph by the brown expedition, 1889. glen canyon 140 photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871. looking down upon glen canyon 142 cut through homogeneous sandstone. photograph by j. k. hillers, u. s. colo. riv. exp. tom 147 a typical navajo. tom became educated and no longer looked like an indian. photograph by wittick. glen canyon 149 sentinel rock--about 300 feet high. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871. the grand canyon 162 from havasupai point, south rim, showing inner gorge. from a sketch in colour by f. s. dellenbaugh, 1907. the grand canyon 168 from south rim near bright angel creek. the grand canyon 174 from part way down south side above bright angel creek. winsor castle, the defensive house at pipe springs 186 photograph by h. arthur pomroy, 1903. little zion valley, or the mookoontoweap, upper virgin river 186 photograph by h. arthur pomroy, 1903. in the unknown country 195 photograph by j. k. hillers, 1872. navajo mountain from near kaiparowits peak 201 photograph by j. k. hillers, 1872. tantalus creek 206 tributary of fremont river. photograph by j. k. hillers. example of lakes on the aquarius plateau 211 photograph by j. k. hillers. the grand canyon 215 near mouth of shinumo creek. the river is in flood and the water is "colorado." sketch made in colour on the spot by f. s. dellenbaugh, july 26, 1907. marble canyon 219 thompson. photograph by j. k. hillers, 1872. canyon of the little colorado 222 photograph by c. barthelmess. the grand canyon 224 from just below the little colorado. photograph by j. k. hillers, 1872. the grand canyon 227 running the sockdologer. from a sketch afterwards by f. s. dellenbaugh. the grand canyon 232 from top of granite, south side near bright angel creek. the grand canyon 238 character of river in rapids. photograph by f. s. dellenbaugh, 1907. the grand canyon 242 at a rapid--low water. the grand canyon 248 at the bottom near foot of bass trail. the grand canyon 254 from north side near foot of toroweap valley, uinkaret district. photograph by j. k. hillers. the grand canyon 258 storm effect from south rim. maps a. map by the u. s. war department, 1868. supplied by the courtesy of general mackenzie, u. s. a., showing the knowledge of the colorado river basin just before major powell began operations. the topography above the junction of the green and grand is largely pictorial and approximate. the white space from the san rafael to the mouth of the virgin is the unknown country referred to in this volume which was investigated in 1871-72-73. preliminary maps b, c, and d at pages 244-46, and 207 respectively, partly give the results of the work which filled in this area. 95 b. preliminary map of a portion of the southern part of the unknown country indicated by blank space on map a, at page 95, showing the hurricane ledge, uinkaret and shewits mountains and the course of the grand canyon from the mouth of kanab canyon to the grand wash. the howlands and dunn left the first expedition at catastrophe rapid at the sharp bend a few miles below the intersection of the river and longitude 113° 30', climbed out to the north and were killed near mt. dellenbaugh. 244 c. preliminary map of a portion of the central part of the unknown country indicated by the blank space on map a, at page 95, showing the kaibab plateau, mouth of the paria, echo peaks, house rock valley and the course of part of glen canyon and of marble canyon and the grand canyon to the mouth of the kanab canyon. el vado is at the western intersection of the 37th parallel and the colorado river, and kanab is in the upper left-hand corner of the map--just above the 37th parallel which is the boundary between utah and arizona. the words "old spanish trail from santa fé to los angeles" near el vado were added in washington and are incorrect. the old spanish trail crossed at gunnison crossing far north of this point which was barely known before 1858. 246 d. preliminary map of a portion of the northern part of the unknown country indicated by the blank space on map a, at page 95, showing the course of part of glen canyon, the mouth of the fremont (dirty devil) river, the henry (unknown) mountains, and the trail of the first known party of white men to cross this area. the escalante river which was mistaken for the dirty devil enters the colorado just above the first letter "o" of colorado at the bottom of the map. the dirty devil enters from the north at the upper right-hand side. 207 e. showing results of recent re-survey of part of the grand canyon near bright angel creek by the geological survey with ample time for detail. compare with map c at page 246--the south end of kaibab plateau. 250 a canyon voyage chapter i a river entrapped--acquaintance not desired--ives explores the lower reaches--powell the conqueror--reason for a second descent--congressional appropriation--preparation--the three boats--the mighty wilderness--ready for the start. the upper continuation of the colorado river of the west is green river which heads in the wind river mountains at frémont peak. from this range southward to the uinta mountains, on the southern boundary of wyoming, the river flows through an open country celebrated in the early days of western exploration and fur trading as "green river valley," and at that period the meeting ground and "rendezvous" of the various companies and organisations, and of free trappers. by the year 1840 the vast region west of the missouri had been completely investigated by the trappers and fur-hunters in the pursuit of trade, with the exception of the green-and-colorado river from the foot of green river valley to the termination of the now famous grand canyon of arizona. the reason for this exception was that at the southern extremity of green river valley the solid obstacle of the uinta range was thrown in an easterly and westerly trend directly across the course of the river, which, finding no alternative, had carved its way, in the course of a long geological epoch, through the foundations of the mountains in a series of gorges with extremely precipitous sides; continuous parallel cliffs between whose forbidding precipices dashed the torrent towards the sea. having thus entrapped itself, the turbulent stream, by the configuration of the succeeding region, was forced to continue its assault on the rocks, to reach the gulf, and ground its fierce progress through canyon after canyon, with scarcely an intermission of open country, for a full thousand miles from the beginning of its entombment, the entrance of flaming gorge, at the foot of the historical green river valley. some few attempts had been made to fathom the mystery of this long series of chasms, but with such small success that the exploration of the river was given up as too difficult and too dangerous. ashley had gone through red canyon in 1825 and in one of the succeeding winters of that period a party had passed through lodore on the ice. these trips proved that the canyons were not the haunt of beaver, that the navigation of them was vastly difficult, and that no man could tell what might befall in those gorges further down, that were deeper, longer, and still more remote from any touch with the outer world. indeed it was even reported that there were places where the whole river disappeared underground. the indians, as a rule, kept away from the canyons, for there was little to attract them. one bold ute who attempted to shorten his trail by means of the river, shortened it to the happy hunting grounds immediately, and there was nothing in his fate to inspire emulation. the years then wore on and the colorado remained unknown through its canyon division. ives had come up to near the mouth of the virgin from the gulf of california in 1858, and the portion above flaming gorge, from the foot of green river valley, was fairly well known, with the union pacific railway finally bridging it in wyoming. one james white was picked up (1867) at a point below the mouth of the virgin in an exhausted state, and it was assumed that he had made a large part of the terrible voyage on a raft, but this was not the case, and the colorado river canyons still waited for a conqueror. he came in 1869 in the person of john wesley powell, a late major[1] in the civil war, whose scientific studies had led him to the then territory of colorado where his mind became fired with the intention of exploring the canyons. the idea was carried out, and the river was descended from the union pacific railway crossing to the mouth of the virgin, and two of the men went on to the sea. thus the great feat was accomplished--one of the greatest feats of exploration ever executed on this continent.[2] [illustration: the toll. unidentified skeleton found april 1906 by c. c. spaulding in the grand canyon 300 feet above the river, some miles below bright angel trail. there were daily papers of the early spring of 1900 in the pocket of the clothes. photograph 1906 by kolb bros.] circumstances had rendered the data collected both insufficient and incomplete. a second expedition was projected to supply deficiencies and to extend the work; an expedition so well equipped and planned that time could be taken for the purely scientific side of the venture. this expedition was the first one under the government, the former expedition having been a more or less private enterprise. congress made appropriations and the party were to start in 1870. this was found to be inexpedient for several reasons, among which was the necessity of exploring a route by which rations could be brought in to them at the mouth of what we called dirty devil river--a euphonious title applied by the men of the first expedition. this stream entered the colorado at the foot of what is now known as narrow canyon, a little below the 38th parallel,--the frémont river of the present geographies. arrangements for supplies to be brought in to the second expedition at this place were made by the major during a special visit to southern utah for the purpose. by great good fortune i became a member of the second expedition. scores of men were turned away, disappointed. the party was a small one, and it was full. we were to begin our voyage through the chain of great canyons, at the same point where the first expedition started, the point where the recently completed union pacific railway crossed green river in wyoming, and we arrived there from the east early on the morning of april 29, 1871. we were all ravenous after the long night on the train and breakfast was the first consideration, but when this had re-established our energy we went to look for the flat car with our boats which had been sent ahead from chicago. the car was soon found on a siding and with the help of some railroad employés we pushed it along to the eastern end of the bridge over green river and there, on the down side, put the boats into the waters against whose onslaughts they were to be our salvation. it was lucky perhaps that we did not pause to ponder on the importance of these little craft; on how much depended on their staunchness and stability; and on our possible success in preventing their destruction. the river was high from melting snows and the current was swift though ordinarily it is not a large river at this point. this season had been selected for the start because of the high water, which would tide us over the rocks till tributary streams should swell the normal volume; for our boats were to be well loaded, there being no chance to get supplies after leaving. we had some trouble in making a landing where we wanted to, in a little cove on the east side about half a mile down, which had been selected as a good place for our preparatory operations. here the three boats were hauled out to receive the final touches. they were named _emma dean_, _nellie powell_, and _cañonita_. a space was cleared in the thick willows for our general camp over which andy was to be master of ceremonies, at least so far as the banqueting division was concerned, and here he became initiated into the chemistry necessary to transform raw materials into comparatively edible food. but it was not so hard a task, for our supplies were flour, beans, bacon, dried apples, and dried peaches, tea and coffee, with, of course, plenty of sugar. canned goods at that time were not common, and besides, would have been too heavy. bread must be baked three times a day in the dutch oven, a sort of skillet of cast iron, about three inches deep, ten or twelve inches in diameter, with short legs, and a cast-iron cover with a turned-up rim that would hold hot coals. we had no other bread than was made in this oven, or in a frying-pan, with saleratus and cream of tartar to raise it. it was andy's first experience as a cook, though he had been a soldier in the civil war, as had almost every member of the party except the youngest three, clem, frank, and myself, i being the youngest of all. for sleeping quarters we were disposed in two vacant wooden shanties about two hundred yards apart and a somewhat greater distance from the cook-camp. these shanties were mansions left over, like a group of roofless adobe ruins near by, from the opulent days of a year or two back when this place had been the terminus of the line during building operations. little remained of its whilom grandeur; a section house, a railway station, a number of canvas-roofed domiciles, field's "outfitting store," and the aforesaid shanties in which we secured refuge, being about all there was of the place. the region round about suggested the strangeness of the wild country below, through the midst of which led our trail. arid and gravelly hills met the eye on all sides, accentuated by huge buttes and cliffs of brilliant colours, which in their turn were intensified by a clear sky of deep azure. in the midst of our operations, we found time to note the passing of the single express train each way daily. these trains seemed very friendly and the passengers gazed wonderingly from the windows at us and waved handkerchiefs. they perceived what we were about by the sign which i painted on cloth and fastened across the front of our house, which was near the track: "powell's colorado river exploring expedition." above this was flying our general flag, the stars and stripes. the white boats were thoroughly gone over with caulking-iron and paint. upon the decks of the cabins, canvas, painted green, was stretched in such a way that it could be unbuttoned at the edges on three sides and thrown back when we wanted to take off the hatches. when in place this canvas kept the water, perfectly, out of the hatch joints. each boat had three compartments, the middle one being about four feet long, about one-fifth the length of the boat, which was twenty-two feet over the top. two places were left for the rowers, before and abaft the middle compartment, while the steersman with his long oar thrust behind was to sit on the deck of the after-cabin, all the decks being flush with the gunwale, except that of the forward cabin the deck of which was carried back in a straighter line than the sheer of the boat and thus formed a nose to help throw off the waves. it was believed that when the hatches were firmly in place and the canvases drawn taut over the decks, even if a boat turned over, as was expected sometimes might be the case, the contents of these cabins would remain intact and dry. as so much depended on keeping our goods dry, and as we knew from powell's previous experience that the voyage would be a wet one, everything was carefully put in rubber sacks, each having a soft mouth inside a double lip with a row of eyelets in each lip through which ran a strong cord. when the soft mouth was rolled up and the bag squeezed, the air was forced out, and the lips could be drawn to a bunch by means of the cord. when in this condition the bag could be soaked a long time in water without wetting the contents. each rubber bag was encased in a heavy cotton one to protect it; in short, we spared no effort to render our provisions proof against the destroying elements. at first we put the bacon into rubber, but it spoiled the rubber and then we saw that bacon can take care of itself, nothing can hurt it anyhow, and a gunny-sack was all that was necessary. though the boats were five feet in the beam and about twenty-four inches in depth, their capacity was limited and the supplies we could take must correspond. each man was restricted to one hundred pounds of baggage, including his blankets. he had one rubber bag for the latter and another for his clothing and personal effects. in the provision line we had twenty-two sacks of flour of fifty pounds each. there was no whiskey, so far as i ever knew, except a small flask containing about one gill which i had been given with a ditty-bag for the journey. this flask was never drawn upon and was intact till needed as medicine in october. smoking was abandoned, though a case of smoking tobacco was taken for any indians we might meet. our photographic outfit was extremely bulky and heavy, for the dry plate had not been invented. we had to carry a large amount of glass and chemicals, as well as apparatus. the numerous scientific instruments also were bulky, as they had to be fitted into wooden cases that were covered with canvas and then with rubber. rations in quantity were not obtainable short of salt lake or fort bridger, and we had congressional authority to draw on the military posts for supplies. the major and his colleague, professor thompson, went to fort bridger and to salt lake to secure what was necessary, and to make further arrangements for the supplies which were to be brought in to us at the three established points: the mouth of the uinta, by way of the uinta indian agency; the mouth of the dirty devil; and the place where escalante had succeeded in crossing the colorado in 1776, known as the crossing of the fathers, about on the line between utah and arizona. [illustration: red canyon. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871.] mrs. thompson and mrs. powell, who had come out on the same train with us, had gone on to salt lake, where they were to wait for news from the expedition, when we should get in touch with the uinta agency at the mouth of the uinta river, something over two hundred miles further down. at length all was provided for and the major and prof. returned to our camp from salt lake bringing a new member of the party, jack hillers, to take the place of jack sumner of the former party who was unable to get to us on account of the deep snows in the mountains which surrounded the retreat where he had spent the winter trapping. prof. brought back also an american flag for each boat with the name of the boat embroidered in the field of blue on one side while the stars were on the other. we all admired these flags greatly, especially as they had been made by mrs. thompson's own hands. we had with us a diary which jack sumner had kept on the former voyage, and the casual way in which he repeatedly referred to running through a "hell of foam" gave us an inkling, if nothing more, of what was coming. our careful preparations gave us a feeling of security against disaster, or, at least, induced us to expect some degree of liberality from fortune. we had done our best to insure success and could go forward in some confidence. a delay was caused by the non-arrival of some extra heavy oars ordered from chicago, but at length they came, and it was well we waited, for the lighter ones were quickly found to be too frail. our preparations had taken three weeks. considering that we were obliged to provide against every contingency that might occur in descending this torrent so completely locked in from assistance and supplies, the time was not too long. below green river city, wyoming, where we were to start, there was not a single settler, nor a settlement of any kind, on or near the river for a distance of more than a thousand miles. from the river out, a hundred miles in an air line westward, across a practically trackless region, would be required to measure the distance to the nearest mormon settlements on the sevier, while eastward it was more than twice as far to the few pioneers who had crossed the backbone of the continent. the uinta indian agency was the nearest establishment to green river. it was forty miles west of the mouth of the uinta. in southern utah the newly formed mormon settlement of kanab offered the next haven, but no one understood exactly its relationship to the topography of the colorado, except from the vicinity of the crossing of the fathers. thus the country through which we were to pass was then a real wilderness, while the river itself was walled in for almost the entire way by more or less unscalable cliffs of great height. finally all of our preparations were completed to the last detail. the cabins of the boats were packed as one packs a trunk. a wooden arm-chair was obtained from field and fastened to the middle deck of our boat by straps, as a seat for the major, and to the left side of it--he had no right arm--his rubber life-preserver was attached. each man had a similar life-preserver in a convenient place, and he was to keep this always ready to put on when we reached particularly dangerous rapids. on the evening of the 21st of may nothing more remained to be done. the second powell expedition was ready to start. [illustration: before the start at green river city, wyoming. the dark box open. _cañonita_; andy, clem, beaman. _emma dean_; jones, jack, the major, fred. _nellie powell_; prof., steward, cap., frank. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871.] footnotes: [footnote 1: powell had received an appointment as colonel before he left the volunteer service, but he was always called major.] [footnote 2: for the history of the colorado river the reader is referred to _the romance of the colorado river_, by f. s. dellenbaugh.] chapter ii into the wilderness--the order of sailing--tobacco for the indians comes handy--a lone fisherman and some trappers--jack catches strange fish--the snow-clad uintas in view--a larder full of venison--entrance into flaming gorge. the 22d of may, 1871, gave us a brilliant sun and a sky of sapphire with a sparkling atmosphere characteristic of the rocky mountain region. the great buttes near the station, which moran has since made famous, shone with a splendour that was inspiring. to enable us to pick up the last ends more easily and to make our departure in general more convenient, we had breakfast that morning at field's outfitting place, and an excellent breakfast it was. it was further distinguished by being the last meal that we should eat at a table for many a month. we were followed to the cove, where our loaded boats were moored, by a number of people; about the whole population in fact, and that did not make a crowd. none of the chinamen came down, and there were no indians in town that day. the only unpleasant circumstance was the persistent repetition by a deaf-mute of a pantomimic representation of the disaster that he believed was to overwhelm us. "dummy," as we called him, showed us that we would be upset, and, unable to scale the cliffs, would surely all be drowned. this picture, as vividly presented as possible, seemed to give him and his brother great satisfaction. we laughed at his prophecy, but his efforts to talk were distressing. it may be said in excuse for him, that in some paddling up the river from that point, he had arrived at perhaps an honest conviction of what would happen to any one going below; and also, that other wise men of the town predicted that we would never see "brown's hole," at the end of red canyon. at ten o'clock we pushed out into the current. there were "good-bye and god-speed" from the shore with a cheer, and we responded with three and then we passed out of sight. the settlement, the railway, the people, were gone; the magnificent wilderness was ours. we swept down with a four-mile current between rather low banks, using the oars mainly for guidance, and meeting no difficulty worse than a shoal, on which the boats all grounded for a few moments, and the breaking of his oar by jones who steered our boat. about noon having run three miles, a landing was made on a broad gravelly island, to enable andy to concoct a dinner. a heavy gale was tearing fiercely across the bleak spot. the sand flew in stinging clouds, but we got a fire started and then it burned like a furnace. andy made another sample of his biscuits, this time liberally incorporated with sand, and he fried some bacon. the sand mainly settled to the bottom of the frying pan, for this bacon was no fancy breakfast table variety but was clear fat three or four inches thick. but how good it was! and the grease poured on bread! and yet while at the railway i had scorned it; in fact i had even declared that i would never touch it, whereat the others only smiled a grim and confident smile. and now, at the first noon camp, i was ready to pronounce it one of the greatest delicacies i had ever tasted! they jeered at me, but their jeers were kind, friendly jeers, and i recall them with pleasure. in warm-hearted companionship no set of men that i have ever since been associated with has been superior to these fellow voyageurs, and the major's big way of treating things has been a lesson all my life. we had all become fast true friends at once. with the exception of the major, whom i had first met about two months before, and frank whom i had known for a year or two, i had been acquainted with them only since we had met on the train on the way out. in the scant shelter of some greasewood bushes we devoured the repast which the morning's exercise and the crisp air had made so welcome, and each drank several cups of tea dipped from the camp-kettle wherein andy had boiled it. we had no formal table. when all was ready, the magic words, "well go fur it, boys," which andy uttered stepping back from the fire were ceremony enough. each man took a tin plate and a cup and served himself. clem and frank were sent back overland to the town for a box of thermometers forgotten and for an extra steering oar left behind, and the _cañonita_ waited for their return. during the afternoon, as we glided on, the hills began to close in upon us, and occasionally the river would cut into one making a high precipitous wall, a forerunner of the character of the river banks below. the order of going was, our boat, the _emma dean_, first, with major powell on the deck of the middle cabin, or compartment, sitting in his arm-chair, which was securely fastened there, but was easily removable. s. v. jones was at the steering oar, jack hillers pulled his pair of oars in the after standing-room, while i was at the bow oars. the second in line was the _nellie powell_, professor a. h. thompson steering, j. f. steward rowing aft, captain f. m. bishop forward, and frank richardson sitting rather uncomfortably on the middle deck. the third and last boat was the _cañonita_, which e. o. beaman, the photographer steered, while andrew hattan, rowed aft, and clement powell, assistant photographer, forward. this order was preserved, with a few exceptions, throughout the first season's work. it was the duty of prof. and jones to make a traverse (or meander) of the river as we descended. they were to sight ahead at each bend with prismatic compasses and make estimates of the length of each sight, height of walls, width of stream, etc., and cap was to put the results on paper. the major on his first boat, kept a general lookout and gave commands according to circumstances. he remembered the general character of the river from his former descent, but he had to be on the _qui-vive_ as to details. besides every stage of water makes a change in the nature of the river at every point. in addition to this outlook, the major kept an eye on the geology, as he was chief geologist; and steward, being assistant geologist did the same. richardson was assistant to steward. jack was general assistant and afterwards photographer. i was artist, and later, assistant topographer also. it was my duty to make any sketch that the geologists might want, and of course, as in the case of everybody, to help in the navigation or anything else that came along. each man had a rifle and some had also revolvers. most of the rifles were winchesters.[3] we had plenty of ammunition, and the rifles were generally kept where we could get at them quickly. in this order, and with these duties, we ran on down the green, and so far at least as i was concerned, feeling as if we had suddenly stepped off into another world. late in the afternoon we were astonished to discover a solitary old man sitting on the right bank fishing. who he was we did not know but we gave him a cheer as we dashed by and were carried beyond his surprised vision. as the sun began to reach the horizon a lookout was kept for a good place for camp. i, for one, was deeply interested, as i had never yet slept in the open. at length we reached a spot where the hills were some distance back on the right leaving quite a bottom where there were a number of cottonwood trees. a deserted log cabin silently invited us to land and, as this was cordial for the wilderness, we responded in the affirmative. the sky had a look of storm about it and i was glad of even this excuse for a roof, though the cabin was too small to shelter our whole party, except standing up, and the beds were all put down on the ground outside. the night was very cold and the fire which we made for andy's operations was most comforting. we had for supper another instalment of bacon, saleratus-bread, and tea, which tasted just as good as had that prepared at noon. sitting on rocks and stumps we ate this meal, and presently the raw air reminded some of the smokers that, while they had thrown their tobacco away there was, in the boats, the quite large supply designed for our red friends, should we meet any. of course we had more than was absolutely necessary for them, and in a few minutes the pipes which had been cast away at green river appeared well filled and burning. perhaps we had pipes for the indians too! i had not thrown my pipe away for it was a beautifully carved meerschaum--a present. i knew just where it was and lighted it up, though i was not a great smoker. the indians did not get as much of that tobacco as they might have wished. to make our blankets go farther we bunked together two and two, and jones and i were bed-fellows. it was some time before i could go to sleep. i kept studying the sky; watching the stars through the ragged breaks in the flying clouds. the night was silent after the gale. the river flowed on with little noise. the fire flickered and flickered, and the cottonwoods appeared dark and strange as i finally went to sleep. i had not been long in that happy state before i saw some men trying to steal our boats on which our lives depended and i immediately attacked them, pinning one to the ground. it was only jones i was holding down, and his shouts and struggles to reach his pistol woke me, and startled the camp. he believed a real enemy was on him. there was a laugh at my expense, and then sleep ruled again till about daylight when i was roused by rain falling on my face. all were soon up. the rain changed to snow which fell so heavily that we were driven to the cabin where a glorious fire was made on the hearth, and by it andy got the bread and bacon and coffee ready for breakfast, and also for dinner, for the snow was so thick we could not venture on the river till it stopped, and that was not till afternoon. the country through which we now passed was more broken. cliffs, buttes, mesas, were everywhere. sometimes we were between high rocky banks, then we saw a valley several miles wide, always without a sign of occupation by white men, even though as yet we were not far from the railway in a direct course. very late in the afternoon we saw something moving in the distance on the right. our glasses made it out to be two or three men on horseback. a signal was made which they saw, and consequently stopped to await developments, and a bag of fossils, the major had collected, was sent out to them with a request to take it to green river station, in which direction they were headed. they proved to be a party of prospectors who agreed to deliver the fossils, and we went on our way. the mornings and evenings were very cold and frosty, but during the day the temperature was perfectly comfortable, and this was gratifying, for the river in places spread into several channels, so that no one of them was everywhere deep enough for the boats which drew, so heavily laden, sixteen or eighteen inches. the keels grated frequently on the bottom and we had to jump overboard to lighten the boats and pull them off into deep water. we found as we went on that we must be ready every moment, in all kinds of water, to get over into the river, and it was necessary to do so with our clothes on, including our shoes, for the reason that the rocky bottom would bruise and cut our feet without the shoes, rocks would do the same to our legs, and for the further reason that there was no time to remove garments. in the rapids further on we always shipped water and consequently we were wet from this cause most of the time anyhow. we had two suits of clothes, one for wear on the river in the day time, and the other for evening in camp, the latter being kept in a rubber bag, so that we always managed to be dry and warm at night. on making camp the day suit was spread out on rocks or on a branch of a tree if one were near, or on a bush to dry, and it was generally, though not always, comfortably so, in the morning when it was again put on for the river work. sometimes, being still damp, the sensation for a few moments was not agreeable. we snapped several of the lighter oars in the cross currents, as the boats were heavy and did not mind quickly, and to backwater suddenly on one of the slender oars broke it like a reed. some of the longer, heavier oars were then cut down to eight feet and were found to be entirely serviceable. the steering oars were cut down from eighteen to sixteen feet. extra oars were carried slung on each side of the boats just under the gunwales, for the major on the former journey had been much hampered by being obliged to halt to search for timber suitable for oars and then to make them. there was one thing about the boats which we soon discovered was a mistake. this was the lack of iron on the keels. the iron had been left off for the purpose of reducing the weight when it should be necessary to carry the boats around bad places, but the rocks and gravel cut the keels down alarmingly, till there was danger of wearing out the bottoms in the long voyage to come.[4] jack was a great fisherman, and it was not long before he tried his luck in the waters of the green. no one knew what kind of fish might be taken--at least no one in our party--and he began his fishing with some curiosity. it was rewarded by a species of fish none of us had ever before seen, a fish about ten to sixteen inches long, slim, with fine scales and large fins. their heads came down with a sudden curve to the mouth, and their bodies tapered off to a very small circumference just before the tail spread out. they were good to eat, and formed a welcome addition to our larder. we were all eager for something fresh, and when we saw a couple of deer run across the bluffs just before we reached our fourth camp, our hopes of venison were roused to a high degree. camp number four was opposite the mouth of black's fork at an altitude above sea level of 5940 feet, a descent of 135 feet from the railway bridge. after this the channel was steadier and the water deeper, black's fork being one of the largest tributaries of the upper river. we now came in view of the snowy line of the uinta range stretching east and west across our route and adding a beautiful alpine note to the wide barren array of cliffs and buttes. it was twenty or thirty miles off, but so clear was the air that we seemed to be almost upon it. as we were drifting along with a swift current in the afternoon, the day after passing black's fork, one of the party saw a deer on an island. a rifle shot from our boat missed, and the animal dashing into the river swam across and disappeared in the wide valley. but another was seen. a landing was made immediately, and while some of the men held the boats ready to pick up a prize, the others beat the island. i was assigned to man our boat, and as we waited up against the bank under the bushes, we could hear the rifles crack. then all was still. suddenly i heard a crashing of bushes and a hundred yards above us a superb black-tail sprang into the water and swam for the east bank. my sensation was divided between a desire to see the deer escape, and a desire to supplant the bacon with venison for a time. my cartridges were under the hatches as it chanced, so i was unable to take action myself. with deep interest i watched the animal swim and with regret that our fresh meat was so fortunate, for it was two-thirds of the way across, before a rifle cracked. the deer's efforts ceased instantly and she began to drift down with the current. we ran our boat out and hauled the carcass on board. at the same time as we were being carried down by the swift current we got a view of the other side of the island where cap. up to his arms in the stream was trying to pull another deer ashore by the horns. it looked as if both deer and cap. would sail away and forever, till another boat went to his rescue. presently the third boat came down bearing still another deer. the successful shots were from prof., andy, and steward. our prospects for a feast were bright, and we had it. the deer were speedily dressed, frank displaying exceptional skill in this line. had we been able to stay in this region we would never have been in want of fresh meat, but when we entered the canyons the conditions were so different and the task of pursuing game so baffling and exhausting that we never had such success again. the whole of the next day we remained in a favourable spot at the foot of a strangely tilted ledge, where we jerked the venison by the aid of sun and fire to preserve it. near this point as observations showed later we passed from wyoming into utah. about dusk we were surprised to discover a small craft with a single individual aboard coming down the river. then we saw it was a raft. we watched its approach with deep interest wondering who the stranger could be, but he turned out to be steward who had gone geologising and had taken this easier means of coming back. he tried it again farther down and met with an experience which taught him to trust to the land thereafter. [illustration: flaming gorge. the beginning of the colorado river canyons, n. e. utah. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871.] the next day our boat was held back for some special work while the others proceeded toward a high spur of the uintas, directly in front of us. we followed with a fierce and blinding gale sweeping the river and filling our eyes with sharp sand. nevertheless we could see high up before us some bright red rocks marking the first canyon of the wonderful series that separates this river from the common world. from these bright rocks glowing in the sunlight like a flame above the grey-green of the ridge, the major had bestowed on this place the name of flaming gorge. as we passed down towards the mountain it seemed that the river surely must end there, but suddenly just below the mouth of henry's fork it doubled to the left and we found ourselves between two low cliffs, then in a moment we dashed to the right into the beautiful canyon, with the cliffs whose summit we had seen, rising about 1300 feet on the right, and a steep slope on the left at the base of which was a small bottom covered with tall cottonwood trees, whose green shone resplendent against the red rocks. the other boats were swinging at their lines and the smoke of andy's fire whirling on the wind was a cheerful sight to the ever-hungry inner-man. constant exercise in the open air produces a constant appetite. as long as we could protect our cargoes, and make our connections with our supplies as planned, we would surely not have to go hungry, but we had to consider that there was room for some variation or degree of success. there was at least one comforting feature about the river work and that was we never suffered for drinking water. it was only on side trips, away from the river that we met this difficulty, so common in the rocky mountain region and all the south-west. when the barometrical observations were worked out we found we had now descended 262 feet from our starting-point. that was four and a quarter feet for each mile of the sixty-two we had put behind. we always counted the miles put behind, for we knew they could not be retraced, but it was ever the miles and the rapids ahead that we kept most in our minds. we were now at the beginning of the real battle with the "sunken river." henceforth, high and forbidding cliffs with few breaks, would imprison the stream on both sides. a loss of our provisions would mean a journey on foot, after climbing out of the canyon, to green river (wyoming) to salt lake city or to the uinta indian agency. there was a trail from brown's hole (now brown's park) back to the railway, but the difficulty would be to reach it if we should be wrecked in red canyon. we did not give these matters great concern at the time, but i emphasise them now to indicate some of the difficulties of the situation and the importance of preventing the wreck of even one boat. footnotes: [footnote 3: two were of the original henry pattern.] [footnote 4: for further description of these boats the reader is referred to _the romance of the colorado river_, page 236, by f. s. dellenbaugh.] chapter iii the first rapid--horseshoe and kingfisher canyons--a rough entrance into red canyon--capsize of the _nell_--the grave of a bold navigator--discovery of a white man's camp--good-bye to frank--at the gate of lodore. prof. now took observations for time and latitude in order to fix with accuracy the geographical location of the camp in flaming gorge, and to check the estimates of the topographers as they sighted the various stretches of the river. it has been found that estimates of this kind are quite accurate and that the variation from exactness is generally the same in[5] the same individual. hence one man may underestimate and another may overestimate, but each will always make the same error, and this error can be readily corrected by frequent observations to determine latitude and longitude. a series of barometrical observations was kept going whether we were on the move or not. that is, a mercurial barometer was read three times a day, regularly, at seven, at one, and at nine. we had aneroid barometers for work away from the river and these were constantly compared with and adjusted to the mercurials. the tubes of mercury sometimes got broken, and then a new one had to be boiled to replace it. i believe the boiling of tubes has since that time been abandoned, as there is not enough air in the tube to interfere with the action of the mercury, but at that time it was deemed necessary for accuracy, and it gave prof. endless trouble. the wind was always blowing, and no tent we could contrive from blankets, and waggon sheets (we had no regular tents), sufficed to keep the flame of the alcohol lamp from flickering. nevertheless, prof. whose patience and dexterity were unlimited, always succeeded. the mercurial barometers were of the kind with a buckskin pocket at the bottom of the cistern with a screw for adjusting the column of mercury to a fixed point. most of the men climbed out in various directions and for various objects. prof. reached a high altitude whence he obtained a broad view of the country, a grand sight with the quiet river below and snow-capped mountains around, with rolling smoke and leaping flame, for there were great mountain fires not far off. the major and steward went geologising. steward was rewarded by discovering a number of fossils, among them the bones of an immense animal of the world's early day, with a femur ten inches in diameter, and ribs two inches thick and six inches wide. these bones were much exposed and could have been dug out, but we had no means of transporting them. flaming gorge is an easy place to get in and out of, even with a horse, and doubtless in the old beaver-hunting days it was a favourite resort of trappers. i am inclined to think that the double turn of the swirling river where it enters flaming gorge is the place known at that time as the green river suck. our camp under the cottonwoods was delightful. we took advantage of the halt to write up notes, clean guns, mend clothes, do our washing, and all the other little things incident to a breathing spell on a voyage of this kind. it was sunday too, and when possible we stopped on that account, though, of course, progress could not be deferred for that reason alone. monday morning we left the pleasant camp in the grove and went on with the tide. the river was rough from a heavy gale, but otherwise offered no obstacle. at a sudden bend we cut to the left deeper into the mountain till on both sides we were enclosed by almost perpendicular precipices of carboniferous formation, limestone, about 1600 feet high. the canyon was surprisingly beautiful and romantic. the river seemed to change its mood here, and began to flow with an impetus it had exhibited nowhere above. it swept on with a directness and a concentration of purpose that had about it something ominous. and just here, at the foot of the right hand wall which was perpendicular for 800 feet, with the left more sloping, and clothed with cedar shrubs, we beheld our first real rapid, gleaming like a jewel from its setting in the sunlight which fell into the gorge, and it had as majestic a setting as could be desired. for myself i can say that the place appeared the acme of the romantic and picturesque. the rapid was small and swift, a mere chute, and perhaps hardly worthy of mention had it not been the point where the character of the river current changes making it distinguished because of being the first of hundreds to come below. the river above had held a continual descent accelerating here and retarding there with an average current of two and a half miles an hour, but here began the quick drops for which the canyons are now famous. there was one place where prof. noted a small rapid but it was not like this one, and i did not count it at all. [illustration: horseshoe canyon. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871.] the gorge we ran into so suddenly was short and by dinner-time we had emerged into a wider, more broken place, though we were still bound in by tremendous heights. we saw that we had described a complete horseshoe and this fact determined the canyon's name--number two of the series. when we landed for dinner, an examination was made of the locality from that base before we dropped down a little distance to the mouth of a fine clear creek coming in from the right. this was a fascinating place. the great slopes were clothed with verdure and trees, and the creek ran through luxuriant vegetation. a halt of a day was made for observation purposes. the air was full of kingfishers darting about and we immediately called the creek by their name. i was sent with steward on a geological expedition out over the right or western cliffs. we consumed two hours in getting out, having to climb up about 1000 feet over a difficult way. after a good deal of going up and down across rough ridges, we finally worked our way around to the head of flaming gorge. here we reckoned up and found that eight steep ridges intervened between us and camp by the way we had come, and we concluded that we could get back easier through flaming gorge and thence by climbing over the tongue or base of the horseshoe which was lower than the end. steward grew decidedly weary and i felt my legs getting heavy too. rain had fallen at intervals all day and we were wet as well as tired and famished. we struck an old trail and followed it as long as it went our way. then it became too dark to see which way it went and we climbed on as best we could. it was about half-past eight when we reached our camp to find a splendid fire burning and a good supper waiting for us. the new canyon which closed in the next day had walls about 1500 feet in height, that being the general height of the spur of the uintas through which we were travelling. the changes from one canyon to another were only changes in the character of the bounding mountain walls, for there was no break into open country. the name of kingfisher we gave to the new gorge for the same reason we had called the creek at our camp by that name, and so numerous were these birds at one rounded promontory that there was no escape from calling it beehive point, the resemblance to a gigantic hive being perfect. kingfisher canyon like its two predecessors was short, all three making a distance by the river of only about ten miles. flaming gorge is the gateway, horseshoe the vestibule, and kingfisher the ante-chamber to the whole grand series. at the foot of kingfisher the rocks fell back a little and steep slopes took their place. where the rocks closed in again, we halted on the threshold of the next gorge, in a fine grove of cottonwoods. a significant roar came to us out of the gate to red canyon, rolling up on the air with a steady, unvarying monotony that had a sinister meaning. it was plain that we were nearing something that was no paltry gem like the rapid we had so much admired in horseshoe canyon. the remainder of that day and all the next, which was june 1st, we stayed at this camp completing records, investigating the surroundings, and preparing for rough work ahead. on friday morning the cabins were packed carefully, the life preservers were inflated, and we pulled out into the current. the cliffs shot up around us and rough water began at once. the descent was almost continuous for a considerable distance, but we divided it into three rapids in our notes, before we reached a sharp turn to the right, and then one just as sharp to the left, with vertical walls on both sides and a roaring torrent, broken by rocks, whirling between. our boat shot down with fierce rapidity and would have gone through without a mishap had not the current dashed us so close to the right-hand wall that jack's starboard row-lock was ripped off by a projection of the cliff as we were hurled along its rugged base. at the same moment we saw the _nell_ upsetting against some rocks on the left. then we swept out of view and i was obliged to pull with all my strength, jack's one oar being useless. we succeeded in gaining a little cove on the left, and jumped out as soon as shallow enough, the major immediately climbing the cliffs to a high point where he could look down on the unfortunate second boat. prof., it seems, had misunderstood the major's signal and had done just what he did not think he ought to do. he thought it meant to land on the left and he had tried to reach a small strip of beach, but finding this was not possible he turned the boat again into the current to retrieve his former position, but this was not successful and the _nell_ was thrown on some rocks projecting from the left wall, in the midst of wild waters, striking hard enough to crush some upper planks of the port side. she immediately rolled over, and frank slid under. prof. clutched him and pulled him back while the men all sprang for the rocks and saved themselves and the boat from being washed away in this demoralised condition. with marvellous celerity cap. took a turn with a rope around a small tree which he managed to reach, while steward jumped to a position where he could prevent the boat from pounding. in a minute she was righted and they got her to the little beach where they had tried to land. here they pulled her out and, partially unloading, repaired her temporarily as well as they could. this done they towed up to a point of vantage and made a fresh start and cleared the rapid with no further incident. meanwhile the _cañonita_ had come in to where we were lying, and both boats were held ready to rescue the men of the other. after about three-quarters of an hour the unfortunate came down, her crew being rather elated over the experience and the distinction of having the first capsize. setting out on the current again we passed two beautiful creeks entering from the right, and they were immediately named respectively, compass and kettle creeks, to commemorate the loss of these articles in the capsize. at the mouth of kettle creek, about a mile and a half below the capsize rapid, we stopped for dinner. then running several small drops, we arrived at a long descent that compelled careful action. we always landed, where possible, to make an examination and learn the trend of the main current. our not being able to do this above was the cause of the _nell's_ trouble. we now saw that we had here landed on the wrong side and would have to make a somewhat hazardous crossing to the opposite, or right bank. our boat tried it first. in spite of vigorous pulling we were carried faster down towards the rapid than to the objective landing. when we reached water about waist deep we all sprang overboard, and i got to shore with the line as quickly as i could. we were able to turn and catch the _nell_ as she came in, but the _cañonita_ following ran too far down. we all dashed into the stream almost at the head of the rapid, and there caught her in time. the load was taken out of our boat and she was let down by lines over the worst part. loading again we lowered to another bad place where we went into camp on the same spot where the major had camped two years before. we unloaded the other boats and got them down before dark, but we ate supper by firelight. the river averaged about 250 feet wide, with a current of not less than six miles an hour and waves in the rapids over five feet in vertical height. these waves broke up stream as waves do in a swift current, and as the boats cut into them at a high velocity we shipped quantities of water and were constantly drenched, especially the bow-oarsmen. the cliffs on each side, wonderfully picturesque, soon ran up to 1200 or 1500 feet, and steadily increased their altitude. owing to the dip of the strata across the east and west trend of the canyon the walls on the north were steeper than those on the south, but they seldom rose vertically from the river. masses of talus, and often alluvial stretches with rocks and trees, were strung along their base, usually offering numerous excellent landings and camping places. we were able to stop about as we wished and had no trouble as to camps, though they were frequently not just what we would have preferred. there was always smooth sand to sleep on, and often plenty of willows to cut and lay in rows for a mattress. it must not be imagined that these great canyons are dark and gloomy in the daytime. they are no more so than an ordinary city street flanked with very high buildings. some lateral canyons are narrow and so deep that the sun enters them but briefly, but even these are only shady, not dark. [illustration: red canyon. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871.] we remained on the major's old camp ground a day so that jones and cap. could climb to the top of the cliff to get the topography. the next morning though it was sunday was not to be one of rest. we began by lowering the boats about forty rods farther and there pulled out into the stream and were dashed along by a fierce current with rapid following rapid closely. the descent was nearly continuous with greater declivities thrown in here and there. as usual we took in a good deal of water and were saturated. we were growing accustomed to this, and the boats being built to float even when the open parts were full, we did not mind sitting with our legs in cold water till opportunity came to bail out with the camp kettle left in each open space for the purpose. one rapid where theodore hook, of cheyenne, was drowned in 1869, while attempting to follow the first party, gave us no trouble. we sailed through it easily. hook had declared that if powell could descend the river he could too, and he headed a party to follow.[6] the motive i believe was prospecting. i do not know how far they expected to go but this was as far as they got. their abandoned boats, flat-bottomed and inadequate, still lay half buried in sand on the left-hand bank, and not far off on a sandy knoll was the grave of the unfortunate leader marked by a pine board set up, with his name painted on it. old sacks, ropes, oars, etc., emphasised the completeness of the disaster. not far below this we made what we called a "line portage," that is, the boats were worked along the edge of the rapid, one at a time, in and out among the boulders with three or four men clinging to them to fend them off the rocks and several more holding on to the hundred-foot hawser, so that there was no possibility of one getting loose and smashing up, or leaving us altogether. it was then noon and a camp was made for the remainder of the day on the left bank in a very comfortable spot. we had accomplished three and a half miles, with four distinct rapids run and one "let-down." i went up from the camp along a sandy stretch and was surprised to discover what i took to be the fresh print of the bare foot of a man. mentioning this when i returned, my companions laughed and warned me to be cautious and give this strange man a wide berth unless i had my rifle and plenty of ammunition. it was the track of a grizzly bear. i saw many tracks on this expedition and on others afterwards but i have never seen a bear yet, except in captivity. the grizzly seemed to shun me; but i believe they will not often attack a man unprovoked, and will lie perfectly still while one may pass within a few feet of their hiding-place. three or four deer were seen but with no opportunity to get a shot. all through these upper canyons there was then a great abundance of game of every description, and had our object been to kill for sport, we undoubtedly could have made a pile of carcasses. one or two deer would have been welcome but we had no time to pursue them. steward came in towards night from his geologising with a splendid bouquet of wild flowers which was greatly admired. prof. and the major climbed west of camp to a height of 1200 feet where they obtained a wide outlook and secured valuable notes on the topography. the view was superb as it is anywhere from a high point in this region. when they came back, the major entertained us by reading aloud _the lay of the last minstrel_, thus delightfully closing a beautiful sunday which every man had enjoyed. in the morning soon after leaving this camp a dull roar ahead told of our approach to ashley falls, for which we were on the lookout. the left bank was immediately hugged as closely as possible and we dropped cautiously down to the head of the descent. an immense rock stuck up in the middle of the river and the water divided on this and shot down on each side in a sharp fall of about eight feet. each was a clear chute and not dangerous to look at, but the effect of so sudden a plunge on one of our loaded boats was too much of a problem for trial. a portage was decided on. the left bank where we were was a mass of enormous broken rocks where it seemed next to impossible to haul a boat. a foot trail was first built which led up some fifty feet above the river, and over, under and around huge boulders to a place down below where it was proposed to carry the boats on skids. the cargoes were first taken over on our backs and when this was done we were about tired out. our united strength was required to work the _dean_ down to the selected haven without injury. this was such extremely hard work that the major and prof. concluded to shoot the _cañonita_ through, light, with no men in her, but controlled by one of our hundred-foot hawsers attached to each end. she was started down and went through well enough, but filling with water and knocking on hidden rocks. prudence condemned this method and we resorted to sliding and carrying the _nell_ over the rocks as we had done with the _dean_, certain that sleep and food would wipe out our weariness, but not injury to the boats which must be avoided by all means in our power. by the time we had placed the _nell_ beside the other boats at the bottom it was sunset and too late to do anything but make a camp. just above the head of the fall was a rather level place in a clump of pines at the very edge of the river forming as picturesque a camp-ground as i have ever seen. a brilliant moon hung over the canyon, lighting up the foam of the water in strong contrast to the red fire crackling its accompaniment to the roar of the rapid. a lunar rainbow danced fairy-like in the mists rising from the turmoil of the river. the night air was calm and mild. prof. read aloud from _hiawatha_ and it seemed to fit the time and place admirably. we had few books with us; poems of longfellow, whittier, emerson, and scott, are all i remember, except a bible my mother had given me. i suppose cap. had a bible also, as he was very religious. the huge boulders which dammed the river had fallen from the cliffs on the left within a comparatively recent time, transforming an ordinary rapid into the fall; actually damming the water till it is smooth for half a mile above. the largest block of stone is the one in the middle. it is about twenty five feet square. the only white men on record to reach this place except the major's other party, was general ashley, the distinguished fur trader with a number of trappers. in his search for fresh beaver grounds he led his party in rude buffalo-skin boats through this canyon in 1825. they had a hard time and nearly starved to death as they depended for food on finding beaver and other game, in which they were disappointed. on one of my trips over the rocks with cargo i made a slight detour on the return to see the boulder where the major had discovered ashley's name with a date. the letters were in black, just under a slight projection and were surprisingly distinct considering the forty-six years of exposure. the "2" was illegible and looked like a "3." none of our party seemed to know that it could have been only a "2" for by the year 1835 ashley had sold out and had given up the fur business in the mountains. considering his ability, his prominence, his high character, and his identification with the early history of the west, there ought to be greater recognition of him than there has been. [illustration: red canyon. ashley falls from below. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871.] below ashley falls the declivity of the river was very great with a correspondingly swift current, in one rapid reaching a velocity of at least fifteen miles an hour, and with waves that tossed our heavy boats like feathers. these were the most violent rapids we had yet met, not excepting the ones we had portaged. the cliffs, about 2500 feet high, of red sandstone, were often almost perpendicular on both sides, or at least they impressed us so at the time. there was much vegetation, pine, spruce, willow-leaved cottonwood, aspens, alder, etc., which added to the beauty and picturesqueness of the wild scenery. beaman stopped each day where possible and desirable to take photographs, and at these times the others investigated the surroundings and climbed up side canyons when they existed. late in the afternoon we came out suddenly into a small valley or park formerly called little brown's hole, a noted rendezvous for trappers, and which we rechristened red canyon park. this was a beautiful place bounded by round mountains, into which our great cliffs had temporarily resolved themselves, particularly on the right, the left side remaining pretty steep. our camp was pitched under two large pine trees and every one was prepared, in the intervals of other duties, to take advantage of this respite to patch up clothing, shoes, etc., as well as to do what laundering was necessary. the river ran so quietly that we felt oppressed after the constant roaring since we had entered red canyon. i remember climbing up at evening with one of my companions, to a high altitude where the silence was deathlike and overpowering. prof. and some of the others climbed to greater heights for topographical purposes, easily reaching an altitude of about 4000 feet above the river in an air-line distance of about five miles. here they obtained a magnificent panorama in all directions, limited on the west by the snowy chain of the wasatch, and on the north by the wind river range like white clouds on the horizon 200 miles away, and they could trace the deep gorges of the river as they cleave the mountains from distance to distance. here we saw signs of abundant game, elk, deer, bear, etc., but we had no time to go hunting as a business and the game refused to come to us. each man had his work to accomplish so that we could get on. it was impracticable to go wandering over the mountains for game, much as we would have enjoyed a change from our bacon and beans. one day, only, was spent here for all purposes, geologising, topographic climbing, and working out the notes from up the river, making repairs and all the other needful things that crowded upon us. here it was that i did my first tailoring and performed a feat of which i have ever since been proud; namely, transferring some coattails, from where they were of no use, to the knees and seat of my trousers where they were invaluable. on june 8th, we left this "camp number 13" regretfully and plunged in between the cliffs again for about eight miles, running five rapids, when we emerged into a large valley known as brown's hole, where our cliffs fell back for two or three miles on each side and became mountain ranges. pulling along for a couple of miles on a quiet river we were surprised to discover on the left a white man's camp. quickly landing we learned that it was some cattlemen's temporary headquarters (harrell brothers), and some of the men had been to green river station since our departure from that place, the distance by trail not being half that by river. they were expecting us and had brought some mail which was a glad sight for our eyes. these men had wintered about 2000 head of texas cattle in this valley, noted for the salubrity of its winter climate since the days of the fur-hunters, and were on their way to the pacific coast. we made a camp near by, with a cottonwood of a peculiar "y" shape, more stump than tree, to give what shade-comfort it could, and enjoyed the relaxation which came with the feeling that we had put twenty-five miles of hard canyon behind, and were again in touch, though so briefly and at long range, with the outer world. as some of these men were to go out to the railway the following sunday and offered to carry mail for us, we began to write letters to let our friends know how we were faring on our peculiar voyage. this "brown's hole" was the place selected by a man who pretended to have been with the former party, for the scene of that party's destruction which he reported to the newspapers. he thought as it was called a "hole" it must be one of the worst places on this raging river, not knowing that in the old trapper days when a man found a snug valley and dwelt there for a time it became known as his "hole" in the nomenclature of the mountains. the major did not think this a satisfactory name and he changed it to "brown's park" which it now bears. i met an "old timer" on a western train several years afterward, who was greatly irritated because of this liberty which the major took with the cherished designation of the early days. fort davy crockett of the fur-trading period was located somewhere in this valley. [illustration: in red canyon park. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871.] the next morning after reaching harrell's camp we were told that, as frank did not seem able to stand the voyage he was to leave us here, to go over the mountains back to the railway, whence he would go home. we were all sorry to hear this and doubly sorry when on sunday the 11th he mounted a mule and regretfully rode away with mr. harrell. the latter was to telegraph to salt lake to mrs. powell, to send our mail back to green river station so that it could be brought out to us on mr. harrell's return. meanwhile we dropped down the river, now tranquil as a pond, with low banks covered with cottonwood groves. there were two small canyons the first of which we called "little" about one-half mile long, and the second "swallow," about two miles long. the cliffs were red sandstone about three hundred feet high, often vertical on both sides. thousands of swallows swarmed there, and we did not resist giving it an obvious name. below this the water spread out more and was full of islands. the current was sluggish, two miles an hour perhaps, and we indulged in the novelty of rowing the boats, though we did not try to make speed, for we had to wait for mr. harrell's return anyhow. the boats had been lightened by trading to harrell some of our flour, of which we had an over abundance when it came to portages, for fresh beef, of which we were very much in need. at a convenient place we landed where there was a fine cottonwood grove and remained while prof. made a climb and to jerk the beef. it was cut into thin strips and hung on a willow framework in the sun with a slow fire beneath. as the thermometer now stood at ninety-nine in the shade the beef was fairly well cured by the 13th and we went on, seeing one of the cattlemen and a mexican boy on the left bank. in this neighbourhood we passed from utah into colorado. the river was six hundred feet broad and about six feet deep. we had no trouble from shoals, and finally lashed the three boats side by side and let them drift along in the slow current. the major sitting in his arm-chair on the middle boat read aloud selections from _the lady of the lake_ which seemed to fit the scene well. steward and andy amused themselves by swimming along with the boats and occasionally diving under them. from our noon camp in a grove of cottonwoods opposite the mouth of vermilion river, we could plainly see the great portal a mile or two away, the gate of lodore, where all this tranquillity would end, for the river cuts straight into the heart of the mountains forming one of the finest canyons of the series where the water comes down as southey described it at lodore, and the major gave it that name. before night we were at the very entrance and made our camp there in a grove of box-elders. every man was looking forward to this canyon with some dread and before losing ourselves within its depths we expected to enjoy the letters from home which mr. harrell was to bring back from the railway for us. myriads of mosquitoes gave us something else to think of, for they were exceedingly ferocious and persistent, driving us to a high bluff where a smudge was built to fight them off. we were nearly devoured. i fared best, a friend having given me a net for my head, and this, with buckskin gloves on my hands enabled me to exist with some comfort. the mountains rose abruptly just beyond our camp, and the river cleaved the solid mass at one stroke, forming the extraordinary and magnificent portal we named the "gate of lodore," one of the most striking entrances of a river into mountains to be found in all the world. it is visible for miles. prof. climbed the left side of the gate and also took observations for time. i was sent back to the valley to make some sketches and also to accompany steward on a geological tramp. we had an uncomfortable experience because of the excessive heat and aridity. i learned several things about mountaineering that i never forgot, one of which was to always thoroughly note and mark a place where anything is left to be picked up on a return, for, leaving our haversack under a cedar it eluded all search till the next day, and meanwhile we were compelled to go to the river two or three miles away for water. we had a rubber poncho and a blanket. using the rubber for a mattress and the blanket for a covering we passed the night, starting early for the mountains, where at last we found our food bag. after eating a biscuit we went back to the river and made tea and toasted some beef on the end of a ramrod, when we struck for the main camp, arriving at dinner-time. the gate of lodore seemed naturally the beginning of a new stage in our voyage to which we turned with some anxiety, for it was in the gorge now before us that on the first trip a boat had been irretrievably smashed. we were now 130 miles by river from the union pacific railway crossing, and in this distance we had descended 700 feet in altitude, more than 400 feet of it in red canyon. lodore was said to have an even greater declivity. footnotes: [footnote 5: three points on green river below the union pacific crossing had been determined by previous explorers, the mouth of henry's fork, the mouth of the uinta, and gunnison crossing.] [footnote 6: i do not know the number of men composing this party.] chapter iv locked in the chasm of lodore--rapids with railway speed--a treacherous approach to falls of disaster--numerous loadings and unloadings--over the rocks with cargoes--library increased by _putnam's magazine_--triplet falls and hell's half mile--fire in camp--exit from turmoil to peace. on saturday the 17th of june, the member of the harrell party who was to travel overland from green river station with mail for us from salt lake arrived with only two letters. the despatch had been too late to stop the packet which already had been started for the uinta indian agency, whence it would reach us at the mouth of the uinta river. it would be another month, at least, before we could receive those longed for words from home. there was nothing now to delay us further, and after dinner the boats were prepared for canyon work again. through brown's park we had not been obliged to pay much attention to "ship-shape" arrangements, but now the story was to be different. the cabins were packed with unusual care, the life-preservers were inflated and put where they could be quickly seized on the approach to a bad descent, and at four o'clock we were afloat. the wide horizon vanished. the cliffs, red and majestic, rose at one bound to a height of about 2000 feet on each side, the most abrupt and magnificent gateway to a canyon imaginable. we entered slowly, for the current in the beginning is not swift, and we watched the mighty precipices while they appeared to fold themselves together behind and shut us more than ever away from the surrounding wilderness. for a short time the stream was quite tame. then the murmur of distant troubled waters reached us and we prepared for work. the first rapid was not a bad one; we ran it without halting and ran three more in quick succession, one of which was rather ugly. [illustration: the head of the canyon of lodore. just inside the gate. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871.] this success caused some of us prematurely to conclude that perhaps "the way the water comes down at lodore," was not so terrific as had been anticipated. the major said nothing. he kept his eyes directed ahead. the river ran about 300 feet wide, with a current of 10 to 15 miles an hour in the rapids. at every bend new vistas of beauty were exhibited, and the cliffs impressed us more and more by their increasing height and sublimity. landing places were numerous. presently there came to our ears a roar with an undertone which spoke a language now familiar, and we kept as close to the right bank as possible, so that a stop could be instantly made at the proper moment. when this moment arrived a landing was effected for examination, and it revealed a furious descent, studded with large rocks, with a possibility of safely running through it if an exact course could be held, but the hour being now late a camp was made at the head and further investigation deferred till the next morning. this morning was sunday, and the sun shone into the canyon with dazzling brilliancy, all being tranquil except the foaming rapid. the locality was so fascinating that we lingered to explore, finding especial interest in a delightful grotto carved out of the red sandstone by the waters of a small brook. the entrance was narrow, barely 20 feet, a mere cleft in the beginning, but as one proceeded up it between walls 1500 feet high, the cleft widened, till at 15 rods it ended in an amphitheatre 100 feet in diameter, with a domed top. clear, cold water trickled and dropped in thousands of diamond-like globules from everything. mosses and ferns filled all the crevices adding a brilliant green to the picture, while far up overhead a little ribbon of blue sky could be seen; and, beyond the mouth, the yellow river. it was an exquisite scene. at the request of steward, it's discoverer, it was named after his little daughter, "winnie's grotto." so charming was it here that we did not get off till ten o'clock, beaman meanwhile taking several views. it was decided to run the rapid, for there was a comparatively straight channel about ten feet wide, and it was only a question of steering right. as our boat was to take it first the other crews came to a point where they could watch us to advantage and profit by our experience. sticks, as usual, had been thrown in to determine the trend of the main current which must always be considered in dealing with any rapid. if it dashes against a cliff below, means must be found to cut across before reaching that point. on the other hand, if the main current has a comparatively clear chute, running through is not a difficult matter as in the present case. we pulled up-stream a short distance before putting out into the middle. then we took the rapid as squarely as possible. we saw that we would have to go sharply to the left to avoid one line of rocks, and then to the right to clear another, both of which actions were successfully accomplished. then we waited below for the others. they had no trouble either, and the three boats sped on and on into the greater depths beyond where wilder waters were foaming. all rapids have "tails" of waves tapering out below, that is the waves grow smaller as they increase the distance from the initial wave. these waves are the reverse of sea waves, the form remaining in practically one place while the water flies through. in many rapids there is an eddy on each side of this tail in which a current runs up-river with great force. if a boat is caught in this eddy it may be carried a second time through a part of the rapid. we soon arrived at another rapid in which this very thing happened to our boat. we were caught by the eddy and carried up-stream to be launched directly into the path of the _nell_, which had started down. prof. skilfully threw his boat to one side and succeeded in avoiding a collision. nothing could be done with our boat but to let her go where she would for the moment. we then ran two other rapids, rough ones too, but there was no trouble in them for any of the boats. the velocity at this stage of water was astonishing, and the opportunities to land in quiet water between the rapids now were few. [illustration: canyon of lodore. low water. photograph by j. k. hillers, 1874.] about dinner-time as we emerged at high speed from one rapid we saw immediately below lying in ominous shadow, another. it had a forbidding look. in red canyon owing to the east-and-west trend the sun fell to the bottom for many more hours than in lodore which has a north-and-south trend. hence here even at high noon, one side or the other might be in deep shadow. in this particular case it was the left wall which came down very straight to the river, the outside of a bend. opposite was a rocky, wooded point. between these the rapid swept down. there was no slack water separating the end of the rapid we left from the beginning of this one so obscurely situated. landing was no easy task at the speed with which we were flying, but it would not do to try to run the rapid without an examination. the only possible place to stop was on the right where there was a cove with a little strip of beach, and we headed for it instantly, pulling with every muscle. yet we continued going on down at railway speed. when at last we arrived within a few feet of the bank the problem was how to stop. the water appeared shallow, though we could not see bottom on account of its murky character, and there was only one course, which was to jump out and make anchors of our legs. as we did so we sank to our waists and were pulled along for a moment but our feet, braced against the large rocks on the bottom, served the purpose and the momentum was overcome. once the velocity was gone it was easy to get the boat to the beach, and she was tied there just in time to allow us to rush to the help of the _nell_.[7] scarcely had the _nell_ been tied up than the _cañonita_ came darting for the same spot like a locomotive. with the force on hand she was easily controlled, and the fact that she carried the cook outfit as well as the cook added to our joy at having her so speedily on the beach. andy went to work immediately to build a fire and prepare dinner while the rest overhauled the boats, took observations, plotted notes, or did other necessary things, and the major and prof. went down to take a close look at the rapid which had caused us such sudden and violent exertion. they reported a clear channel in the middle, and when we continued after dinner, we went through easily and safely, as of course we could have done in the first place if the major had been willing to take an unknown risk. but in the shadow the fall might have been almost anything and it would have been foolhardy to run it without examination, even though we found it so hard to stop. below the rapid that had halted us so abruptly there was nothing for about a mile but easy running, when we stopped in a cove to examine another rapid. prof. here started up eleven mountain sheep, but by the time he had come back to the boats for a gun they were beyond reach. though this rapid could be easily run, there was just below it only a short distance the fall where the _no-name_ was wrecked on the first trip, and we would have to be cautious, for the approach to that fall we knew was treacherous. the river comes at this point from the east, bends south, then west, and it is just at the western bend that the steep rush of the big fall begins and continues for three-quarters of a mile. on the right the waters beat fiercely against the foot of the perpendicular wall, while on the left they are confined by a rocky point, the end of which is composed of enormous blocks. the space for the stream between this point and the opposite cliff is narrow, while the river above it spreads rather wide with a deep bay on the left where there is quiet water. this bay is protected a quarter of a mile up by a jutting point, and is merely back water. just off the point the whole river suddenly becomes saucer-like, and quite smooth, with all the currents drawing strongly in from every direction and pouring toward and over the falls. an object once within the grip of this "sag," as we called it, is obliged to pass over the falls. the situation is peculiar and it occurs nowhere else on the whole river. not being understood on the first voyage one of the boats, the _no-name_, was trapped, driven over the falls, and broken to fragments, though the men were rescued below. the disaster was the cause of some unpleasantness on that voyage, the men blaming the major for not signalling properly and he blaming them for not landing quickly when he signalled. we were on the lookout for it and the major having the wreck to emphasise the peculiarities of the "sag" desired to have every boat turn the point at the correct moment. ours ran through the preliminary rapid easily and we dropped cautiously down upon our great enemy, hugging the left bank as closely as we could to reach the jutting point around which the boat must pass to arrive in the safe waters of the bay. we turned the point with no difficulty, and proceeded a distance across the bay where we landed on a beach to watch for the other boats, the steersmen having been informed as to the precariousness of the locality. nevertheless it was so deceptive that when the _nell_ came in sight she was not close enough to the left shore for safety. the major signalled vigorously with his hat, and prof. took the warning instantly and turned in, but when the _cañonita_ appeared we saw at once that she was altogether too far out and for some seconds we stood almost petrified while the major again signalled with all his might. it seemed an even chance; then she gained on the current and finally reached good water whence she came to our position. beaman had been a pilot on the great lakes and was expert with a steering-oar, and probably for that reason he was somewhat careless. there was hardly an excuse in this instance for a boat not to take the proper course for the experience of the _no-name_ told the whole story, yet the place is so peculiar and unusual that one even forewarned may fail. across the bay pulling was safe and we ran to a beach very close to the head of the falls where we made our camp, the sun now being low and the huge cliffs casting a profound and sombre shadow into the bottom. it was a wild, a fierce, an impressive situation. the unending heavy roar of the tumbling river, the difficulty if not impossibility of turning back even if such a thing had been desired, the equal difficulty if not impossibility of scaling the walls that stood more than 2000 feet above us, and the general sublimity of the entire surroundings, rendered our position to my mind intensely dramatic. two years before, on this identical spot the major had camped with the loss of one of his boats bearing heavily on his mind, though his magnificent will, his cheerful self-reliance, and his unconquerable determination to dominate any situation gave him power and allied him to the river itself. the place practically chose its own name, disaster falls, and it was so recorded by the topographers. a hard portage was ahead of us and all turned in early to prepare by a good sleep for the long work of the next day. no tent as a rule was erected unless there was rain, and then a large canvas from each boat was put up on oars or other sticks, the ends being left open. in a driving storm a blanket would answer to fill in. as there was now no indication of a storm our beds were placed on the sand as usual with the sides of the canyon for chamber walls and the multitudinous stars for roof. a short distance below the great rapid near which we were camped was a second equally bad, the two together making up the three-quarter mile descent of disaster falls. between them the river became level for a brief space and wider, and a deposit of boulders and gravel appeared there in the middle above the surface at the present stage of water. it was this island which had saved the occupants of the _no-name_, and from which they were rescued. we were up very early in the morning, and began to carry the cargoes by a trail we made over and around the huge boulders to a place below the bad water of the first fall. the temperature was in the 90's and it was hot work climbing with a fifty-pound sack on one's back, but at last after many trips back and forth every article was below. then the empty boats were taken one at a time, and by pulling, lifting, and sliding on skids of driftwood, and by floating wherever practicable in the quieter edges of the water, we got them successfully past the first fall. here the loads were replaced, and with our good long and strong lines an inch thick, the boats were sent down several hundred yards in the rather level water referred to intervening between the foot of the upper fall and the head of the lower, to the beginning of the second descent. this all occupied much time, for nothing could be done rapidly, and noon came, in the midst of our work. anticipating this event andy had gone ahead with his cook outfit and had baked the dinner bread in his dutch oven. with the usual fried bacon and coffee the inner man was speedily fortified for another wrestle with the difficult and laborious situation. the dinner bread was baked from flour taken out of a hundred-pound sack that was found lying on top of an immense boulder far above the river. this was flour that had been rescued by the former party from the wreckage of the _no-name_, but as they could not add it to their remaining heavily laden boats, the major had been compelled to leave it lying here. they needed it badly enough towards the end. it was still sweet and good, but we could not take it either. we were so much better provisioned than the former party that it was, besides, not necessary for us, and we also left it where it was. our supplies were not likely to fail us at the mouth of the uinta, and beyond that there was not yet need to worry. although there were only two points below gunnison crossing in a distance of nearly 600 miles where it was known that the river could be reached, the crossing of the fathers and the mouth of the paria not far below it, we felt sure that those who had been charged with the bringing of supplies to the mouth of the "dirty devil" would be able to get there, and as we were to stop for the season at the paria, we would have time to plan for beyond. in any case our boats were carrying now all they could, and without a regret we turned our backs on the outcast flour. it was an ordinary sack of bolted wheat flour, first in a cotton bag then in a gunny bag and had been lying unbroken for two years. the outside for half an inch was hard, but inside of that the flour was in excellent condition. two oars were also found. they were doubtless from the _no-name_. [illustration: f. s. dellenbaugh the heart of lodore. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871.] after dinner we once more unloaded the boats and carried everything on our backs up and across a long rocky hill, or point, down to a spot, about a third of a mile altogether, where the goods were piled on a smooth little beach at the margin of a quiet bay. it took many trips, and it was exhausting work, but in addition to bringing the cargoes down, we also by half past five got one of the boats there, by working it over the rocks and along the edge. here we camped and had supper as soon as andy could get it ready. it may be asked by some not familiar with scientific work, how we always knew the time, but as we had the necessary instruments for taking time astronomically, there was nothing difficult about it. we also carried fine chronometers, and had a number of watches. in the sand near the camp, which place at highest water might have formed an eddy behind some huge rocks, a few old knives, forks, a rusty bake oven, and other articles were found, the wreckage from some party prior to that of the major's first. he said they had not left anything of that sort, and he had noticed the same things on the former trip. the total fall of the river here is about fifty feet, and no boat could get through without smashing. the morning of june 20th found us early at work bringing down the two boats we had left, and as soon as this was accomplished the cargoes were put on once more, and we lowered the three one at a time, along the left bank by means of our hundred-foot hawsers, with everything in them, about a quarter of a mile to another bad place which we called lower disaster falls. here we unloaded and made a short portage while andy was getting dinner. when we had disposed of this and reloaded, we pulled into the river, which averaged about 350 feet wide, with a current in places of 15 miles or more, and quickly arrived at three bad rapids in succession, all of which we ran triumphantly, though the former party made portages around them. in the third our boat took in so much water that we made a landing in order to bail out. continuing immediately we reached another heavy rapid, but ran it without even stopping to reconnoitre, as the way seemed perfectly clear. we took the next rapid with equal success, though our boat got caught in an eddy and was turned completely round, while the others ran past us. they landed to wait, and there we all took a little breathing spell before attempting to run another rapid just below which we made camp in a grove of cedars, at the beginning of a descent that looked so ugly it was decided to make a "let-down" on the following day. everybody was wet to the skin and glad to get on some dry clothes, as soon as we could pull out our bags. the cliffs had now reached an altitude of at least 2500 feet, and they appeared to be nearly perpendicular, but generally not from the water's edge where there was usually a bank of some kind or the foot of a steep talus. there were box-elder and cottonwood trees here and there, and cedars up the cliffs wherever they could find a footing. on the heights tall pine trees could be seen. the cliff just opposite camp was almost vertical from the rapid at its foot to the brink 2500 feet above, and flame red. after supper as we all sat in admiration and peering with some awe at the narrow belt of sky, narrower than we had before seen it, the stars slowly came out, and presently on the exact edge of the magnificent precipice, set there like a diadem, appeared the constellation of the harp. it was an impressive sight, and immediately the name was bestowed "the cliff of the harp."[8] prof. read _marmion_ aloud, and jack gave us a song or two, before we went to sleep feeling well satisfied with our progress into the heart of lodore. this portion of the river has a very great declivity, the greatest as we afterwards determined on the entire green and colorado with the exception of a section of cataract and a part of the first granite gorge of the grand canyon, where the declivity is much the same, with cataract canyon in the lead. a quarter-mile above our camp a fine little stream, cascade creek, came in on the right. beaman made some photographs in the morning, and we began to work the boats down along the edge of the rapid beside which we had camped. this took us till noon, and we had dinner before venturing on. when we set forth we had good luck, and soon put four rapids behind, running the first, letting down past two and running the fourth which was a pretty bad one. three-quarters of a mile of smooth water then gave us a respite much appreciated, when we arrived at a wild descent about as bad as disaster falls, though more safely approached. this was called triplet falls by the first party. we went into camp at the head of it on the left bank. this day we found a number of fragments of the _no-name_ here and there, besides an axe and a vise abandoned by the first party, and a welcome addition to our library in a copy of _putnam's magazine_. this was the first magazine ever to penetrate to these extreme wilds. the river was from 300 to 400 feet wide, and the walls ran along with little change, about 2500 feet high. opposite camp was dunn's cliff, the end of the sierra escalante, about 2800 feet high, named for one of the first party who was killed by the indians down in arizona. we remained a day here to let the topographers climb out if they could. they had little trouble in doing this, and after a pleasant climb reached the top through a gulch at an altitude above the river of 3200 feet. the view was extensive and their efforts were rewarded by obtaining much topographical information. late in the day the sky grew dark, the thunder rolled, and just before supper we had a good shower. [illustration: canyon of lodore--dunn's cliff. 2800 feet above river. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871.] on the 23d progress was continued and every one felt well after the cessation for a day of the knocking about amidst the foam and boulders. it took us, with hard work, till two o'clock to get past triplet falls by means of a double portage. about half a mile below this we were confronted by one of the worst looking places we had yet seen, and at the suggestion of steward it received the significant name of "hell's half mile." the entire river for more than half a mile was one sheet of white foam. there was not a quiet spot in the whole distance, and the water plunged and pounded in its fierce descent and sent up a deafening roar. the only way one could be heard was to yell with full lung power. landing at the head of it easily we there unloaded the _dean_ and let her down by line for some distance. in the worst place she capsized but was not damaged. then the water, near the shore we were on, though turbulent in the extreme became so shallow on account of the great width of the rapid here that when we had again loaded the _dean_ there were places where we were forced to walk alongside and lift her over rocks, but several men at the same time always had a strong hold on the shore end of the line. in this way we got her down as far as was practicable by that method. at this point the river changed. the water became more concentrated and consequently deeper. it was necessary to unload the boat again and work her on down with a couple of men in her and the rest holding the line on shore as we had done above. when the roughest part was past in this manner, we made her fast and proceeded to carry her cargo down to this spot which took some time. it was there put on board again and the hatches firmly secured. the boat was held firmly behind a huge sheltering rock and when all was ready her crew took their places. with the major clinging to the middle cabin, as his chair had been left above and would be carried down later, we shoved out into the swift current, here free from rocks, and literally bounded over the waves that formed the end of the descent, to clear water where we landed on a snug little beach and made the boat secure for the night. picking our way along shore back to the head of the rapid, camp was made there as the darkness was falling and nothing more could be done that night. [illustration: jones, hillers, f. s. dellenbaugh canyon of lodore. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871.] it was next to impossible to converse, but every one being very tired it was not long after supper before we took to the blankets and not a man was kept awake by the noise. it seemed only a few moments before it was time to go at it again. all hands were up early and the other two boats were taken laboriously down in the same manner as the _dean_ had been engineered, but though we toiled steadily it was one o'clock by the time we succeeded in placing them alongside that boat. anticipating this, andy's utensils were taken down on the _nell_, and while we were working with the _cañonita_, our good chef prepared the dinner and we stopped long enough to fortify ourselves with it. having to build a trail in some places in order to carry the goods across ridges and boulders, it was not alone the work on lowering the boats which delayed us. while we were absorbed in these operations the camp-fire of the morning in some way spread unperceived into the thick sage-brush and cedars which covered the point, and we vacated the place none too soon, for the flames were leaping high, and by the time we had finished our dinner at the foot of the rapid, the point we had so recently left was a horrible furnace. the fire was jumping and playing amidst dense smoke which rolled a mighty column, a thousand feet it seemed to me above the top of the canyon; that is over 3000 feet into the tranquil air. at two o'clock all three boats were again charging down on a stiff current with rather bad conditions, though we ran two sharp rapids without much trouble. in one the _nell_ got on a smooth rock and came near capsizing. the current at the spot happened to be not so swift and she escaped with no damage. then we were brought up by another rapid, a very bad one. evening was drawing on and every man was feeling somewhat used up by the severe exertions of the day. camp was therefore ordered at the head of this rapid in the midst of scenery that has probably as great beauty, picturesqueness, and grandeur as any to be found in the whole west. i hardly know how to describe it. all day long the surroundings had been supremely beautiful, majestic, but at this camp everything was on a superlative scale and words seem colourless and futile. the precipices on both sides, about 2200 feet high, conveyed the impression of being almost vertical. our camp was several hundred yards from the rapid and we could talk with some comfort. after supper i wandered alone down beside the furiously plunging waters and came upon a brood of young magpies airing themselves on the sand. the roar of the fall prevented their hearing and i walked among them, picked one up and took it to camp to show their comicality, when i let it go back to the rendezvous. i was censured especially by the major, for cruelty to animals. the next day was sunday and it came with a radiance that further enhanced the remarkable grandeur around us. near by was a side canyon of the most picturesque type, down which a clear little brook danced from ledge to ledge and from pool to pool, twenty to thirty feet at a time. we named it leaping brook. the rocks were mossy, and fir trees, pines, cedars, and cottonwoods added the charm of foliage to the brilliant colours of the rocks and the sheen of falling water, here and there lost in the most profound shadows. beaman made a number of views while the rest of the men climbed for various purposes. steward, clem, and i by a circuitous route arrived at a point high up on leaping brook where the scene was beyond description. to save trouble on the return we descended the brook as it was easy to slide down places that could not be climbed. in this manner we succeeded in getting to the last descent near camp, to discover that it was higher than we thought and almost vertical with rough rocks at the bottom. as we could not go back and had no desire to break a leg, we were in trouble. then we spied jack in the camp a short distance away and called to him to put a tree up for us. good-natured jack, always ready to help, assumed a gruff tone and pretended he would never help us, but we knew better, and presently he threw up a long dead pine which we could reach by a short slide, and thus got to the river level. it was now noon, and as soon as dinner was over the boats were lowered by lines past the rapid beside camp and once below this we shot on our way with a fine current, soon arriving at two moderate rapids close together, which we ran. this brought us to a third with an ugly look, but on examination prof. and the major decided to run it. getting a good entrance all the boats went through without the slightest mishap. a mile below this place we landed at the mouth of a pretty little stream entering through a picturesque and narrow canyon on the left. we called it alcove brook. beaman took some negatives here. this was not the easy matter that the dry-plate afterwards made it, for the dark tent had to be set up, the glass plate flowed with collodion, then placed in the silver bath, and exposed wet in the camera, to be immediately developed and washed and placed in a special box for carriage. this would have been an ideal place for a hunter. numerous fresh tracks of grizzlies were noticed all around, but we did not have the good luck to see any of the animals themselves. happy grounds these canyons were at that time for the bears, and they may still be enjoying the seclusion the depths afford. the spot had an additional interest for us because it was here that on the first trip the brush caught fire soon after the party had landed, and they were forced to take to the boats so unceremoniously that they lost part of their mess-kit and some clothing. on leaving alcove brook we ran a rapid and then another a little farther on, but they were easy and the river was much calmer though the current was still very swift. at the same time the walls to our satisfaction began to give indications of breaking. they became less high, less compact, and we ventured to hope that our battle with the waters of lodore was about over. the major said that, as nearly as he could remember, the end of the great gorge was not very far below. though the sky was beginning to show the evening tints we kept on and ever on, swiftly but smoothly, looking up at the sky and at the splendid walls. the sun went down. the chasm grew hazy with the soft light of evening and the mystery of the bends deepened. there was no obstruction and in about three miles from alcove brook we rather abruptly emerged into a beautiful small opening, where the immediate walls were no more than six hundred feet high. a river of considerable size flowed in on the left, through a deep and narrow canyon. this was the yampa, sometimes then called bear river. by seven o'clock we had moored the boats a few yards up its mouth and we made a comfortable camp in a box-elder grove. we had won the fight without disaster and we slept that night in peace. lodore is wholly within the state of colorado. it is 20-3/4 miles long with a descent of 420 feet,[9] mostly concentrated between disaster falls and hell's half-mile, a distance of about 12 miles. the total descent from the union pacific crossing was 975 feet in a distance, as the river runs, of about 153 miles. [illustration: echo park. mouth of yampa river in foreground, green river on right. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871.] footnotes: [footnote 7: professor thompson's diary says he landed first after a hard pull, "and then caught the other boats below, they not succeeding in getting in."] [footnote 8: in his report the major ascribes the naming of this cliff to an evening on the first voyage. the incident could hardly have occurred twice even had the camps been in the same place.] [footnote 9: in my _romance of the colorado river_ these figures were changed to 275 because of barometrical data supplied me which was supposed to be accurate. i have concluded that it was not.] chapter v a remarkable echo--up the canyon of the yampa--steward and clem try a moonlight swim--whirlpool canyon and mountain sheep--a grand fourth-of-july dinner--a rainbow-coloured valley--the major proceeds in advance--a split mountain with rapids a plenty--enter a big valley at last. the little opening between canyons we named echo park, first because after the close quarters of lodore it seemed very park-like, and second because from the smooth bare cliff directly opposite our landing a distinct echo of ten words was returned to the speaker. i had never before, and have never since, heard so clear and perfect an echo with so many words repeated. we were camped on the right bank of the yampa as the left was a bottom land covered with cedars and we preferred higher ground. this bottom was an alluvial deposit triangular in shape about a mile long and a quarter of a mile wide with the yampa and green on two sides and a vertical sandstone wall on the third. behind our camp the rocks broke back in a rough, steep slope for perhaps a quarter of a mile, and this with the bottom-land and the lack of height in the walls near the river conveyed an impression of wide expanse when compared with the narrow limits in which we had for eight days been confined. the green was here about 400 feet wide and was held in on the western side of the park by the echo cliff which was a vertical wall some 600 feet high composed of homogeneous sandstone, and consequently almost without a crack from top to bottom where its smooth expanse dropped below the surface of the water. it extended down river about three-fourths of a mile, the river doubling around its southern end. the next day after arriving here most of us did not feel like doing any climbing and remained around camp, mending clothes and other articles, adjusting things that had become deranged by our rough work in the last canyon, recording notes, and making entries in diaries. prof. took observations for latitude and longitude to establish the position of the yampa so that it could be properly placed on the map. the major during an exploring trip from the eastward in 1868 had reached the yampa canyon, but he could not cross it. he now decided to go up with a boat as far as possible in three days to supplement his former observations as well as to study the canyon in general. he had estimated its length at thirty miles, and this has proved to be correct. the _dean_ was unloaded, and with three days' rations the major started with her in the morning manned by jack, beaman, jones, and andy. of course they were all still tired from the strain of lodore, and they were not enthusiastic about seeing the yampa. in such work as was common through lodore, it is as much the tension on the nerves, even though this is not realised at the time, as it is the strain on the muscles in transporting the cargoes and the boats, which makes one tired. i was entirely satisfied not to go with the yampa party and i believe all the others left behind felt much the same. steward with clem, when the yampa expedition had gone, started back over the cliffs for alcove brook to geologise, leaving prof. busy with observation, cap. plotting the topographical notes and making his map thereby, and me with no special duty at the time. every man who wants to be efficient in the field must learn to cook. this was my opportunity as andy was absent and the others had their special work on hand, so i turned my attention to the culinary realm. a few directions and an example from cap. who was a veteran gave me the method and i succeeded as my first offering, in placing before my comrades some biscuits hot from the dutch oven, which compared favourably with those of andy himself. with the constant practice andy by this time had become an expert. the day wore away and at evening i got supper with more biscuits of which i was proud, but steward and clem failed to come to partake of them as we expected. darkness fell and still there was dead silence outside of our camp. much concerned we then ate supper momentarily expecting to hear their voices, but they did not come. something had happened, but we could not follow their trail till morning to find out what it was. at ten o'clock we gave them up for the night deeply troubled about them. i had been sitting alone by the fire keeping the coffee hot and listening, when suddenly i heard a crackling of the bushes between me and the river and in a second or two clem, laughing as over a joke, came to the fire with the water running off him in streams. while i was trying to get an explanation steward also appeared in the same condition. at first they would not tell what had occurred but finally they confessed on condition that i would keep the matter a secret. they had made a long hard climb and late in the afternoon had come to a place where steward found it necessary to descend to the river in examining the strata. they intended to climb back, but when the work was done the sun had set and it was too late to venture up as they could not climb in the dark. rather than stay there all night they made a raft of two little dead cedars and tying their shoes upon it, they waited for the moon to rise. this was very soon and they slipped into the current relying on the raft merely to keep their heads above water. they knew there were no rapids between them and camp but they did not properly estimate the velocity of the river and the eddies and whirlpools. they kept near the left wall so as not to be carried past camp and in this they made a great mistake for they were caught in a whirlpool caused by a projection, and the raft was wrenched from them while they were violently thrown around. steward being a powerful swimmer succeeded after nearly going under for good in regaining the raft which clem meanwhile had been losing and recovering quickly several times. he was not a good swimmer. after this whirlpool was passed they reached the locality of our camp with no further adventure. they were very desirous that the story be kept from the rest of the party but they had hardly finished telling me when prof. came and insisted on knowing what had occurred. their punishment for this indiscretion was the hard climb back again to where they had left a rifle and other things that must be recovered. a delightful episode of this camp was a row which several of us made up the yampa in the moonlight. as far as we went the current was not swift and we were able to pull gently along under the great cliffs in shadows made luminous by the brilliancy of the moon. a song the major was fond of singing, _softly and sweetly it comes from afar_, almost involuntarily, sprang from us all, though our great songster, jack, was not with us. jack had an extensive repertory, an excellent voice, and a hearty, exuberant spirit. he would sing _write me a letter from home_, _the colleen bawn_, _the lone starry hours_, _beautiful isle of the sea_, and many others in a way that brought tranquillity to our souls. we missed him on this evening but nevertheless our song sounded well, echoing from wall to wall, and we liked it. somehow or other that night remains one of the fairest pictures i have ever seen. another day i went with steward down across the triangular bottom to the lower end of the park where we climbed out through the canyon of a little brook to a sandy and desolate plateau. currant bushes laden with fruit abounded and there were tracks of grizzlies to be seen. possibly some may have been lying in the dense underbrush, but if so they kept their lairs as these bears generally do unless directly disturbed. on the 30th of june prof., steward, and cap. went for a climb. they proceeded to the lower end of the park by boat and through the little canyon that came in there, got out to the plateau where steward and i had before been, but there they went farther. after a very hard climb they succeeded in reaching the crest where they had a broad view and could see nearly all of the next canyon with its rapids which we would have to pass through; the canyon the major had called whirlpool on his first trip. they could also see the yampa river for twenty miles and discovered the _dean_ coming back down that stream, their attention being attracted by a gunshot in that direction, which they knew could be only from our own men. in camp during the day i again experimented in the culinary department, and produced two dried-apple pies, one of which clem and i ate with an indescribable zest, and the other we kept to astonish the absentees with when they should reach camp. i have since learned that my method of pie-making was original i soaked the dried apples till they were soft then made a crust which had plenty of bacon grease in it for shortening and put the apples with sugar between, baking the production in the dutch oven. about five o'clock the yampa explorers came. they were ragged, tired, and hungry having had nothing to eat all day, and not enough any day, as the major had not taken sufficient supplies in his desire to make the boat light. they were all rather cross, the only time on the whole expedition that such a state existed, but when they had eaten and rested their genial spirits came back, they even liked my pie, and they told us about their struggle up the canyon. we were all rather sorry to pull away from this comfortable camp at the mouth of the yampa on july 3d, but the rapids of whirlpool were challenging and we had to go and meet them. at the foot of echo park the green doubles directly back on itself for a mile as it turns echo rock, the narrow peninsula of sandstone 600 feet high. the canyon became suddenly very close and assumed a formidable appearance. we listened for the roar of a rapid but for some time nothing was heard. the splendour of the walls impressed us deeply rising 2000 feet, many coloured, carved, and terraced elaborately. our admiration was interrupted by a suggestive roar approaching and suddenly a violent rapid appeared. there was ample room and we got below it by a let-down, that is by lowering the boats one at a time with their cargoes on board, along the margin, working in and out of the side currents. then we had dinner while waiting for the _cañonita_ which had remained behind for pictures. a part of my work was to make a continuous outline sketch of the left wall for the use of the geologists and this i was able to do as we went along. i had a pocket on the bulkhead in front of my seat in which i kept a sole leather portfolio, which i could use quickly and replace in the waterproof pocket. the walls of the canyon became more flaring as soon as the rapid was passed at noon, but they lost none of their majesty. we now expected very bad river and whirlpools from the experience of the first party, but the river is never twice alike. not only does its bottom shift, but every variation in stage of water brings new problems or does away with them entirely. it was an agreeable surprise to be able to run three rapids with ease by four o'clock, when we saw on some rocks two hundred feet above the stream a flock of mountain sheep. an immediate landing was made with fresh mutton in prospect. unluckily our guns in anticipation of severe work had all been securely packed away, and it was some moments before they could be brought out. by that time the sheep had nimbly gone around a corner of the wall where a large side canyon was now discovered bringing in a fine creek. it was useless to follow the sheep though one or two made a brief trial, and camp was made in a cottonwood grove at the mouth of the creek. cottonwoods fringed the stream as far as it could be seen from our position. brush creek we called it believing it to be the mouth of a stream in the back country known by that name. the next day, two or three miles up, a branch was found to come from the south, and as this was thought to be brush creek, the larger one was named after cap., and "bishop's creek" was put on our map. doubtless there are plenty of trout in this creek and in others we had passed, but we had no proper tackle for trout and besides seldom had time for fishing when at these places. jack, when not too tired, fished in the green and generally had good success. our present locality would have been a rare place for a month or two's sojourn had we been sportsmen with time on our hands. sheep, deer, and bear existed in abundance as well as smaller game, but we had to forget it though none of us cared about shooting for fun. our minds were on other things. often we went out leaving rifles behind as they were heavy in a climb. [illustration: whirlpool canyon. mouth of bishop creek--fourth of july camp. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871.] scarcely had we settled ourselves in this beautiful camp when we discovered that we ourselves were the hunted, and by an enemy that we could not vanquish--ants. there was no place in the neighbourhood that was out of their range. the best i could do was to make my bed two feet from the nearest hill and let them have their way. morning was hailed with unusual delight for this reason and also because it was the "glorious fourth," a day that every american remembers wherever he may be. we fired several rounds as a salute, and the major concluded to keep this camp till the next morning. to enable andy to have a day off and a climb out with a party to the open, i agreed to run the cook outfit, and felt highly complimented that they were willing to trust me after the pie episode. i immediately resolved to try my skill again in that quarter and expected to astonish the camp. i succeeded. the bill of fare which i evolved was ham, dried-apple pie, dried apples stewed, canned peaches, sugar syrup, bread, coffee, and some candy from gunther's in chicago. the candy had been presented to me at green river station by some passing friends, and i had hidden it in my bag waiting for this grand occasion. ham was quite as much of a luxury as candy, for we had started with but three or four, and only used them on special days. as for the canned peaches, they were the only ones we had. the supper was a memorable one; not a grumble was heard from anybody, indeed they all praised it, and the only drawback, from my point of view, was that the scouting party did not return early enough to taste it in its prime. the major threatened to expel the member who had smuggled in the candy as all the men declared they would go no farther unless they could have a plate of it for desert at every meal! the next morning we were on the river early, glad to get away from the army of ants. the canyon walls ran along at about the same height as on the previous day, about 2400 feet, and while the river was swift and full of rapids everything seemed to favour us. before halting for dinner we had run five rapids, three rather ugly, as well as letting down past one with lines. from where a stop was made for andy's noonday operations, a flock of sheep was seen on the opposite side, and several went after them with no result but disappointment. when we started again we ran a rapid at once, then let down past the next, and followed that by running two more, the last the worst. the boats bumped occasionally on hidden rocks, but no harm was done them. the whole canyon was exceedingly beautiful, nevertheless we did not mourn when late in the afternoon, just after running the last rapid, the magnificent cliffs fell back and we saw more sky than at any time since leaving brown's park. on the right the rocks melted away into beautiful rainbow-coloured hills while on the left they remained steep, though retreating a mile or so from the water. the stretch of sky seemed enormous. breathing appeared to be easier. the eye grows weary with the short range views, and yearns for space in which to roam. the valley we were now in was not long; about four miles in a straight line, with a width of two. in this space the river meanders nine miles, one detour being very long. it spreads also amongst a number of islands, and the numerous channels became shallow till our keels grated here and there. then they concentrated once more and we floated along on waters deep and black and slow. the marvellous colouring in the surrounding landscape impressed us, and the major was for a time uncertain whether to call this "rainbow" or "island" park, the decision finally being given to the latter. shortly before sunset our meanderings terminated at the foot of the valley where the river once more entered the rocks, in a gateway as abrupt, though not as imposing as that of lodore. a fine grove of box-elders on the right just above this gate, offered an attractive camping place, and there we stopped. we were now in utah again, having crossed the boundary somewhere in whirlpool canyon. the altitude was 4940 feet, showing a descent in whirlpool canyon of 140 feet in a distance of 14-1/4 miles. the next day i went with beaman and clem with a boat back to the foot of whirlpool canyon, in order that beaman might get some views. it was a hard pull, and we discovered that what appears sluggish going down, is often the reverse to a boat going up. we could make headway only by keeping very close to the bank. it was supper-time when we again reached camp. the major now announced that he intended to take the _dean_ and go on ahead, without stopping anywhere, to the mouth of the uinta river, leaving us to follow as we could in doing the work. cap. was to be taken in my place because of his previous experience in the army and in the west. that evening all was made ready. by break of day the camp was astir, breakfast was disposed of as quickly as possible, the _dean_ was manned, the major went to his place on the middle cabin, they cast off and disappeared in the canyon gate. we then called this "craggy canyon," but later it was changed to split mountain. all of the others crossed the river to climb to the top of the cliffs for observations and for photographs. i was left alone to watch camp. i longed to experiment further in the cooking line, and discovering a bag of ground coffee leaning against the foot of a tree, i said to myself, "coffee cake." i had heard of it, i had eaten it, i would again surprise the boys. i had no eggs, no butter, no milk (condensed milk was unknown at that time), but i had flour, water, cream of tartar, saleratus, sugar, salt, and ground coffee. i thought these quite enough, and went at my task. the mixture i made i put in a small tin and baked in the dutch oven. i was so much occupied with this interesting experiment that i forgot all about time and about having something substantial ready for the return of the hungry climbers, so when they did come about noon, as famished as coyotes and dead tired, all i could offer was _the_ cake, ever after famous on that trip, a brown, sugary solid, some six inches in diameter, two inches thick, and betraying its flavour everywhere by the coffee-grounds scattered lavishly through it. andy gave it one brief sad look, and then went to work to get dinner. but they were such a rare lot of good fellows that they actually praised that cake and not only that, they ate it. the cake led to the discovery that the major's party had left behind all their coffee, which was what i had used for flavouring, and they would have to content themselves with tea. from the heights our men had reached they could see, with a glass, the _dean_ working rapidly down the river. next day another party went up to the same place, and i went along. the photographic outfit had been left there because rain the day before had spoiled the view, and we were to bring it down when more views had been taken. after a strong, steep climb we found ourselves on a peak or pinnacle about 3000 feet above the river, and therefore 7940 above sea-level. the view from this point was extraordinary. far below gleamed the river cleaving the rocks at our feet, and visible for several miles in the canyon churning its way down, the rapids indicated by bars of white. one hardly knew which way to look. crags about us projected into the canyon, and i was inspired to creep out upon a long finger of sandstone where i could sit astride as on a horse and comfortably peer down into the abyss. it was an absolutely safe place, but beaman and clem feared the crag might break off with me, and they compelled me to come back to relieve their minds. seldom does one have such a chance to see below as well as i could there. the long, narrow mountain stretched off to the west, seeming not more than a half-mile wide, and split open for its whole length by the river, which has washed its canyon longitudinally through it. in all directions were mountains, canyons, and crags in bewildering profusion. when beaman had ended his labours we started down the cliffs with his apparatus. this was the terror of the party. the camera in its strong box was a heavy load to carry up the rocks, but it was nothing to the chemical and plate-holder box, which in turn was a featherweight compared to the imitation hand-organ which served for a dark room. this dark box was the special sorrow of the expedition, as it had to be dragged up the heights from 500 to 3000 feet. with this machinery we reached camp pretty tired and glad to rest the remainder of the day, especially as prof. said we would enter the new canyon the next morning. this was sunday. a few minutes after starting we passed between perpendicular strata rising out of the water, and gradually bending above over to the horizontal, then breaking into crags. i never saw anything more like an artificial wall, so evenly were the rocky beds laid one against another. as we passed into the more broken portion a flock of sheep came into view high up on the crags on the right standing motionless evidently puzzled by the sound of our oars. we fired from the moving boats, but without result. recovering from their surprise the sheep bounded lightly away. our attention was required the next moment by a rapid which we ran--it was a small one--to find it followed by many thickly set with rocks. at the first we let down by line for half a mile, when we had dinner. then we let down by line another half-mile, and ran half a mile more in easy water to the head of a very bad place, one of the worst we had seen, where we made another let-down. there was never any difficulty about landing when we desired, which made the work comparatively easy. the _cañonita_ got some hard knocks and had to be repaired at one place before we could go on. the total distance made was only about three miles, but we could have gone farther had we not stopped for investigations, and to mend the boat. [illustration: split mountain canyon. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871] wet and weary we welcomed the order to camp, about five o'clock, and made ourselves comfortable with dry clothes from our rubber bags, the wet ones being spread, as was our custom, on rocks to dry. at high water many of these rapids would be rendered much easier. a quarter of a mile below camp was a small cave thirty or forty feet deep, very picturesque, with the river dashing into it, and in the water in front a rock twenty feet high, which had dropped down from somewhere above. beaman got a very good picture here. the river was falling fast and as the water lowered rocks more and more showed themselves in the rapids. low water increases the labour but it increases the safety as well, for the velocity is less and the boats are more easily controlled. the next day, july 10th, we did not start on down the river till one o'clock. then we lowered the boats past two rapids and ran six, of which four were very bad on account of numerous rocks. occasionally a boat would strike but none was injured seriously. the sun was directly in our faces blinding us, and a high wind was blowing which added to the difficulties. the walls were often vertical for a thousand feet or more, and the river was wide and shallow. there was a scorching hot sun, the temperature being near 100 in the shade. the rocks and even the sand became so hot that they were uncomfortable to the touch, but there was one advantage in this dry heat--our clothes were soon dry. during this day we landed on the wrong side to examine one rapid and had to run it from there. both boats got through with only slight raps and we went on a short distance to camp at the head of a bad descent which was not runable at this stage of water. in the morning a line-portage was easily accomplished and we ran down a short distance farther when we stopped for dinner on a sandy beach. the sand scorched my feet for i had been without shoes for several days. all our shoes were giving out and mine were the first to go completely. fortunately beaman had an extra pair of army brogans which he lent me till we should reach uinta. i had ordered, by advice in chicago, two pairs of fine shoes at thirteen dollars a pair, but i now discovered that i ought to have bought shoes at two dollars instead for such work as this. we hoped to be able to get some new shoes from salt lake when we reached the uinta river and again would be in touch, even though a very long touch, with the outside world. our soap was all gone too, and supplies of every kind were getting low. in the afternoon three more rapids were run and at a fourth we were compelled to make a line-portage. then we saw the strata begin to curve over and down and finally drop into the river just as they had come out of it at the beginning. the crevices were filled with ferns and in places clear water was dripping from these little green cliff gardens. as we ran along the foot of the left wall we saw a peculiar and beautiful spring which had carved out a dainty basin where a multitude of ferns and kindred plants were thriving, a silvery rill dropping down from them. we emerged from the canyon as abruptly as we had entered it, and saw a broad valley stretching before us. running a quarter of a mile on a smooth river camp was made on the right on a level floor carpeted with grass and surrounded by thickets of oak. we were in the beginning of what is now called wonsits (antelope) valley, about eighty-seven miles long, the only large valley on the river above the end of black canyon. split-mountain canyon eight miles long has one of the greatest declivities on the river, coming next to lodore, though it differs from the latter in that the descent is more continuous and not broken into short, violent stretches. there would be plain sailing now to the head of the canyon of desolation. chapter vi a lookout for redskins--the river a sluggard--a gunshot!--someone comes!--the tale of a mysterious light--how, how! from douglas boy--at the mouth of the uinta--a tramp to goblin city and a trip down white river on a raft--a waggon-load of supplies from salt lake by way of uinta agency--the major goes out to find a way in. our thoughts now were mainly directed to pushing on to the mouth of the uinta river and picking up our advance party, which by this time must have gotten in touch with the uinta agency. we felt gratified that another of the long line of canyons was a thing of the past and that for a brief time we would have easy water, so far as rapids were concerned. we were reminded that this was indian country by discovering on a smooth face of rock wall not far from camp a lot of drawings pecked into the stone. they represented figures of natives, bison, elk, deer, mountain sheep, grizzly tracks, etc., and as they were the first pictographs i had ever seen i was particularly interested. the bison pictures indicated the former presence here in this valley of that fine animal. numbers indeed once ranged these hills and valleys, but they had all disappeared many years before our voyage. we were on the lookout for indians. as long as we were encompassed by the mighty walls of the canyons there was little probability of our meeting with any of the original people of this soil, but the valley now opening wide before us was their favourite haunt. two divisions of utes roamed the surrounding region. on the west it was the uinta utes who, we knew, were peaceable, and on the east it was the white river utes, whose status as to peace and war was at that period somewhat vague and uncertain. we expected no trouble with any of them, yet the possibility of running at any moment on a band gave added interest and colour to the voyage. this was intensified by the feeling that we had suddenly been thrown out of doors, unprotected, as the huge, dominating precipices broke so suddenly back on both sides, leaving us hardly a rock with which, in case of necessity, to emulate the example of roderick dhu. probably if we had travelled here on horseback in the open there would not have been this sense of having left our fortification behind. july 12th the boats proceeded down a river so sluggish that the term "down" seemed a misnomer, and we actually had to row; had to work at the oars to make the boats go; these same boats which so recently had behaved like wild horses. this was not to our taste at all, the weather being extremely hot. but there was no help for it. the boats fairly went to sleep and we tugged away at their dull, heavy weight, putting the miles behind and recalling the express-train manner of their recent action. on each side of us there were occasional groves of cottonwoods and wide bottoms bounded by low hills. after about ten miles of steady pulling we discovered that we were only 2-1/2 miles from our starting place in a straight line. here there was a superb cottonwood grove, massive trees with huge trunks like oaks, on the left. we found the remains of a camp-fire and decided that our advance party had come this far from island park the first day. they had accomplished a phenomenal run, but it showed what might be done with light boats and a full crew. as steward desired to make some geological examinations at this point, prof. announced that we would stay till morning. another cause for stopping was a gale which blew with great force, making rowing exceedingly hard work, and it was hard enough anyhow with no good current to help. steward wished to go across the river, and i went with him. we tramped with our winchesters on our shoulders for several hours, examining rocks and fossils. on our return we found that andy was occupied in boiling a goose which prof.'s sure aim had bestowed on the larder, and we had the bird for supper. if it was not one of the fossils it certainly was one of the "oldest inhabitants," which are found in every locality, and though a steady diet of bacon enthused us with an ambition to masticate this noble morsel, it had to be relegated to the impossibilities. we had a good deal of entertainment out of it, and while so engaged every ear caught the sound of a faint, distant gunshot. this was proof that we were no longer alone, and the question was, "how many indians are there?" we simply waited developments. night came on and the fierce wind died away completely as the sun went down. we gave no more thought to the shot, but all went to bed without even leaving a watch, so confident was prof. that there was no enemy, and no danger of a surprise. he was always "level-headed" and never went off on a tangent doing wild or unwarranted things. he was a man of unusually sound judgment. in the absence of cap. the duty of reading barometer had fallen to me, and sometimes, when waiting for the hour to arrive, i had to sit alone for a time when the others already had turned in. it was that way on this night, and i waited with some impatience for nine o'clock to come. for the purpose of reading the scale we used a small bull's-eye lantern belonging to a transit instrument, and it threw out a long beam of light. i entertained myself by flashing this beam of light in various directions to the distress of one member lying near not asleep, who was somewhat nervous as to the character of the indians responsible for the shot. "confound it," he growled, "you'll have the whole ute tribe down on us! you know they are not far off!" of course i desisted in my "signalling," but prof., not yet asleep, spoke up saying he did not believe any indians would bother us. finishing the observations i put out the lantern, and settled in my blankets. at that instant there was the flash of a light through the trees and then it glowed steadily for a moment and went out. my nervous neighbour saw it too. "there," he cried, "an answer to your confounded signal!" several saw it. "the evening star setting beyond the hill," they declared, derisively, but we two maintained that it was nothing less than a light near by. then sleep ruled the camp. in the middle of the night there was a sudden terrific cracking, rending, and crashing, starting all to their feet except clem, who was not wakened by it. what had happened? we perceived in a second. one of the enormous limbs, weakened by the wind, had broken off and dropped to the ground in the middle of the camp. luckily no one was under it and no harm was done, but for a moment, in connection with the light episode and the gunshot, it gave us a shock. every one laughed, and soon the camp was still again. the sun was well up before we awoke. immediately the discussion of the strange light came up, and it formed a lively and amusing topic, not only then, but ever after for months. breakfast became a stirring debating scene, when plump into the midst of our hilarity, as if to emphasise the declarations of the nervous member, there came a sharp call from beyond a line of bushes. almost on the instant appeared an indian mounted on a dark bay horse trotting towards us exclaiming, "how, how!" and holding out his hand in token of friendship. his long black hair hung behind in two tails braided with red and black cotton cloth. the scalp at the part was painted vermilion, and around each eye was a ring of the same bright colour. his shirt was of the kind called hickory, and his leggins were of red woollen stuff. altogether he was a good looking specimen of his race, and about twenty-five years old. how many more might be behind we could not tell. he dismounted and clem grasped him warmly by the hand, exclaiming with his most cordial smile, "well, how are all the folks at home?" to which the visitor of course made no answer. not one of our party understood ute, and i had never seen a "wild" indian at such close quarters before. the man motioned for something to eat, so andy gave him a plate of breakfast, but there was a twinkle in andy's blue eye, for the breakfast consisted largely of the rejected goose. when the red man's vision rested on the goose he gave a grunt of disgust and made no effort to even taste it, though he relished the other things and a cup of hot coffee. i have noticed that all indians are very fond of coffee. we gleaned that he was alone with his squaw, and had a wickiup down the river a short distance. doubtless he had examined our camp the previous night. the barometer hanging to a tree-branch caught his eye, and i tried by signs to explain it to him with no success except to convulse the whole crew. at length with the exclamation "squaw," he rode away and came back with his fair partner riding behind. by this time we were packed up and we pushed off, the pair watching us with deep interest. about a mile and a half below by the river, we came on them again at their camp, they having easily beaten us by a short cut. here was his wickiup made of a few cottonwood boughs, and in front of it the ashes of a fire. our side immediately claimed this was the light we had seen, and the discussion of this point continued until another night put an end to it. in the bough shelter sat the blooming bride of "douglas boy," as he called himself, douglas being the chief of the white river utes. she was dressed well in a neat suit of navy-blue flannel and was lavishly adorned with ornaments. her dress was bound at the waist by a heavy belt of leather, four inches wide, profusely decorated with brass discs and fastened by a brass buckle. she was young and quite pretty, and they were a handsome couple. he intimated that he would be grateful to be ferried across the river, here almost half a mile wide, so his blankets, saddles, and whole paraphernalia were piled on the boats, while the two horses were driven into the water and pelted with stones till they made up their minds that the farther shore offered greater hospitality, and swam for it. then the squaw and the brave were taken on separate boats. she hesitated long before finally trusting herself, and was exceedingly coy about it. she had probably never seen a boat before. at last, overcoming her fear she stepped tremblingly on board and in a few minutes we had them landed on the other side, where we said farewell and went on. in the afternoon we discovered a number of natives on the right bank and landed to see what they were. nothing more terrible than several badly frightened squaws and children occupied the place, the men being away. we thought this call on the ladies would suffice, and presenting them with a quantity of tobacco for their absent lords, we pulled away, leaving them still almost paralysed with fright and astonishment at our sudden and unexpected appearance and disappearance. the valley was now very wide, and the river spread to a great width also, giving conditions totally different from any we had found above. rowing was real labour here, but prof. was eager to arrive at the mouth of the uinta the next day so it was row, row, with a strong, steady, monotonous stroke, hour after hour till we had put twenty miles behind when we stopped for the night. next morning the same programme was continued from seven o'clock on, with a brief halt for dinner. about four a storm came up, compelling us to wait an hour, when on we pulled, with a temperature something like 100°f., in the shade, till sunset, when about forty miles from our starting point, we arrived at the mouth of a river on the right, which we thought must be the uinta. but finally as there was no sign of our advance party we concluded there must be a mistake. there was so little current in the tributary we thought it might be something besides a river, the mouth of a lake perhaps, and that the uinta was farther on. about a mile down in the dim light there appeared to be a river mouth, but on reaching the place there was nothing of the kind. several signal shots were fired. they fell dead on the dull stillness of the night which was dropping fast upon us. we took to the oars once more and pulled down nearly another mile till the dark grew so thick it was not prudent to proceed, and prof. ordered a landing on the left where we made a hasty cup of coffee to refresh the inner man, and turned in, much puzzled and troubled by the absence of any kind of a signal from the advance party. some one suggested that they had all been killed, but prof. met this with scornful ridicule and went to sleep. when daylight came a river was discovered less than half a mile below our camp coming in from the east. prof. knew this to be white river from the map, the mouths of white and uinta rivers having long been quite accurately established. the mouth of the uinta must therefore be where we had been the night before, and prof. walked back till he came opposite to it. we then got the boats back by rowing and towing, and landed on the right or west bank about a quarter of a mile above the mouth of the uinta, where the old time crossing had been, and which we had passed unnoticed in the evening light. here were the ashes of a camp-fire, and after much searching a tin can was found with a note in it from the major, saying they had all gone out to the agency, and that we were to wait here. a large cottonwood tree stood on the low bank where travellers before had camped, not in going up and down the river, but on their way across country. it was a very old tree and its bark presented many marks, names, and dates, and i regret now that i did not copy them for reference. this was one of the known crossings for a long period, in fact, it was through this valley that escalante, the first white man to cross green river, travelled in 1776, and it is possible that he may have camped under this very tree.[10] we settled there to wait, harassed by multitudes of voracious mosquitoes. all day we remained, expecting the absentees, but the sun went down and still there was no word. about seven o'clock while we were eating supper, some shots and yells from the west took us to the top of the bank, and we saw two horsemen galloping towards our position. we soon made them out to be cap. and jones. they brought a large mail, a portion of it the same we had tried to stop at salt lake, and have returned to us at the gate of lodore, and they reported that the major had gone out to salt lake. we built up a good fire, and by its light everyone was quickly lost in letters from home. the next morning we got the _dean_ out of the bushes where she had been well hidden, and moved across the river with the whole outfit, to a place in front of a half-finished log cabin called fort robideau, after the trapper of that name, who years before had roamed this country. a road crossing here from golden to provo, 413 miles long, was laid out in 1861 by berthoud and bridger for the overland stage company, but the civil war and the building of the union pacific had prevented its realisation.[11] the cabin had no windows or doors, but for summer that was not a defect. the mud roof was intact, and we used the cabin for headquarters, though we preferred to sleep out on the ground. back of the building a wide level plain spread away and deer and antelope ranged there in large numbers. any short walk would start up antelope, but we had other matters on our mind, and made no special effort to shoot any. it would have been easy for a trained hunter to get all he wanted, or even for one of us to do it had we dropped other things and given our minds to the work. the following monday, july 17th, prof. and beaman left for the agency, and on friday of the same week jack returned accompanied by a man named basor, driving a large four-horse waggon loaded with supplies for us. we were in need of them. we had been completely out of soap for two weeks or more, and a box of that essential article was broken open the first thing. jack also brought from the agency garden some lettuce, new potatoes, and turnips. not having tasted any vegetables for two months, these were a great treat. the same afternoon basor went away taking letters from us with him to be sent to salt lake. one of the special things he had brought was three long, narrow pieces of flat iron made by the agency blacksmith from old wagon tires, for the keels of the boats, which were badly worn by scraping on shoals and rocks in our portaging and letting-down operations. on the next monday, cap., steward, and i with five days' rations on our backs as well as blankets enough for the warm nights, and our rifles, started on a journey up white river to a place called goblin city by one of the earlier explorers who had crossed the valley. as we were going through some heavy willows about noon, i discovered standing still before me and not a hundred feet away the finest stag i have ever seen. he stood like a landseer picture, head erect and alert with huge branching antlers poised in the air. he was listening to my companions who were a little distance from me. my gun being tied to my pack for easy travelling i could not quickly extricate it and before i could bring it to bear he dashed through the willows and a sensible shot was impossible. i admired him so much that i was rather glad i could not shoot. we came across a great deal of game, antelope, mountain sheep, and deer but we never seemed to have the opportunity to stalk it properly. when we finally came in sight of the goblin city it was six o'clock of the second day and we had travelled steadily. at the farther end of a level little valley surrounded by cliffs were numerous small buttes and square rocks, almost in rows and about the size of small buildings, so that there was a striking suggestion of a town. we slept near the river and spent the next morning in examining the locality. when we had completed the observations i got dinner while steward and cap. with our gun-straps and some buckskin strings made a raft from small cottonwood logs we found on the bank. upon this weaving affair we all three embarked to descend the river in order to meander the course as well as to save our legs. steward and cap. stood at either end with long poles while i sat in the middle and took the compass sights as we passed along. there were some sharp little rapids full of rocks, and sometimes it was all we could do to stick on, for the raft being flexible naturally would straddle a big rock and take the form of a very steep house roof. the banks were thick with currant bushes loaded with ripe fruit and we kept a supply of branches on the raft to pick off the currants as we went along. everywhere there were many fresh tracks of bears for they are fond of this fruit, but if they saw us we failed to see them, though some of the tracks appeared to have been made not more than a few minutes before. as we drifted between high banks there was a violent crashing of bushes and a beautiful fawn, evidently pursued by bear or wolf, plunged through and dropped into the stream. cap. took a shot at it from the wobbling raft but of course failed. the fawn landed at the bottom of a mud wall ten feet high and for a moment seemed dazed, but by some herculean effort it gained the plain and sped away to freedom and we were not at all sorry to see it go. all the next day we kept on down white river on the raft and at seven o'clock were still five miles from camp in a direct course and no food left. as the stream meandered a great deal we parted from it and went to headquarters on foot. we now expected hourly the return of prof. and the major, but another day passed without them or any message. the next day was saturday and it faded away also without any event. just after supper there was a hail from the west bank and on going over with a boat we found there prof., beaman, and an indian. the major had not come because captain dodds, commanding the party which was charged with the taking of rations for us to the mouth of the dirty devil river, our next supply station, had sent word that he could not find a way through the unknown region. the major concluded that he would have to go and try it himself. his plan was for us to go on and he would join us again august 25th at gunnison crossing, at the end of the canyon of desolation, the next canyon of the series. gunnison crossing was an established point with a trail leading there from east and west. we were to wait for him till september 3d in that neighbourhood, and if he failed to arrive we were to go on and get through as best we could on the rations remaining. our present intercourse with the world was now terminated by our sending the indian who had come with prof. back to the agency with our mail. prof. had brought in some fresh beef which was a great treat but there was little of it and after a couple of meals we were on bacon and beans again. had an indian from the agency been hired for the purpose of hunting, we might have had plenty of venison during our stop here. sunday our old acquaintance douglas boy came to camp and was employed to make moccasins to save our shoes. some new shoes had been sent in to us, but for climbing and walking the rawhide-soled moccasins were excellent and would save our shoes for river work. the indian had a beaded cap pouch which i secured from him for some vermilion and he was ready to trade, but the next day jack caught him trying to steal our buckskin by hiding it in his blankets which rudely sundered our business relations. jack himself acquired the art of moccasin-making and he made each of us an excellent pair in his spare time. steward and i went back up white river to finish our work but the raft timbers were gone and we could find no others, so we had to do what we could on foot. when we returned i discovered some ginger among the supplies and thinking it time for variety in our bill of fare, and it being cap.'s birthday, i made a large ginger-cake which was voted prime. we ate half of it at one sitting with an accompaniment of lime-juice "lemonade." at the agency prof. found out that douglas boy had eloped from the white river country with his squaw, who was betrothed to another, and when we first met him he was engaged in eluding pursuit. according to ute law if he could avoid capture for a certain time he would be free to return without molestation to his village. beaman photographed him and a number of the uintas under the direction of the major, who wished to secure all the information possible about the natives, their language, customs, and costumes. we now spent several days arranging our new supplies in the rubber sacks, putting the iron strips on the boat-keels, and doing what final repairing was necessary. the topographers plotted the map work, and all finished up their necessary notes and data. by the afternoon of friday, august 4th, all was in readiness for continuing the voyage. we had now descended 1450 feet from our starting point towards sea-level and we knew that the next canyon would add considerably to these figures. footnotes: [footnote 10: two days after crossing the san clemente, as he called white river, escalante crossed the rio san buenaventura (green river) somewhere above the mouth of white river. here were six large "black poplars," on one of which they left an inscription. after resting two days they went south-west along the buenaventura, ten leagues, and from a hill saw the junction of the san clemente. he evidently went very near the mouth of the uinta, and then struck westward. the uinta he called rio de san cosme.] [footnote 11: a regiment of california volunteers marched this way from salt lake on the way to denver during the civil war.] chapter vii on to battle--a concert repertory--good-bye to douglas boy--the busy, busy beaver--in the embrace of the rocks once more--a relic of the cliff-dwellers--low water and hard work--a canyon of desolation--log-cabin cliff--rapids and rapids and rapids--a horse, whose horse?--through gray canyon to the rendezvous. we were up early on the morning of august 5th prepared to leave camp 32. prof. took a lunar observation, and at eight we entered the boats and turned our backs on "fort" robideau, the only house on or near the whole river at that time from the mouth of the virgin, to our camp no. 1 where we had the snow-storm, a distance of about one thousand miles. we had vanquished many rapids and now we pushed on ready for our next battle with the river in the canyon of desolation, just before us. the order of going was slightly changed in the absence of the major, for prof., being now in sole command, went ahead with his boat, the _nellie powell_, while ours, the _emma dean_, for the time being took second place. the river for a brief distance ran smoothly with only enough current, about two miles an hour, to help us along without hard rowing. i missed the major while we were on the water, probably more than any one else in the party, for as we were facing each other the whole time and were not separated enough to interfere with conversation we had frequent talks. he sometimes described incidents which happened on the first voyage, or told me something about the men of that famous and unrivalled journey. besides this he was very apt to sing, especially where the river was not turbulent and the outlook was tranquil, some favourite song, and these songs greatly interested me. while he had no fine voice he sang from his heart, and the songs were those he had learned at home singing with his brothers and sisters. one of these was an old-fashioned hymn, _the home of the soul_, or rather the first two verses of it. these verses were among his special favourites.[12] "i will sing you a song of that beautiful land, the far away home of the soul, where no storms ever beat on the glittering strand, while the years of eternity roll, while the years of eternity roll; where no storms ever beat on the glittering strand while the years of eternity roll. "oh! that home of the soul in my visions and dreams, its bright jasper walls i can see; till i fancy but thinly the veil intervenes between the fair city and me till i fancy, etc." another was a pretty four-part song, _the laugh of a child_, of which he sang the air. the words ran: "i love it, i love it, the laugh of a child. now rippling, now gentle, now merry and wild. it rings through the air with an innocent gush, like the trill of a bird at the twilight's soft hush, it floats on the breeze like the tones of a bell, or music that dwells in the heart of a shell. oh, the laugh of a child is so wild and so free 't is the merriest sound in the world to me." still another of which he sang the english words often was the well-known air from _figaro_. i give a few bars: [illustration: _non piu andrai_--play no more. air. figaro. non più andrai, far-fal-lo-ne a-mo-ro-so, not-te gior-no d'in-tor-no gi-ran-do; del-le bel-le tur-ban-do il ri-po-so, nar-ci-set-to, a-don-ci-no d'a-mor! del-le bel-le tur-ban-do il ri-po-so, nar-ci-set-to, a-don-ci-no d'a-mor! play no more, boy, the part of a lov-er, nor a-bout beau-ty fool-ish-ly hov-er; in the wars you'll more pleasure dis-cov-er, when your heart beats to glo-ry and fame! in the wars you'll more pleasure dis-cov-er, when your heart beats to glo-ry and fame!] at times he imitated a certain pathetic yet comical old woman he had heard singing at some camp-meeting, "the dear blessed bible, the fam-i-ly bible," etc. he told me one day that this fondness for singing, especially amid extremely unpromising or gloomy circumstances, had on more than one occasion led the men of the first expedition to suspect his sanity. when he was singing, i could see that frequently he was really not thinking about his song at all, but of something quite foreign to it, and the singing was a mere accompaniment. our party as a whole commanded an extensive repertory of song for an exploring expedition and while most of the voices were somewhat below concert requirement, there was no one to object, and one of us, jack, did have an excellent voice. a song often heard was, _shells of ocean_ and also that one most appropriate, _what are the wild waves saying?_ then there was _if i had but a thousand a year, gaffer green_, and of course, _annie laurie_. never was there an american or an english expedition to anywhere that did not have that song, as well as _way down upon the suwanee river_. in addition to all these and the ones previously mentioned of which "oh, the lone starry hours give me love when still is the beautiful night," was a special favourite, jack's individual repertory contained an exhaustless number, both sad and gay. there were _carry me back to old tennessee_, _the sailor's grave_, _aura lee_, with her golden hair, who brought sunshine and swallows indiscriminately to each locality which she graced with the said golden hair, and _come where my love lies dreaming_, _seeing nellie home_, and scores or at least dozens that i fail to recall. but while we had a great store of songs we were deficient to the last degree in musical instruments, the one solitary example being an humble mouth-organ which in a moment of weakness i had thrown in with my outfit. we just escaped having a flute. frank, who left us on the 10th of june, possessed one, and when he was preparing to go steward negotiated for this instrument. he gave cap. his revolver to trade for it, considering the flute more desirable property for the expedition. cap., being an old soldier, concluded to fire at a mark before letting the revolver pass forever from our possession. presently there was an explosion which demolished the pistol and all our prospects of acquiring the musical treasure at one and the same moment. possibly fortune was kinder to us than we dreamed. the mouth-organ then remained the sole music machine in all that immense area. i did not feel equal to the position of organist but steward boldly took up the study, and practised so faithfully that he became a real virtuoso. as a boy in new york jack, though not a hibernian himself, had associated closely with descendants of the shamrock isle, and he could speak with a fine emerald brogue. a refrain of one of his songs in this line was: "and if the rocks, they don't sthop us, we will cross to killiloo, whacky-whay!" this sounded our situation exactly, and it became a regular accompaniment to the roaring of the rapids. jack had many times followed in the wake of the thirteen eagles fire company, one of the bright jewels with a green setting, of the old volunteer service. the foreman, fitting the rest of the company, was irish too, and his stentorian shout through the trumpet "tirtaan aigles, dis wai!" never failed to rise above the din, and when the joyful cry smote the ears of the gallant "tirtaan," the rocks nor the ruts nor the crowds nor anything could stop them; through thick and through thin they went to the front, for there was rivalry in those days and when the aigles time after time got first water on, they won triumphs which we of this mercenary epoch cannot understand. the aigles were in for glory, nothing else. so when we heard the roar of a rapid and sniffed the mist in the air, "tirtaan aigles dis wai," was our slogan. where the river now ran smoothly, as it did for a considerable distance below the robideau crossing we could drift with the slow current and enjoy the study of the surroundings, the boats requiring no attention. passing the mouths of the uinta and the white, both rivers entering very quietly through a level valley, we pulled gently along watching the banks for something new. when we had thus gone a couple of miles we discovered our first acquaintance of this valley, douglas boy, encamped on the right with his runaway bride. they had a snug and secluded hiding-place protected by the river and some low cliffs. we landed to pay our parting call. both had their faces completely smeared with the bright vermilion obtained by trade from us, and they presented in our eyes a ludicrous appearance. they had recently killed a fat deer and seemed very happy. prof. exchanged some sugar for enough venison for our dinner and we said farewell to them, the first as well as the last human beings we had met with in this valley. clem, as usual, gave them various messages for the "folks at home" and assured them with gracious smiles, that they "would ever be the subject of his most distinguished consideration." they smiled after us and we were soon beyond their vision. presently low cliffs, 100 to 150 feet began to show themselves, on one side or the other, and the wide valley vanished. the great canyon below was reaching out for us. there were numerous islands covered with immense accumulations of driftwood or with growing cottonwoods where high enough. hundreds of beaver swam about. occasionally a shot from the boats would kill or wound one, but it was next to impossible to secure any as they seemed to sink immediately to the bottom and we gave up trying as long as they were in deep water. the stream being so tranquil reading poetry was more to our taste than hunting the beaver, and prof. read aloud from emerson as we slowly advanced upon the enemy. after about nine miles of this sort of thing we stopped for dinner in a pretty cottonwood grove at the foot of a cliff on the right with beaver swimming around as if they did not know what a human being was. when our venison had been disposed of the boats were shoved out into the river again and we continued our approach to the canyon. the surrounding region became a desolate waste; a broken desert plateau elevated above us about two hundred feet. some deer seen on an island caused us to land and try to get a good shot at one, but we failed to get near enough for success and they quickly disappeared. the ground was too difficult for pursuit. after some seventeen miles, camp for the night was made in another grove of rather small cottonwoods at 5.30. we were on a large island with the surrounding waters thick with beaver busy every moment though their great work is done at night. many trees felled, some of them of a considerable diameter, attested the skill and energy of these animals as woodchoppers. cap. tried to get one so that we could eat it, but though he killed several he failed to reach them before they sank, and gave it up. as we looked around we saw that almost imperceptibly we had entered the new canyon and at this camp (33) we were fairly within the embrace of its rugged cliffs which, devoid of all vegetation, rose up four hundred feet, sombre in colour, but picturesque from a tendency to columnar weathering that imparted to them a gothic character suggestive of cathedrals, castles, and turrets. the next day was sunday and as beaman felt sick and we were not in a hurry, no advance was made but instead prof. accompanied by steward, cap., and jones climbed out for notes and observations. they easily reached the top by means of a small gulch. they got back early, reporting an increasing desolation in the country on both sides as far as they could see. they also saw two graves of great age, covered by stones. in the afternoon prof. entertained us by reading aloud from scott and so the day passed and night fell. then the beavers became more active and worked and splashed around camp incessantly. they kept it up all through the dark hours as is their habit, but only steward was disturbed by it. this would have been an excellent opportunity to learn something about their ways, but for my part i did not then even think of it. by 7.30 in the morning of august 7th we were again on our way towards the depths ahead, between walls of rapidly increasing altitude showing that we were cutting into some great rock structure. here and there we came to shoals that compelled us to get overboard and wade alongside lifting the boats at times. as these shoals had the peculiarity of beginning gradually and ending very abruptly we got some unexpected plunge baths during this kind of progression. but the air was hot, the thermometer being about 90° f., and being soaked through was not uncomfortable. at one place prof. succeeded in shooting a beaver which was near the bank and it was secured before it could get to its hole, being badly wounded. steward caught it around the middle from behind and threw it into the boat--he had jumped into the water--and there it was finished with an oar. it measured three feet from tip to tip. we had heard a good deal about beaver as food and would now have a chance to try it. about eleven o'clock, we stopped for examinations and for dinner on the right but, of course, could not yet cook the beaver. prof., steward, and cap. climbed to the top of a butte 1050 feet above the river upon which they found a small monument left there by the major on the former trip. though this butte was so high the average of the walls was only about five hundred feet. we made seventeen miles this day. that night our camp (no. 35) was again on an island. there cap. skinned and dressed the beaver and turned over the edible portions to andy who cooked some steak for breakfast the next morning. it tasted something like beef, but we were not enthusiastic for i fear this beaver belonged to the same geological epoch as the goose we had cooked at the upper end of the valley. fortified by the beaver steak we pushed off and ran about a mile on a smooth river when a stop was made for pictures and geologising. this consumed the whole morning, a fact andy took advantage of to make some beaver soup for dinner. this concoction was voted not a success and we turned to bacon and beans as preferable thereafter. opposite this dinner place was a rough lateral canyon full of turrets and minarets which had the remarkable property of twice distinctly repeating a shout as loud as the original, and multiplying a rifle shot to peals of thunder. there had been people here before any white men, for steward found an artificial wall across an indentation of the cliff, the first work of the ancient builders we had encountered. it was mysterious at the time, the south-western ruins having then not been discovered with one or two exceptions. we ascribed this wall, however, to the ancestors of the moki (hopi). in the afternoon as we pulled along we came to a small rapid and the walls by this time being closer together and growing constantly higher, we knew that we were now fairly within the canyon of desolation and for about one hundred miles would have a rough river. not more than two miles below our dinner camp we reached a locality where the stream doubled back on itself forming a vast and beautiful amphitheatre. we could not pass this by without taking a picture of it and beaman was soon at work with his apparatus while i got out my pencils. the photograph did not turn out well, and prof. determined to remain till the next day. our camp was on the left in a thick grove of cottonwoods, and box-elders or ash-leaved maples, at the end of the point. as the sun sank away bats flew about and an insect orchestra began a demoniacal concert that shrilled through the night and made us feel like slaughtering the myriads if we could. the noises ceased with the day, or most of them, though some seemed to intensify with the light. we helped beaman get his dark box and other paraphernalia up to the summit of the ridge back of camp, which was easy so far as climbing was concerned, the rocks rising by a series of shelves or steps. i made several pencil sketches there, which i have never seen since the close of the expedition. the crest of the promontory was about forty yards wide at its maximum and three yards at the minimum, with a length of three-fourths of a mile. from the middle ridge one could look down into the river on both sides, and it seemed as if a stone could almost be thrown into each from one standpoint. the opposite amphitheatre was perhaps one thousand feet high, beautifully carved by the rains and winds. it was named sumner's amphitheatre after jack sumner of the first expedition. several of our men climbed in different directions, but all did not succeed in getting out. the day turned out very cloudy with sprinkles of rain and prof. decided to wait still longer to see if beaman could get a good photograph, and we had another night of insect opera. the next day by noon the photographer had caught the scene and we continued our descending way. the river was perfectly smooth, except a small rapid late in the day, with walls on both sides steadily increasing their altitude. desolation in its beginning is exactly the reverse of lodore and split mountain. in the latter the entrance could hardly be more sudden, whereas the canyon of desolation pushes its rock walls around one so diplomatically that it is some little time before the traveller realises that he is caught. the walls were ragged, barren, and dreary, yet majestic. we missed the numerous trees which in the upper canyons had been so ornamental wherever they could find a footing on the rocks. here there were only low shrubs as a rule and these mainly along the immediate edge of the water, though high up on north slopes pines began to appear. altitude, latitude, and aridity combine to modify vegetation so that in an arid region one notices extraordinary changes often in a single locality. the walls still had the tendency to break into turrets and towers, and opposite our next camp a pinnacle stood detached from the wall on a shelf high above the water suggesting a beacon and it was named lighthouse rock. prof. with steward and cap. in the morning, august 11th, climbed out to study the contiguous region which was found to be not a mountain range but a bleak and desolate plateau through which we were cutting along green river toward a still higher portion. this was afterwards named the tavaputs plateau, east and west divisions, the river being the line of separation. the walls now began to take on a vertical character rising above the water 1200 to 1800 feet, and at that height they were about a quarter of a mile apart. from their edges they broke back irregularly to a separation as nearly as could be determined of from three to five miles, the extreme summit being 2500 feet above the river. [illustration: steward. canyon of desolation. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871.] while waiting for prof. to come down from the cliffs, beaman made some photographs and then two boats dropped down a quarter of a mile where he made some more and andy got dinner. i remained with the _nell_ and about eleven o'clock the climbers came. we went down on the boat to the noon camp, and as soon as we had refreshed the inner man we proceeded thinking it about time for rapids to appear. we had not gone far before we distinguished a familiar roar just preceding the turn of a bend which disclosed three lying within half a mile. they were not bad but the river was wide and shallow, making the descent more difficult than it would ordinarily have been. the river was now approaching its lowest stage, and we saw an uncomfortable looking lot of rocks. high water makes easy going but increases the risk of disaster; low water makes hard work, batters the boats, and delays progress, but as a rule it is less risky. all the boats cleared the first rapid without any difficulty, but in the second the _nell_ struck a sunken rock, though lightly, while our boat landed squarely on the top of a large boulder partially submerged, where we hung fast with the water boiling furiously around and almost coming over the sides. i tried to get out over the port bow but the current drew me under the boat and i had to get back. jack concluded we were only fast by the extreme end of the keel and jones coming forward jack slid cautiously out over the stern and felt around with his feet till he touched the rock and put his weight on it. thus relieved, the boat lifted slightly and shot away like an arrow but not before jack leaped on again. as soon as we could we made land and watched the _cañonita_ which fared still worse. she struck so hard that two of the after ribs and some planks were stove in. they then extricated her and pulling her up on the rocky shore we went to work to repair with cleats made from a broken oar. this delayed us an hour and a half. then saws and hammers were stowed away and the third rapid was run without a mishap. it was only the low stage of water that caused the trouble. a little farther on a fourth rapid was vanquished and we went into camp on the left bank in a cottonwood grove at the head of another. "if the rocks, they don't sthop us," sang jack, "we will cross to killiloo, whacky-whay!" and there were plenty of rocks in the midst of foaming waters, but one great advantage of low water is the decreased velocity, and velocity on a river like this with so heavy and constant a fall is one of the chief factors to reckon with in navigation. the high cliffs, two thousand feet, red and towering in the bright sun, became sombre and mysterious as the night shadows crept over them, the summits remaining bright from the last western rays when the river level was dim and uncertain. there was plenty of driftwood, and our fires were always cheery and comfortable. the nights were now quite cold, or at least chilly, while the days were hot as soon as the sun came over the edge of the cliffs. through some of the narrow promontories at this particular camp there were peculiar perforations suggesting immense windows looking into some fairer land. i would have been glad to examine some of these closely, but as it was not necessary they were passed by. it would also have been difficult to reach them as they were very high up. the rapid at our camp was a starter the next day on a line of them following one after the other till we had run without accident nine before halting for dinner; and nine in 6-3/4 miles was not a bad record. we landed for noon on the same spot where the first party had stopped and our last night's camp was also coincident with theirs, according to their map which we had for consultation. prof. decided to remain here for the rest of the day and also the next one which was sunday. up in a high gulch some pine trees were visible, and jack and i climbed up to them and collected several pounds of gum for repairing the boats. sunday morning prof., jones, and steward struck for the summit up the cliffs to get observations. an hour and a half of steady hard work put them 2576 feet above the river, but they were still three hundred feet below the general level of the great plateau which we were bisecting. prof. thought he would like to make better time down the river, which we could easily have done up to this point, but if we arrived at the end of the canyon too soon we would have to wait there and it was better to distribute the wait as we went along. it was now august 14th and we were not due below till september 3d. on monday morning we pushed and pulled and lifted the boats through a shallow rapid half a mile long. it was hard work. then came one which we ran, but the following drop was deemed too risky to trust our boats in, and they were lowered by lines. then in a short distance this same process was repeated with hard work in a very bad place, and when we had finished that we were tired, hungry, wet, and cold, so under a cottonwood tree on the right we stopped for needed refreshment, and while it was preparing most of us hung our clothes on the branches of a fallen tree to dry. the rapid foaming and fuming presented so vigorous an appearance and made so much noise we thought it ought to be named, and it was called fretwater falls. at three o'clock we took up our oars again and were whirled along at runaway speed through a continuous descent for half a mile. after another half-mile a small rapid appeared, which we dashed through without a second thought, and then came our final effort of the day, a line-portage over a particularly bad spot. it was a difficult job, requiring great exertion in lifting and pushing and fending off, so when prof. gave the word to camp on the left, we were all glad enough to do so. we had made only 5-1/4 miles and seven rapids. the let-downs had been hard ones, with a couple of men on board to fend off and two or three on the hawser holding back. the next morning, august 15th, we made another let-down around a bad piece of river, and ran two or three small rapids before dinner. at the let-down the water dropped at least ten feet in two hundred yards, and prof. estimated thirty in half a mile. the river was also narrow, not more than sixty or seventy feet in one place. many rocks studded the rapids, and great caution had to be exercised both in let-downs and in runs, lest the boats should be seriously injured. with two or three more feet of water we could have run some that were now impossible. fortunately there was always plenty of room on both banks, the cliffs being well back from the water. a series of small rapids gave us no special trouble, and having put them behind, we ran in at the head of a rough-looking one, had dinner, and then made a let-down. starting on, we soon came to a very sharp rapid, which we ran, and found it was only an introduction to one following that demanded careful treatment. another let-down was the necessary course, and when it was accomplished we stopped for the night where we were on the sand, every man tired, wet, and hungry. we had made only four miles. a significant note of warning was found here in the shape of fragments of the unfortunate _no-name_ mixed up with the driftwood, fully two hundred miles below the falls where the wreck occurred. the precipices surrounding us had now reached truly magnificent proportions, one section near our camp springing almost vertically to a height of 2800 or 3000 feet. on the dizzy summit we could discern what had the appearance of an old-fashioned log-cabin, and from this we called it "log-cabin cliff." the cabin was in reality a butte of shale, as we could see by means of our glasses, and of course of far greater size than a real cabin, but from below the illusion was complete. at this camp, no. 40, we remained the next day, prof. wishing to make some investigations. he and jones crossed to the other side and went down on foot two or three miles; then returning he went up some distance, while the rest of us mended our clothes, worked up notes, and did a score of little duties that had been neglected in the river work. jack and i climbed up the cliffs and got more pine gum, with which we caulked up the seams in our boat. cap. kindly turned barber and redeemed me from the danger of being classed as orang-outang. the air was too hazy for photographing or for getting observations from the summit, and prof. concluded to stay till next day at this place and then go to the top of the world; in other words, to the summit. very early in the morning, august 17th, steward and cap. started with prof. for the climb. keeping up the main canyon for a mile they came to a side gorge where prof. had been the day before, which they followed for half a mile and then boldly mounted the cliffs, reaching an altitude of 3100 feet above the river. while they were gone, jack and i climbed after more pine gum, and succeeded in getting five or six pounds for future use. as i was descending along a terrace, jack being some distance behind and above, a fine, large mountain sheep, sleek and clean, with beautiful strong horns, sprang along four or five hundred feet from me, and stopped in full view listening to jack's footsteps. i had no gun, and could only admire him till he bounded lightly away. about one o'clock the climbing party came back. steward had shot a mountain sheep with a revolver, only to find that a deep canyon intervened between him and his prize and there was no way of getting it. about half past two we shoved out into the river again, running a small rapid immediately. the water was so shallow that our keel struck a number of times but no damage was done. we had hardly cleared this when we arrived at a drop of about six feet in a few yards with the whole river filled with bad rocks. at this place, according to the map made by the first party, their _emma dean_ was capsised. we made a let-down and a quarter of a mile farther on repeated the operation should be. following this were some swift shoals which brought us to another ugly descent where the _nell_ stove a hole in her side and came near upsetting. prof. was knocked half out of the boat but got in again. the other boats we lowered by lines and they passed through uninjured. near this point a fine clear little stream about a rod wide entered from the west. after running two more rapids prof. decided to camp which we did on the right, camp 41. our run footed up 3-3/4 miles. our camp was in some cottonwoods and we had to cross a wide rocky bar to get to it but it was preferable to camping on the sand. in this canyon there was generally a valley about one-quarter mile wide on one side or the other, and with the abundant supply of driftwood for fires and a whole river for drink we fared well. the great canyon now appeared deeper than at any point above, about three thousand feet we estimated, the walls being extremely precipitous. one cliff not far from camp appeared to be nearly perpendicular. steward got up very early the next morning in order to mend his shoes, and he succeeded so well as cobbler, we declared he had missed his calling, but we did not start till ten o'clock, waiting for beaman to take views. the first thing we then did was to run a very shallow rapid, followed by another, long, difficult, narrow, and rocky. then there was a short, easy one, with the next below compelling a very hard let-down. there was nothing but rocks, large rocks, so close together that it was all we could do to manoeuvre the boats between them. there was no channel anywhere. for the greater part of the way we had to pull them empty over the rocks on driftwood skids which taxed our muscles considerably and of course saturated our clothing for half the time we were in the water, as was always the case at let-downs. this over we had our noon ration of bread, bacon, and coffee and took a fresh start by running a nice, clear rapid and then another a half-mile below, and we thought we were getting on well when we saw ahead a fall of some ten feet in fourteen rods, turbulent and fierce. the only prudent thing for this rapid was a let-down and we went at it at once. it was the usual pulling, hauling, fending, and pushing, but we got through with it after a while and naming it at the suggestion of some one, melvin falls, we went on to the eighth and last rapid for the day. this was half a mile long and very rocky, but it was thought we could run it and all went through safely except the _nell_ which caught her keel on a rock and hung for a moment, then cleared and finished with no damage. we made camp 42 on a sand-hill. these hills were a feature of the wide banks, being blown up by the winds, sometimes to a height of fifteen or twenty feet. our run for the day was less than five miles, yet as we had passed eight rapids one way and another, we were all pretty tired and of course wet and hungry. a good big camp-fire was quickly started, our dry garments from the rubber bags donned in place of the flapping wet ones, and we were entirely comfortable, with the bread baking in the dutch oven, the coffee or tea steaming away, and the inspiring fragrance of frying bacon wafted on the evening air. when we stopped long enough andy would give us boiled beans or stewed dried apples as a treat. if we desired to enliven the conversation all that was necessary was to start the subject of the "light" back at the camp where we first met douglas boy. every one would soon be involved except prof. who only laughed and inserted from time to time a well-chosen remark to keep up the interest. jack would always give us a half-dozen songs and to this steward would add a solo on the mouth-organ. the evenings were growing longer, and we sat closer to the fire. sometimes cap. and clem would play a game of euchre, but no one else seemed to care anything about cards. our beds, when possible, were made by first putting down willows or cedar twigs in regular order, on which the blankets would be spread making a luxurious bed on which sleep instantly overtook us, with the sound of falling water generally the last thing and the first in our ears. at 7.30 the next morning, august 19th, we were speeding on our way and ran the rapid which had sent its lullaby to our camp. another came right after it, shallow and bad, and then one more where the channel was beset with innumerable boulders hidden under the surface. happily the boats were not seriously damaged, they needed no repairs, and we kept on to the next barrier which proved to be not runable with any prospect of getting through whole so we made a portage. then there was a rapid we ran easily, but as if to revenge itself for making one gentle for us, the river obliged us to work a laborious passage at the next two. we had good hard work, lowering by lines, wading alongside where necessary to ease the boats, or clinging to their sides where the water was deep, while the men on shore at the hawser's end lowered away to a shallow place. we were glad to halt at 11.30 for dinner, and a short rest. there was a heavy rapid beside us as we ate, and steward named it chandler falls. it had a descent of about twelve feet in twenty rods. on the opposite side of the river a clear little creek came in, and this was named chandler creek, chandler being the maiden name of steward's wife. beaman and clem selected a position with their photographic outfit and made some photographs of us as we were working the boats through. a mile below we halted on the right for beaman to get more views. none of his photographs of the rapids came out well as the plates were too slow. up a gulch on the right we could see a remarkable topographic feature, nothing less than a gigantic aperture, or natural arch, in the cliff. it had a span of at least 300 feet with a height of about half as much. it was 1500 or 1800 feet above the river. hundreds of cedar trees grew around the arch on the ledges of the huge wall through which it was cut by the action of the elements. the cliffs everywhere were now becoming more broken, and there was an entrance somewhere from the back country, or it may have been up the canyon, for we discovered remains of tipis and camps with metates or grinding stones, the first evidences of human beings we had seen since the "moki" wall. this and the breaking of the cliffs caused us to believe that we were nearing the end of the canyon. prof. with jones and steward went down-stream on foot for a distance to see what was coming next and found a stretch of very bad water. on the return a rattlesnake struck at steward but luckily failed to hit him. steward killed it. we concluded to stop for the night where we were with the day's record--four rapids run, three let-downs, and 4-5/8 miles in distance. this camp was not satisfactory and we got out of it early the next morning. while beaman was making some views across the river we lowered the other two boats through one rapid and then ran them through a second in three-quarters of a mile to a better camping place, from which we went back and helped the third boat, the _cañonita_, do the same. prof. wanted to climb out, but the morning being half gone he planned to start after dinner and meanwhile he read emerson aloud to us till andy shouted his "go fur it boys!" accompanied by steward and clem, in the afternoon he climbed up 1200 or 1500 feet to a point where he could see down the river two or three miles. they counted seven rapids, and confirmed the belief that the walls were breaking. the surrounding country was made up of huge ridges that ran in toward the river from five miles back. our camp 44 was in a little valley about a quarter of a mile wide, the bottom covered with cedars and greasewood. the scenery was still on a magnificent scale but barren and desolate. the next morning, august 21st, we were under way at 7.30 and plunged almost immediately into the rapids which had been sighted from the cliffs above. in a little over four miles we let down six times. a seventh rapid we ran and then stopped for noon on the left, every man, as usual, soaking wet. a little rain fell but not enough to consider. after dinner four more rapids were put behind; we ran all but one at which we made a let-down. our record for this day was eleven rapids in a trifle less than seven miles, and we were camped at the head of another rapid which was to form our eye-opener in the morning. the walls receded from the river three-fourths of a mile and now, though still very high, had more the appearance of isolated cliffs. we had not a single unpleasant incident till beaman on this day ran one rapid contrary to prof.'s orders. he was sharply reprimanded, and for the time being his tendency to insubordination and recklessness was checked. he probably did not mean to be either, but his confidence in his ability to steer through anything led him astray. in the evening by the camp-fire light prof. read aloud from _miles standish_. although a heavy wind blew sand all over us, no one seemed to complain. the next morning, august 22d, the first thing we did was to run the rapid beside our camp, a beautiful chute, swift, long, and free from rocks. immediately below this was one half a mile long in the form of a crescent, the river making a sharp bend with a bad current, but we ran it. this was, in fact, a part of the other rapid, or it might be so classed, as was frequently the case where the descent was nearly continuous from one rapid to another. the river was very narrow at this place, not more than seventy-five feet wide. we had not gone far before we reached a rapid where it was prudent to lower the boats, and not more than a few hundred yards below this there was another of a similar character but necessitating harder work. then we were brought face to face with one more that could not be run with safety on the present stage of water, though we ran a part of it and made a let-down past the remainder. when this was finally accomplished with everything in good order, we found ourselves in front of still another that refused to grant us clear passage, and we worked the boats down with lines as in the previous rapids without removing the cargoes. the method was the usual one for the let-downs, three or four men on the line and a couple on board the boat to manoeuvre and protect her. having by this time advanced three and one-eighth miles from last night's camp we stopped for dinner. on taking up the oars again the first rapid was a fine, clear descent with extremely large waves, through which all three boats dashed with exhilarating speed, leaping part of their length out of the water as their velocity carried them zipping over the crests. our boat happened to strike near the finish on a submerged rock to the right of the main channel and near shore and there she hung for some moments. the first boat had landed below and some of the men quickly came up to where i could throw them our line, and this pulled us off without any damage worth mentioning. a little below this we ran another successfully and had not gone far before we were astonished at the sight of a horse grazing unconcernedly on some low bluffs on the right. prof. had discovered this horse with his field glass while we stopped above to examine one of the rapids. he thought it might indicate the presence of the major, or of indians, but he did not mention the matter to any of us. when we were at a good point, and just as all hands had discovered the animal, he ordered a sharp landing on the same side. we ran in quickly. prof. went up the bank and gave several shouts while we held ourselves ready for action. there was no response. he then went to the horse and found it very lame which, coupled with the absence of any indication of visitors within recent months, caused us to conclude that the horse had been abandoned by indians who had been encamped here a good while before. we left the place and running another rapid, a little one, we came to a fine spot for a camp on the right at the beginning of a heavy rapid, and there we stayed for the night. there was now a marked change in the geology, and fossiliferous beds, which for a long time had been absent, appeared. the canyon walls also broke away considerably. the next morning it was decided that we should remain at this camp till after dinner for observation work. i went out with steward to help him gather fossils, and beaman took some views, while the others occupied themselves with various duties. the afternoon began by letting the boats by line past the rapid at camp which beaman called sharp mountain falls, from a pointed peak overhead. there was a drop of about fifteen feet in thirty rods. beaman wanted to photograph us in the midst of our work, and got ready for it, but a rain-storm came on and we had to wait till it cleared for him to get the picture. we then went ahead dashing through a pretty rapid with a swift current, and next had a long stretch of rapid, though not difficult river, making in all 2-3/4 miles, and camping at five o'clock on the left. the only trouble we had was that in choosing one of four channels our boat got where she was inevitably drawn into the top of a sunken dead tree lodged in the rocks and my starboard row lock was broken off. on shore steward killed another rattlesnake, of which there seemed to be a good many along the river. we were now actually out of the canyon of desolation and in the beginning of what the major at first called coal canyon, then lignite, and finally gray, the name it bears to-day, because of the colour of the walls. the division between the two canyons was the break down where we had seen the horse. casting up we found that the canyon of desolation is ninety-seven miles long. early the next morning, august 24th, we pulled away from camp 47 soon running two small rapids of no consequence, and in three miles came to a descent of some ten feet in a very short space, where we made a let-down. three fair rapids were next run easily when we halted to examine a hard-looking place where we let down again. an encounter with three more, two of them each a quarter of a mile long, took us till noon, though we ran them and we came to a stop for dinner. now the walls had narrowed, the canyon being about half a mile wide at the top--sometimes not more than a quarter. the colour was buff, and there were seams of coal and lignite in places. on one or the other side the cliffs were nearly vertical for about three hundred feet then breaking back to jagged heights reaching about two thousand feet. after dinner having run two more rapids without trouble we arrived at a very difficult locality where the first cliffs, six hundred feet high, came down vertically on both sides quite close to the water. we saw how we could navigate it, but at flood time it would be a most serious proposition, as there would be no footing on either side, unless, perhaps on the huge masses of fallen rock. at the present stage we were able to let the boats down by lines. then we had two easy rapids, followed by another not more difficult but less safe. a little farther on we ran two more which completed the record for the day, and we were glad to camp with a total run of 12-3/8 miles, and many rapids with three let-downs. a feature of the cliffs this day was numerous alcoves and grottoes worn into the sandstone some of them like great caverns with extremely narrow canyons leading into them. in the morning prof. with jones, cap., and steward climbed out. the country was elevated above the river about two thousand feet, a wild labyrinth of ragged gulches, gullies, and sharp peaks devoid of vegetation except a few piñons on some slopes, the whole presenting a picture of complete desolation. at a quarter past twelve we were again gliding down on a stiff current. we ran seven easy rapids and let-down by lines twice, before arriving about three o'clock at the mouth of a stream-bed sixty feet wide, which prof. said was little white, or price river. the mouth was so devoid of water that we camped on the smooth sand, it being the only ground free from brush. a sudden rise or cloud-burst would have made it an active place for us but we decided to take the risk for one night. prof. and jones tried to get out by following up this river bed but they were not successful. game was abundant and they thought there might be an indian trail but they saw none. in the evening steward gave us a mouth-organ recital and jack sang a lot of his songs in fine style. the air was soft and tranquil, and knowing we had now conquered the canyon of desolation without a serious mishap we all felt well satisfied. in the morning, august 25th, breakfast was disposed of early, the boats were put in trim and away we went again on a good current running many rapids and making one let-down in a distance of eight miles. i counted fourteen rapids, steward ten or eleven, prof. only eight, showing that it is not always easy to separate the rapids where they come so close together. in one the river was no more than thirty feet wide with big waves that made the boats jump and ship water. we reached a bend and saw the end of the canyon only a mile or two away, but we had to make the let-down mentioned before we got there. our camp, number 50, was made about noon, just inside the mouth of the canyon on the left, opposite a high, beautiful pinnacle we called cathedral butte afterwards changing the name to gunnison. here we would wait till the time appointed for the major to join us according to the plan. gray canyon was now also behind us with its thirty-six miles and numerous rapids. adding to it the ninety-seven miles of desolation made the total canyon from wonsits valley 133 miles with a descent of about 550 feet distributed through a hundred rapids, some small, some heavy. the entire fall from our starting point was now some two thousand feet. prof. and jones went down the valley two miles with the hope of seeing signs of the major but not a human being was to be found anywhere. footnotes: [footnote 12: many, many years after the canyon voyage as major powell with his sister, mrs. thompson, and professor thompson were approaching fort wingate in new mexico, the sun was setting, and sky and rocks combined to produce a glorious picture. suddenly he asked his companions to halt and sitting on their horses looking into the wonderful sky he sang with them the above two stanzas.] chapter viii return of the major--some mormon friends--no rations at the elusive dirty devil--captain gunnison's crossing--an all-night vigil for cap. and clem--the land of a thousand cascades--a bend like a bow-knot and a canyon labyrinthian--cleaving an unknown world--signs of the oldest inhabitant--through the canyon of stillwater to the jaws of the colorado. there was little energy in our camp the day after our arrival at the end of the long struggle with desolation and gray canyons, and, also, it being sunday, we lounged around in a state of relaxation, joyful that we did not have to roll up our blankets and stow them and everything else in the rubber bags and pack the cabins to go on. the boats had been unloaded and hauled on the beach, which was smooth sand, to dry out preparatory to our caulking and repairing them with the pine gum collected in desolation. during the morning prof. sent jack and me down the river a short distance to put up a signal, a small american flag, on the lower end of an island, where it could easily be seen by any one looking for us. all hands kept an ear open for signal shots, which we hoped to hear soon, and have the major once more in our company. after dinner prof. and steward took another walk down the open valley about five miles to reconnoitre, but though they came upon remains of a great many indian camps, all were old, and the valley appeared as silent and deserted as it was desolate and barren. along the river there were a few groves of cottonwood, the only vegetation of any consequence to be seen. [illustration: a. map by the u. s. war department--1868. supplied by the courtesy of general mackenzie, u. s. a., showing the knowledge of the colorado river basin just before major powell began operations. the topography above the junction of the green and grand is largely pictorial and approximate. the white space from the san rafael to the mouth of the virgin is the unknown country referred to in this volume, which was investigated in 1871-72-73. preliminary maps b, c, and d, at pages 244, 246, and 207, respectively, partly give the results of the work which filled in this area.] through this valley passed the famous trail from santa fé to los angeles, laid out in 1830 by that splendid pioneer, william wolfskill. the reason he came so far north was because there was no place to cross the canyons below that was known.[13] this path was occasionally travelled for years, and became celebrated as the "old spanish trail." here it was that captain gunnison of our army in his notable explorations crossed in 1853 on his westward journey, which a few days later proved fatal to him, as he was killed by the gosi-utes. before leaving he established the latitude and longitude of this crossing, which ever after bore his name.[14] together with the mouth of the uinta, the mouth of henry's fork, and the mouth of diamond creek, this made four points astronomically fixed before the major came between the union pacific crossing and the end of the grand canyon. diamond creek mouth was determined accurately by ives in 1858. the trappers and fur hunters between 1824 and 1840, men like jim bridger and kit carson, had roamed more or less over the region we had come through, and occasionally they had tried to see the river in the canyons. the aridity of the country generally held them back. ashley, as already noted, had made the passage of red canyon, and the trapper meek with several companions had gone through lodore and whirlpool one winter on the ice. frémont, simpson, berthoud, selden, and some other scientific explorers had passed here and there reconnoitring, and macomb in 1859 had made a reconnaissance to the south and south-west of gunnison crossing, so that a general idea of the character of the region had been obtained and a kind of approximate topography had been tentatively thrown in, yet it was mainly an unknown wilderness so far as record went, particularly contiguous to the river. but south from the san rafael to the paria and west to the high plateaus forming the southward continuation of the wasatch range, an area of at least 10,000 square miles, there was still a completely unknown country. indeed, even from the paria on down to the grand wash the region on the right was hardly better understood, though there were several mormon settlements on the headwaters of the virgin, and recently the settlement of kanab had been made farther east. on the south of the grand canyon ives had reconnoitred to some extent, reaching the river at the mouth of diamond creek, but at no other point above that did he come to the river nor get anywhere near its canyon above the tributary habasu (cataract). in the entire stretch from gunnison crossing to the end of the grand canyon, a distance of 587-1/2 miles, but two points were known where the river could be crossed, the crossing of the fathers (el vado de los padres), about latitude 37, and the mouth of the paria, only thirty-five miles lower down. this latter place had been discovered by jacob hamblin, or "old jacob," as he was familiarly called, and he was the first white man to cross there, which he did in october, 1869. he was a well-known mormon scout and pioneer of those days. he forded at el vado his first time in 1858, possibly the first white man after escalante, though the ford was known to at least richard campbell, the trapper, in 1840 or earlier. in 1862 jacob circumtoured the grand and marble canyons, going from st. george by way of the grand wash to the moki towns and returning by way of el vado. thus the region below us to the left or east had been reconnoitred in a general way by macomb, while that to the right or west had not had even bird's-eye exploration. until the major's unrivalled first descent in 1869 the river was equally unknown. even above gunnison crossing, despite the spasmodic efforts at exploration referred to, the river had remained a geographical enigma, and to the major belongs the sole credit for solving this great problem throughout its length from the union pacific crossing in wyoming to the mouth of the virgin river--the last problem of this kind within the united states. hampered as the first party was by loss of provisions and instruments, they nevertheless made a plat of the immediate course of the stream, portions of which were lost with the men who were killed by the shewits on leaving the party near the end of the grand canyon. so far we had not been bothered in the least by lack of provisions, instruments, time, health, or strength, and we had been able to make an accurate meander of the river, note the topography and geology as we went along, climb out frequently to examine the surrounding country, and in every way carry forward the scientific work as planned. it was now a question whether or not we would get our supplies at the next appointed station, the mouth of the dirty devil river, or whether we would be obliged to weigh out what we had, and by limiting ourselves to strict rations put the work through anyhow. by september 5th we would probably have information on this point, that being the limit set for our waiting. should the major not arrive by that time, it would mean that we were to go on as best we could with the supplies on hand. monday was devoted to overhauling the boats, while prof. took observations. during a rest he also read aloud to us from tennyson, "a land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, slow dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; and some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke, rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. they saw the gleaming river seaward flow from the inner land; far off three mountain-tops, three silent pinnacles of aged snow, stood sunset-flushed; and, dew'd with showery drops, up-clomb the shadowy pine above the copse." he was an excellent reader and we enjoyed his various selections. they gave variety and new drift to our thought which was refreshing and beneficial. when the boats were completed they were returned to the river, but for the time being the rations and other things forming their cargoes were permitted to remain on shore covered by the paulins. the boats swung gracefully at their lines and jack was tempted to get out his fishing tackle in the early evening and seat himself on one of the cabins to wait patiently for a bite. softly the river rippled by with an innocent murmur as if it had never been guilty of anything but the calmest and best-behaved motion such as now reflected the great pinnacle across the way standing 1200 feet clear cut against the glowing sky. the air was balmy, no wind blew, and a universal quiet prevailed when suddenly jack uttered several exclamations not entirely in harmony with the moment. he thought his precious hook was caught on a snag. pulling gently in order not to break his line the snag lifted with it and presently he was astounded to see, not the branch of a tree or a water-logged stick, but the head of an enormous fish appear above the surface. had there been some splashing he would have been prepared for the extraordinary sight but the monster came with barely a wriggle as if he did not know what it was to be caught. he was successfully landed in the middle cabin of the boat, which was empty except for some water, and lay there unhurt as if it were the natural place for him. casting again another of the same kind came forth and then a third. the longest appeared to be the length of the cabin, as he floated in the water, and that was four feet. he was at least thirty or thirty-six inches with a circumference of fifteen inches. the others were considerably shorter but nevertheless very large fish. the big one was killed for food and steward noted that the heart after removal kept up pulsations of twenty beats to the minute for half an hour. these fish are now called colorado river salmon. the flesh was white and they seemed to us good eating. [illustration: colorado river white salmon. photograph by the denver, colorado canyon, and pacific railway survey under robert brewster stanton, 1889.] on tuesday, august 29th, the third day of our waiting, as we were about to return to various occupations after dinner three rapid shots broke suddenly on the quiet air from down the valley. it was our signal. "the major" cried all in a breath, and a reply signal was instantly fired. clem and i were sent immediately to the end of the island, carrying our rifles, of course, for while we had little doubt as to who it was, there might be a surprise. we hurried down while the others watched the bank beyond. as soon as we cleared the bushes and could see the western shore we distinguished the major and a stranger by his side, with horses. we shouted to them directions for reaching our camp and they rode up till they came opposite to it whence they were ferried over while jones took the horses down to their camp about four miles below. the major reported an absolute failure in the attempt to find a way to the mouth of the dirty devil river and he had not himself been able to do anything about it. the first trial was eastward from glencove, a mormon settlement on the sevier. it failed because the indian guides refused to proceed beyond fifty miles and it was not practicable to go on without them. a second party was then sent in a little later under old jacob north-eastward from kanab. they reached a river flowing to the colorado at about the right place and for many miles followed it with extreme difficulty and hazard even at the low stage of water prevailing, down through a deep, narrow canyon. sometimes they were compelled to swim their horses where the rapid stream filled the chasm from wall to wall, and continual crossing and re-crossing were necessary from one footing to another. this perilous effort was also abandoned. the major had gone to salt lake and from there, being informed of these results, down to a village called manti whence he made his way across country to our present position, with several pack animals bringing three hundred pounds of flour, a quantity of jerked beef, and twenty pounds of sugar. this was not exactly adequate to the circumstances but he probably thought it was all he could get through with to the meeting place appointed in the time alloted. while he and fred hamblin, the man accompanying him, were eating their dinner, we packed the boats, and when all was ready took them on board, the major in his old place in the armchair on our boat, and hamblin on the middle deck of another. in the run down to the camp hamblin was very uncomfortable for he was not accustomed to boats, especially to boats that ran so fast. there were two little rapids, some swift chutes, and in several places the river shoaled and we grated slightly on the gravel. stretching away westward from gunnison butte we saw an exquisitely modelled line of cliffs, some portions being a clear azure blue. at first it was proposed to name them henry cliffs, but they were finally called from their colour, azure. presently we arrived at the camp where we found another man, lyman hamblin, a son of jacob and nephew of fred. they were both mormons from kanab near the arizona line in southern utah. they had a large amount of mail for us and every one fell to reading letters and papers. august 30th and 31st were spent here getting our work in shape, making sketches and observations, as well as writing letters and helping the hamblins prepare for their trip back through the wild country. they had met with no indians on the way in and they hoped to be equally fortunate going back having no desire to see any. in this, as they told me afterwards, they were not successful. they mounted their horses, friday, september 1st, about four in the afternoon when the west was taking on a rich evening glow and turning in that direction vanished, with a wave of the hand and a good-bye, into the mystery of colour, bearing our letters, the geographic data, the geologic notes, and all the other material which we had collected since leaving the mouth of the uinta, and which it was thought advisable to send out both for safety and to relieve our crowded cabins. they said that the next evening before they realised it they found themselves so near a large encampment of indians that there was no getting away, and they did the only thing they could sensibly do, rode boldly on straight into the midst of the strangers with the hope that the band belonged where they were on the west side of the river, in which case they were surely peaceful. both men spoke ute well and they had had long experience. the indians proved to be entirely friendly, and the hamblins camped with them for the night; not because they wanted to but because they thought it inexpedient to do otherwise. when they left us we felt that they were old friends for they were fine men and most agreeable. besides, with the exception of basor who had driven the team down from salt lake to the uinta with our rations, they were the only white men which those of us who had not visited the uinta agency had seen since the harrells in brown's park, nearly three months before. an hour after their departure we pushed off and ran down about half a mile, passing one little rapid, to the old crossing where we stopped on the left for the night. beaman and i were commissioned to go back to our camp gunnison to get a saw which had been forgotten there; we could not afford to lose so valuable an implement. a well-beaten indian trail leading up the river gave us easy going and we made good time. the effects of light and colour all around us playing over the mountains and valley gave the surroundings a weird interest. the day was ending. long shadows stole across the strange topography while the lights on the variegated buttes became kaleidoscopic. as for us, we appeared ridiculously inadequate. we ought to have been at least twenty feet high to fit the hour and the scene. gradually the lights faded, the shadows faded, then both began to merge till a soft grey-blue dropped over all blending into the sky everywhere except west where the burnish of sunset remained. before dark the old camp was reached; we found the saw by the last dying rays and then picked our backward path by starlight following the trail as we had come. silence and the night were one as in the countless years that had carved the dim buttes from the rocks of the world primeval when man was not. beautiful is the wilderness at all times, at all times lovely, but under the spell of the twilight it seems to enfold one in a tender embrace, pushing back the sordid, the commonplace, and obliterating those magnified nothings that form the weary burden of civilised man. with keen appreciation we tramped steadily on till at last we perceived through the night gloom the cheerful flicker of our camp-fire, a sight always welcome, for the camp-fire to the explorer is home. at eight the next morning our business was resumed with the major happy in his accustomed place. we made a nice run of eighteen miles on a smooth, shallow river, with broken, picturesque low cliffs and isolated buttes everywhere. the valley was wide and filled with these rocky hills. for a quarter of a mile on each side of the river there were cottonwood groves offering fine spots for camping, before and after crossing. there seemed to be several places where crossing was accomplished. at one of these we discovered where some indians had been in camp a few hours before. the placidity of the river permitted the lashing together of the boats once more for a time and while we drifted this way down with the easy current the major and prof. took turns at reading aloud from whittier. _mogg megone_ was one selection that was quite in harmony with the surroundings while other poems offered a delightful contrast. there were songs, too, and i specially identify with this particular locality that old college favourite, _dear evelina, sweet evelina_ which everybody sang, and which the major often sang alone as he peered ahead into the vista unfolding. before night the valley narrowed, the banks looked more like low canyon walls, and the current stiffened. a clump of small cottonwoods suggested a camp as the sun ran down and there we halted. nor did we go on the next day as the major desired to go out to a ridge lying to the west, which he had seen from his horse on his way to us across country. jones went with him and they came back with a fine collection of cretaceous fossils. steward and cap. also went collecting and were successful. our surroundings were now even more peculiar than heretofore. in many places the region was absolutely barren of all vegetation; thousands of acres at a time had upon them hardly a living plant of any description, being simply bare and barren rock, as devoid of soil as the deck of a ship. prof. took observations for latitude and longitude and the rest of us were busy at our usual affairs. we had very little time to spare when the various necessary duties had been regularly attended to. [illustration: dellenbaugh butte. near mouth of san rafael. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871.] as we went on the next morning the desolation of the surroundings increased, if that were possible, and it was easy to read in this one cause of the tardiness of its exploration. the acreage of bare rock grew wider and broader. the buttes now often turned to walls about 150 feet high, all much broken, but indicating the approach to another closing in of the rocks upon us. many of these buttes were beautiful in their castellated form as well as because of a picturesque banded character, and opposite our dinner-camp, which was on a ledge of rock, was one surprisingly symmetrical, resembling an artificial structure. i thought it looked like an art gallery, and the major said it ought to be named after the artist, so he called it "dellenbaugh's butte" then and there. another singular feature of this day was a number of alkaline springs discovered bubbling up from the bottom of a sort of bayou or branch of the river. there were at least seventy-five of them, one throwing a column six or eight inches above the surface of the water here about two feet deep. we thought the place worth a name, and called it undine springs. three or four miles below the butte named after me we arrived at the mouth of a river, twenty-five feet wide and eight or ten inches deep, coming in from the right. this was the san rafael. our camp was made near some cottonwoods between its left bank and the green. as soon as we landed we perceived that the ground was strewn with flaked chips of chalcedony, jasper, and similar stones. it was plain that here was a favourite workshop of the native arrowhead maker, an artisan now vanished forever. numerous well-finished beautiful arrow-heads of stone were found, all being placed in the general collection for the smithsonian institution. our camp 54 was elevated considerably above the river, and the surroundings being open, we had views in all directions. towards the east we could see the sierra la sal, two clusters of rounded peaks, forty or fifty miles away, forming a majestic picture. the place was easy of access, and had been a favourite resort for natives, several acres of camp remains being found. in the morning prof. began a series of observations to fix the position of the mouth of the san rafael, while the major and jones, with rations, blankets, etc., on their backs for a two days' trip, started early up the tributary stream to see what kind of a country it flowed through. steward feeling somewhat under the weather did not attempt to do anything, while the photographer and the others busied themselves in their respective lines. the following day the major and jones returned as planned, having traced the san rafael for twenty-five miles. before they arrived cap. and clem went across the green to travel eastward to some high red buttes, one of which they intended to climb for topographical purposes. these buttes loomed up in a striking way, and appeared to be no more than six miles off even to cap.'s experienced eye. the major described the drainage basin of the san rafael as wofully barren and desolate, like the rest of our surroundings. they had seen mountains lying beyond the dirty devil river, which were the range we then called the unknown mountains, there being no record of any one ever having seen them before the major on his first trip. steward, recovering his poise, walked back alone on the east bank of the green four miles to dellenbaugh's butte to examine it and the intervening geology. he found the butte to be about four hundred feet high and composed of stratified gypsum, thinly bedded and of fine quality. as evening approached we looked for the return of cap. and clem, especially when the supper hour arrived, but twilight came, then darkness, and still their footfall was not heard. the major was greatly disturbed over their failure to come, fearing they had gotten out of water, missed their way, and might now be suffering or demoralised in the arid wastes to eastward. he ordered a large fire to be built on a high spot near camp, where it would be visible for miles in the direction the missing men had gone. we divided into watches of two hours each to keep the fire going, in order that the men should have a guide if they were trying to reach the river in the night. i was called for my turn at two in the morning, and read whittier while feeding the flames. the sky was mottled with clouds driving impetuously across the zenith, the bright moon gleaming through the interstices as they rapidly passed along. my attention was divided between the quaker poet, the blazing fire, the mysterious environment into which i peered from time to time, and the flying scud playing hide-and-seek with the moon. at three i called andy, who had breakfast ready before five, and all hands were up prepared to start on a search. by the time we had eaten there was light enough for operations to begin, and the major, accompanied by jack, carrying between them two days' rations and as much water as possible, were put across the green to strike out directly eastward. a couple of hours later prof. took a boat, with steward and me to man it and another supply of food and water, and ran down the river a mile, where we headed back into the dry region to intersect at a distance the route the major was following. we had not gone far before signal shots came to our ears, and through a glass turned in that direction we rejoiced to see that the major and jack had met the lost ones and all was well. prof. directed me to go back on foot to our camp with instructions for the other boats to come down, while he, in response to further signals, dropped his boat to a point nearer to the position of the rescue party and easier for them to reach. cap. had underestimated the distance to the butte, which was twice as far as he thought. they walked eight hours to get there only to discover that scaling it was out of the question. a mile and a half beyond they found one they could climb, but by the time they had completed their observations on top of this evening overtook them and they were at least fifteen miles from camp. having consumed their lunch at noon and drank all their water they were in something of a predicament, but luckily found some water-pockets in the barren rock, recently filled by the rains, so they did not suffer for thirst, and going hungry is not dangerous. over the wide surfaces of bare rock they travelled toward camp till night forced them to wait for daylight, when they kept on till they met the major and jack with water and food. no sooner had i arrived at the camp than the sky which was leaden and low began to drop its burden upon us. packing up could not be done till the rain slackened, and we sheltered ourselves as well as we could. as we waited a deep roaring sound from not far off presently fell on our ears and we were puzzled to explain it till an examination showed a recently dry gulch filled with a muddy torrent which leaped the low cliff into the river, a sullen cascade. the san rafael, too, was a booming flood. we packed the boats as soon as we could and ran down about two miles and a half to where the first boat was. cliffs bordered the river again, 50 to 100 feet high, then 200 or 300, and we saw we were in the beginning of the next canyon called from its winding course, labyrinth. over these straight walls hundreds of beautiful cascades born of the rain were plunging into the river. they were of all sizes, all heights, and almost all colours, chocolate, amber, and red predominating. the rocky walls, mainly of a low purplish-red tint, were cut into by the river till the outside curves of the bends were perpendicular and sometimes slightly more than perpendicular, so that some of the cascades fell clear without a break. the acres of bare rock composing the surface of the land on both sides collected the rain as does the roof of a house, and the rills and rivulets rapidly uniting soon formed veritable floods of considerable proportions seeking the bosom of the river. this seemed the most fantastic region we had yet encountered. buttes, pinnacles, turrets, spires, castles, gulches, alcoves, canyons and canyons, all hewn, "as the years of eternity roll" out of the verdureless labyrinth of solid rock, made us feel more than ever a sense of intruding into a forbidden realm, and having permanently parted from the world we formerly knew. about noon we caught up to the other boat and all had dinner together, happy that nothing serious had befallen cap. and clem. during the whole afternoon rain steadily fell upon the top of this rock-roofed world till the river rose several inches while its colour turned to a dull yellow, then to a red, showing how heavy the rainfall had been in the back country. we had our rubber ponchos on but we were more or less damp and we began to notice that summer had passed for the air was chilly. the river was perfectly smooth making navigation easy and we were able to pull steadily along with no interruption from rapids. the walls ever increased their height while over the edges the numberless astonishing rain cascades continued to play, varying their volume according to the downpour from the sky. before long the cliffs were from 800 to 1000 feet high, often perpendicular, giving the waterfalls grand plunges. these graceful tributaries were now occasionally perfectly clear and they sometimes fell so far without a break that they vanished in feathery white spray. a projecting ledge at times might gather this spray again to form a second cascade before the river level was reached. the scene was quite magical and considering the general aridity for a large part of the year, it appeared almost like a phantasm. "a land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, slow dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go." the river twisted this way and that with the tongues of the bends filled with alluvial deposit bearing dense clumps of scrub-oak, and grass. each new bend presented a fresh picture with the changing waterfalls leaping over by the dozen till we might have thought ourselves in some norwegian fiord, and we gave far more attention to admiring the scenery than to navigating the boats. late in the day we landed at the left on the point of a bend and chopped a path through the thick oak brush to a grassy glade, where we soon had the paulins stretched across oars supported by other oars forming comfortable shelters in front of which huge fires of dead oak and driftwood were kept going to dry things out. andy set his pots to boiling and supper was soon prepared. all night the rain fell but our shelters kept us dry and every one had a good rest. when the morning of september 8th dawned clear and bracing we met it with good spirits, though the spirits of our party seldom varied no matter what the circumstances, and every man took as much personal interest in the success of the expedition as if he were entirely responsible for it. in order that beaman might take some pictures and the topographers get notes, no move was made. prof. climbed out obtaining a wide view in all directions and securing valuable data. i also went up on the cliffs and made a pencil sketch, and in the afternoon we explored a peculiar three-mouthed side canyon across the river. three canyons came together at their mouths and we called the place trin alcove. prof. and the major walked up it some distance and then sent for beaman to come to photograph. at nightfall rain began once more, and the shelters were again erected over the oars. another morning came fair and we went on leaving beaman to finish up views and the _nell_ crew for other work. as we proceeded we would occasionally halt to wait but it was noon before they overtook us. rain had begun before this and continued at intervals during the dinner stop. as soon as we started we ran into a heavy downpour and while pulling along in the midst of this our boat ran on a sand-bar and got so far and fast aground that it required all ten men to get her off, the other crews walking in the water to where we were, as the shoal was very wide. while thus engaged a beautiful colour effect developed softly before us through an opalescent, vaporous shroud. the sun came forth with brilliant power upon the retreating mists creating a clear, luminous, prismatic bow ahead of us arching in perfect symmetry from foot to foot of the glistening walls, while high above it resting each end on the first terraces a second one equally distinct bridged the chasm; and, exactly where these gorgeous rainbows touched the rocks, roaring rain cascades leaped down to add their charm to the enchanting picture. we were now at the beginning of a very long loop of the river, which we named bow-knot bend. just at the start of this great turn we camped with a record for the whole day of 15-1/8 miles. steward found some fragments of pottery. the next morning we remained here till ten for views, and then we left beaman on the summit of the low dividing ridge, where one could look into the river on either side and see a point which we rowed more than five miles to reach.[15] on the right bank we stopped for dinner, and when it was about ready several of us crossed, and, helping beaman down with his heavy boxes, ferried him to our side. the opposite bank was no more than one thousand feet in a straight line from our starting-place of the morning. instead of now going on, a halt was made, because steward, prowling around after his custom, had found some fossils that were important and he wanted more. the major, with jack, crossed the river for further geological investigations, while prof. and jones started to climb out, though the prospect was not encouraging. they ascended over rock, strangely eroded by water into caverns and holes, then along a ledge till jones, being a taller man than prof., got up and pulled prof. after him with his revolver belt. they obtained a remarkable view. buttes, ridges, mountains stood all round, with the river so completely lost in the abruptness of its chasm that a mile from the brink the whole region was apparently solid, and the existence of the gorge with a river at bottom would not even be suspected. they could trace the line of grand river by tower-like buttes and long ridges, and just at the gap formed by the junction with the green a blue mountain arose. the sierra la sal, too, could be seen lying on the horizon like blue clouds. "weird and wild, barren and ghost-like, it seemed like an unknown world," said prof. the country was a vast plateau similar to the one through which the canyon of desolation is carved, that is tilting northward and increasing in altitude towards the south, so that as the river runs on its canyon becomes deeper from this cause as well as its cutting. these great terraces sloping to the north were not before understood. they terminate on the south in vertical cliffs through which the river emerges abruptly. from such features as these the major named this the plateau province. the cliffs terminating each plateau form intricate escarpments, meandering for many miles, and they might be likened to a series of irregular and complicated steps. occasional high buttes and mountain masses break the surface, but in general the whole area forming the major part of the basin of the colorado may be described as a plateau country--a land of mesas, cliffs, and canyons. [illustration: labyrinth canyon--bowknot bend. the great loop is behind the spectator. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871.] the next day, september 11th, we were on the river at 7.30, and ran about seven miles on smooth water before we stopped for a mid-day rest and dinner on the right bank, as well as to enable beaman to take some views he desired. another three miles and we halted again for geologising and for photographs, while prof., taking andy in his boat, went ahead to establish a camp somewhere below for the night, in order that we would not be so late getting supper. the days were now growing short, and supper by firelight was a common thing. rain soon began again and put a stop to the work, driving us forward between the scores of cascades which soon began to leap anew from every height to the river. at one place a waterfall shot out from behind an arch set against the wall, making a singular but beautiful effect, and revealing to us one method by which some of the arches are formed. the place prof. had selected for camp was reached almost the same time that he got there. it was on the left among the greasewood bushes, and there we put up our paulins for shelter on oars as before. we had made about fifteen miles. the walls receded from the river, forming what the major named the orange cliffs, and were much broken, while the back country could be seen in places from our boats. scores, hundreds, multitudes of buttes of bare rock of all shapes and sizes were in sight, and one was called the butte of the cross, because it suggested a cross lying down from one position, though from another it was seen to be in reality two distinct masses. here ended labyrinth canyon according to the major's decision. we credited it with a length of 62-1/2 miles. although winding through an extremely arid country, it had for us been a place of rain and waterfalls, and even though rapids were absent we had been nevertheless kept rather wet. there was not much change in structure between labyrinth canyon and the following one of the series, stillwater. the interval was one of lowered, much broken walls, well back from the river, leaving wide bottom lands on the sides. we went ahead in the morning on quiet water for seven or eight miles, and stopped on a high bank for dinner and for examinations. prof., cap., steward, and the major climbed out. steward got separated from the others by trying to reach a rather distant butte, and when he tried to rejoin us he had considerable difficulty in doing so. for half an hour he searched for a place to get down, and we looked for one also from the bottom, and finally he was compelled to go down half a mile farther, where he made the descent only to find himself in a dense jungle of rose-bushes, willows, and other plants. we had to cut a way in to relieve him. the luxuriant growth of these plants seemed to indicate that the barrenness of the plateau was due not so much to aridity as to the peculiar rock formation, which, disintegrating easily under the frosts and rains, prevented the accumulation of soil. the soil was washed away by every rain and carried by thousands of cataracts into the river. only when the country reaches the "base level of erosion," as the major called it, would vegetation succeed in holding its place; that is when the declivity of the surrounding region became reduced till the rain torrents should lack the velocity necessary to transport any great load of detritus, and the disintegrated material would accumulate, give a footing to plants, and thus further protect itself and the rocks. [illustration: stillwater canyon. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871.] the major and prof. now decided to use up all the photographic material between this point and the dirty devil, and leave one boat at the latter place till the next season, when a party would come in for it and take it down to the paria. we would be obliged to examine the dirty devil region then in any event. three miles below our dinner camp we arrived at a remarkably picturesque bend, and on the outer circumference we made our sixtieth camp, but so late that supper was eaten by firelight. the bend was named by beaman "bonito," and in the morning he made a number of views. the bottom lands along the river had evidently been utilised by the aboriginal inhabitants for farming, as fragments of pottery occasionally found indicated their presence here in former days. it was afternoon when we pushed off and left bonito bend behind. after a few miles the major and prof. tried to climb out, but they failed. a buff sandstone, resting on red shale, was vertical for about 140 feet everywhere and could not be surmounted. above this stood another vertical wall of five hundred feet, an orange coloured sandstone, in which no break was apparent. these walls closed in on the river, leaving barely a margin in many places. there were few landings, the current, rather swift and smooth, swirling along the foot of the rocks, which rose vertically for 250 feet and were about four hundred feet apart. as the evening came on we could find no place to stop that offered room enough for a camp, and we drifted on and on till almost dark, when we discovered a patch of soil on the right that would give us sufficient space. the 13th of september happened to be my birthday, and andy had promised to stew a mess of dried apples in celebration. this does not sound like a tremendous treat, but circumstances give the test. our supply of rations being limited and now running low, andy for some time had been curbing our appetites. stewed dried apples were granted about once a week, and boiled beans were an equal luxury. it was consequently a disappointment not to get the promised extra allowance of apples on this occasion. not only was the hour late, but there was little wood to be had, though diligent raking around produced enough driftwood to cook our supper of bacon, coffee, and bread. our camp was beneath an overhanging cliff about six hundred feet high, and the walls near us were so heavily coated with salt that it could be broken off in chunks anywhere. the quarters were not roomy, but we got a good sleep. in the morning before he was fairly awake steward discovered fossils in the rocks over his head, and we remained till one o'clock in order that an investigation could be made. he collected about a peck of fine specimens. when we started again the canyon was so interesting, particularly to the geologists, that we stopped several times in a run of five miles between vertical walls not over six hundred feet apart. camp was finally made on the right in a sort of alcove, with a level fertile bottom of several acres, where the ancients had grown corn. evidences of their former life here were numerous. steward, climbing on the cliffs, suddenly gave a loud shout, announcing a discovery. he had found two small huts built into the rocks. several of us went up to look at them. they were of great age and so small that they could have been only storage places. withered and hardened corncobs were found within them. on returning to camp we learned that the major had found some larger house ruins on a terrace some distance up the river. around the camp-fire that evening he told us something about the shinumos, as he called them, who long ago had inhabited this region, and in imagination we now beheld them again climbing the cliffs or toiling at their agriculture in the small bottom land. at daylight steward, clem, and i went up to the ruins, which stood on a terrace projecting in such a way that a clear view could be had up and down the river. there were two houses built of stone slabs, each about 13 × 15 feet, and about six feet of wall were still standing. thirty feet or more below ran the river, and there were remains of an old stairway leading down through a crevice to the river, but too much disintegrated for us to descend. these were the first ruins of the kind i had ever seen, and i was as much interested in them as i afterwards was in the colosseum. prof., being desirous of arriving as speedily as possible at the junction of the grand with the green, which was now not far off, for the purpose of getting an observation for time, left us at seven o'clock and proceeded in advance, while the remainder of the party turned their attention to the locality where we were. we could see traces of an old trail up the cliffs, and the major, jack, andy, and jones started to follow this out. with the aid of ropes taken along and stones piled up, as well as a cottonwood pole that had been placed as a ladder by the ancients, they succeeded in reaching the summit. clem and i went back to the large house ruins for a re-examination, and looked over the quantities of broken arrowheads of jasper and the potsherds strewing the place in search of specimens of value. on the return trip of the climbers andy discovered an earthen jar, fifteen inches high and about twelve inches in diameter, of the "pinched-coil" type, under a sheltering rock, covered by a piece of flat stone, where it had rested for many a decade if not for a century. it contained a small coil of split-willow, such as is used in basketry, tied with cord of aboriginal make. some one had placed it there for a few moments. after dinner we continued down the canyon, taking the pot with us. the walls were nearly vertical on both sides, or at any rate appeared so to us from the boats, and they often came straight into the water, with here and there a few willows. they were not more than 450 feet apart. no rapids troubled us, and the current was less than three miles an hour, but we seemed to be going swiftly even without rowing. after about seven miles the trend of the chasm became easterly, and we saw the mouth of the grand, the junction, that hidden mystery which, unless we count d. julien, only nine white men, the major's first party, had ever seen before us. the grand entered through a canyon similar to that of the green, all the immediate walls being at least 800 feet and the summit of the plateau about 1500 feet above the river. on the right was a small bench, perhaps one-third of a mile long and several rods wide, fringed by a sand-bank, on which we found the crew of the _nell_ established in camp 62. between the two rivers was another footing of about two acres, bearing several hackberry trees, and it was on this bank up the grand river side that the first party camped. across on the east shore we could see still another strip with some bushes, but there was no more horizontal land to be found here. the two rivers blended gracefully on nearly equal terms, and the doubled volume started down with reckless impetuosity. this was the end of stillwater canyon, with a length of 42-3/4 miles. at last we had finished the canyons of the green, with every boat in good condition and not a man injured in any way, and now we stood before the grim jaws of the colorado. our descent from gunnison crossing was 215 feet, with not a rapid that was worth recording, and from the union pacific crossing in feet, 2215, and in miles, 539. the altitude of the junction is 3860 feet above sea-level. footnotes: [footnote 13: in fact there was only one practicable place, el vado de los padres, and that was difficult. the alternative would have been to cross arizona south of the colorado. by this gunnison crossing route there were better wood, water, and grass to compensate for distance.] [footnote 14: it is here that the denver and rio grande railway crossed, bridging the river in 1883. from here also the brown expedition started in may, 1889, and the best expedition in 1891.] [footnote 15: many years afterward on a rock face half-way round this bend the inscription, d. julien 1836 3 mai, was found. the same inscription was also found in two other places just below the mouth of grand river and near the end of cataract canyon.] chapter ix a wonderland of crags and pinnacles--poverty rations--fast and furious plunging waters--boulders boom along the bottom--chilly days and shivering--a wild tumultuous chasm--a bad passage by twilight and a tornado with a picture moonrise--out of one canyon into another--at the mouth of the dirty devil at last. we were on the threshold of what the major had previously named cataract canyon, because the declivity within it is so great and the water descends with such tremendous velocity and continuity that he thought the term rapid failed to interpret the conditions. the addition of the almost equal volume of the grand--indeed it was now a little greater owing to extra heavy rains along its course--doubled the depth and velocity of the river till it swirled on into the new canyon before us with a fierce, threatening intensity, sapping the flat sand-bank on which our camp was laid and rapidly eating it away. large masses with a sudden splash would drop out of sight and dissolve like sugar in a cup of tea. we were obliged to be on the watch lest the moorings of the boats should be loosened, allowing them to sweep pell-mell before us down the gorge. the long ropes were carried back to their limit and made fast to stakes driven deep into the hard sand. jack and i became dissatisfied with the position of our boat and dropped it down two or three hundred yards to a place where the conditions were better, and camped by it. there were a few small cottonwoods against the cliff behind the sand-bank, but they were too far off to be reached by our lines, and the ground beneath them was too irregular and rocky for a camp. these trees, with the hackberry trees across the river and numerous stramonium bushes in full blossom, composed the chief vegetation of this extraordinary locality. no more remote place existed at that time within the united states--no place more difficult of access. macomb in his reconnaissance in 1859 had tried hard to arrive here, but he got no nearer than the edge of the plateau about thirty miles up grand river. it was necessary that we should secure topographic notes and observations from the summit, and we scanned the surroundings for the most promising place for exit. the major was sure we could make a successful ascent to the upper regions by way of a narrow cleft on the right or west some distance back up the green, which he had noted as we came along; so in the morning of saturday, september 16th, he and jack, beaman, clem, jones, and i rowed up in the _cañonita_, the current being slow along the west bank, and started up the crevice, dragging the cumbrous photographic outfit along. prof. remained below for observations for time. the cleft was filled with fallen rocks, and we had no trouble mounting, except that the photographic boxes were like lead and the straps across one's chest made breathing difficult. the climb was tiring, but there was no obstacle, and we presently emerged on the surface of the country 1300 feet above the river and 5160 above the sea. here was revealed a wide cyclorama that was astounding. nothing was in sight but barren sandstone, red, yellow, brown, grey, carved into an amazing multitude of towers, buttes, spires, pinnacles, some of them several hundred feet high, and all shimmering under a dazzling sun. it was a marvellous mighty desert of bare rock, chiselled by the ages out of the foundations of the globe; fantastic, extraordinary, antediluvian, labyrinthian, and slashed in all directions by crevices; crevices wide, crevices narrow, crevices medium, some shallow, some dropping till a falling stone clanked resounding into the far hollow depths. scarcely could we travel a hundred yards but we were compelled to leap some deep, dark crack. often they were so wide a running jump was necessary, and at times the smooth rock sloped on both sides toward the crevice rather steeply. once the major came sliding down a bare slope till at a point where he caught sight of the edge of a sombre fissure just where he must land. he could not see its width; he could not return, and there he hung. luckily i was where by another path i could quickly reach the rock below, and i saw that the crevice was not six inches wide, and i shouted the joyful news. steward had not come up with us, but had succeeded in ascending through a narrow crevice below camp. he soon arrived within speaking distance, but there he was foiled by a crack too wide to jump, and he had to remain a stranger to us the rest of the day. at a little distance back from the brink these crevices were not so numerous nor so wide, and there we discovered a series of extremely pretty "parks" lost amidst the million turreted rocks. i made a pencil sketch looking out into this sinav-to-weap, as the major called it from information obtained from the utes.[16] beaman secured a number of photographs, but not all that were desired, and, as we did not have rations for stopping on the summit, we went back to camp and made the climb again the next day. fortunately the recent rains had filled many hollows in the bare rock, forming pockets of delicious, pure water, where we could drink, but on a hot and dry summer's day travelling here would be intolerable, if not impossible. fragments of arrow-heads, chips of chalcedony, and quantities of potsherds scattered around proved that our ancient shinumos had known the region well. doubtless some of their old trails would lead to large and deep water-pockets. there are pot-holes in this bare sandstone of enormous size, often several feet in depth and of similar diameter, which become filled with rain-water that lasts a long time. the shinumos had numerous dwellings all through this country, with trails leading from place to place, highways and byways. the following day the major and jones climbed out on the side opposite camp, that is on the east side, where they found an old trail and evidences of camping during the summer just closed, probably by the utes. that night, jones, in attempting to enter our boat in the moonlight, stepped on the corner of the hatch of the middle cabin, which was not on securely; it tipped, and he was thrown in such a way as to severely injure his leg below the knee. this was the first mishap thus far to any one of the party. the major entertained some idea of making a boat trip up the grand, but he abandoned it, and we prepared for the work ahead. the rations, which were now fallen to poverty bulk, were carefully overhauled and evenly distributed among the boats, so that the wrecking of any one would not deprive us of more than a portion of each article. the amount for daily use was also determined; of the bacon we were to have at a meal only half the usual quantity. we knew cataract canyon was rough, but by this time we were in excellent training and thoroughly competent for the kind of navigation required; ready for anything that strong boats like ours could live through. at ten o'clock on tuesday, september 19th, the cabins were all packed, the life preservers were inflated, and casting off from camp 62 we were borne down with the swift current. the water was muddy, of a coffee-and-cream colour, and the river was falling. not far below our camp we saw a beaten trail coming down a singular canyon on the left or east side, showing again that the natives understood the way in to the junction.[17] we knew it was not far to rapids, as we had seen two heavy ones from the brink above, and we soon heard the familiar roar of plunging water, a sound which had been absent since the end of gray canyon. presently we were bearing down on the first one, looking for the way to pass it. on landing at the head it was seen to be a rather rough place, and it was deemed advisable to avoid running it. the boats were carefully let down by lines and we went on. in a short distance we reached a second rapid, where we decided to repeat the operation that took us past the other, but these two let-downs consumed much time and gave us hard work. the water was cold, we were wet and hungry, and when we arrived at a third that was more forbidding than the ones above we halted for dinner at its beginning. the muddy water boomed and plunged over innumerable rocks--a mad, irresistible flood. so great was the declivity of the river bed that boulders were rolled along under water with a sound like distant thunder. we had noticed this also in lodore, but in cataract it was more common. the rumbling was particularly noticeable if one were standing in the water, as we so continually were. after dinner the boats were lowered past the rapid, but we had no respite, for presently we came upon another big one, then another, and another, and then still another, all following quickly and giving us plenty of extremely hard work, for we would not risk the boats in any of them. when these were behind us we went on a distance and came to one that we ran, and then, wet through and shivering till our teeth chattered, as well as being hungry and tired, every one was glad to hear the decision to go into camp when we arrived at the top of another very ugly pair of them. the canyon having a north and south trend and it being autumn, the sun disappeared early so far as we were concerned; the shadows were deep, the mountain air was penetrating. as soon as possible our soaking river garments were thrown off, the dry clothing from the rubber bags was put on, the limited bacon was sending its fragrance into the troubled air, the bread took on a nice deep brown in the dutch oven, the coffee's aromatic steam drifted from the fire, and warm and comfortable we sat down to the welcome though meagre meal. the rule was three little strips of bacon, a chunk of bread about the size of one's fist, and coffee without stint for each man three times a day. sugar was a scarce article, and i learned to like coffee without it so well that i have never taken it with sugar since. the "tirtaan aigles" needed now all the muscle and energy they could command, and an early hour found every man sound asleep. the record for the first day in cataract canyon was nine miles, with eight bad rapids or cataracts, as they might properly be called, and out of the eight we ran but one.[18] the river was about 250 feet wide. [illustration: clement powell cataract canyon. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871] the major decided the next morning that he would try to get out on the right, and he took me with him. we had no great trouble in reaching the plateau at an elevation of eighteen hundred feet above the river, where we could see an immense area of unknown country. the broken and pinnacled character was not so marked as it had been at the junction, but it was still a strange, barren land. we expected to find water-pockets on the top, and we had carried with us only one quart canteen of water. while the major was taking notes from the summit of a butte, i made a zealous search for water, but not a drop could i find; every hole was dry. the sun burned down from a clear sky that melted black into eternal space. the yellow sand threw the hot rays upward, and so also did the smooth bare rock. no bird, no bee, no thing of life could be seen. i came to a whitish cliff upon which i thought there might be water-pockets, and i mounted by a steep slope of broken stones. suddenly, almost within touch, i saw before me a golden yellow rattlesnake gliding upward in the direction i was going along the cliff wall. i killed it with a stone, and cut off the rattles and continued my reconnaissance. at length i gave up the search. by the time i had returned to the foot of the butte on which the major was making his observations, the heat had exhausted me till i was obliged to rest a few moments before ascending the sixty feet to where he was. i had carried the canteen all the time, and the water in it was hot from exposure to the sun. the major bade me rest while he made a little fire, and by the aid of a can and ground coffee we had brought he made a strong decoction with the whole quart. this gave us two cups apiece, and we had some bread to go with it. the effect was magical. my fatigue vanished. i felt equal to anything, and we began the return. the major having no right arm, he sometimes got in a difficult situation when climbing, if his right side came against a smooth surface where there was nothing opposite. we had learned to go down by the same route followed up, because otherwise one is never sure of arriving at the bottom, as a ledge half-way down might compel a return to the summit. we remembered that at one point there was no way for him to hold on, the cliff being smooth on the right, while on the left was empty air, with a sheer drop of several hundred feet. the footing too was narrow. i climbed down first, and, bracing myself below with my back to the abyss, i was able to plant my right foot securely in such a manner that my right knee formed a solid step for him at the critical moment. on this improvised step he placed his left foot, and in a twinkling had made the passage in safety. during our absence the men below had been at work. camp was moved down the river some three quarters of a mile, while the boats had been lowered past the ugly pair of rapids, and were moored at the camp below the second. in one the current had "got the bulge," as we called it, on the men on the line; that is, the powerful current had hit the bow in such a way that the boat took the diagonal of forces and travelled up and out into the river. for the men it was either let go or be pulled in. they let go, and the boat dashed down with her cargo on board. fortune was on our side. she went through without injury and shot into an eddy below. with all speed the men rushed down, and jack, plunging in, swam to her and got on before she could take a fresh start. it was a narrow escape, but it taught a lesson that was not forgotten. prof. had succeeded in getting some observations, and all was well. it was bean day, too, according to our calendar, and all hands had a treat. by eight o'clock the next morning, thursday, september 21st, we were on the way again, with the boats "close reefed," as it were, for trouble, but one, two, three and one half miles slid easily behind. then, as if to make up for this bit of leniency, six rapids came in close succession, though they were of a kind that we could safely run, and all the boats went flying through them without a mishap of any kind. the next was a plunger so mixed up with rocks that we made a let-down and again proceeded a short distance before we were halted by one more of the same sort, though we were able to run the lower portion of it. a little below this we met a friendly drop, and whizzed through its rush and roar in triumph. but there was nothing triumphant about the one which followed, so far as our work was concerned. we manoeuvred past it with much difficulty only to find ourselves upon two more bad ones. bad as they were, they were nevertheless runable, and away we dashed with breakneck speed, certainly not less than twenty miles an hour, down both of them, to land on the left immediately at the beginning of a great and forbidding descent. these let-downs were difficult, often requiring all hands to each boat, except the major, whose one-armed condition made it too hard for him to assist in the midst of rocks and rushing water, where one had to be very nimble and leap and balance with exactness. two good arms were barely sufficient. sometimes, in order to pass the gigantic boulders that stretched far off from the shore, the boat had to be shot around and hauled in below, an operation requiring skill, strength, and celerity. the walls, very craggy at the top, increased in altitude till they were now about sixteen hundred feet, separated from each other by one third of a mile. the flaring character of the upper miles of the canyon began to change to a narrower gorge, the cliffs showing a nearer approach to verticality. at the head of the forbidding plunge we had our slice of bacon, with bread and coffee, and then we fought our way down alongside amongst immense boulders and roaring water. it was an exceedingly hard place to vanquish, and required two and a half hours of the most violent exertion to accomplish it. all were necessary to handle each boat. hardly had we passed beyond the turmoil of its fierce opposition than we fell upon another scarcely less antagonistic, but yet apparently so free from rocks that the major concluded it could be run. at the outset our boat struck on a concealed rock, and for a moment it seemed that we might capsize, but luckily she righted, swung free, and swept down with no further trouble. the _nell_ struck the same rock and so did the _cañonita_, but neither was injured or even halted. these boats were somewhat lighter than ours, having one man less in each, and therefore did not hit the rock so hard. the boats were now heavy from being water-soaked, for the paint was gone from the bottoms. this would have made no difference in any ordinary waters, but it did here, where we were obliged to lift them so constantly. this was an extremely rough and wet day's work, and the moment the great cliffs cut off the warmth of the direct sun we were thrown suddenly from summer to winter, and our saturated clothing, uncomfortably cool in sunlight, became icy with the evaporation and the cold shadow-air. we turned blue, and no matter how firmly i tried to shut my teeth they rattled like a pair of castanets. though it was only half-past three, the major decided to camp as soon as he saw this effect, much as we had need to push on. we landed on the right, and were soon revived by dry clothes and a big fire of driftwood. we had made during the day a total distance of a trifle less than seven miles, one and three quarters since dinner. there were fourteen rapids and cataracts, nine of which we ran, on a river about two hundred feet wide. we had sand to sleep on, but all around us were rocks, rocks, rocks, with the mighty bounding cliffs lifting up to the sky. our books for the time being were not disturbed, but whittier's lines, read further up, seemed here exactly appropriate to the colorado: "hurrying down to its grave, the sea, and slow through the rock its pathway hewing! far down, through the mist of the falling river, which rises up like an incense ever, the splintered points of the crags are seen, with water howling and vexed between, while the scooping whirl of the pool beneath seems an open throat, with its granite teeth!" it was not long before the blankets were taken from the rubber bags and spread on the sand, and the rapids, the rocks, and all our troubles were forgotten. the next day was almost a repetition of the preceding one. we began by running a graceful little rapid, just beyond which we came to a very bad place. the river was narrow and deep, with a high velocity, and the channel was filled with enormous rocks. two hours of the hardest kind of work in and out of the water, climbing over gigantic boulders along the bank, lifting the boats and sliding them on driftwood skids, tugging, pulling, shoving every minute with might and main put us at the bottom. no sooner were we past this one than we engaged in a similar battle with another of the same nature, and below it we stopped for dinner, amidst some huge boulders under a hackberry tree, near another roarer. one of these cataracts had a fall of not less than twenty feet in six hundred, which gave the water terrific force and violence. the canyon walls closed in more and more and ran up to two thousand feet, apparently nearly vertical as one looked up at them, but there was always plenty of space for landings and camps. opposite the noon camp we could see to a height beyond of at least three thousand feet. we were in the heart of another great plateau. after noon we attacked the very bad rapid beside whose head we had eaten, and it was half-past three when we had finished it. the boats had been considerably pounded and there was a hole in the _dean_, and a plank sprung in the _nell_ so that her middle cabin was half full of water. the iron strip on the _dean's_ keel was breaking off. repairs were imperative, and on the right, near the beginning of one of the worst falls we had yet seen, we went into camp for the rest of the day. with false ribs made from oars we strengthened the boats and put them in condition for another day's hammering. it seemed as if we must have gone this day quite a long distance, but on footing up it was found to be no more than a mile and a quarter. darkness now fell early and big driftwood fires made the evenings cheerful. there was a vast amount of driftwood in tremendous piles, trees, limbs, boughs, railroad ties; a great mixture of all kinds, some of it lying full fifty feet above the present level of the river. there were large and small tree-trunks battered and limbless, the ends pounded to a spongy mass of splinters. our bright fires enabled us to read, or to write up notes and diaries. i think each one but the major and andy kept a diary and faithfully wrote it up. jack occasionally gave us a song or two from the repertory already described, and steward did not forget the mouth-organ, but through the hardest part of cataract canyon we were usually tired enough to take to our blankets early. in the morning we began the day by running a little rapid between our camp and the big one that we saw from there, and then we had to exert some careful engineering to pass below by means of the lines. this accomplished we found a repetition of the same kind of work necessary almost immediately, at the next rapid. in places we had to lift the boats out and slide them along on driftwood skids. these rapids were largely formed by enormous rocks which had fallen from the cliffs, and over, around, and between these it was necessary to manoeuvre the boats by lines to avoid the furious waters of the outer river. after dinner we arrived at a descent which at first glance seemed as bad as anything we had met in the morning but an examination showed a prospect of a successful run through it. the fall was nearly twenty feet in about as many yards. the major and prof. examined it long and carefully. a successful run would take two minutes, while a let-down would occupy us for at least two hours and it had some difficult points. they hesitated about running the place, for they would not take a risk that was not necessary, but finally they concluded it could be safely accomplished, and we pulled the _dean_ as quickly as possible into the middle of the river and swung down into it. on both sides the water was hammered to foam amidst great boulders and the roar as usual was deafening. just through the centre was a clean, clear chute followed by a long tail of waves breaking and snapping like some demon's jaws. as we struck into them they swept over us like combers on the beach in a great storm. it seemed to me here and at other similar places that we went through some of the waves like a needle and jumped to the top of others, to balance half-length out of water for an instant before diving to another trough. being in the very bow the waves, it appeared to me, sometimes completely submerged me and almost took my breath away with the sudden impact. at any rate it was lively work, with a current of fifteen or eighteen miles an hour. beaman had stationed himself where he could get a negative of us ploughing through these breakers, but his wet-plates were too slow and he had no success. after this came a place which permitted no such jaunty treatment. it was in fact three or four rapids following each other so closely that, though some might be successfully run, the last was not safe, and no landing could be made at its head, so a very long let-down was obligatory; but it was an easy one, for each crew could take its own boat down without help from the others. then, tired, wet, and cold as usual, we landed on the left in a little cove where there was a sandy beach for our camp 67. we had made less than four miles, in which distance there were six rapids, only two of which we ran. at another stage of water the number and character of these rapids would be changed; some would be easier at higher water, some harder, and the same would be true of lower water. rapids also change their character from time to time as rocks are shifted along the bottom and more rocks fall from the cliffs or are brought in by side floods. the walls were now about two thousand feet, of limestone, with a reddish stain, and they were so near together that the sun shone to the bottom only during the middle hours of the day in september. it was now september 24th; a bright and beautiful sunday broke, the sky above clear and tranquil, the river below foaming and fuming between the ragged walls in one continuous rapid with merely variations of descent. in three quarters of a mile we arrived before the greatest portion of the declivity, where, though there seemed to be a clear chute, we did not consider it advisable to make the run because of conditions following; neither could we make a regular let-down or a portage. the least risky method was to carry a line down and when all was ready start the boat in at the top alone. in this way when she had gone through, the men on the line below were able to bring her up and haul her in before reaching the next bad plunge. there was no quiet river anywhere; nothing but rushing, swirling, plunging water and rocks. we got past the bad spot successfully and went on making one let-down after another for about four miles, when we halted at noon for the rest of the day, well satisfied with our progress though in distance it appeared so slight. the afternoon was spent in repairing boats, working up notes, and taking observations. the cliffs were now some 2500 feet in height, ragged and broken on their faces, but close together, the narrowest deep chasm we had seen. it was truly a terrible place, with the fierce river, the giant walls, and the separation from any known path to the outer world. i thought of the major's first trip, when it was not known what kind of waters were here. vertical and impassable falls might easily have barred his way and cataracts behind prevented return, so that here in a death trap they would have been compelled to plunge into the river or wait for starvation. happly he had encountered no such conditions. an interesting feature of this canyon was the manner in which huge masses of rock lying in the river had been ground into each other by the force of the current. one block of sandstone, weighing not less than six hundred tons, being thirty or forty feet long by twenty feet square, had been oscillated till the limestone boulders on which it rested had ground into it at least two feet, fitting closely. another enormous piece was slowly and regularly rocking as the furious current beat upon it, and one could feel the movement distinctly. a good night's sleep made all of us fresh again, and we began the monday early. some worked on the boats, while beaman and clem went up "gypsum" canyon, as steward named it, for views, and the major and i climbed out for topographic observations. we reached an altitude above camp of 3135 feet at a point seven or eight miles back from the brink. the view in all directions was beyond words to describe. mountains and mountains, canyons, cliffs, pinnacles, buttes surrounded us as far as we could see, and the range was extensive. the sierra la sal, the sierra abajo, and other short ranges lay blue in the distance, while comparatively near in the south-west rose the five beautiful peaks just beyond the mouth of the dirty devil, composing the unknown range before mentioned. at noon we made coffee, had lunch, and then went on. it was four o'clock by the time we concluded to start back, and darkness overtook us before we were fairly down the cliffs, but there was a bright moon, and by its aid we reached camp. at half-past eight in the morning of september 26th we were again working our way down the torrential river. anybody who tries to go through here in any haphazard fashion will surely come to grief. it is a passage that can safely be made only with the most extreme caution. the walls grew straighter, and they grew higher till the gorge assumed proportions that seemed to me the acme of the stupendous and magnificent. the scenery may not have been beautiful in the sense that an alpine lake is beautiful, but in the exhibition of the power and majesty of nature it was sublime. there was the same general barrenness: only a few hackberry trees, willows, and a cottonwood or two along the margin of the river made up the vegetation. our first task was a difficult let-down, which we accomplished safely, to find that we could run two rapids following it and half of another, landing then to complete it by a let-down. then came a very sharp drop that we ran, which put us before another easy one, that was followed by a difficult bit of navigation through a bad descent, after which we stopped for dinner on the right at the head of another rapid. the cliffs now on both sides were about 2800 feet, one quarter mile wide at top, and in places striking me as being perpendicular, especially in the outer curve of the bends. the boats seemed to be scarcely more than chips on the sweeping current and we not worth mentioning. during the afternoon we halted a number of times for beaman to make photographs, but the proportions were almost too great for any camera. the foreground parts are always magnified, while the distances are diminished, till the view is not that which the eye perceives. before stopping for the night we ran three more rapids, and camped on the right on a sandbank at the head of another forbidding place. the record for the whole day was six and three quarter miles, with ten runs and two let-downs. at one bad place the _nell_ got too far over and laboured so heavily in the enormous billows that cap., who pulled the bow oars, was completely lost to sight and the boat was filled with water. only about thirty degrees of sky were visible as one looked directly up from our camp. a pretty canyon came in near camp, and some of us took a walk up its narrow way. [illustration: cataract canyon. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871.] in the morning beaman made some pictures, and it was eleven o'clock before we resumed our navigation. our first work was a let-down, which took an hour, and about a mile below we stopped for dinner on the left. then we continued, making eight miles more, in which distance we ran six rapids and made two line-portages. the last rapid was a bad one, and there we made one of the portages, camping at its foot on the left bank. the walls began to diminish in height and the river was less precipitous, as is apparent from the progress we were able to make. september 28th we began by running two rapids immediately below camp, and the _nell_ remained at the foot of the second to signal beaman in the _cañonita_, as he had stayed behind to take some views. another mile brought us to a rather bad place, the right having a vertical cliff about 2700 feet high, but the left was composed of boulders spread over a wide stretch, so that an excellent footing was offered. the major and prof. concluded to climb out here, instead of a point farther down called millecrag bend, and, appointing steward master of the let-down which was necessary, they left us. it was dinner-time when we got the boats below to a safe cove, and we were quite ready for the meal which andy meanwhile had been cooking. a beautiful little brook came down a narrow canyon on the left, and it was up this stream that the major went for a mile and a half and then climbed on the side. they were obliged to give it up and come back to the bottom. by this time it was too late to make another attempt, so they turned their backs on "failure creek," and, returning to us, said we would go on as soon as we had eaten the supper which andy was preparing. they would climb out at millecrag bend. andy had cooked a mess of beans, about the last we had, and what we did not eat we put on board in the kettle, which had a tight cover. the major's manner for a day or two had been rather moody, and when prof. intimated to me that we would have a lively time before we saw another camp, i knew some difficult passage ahead was on his mind; some place which had given him trouble on the first trip. about five o'clock we were ready; everything was made snug and tight on the boats, nothing being left out of the cabins but a camp kettle in each standing-room for bailing, and we cast off. each man had his life-preserver where he could get it quickly, and the major put his on, for with only one arm he could not do this readily in case of necessity. the current was swift. we were carried rapidly down to where the gorge narrowed up with walls vertical on each side for a height of fifty to one hundred feet. we soon dashed through a small rough rapid. a splash of water over our bow dampened my clothes and made the air feel chilly. the canyon was growing dim with the evening light. high above our heads some lazy clouds were flecked with the sunset glow. not far below the small rapid we saw before us a complicated situation at the prevailing stage of water, and immediately landed on the left, where there was footing to reconnoitre. a considerable fall was divided by a rocky island, a low mass that would be submerged with two or three feet more water, and the river plunging down on each side boiled against the cliffs. between us and the island the stream was studded by immense boulders which had dropped from the cliffs and almost like pinnacles stood above the surface. one view was enough to show that on this stage of water we could not safely run either side of the cataract; indeed destruction would surely have rewarded any attempt. the right-hand channel from the foot of the island swept powerfully across to meet the left-hand one and together they boomed along the base of the left-hand cliffs before swinging sharply to the right with the trend of the chasm in that direction. there was no choice of a course. the only way was to manoeuvre between the great boulders and keep in the dividing line of the current till a landing could be effected on the head of the island between the two falls. the difficulty was to avoid being drawn to either side. our boat went first and we succeeded, under the major's quick eye and fine judgment, in easily following the proposed course till the _dean_ began to bump on the rocks some twenty yards above the exposed part of the island. i tested the depth of water here with an oar as jack pulled slowly along, the current being quite slack in the dividing line, and as soon as practicable we jumped overboard and guided our craft safely to the island. prof. in the _nell_ was equally precise, and as he came in we waded out to catch his boat; but the _cañonita_ passed on the wrong side of one of the pinnacles and, caught in the left current, came near making a run of it down that side, which would have resulted disastrously. luckily they were able to extricate themselves and beaman steered in to us. had the water been only high enough to prevent landing on this island we would have been in a bad trap, but had it been so high as to make navigation down the centre possible the rapid might perhaps have been run safely. we were now on the island, with darkness falling, and the problem was to get off. while prof. and the major went down to the foot to make a plan we sat in the diminishing light and waited. it was decided to pull the boats down the right-hand side of the island as far as the foot of the worst part of the right-hand rapid, and from there cut out into the tail of waves, pulling through as quickly as we could to avoid contact with the base of the left wall along which the current dashed. we must pull fast enough to get across in the very short time it would take the river to sweep us down to the crucial point. the gorge by this time was quite sombre; even the clouds above were losing their evening colour. we must act quickly. our boat as usual made the first trial. as we shot out, jack and i bent to our oars with every muscle we possessed, the boat headed slightly upstream, and in a few seconds we were flying along the base of the cliffs, and so close that our starboard oars had to be quickly unshipped to prevent their being broken. in a few seconds more we were able to get out into the middle, and then we halted in an eddy to wait for the other boats. they came on successfully and in the gloaming we continued down the canyon looking for a place to camp, our hearts much lightened with our triumph over the difficult rapid. before long night was full upon us and our wet clothes made us shiver. about a mile below a warning roar dead ahead told us to make land at once, for it would be far from prudent to attack a rapid in the dark. fortunately there was here room to camp on some rocks and sand on the right. scarcely had we become settled than a tornado broke over the canyon and we were enveloped in a blinding whirl of rain and sand. each man clung to his blankets to prevent their departure and waited for the wind to pass, which it did in less than ten minutes. the storm-clouds were shattered and up the gorge, directly east from our position, from behind a thousand needle-like spires that serrated the top of the cliffs, the moon like a globe of dazzling silver rolled up with serene majesty, flooding the canyon with a bright radiance. no moon-rise could have been more dramatic. the storm-clouds were edged with light and the wet cliffs sparkled and glittered as if set with jewels. even the rapid below was resplendent and silvery, the leaping waves and the spray scintillating under the lustrous glare. morning brought a continuation of the rain, which fell in a deluge, driving us to the shelter of a projecting ledge, from which comparatively dry retreat we watched the rain cascades that soon began their display. everywhere they came plunging over the walls, all sizes, and varying their volume with every variation in the downpour. some dropped a thousand feet to vanish in spray; others were broken into many falls. by half-past eight we were able to proceed, running the rapid without any trouble, but a wave drenched me so that all my efforts to keep out of the rain went for nothing. by ten o'clock we had run four more rapids, and arrived at the place the major had named millecrag bend, from the multitude of ragged pinnacles into which the cliffs broke. on the left we camped to permit the major and prof. to make their prospective climb to the top. a large canyon entered from the left, terminating cataract canyon, which we credited with forty-one miles, and in which i counted sixty-two rapids and cataracts, enough to give any set of boatmen all the work they could desire. the major and prof. reached the summit at an altitude of fifteen hundred feet. they had a wide view over the unknown country, and saw mountains to the west with snow on their summits. snow in the canyons would not have surprised us now, for the nights were cold and we had warmth only in the middle of the day. near our camp some caves were discovered, twenty feet deep and nearly six feet in height, which had once been occupied by natives. walls had been laid across the entrances, and inside were corncobs and other evidences usual in this region, now so well known. pottery fragments were also abundant. another thing we found in the caves and also in other places was a species of small scorpion. these venomous creatures were always ready to strike, and somehow one got into andy's shoe, and when he put on the shoe he was bitten. no serious result seemed to follow, but his general health was not so good after this for a long time. he put tobacco on the wound and let it go. this was the second accident to a member of the party, which now had been out four months. [illustration: narrow canyon. photograph by best expedition, 1891.] the last day of september found us up before daylight, and as soon as breakfast was eaten, a small matter these days both in preparation and consumption, we pulled away, intending to reach the mouth of the dirty devil as soon as possible. the morning was decidedly autumnal, and when we arrived at a small rapid, where we had to get overboard to help the boats, nothing ever came harder than this cold bath, though it was confined to our legs. presently we saw a clear little rivulet coming in on the left, and we ran up to that shore to examine it, hoping it was drinkable. like the first party, we were on the lookout for better water to drink than the muddy colorado. the rivulet proved to be sulphurous and also hot, the temperature being about 91 f. we could not drink it, but we warmed our feet by standing in the water. the walls of this new canyon at their highest were about thirteen hundred feet, and so close together and straight that the major named it narrow canyon. its length is about nine miles. through half of the next rapid we made a let-down, running the remainder, and then, running two more below which were easy, we could see through to the end of the canyon, and the picture framed by the precipices was beautiful. the world seemed suddenly to open out before us, and in the middle of it, clear and strong against a sky of azure, accented by the daylight moon, stood the unknown mountains, weird and silent in their untrodden mystery. by this token we knew that the river of the satanic name was near, and we had scarcely emerged from narrow canyon, and noted the low bluffs of homogeneous red sandstone which took the place of the high cliffs, when we perceived a sluggish stream about 150 feet wide flowing through the barren sandstone on our right. landing on its west bank, we instantly agreed with jack sumner when on the first trip he had proclaimed it a "dirty devil." muddy, alkaline, undrinkable, it slipped along between the low walls of smooth sandstone to add its volume to that of the colorado. near us were the remains of the major's camp-fire of the other voyage, and there steward found a jack-knife lost at that time. at the major's request he gave it to him as a souvenir. our rising had been so early and our progress from millecrag bend so easy that when our camp was established the hour was only nine o'clock, giving us still a whole day. the major and prof. started off on an old indian trail to see if there was a way in to this place for horses, cap. took observations for time, and the others occupied themselves in various ways, andy counting the rations still left in our larder. that night around our camp-fire we felt especially contented, for cataract and narrow canyons were behind, and never would we be called upon to battle with their rapids again. the descent from the mouth of grand river was 430 feet, most of it in the middle stretch of cataract canyon. [illustration: the mouth of fremont river (the dirty devil river) photograph by the brown expedition, 1889] footnotes: [footnote 16: the pencil sketches i made on this trip were taken to washington, but i do not know what became of them.] [footnote 17: as mentioned in a previous footnote, the name d. julien--1836, was later found near this point and in two other places. all these inscriptions appear to be on the same side of the river, the east, and at accessible places.] [footnote 18: the next party to pass through this canyon was the brown expedition, conducting a survey for the denver, colorado canyon, and pacific railway in 1889. at the first rapid they lost a raft, with almost all their provisions, and they had much trouble. see _the romance of the colorado river_, chapter xiv. another expedition in 1891--the best expedition--was wrecked here.] chapter x the _cañonita_ left behind--shinumo ruins--troublesome ledges in the river--alcoves and amphitheatres--the mouth of the san juan--starvation days and a lookout for rations--el vado de los padres--white men again--given up for lost--navajo visitors--peaks with a great echo--at the mouth of the paria. having now accomplished a distance down this turbulent river of nearly six hundred miles, with a descent toward sea-level of 2645 feet, without a serious accident, we were all in a happy frame of mind, notwithstanding the exceedingly diminutive food supply that remained. we felt that we could overcome almost anything in the line of rapids the world might afford, and steward declared our party was so efficient he would be willing to "run the gates of hell" with them! barring an absence of heat cataract canyon had been quite a near approach to that unwelcome entrance, and the locality of the mouth of the dirty devil certainly resembled some of the more favoured portions of satan's notorious realm. circumstances would prohibit our lingering here, for our long stretch on short rations made the small amount we could allow ourselves at each meal seem almost like nothing at all, and we were desirous of reaching as soon as possible el vado, something over a hundred miles below, where our pack-train was doubtless now waiting. the plan of leaving a boat at this place for a party to bring down, which should penetrate the unknown country the next year and then complete what we might now be compelled to slight, was carried out. the _cañonita_ was chosen and the day after our arrival, sunday, october 1st, we ran her down a short distance on the right, and there carried her back about two hundred feet to a low cliff and up thirty or forty feet above the prevailing stage of water, where we hid her under an enormous mass of rock which had so fallen from the top as to lodge against the wall, forming a perfect shelter somewhat longer than the boat. all of her cargo had been left at camp and we filled her cabins and standing-rooms with sand, also piling sand and stones all about her to prevent high water from carrying her off. when we were satisfied that we had done our best we turned away feeling as one might on leaving a friend, and hoping that she would be found intact the following year. as nine o'clock only had arrived, the major and jones then climbed out from this place, while prof. with the _nell_ ran down about a mile and a half to the mouth of a gulch on the right where he and the major had traced the old trail. the rest of us returned to camp. prof. and cap. climbed out, after following the trail up the gulch six miles, and they saw that it went toward the unknown mountains, which now lay very near us on the west. steward got out by an attempt not so far up the canyon and reached an altitude of 1950 feet, where he had a clear, full view of the mountains. with his glass he was able to study their formation and determined that lava from below had spread out between the sedimentary strata, forming what he called "blisters." he could see where one side of a blister had been eroded, showing the surrounding stratification.[19] when the major and jones came back we put the cargo of the _cañonita_ on the _dean_, and all of us embarked, seven in number, and ran down to where the _nell_ was moored. here we camped for the night. the crews were then rearranged, beaman being assigned to my bow oars, clem and andy going in the _nell_, while i was to sit on the middle cabin of the _dean_ in front of the major, where i could carry on my sketching. we were now a shaggy-looking lot, for our clothes had been almost worn off our bodies in the rapids. our shoes, notwithstanding that the major had brought us a fresh supply at gunnison crossing, were about gone, and we were tanned till we could hardly have been distinguished from the old shinumos themselves; but we were clean. steward was a great lover of burns and could quote him by the page, though what he most liked to repeat just now was: "o wad some power the giftie gie us to see oursels as others see us!" i think the _address to the deil_ would have been appropriate for this particular environment, but i do not remember that steward quoted: "hear me, auld hangie, for a wee, an' let poor damned bodies be; i'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, e'en to the deil, to skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, an' hear us squeel!" the cargo of the _cañonita_ was distributed among the cabins of the _dean_ and the _nell_, and cap. was somewhat disturbed by having an addition to the bow compartment in the _nell_. each man had charge of a cabin and this was cap.'s special pride. he daily packed it so methodically that it became a standing joke with us, and we often asked him whether he always placed that thermometer back of the fifth rib or in front of the third, or some such nonsensical question, which of course cap. took in good part and only arranged his cabin still more carefully. the next morning, the 2d of october, at eight o'clock, we continued our voyage, now entering a new canyon, then called mound, but it was afterwards consolidated with the portion below called monument, and together they now stand as glen canyon. in about three and one half miles we ran several sharp little rapids, but they were not of much consequence, and we stopped to examine a house ruin we saw standing up boldly on a cliff on the left. it could be seen for a long distance in both directions, and correspondingly its inmates in the old days could see every approach. doubtless the trail we had seen on the right had its exit on the other side near it. the walls, neatly built of thin sandstone slabs, still stood about fifteen feet high and fifteen inches thick. the dimensions on the ground were 12 × 22 feet outside. it had been of two or three stories, and exhibited considerable skill on the part of the builders, the corners being plumb and square. under the brink of the cliff was a sort of gallery formed by the erosion of a soft shale between heavy sandstone beds, forming a floor and roof about eight or ten feet wide, separated by six or seven feet in vertical height. a wall had been carried along the outer edge, and the space thus made was divided by cross walls into a number of rooms. potsherds and arrow-heads, mostly broken ones, were strewn everywhere. there were also numerous picture-writings, of which i made copies. as we pulled on and on the major frequently recited selections from the poets, and one that he seemed to like very much, and said sometimes half in reverie, was longfellow's: "often i think of the beautiful town that is seated by the sea; often in thought go up and down the pleasant streets of that dear old town, and my youth comes back to me. and a verse of a lapland song is haunting my memory still: 'a boy's will is the wind's will, and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'" he would repeat several times, with much feeling: "a boy's will is the wind's will, and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." another thing he enjoyed repeating was whittier's _skipper ireson's ride_: "old floyd ireson, for his hard heart, tarred and feathered and carried in a cart by the women of marblehead!" towards evening we came to another shinumo ruin, where we made camp, having run altogether sixteen miles, with ten rapids, all small, between walls of red, homogeneous sandstone, averaging about one thousand feet in height. the river, some three hundred and fifty feet wide, was low, causing many shoals, which formed the small rapids. we often had to wade alongside to lighten the boats, but otherwise these places were easy. a trifle more water would have done away with them, or at least would have enabled us to ignore them completely. the house ruin at our camp was very old and broken down and had dimensions of about 20 × 30 feet. prof. climbed out to a point 1215 feet above the river, where he saw plainly the unknown mountains, navajo mountain, and a wide sweep of country formed largely of barren sandstone. steward felt considerably under the weather and remained as quiet as possible. in the morning we were quickly on the water, pushing along under conditions similar to those of the previous day, making twenty-seven miles and passing eleven very small rapids, with a river four hundred feet wide and the same walls of homogeneous red sandstone about one thousand feet high. the cliffs in the bends were often slightly overhanging, that is, the brink was outside of a perpendicular line, but the opposite side would then generally be very much cut down, usually to irregular, rounded slopes of smooth rock. the vertical portions were unbroken by cracks or crevices or ledges, being extensive flat surfaces, beautifully stained by iron, till one could imagine all manner of tapestry effects. along the river there were large patches of alluvial soil which might easily be irrigated, though it is probable that at certain periods they would be rapidly cut to pieces by high water. prof. again climbed out at our noon camp, and saw little but naked orange sandstone in rounded hills, except the usual mountains. in the barren sandstone he found many pockets or pot-holes, a feature of this formation, often thirty or forty feet deep, and frequently containing water. wherever we climbed out in this region we saw in the depressions flat beds of sand, surrounded by hundreds of small round balls of stone an inch or so in diameter, like marbles--concretions and hard fragments which had been driven round and round by the winds till they were quite true spheres.[20] the next day, october 4th, we ran into a stratum of sandstone shale, which at this low stage of water for about five miles gave us some trouble. ledge after ledge stretched across the swift river, which at the same time spread to at least six hundred feet, sometimes one thousand. we were obliged to walk in the water alongside for great distances to lighten the boats and ease them over the ridges. occasionally the rock bottom was as smooth as a ballroom floor; again it would be carved in the direction of the current into thousands of narrow, sharp, polished ridges, from three to twelve inches apart, upon which the boats pounded badly in spite of all exertions to prevent it. the water was alternately shallow and ten feet deep, giving us all we could do to protect the boats and at the same time avoid sudden duckings in deep water. with all our care the _nell_ got a bad knock, and leaked so fast that one man continually bailing could barely keep the water out. we repaired her at dinner-time, and, the shales running up above the river, we escaped further annoyance from this cause. even with this interference our progress was fairly good, and by camping-time we had made twenty-one miles. we had a rapid shallow river again the following day, october 5th, but the water was not so widely spread out and there were fewer delays. the walls were of orange sandstone, strangely cut up by narrow side canyons some not more than twenty feet wide and twisting back for a quarter of a mile where they expanded into huge amphitheatres, domed and cave-like. alcoves filled with trees and shrubs also opened from the river, and numerous springs were noted along the cliffs. twelve miles below our camp we passed a stream coming in on the left through a canyon about one thousand feet deep, similar to that of the colorado. this was the san juan, now shallow and some eight rods wide. we did not stop till noon when we were two miles below it near one of the amphitheatres or grottoes to which the first party had given the name of "music temple." the entrance was by a narrow gorge which after some distance widened at the bottom to about five hundred feet in diameter leaving the upper walls arching over till they formed a dome-shaped cavern about two hundred feet high with a narrow belt of sky visible above. in the farther end was a pool of clear water, while five or six green cottonwoods and some bushes marked the point of expansion. one side was covered with bright ferns, mosses, and honeysuckle. every whisper or cough resounded. this was only one of a hundred such places but we had no time to examine them. on a smooth space of rock we found carved by themselves the names of seneca howland, o. g. howland, and william dunn, the three men of the first party who were killed by the shewits in 1869. prof. climbed up eight hundred feet and had a fine view of navajo mountain which was now very near. we then chiefly called it mount seneca howland, applied by the major in memory of that unfortunate person but later, the peak already having to some extent been known as navajo mountain, that name was finally adopted. no one had ever been to it, so far as we knew, and the major was desirous of reaching the summit. [illustration: glen canyon. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871.] leaving the music temple, which seemed to us a sort of mausoleum to the three men who had marked it with their names, we soon arrived at a pretty rapid with a clear chute. it was not large but it was the only real one we had seen in this canyon and we dashed through it with pleasure. just below we halted to look admiringly up at navajo mountain which now loomed beside us on the left to an altitude of 10,416 feet above sea level or more than 7100 feet above our position, as was later determined. the major contemplated stopping long enough for a climb to the top but on appealing to andy for information as to the state of the supplies he found we were near the last crust and he decided that we had better pull on as steadily as possible towards el vado. we ran down a considerable distance through some shallows and camped on the left having accomplished about twenty miles in the day towards our goal. here the remaining food was divided into two portions, one for supper, the other for breakfast in the morning. though we were running so close to the starvation line we felt no great concern about it. we always had confidence in our ability somehow to get through with success. andy, particularly, never failed in his optimism. generally he took no interest in the nature of a rapid, lying half asleep while the others examined the place, and entirely willing to run anything or make a portage or even swim; he cared not. "nothing ever happens to any outfit i belong to," he would declare shifting to an easier position, "let her go!" and now so far as andy's attitude was concerned we might have possessed unlimited rations. jack lightened the situation yet more with his jolly songs and humorous expressions and no one viewing that camp would have thought the ten men had before them a possibility of several days without food, except what they might kill in the barren country, and perhaps a walk from el vado over an unknown trail about one hundred miles out to kanab. in the morning, friday, october 6th, we got away as quickly as we could and pulled down the river hoping that el vado was not far ahead and feeling somewhat as escalante must have felt a century before when he was trying to find it. he had the advantage of having horses which could be eaten from time to time. of course we knew from the position of the san juan and of navajo mountain, that we could reach el vado in at most two days, but the question was, "would we find any one there with rations?" the major apparently was unconcerned. he told me a story about a farmer's son in his neighbourhood when himself a boy who had no shoes, no good clothes, no decent hat, but who went to the father and declared he wanted a "buzzum pin," and nothing but a buzzum pin would he have, though his parent called his attention to his lack of other necessaries, one after the other. "no pa," the boy would repeat "i want a buzzum pin." [illustration: looking down upon glen canyon. cut through homogeneous sandstone. photograph by j. k. hillers, u. s. colo. riv. exp.] as we rowed along the major sang softly another of his favourites: "flow gently, sweet afton! among thy green braes, flow gently, i'll sing thee a song in thy praise; my mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream- flow gently, sweet afton, disturb not her dream." the almost vertical walls ran from two hundred to one thousand feet in height, cut by many very narrow side canyons opening into large glens or alcoves. on and on we steadily pulled till noon, making 13-1/2 miles when we stopped on the right on a sandstone ledge against a high cliff. andy had a few scraps left, among them a bit of bacon which jack enterprisingly used for baiting a hook and soon drew out several small fish, so that after all we had quite a dinner. the walls became more broken as we went on apparently with numerous opportunities for entrance from the back country, though the sandstone even where not very steep was so smooth that descent over it would be difficult. we had gone about three miles after dinner when we saw a burned place in the brush on the right where there was quite a large piece of bottom land. we thought this might be some signal for us but we found there only the tracks of two men and horses all well shod proving that they were not natives. about three miles farther down we caught a glimpse of a stick with a white rag dangling from it stuck out from the right bank, and at the same moment heard a shot. on landing and mounting the bank we found captain pardyn dodds and two prospectors, george riley and john bonnemort, encamped beside a large pile of rations. dodds was one of the men with old jacob who had tried desperately to reach the mouth of the dirty devil with our supplies. he thought he had arrived at a point where he could see it and went back to inform jacob when they received an order from the major to come to this place, el vado de los padres, by september 25th, and here he was. jacob had come with him but had gone on to fort defiance, the navajo agency, to settle some indian business, leaving him to guard the rations. having left kanab early in september they had no late news. they had become discouraged by our non-appearance and concluded that we would never be heard from again. consequently they had planned to cache the rations and leave for the settlement on sunday. that night andy was able to summon us to "go fur" the first "square" meal we had eaten for nearly a month. there was among the supplies some plug tobacco which we cut up, all but steward, prof., and cap. who did not smoke, and rolled in cigarettes with thick yellow paper, the only kind we had, having learned to make them spanish fashion from the hamblins, and we smoked around the fire talking to dodds and the prospectors over the general news. they told us they had found small quantities of gold along the river. a great many papers, magazines, and letters for everybody were in the packs supplying us with reading matter enough for weeks. though the papers were of ancient dates they were new to us. the whole next day was consumed in preparing maps, notes, specimens, fossils, etc., to be sent by pack-train to the settlement of kanab one hundred miles off whither the major himself had decided to start with the outfit the next morning and go from there to salt lake city about 400 miles north. none of us had a chance to write even a line to expectant relatives far away and we were naturally disappointed till prof. persuaded the major to hold over till tuesday which he willingly did when he realised the situation. we wrote late by the light of a diminutive fire, wood being scarce. he then left us on october 10th with jack, captain dodds, and the miners who had waited only to learn something about the river above as a place for prospecting. the trail up over the barren sandstone was so steep and smooth that two of the pack-animals lost their footing and rolled back to the bottom but received no injury except scraping the skin off their knees. not the least welcome articles among the supplies were a pair of good heavy shoes and a pair of strong overalls, which the foresight of the major had secured for each one of us, our clothing, as before mentioned, having been completely worn out. my watch, which i had carried all the way in a little rubber pocket sewed to my shirt near the neck, where it seldom got wet enough to stop it, though occasionally it refused to go till i punched it up with a large pin kept for the purpose, which my wicked companions called my "starting bar," at last had stopped permanently, and i sent it out by jack for repairs. after they had gone we settled down again to our accustomed labours. we were to run down thirty-five miles farther to the mouth of the paria, whence there was another known trail to the settlement, and cache the boats. the pack-train was to come back to us there with additional supplies and horses and take us out to kanab, where we were to make headquarters for our winter explorations in the practically unknown grand canyon region as well as in that to the eastward. during this interval we expected to discover some point between the paria and diamond creek where rations could be brought in to us while working through the grand canyon the next season. we did not then know that the winter is the safest and best time for making the passage through that wonderful gorge.[21] our appetites were now enormous, and as we could eat all we wanted, the supplies diminished in an astonishing way, but as we were soon to receive more we did not care. every man braced up; all but steward, who felt quite sick. jones began to feel trouble brewing in the leg which he had hurt at the junction; andy showed the effects of the scorpion bite by becoming thin and pale, thinner than our previous lack of rations justified; cap., who had been shot in the civil war through and through near the heart, now felt the effects of the long exposure; and neither clem nor beaman considered their health perfect. altogether, however, we had come through very well. our worst work was over for this year, and the maladies portending seemed not dangerous. prof., desiring to get some notes from up the river, went on the 11th, with cap., beaman, and clem, back six miles in the _dean_ to the foot of some rapid water they could not pass. arriving there about half-past twelve, they spent all afternoon going up numerous gulches, trying to find a way out. as there was a large area of bottom land, with old camp-fires and much broken pottery, they were sure there was a path, but it was late before they discovered a place where modern natives had piled brush and stones to make a horse trail, and another where the old shinumos for fifty feet had cut steps in the smooth rock. the party followed the shinumo trail, finding the steps in places almost worn out by time, in others still quite good and large enough to get the toe of a shoe in. by the time they came to the top it was too late for observations, and they returned to the river for camp, making the same climb by the steps the next day and securing the observations. they got back to our camp 79 late in the afternoon. meanwhile steward's illness had increased, and i spent much of the night trying to relieve his pain. the air was cold and he was most uncomfortable, the only shelter being a wickiup of boughs we had built to protect him from the sun. we had opium pills in our medicine chest, and i had the little flask of brandy referred to. with several of the pills and my brandy, which i at last persuaded him to take as medicine (he despised alcoholic drinks), his suffering was somewhat relieved, and he was able to lie still on his bed of willows. during the next day his condition was no better, and prof. returning, was much distressed by it. by drawing further on the medicine chest, which contained numerous remedies, he was able to relieve him a little more. the exposure had brought on a trouble of the back which had originally developed during the campaigns of the civil war. [illustration: tom. a typical navajo. photograph by wittick. tom became educated and no longer looked like an indian.] before leaving this point prof. wanted some observations from the heights, and he and cap. tried to climb the near-by cliffs, but failed. they then took a hammer and chisel, and by cutting "holds" in the sandstone after the manner of the old shinumos, they got up 850 feet and secured the bearings prof. desired. the following day they went out on the trail toward kanab five miles, trying to find another point of exit to the summit, but did not succeed. while they were gone we heard a sudden shout, and saw an indian standing on the rocks not far away. we beckoned for him to come, and thereupon he fell back to another, and together they approached. we saw by their dress, so different from the ute (red turbans, loose unbleached cotton shirts, native woven sashes at the waist, wide unbleached cotton trousers reaching to a little below the knee and there slashed up on the outer side for seven or eight inches, bright woven garters twisted around their red buckskin leggins below the knee, and red moccasins with turned up soles and silver buttons), that they were navajos.[22] they indicated that they were father and son, the father announcing himself in a lordly way as "agua grande." he was over six feet tall and apparently sixty or seventy years old. the son was a fine young lad of about fifteen. their bearing was cordial, yet proud and dignified. they had not long been with us when prof. came in, and during the next hour seven more navajos arrived, all dressed very much as the first ones were. they expressed great friendliness by embracing us after their custom and delivering long speeches, of which we understood not a word. one had a short black mustache which came straight out sidewise and then turned at right angles down past the corners of his mouth. i never had heard of an indian with a mustache before. they had no visible firearms, being armed with strong bows and cougar-skin quivers full of iron-headed arrows.[23] old agua grande became much interested in our sick man, and made signs by placing two spread fingers of one hand inverted upon one finger held horizontally of the other hand, and moving them north-westerly to indicate that he ought to ride out to the mormon settlement, whither they were bound, and that they would take him along. as the chief had exhibited a document, signed by the agent at fort defiance, to the effect that he and his band were peaceable and going on a trading expedition to the mormon settlements, we felt certain they would take good care of the invalid, but steward said he preferred to remain with us. we now had no further work for this immediate locality, and concluded to run down a mile or so to separate ourselves from the navajos, one having disclosed a tendency to surreptitiously appropriate small articles belonging to us. a bed was made on the middle deck of one of the boats for steward, and when all was ready we carried him down to it. the navajos ranged themselves along the bank to see us off, and clem, with his customary urbanity, went down the line all smiles, shaking each one cordially by the hand, and requesting him to "give my love to all the folks at home," and "remember me, please, to eliza jane," and similar expressions. the navajos did not understand the words, but being themselves great jokers they saw that it was fun, and they all laughed, making remarks which doubtless were of the same kind. just below was el vado de los padres by which these navajos had now come across. it was also sometimes called the ute ford. the necessary route was indicated by a line of small piles of stones showing above water. it was not an easy crossing, feasible only at low water, and quite impossible for waggons, even had there been a road to it. a shoal was followed up the middle of the river half a mile with deep channels cutting through it, reached from the south over a steep slope of bare sandstone and from the north through a very narrow, small canyon, not over ten feet wide. escalante in 1776, after the failure of his attempt to reach california, had great difficulty in finding the place, which for centuries has been known to all the tribes of the region. about three miles below our last camp we landed on the left on a very pretty piece of bottom land, inaccessible except by river, being bounded behind by a high, vertical, unscalable wall. here we made camp 80, with plenty of food, water, and wood, and all were comfortable by a fine fire; all but steward, who, feeling very sick, was lying on the bed we had prepared for him. he had another bad night, but after this his condition seemed gradually to improve. [illustration: glen canyon. sentinel rock--about 300 feet high. photograph by e. o. beaman, 1871.] prof.'s favourite quotation now was charles fenno hoffman's poem: "we were not many--we who stood before the iron sleet that day; yet many a gallant spirit would give half his years if but he could have been with us at monterey." in the morning he went with jones across the river and climbed out while the rest of us did nothing but lie around camp doing what was possible to make steward comfortable. it was sunday as well and whenever practicable we rested the whole or part of that day. monday we started late and ran only a short distance before dinner which we ate on the right. steward still was unable to sit up and he was carried on the middle deck of the _nell_ where he had a rope to cling to so that he should not roll off into the water when the boat lurched. toward evening we camped at the head of a small rapid near a fine little stream coming in from the left which we named navajo creek. the river was about four hundred feet wide with walls on each side of four hundred feet in height. the next morning prof., cap. and i climbed out for bearings reaching an altitude a mile or so back from the river of 875 feet. everywhere we discovered broken pottery, fragments of arrow-heads, and other evidences of former shinumo occupancy. even granting only a few persons at each possible locality, the canyons of the colorado and green must have been the former home of a rather large population. in the afternoon we ran the little rapid and kept on for about six miles making twenty in all from el vado, when we camped on a heavy talus on the left. the following morning, october 18th, we had not gone more than a mile when we came to a singular freak of erosion, a lone sandstone pinnacle on the right, three hundred or four hundred feet high, the river running on one side and a beautiful creek eight feet wide on the other. we named these sentinel rock and sentinel creek and camped there for beaman to get some photographs. prof. and i went up the creek and tried to climb out for observations, but though we made three separate attempts we had to give it up. steward grew so much better that he was able to walk a little, but now jones began to feel more pain in his injured leg. on thursday, the 19th, we made nearly seven miles between walls about eight hundred feet high and one quarter of a mile apart, so nearly vertical that we could not get out. the next day we ran six miles more with walls one thousand feet high, camping at a place where there was a wide bottom with many signs of old native camps, probably navajo. in the morning prof., cap., and i climbed a steep slope of bright orange sand a little below our camp, a rather hard task as the sand was loose, causing us to slip backward at every step. after twelve hundred or fifteen hundred feet of this kind of climbing we reached the base of three rocky peaks several hundred feet higher. we had considerable difficulty in surmounting one of these, being forced around to the opposite side, where there was a sheer descent from our position of some fifteen hundred feet, with sharp black rocks at the bottom where any one slipping would fall. there were some narrow transverse crevices in the rock by means of which we got up. one man, having been pushed aloft from the solid ledge by the two below, would lie back against the slope, brace himself with one heel in a transverse fissure, and lower the free foot as a handhold for the others to mount by. the next trouble was a crevice wide enough for us to pass through to the top, but holding exactly midway a large rock lodged in such a manner that we could not crawl under and yet seeming in danger of rolling down if we went over it. it was precarious not only for the man ahead who tried to pass but for those below waiting for results, but it was more firmly wedged than it appeared to be and each one in turn climbed over it. emerging from this crack we were on the summit 2190 feet above the river and 5360 above the sea, with standing room no more than six or eight feet square. the view was superb. the peaks formed the northern end of a long line of cliffs running back to the south at the end of glen canyon, and we looked out across a wonderful region, part of that on the south being the "painted desert," so called by ives. mountains solid and solitary rose up here and there and line upon line of strangely coloured cliffs broke across the wide area, while from our feet stretching off to the south-west like a great dark dragon extending miles into the blue was the deep gorge of marble canyon, its tributary chasms appearing like mighty sprawling legs. far away west were the san francisco mountains, and the kaibab, while behind we saw navajo mountain and others. this peak, or cluster of peaks, of course had never been named, had never been climbed before, but they soon named themselves. for amusement i tried to shoot into the river with cap.'s 44 remington revolver. as i pulled the trigger the noise was absolutely staggering. the violent report was followed by dead silence. while we were remarking the intensity of the crash, from far away on some distant cliffs northward the sound waves were hurled back to us with a rattle like that of musketry. we tried again with the same result, the interval between the great roar and the echo being twenty-four seconds by the watch. we could call the place nothing but echo peaks, and since then the name has been applied also to the line of cliffs breaking to the south. our descent was easy and we reached camp without any incident except the loss of my sheath knife. nobody did anything the next day, for it was sunday, so when monday morning came we were eager to be off for the mouth of the paria, which we had seen from the top of echo peaks. two or three miles down we reached it; a small river coming through a great canyon on the right. the cliffs of glen canyon broke back south-westerly and south-easterly in a v form with the point at the foot of glen canyon, leaving a wide platform of different rock rising gently from under them and mounting steadily toward the south. into the middle of this the river immediately slashed a narrow gorge very much as a staircase might be cut through a floor, beginning the next canyon of the series, called marble, through which we would not descend till the following year. we went into camp on the left bank of the paria and the right of the colorado, camp 86, in the tall willows. a rough scow lay there, which the major had built the year before when on his way from kanab to the moki towns, for there is no ford. we were to wait here for our pack-train which the major, on arriving at kanab, was to start back with rations and some extra horses. our altitude was 3170 feet, showing a total descent for the season of 2905 feet, 913 feet from gunnison crossing. our work on the water for the present was now over; we would pursue it with mule and pack instead of with boats. as the 23d of october had arrived we were glad to avoid daily saturation. footnotes: [footnote 19: these blisters were later called laccolites by g. k. gilbert after his careful study of the locality. see his _geology of the henry mountains_, published by the government.] [footnote 20: the illustration on page 43 of _the romance of the colorado_ well shows the character of the glen canyon country, and that on page 63 the nature of the pot-holes.] [footnote 21: we learned later that while we were working through cataract canyon, lieutenant george m. wheeler, u. s. engineers, was coming up from fort mohave. after great labour he reached the mouth of diamond creek, see _the romance of the colorado_, chapter xii.] [footnote 22: for further description of the navajo costume, see _the north americans of yesterday_, by f. s. dellenbaugh, pp. 148, 150.] [footnote 23: like all the tribes of the region of that time, the navajos considered the mormons a different people from the americans. they had been at war with the mormons, from whom they stole horses and cattle, and there had been some bloodshed. old jacob had induced them to make peace, and this party now on its way to trade was the first to try the experiment. vanquished by our troops, a few years before, the navajos were very poor and anxious to acquire live stock and firearms, for which they had blankets and other articles of their own make to trade.] chapter xi more navajos arrive with old jacob--the lost pack-train and a famished guide--from boat to broncho--on to kanab--winter arrives--wolf neighbours too intimate--preparing for geodetic work--over the kaibab to eight-mile spring--a frontier town--camp below kanab--a mormon christmas dance. at the mouth of the paria we established ourselves for a stay of several days. not only did we have the pack-train to wait for, but there were maps to finish, boats to cache, and all manner of things to attend to before we could leave for the winter. steward recovered so that he could slowly walk around, but to balance this jones developed inflammatory rheumatism in both knees, but especially in the one which had been injured by the fall at the junction. though he was perfectly cheerful about it, he suffered excruciating pain, and was unable to move from the bed of willows which we made for him. the medicine chest was drawn on again, and we hoped that the attack would not last long. andy remained wan and thin, but he insisted on sticking to his work. so liberally had we used our rations that we were nearing the end, and we began to look hopefully in the direction from which we expected the pack-train to arrive. four days passed and still there was no sign of it. we had to put ourselves on half-rations once more, and prof. declared that if the train did not soon arrive either he or i, being the only entirely well members of the party, would have to walk out to kanab and obtain relief. none of us knew anything about the trail. on the 26th prof. and i climbed the cliffs back of camp to a height of two thousand feet, and had a remarkable view similar to that from echo peaks. on saturday, october 28th, in the morning we were surprised to hear from the opposite or south side of the river an indian yell, and looking across we perceived what appeared to be three natives, with horses, standing on the edge of the canyon wall, here very low. we prepared one of the boats to cross and find out what was wanted, when a fourth figure joined the group, and in good english came the words, "g-o-o-d m-o-r-n-i-n-g," long drawn out. on landing we were met by a slow-moving, very quiet individual, who said he was jacob hamblin. his voice was so low, his manner so simple, his clothing so usual, that i could hardly believe that this was utah's famous indian-fighter and manager. with him were three other white men, isaac haight, george adair, joe mangum, and nine navajos, all on their way to the mormon settlements. they desired to be put across the river, and we willingly offered the services of ourselves and our boats. some of the navajos had never before seen so large a stream, and were free to express their surprise. we took on board jacob and one or two others, and after landing them made several trips with both boats to ferry the rest over, including all their saddles and baggage. the navajos were rather afraid of the boats, which to them probably looked small and wobbly, but they all got on board with much hilarity, except one who preferred to swim. he struck boldly out with a sort of dog-paddle stroke. having no confidence in his swimming ability, we followed closely. the water was cold; the distance greater than the navajo had imagined. before he was one third of the way over he consented to be pulled into our boat and finish the passage that way. the horses were towed over, swimming behind the boats, a rope being held by a man sitting in the stern. there was a rapid not far below, and we feared if driven in to swim loose they might be drawn into it. one horse refused to swim or even to try, and made repeated efforts to plunge his head under, giving us a lot of trouble, but by holding his head close to the boat we towed him across in spite of his opposition. without the boat he would surely have gone down the river. when everybody and everything were safely across the hour was so late that jacob concluded to camp with us for the night.[24] the navajos were found to be a very jolly set of fellows, ready to take or give any amount of chaff, and perfectly honest. they were taking blankets of their manufacture to trade for horses and sheep. their spirits ran high, they sang their wild songs for us, and we had the liveliest evening we had seen in many a month. finally we joined in a circle with them, dancing and singing around the smouldering fire, while the chief konéco, a noble-looking fellow, sitting at one side, with a patriarchal expression, monotonously drummed an accompaniment with a willow root on the bottom of one of the camp-kettles. when any of us would stumble on a stick they were all convulsed with laughter. the blankets they had were beautiful, and jacob possessed one valued at $40, which had taken seventy days to make. after the navajos had gone to rest we listened to some mormon songs by jacob's party. they left us the next morning, sunday, october 29th, prof. obtaining from jacob some red mexican beans to eke out our supplies; also a description of the trail. i traded a cap i happened to have to one of the navajos for his feather plume, and a pair of shoes to one of the white men for some mishongnuvi moccasins. monday we took the _dean_ across the river, and some distance down we hauled her by means of ropes up high above the water under a large rock, where we concealed her well. then we made five caches near camp of goods not needed till next year, covering our traces by fires and other devices. jones was so much improved that he managed to hobble about on a pair of crutches i had made for him out of strong willow sticks, and we felt much encouraged as to his ability to stand riding when the time came to start for kanab. on tuesday we built a shelter back of camp for the _nell_ and housed her there. the next day was the first of november and we thought surely the pack-train would come, but the sun went down behind the cliffs and no one arrived. prof. could not understand what the trouble was, but he went on with his observations. the next morning, as we were about to eat our bean breakfast beside the fire, we were astonished by the extremely cautious appearance through the willows, without a word of announcement, of a single, ragged, woebegone, silent old man on as skinny and tottering a pony as ever i saw. the old man was apparently much surprised to find himself here, and with the exclamation, "my god! i have found you!" he dropped to the ground. when at last he spoke he said his name was mangum of kanab, and that he had been employed to guide our pack-train, of which riley, one of the prospectors we had met at el vado, was leader. "well, where is the train?" we asked, for if he were all that remained of it we wanted to know it soon. "several miles back on the trail," he said. not having eaten a mouthful since the morning before it was no wonder he was weak and silent. we gave him the best breakfast we could command from our meagre stock and then like a spectre he vanished on his scrawny steed up the paria canyon. all the day long we watched and waited for his triumphal return with the longed-for supplies at his back, but the sun departed without his approach and the twilight died into that mystery which leaves the world formless against the night. and still we had faith in the stranger's story. early the next morning prof., clem, and i started on his track thinking we would soon meet the train. it led us up the valley of the paria, between the great cliffs about three miles, and then we had another surprise, for it swung sharply to the right and climbed a steep sandy slope towards the only apparent place where the two-thousand-foot cliffs could possibly be scaled with horses. we saw that he had followed a very old indian trail. when we had mounted to the base of the vertical rocks we travelled zig-zagging back and forth across the face of the precipice till presently the trail passed through a notch out upon the plateau. from an eminence we now scanned the whole visible area without discovering anything that apparently had not been there for several thousand years. save the coming and going tracks of our strange visitor there was nothing to show that any living animal had trod this place in centuries. we could see to where prof. and i previously climbed to this same plateau, and to-day was like yesterday and yesterday like the year before last. time and the years were as little grains of drifting sand. leaving clem as a sentinel on our observation point prof. followed the out track and told me to follow the in till three o'clock. it was now high noon. i walked on and on through an arid, wonderful maze of sand, rocks, and cacti, feeling that the old horseman was no more than a phantom, when in half an hour i almost fell upon our lost pack-train meandering slowly and silently through a depression. i fired our signal shots and prof. soon joined us. the situation was precarious. the animals were nearly dead from thirst, one had been abandoned, and riley was in a state of pent-up rage that was dangerous for the spectre guide, who had nearly been the destruction of the whole outfit, for he did not know the trail and was himself lost. of course he blamed riley--it was his only defence. riley broke loose in a string of fiery oaths, declaring he would shoot "the old fool," then and there. but receiving no encouragement from prof. or me he didn't. there was a third member of the party, joe hamblin, a son of jacob, a very sturdy young fellow. he said afterwards that he thought often that riley would "sure let daylight through the old man." our next care was to successfully manoeuvre the pack-animals down the difficult trail across the face of the cliff, which had not seen a horse for many a year and probably never had been traversed by animals with packs on their backs. we had to watch that they did not crowd each other off, but with all our exertions one fell and rolled down a few feet. he was not injured and we continued the descent, finally reaching the bottom without so much as a scratch of any consequence. there, at the paria, the horses enjoyed the first full drink for several days and we followed it down to camp. riley had started from kanab october 23d and had been twelve days making a journey that required at most only four or five by the regular trail. mangum had not known the way, had led toward el vado, and his finding the indian trail to the mouth of the paria was an accident. provisions were now plenty again, and by the light of a big fire we overhauled the mail, finding letters, newspapers and magazines enough to satisfy any party. word was received from the major to move to a place called house rock spring, and prof. said we would leave camp 86 on november 5th, which gave us a day intervening in which to pack up. about noon of this packing day we were not surprised when two horsemen, haight and riggs, galloped into camp at full speed leading a lightly laden pack-mule. they had come through in two and one half days, at top speed, by direction of jacob, who on reaching kanab with the navajos learned that our pack-train had left long before, and he had seen nothing of it. on the pack-mule were fifty pounds of flour and several rolls of butter; the first time we had seen any of this latter article since the final breakfast at field's on may 22d. they were greatly relieved to know that the train was found and that all was well. they brought news of the burning of chicago about a month before. in the evening isaac haight favoured us with some mormon songs and recited examples of the marvellous curative effects of the mormon "laying on of hands." heavy clouds had settled along the face of the cliffs and the air grew wintry. we felt the chill keenly, as we were not clad for cold weather. in the morning snow began to drop gently out of the leaden sky and continued all day, preventing any one from starting. soon the cliffs and echo peaks were white and we knew that now autumn was gone. toward evening the sun flared across the rocky landscape, turning everything to gold, and we believed the next day would be fair. we were not disappointed. monday the 6th of november came sharp and cold. haight, riggs, mangum, and joe hamblin left early and we got under way as soon as we could. with two very sick men and a new method of travel it was not easy. we had to learn the art of packing on mules and horses from riley, who was an expert in this line and who could "sling the diamond hitch" with great skill. he was just as handy with a lasso and seldom missed if he wished to catch an animal, but prof. did not approve of the lasso method, for it makes stock wild and unmanageable. his way was the quiet one and he was right, for we soon had the entire herd so that there was no rumpus at starting-time. with a free use of the lasso preparations to start partake of the activity of a tornado. steward by this time was able to walk slowly. andy was well enough to travel on his feet, but jones could not move at all without crutches. we did not have extra horses for all to ride, so steward and andy changed off, while the rest of us had to walk. jones we lifted as gently as possible, though it was pain even to be touched in his condition, upon riley's special horse called doc, a well-trained, docile animal, who walked off with him. it was after noon before the start was accomplished, and meanwhile i went back on the incoming trail of the lost pack-train to the foot of the steep precipice for riley's canteen, which had been forgotten there, and when i returned all were gone but steward, clem, and beaman, who had remained behind to round up a young steer which had been driven in with the train for us to convert into beef at a convenient opportunity. as the advance party travelled very slowly we soon caught them, the steer being gentle as a kitten. the trail followed south along the foot of the cliffs which emerged from paria canyon, and to which the major had given the name of vermilion on account of their rich red colour. we wound in and out of deep alcoves, around the heads of impassable lateral canyons running to the colorado, and past enormous rocks balanced in every conceivable position on extremely slender pedestals. after about eight miles we arrived at a diminutive spring, which gave enough water for andy to make bread and coffee with, but none for the stock. there we camped. a few armfuls of scraggy sage-brush furnished wood for a fire, but it was not enough to make our invalids comfortable, and the night was cold and raw. we did all we could for them and they did not grumble. in the morning a pair of bronchos--that is, recently broken wild horses--made the camp lively for a time, but they were subdued and the caravan again got under way. our next camp was to be jacob's pools, so called from the fact that jacob was the first white man to camp there. we had gone only a mile or so when we crossed in a small canyon a little stream already enjoying two names, clear and spring (now called badger) creek, and a little farther on another called soap creek, still holding that name.[25] when first travellers enter a country they naturally bestow names on important objects, and two or three parties of white men who had passed this way had named these two creeks. after this we had no more water, and we pushed slowly ahead, looking for the pools. snow began to fall again in widely scattered, reluctant flakes, but melted on touching the ground. late in the afternoon the trail turned the corner of the cliffs, which here broke to the west, and we saw a wide, desolate open plain stretching away to the foot of a distant table-land, which we knew to be the kaibab plateau or buckskin mountain. none of the party had been over the trail before, but it was easy to follow, especially for a man of riley's experience. it was an old navajo trail, and was here fairly well worn. the sun went down as we plodded on, the light faded from the west, and still we saw no jacob's pools. the air was biting, and with our thin, worn garments we felt it keenly and wished for a fire. at last just as the darkness began to thicken a patch of reeds on the right between some low hills was discovered, where it seemed there might be water, and we could not well go farther. the ground was moist, and by digging a hole we secured red, muddy liquid enough for andy to make a little bread and a cup apiece of very poor coffee. the men and animals came straggling in out of the darkness. we gathered a lot of sage-brush and made a fire, and as soon as jones came we lifted him off and put him as near the warmth as possible, for he was chilled through. there was no water for the stock, but the grass was wet and they did not suffer. everything was damp and uncomfortable, and the fire was too small to dry anything out, so all turned in to the limited blankets and passed a cold, half-sleepless, uncomfortable night. morning was a relief, though the thermometer stood at 11 f. there was water enough in the holes for breakfast, and as soon as this meal was over the pack-train was on the move towards jacob's pools, which we found not two miles farther on. there were two of them, each seven or eight feet long, supplied by fine clear water oozing out of a hill-side. the lower one we turned over to the animals, reserving the upper for ourselves. we approached the plateau all day, and late in the afternoon we were within three or four miles of it, when the right-hand cliffs turned sharply to the north in a line parallel with the plateau, forming a long narrow valley. cedars and piñons now grew about us, so that we were assured of a good fire. about sunset we passed two large boulders which had fallen together, forming a rude shelter, under which riggs or some one else had slept, and then had jocosely printed above with charcoal the words "rock house hotel." afterward this had served as identification, and jacob and the others had spoken of "house rock" spring and house rock valley. we called it the same, and finally it went on the maps and is now permanent. a few yards beyond the house rock the trail led into a gulch, at the head of which was a good spring. plenty of cedars and piñons grew about, and we soon had a fire that compensated for the meagre ones of the preceding nights. the sick men became warm and dry, and we all felt much better. the whole outfit halted two days, and on the second the poor little steer, gazing sadly at us, was shot and cut up. in an hour the quarters were swinging from a tree and some of the beef was in the pan. necessity is a sauce that makes every grist palatable. we were hungry, and nothing could have tasted better than that fresh beefsteak. the entrails and refuse were left on the ground in the neighbouring gulley where we had killed the steer, and next morning the place was about cleaned up by the lurking wolves. prof. decided to go on across the kaibab to kanab with the two very sick men, and leave cap., clem, andy, and me here at house rock spring until the plan for the winter's campaign had been better formulated. steward concluded that his condition was too precarious to risk further exposure, and said he would now leave the expedition permanently, which we learned with deep regret, but it was plainly imperative. jones thought that a week or two of warmth and rest, accompanied by a change of diet, would make him whole again and enable him to stay till the end of our special task. on saturday, november 11th, the party started, with the invalids riding the gentlest and easiest horses, though steward found it less painful at times to walk. i accompanied them to the summit of the kaibab to bring back one of the horses we called thunderbolt, on which jones was to be carried to the top and there change to doc. after i left them i halted many times to look out into the wonderful land to the west and north. when i got back to the spring, our camp 3 of the land operations, we immediately set up a stout 6 by 8 tent that was in the outfit brought from kanab, and it made a very snug sleeping-place for the four of us. around the fire we rolled big stones for seats, and soon had the gulch in a homelike condition. there was an abundance of dead, fat piñon, which burned like a candle, and we could easily extend our reading into the evenings. from all around us there arose the frequent bay and bark of the wolves. they were of different kinds, numerous and rather bold. at night they came in and cleared up what was left of the entrails of the steer, also securing a fine, large piece of beef which cap. had hung in a tree, but not high enough to escape their efforts. we took turns bringing the four horses left with us to water, and in that way kept ourselves informed about them. during these trips, especially in the late afternoon, the wolves were apt to trot along near by, and on one occasion clem was obliged to drive one out of the trail with stones, not having his rifle. one morning, as i was riding along not far from camp, a huge whitish fellow followed behind like a dog about twenty yards back, licking his chaps. at first i thought he might be the dog of some indian camped near, but remembering that there were none in the valley, and also that an indian dog, or any strange dog, would have run from me, i saw that he was a hungry wolf unused to man. i had no rifle with me, but i took a walk over the same ground next morning with my winchester, hoping to see my acquaintance again, but he discreetly kept out of sight. we had little now to occupy us except to examine the locality, chop wood for our fire, and read over and over the newspapers and magazines. the nights were very cold, the spring always freezing over, but the days were delightful. the beef had to be jerked to preserve it. we cut it up into thin long strips, which we strung through the ends on long withes, these in turn being hung on a framework that left the strips swinging within two or three feet of a slow fire. one hour's neglect of this tempting array would have seen it vanish to the four winds, so we kept a constant watch day and night, taking turns through the dark hours. every article which had grease or leather about it had to be carefully put away to prevent its disappearance. riley had lost his spurs on the way out from this cause, the leather on them making sweet morsels for the watchers. cap. concluded to profit by this appetite, and in an adjoining gulch he built a trap between two rocks, in which he set his remington six-shooter, so that a wolf picking up a scrap of beef would pull the trigger by a string and receive the ball in his head. that night during my watch over the beef i roasted a piece on a stick for a lunch, and as the savory odour drifted off on the crisp winter air howl after howl of ravenous desire rang out from many directions, followed by the bang of the revolver in the trap. cap. went over, but found no game, though later he often came back with a fine large specimen, bearing a perfect coat of fur, which cap. always removed by the firelight at once. about every night except sunday, when cap. refused to set the trap--for he never did any work on that day that was not absolutely necessary--there was a fatal shot, and he accumulated a lot of excellent large skins, which he tacked on trees to preserve them. he thought he had put them up securely high, but one morning every skin had disappeared. the wolf relatives had carried them away to the last shred. [illustration: the grand canyon. from havasupai point, south rim, showing inner gorge. from a sketch in colour by f. s. dellenbaugh, 1907.] the kaibab was too far away for us to go there to hunt deer, and there were none around the spring, though one night at supper-time, the western sky being a broad sweep of deep orange, we saw a large wild animal of some sort on the crest of the hill silhouetted against the colour. i started for it with my rifle, but of course it did not wait; no animal ever does if he can help it, unless he is carnivorous and famished. the weather remained generally fair, though one day we had a wild gale that nearly relieved us of the tent in the midst of thick flurries of snow. we often climbed among the cliffs, and everywhere we found picture-writings, poles laid up, stepping-stones, fragments of pottery, arrowheads, and other evidences of former occupation. the poles and stones may have been placed by the pai utes as well as by the old shinumos, who once were numerous over all this country. cap. was by no means well. an extreme nervousness connected with the old gunshot wound developed, and he said he felt sure he could not continue the work in the field during the winter, much less go through the grand canyon with us the next year. clem also felt under the weather, and besides was growing homesick. he confided to me one day that he also had concluded not to remain with us. as there was little the matter with him i undertook to argue him out of his determination not to go through the grand canyon, pointing out the disappointment he would feel when we had accomplished the passage and he realised that he might as well have come along. this produced some impression, but i was uncertain as to its lasting result. by november 17th we began with confidence to look for some one to come over the mountains from kanab, and just after sunset we heard riley's long shrill "ee--ii--oooooooo," which he could deliver upon the air in such a fashion that it carried for miles. presently prof. and he rode into our camp with fresh supplies and a great bundle of mail that included papers giving the details of the burning of chicago. prof. with cap. then reconnoitred the neighbourhood, and on the 21st he returned to kanab, leaving us as before, except that riley remained two days longer. the major had not yet arrived at kanab from salt lake and our winter work could not begin till he came. the days rolled by with occasional rain and snow and we began to grow impatient with our inaction, especially when november passed away. the second day of december was fading when we distinguished in the distance the familiar riley yell, and in a little while he came into view with welcome news. we were to move at once to a spring eight miles from kanab. he also brought some apples, native raisins and a large canteen full of fresh wine from "dixie" as the country along the virgin was called. these luxuries together with a number of letters from home made that night one of the most cheerful we had known for a long time. monday morning, december 4th we left house rock spring behind with our pack-train, followed the trail across the open valley, climbed two thousand feet to the top of the kaibab, and were soon traversing the forest on its broad summit. riley having been over the trail now several times we went ahead steadily, and about sunset arrived at the farther side of a narrow longitudinal depression of the top which cap. immediately put down in his notes as summit valley, a name that holds to-day. there we threw off our packs and made camp for the night. though there was no water the ground was covered by a thin layer of snow, that made the long bunch grass palatable to the horses and for ourselves we had sufficient water in two small kegs and several canteens. a bright fire blazed cheerfully, the dense cedars broke the wind, and everybody felt that it was a fine camp. the others spent the evening playing euchre by firelight, but i preferred to read till bedtime. the next morning, after crossing some rough gulches, we came to the western edge of the great plateau, and emerging from the forest of pine and cedar we saw again the magnificent, kaleidoscopic, cliff country lying to the north. first about twenty miles away was a line of low chocolate-coloured cliffs, then a few miles back of this the splendid line of the vermilion cliffs, the same which began at the mouth of glen canyon and which we had skirted to house rock spring. from there the line continued northward till it passed around the north end of the kaibab, when it struck southwesterly far to our left, where it turned back to the north again, forming one of the longest and finest cliff ranges anywhere to be seen. above them and some miles still farther back, rising higher, was a line of greyish cliffs following the trend of the vermilion, and still above these was the broken meandering face of the pink cliffs, frosted with snow, whose crest marks the southeastern limit of fremont's "great basin," the end of the high plateaus, and tops the country at an altitude of some 11,000 feet above sea-level. a more extraordinary, bewildering landscape, both as to form and colour, could hardly be found in all the world. winding our way down to the barren valley, in itself more a high plateau than a valley, we travelled the rest of the day in the direction of the great cliffs. the sun was just gone when we reached the first low line, and passing through a gap turned into a side gulch thickly studded with cedars, where we saw before us two white-covered waggons, two or three camp-fires blazing, and friends. we heard a hearty voice cry, "tirtaan aigles dis wai!" and we sprang from our horses to grasp jack's welcoming hand and greet all the others, some of whom were new acquaintances. the fragrance of coffee and frying bacon filled the sharp air, while from the summits of the surrounding cliffs the hungry chorus of yelping wolves sent up their wail of disappointment. in an alcove a large tent had been put up, which the major's family was occupying, for mrs. powell and her baby daughter had come from salt lake with him, arriving a few days before. the daughter was but three months old and was happy in a big clothes-basket for a cradle. mrs. thompson, prof.'s wife, and sister of the major, had also come from salt lake and another large tent sheltered them, while still another of equal size, not yet erected, was designed for the men. it was a specially interesting camp to us who had come over from house rock for it was novel to see so many people around. the major himself was absent at kanab. before the camp was asleep the hour was late, and so soundly did every one rest that the sneaking wolves without the least molestation carried off two large sacks of the jerked beef from near our heads, where we had put it against a huge rock thinking they would not come so close; but as they had pulled a ham the night before from under the head of captain dodds where he had placed it for safety, we ought to have been more sensible. two or three nights later, as i was sleeping in a special bed one of the men then absent had made by a big rock some yards from the main camp, i was awakened by a wolf crunching bones by the fire not eight feet from my head. i wanted to shoot the impertinent wretch, but his form was indistinct and my rifle lying by my side had to be trained his way. this took some time, as i had to move cautiously, and in the midst of my effort my elbow slipped. like a shadow he flitted into the deeper gloom and i went to sleep again. i did not want to shoot without certainty, though some nights later i did shoot with riley's huge double-barrelled shotgun loaded with buckshot straight into our mess kit, not killing the wolf that was there, but putting holes in numerous tin plates through which bean soup delighted to percolate, so that i never heard the last of this midnight effort of mine to diminish the wolf family. the day following our arrival the major came from kanab and the plans for our winter's campaign were put in operation. a base line for our geographic work was necessary and this was to run south from kanab, so prof. on december 7th, with mrs. thompson, cap., clem, andy, jones (who had recovered his health), and one of the new men named macentee, left us with loaded waggons to establish another camp nearer to the scene of this work. another member of the party was fuzz, mrs. thompson's dog, an intelligent dandie dinmont. as i was much interested to see kanab, of which so much had been said, and as it was now nearly seven months since i had seen an occupied house, i decided to take a sunday ride in that direction. on the 17th, about noon, i put a saddle on a white mule which jack had named nigger and was soon on my way. emerging from the chocolate cliffs the road led along the foot of the vermilion cliffs, crossing long ridges covered with cedars and piñons with a vast view to the kaibab on the south and east, and soon joining a road that led from a canyon to eastward where there was a very small settlement called johnson's, and from two or three houses which had been built where the el vado trail crossed the paria river. nigger went along very well and i was in kanab by three o'clock. the village, which had been started only a year or two, was laid out in the characteristic mormon style with wide streets and regular lots fenced by wattling willows between stakes. irrigating ditches ran down each side of every street and from them the water, derived from a creek that came down a canyon back of the town, could be led into any of the lots, each of which was about one quarter of an acre; that is, there were four lots to a block. fruit trees, shade trees, and vines had been planted and were already beginning to promise near results, while corn, potatoes, etc., gave fine crops. the original place of settlement was a square formed by one-story log houses on three sides and a stockade on the fourth. this was called the fort and was a place of refuge, though the danger from navajo attack seemed to be over and that from any assault by the pai utes certainly was past. one corner of the fort was made by the walls of the schoolhouse, which was at the same time meeting-house and ball-room. altogether there were about 100 families in the village. the houses that had been built outside the fort were quite substantially constructed, some of adobe or sun-dried brick. the entire settlement had a thrifty air, as is the case with the mormons. not a grog-shop, or gambling saloon, or dance-hall was to be seen; quite in contrast with the usual disgraceful accompaniments of the ordinary frontier towns. a perfectly orderly government existed, headed by a bishop appointed by the church authorities in salt lake, the then incumbent of this office being an excellent man, bishop stewart. i rode to the fort, where i found clem and beaman domiciled with their photographic outfit, with a swarm of children peeping through every chink and crevice of the logs to get a view of the "gentiles," a kind of animal they had seldom seen. every one was cordial. beaman even offered me a drink made with sugar-water and photographic alcohol, but it did not appeal to my taste. it was after sunset when i started nigger towards eight mile spring and i enjoyed the ride in the edge of night with not a living thing, besides nigger (and nigger was a mule), to disturb my reveries. i had as yet seen none of the natives of the locality. they were now very friendly and considered harmless, thanks to jacob's wise management. the only indians the settlers dreaded were some renegades, a band of utes and navajos, collected by a bold and skillful chief named patnish, whose "country" was south of the colorado around navajo mountain. he was reputed to be highly dangerous, and the kanab people were constantly prepared against his unwelcome visits. he had several handsome stalwart sons, who dressed in white and who generally accompanied him. though patnish was so much feared, i do not remember to have heard that he committed any depredations after this time. there had been much trouble with the navajos, but jacob, growing tired of the constant warfare, had resolved to go to them and see if he could not change the state of affairs. when he had guided the major to the moki towns and fort defiance the year before (1870), about six thousand navajos were assembled at the agency. the chiefs were invited to meet in council on the 2d of november, and all the principal chiefs but one and all subchiefs but two were there. the major led the way by introducing jacob and speaking in highly complimentary terms of the mormons; and jacob then gave a long talk in his low-voiced way, illustrating the great evils of such warfare as had existed, and closed by saying: "what shall i tell my people the 'mormons' when i return home? that we may expect to live in peace, live as friends, and trade with one another? or shall we look for you to come prowling around our weak settlements, like wolves in the night? i hope we may live in peace in time to come. i have now grey hairs on my head, and from my boyhood i have been on the frontiers doing all i could to preserve peace between white men and indians. i despise this killing, this shedding of blood. i hope you will stop this and come and visit and trade with our people. we would like to hear what you have got to say before we go home." barbenceta, the principal chief, slowly approached as jacob ended, and putting his arms around him said: "my friend and brother, i will do all that i can to bring about what you have advised. we will not give all our answer now. many of the navajos are here. we will talk to them to-night and will see you on your way home." several days later jacob met him and the chiefs who had been absent; he said they would all really like to see peace with the mormons carried out, and continued: "we have some bad men among us, but if some do wrong, the wise ones must not act foolishly, like children, but let it be settled according to the spirit of your talk at fort defiance. here is hastele. i wish you would take a good look at him, so you will not be mistaken in the man. he never lies or steals. he is a truthful man; we wish all difficult matters settled before him. he lives on the frontier nearest to the river; you can find him by inquiry. we hope we may be able to eat at one table, warm by one fire, smoke one pipe, and sleep under one blanket." [illustration: the grand canyon. from south rim near bright angel creek.] jacob proceeded towards home, taking a moki, named tuba, and his wife back with him, so that they might see the mormon country. arriving at the crossing of the colorado tuba was sad. he said his people had once lived on the other side, and their fathers had told them they never again would go west of the river to live. "i am now going on a visit to see my friends. i have worshipped the father of us all in the way you believe to be right; now i wish you would do as the hopees think is right before we cross." jacob assented, and tuba, he said, "then took his medicine bag from under his shirt and offered me a little of its contents. i offered my left hand to take it; he requested me to take it with my right. he then knelt with his face to the east, and asked the great father of us all to preserve us in crossing the river. he said that he and his wife had left many friends at home, and if they never lived to return their friends would weep much. he prayed for pity upon his friends the mormons, that none of them might drown in crossing; and that all the animals we had with us might be spared, for we needed them all, and to preserve unto us all our food and clothing, that we need not suffer hunger nor cold on our journey. he then arose to his feet. we scattered the ingredients from the medicine bag into the air, on to the land, and into the water of the river." when they were all safely over tuba gave thanks that his prayer had been answered.[26] the last white men to be killed by the navajos in the kanab region were dr. whitmore and his herder at pipe springs, twenty miles west, five years before in the winter of 1865-66. the raiders were pursued by a strong party, and some of them, turning down the kanab canyon, perhaps thinking the river could be crossed there, were surprised and fired on at dawn. some escaped, though wounded. jacob kept a close watch on all the passes, and especially at el vado. several raiders were intercepted and shot. in 1869 a raiding band successfully drove off twelve hundred head of horses and cattle from northern settlements, and the winter of 1869-70 was one of the worst, requiring jacob's presence in the field almost constantly. he was accompanied by friendly pai utes, who hated the navajos. one navajo was shot in a band who had stolen cattle, but the others were allowed to leave on giving up the stock. the shot did not kill the navajo, and they followed to see what became of him. he was carried along by his friends to where another raiding party was encamped. the pai utes then killed two of this party, scalping one, but refraining from taking the scalp of the other because he had sandy hair and looked too much like a white man. later three more navajos were killed in a fight, but the rest escaped with ten horses. jacob grew heartily sick of this kind of work, and made the resolve to appeal to the navajos, with the result stated. he also visited the red lake utes to the north, and all the indians along the sevier. beginning with the band of navajos under agua grande, which we had met at el vado, they came north in numerous parties with perfect confidence that the mormons would receive them peacefully. but they continued to despise the pai utes, considering them beneath notice. in september of the year 1870 the major, by brigham young's advice, had engaged jacob to go with him to mt. trumbull in the uinkaret region adjoining the shewits country. jacob, wishing to see these indians himself, was very willing to go. they made a camp by a spring, and finding some natives near, jacob asked them to bring in some of the party who had taken part in the killing of the howlands and dunn the year before. twelve or fifteen finally came, and they had a talk. "i commenced [said jacob] by explaining to the indians professor powell's business. i endeavoured to get them to understand that he did not visit their country for any purpose that would work evil to them, that he was not hunting gold or silver or other metals; that he would be along the river next season with a party of men, and if they found any of them away from the river in the hills, they must be their friends and show them places where there was water if necessary." they replied that friends of theirs from across the river had declared the men were miners and advised killing them, for if they found mines it would bring great evil among them. the men were followed and killed while asleep. they declared that had they been correctly informed about the men they would not have killed them. kapurats ("no-arm," meaning the major), they said, could travel and sleep in their country unmolested and they would show him and his men the watering-places.[27] on december 19th we moved our camp from eight mile spring to a place below the gap in the chocolate cliffs south of kanab and not far below the utah-arizona boundary; the 37th parallel. bonnemort and i remained behind to gather up the last articles and it was dark when we reached the new ground. our large tent was pitched in the creek bottom with the others not far off, making quite a settlement. the weather was rainy and cold, but a conical sheet-iron stove heated the tent well and there we had dry comfortable evenings, some of the men singing, some writing letters or plotting notes, others reading and still others perhaps playing a game. bonnemort was something of a singer and was specially fond of _beautiful isle of the sea_, but jack still maintained his complete supremacy as a tenor. his repertory always increased and he was ever ready to entertain us. one of his selections i remember was the ballad: "i wandered by the brookside, i wandered by the mill; i could not hear the brook flow, the noisy wheel was still, there was no burr of grasshopper no chirp of any bird, but the beating of my own heart was all the sound i heard." mrs. thompson had a sweet voice and knew a lot of songs, which were frequently heard issuing from her tent, and this, with the presence of mrs. powell and the baby, added to the locality a pleasant homelike air. both mrs. thompson and mrs. powell had been familiar with camp life, mrs. powell having spent a winter, 1868-69, with the major in middle park, colorado, near the camp of chief douglas, the father of our friend douglas boy. andy cooked all the meals on a fire out of doors, and they were no longer served in our "go fur it boys" canyon style, but a large canvas, showing by its colour the effects of exposure, was elegantly spread on the ground and around its edges the tin plates, cups, etc., were arranged, with the beanpot and other provender in the middle. this method continued henceforth. the company would sit around on the ground, each in whatever position was comfortable. liberal portions of bread and sorghum molasses formed the dessert, and after a while so indispensable did the sorghum grow that we dubbed it the "staff of life." it was easy to get, quantities being produced in "dixie." kanab besides being favoured with two mails a week had a telegraph line connecting with the settlements of the virgin region and with salt lake, and we now felt that once more we had a grip on the world. on the 22d of december the major, accompanied by captain dodds, riley, and one of the kanab men, john stewart, a son of the bishop, started for the kaibab to find a way to get rations to the colorado next year near the mouth of the little colorado. the weather now was rather stormy but prof. continued his observations as well as he could, and parties were sent out in a number of directions to place flags and monuments for the geodetic work. the base line was to be measured south from near kanab for about ten miles. christmas day came with rain and small prospect of special enjoyment, and we all kept the shelter of the tent after hunting up the horses in mud ankle-deep. but our dinner was a royal feast, for mrs. thompson herself made a huge plum-pudding and prof. supplied butter and milk from kanab, making this feature of the holiday an immense success. in the evening a number of us rode up to the settlement to witness a dance that had been announced to take place in the schoolhouse, tabernacle, or town hall--the stone building in the corner of the fort which answered all these functions. the room was about 15 by 30 feet and was lighted by three candles, a kerosene lamp, and a blazing fire of pitch pine. two violins were in lively operation, one being played by lyman hamblin, a son of old jacob, and there was a refreshing air of decorous gaiety about the whole assemblage. dancing is a regular amusement among the mormons and is encouraged by the authorities as a harmless and beneficial recreation. at that time the dances were always opened with prayer. two sets could occupy the floor at one time and to even things up, and prevent any one being left out, each man on entering was given a number, the numbers being called in rotation. none of our party joined as we were such strangers, but we were made welcome in every respect. it was ten o'clock before we left, and the way being dim and muddy, midnight was on before we threw off saddles at our camp. the next morning work was begun on the base line, but for some days the weather was so bad that little was accomplished. the year 1871 ended in this way and we hoped the new one would be more propitious. footnotes: [footnote 24: five years later jacob came near being drowned in crossing here. lorenzo w. roundy was lost, as well as two waggons loaded with supplies. the scow they had tried to use tilted, throwing everything into the fierce torrent.] [footnote 25: it was in the rapid in marble canyon near the mouth of the canyon of this creek that frank m. brown was drowned in july, 1889.] [footnote 26: _jacob hamblin_, a narrative, etc. faith-promoting series--juvenile instructor office, salt lake city--1881.] [footnote 27: in 1864 the danger from the pai utes, who had not been well treated, increased till jacob had to take the matter in hand and made a visit to the place where they were gathering for attack. he was asked how many men he wanted to go with him, and he answered, "one, and no arms; not even a knife in sight."] chapter xii reconnoitring and triangulating--a pai ute new year's dance--the major goes to salt lake--snowy days on the kaibab--at pipe spring--gold hunters to the colorado--visits to the uinkaret country--craters and lava--finding the hurricane ledge--an interview with a cougar--back to kanab. new-year's day, 1872, passed with nothing more eventful than the return of john stewart in advance of the major with the news that they had succeeded in reaching the colorado at the foot of kanab canyon. they had given up the kaibab direction because of snow which interfered with their advance. he also said that riley had found gold at the mouth of the kanab. the telegraph operator was so deeply impressed with this statement that it was telegraphed as an item of news to salt lake. work on the base line went on daily by our topographical staff, but presently it was turned over to a special gang under captain dodds, so that the rest of us might be freed to carry on the triangulation. on monday the 15th, prof., jones, mac, and i started with some pack animals on a ten days' reconnaissance trip over the kaibab, first going to kanab for some supplies and taking dinner with jacob at the house of his wife louisa. according to the mormon custom, though it was not universal, jacob had several wives, i do not know how many. i met two, and he was besides that "sealed" to one or two pai ute women. sister louisa was the one i came to know best and she was a good woman. we had an excellent dinner with rich cream for the coffee which was an unusual treat. in all mormon settlements the domestic animals were incorporated at once and they received special care; butter, milk, and cheese were consequently abundant; but in a "gentile" frontier town all milk, if procurable at all, was drawn from a sealed tin. the same was true of vegetables. the empty tin was the chief decoration of such advance settlements, and with the entire absence of any attempt at arrangement, at order, or to start fruit or shade trees, or do any other sensible thing, the "gentile" frontier town was a ghastly hodge-podge of shacks in the midst of a sea of refuse. as pioneers the mormons were superior to any class i have ever come in contact with, their idea being home-making and not skimming the cream off the country with a six-shooter and a whiskey bottle. jacob's home was simple but it was comfortable. he was a poor man for he did his work for the people with very slight compensation. [illustration: the grand canyon. from part way down south side above bright angel creek.] from jacob's we proceeded to our old camp ground at eight-mile spring and there spent the night. prof. had forgotten his sextant and rode back to our main camp for it. we continued in the morning without him to a place farther east called navajo well, a deep spring in a sort of natural hole, somewhat aided by native hands, in the midst of some sloping, barren rocks, the last spot where one would look for water. a large flat stone covered the top, the water being dipped out at one side where there was a depression leading down to it. a careless man, or one not familiar with the country, might ride within a few yards of this spring without noticing its existence. prof. came along towards night and the next day we went on eastward to the top of the kaibab plateau and there put up a geodetic monument. here we made a dry camp having water for ourselves in a keg and some canteens, while the animals got along very well as there was a little snow on the ground. proceeding from this place eastward we came to the edge of the plateau opposite the largest of a series of four or five peculiar red sandstone peaks. the mormons had explored a waggon road across at this place and the grades were easy. we followed the road and reached house rock valley about ten miles north of house rock spring where we went to get water and camp. we had started late and by the time we got down into the valley darkness had fallen but a bright moon compensated for the absence of daylight, enabling us to see plainly our landmarks. we jogged along toward the spring and i sang _oh the lone starry hours, give me love_, when i was suddenly interrupted by old thunderbolt's pack loosening. thunderbolt was a horse that waited for such an event with remarkable docility and when it arrived he made the best of the opportunity to get even with us for drawing the lash-rope so tight. before i could dismount and lay hands on him the pack slipped back over his rump which was the signal he watched for. joyously flinging his heels in the moonlit air, jumping high off the ground the next instant, and then darting off into the misty night with a clatter and a whirl he spread the contents of that pack to all points of the compass. this revenge adequately accomplished we were permitted to catch him. a long search was necessary before we had gathered up all the things and replaced the pack on the now meek and patient thunderbolt, and half-past eight by the watch arrived as we got to water and supper. we put up another "station" back of house rock spring and spent a day reconnoitring. on sunday, january 21st, we went to red cliff and made a camp under some cedars, as we wished to put a station on the highest peak. the camp was a dry one, but we had the usual supply of water in the keg and canteens, and as the temperature was very low we did not get thirsty. there was an abundance of wood for the camp, but mac and i concluded we wanted more warmth and light, so we set fire to two large cedars that stood alone, and they made a superb illumination, burning all night. in the morning we got to the top of the cliff, and built a monument, with a high pole and flag, to which to "sight" from other geodetic points, while prof. took observations for time and latitude. when our work was finished we went back to house rock spring, arriving just before sunset. in the morning jones and i went across and climbed the kaibab, intending to put up a monument there, but we could find no proper site and returned to camp. prof. and mac had been off in another direction, but they got in just before supper-time. we had not finished this meal when, night having come on, we heard through the darkness sounds of some one approaching, and thirteen navajos one after the other came into the light of our fire, with their greeting of "bueno heh!" and camped just below us. some were mounted, some were on foot. the chief was ashtishkal, whom we had met before at the crossing of the fathers (el vado). they were all friendly, and did not intrude upon us. they were on their way north to trade with the mormons, having come across at the paria. the night was very cold, and a heavy, dry snow began to fall, so that in the morning when we arose we could see but a short distance. the navajos about sunrise stood silently in a circle till at a signal they all sat down and began singing, continuing for several minutes a low musical refrain, and then all rose to their feet again. they left us early, with friendly demonstrations, and went on their way towards kanab, while we moved to another spring in a gulch farther up the valley, where we made a tent out of a pair of blankets to keep off the snow. during the stormy night our animals started to leave us, travelling before the wind, but we suspected their intention and got out and headed them back, much to their disgust, no doubt. thursday, january 25th, came bright and clear, but still extremely cold. prof. with mac started across the kaibab by the trail, while jones and i went farther north by the waggon road referred to, camping near the station we had made on the way out. the next morning we did some work there, and then went on to the navajo well, reaching it at sunset, where we watered our stock and continued by moonlight through a piercing wind to eight-mile spring, which enabled us to reach our main camp in time for dinner on saturday the 27th. prof. got back the evening before at 7.30, having made another station on the kaibab on the way over and travelled twenty-five miles. about a mile from kanab the kaibab band of pai utes were encamped, and we had a good opportunity to visit them and study their ways.[28] the major was specially interested and made voluminous notes. they came to the village and our camp a great deal. while they were dirty, they were not more dishonest than white men, so far as i could learn. their wickiups, about seven feet high, were merely a lot of cedar boughs, set around a three-quarter circle, forming a conical shelter, the opening towards the south. in front they had their fire, with a mealing-stone or two, and round about were their conical and other baskets, used for collecting grass seeds, piñon nuts, and similar vegetable food, which in addition to rabbits formed their principal subsistence. at certain times they all went to the kaibab deer-hunting. their guns, where they had any, were of the old muzzle-loading type, with outside hammers to fire the caps. many still used the bow-and-arrow, and some knew how to make stone arrow-heads. we learned the process, which is not difficult. their clothing was, to some extent, deerskin, but mainly old clothes obtained from the whites. they made a very warm robe out of rabbit skins, twisted into a long rope and then sewed side to side into the desired size and shape. but when we traded for one of these as a curiosity we placed it beside a large ant hill for some days before bringing it into camp. they obtained fire by the use of matches when they could get them, but otherwise they used the single stick or "palm" drill. we went to the camp one moonlight night, january 6th, to see a sort of new-year's dance. they had stripped a cedar tree of all branches but a small tuft at the top, and around this the whole band formed a large circle, dancing and singing. the dancing was the usual hippity-hop or "lope" sideways, each holding hands with his or her neighbours. in the centre stood a man, seeming to be the custodian of the songs and a poet himself. he would first recite the piece, and then all would sing it, circling round at the same time. we accepted their cordial invitation to join in the ceremony, and had a lot of fun out of our efforts, which greatly amused them too, our mistakes raising shouts of laughter. the poet seemed to originate some of the songs, but they had others that were handed down. one of these, which i learned later, was: "montee-ree-ai-ma, mo-quontee-kai-ma umpa-shu-shu-ra-ga-va umpa-shu-shu-ra-ga-va umpa-ga-va, shu-ra-ga-va montee-ree-ai-ma." this, being translated, signifies that a long talk is enough to bore a hole in a cliff; at least, that was the interpretation we obtained. another popular one was: "ca, shakum, poo kai ca, shakum poo kai ca, shakum tee kai ca, shakum tee kai," these lines being repeated like the others over and over and over again. they were highly philosophical, for they explain that you must kill your rabbit (shakum) before you eat him. i do not remember that they sang these particular songs on that occasion, but they will serve as examples. on february 1st the major left camp for salt lake with mrs. powell and the baby. jack went along to accompany them as far as tokerville on the virgin river. before leaving, the major settled up with beaman, who was now to separate from the party. the major intended to go to washington to ask congress for another appropriation to continue the work of exploration and map-making when we had finished that already planned. on the 6th clem and bonnemort arrived from an expedition to make photographs down the kanab canyon, where the major had been with riley and dodds. they had met with bad luck, and did not get a single negative. the silver bath got out of order, and the horse bearing the camera fell off a cliff and landed on top of the camera, which had been tied on the outside of the pack, with a result that need not be described. bonnemort's time was now up; he wanted to go back to prospecting, and we reluctantly said good-bye to him. on the 16th of february, finding our central camp no longer practicable, we abandoned it and operated in small parties from various nearby points, finally returning again in three or four days to near the site of the old camp. macentee then wanted to go to prospecting also, and he departed. he was an interesting, companionable young man, educated at the university of michigan, seeking a fortune, and he was desirous of striking it rich. whether he ever did or not i have not learned. while camped below kanab, clem and i in walking one day saw a place where the creek which flowed on a level with the surroundings suddenly plunged into a deep mud canyon. this canyon had been cut back from far below by the undermining action of the falling water, and it was plain to see that it would continue its retrogression till it eventually reached the mouth of the great canyon several miles above, but i did not dream that it could accomplish this work as rapidly as it actually did years after. during a great flood it washed a canyon not only to kanab but for miles up the gorge, sweeping away at one master stroke hundreds of acres of arable land and leaving a mud chasm forty feet deep. had the fall we examined been arranged then so that the water might glide down, the fearful washout would not have occurred. there are thousands of places in the west to-day that require treatment to conserve arable land, and in time the task may be undertaken by the government. cap's health being such that he deemed it inadvisable to continue work in the field, he had severed his connection with the expedition, after finishing the preliminary map of green river, and was temporarily settled in kanab, where he had been for some time. on wednesday, february 21st, prof., mrs. thompson, and i took supper with him in one of the log houses at the fort, and on the 22d several of us accepted his invitation to dinner, a sort of farewell, for on the following day we started with our whole outfit for the kaibab. we were extremely sorry to lose cap, with his generous spirit and cheery ways, but when one has been punctured by a minie-ball he has to heed warnings. all day long we travelled through sandy hills gradually rising toward the plateau, the foot-hills of which we reached late in the afternoon. we had followed a waggon road with our pack-train up to this point, but here we struck off on a trail that was said to be a shorter way to the canyon we were aiming for, and a little before sunset we came to the brink of a steep slope, almost a cliff, where a picturesque, a romantic view opened before us. below stretched away to the south a narrow, deep, and sharply defined valley or canyon one-eighth mile wide, the bottom of which seemed perfectly flat. a light snow which had fallen the night before whitened the sharp slopes, but from the valley bottom it had melted away, leaving a clear line of demarkation on either side and producing an extremely beautiful effect under the evening glow. tall pine trees accented the scene, which was one of the most inviting i had ever beheld. one of our helpers from kanab had been over the trail, and led us down to a small but excellent spring, within a quarter of a mile of which we camped, passing a most comfortable night. before we had finished slinging the last pack in the morning, a heavy grey sky began to sift down thickly falling snowflakes gently as if not wishing to give alarm. but when we were fairly under way this mildness vanished, and the storm smote our caravan with fierce and blinding gusts, amidst which progress was difficult. after four miles up the valley through beautiful pine trees of great height, we came to a deserted log cabin only half roofed over, and there we stopped to make our temporary headquarters. the stewarts of kanab had started a saw-mill at this place, but as yet the work had not gone very far. the snow ceased by the time we had thrown off the packs, and we made ourselves as comfortable as circumstances permitted. prof. had a tent put up for mrs. thompson, while some took possession of the half-roofed house, for by keeping on the side where the board cover was they were slightly sheltered. with two or three of the others i pitched a small tent. there was plenty of fat pine, and rousing fires made the valley seem habitable. a fine little brook swept full grown fifteen inches in diameter from under a cliff two hundred feet above the valley bottom, and there was no lack of good water. our trouble was with the horses and mules, for we had no grain for them, and if the snow got very deep they would not be able to paw down to the bunch grass. the snow soon began again, and all night it fell with aggravating facility. sunday morning opened as leaden and dark as a february day could be, and there was no cessation of the showers of whiteness that were rapidly building up on the ground a formidable barrier to our operations. as i was wearing rather low brogans, having discarded top-boots as too close-fitting and uncomfortable around camp, i now made for myself a pair of leggins out of pieces of a common but heavy seamless sack. when these were buttoned in place they answered perfectly to protect my legs from the snow. we hoped monday would begin the week with a clear sky, but we were disappointed. we had to sally out to hunt horses, hoping at the same time to come across a deer, but that hope was not realised. as i got far from camp in the midst of the tall pines and the unbroken snow sheet, i suddenly became aware of a whispering sound, which i could not at first account for, as i did not believe in fairies. standing perfectly still, i perceived that it was produced by the friction of the snowflakes upon the pine needles. it was a weird, ghost-like language which i had never listened to before. prof. went up one thousand feet on the mountain and climbed a tree 125 feet high with a determination to see something in spite of the snow. he caught a glimpse of the south wall of the grand canyon near mt. trumbull, miles to the west. on tuesday he started george adair, one of our mormon assistants, back to kanab for more rations, and directed jones and captain dodds to get ready to start the next day for the south-east corner of the plateau, while andy and i were to go to the south-west corner. wednesday, february 28th, came clear, with the snow lying twelve inches on the level, but some of the horses were missing, and the day was spent in hunting this wayward stock, so it was not till thursday afternoon that we got started. our paths lying for a distance in the same direction, we four travelled together along a divide on the right or west of camp. it was slow work in the deep drifts, and we had not made many miles when night came on. we went into camp where we were. the horses bothered us by trying to go back searching for grass, and nobody could blame them. finally we tied the worst offender to a tree in a bare place where he might pick up a few mouthfuls of food, and we managed to sleep the rest of the night. the only sound i heard when i woke up at one time was the satirical voice of an owl in the far distance. it seemed to be saying very deliberately "poo-poo, poo-poo," and that did not sound respectful. the next morning was march 1st, and it brought a fine sky, which would have put us quickly on the way, or rather in motion toward our respective goals, as there was no road or trail, but one of our animals which bore the mysterious name of yawger, and which was the pack-horse of andy and me, could not be found. jones and dodds went on, as they would probably soon have to separate from us anyhow, while we took yawger's track, and at last found him browsing happily in a bare spot about a mile from our stopping place. it was two o'clock by the time we started on, floundering through the drifts in the trail of jones and dodds. some drifts were so high it was all we could do to wallow through them even after the others had in a measure broken the way. after two hours of hard work in this line we came to the edge of a wide gully, where the advance party had halted. the slope was towards the south and the ground was somewhat bare, with good bunch grass, where the other horses were feeding, while jones and dodds were just descending from a tall pine tree. they declared nothing but snow could be seen in all directions on the mountain and they were going back. besides it was impossible, they told me, to cross the gulch ahead. i did not want to turn back till i was compelled to, and i appealed to andy as to whether or not he wanted to give up, not wishing to drag him along unwillingly. with his characteristic nonchalance he said, "go ahead if you want to." dodds had one of his own horses with him, and he said he would bet me that horse i could not cross the gulch. i made a trial, wading ahead of my horse, the pack animal following and andy driving from behind. when i got into the middle it was all i could do to move, but i continued my efforts till suddenly the bottom seemed to rise, and then in a few yards the going grew easier and we emerged triumphantly on the other side, where we waved an adieu to the others. by keeping close to the boles of the large pine trees, where the wind had swept circular places, leaving the snow shallow, we were soon out of sight of our late companions. after two or three miles of tiring work the day began to fade, but we reached a beautiful south slope where there was little snow, with a rich crop of bunch grass just starting green under the vernal influence that was a feast for the famished horses, the snow relieving their thirst. while andy the ever-faithful got supper i reconnoitred and made up my mind that i could reach the locality i was trying for, by following a ridge i saw ahead where the snow seemed moderate. we were up and off early. the snow was deep but we got on quite rapidly and finally reached the ridge, crossing two big gulches to get to it. at eleven o'clock we were at the end of its summit and i could see a wide area to the west and north. the point appeared to be one of several similar projections though the one we were on was the most prominent. i selected a spot for a monument where we dug a hole in the rocks and dirt, and then cutting a tall slim pine and trimming it clean we hitched yawger to it and made him drag it to the hole, where by a combination of science and strength we got it upright. while andy, who had great strength, lifted and pushed after we had together got it half way, i propped it with a strong pole with a y on the end, and in a few moments we saw the flag waving triumphantly from its tip at least thirty feet above our heads. around its base we piled the rocks, which were exceptionally heavy, waist high, first cutting a notch in the pine and placing therein a can containing a record, and our "point f" was finished. the rest of the day i spent in triangulating to various other stations, and we went to bed under a clear sky and a milder atmosphere. in the morning i completed my triangulating work and by that time the snow had settled and melted so that the back track was much easier than the outward march, enabling us to get to headquarters at the spring before dark. i had been a little afraid that a heavy snow would come on top of the large drifts which would have held us prisoners for a day or two. on wednesday, march 6th, the whole party packed up and left the valley by its narrow canyon outlet, a tributary of the kanab canyon. it began eight hundred feet deep and continually increased. we called it shinumo canyon because we found everywhere indications of the former presence of that tribe. snow fell at intervals and we were alternately frozen and melted till we reached an altitude where the warmth was continuous and the snow became rain. grass fresh and green and shrubs with the feeling of early spring surrounded us at the junction with kanab canyon where the walls were twelve hundred feet high. a mile below we camped by a lone cedar tree where there were "pockets" of rain-water in the rocks. the next day our course was laid up kanab canyon through thick willows that pulled the packs loose. one horse fell upside down in a gully, but he was not hurt and we pried him out and went on, camping near a large pool of intensely alkaline water. on the 8th going up a branch on the left called pipe spring wash we came out on the surface, very much as one might reach a second floor by a staircase. this is a feature of the country and as one goes northward he arrives on successive platforms, in this manner passing through the several cliff ranges by means of transverse gorges that usually begin in small "box" canyons and rapidly deepen till they reach the full height of the cliff walls. at two o'clock we came to pipe spring. a vacant stone house of one very large room and a great fireplace was put at our disposal by mr. winsor the proprietor, and it was occupied by the men while prof. had a tent put up for mrs. thompson. we found a party of miners here who had heard of the gold discovery at the mouth of the kanab on the colorado and were heading that way to reap the first-fruits. they were soon followed by hundreds more, making a steady stream down the narrow kanab and out again for some time, for on reaching the river the limited opportunity to do any mining was at once apparent and they immediately took the back track swearing vengeance on the originator of the story. for protection against raiders mr. winsor was building a solid double house of blocks of sandstone, making walls three feet thick. the two buildings were placed about twenty feet apart, thus forming an interior court the length of the houses, protected at the ends by high walls and heavy gates. no windows opened on the exterior, but there were plenty of loopholes commanding every approach. a fine large spring was conducted subterraneously into the corner of one of the buildings and out again, insuring plenty of water in case of a siege. brigham young was part owner of this establishment, and it was one of the most effective places of defence on a small scale, that i have ever seen. it was never needed so far as i have heard, and even at the time i marvelled that it should be so elaborately prepared--far beyond anything else in the whole country. the cut opposite shows this fort as it was in 1903. clem here told prof. he did not care to stay with us any longer. ill success with his photographs had discouraged him, but prof. persuaded him to remain for a time. until march 21st we operated around pipe spring triangulating and recording the topography, and other data, when we packed our animals again and laid our course across the open country towards a range of blue mountains seen in the south-west. one of these had been named after senator trumbull by the major in the autumn of 1870. they were the home of the uinkarets and we called the whole group by that name, discarding north side mountains, the name ives had given when he sighted them in 1858 from far to the south. adjoining the uinkaret region on the west was the shewits territory where the howlands and dunn were killed. travelling across the dry plains we came to a well defined trail about sunset and followed it hoping that it would lead to water. we were not disappointed for it took us to a pool of rain-water in a little gulley at the foot of some low hills. a band of wild horses roamed the plain and as we had been told about a pool called the wild band pocket, we had no doubt this was the place. there was no wood anywhere, but a diligent search produced enough small brush to cook by, though andy had a hard time of it. clem's horse ran away from him and lost his gun, so he remained behind at pipe spring to hunt for the weapon. [illustration: winsor castle, the defensive house at pipe springs. photograph by h. arthur pomroy, 1903.] [illustration: little zion valley or the mookoontoweap, upper virgin river. photograph by h. arthur pomroy, 1903.] the next day we travelled on over hilly country, following a moccasin trail, with here and there cedar groves as we approached nearer to the mountains. on the edge of night traces of water were found in a gulch near the foot of trumbull, and while jack and a new member of our force, will johnson of kanab, dug for more, prof., jones, and i scoured the vicinity in search of a spring or pocket, but though we found many old wickiups there was no water. the uinkarets had evidently camped here in wet weather. when we returned we were told that the little trace of water in the gulch had disappeared completely after the digging, a sad development which was accepted by all but one old white horse which stood on the edge of the hole for an hour or more patiently waiting. our kegs and canteens provided enough to make bread which we ate with sorghum, and as early as possible in the morning we pushed on without breakfast, three men scouting ahead to discover the pool where the major in the autumn of 1870 had camped. prof. finally found it, a large pool of about a hundred barrels of clear, clean water, in a lava gulch, surrounded by cedar and piñon trees. andy then gave us breakfast and dinner at the same time, eleven o'clock. another new member of our party was beaman's successor, fennemore, from salt lake, who had joined us at pipe spring on march 19th, and he was prepared to photograph the region. we reconnoitred the neighbourhood during the afternoon, and the next morning jones and i rode in one direction around mount trumbull, while prof. and captain dodds rode the other way, to ascertain the lay of the land, and especially to find a ranch which some st. george men had started in this locality. jones and i met whitmore, the proprietor of the ranch, and a friend of his, who informed us the ranch was six miles farther on. we concluded not to go to it, but when prof. and captain dodds got in after dark they told us they had gone the whole way. the following day, monday march 25th, all the party except andy and a new member, alf young of kanab, climbed to the summit of mount trumbull, finding the ascent very gradual and easy and taking the horses to the top, which was 2440 feet above the pool and 8650 above sea level, commanding a magnificent view in every direction, as far to the south-east as mount san francisco. jones, jack, fennemore, and i remained there all night while the rest returned to camp. jones and i wanted to do some topographical work and get sights to some of our other stations, and fennemore, assisted by jack, wanted pictures. descending the opposite side the next day we went to a spring in an oak grove which prof. had seen, where the others were already encamped. on the 27th, prof. and i climbed a high cinder peak, of which there were many, to get a view, and then went to whitmore's ranch, where we had a talk with him to get points on the region. he told us he had followed a trail to the colorado, about twelve miles, to what he called the ute crossing. if i remember correctly he had taken a horse down at that point. the next day johnson and i put a signal flag on one of the high mountains, afterwards named logan, forming signal station number 7. this was a volcanic district and there were many old craters. near the oak spring camp was an extensive sheet of lava, seeming to have cooled but a year or two before. its surface was all fractured, but there were no trees on its lower extremity and where it had flowed around a hill its recent plasticity was exceedingly distinct. it had come from a crater, about five hundred feet high, two miles north. this had once been a cone but it was now disrupted, the lava having burst through to the north and to the south, leaving two sections standing, the stream to the south being one quarter mile wide and a mile and a half long, that on the north one mile wide and about the same in length. the depth of these streams was not far from thirty feet, and in spite of the exceedingly rugged surface the southern stream was marked by deeply worn trails running to and from a small spring situated in the middle of it. beside this spring one of the men from the ranch had found a human skeleton, covered with fragments of lava, with the decayed remains of a wicker water-jug between the ribs, marking some unrecorded tragedy. we estimated that less than three hundred years had passed since the last outburst from the crater. as there were pine trees a hundred years old on the lava where it was more disintegrated near the point of outpour, the age of the flow could not have been less than that. friday the 29th being cloudy and stormy nothing in the line of geodetic work was done and we could only rest in camp. dodds and jones who had gone to explore a way to the grand canyon came in reporting success. saturday morning jones and fennemore started for kanab to bring out more rations and meet us either at fort pierce or at berry's spring near st. george, while prof. with dodds and johnson went to try to follow the trail whitmore had told about to the river, but after four miles they gave it up and climbed by a side trail to the plateau again. they made a dry camp and the next day went on till they found water enough for the horses in some pools on the rocks, and here, leaving the others to continue the reconnaissance, prof. came back to our camp, arriving in a snow-storm. it had been snowing with us at intervals all day. the next day was april first, and with it came still heavier snow. we planned to move down to the edge of the grand canyon, and jack and andy started as jack wished to make some photographs there, but the snow continuing we concluded to wait till another day. when that came the snow was quite deep on the ground and was still falling hard, which it continued to do most of the time, preventing us from moving. fennemore had brought with him a copy of _the count of monte cristo_, which i had never read, and in its pages i soon became oblivious to the surroundings. the snow kept on the next day also and all the men out returned to the main camp, dodds and johnson having reached the river bank. when another morning dawned and showed no cessation of the aggravating storm, with the snow fifteen inches on the level, prof. said he would pack up friday the 5th and get down to lower country around st. george. the day came clear and sunny and the snow began to melt. we headed for the pine valley mountains back of st. george and made about twenty miles with no snow after the first six, the altitude dropping to where the temperature was milder. prof. had inquired at the ranch about trails, but there were so many cattle trails that we did not get on the right one. we made a dry camp and early the following morning went on, not being able to see any landmarks because of the clouds. half an hour after starting a thick snow-storm set in but we kept going, till in about a mile and a half the world seemed suddenly to end. above, below, and around us was a great blank whiteness. dismounting and cautiously advancing on foot we discovered that we were on the brink of a very high cliff. as we did not know which way to turn we threw off the packs and stopped where we were. spreading out blankets we scraped the snow from them into the kettles to melt for water. then by holding a blanket up over andy by the four corners he was able, with some chips he had previously chopped out of the side of a dead pine, to start a fire, by which he proceeded to cook dinner. when the snow fell less heavily we could peer down and then saw that the cliff was continuous in both directions. by half-past two, with our kegs and canteens filled with the snow water, we were again on the way following along to find a place to go down, but we saw none that seemed practicable, and at last, having made altogether five miles, we halted for the night in a grove of cedars, where we had a good fire and were comfortable though our rations were now growing scarce. snow at intervals continued all day up to bedtime. the next day was sunday. we travelled twenty miles along the line of cliffs and camped near a canyon in which we found pools of good water. we saw an antelope during the day but could not get it. andy baked up the last of our flour for supper and put on a pot of beans and one of dried peaches to cook for breakfast. the beans were edible in the morning and we disposed of them and the peaches and went on our way. after a day of many ups and downs we arrived about two o'clock at a ranch called gould's or workman's, where we bought five dollars worth of corn-meal and milk. we were now on what the inhabitants of the region called hurricane hill, and from this we applied the name hurricane ledge to the long line of sharp cliffs we had followed, which begin at the virgin river and extend, almost unbroken and eight hundred to a thousand feet high, south to the grand canyon, forming the western boundary of the uinkaret plateau. from gould's we had a waggon road and following it we were led to the brink of the hurricane ledge, where a road had been constructed to the bottom. before descending we took a final look at the enchanting view opening away to the north and north-west. at our feet was the virgin valley with the green fields of tokerville, while beyond rose magnificent cliffs culminating to the north-west in the giant buttes and precipices of the mookoontoweap, or, as the mormons call it, little zion valley. topping the whole sweep of magnificent kaleidoscopic topography were the pine valley mountains and the lofty cliffs of the colob and markargunt plateaus. it has ever since been my opinion that few outlooks in all the world are superior for colour and form to that stretching north from the northern part of the hurricane ledge.[29] descending to the valley we arrived just at dusk at berry's spring, where our waggon under the direction of jones had come with supplies. the spring was an excellent one and the rivulet flowing away from it was bordered with large wild-rose bushes. though the waggon and supplies were there jones was not, for we had expected to come in from farther west past fort pierce, and he had gone on to that place to tell us where he had decided to camp. clem had found his gun and come out with them, the others of the party being fennemore and george adair. jones came back the next day and prepared to start with andy and johnson for several days' work in the pine valley mountains, while jack, captain dodds, fennemore, and i were to return to the uinkaret region to complete certain work there. some goods to be distributed to the natives from the indian bureau arrived at st. george and prof. went there with george adair to have a talk with the indians to be found, and distribute goods. we had seen no indians at all in the uinkaret region. he discovered the shewits who came in to be afraid of us, thinking we wanted to kill them, but they were willing to accept anything they could get in the line of presents. hardly any would acknowledge themselves to be either uinkarets or shewits. on april 12th, according to the plan, jack, dodds, fennemore, and i started back to the uinkaret mountains, following the trail we had tried to strike coming out. it led past a place called fort pierce, a small stone building the settlers had formerly used as an advance post against the shewits and uinkarets. there we spent the night, and the next day after some trouble we got on the right trail, and on monday, the 15th of april, we again reached what we had called oak spring, near mount trumbull, and the southern flow of lava already described. the following day jack and fennemore went down to the brink of the grand canyon, at the foot of a sort of valley the uinkarets called toroweap, while with dodds i climbed the peak later named after senator logan, and attempted some triangulation, but the air was so murky i could not get my sights and had to return for them the next morning. the day after that we climbed mount trumbull, and i triangulated from there. one of my sights from logan was to a conical butte near which we had camped as we came out, and near which we had found a large ant-hill covered with small, perfect quartz crystals that sparkled in the sun like diamonds. when i sighted to this butte, for want of a better name, i recorded it temporarily as diamond butte, remembering the crystals, and the name became fixed, which shows how unintentionally names are sometimes bestowed. we examined the lava flows and the crater again, and i made a sketch in pencil from another point of view from one i had made during our former sojourn. then we joined jack and fennemore, who had been taking negatives at the canyon edge. on the 20th dodds and i climbed down the cliffs about three thousand feet to the water at a rapid called lava falls. across the river we could see a very large spring, but of course we could not get over to it. returning to oak spring, we spent there another night, and in the morning, while the others started for headquarters, i rode around to the ranch to inquire about a spring i had heard something about existing on the st. george trail; but the solitary man i found there, who came out of the woods in response to my shout, a walking arsenal, did not know anything concerning it. after drinking a quart or two of milk, which he kindly offered me, i rode on to join my companions by continuing around the mountain, "running in" the trail as i went with a prismatic compass. presently i saw a cougar sitting upright behind a big log, calmly staring at me, so i dismounted and sent a winchester bullet in his direction. my mule was highly nervous about firearms, and having to restrain her antics by putting my arm through the bridle rein, her snorting skittishness both at the rifle and the cougar disturbed my aim and my shot went a trifle under. the bullet seemed to clip the log, but if it hit the cougar the effect was not what i expected, for with a rush like a sky-rocket the animal disappeared in the top of the pine tree overhead, and i could see nothing more of it though i rode about looking for it. not wishing to dally here, i spurred on to overtake my party, but in trying a short cut i passed beyond them, as they had by that time halted in some cedars for lunch. the man at the ranch had told me that whitmore was due to arrive that day, and having missed a part of the trail by the short cut, i could not judge by the tracks as to where my party were, and not caring to waste time, i rode on and on till i had gone so far i did not want to turn back. evening came, but there was a good moon, and i did not stop till eight o'clock. the night was cold; the plain was barren and bleak. i had no coat, but with the saddle blanket and a handful of dead brush, which i burned by installments, i managed to warm myself enough to sleep by short intervals. i was on my feet with the dawn, but my mule was nowhere to be seen, though i had hoppled her well with my bridle reins. i tracked the mule about five miles to a muddy place where there had been water, caught her, and rode back to my saddle, when i continued my journey, running in the trail as i went. i became pretty thirsty and hungry, but the only thing for me to do was to continue to our main camp. had i gone back i might have missed our men again, for there had been some talk about a short-cut trail, and i feared they might try it. at two o'clock i reached black rock canyon, where there was a water-pocket full of warm and dirty water, but both the mule and i took a drink and i rode on, passing fort pierce at sunset. off on my right i perceived ten or twelve shewits indians on foot travelling rapidly along in indian file, and as the darkness fell and i had to go through some wooded gulches i confess i was a little uncomfortable and kept my rifle in readiness; but i was not molested and reached camp about ten o'clock, where i ate a large piece of bread with molasses, after a good drink of water, and went to bed. the others arrived the following afternoon. i had left notes for them by the trail in cleft-sticks, so they knew that i was ahead. this was the longest trip i ever made without water or food. we prepared to start out again in different directions; one party was to go to the pine valley mountains, another to pipe spring and the mouth of the paria to look after our property there, a third up the virgin valley for photographs, and a fourth to st. george and the virgin range of mountains south-west of that town. prof. headed this last party, and he took me as his topographical assistant. april 27th we rode into st. george, a town i was much interested to see. i found a very pretty, neat, well-ordered little city of about fifteen hundred population, with a good schoolhouse, a stone tabernacle with a spire, and a court house, the water running in ditches along the streets for irrigating purposes as well as for drinking. about a mile below the town we camped, and we could hear the band playing a serenade to one of the officials who was to start the next day on a long journey. after several days of feeling our way about in the rugged and dry region below st. george, we finally discovered a good water-pocket, from which prof. and i made a long, hard ride and climb, and about sunset camped at the base of what is now called mount bangs, the highest peak of the virgin mountains, for which we were aiming. the next day we climbed an additional eleven hundred feet to its summit, and completed our work in time by swift riding to get to our main camp at the water-pocket by half-past six. it was an easy trip back to st. george, following an old trail, and then we made our way to kanab again, where we put all our notes in shape and fitted out for the journey to the mouth of the dirty devil across the unknown country. [illustration: in the unknown country. photograph by j. k. hillers, 1872.] footnotes: [footnote 28: for the linguistic classification of stocks and tribes of the united states, see appendix, _the north americans of yesterday_, by f. s. dellenbaugh.] [footnote 29: for a description of little zion valley, see "a new valley of wonders," by f. s. dellenbaugh, _scribner's magazine_, january, 1904.] chapter xiii off for the unknown country--a lonely grave--climbing a hog-back to a green grassy valley--surprising a ute camp--towich-a-tick-a-boo--following a blind trail--the unknown mountains become known--down a deep canyon--to the paria with the _cañonita_--john d. lee and lonely dell. andy and captain dodds, who had gone to the mouth of the paria to ascertain the condition of our boats, returned may 15th, reporting the boats all right, but the caches we had left torn up by wolves and prospectors. the latter had stolen oars and other things, and gone down on a raft to be wrecked at the first rapid in marble canyon, where they just escaped with their lives. a settler had established himself there a short time before, the notorious john d. lee, who was reputed to have led the massacre of the unfortunate missourians at mountain meadows in 1857, and who had eluded capture all these years. he had been "cut off," nominally at least, from the mormon church, and had lived in the most out-of-the-way places, constantly on his guard. our men took all our ropes and remaining materials from the caches to his cabin, where they would be safe till our arrival. we prepared for the trip eastward across the unknown country to the mouth of the dirty devil river, and by the 22d of may i had completed the preliminary map of the region to westward which we had just reconnoitred. mrs. thompson was to stay in kanab, for prof. decided that it would not be advisable for her to accompany him on this journey, although she was the most cheerful and resolute explorer of the whole company. a large tent was erected for her in the corner of jacob's garden, and she was to take her meals with sister louisa, whose house stood close by. with fuzz, a most intelligent dog, for a companion in her tent and the genial sister louisa for a near neighbour she was satisfactorily settled. fuzz had the peculiarity of sympathising with the navajos in their contempt for the pai utes. the latter roused his ire on the instant, but when a navajo came up, with his confident step, fuzz would lie still, with merely a roll of the eye to signify that he was on guard. saturday, may 25th, our caravan of riders, pack animals, and a waggon moved slowly toward eight-mile spring, the first stop in prospect. i rode a brisk little horse which had received the lofty name of aaron. when we reached eight-mile spring about noon there was barely enough water for our animals and for cooking dinner, which compelled our going elsewhere to put on the finishing touches to our outfit before cutting loose from the settlements, and prof. directed the caravan to continue to johnson, farther east and up one of the canyons of the vermilion cliffs. he returned to kanab to make some final arrangements there, while we kept on to johnson, passing the little settlement of two or three houses, and making a camp two miles above, where the canyon bottom was wide and level. here we went over everything to be sure that all was in good order and nothing left behind. the animals were reshod where necessary, which operation kept andy and dodds busy all of sunday, the 26th. by thus making a start and proceeding a few miles all defects and neglects become apparent before it is too late to remedy them. on monday jack went back to kanab with the waggon, returning toward night with george adair. fennemore had started with them, but he had turned back after something forgotten, and they did not know whether or not he had come on. in the morning george went off to look for him, and met him down at the settlement. he had followed on the day before, but instead of turning up the johnson road, according to instructions, he had gone ahead on the road towards the paria settlement. finally concluding that he was wrong he had tried to correct his mistake by moonlight, but after a while gave it up, tied his mule, unsaddled, to a cedar, and claimed the protection of another for himself. during the night the mule chewed the bridle in two and departed for kanab, leaving fennemore, when daylight came, to walk some eight miles under a hot sun without water or breakfast to johnson. he was considerably used up by this episode, and put in the remainder of the day in recuperating. the evenings were wonderfully beautiful, and looking from a height the scene was exceptionally picturesque, with the red rocks, the warm sky, the camp equipage, and the air so still that the smoke of the camp-fires rose slender and unbroken till lost in the zenith. early wednesday morning prof. rode up on his powerful buckskin-coloured horse, and with johnson and me went over to our point b some miles away for some bearings, while fennemore rode in search of his abandoned saddle. by night there was nothing to interfere with our making the final start, which we did may 30th, proceeding up the canyon without mormon, one of our strongest horses, which by an accident had been injured so badly that he had to be left behind at johnson. he was a fractious, unruly beast, but with so great vitality that we were sorry not to have his services. he died a week or two later. towards night we passed another very small settlement called clarkston, and camped near it, the last houses we would see for some time. several pai utes hung around, and prof. engaged one called tom to accompany us as interpreter and, so far as he might know the country, as guide. the next day, after sixteen miles north-easterly up canyons, we entered about three o'clock an exceedingly beautiful little valley, with a fine spring and a small lake or pond at the lower end. george adair instantly declared that he meant to come back here to live, and after dinner when we reconnoitred the place he staked out his claim. all the next morning, june 1st, our way led over rolling meadows covered with fine grass, but about noon this ended and we entered the broken country of the upper paria, with gullies and gulches barren and dry the rest of the day, except two, in which we crossed small branches of the paria. in one of the dry gulches we passed a grave, marked by a sandstone slab with e. a. cut on it, which the wolves had dug out, leaving the human bones scattered all around. we could not stop to reinter them. they were the remains of elijah averett, a young mormon, who was killed while pursuing pai utes in 1866. just before sunset we arrived at the banks of the paria, where we made camp, with plenty of wood, water, and grass. captain dodds during the afternoon recognised a place he had been in when hunting a way the autumn before, and we followed his old trail for a time. leaving the paria the following day where it branches, we followed the east fork to its head, twelve miles, climbing rapidly through a narrow valley. we could plainly see on the left a high, flat, cliff-bounded summit, which was called table mountain, and early in the afternoon we reached a series of "hog-backs," and up one of which the old indian trail we were now following took its precarious way. the hog-backs were narrow ridges of half-disintegrated clay-shale, with sides like the roof of a house, the trail following the sharp summit-line. before we had fairly begun this very steep, slippery, and narrow climb, the thunder boomed and the heavens threw down upon us fierce torrents of rain, soaking everything and chilling us through and through, while making the trail like wet soap. part way up, at one of the worst places, a pack came loose, and, slipping back, hung on the rump of the horse. there was no room for bucking it off, and there was no trouble so far as the beast of burden was concerned, for he realised fully his own danger. two of us managed to climb along past the other animals to where he meekly stood waiting on the narrow ridge, with a descent on each side of eight hundred or nine hundred feet, and set things in order once more, when the cavalcade continued the ascent, the total amount of which was some twelve hundred feet. arriving at the top we found ourselves almost immediately on the edge of a delightful little valley, mossy and green with a fresh june dress, down which we proceeded two or three miles to a spring where dodds and jacob had made a cache of some flour the year before. the flour had disappeared. we made a camp and dried out our clothes, blankets, etc., by means of large fires. though it was summer the air was decidedly chilly, for we were at an altitude of nearly 6000 feet. our interpreter that was to be did not enjoy the situation and i think he dreaded meeting with the stranger indians we might encounter. he declared he was "heap sick," and begged to be allowed to return, so prof. gave him several days' rations and we saw him no more. there was a pretty creek in this valley flowing eastward, which dodds said was the head of the dirty devil, the same stream he had followed down the year before in the attempt to find a way to bring us rations. the weather was very bad but we kept on down potato valley as it had been named, crossing three or four swift tributaries. about four o'clock we stopped beside a raging torrent and went into camp to reconnoitre. there were signs of some one having been here about a month before, and as the animals were shod we judged it was some prospector. the next day was so wet and prof. was feeling so sick that we kept our camp, having made tents out of paulins and pack-covers, which gave me a chance to plot up the trail from kanab to this point, one hundred and three miles. instead of crossing the torrent the following day, june 5th, we went over the chief stream before the union and travelled down the right-hand side till we arrived within half a mile of the place where the river canyoned and received a tributary from the left. it cut into the rocks very abruptly and being high we could not enter the canyon as dodds had done. while the party camped here, prof. and dodds rode away to the south on a dim trail to find out what move to make; how far we might be able to go down the dirty devil the next day. when they got back they reported finding a canyon twelve miles farther on, with many water-pockets, and concluded to go there. we arrived about noon thursday, june 6th, making camp. prof. and dodds then climbed to where they could get a wide view, and dodds pointed out the locality he had before reached when he thought himself so near the mouth of the dirty devil. no sooner had he done so than prof. perceived at once that we were not on the river we thought we were on, for by this explanation he saw that the stream we were trying to descend flowed into the colorado far to the south-west of the unknown mountains, whereas he knew positively that the dirty devil came in on the north-east. then the question was, "what river is this?" for we had not noted a tributary of any size between the dirty devil and the san juan. it was a new river whose identity had not been fathomed. this discovery put a different complexion on everything. the problem was more complicated than dodds had imagined when he was trying to reach the mouth the year before. prof. declared it was impossible to proceed farther in this direction towards our goal. the canyon of the river was narrow, and with the stream swimming high it was out of the question as a path for us now, and even had we been able to go down far enough to get out on the other side, the region intervening between it and the distant mountains was a heterogeneous conglomeration of unknown mesas and canyons that appeared impassable. he concluded the only thing to do was to go north to the summit of the wasatch cliffs and keep along the high land north-east to an angle where these slopes vanished to the north. from that point we might be able to cross to the dirty devil or unknown mountains. once at these mountains we felt certain of finding a way to our former camp-ground at the mouth of the dirty devil river. we retraced our path to the foot of potato valley, and there jones, clem, and george adair were sent out to kanab for additional rations, it being plain that we were in for a longer effort than had been contemplated. they were to be here again in twelve days to meet prof. with his party, on the return from starting down the _cañonita_ with a crew selected from the seven remaining men. this seven, which included prof., were now to strike up a branch creek and reach the upper slopes of what he later called the aquarius plateau, and along its verdant slopes continue our effort to reach the unknown mountains. the two parties separated on saturday, june 8th, our contingent travelling about eighteen miles nearly due north, till just at sunset we entered a high valley in which flowed two splendid creeks. there we camped with an abundance of everything needed to make a comfortable rest for man and beast. in such travel as this the beast is almost the first consideration, for without him movement is slow and difficult and distance limited. we had gone up in altitude a great deal, 1800 or 2000 feet, and the next day, which was sunday, we continued this upward course, seeing signs of deer and elk with an occasional sight of a fat "pine hen" winging its heavy flight from tree to tree. the pines were very tall and thick, interspersed with fir and balsam as well as with the usual accompaniment of high altitude in the west, the aspen. our aneroids indicated 10,000 feet above sea-level, and we could look down upon the vast canyoned desert to the south as on a map. descending into a deep canyon where a clear torrent was foaming down at the rate of five hundred feet to the mile, we went up a branch and finally passing over a sudden crest discovered before us a very beautiful lake of an extent of some two hundred acres. it was now late, and though we had come only ten miles we went into camp for the night. there were several smaller lagoons nearby and we named the group the aspen lakes. around them in the dense groves huge snowbanks still lingered from the heart of winter. a prettier mountain region than this could not be imagined, while the magnificent outlook to the south and east across the broken country was a bewildering sight, especially as the night enveloped it, deepening the mystery of its entangled gorges and cliffs. from every point we could see the navajo mountain and at least we knew what there was at the foot of its majestic northern slope. i climbed far above camp and crossing over a promontory looked down upon the nebulous region to the eastward that we were to fathom, and it seemed to me one of the most interesting sights i had ever beheld. the night was so cold that ice formed in our kettles, for our altitude in feet above sea was in the ten thousand still. [illustration: navajo mountain from near kaiparowits peak. photograph by j. k. hillers, 1872.] all the next morning, monday, june 10th, we rode through a delightful region of rolling meadows, beautiful groves of pines and aspens, and cool, clear creeks. near noon we descended into a fertile valley where we crossed two superb torrential streams and camped at the second under a giant pine. fennemore felt very sick, which prevented further progress this day, and we put in the afternoon exploring as far as we could the neighbourhood. more lakes were found and as they were in a cup-like depression we called them the "hidden lakes." jack made some fine negatives of several of these pretty bodies of water, two of which i have added to the illustrations of this volume. not far from our camp two more splendid creeks came together to form one, which dodds said he thought was that named by them big boulder, where it joined the main stream down below. the next morning, tuesday, we began our day's work by soon crossing cataract and cascade creeks before they united to form the big boulder, rushing down with an impetuosity that was forbidding. the two forming creeks were much alike, but we could see back in the distance a beautiful cascade of fully 1000 feet in which the second stream originated, and we distinguished it by that name. all day we travelled over a rancher's paradise, meeting no indians and seeing no recent signs of any except in some filmy smoke mounting mysteriously from canyons in the tangled sandstone labyrinth below. who were they, how many, and what might be their temper? were questions that came to us as we reflected on the presence there of unknown human beings, and furthermore would we meet them, and if so when? as on the preceding day we crossed many fine brooks which in the dry season probably would not make so vigorous a showing. late in the afternoon, having travelled fifteen miles, we reached the point where the end of the wasatch or aquarius plateau, the high slope of which we were using as a bridge from potato valley to the unknown mountains, broke back to the north, cutting us off once more from our objective, for a wide stretch, twenty-five miles in an airline, of ragged desert apparently impassable still intervened. we camped there at a convenient little spring. in the morning i was sent with johnson for my companion in one direction down the mountain to look for some old trail, while prof. with dodds went in another. scarcely had i gone half a mile when i found tolerably fresh indian sign, and a mile or two farther on we struck a recently travelled trail. the horses that had gone over it were unshod and there were moccasin tracks indicating indians without a doubt, but what kind of course the track did not reveal. the trail led towards the dirty devil mountains, and we followed it three or four miles to ascertain with certainty its general course. there was a possibility of our stumbling upon the indians in camp at some bend, and as this was not desirable for only two of us we turned back as soon as we felt sure of the direction. prof. had seen no trail at all, and he said we would take the one i had found and follow it. that night was disagreeable and rainy with numberless mosquitoes, but worst of all one of our new men always snored till the ground shook, and owing to the rain we could not get away from him, for we had to remain in the improvised tent to keep dry. the morning light never was more welcome and we were all up early. the day was fair. we were soon off and made our way down from the grassy heights to the trail, tracing its wearisome twists and turns, sometimes thinking it was not going our way at all when the next turn would be exactly right. in general its course was about east. the land was desolate and dry, and exactly as the region appeared from above, a complete labyrinth of variously coloured cliffs and canyons. besides being very crooked on account of the nature of the topography, the trail at times was indistinct because of the barren rocks, smooth as a floor, with nothing to take an imprint. in these places we were obliged to make the best guess we could. we came to a place where a valley lay about 1800 feet below us, with the descent to it over bare, smooth, white sandstone almost as steep as a horse could stand on. we travelled a mile and a half over this and then found ourselves in a better looking region where, after a few miles, we discovered a beautiful creek flowing rapidly. there was plenty of good grass and we made our camp beneath some cottonwood trees, having accomplished twenty miles the way we came. smoke of an indian fire was rolling up about three miles below us, but we paid little attention to it. every man delayed putting down his blankets till the champion snorer had selected the site of his bed, and then we all got as far away as the locality would permit. having slept little the night before, we hardly stirred till morning, and in gratitude we called the stream pleasant creek without an attempt at originality. it was friday, may 14th, and our long cavalcade proceeded in the usual single file down along the creek in the direction of the indian smoke. scarcely had we gone three miles when suddenly we heard a yell and the bark of a dog. then we discovered two squaws on the other side who had been gathering seeds, and who were now giving the alarm, for we were close upon an indian camp set on the edge of a low hill on the opposite side of the creek. our outfit presented rather a formidable appearance, especially as we were an unexpected apparition, and we could see them all running to hide, though i thought for a moment we might have a battle. without a halt, prof. led the way across the creek to the foot of the hill, and as we reached the place one poor old man left as a sacrifice came tottering down, so overcome by fear that he could barely articulate, "hah-ro-ro-roo, towich-a-tick-a-boo," meaning very friendly he was, and extending his trembling hand. doubtless he expected to be shot on the instant. with a laugh we each shook his hand in turn saying "towich-a-tick-a-boo, old man," and rode up the hill into the camp, where we found all the wickiups with everything lying about just as they had been using it at the moment of receiving the alarm. we dismounted and inducing the terrified old man to sit down in one of the wickiups, prof. sat with him and we rolled cigarettes, giving him one, and when all were smoking, except prof. who never used tobacco, we urged him in english and pai ute and by signs to call the others back. i walked a few yards out on the hill and just then, with a rush and a clatter of language i could not understand, except "impoo immy pshakai?" (what do you want?) the two squaws who had been up the creek arrived. the foremost one, frothing at the mouth with excitement and effort, dashed at me with an uplifted butcher knife as if she would enjoy sending it into me, but i laughed at her and she halted immediately in front of me. she broke into a maniacal laugh then and shouted something to the hidden refugees. we persuaded the old man also to call them, and he stepped out from the cedars which grew on the point and spoke a loud sentence. at last they began to appear silently and one by one. there were eight of the men, all well dressed in buckskin, and a number of women and children. when they became confident that we really meant to be friendly they relaxed their vigilance. with the hope of securing a guide and also to study them a little we went into camp in the creek bottom under the hill where they came to visit us. their language and appearance showed them to be utes. when prof. got back to kanab he heard that a party of red lake utes had killed a white boy near the sevier settlements, and he concluded this band must have been the one. they probably thought we were pursuing them into their secret lair to punish them. their great anxiety to trade for powder indicated their lack of that article and partly explained the precipitousness of their retreat. they had numbers of well dressed buckskins and a very small amount of powder would buy one, but as we had only metallic cartridges we could do little in the line of exchange. to satisfy one of them that we had no loose powder i removed the spring from the magazine of my winchester and poured the sixteen cartridges out. he had never seen such a gun before and was greatly astonished, though he hardly understood how it worked. prof. tried his best to persuade one to go with us as a guide, for the labyrinth ahead was a puzzle, but whether through fear or disinclination to leave friends not one would go. the chief gave us a minute description of the trail to the unknown or dirty devil mountains as well as he could by signs and words, some of which we could not understand, and long afterwards we learned that his information was exactly correct, though at the time through misunderstanding we were not able to follow it. they also told us there was a trail to the big river beyond the mountains. there was a little canyon in the creek nearby and the water rushed down over a bed of bare rock at an angle of about twenty degrees. we were surprised to discover hundreds of fish six to nine inches long wriggling up the stream along one edge where the water was very shallow. they formed a line from top to bottom. unable to secure the guide, we left at six o'clock in the morning, saturday, june 15th, with all our relations cordial, the utes going away before we did, and struck out on the trail which led south-eastward from this camp. travelling twelve miles, we passed through a narrow canyon into a larger one, believing that we were following the chief's direction. recent heavy rains had washed out the trail, and not knowing its course it was impossible to keep even its general direction. going up a left-hand branch of the canyon--that is, to the north--we found no exit, so we came down and followed a trail up the right-hand branch till it disappeared, then going back once more to the entrance we again went up the left-hand branch till we came to a vertical wall one thousand feet high, which turned us around. the right-hand one was entered another time, and towards its head where the cliffs could not be climbed we made camp, with an abundance of water which was so strongly alkaline we could not use it and had to keep the stock from it also. our kegs were full and we did not suffer except by limitation. in the morning we continued up the same canyon till it ended in vertical cliffs, beneath which there was a large pool of pure cool water, with ferns clinging above it to the rocks and rank vegetation all around. this was an immense relief, and we found it hard to turn our backs on so attractive a spot and go down the gorge once more to a point not far below our last camp. here the walls were about a thousand feet and very precipitous, though somewhat broken. prof., jack, dodds, and i climbed out on the north and hunted for water in different directions on the top. i kept on and on down a dry wash, persisting against the objection of dodds, who thought it useless, and was at last rewarded by discovering a pocket among the rocks containing several barrels of water, with another that was larger a short distance below in a crevice on a rock-shelf at the brink of a canyon. we returned to camp with this news, where prof. and jack soon joined us. they had found no pockets, but had seen the divide between the waters of the colorado and the dirty devil, which we could follow to the mountains if we could scale the cliffs. prof. had selected a point where he thought we could mount. with a liberal use of axe, shovel, and pick we succeeded in gaining the summit in an hour and a half. with all the cliff-climbing we had done with horses this seemed to me our paramount achievement. the day was ending by this time, and i led the way with some trepidation towards the pocket i had found, for in my haste to get back i had not carefully noted the topography. the cedars and piñons all looked alike in the twilight shades, and as i went on and on the men behind began to lose faith and made joking remarks about my mental status. i felt certain i was right, yet the distance seemed so much greater in the dusk than when i had traversed it on foot that i was a little disturbed. by the time we at last got to the pocket darkness was upon us, though nobody cared for anything but water, and there it was fresh and pure. the animals and ourselves (andy filling the kettles first) consumed the entire amount, but it gave each a full drink, and we held the second pool in reserve. [illustration: tantalus creek. tributary of frémont river. photograph by j. k. hillers.] [illustration: d. preliminary map of a portion of the northern part of the unknown country indicated by the blank space on map a at page 95, showing the course of part of glen canyon, the mouth of the frémont (dirty devil) river, the henry (unknown) mountains, and the trail of the first known party of white men to cross this area. the escalante river, which was mistaken for the dirty devil, enters the colorado just above the first letter "o" of colorado at the bottom of the map. the dirty devil enters from the north at the upper right-hand side.] when morning came we engineered a way for the animals down to the shelf where the other pocket was, twenty or thirty feet below, by pulling rocks away in places and piling them up in others. the shelf was perhaps fifty or sixty feet wide, with a sheer plunge of one thousand feet at the outer end into the first canyon we had followed. the animals could not get to the water, but we dipped it out for them in the camp kettles. the way up from the shelf was so very steep that at one point two of us had to put our shoulders to the haunches of some of the horses to "boost" them, while other men pulled on a strong halter from above, and in this way we soon had them all watered and ready for pack and saddle. keeping along the divide we had comparatively easy going, with the unknown mountains ever looming nearer, till their blue mystery vanished and we could discern ordinary rocks and trees composing their slopes. about noon we arrived at the edge of an intervening valley, with the wind blowing so fierce a gale that we could barely see. crossing this depression we reached a small creek at the foot of the second mountain from the north (now mt. pennell), and climbed its slope seventeen hundred feet to a beautiful spring, where we camped, with plenty of fine grass for the famished horses. we had at last traversed the unknown to the unknown, and felt well satisfied with our success. if it had ever been done before by white men there was no knowledge of it. the temperature was so low that water froze in the camp kettles, and next morning, june 18th, the thermometer stood at 28° f., with the water of the little brook running from the spring at 37° f. after breakfast prof., jack, and dodds climbed the mountain on which we were camped, running their aneroid out, while with johnson i went down the slope north, crossed the pass, and climbed the first mountain (now mt. ellen, after mrs. thompson). a severe snow-storm set in, and when we had finally attained a point where our aneroid indicated 11,200 feet above sea-level, we were obliged to turn back because of the lateness of the hour and having no coats, no food, or water. when we reached camp on the other mountain night had come. andy had been trying to cook some beans, but the high altitude prevented the water from getting hot enough and the operation was incomplete.[30] i foolishly ate some of the beans, being very hungry, with the result that i was sick for the first time on the expedition, suffering a horrible stomach-ache. though not disabled i was extremely uncomfortable. in the morning we started to go around north through the pass to the east side of the mountain, and i ran in the trail as usual, mounting and dismounting many times, till i was extremely glad after eight miles when we came to the head of a little creek and stopped to enable prof. to climb the third peak (mt. hillers) for observations. while he was gone i was content to lie still in the shade of a bush, and finally lost my pain in sleep. prof. got back so late that we camped where we were, much to my satisfaction. the view from our camp was extensive and magnificent, the whole dirty devil region lying open, like a book, below us. we were striking for the creek up which prof. and cap. had come the year before from the river, for we knew that from its mouth we could easily get to where our _cañonita_ was cached. the next day, june 20th, we continued down trachyte creek, as prof. called it, till four o'clock, passing many old camps and grazing grounds, when we halted for prof. to climb to a height. the outlook there showed him that this was not the stream whose canyon below we wanted to descend to the river, so the following morning he took dodds and reconnoitred, the latter after a while returning with orders for us to come on eastward to another canyon. we left trachyte creek and reached prof. at two o'clock. he had prospected a trail, or rather a way, to descend into the canyon over the smooth bare sandstone across which we wound back and forth for a mile, constantly going down into the strange, weird depths till at last we reached the creek bed, where a short distance below we went into camp in a beautiful green cottonwood grove, with enormous pockets of good water close by. by seven o'clock in the morning of the 22d we were going on down the deep, narrow canyon, and arrived at the colorado at half-past ten. the river was at least fifteen feet higher than last year, and rushed by with a majestic power that was impressive. our first unusual incident was when prof.'s horse, in trying to drink from a soft bank, dropped down into the swift current and gave us half an hour's difficult work to get him out. when we had eaten dinner we all went up to the mouth of the dirty devil, where we had stored the _cañonita_, and rejoiced to find her lying just as we left her, except that the water had risen to that level and washed away one of the oars. we caulked the boat temporarily, launched her once more on the sweeping tide, and in two minutes were at our camp, where we hauled her out for the repairs necessary to make her sound for the run to the paria. sunday was the next day, june 23d, and while the others rested i plotted in the trail by which we had crossed to this place so that prof. could take it out with him, as he decided that jack, johnson, fennemore, and i were to take the boat down, while he, andy, and dodds would go back overland to meet jones and george adair at the foot of potato valley. at five o'clock they left us, going up the same canyon we had come down and which we called lost creek canyon, now crescent creek. the next day we recaulked and painted the boat, and i put the name _cañonita_ in red letters on the stern and a red star on each side of the bow. by wednesday the 26th she was all ready and we put her in the water and ran down four miles to the large shinumo house. jack rowed the stern oars, johnson the bow, i steered, while fennemore sat on the middle deck. the high water completely obliterated the aggravating shoals which had bothered us the year before, and we had no work at all except to steer or to land, the current carrying us along at a good pace. we stopped occasionally for pictures and notes and got about everything that jack and fennemore wanted in the line of photographs. the fourth of july we celebrated by firing fourteen rounds, and i made a lemon cake and a peach-pie for dinner. on sunday the 8th we passed the mouth of the stream that had been mistaken for the dirty devil, and which prof. had named escalante river. it was narrow and shallow and would not be taken at its mouth for so important a tributary. the next day we passed the san juan which was running a very large stream, and camped at the music temple, where i cut jack's name and mine under those of the howlands and dunn. the rapid below was dashing but easy and we ran it without stopping to examine. on friday the 12th we came to el vado and dug up a cache we had made there the year before. our rations for some time were nothing but bread and coffee, and we were glad to see the echo peaks and then run in at the mouth of the paria on saturday, july 13th, with the expectation of finding men and supplies. the _dean_ was lying high and dry on the bank and we wondered who had taken her from her hiding-place. firing our signal shots and receiving no answer, jack and i went up the paria, crossing it on a log, and saw a cabin and a farm on the west side. this we knew must be lee's. he was ploughing in a field, and when he first sighted us he seemed a little startled, doubtless thinking we might be officers to arrest him. one of his wives, rachel, went into the cabin not far off and peered out at us. she was a fine shot as i afterwards learned. lee received us pleasantly and invited us to take our meals at his house till our party came. as we had nothing but bread and coffee and not much of these we accepted. the fresh vegetables out of the garden, which his other wife, mrs. lee xviii., served nicely cooked, seemed the most delicious food that could be prepared. mrs. lee xviii. was a stout, comely young woman of about twenty-five, with two small children, and seemed to be entirely happy in the situation. the other wife, whose number i did not learn, left before dark for a house they had at jacob's pool and i never saw her again. [illustration: example of lakes on the aquarius plateau. photograph by j. k. hillers.] lee had worked hard since his arrival early in the year and now had his farm in fairly good order with crops growing, well irrigated by the water he took out of the paria. he called the place lonely dell, and it was not a misnomer. johnson made arrangements to go to kanab the next day, as he concluded that his health would not permit him to go through the grand canyon with us, so this was our last night with him. lee gave me his own version of the mountain meadows massacre claiming that he really had nothing to do with it and had tried to stop it, and when he could not do so he went to his house and cried. the pai utes ever after called him naguts or crybaby.[31] in the morning, sunday, july 14th, johnson departed with lee and we expected someone to arrive to bring us news of the major and prof., but the sun went down once more without any message. we felt sure that prof. got out of the dirty devil country without accident, but we wanted some definite information of it and we also desired to know when we would resume the canyon voyage. on monday having nothing else to do we took some hoes and worked in lee's garden till near noon, when we heard yells which proved to come from andy and clem with a waggon needing some help over bad places. we soon had the waggon in a good spot under some willows and there speedily ransacked it for mail, spending the rest of the day reading letters and newspapers. andy told us that prof. had reached kanab with no trouble of any kind. mrs. lee xviii., or sister emma, as she would in utah properly be called, invited us to dinner and supper, and the next day we worked in the garden again, repaired the irrigating ditch, and helped about the place in a general way, glad enough to have some occupation even though the sun was burning hot and the thermometer stood at 110° in the shade. almost every day we did some work in the garden and we also repaired the irrigating dam. our camp was across the paria down by the colorado, and when brother lee came back the following sunday he called to give us a lengthy dissertation on the faith of the latter-day saints (mormons), while andy, always up to mischief, in his quiet way, delighted to get behind him and cock a rifle. at the sound of the ominous click lee would wheel like a flash to see what was up. we had no intention of capturing him, of course, but it amused andy to act in a way that kept lee on the _qui vive_. we got the _nell_ out of her shed and found her in very bad condition, while the _dean_ was about as we had left her. andy and jack went to work on the _dean_ and in a few days had her in excellent trim. on july 24th, which is the day the mormons celebrate for the settlement of salt lake valley, lee invited us to dinner and supper, which gave us a very pleasant time. so far as our intercourse with lee was concerned we had no cause for complaint. he was genial, courteous, and generous. a copy of deforrest's _overland_ was in camp and i whiled away some hours reading it, but time began to hang heavily upon us and we daily longed for the appearance of the rest of the party so that we might push out on the great red flood that moved irresistibly down into the maw of marble canyon, and end the uncertainty that lay before us. august the first came and still no message. fennemore now felt so sick that jack took him to lee's with rations in order that he might have vegetables with his meals with the hope that he would recover, but he grew worse, and on august 4th he decided that he would return to his home in salt lake. we concluded that one of us must go to kanab to inform prof. of the state of affairs, and clem in his big-hearted way offered to do this, but we knew that his sense of locality was defective and that he might get lost. consequently we played on him an innocent trick which i may now tell as he long ago went "across the range." i planned with andy that we three were to draw cuts for the honour of the ride and that andy was to let me draw the fatal one. clem was greatly disappointed. jack went on a chase after nig and ran him down about sunset, for nig was the most diplomatic mule that ever lived. having no saddle i borrowed one from lee who let me have it dubiously as he feared we might be laying some trap. i gave him my word that while i had his saddle no man of ours would molest him, and furthermore that they would befriend him. i rode away while he remarked that in the rocks he could defy an army, with regret still in his eyes, though he accepted my pledge. i got out a few miles before dark and slept by the roadside, with the distant murmur of rapids speaking to me of the turmoil we were soon to pass through. by noon of the next day i was at jacob's pool, by half-past three at house rock spring, and at night in summit valley where i camped. the day was so hot that i could hardly bear my hand on my rifle barrel as it lay across my saddle. my lunch of jerked beef and bread i ate as i rode along thus losing no time. the trail across the kaibab was not often travelled, and it was dim and hard to follow, a faint horse track showing here and there, so i lost it several times but quickly picked it up again, and finally came out of the forest where i could see all the now familiar country to the west and north. about two o'clock i arrived at kanab and rode to jacob's house where sister louisa told me that the major, prof., mrs. thompson, professor de motte, and george adair had left that very morning for the south end of the kaibab on the way to the paria, and that jones and lyman hamblin the day before had started for the paria with a waggon load of supplies drawn by a team of four broncho mules. nig being very tired i thought i would rest till morning, when he rewarded my consideration by eluding me till ten o'clock. this gave me so late a start that it was dark and rainy when i descended the east side of the kaibab, and i had to drag nig down the 2000 feet in the gloom over boulders, bushes, ledges, or anything else that came, for i could see only a few feet and could not keep the trail. i reached house rock spring at last and camped there. in the morning i discovered jones and lyman down in the valley and joined them for breakfast, after which i helped them start. this was no easy matter, for the four mules they had in harness, with one exception, were as wild as mountain sheep, having only recently been broken. jones had been badly kicked three times, his hands were burned by the ropes, and there was a lively time whenever the excited animals were put to the waggon. the road was new, only a waggon track in reality, and the mules became more and more docile through exhaustion as the day went on. at night they were far safer to handle than in the morning. july 9th about dark we arrived at lonely dell, lee stealing suspiciously in behind where i was walking, to ask me who the men were and what they wanted. we had a joyful time, especially as steward had sent out a large box of fine candy which we found in the mail and opened at once. four days later the major and his party came from the kaibab and we had venison for supper. the major said we would go on down the colorado as soon as possible though the water was still very high. [illustration: the grand canyon near mouth of shinumo creek the river is in flood and the water is "colorado." sketch made in colour on the spot by f. s. dellenbaugh. july 26, 1907.] footnotes: [footnote 30: we had not yet learned to put a tight cover on the bean pot, and then by means of a big stone on the cover and a hot fire create an artificial atmosphere within it, thus raising the temperature.] [footnote 31: lee was executed for the crime five years later, 1877. others implicated were not punished, the execution of lee "closing the incident."] chapter xiv a company of seven.--the _nellie powell_ abandoned.--into marble canyon.--vasey's paradise.--a furious descent to the little colorado.--a mighty fall in the dismal granite gorge.--caught in a trap.--upside down.--a deep plunge and a predicament.--at the mouth of the kanab. we now missed steward, cap, and beaman more than ever, for we had been unable to get anyone to take their places. the fact was our prospective voyage through marble and grand canyons was considered almost a forlorn hope and nobody cared to take the risk. the plan had been to give me the steering of the _cañonita_, but now with three boats and only seven to man them it was plain that one must be abandoned. an examination of them all showed that the _nellie powell_ was in the poorest condition and she was chosen for the sacrifice. she was put back in her shelter being afterwards used by lee for a desultory ferry business, that developed. about ten days before our arrival, the _dean_ had been discovered by a newspaper man named j. h. beadle, and used to cross to the north side where he left her. this was how she happened to be there when we came. beadle had denounced lee and the mormons in print and tried to conceal his identity by assuming the name of hanson, a plan frustrated by his having some clothes, marked with his own name, laundered by sister emma. lee was only amused by the incident. the _dean_ was to be manned by the same crew as before; jones to steer, jack at the after oars, i at the forward pair, and the major in his usual place on the middle deck. the _cañonita_ was to have prof. as steersman, andy at the stroke oars, and clem in the bow, clem having gotten all over his inclination to leave and being determined now to see the end of the voyage before he departed. the same day that the major and his party arrived, jack and i, with jones steering, tried the _dean_ by taking mrs. thompson, professor demotte, and lyman hamblin up the river so that they might see what a canyon was like from a boat. mrs. thompson was so enthusiastic that she declared she wanted to accompany us. prof. took her as passenger on the _cañonita_ about half-past four on wednesday, august 14th, when we had completed the sacking and packing of provisions, and with both boats ran down through a small rapid or two about a mile and a half, where we camped at the mouth of a little canyon down which the waggon-road came. mrs. thompson enjoyed the exhilaration of descending the swift rushing water and still thought it attractive. i went to lee's and brought down the major's arm-chair for our boat, and saw fennemore who was very sick. we made our final preparations at this point, and i spent most of thursday morning helping the major get his papers in order so that if we did not appear again his affairs could be readily settled. this required considerable writing, which i did, for the major wrote slowly with his left hand, the only one he had. we dined with lee, having the first watermelon of the season for dessert. lee was most cordial and we could not have asked better treatment than he gave us the whole time we were at lonely dell. in the afternoon our land outfit left for kanab and we said a last good-bye to the men, who looked as if they never expected to see us again. only the "tirtaan aigles" remained, and there were but seven of these now. the next day we put the finishing touches on the boats, and while we were doing this our late fellow voyageur beaman, and a companion named carleton, passed on their way to the moki towns where beaman wanted to make photographs. all being ready the next day, saturday, august 17th, we pushed out on the mighty colorado about nine o'clock and by noon ran into marble canyon, nearly five miles, passing one small rapid and another of considerable size on a river about one hundred feet wide and extremely swift, with straight walls rapidly increasing from the fifty feet or so at the paria. marble canyon while differing in name is but the upper continuation of the grand canyon, there being no line of demarkation other than a change in geological structure and the entrance of the canyon of the little colorado. the combined length of the two divisions is 283 miles and the declivity is very great. the altitude of the mouth of the paria is 3170 feet, while the grand wash at the end of the grand canyon is 840 feet, leaving a descent of 2330 feet still before us. at our dinner camp, which was on a talus on the left, the walls were about 500 feet and quite precipitous, but i was able to climb out on the right to get a view of the surroundings. after dinner we went on in our usual order, our boat the _dean_ in advance and the _cañonita_ following. the photographing now devolved entirely on jack and clem; andy as usual ran the culinary branch of the expedition, jones and prof. meandered the river. we had not gone far after dinner before we were close upon a bad-looking rapid, a drop of about eighteen feet in a distance of 225, which we concluded to defeat by means of a portage on the right-hand bank. as we knew exactly what to do no time was wasted and we were soon below, sweeping on with a stiff current which brought us, in about ten miles from our morning start and five from the noon halt, to a far worse rapid than the last, a fall of twenty-five feet in four or five hundred, with very straight walls six hundred feet high on both sides. the major concluded to leave the passage of it till the next day, and we went into camp at the head. this was the rapid where disaster fell on the miners, ten in number, who in the spring had stolen a lot of our things at the paria and started down prospecting on a raft. they saved their lives but not another thing, and after a great deal of hard work they succeeded by means of driftwood ladders in climbing to the top of the walls and made their way to the settlement. this is now called soap creek rapid, being at the mouth of the canyon by which the little stream of that name reaches the river,--a little stream which at times is a mighty torrent. in a small rapid following or in the final portion of this, i believe, is the place where frank m. brown, leader of the denver, colorado canyon, and pacific railway survey, was drowned in 1889. we began work on sunday, august 18th, by making the portage and had no trouble of any kind, jack and clem making some photographs before we finally said good-bye to the place. continuing on our way we found the river very narrow, not over seventy-five feet in many places and ranging from that to two hundred, with frequent whirlpools strong enough to swing our boats entirely around. before dinner-time we had put five large rapids behind, and then we halted under a ledge on the left a short distance above a very ugly and difficult prospect. there was an exceedingly heavy descent and a soft sandstone being at the river margin it was worn away, giving little chance for a footing by which to make a portage. the major and prof. decided that we could run it safely, and after dinner we shot into it, both boats going through in fine style. just below was another smaller one that was vanquished easily, and we went swiftly on down the swirling, booming current. rain fell at intervals to continue our saturation, and with four more rapids, all of which we ran, one having quite a heavy fall, there was little chance for us to dry out. at one point we passed an enormous rock which had dropped from the cliffs overhead and almost blocked the whole river. then we arrived at a huge rapid whose angry tones cried so distinctly, "no running through here," that we did not hesitate but began a let down forthwith, and when that was accomplished we camped at the foot of it for the night, having come eleven and three-eighths miles during the day. the rapid was extremely noisy and the roaring reverberated back and forth from cliff to cliff as it ascended to the top, 1800 feet, to escape into the larger air. the walls had two or three terraces and were not over three quarters of a mile apart at the summit, the cliff portions being nearly or quite perpendicular. the rocks, of all sizes, which were legion at each rapid, were frequently dovetailed into each other by the action of the current and so neatly joined in a serrated line that they were practically one. [illustration: thompson marble canyon. photograph by j. k. hillers, 1872.] the rapidity with which the water went down and the walls went up as we cut into the plateau gave a vivid impression of descending into the very bowels of the earth, and this impression seemed daily to intensify. on monday, august 19th, the same conditions prevailed, the walls being of marble mostly vertical from the water's edge for about seven hundred feet, and then rising by four terraces to two thousand feet, all stained red by the disintegration of iron-stained rocks overhead though the marble is a grey colour. we only made four and one-quarter miles and established camp 90 on the left, just below a big rapid and in sight of another, with a record for the whole day of four rapids run, three passed by let-downs, and one overcome by a portage. the next day we did not accomplish a much greater distance, only about nine miles, but we were highly successful in our encounters with the enemy, running no less than twelve big rapids and making a portage at another to round out the dozen on the baker's proverbial basis. the average width of the canyon at the top was about one and a quarter miles, while the breadth of the water itself plunging along the bottom was not more than 125 feet, and the total height of wall was 2500 feet. we had marble at the river margin most of the day, a greyish crystalline rock fluted multitudinously in places by the action of high water and sometimes polished like glass. while this was a grey rock the entire effect of the canyon, for the reason stated above, was red. on the right bank we made our camp on some sand at the mouth of a gulch, and immediately put on our dry clothes from the boats. not far below on the same side was what appeared to be a vast ruined tower. around the indentations which answered for crumbling windows bunches of mosses and ferns were draped, while from the side, about one hundred feet up from the river, clear springs broke forth to dash down amidst verdure in silvery skeins. the whole affair formed a striking and unusual picture, the only green that so far had been visible in the canyon landscape, for the walls from brink to river were absolutely barren of trees or any apparent vegetation. on the former trip the major had named the place after a botanist friend of his, vasey's (vaysey) paradise, and this was now recorded in our notes. all day long we had seen in the magnificent walls besides caverns and galleries resemblances to every form of architectural design, turrets, forts, balconies, castles, and a thousand strange and fantastic suggestions from the dark tower against which childe roland with his slug-horn blew defiance, to the airy structures evolved by the wonderful lamp of aladdin. starting down again on wednesday morning we ran past the paradise and heard a little bird singing there amidst the spray and mosses, a delicate note seeming out of place amidst such gigantic desolation. only the boom of great cannon or the tone of some enormous organ pipe would be correct with the surroundings. the walls at the water's edge were vertical for long distances up to eight hundred feet, and being now in all about three thousand feet and not a great ways apart, the outlook ahead was something almost overpowering in its deep suggestion of mysterious and untold realms to come. on the first voyage it would have been easy to persuade oneself that the river was soon to become subterranean, but the major having solved the enigma, we could look with indifference on the threatening prospect. yet the walls nevertheless seemed to have a determination to close together overhead as we looked down the descending waters before us, with cliff mounting on cliff and the distance from one to the other appearing so very small. deep and sombre were the shadows at the bends, and the imagination needed no spur to picture there rapids, falls, cataracts, of giant proportions. we made nearly eleven miles and ran ten very big rapids, meeting with no accident, though one was particularly violent and filled us half full of water in the fierce breakers. the stage of water was exactly right for this stretch; a lower stage would certainly have given us far more trouble. our stop for the night, camp 92, was made on a wide sandbank on the left, with some mesquite growing nearby, our first acquaintance with this tree on the river. we now were getting on so well and were so comfortable that we felt quite happy and jack as usual entertained us with several songs. the next day, thursday the 22d, jack and clem took some photographs in the morning and i hunted fossils for the major in the limestone shales which had run up under the marble. by nine o'clock we were packed up again in our usual good form, everything in the rubber sacks, hatches firmly battened down, life-preservers ready, and we set forth for another day's battle. there were numerous large rapids and the impetuous river, turbid and grim, rushed down with a continuity that kept us alert every instant. though we descended with terrific velocity, nothing gave us any particular trouble before dinner, which we ate in the shade of a mesquite on the right at the mouth of a couple of giant gulches. here we discovered a large patch of cacti loaded with the red prickly pears or cactus apples, as we called them. they were ripe,--seeming to me to be half way between a fig and a tomato,--and very welcome for dessert, as we had eaten no fresh fruit since a watermelon brought along as far as the first noon camp. all the vegetation was different from that of the upper canyons and of a kind indicating a hotter climate; cacti, yucca, etc. in the afternoon the walls became greater, the river ran swifter, the descent seemed almost without a break, for rapid followed rapid in such quick succession that it was next to impossible to separate them one from another. at times we could barely maintain control of the boats so powerful and uninterrupted was the turbulent sweep of the great narrow flood. at one place as we were being hurled along at a tremendous speed we suddenly perceived immediately ahead of us and in such a position that we could not avoid dashing into it, a fearful commotion of the waters, indicating many large rocks near the surface. the major stood on the middle deck, his life-preserver in place, and holding by his left hand to the arm of the well secured chair to prevent being thrown off by the lurching of the boat, peered into the approaching maelstrom. it looked to him like the end for us and he exclaimed calmly, "by god, boys, we're gone!" with terrific impetus we sped into the seething, boiling turmoil, expecting to feel a crash and to have the _dean_ crumble beneath us, but instead of that unfortunate result she shot through smoothly without a scratch, the rocks being deeper than appeared by the disturbance on the surface. we had no time to think over this agreeable delivery, for on came the rapids or rather other rough portions of the unending declivity requiring instant and continuous attention, the major rapidly giving the orders, left, right, hard on the right, steady, hard on the left, _hard on the left_, h-a-r-d on the left, pull away strong, etc., jones aiding our oars by his long steering sweep. rowing for progress was unnecessary; the oars were required only for steering or for pulling as fast as we could to avoid some bad place. at the same time the walls constantly gained height as the torrent cut down its bed till both together, with the rapidity of our movement, fairly made one dizzy. in turning a bend we saw back through a gulch the summit of the kaibab's huge cliffs, the total height above our heads being over five thousand feet; a sublime vista. the immediate walls of marble canyon were here about 3500 feet, not all vertical but rising in buttresses, terraces, and perpendicular faces, while immediately at the river they were now generally flanked by talus or broken ledges giving ample footing, as seen in the illustration opposite page 219. words are not adequate to describe this particular day in marble canyon; it must be experienced to be appreciated and i will not strive further to convey my impressions. as the sun sank to the western edge of the outer world we were rushing down a long straight stretch of canyon, and the colossal precipices looming on all sides, as well as dead ahead across our pathway, positively appeared about to overwhelm the entire river by their ponderous magnificence, burnished at their summits by the dying sun. on, down the headlong flood our faithful boats carried us to the gloom that seemed to be the termination of all except subterranean progress, but at the very bottom of this course there was a bend to the west, and we found ourselves at the mouth of a deep side canyon coming in from the east, with a small stream flowing into the big river. this was the mouth of the little colorado and the end at last of marble canyon, one of the straightest, deepest, narrowest, and most majestic chasms of the whole long series. it also had more wall rising vertically from the water's edge than any other canyon we had encountered. our distance for the day was eighteen miles with eighteen rapids, one nearly three miles long and all following each other so closely they were well-nigh continuous. we ran seventeen and made one let-down. it was a glorious day and a fitting preparation for our entrance into the next stupendous canyon which the major styled the "sockdologer of the world," the now famous grand canyon.[32] our altitude was 2690 feet, giving a descent in the sixty-five and one-half miles of marble canyon of 480 feet, leaving 1850 feet still to be overcome before we could reach the mouth of the grand wash and the end of the grand canyon. i counted sixty-three rapids in marble canyon, prof. sixty-nine. we made four portages and let down by line six times. [illustration: canyon of the little colorado. photograph by c. barthelmess.] our camp 93 was on the left bank of the little colorado, and there we remained for friday, august 23d, to reconnoitre the neighbourhood, and to give prof. an opportunity to get the latitude and longitude. the little colorado was a red stream about sixty feet wide and four or five deep, salty and impossible to drink. the great colorado was also muddy and not altogether palatable, for one's hand dipped in and allowed to dry became encrusted with sediment; but the water otherwise was pure. the river had been rapidly rising for several days and was still coming up so that we were likely to have in the grand canyon more water than we required. i climbed up the wall on the north side of the little colorado thinking i might be able to reach the summit, but when about half-way up i met vast and vertical heights that were impossible and returned to camp. the next morning, saturday, august 24th, we packed up and entered the grand canyon proper on an easy river, making about five miles in half an hour and putting behind six rapids all small, camping at the head of one that was more threatening. here a little creek came in from the right, or west, near camp. the canyon was wider than above, and we could see the summits around that were six thousand feet above the river, but some miles back. in the morning i made a geological sketch, and in the afternoon i climbed a high peak and put in some of the topography. the next morning we crossed the river to examine a large igneous butte where we found a small vein of copper ore, and after dinner prof. and i climbed a couple of peaks and did some triangulating. monday the 26th found us still at camp 94 to further investigate the surroundings, and the major, prof., jones, and i climbed up on the north about 2600 feet in order to get a better idea of the several valleys which here seemed to compose the bottom of the great chasm, and did not reach camp till after dark. everything now developed on a still larger and grander scale; we saw before us an enormous gorge, very wide at the top, which could engulf an ordinary mountain range and lose it within its vast depths and ramifications. multitudinous lofty mesas, buttes, and pinnacles began to appear, each a mighty mountain in itself, but more or less overwhelmed by the greater grandeur of the cyclopean environment. tuesday, august 27th, after prof. had put a new tube in the second barometer which had somehow been broken, we pushed off once more to see what the day would develop. the rapid just below camp we ran through easily and then made swift progress for seven miles, running nine more rapids, two rather bad ones. the _cañonita_ grounded once on a shoal but got off without damage. where we stopped for dinner we caught sight of two mountain sheep drinking, and andy and i got our guns out of the cabins as quickly as possible and started after them, but they flew away like birds of the air. near this point there was a small abandoned hut of mesquite logs. we went into camp farther down on the left for investigations, the major and i going up the river and finding a small salty creek which we followed for a time on an old trail, the major studying the geology and collecting specimens of the rocks, which we carried back to camp, arriving after dark. the geology and topography here were complicated and particularly interesting, and we ought to have been able to spend more days, but the food question, as well as time, was a determining factor in our movements, and with only two boats our rations would carry us with necessary stops only to the mouth of the kanab canyon where our pack-train would meet us on september 4th. there was no other place above diamond creek known at that time, except perhaps the spot near mount trumbull, where supplies could be brought in. on wednesday we ran two or three miles and stopped for our photographers to get some views opposite a rust-coloured sandstone. we also had dinner at this place and then continued the descent. after running four rapids successfully, making a let-down at another, and a portage over the upper end of a sixth we were ready, having made in all six miles, to go into camp part way down the last, one of the heaviest falls we had so far encountered. it was perhaps half a mile long, with a declivity of at least forty feet, studded by numerous enormous boulders. a heavy rain began during our work of getting below, and our clothes being already wet the air became very chilly. we had to carry the cargoes only a short distance, with no climbing, and there was ample room so the portage was not difficult in that respect. but though we could manoeuvre the empty boats down along the shore amidst the big rocks, they were exceedingly heavy for our small band, and in sliding them down between the huge masses, with the water pouring around and often into them, we sometimes had as much as we could do to manage them, each man being obliged to strain his muscle to the limit. jack from this cause hurt his back so badly that he could not lift at all, and overcome by the sudden weakness and pain he came near sinking into the swift river at the stern of the _dean_ where he happened at the moment to be working. i heard his cry and clambered over to seize him as quickly as i could, helping him to shore, where we did all that was possible for his comfort. as we were going no farther that day he was able to rest, and in the morning felt much better, though his back was still weak. andy took his place in our boat to run the lower end of the rapid, which was easily done. we landed below on the same side, enabling andy to go back to help bring down the _cañonita_, while jack walked along the rocks to where we were. here we remained for a couple of hours while i climbed up for the major and measured the "red beds," and jack rested again, improving very fast. when we were ready to go on his trouble had almost disappeared. [illustration: the grand canyon. from just below the little colorado. photograph by j. k. hillers, 1872.] a dark granite formation had run up at the foot of the last fall and it rose rapidly higher, hemming the water in with steep, forbidding cliffs close together. the river became much narrower and swirled with an oily-looking current around the buttresses of granite that thrust themselves from one side or the other into it. the declivity was not great and the torrent was otherwise placid. after three miles of this ominous docility, just as the dinner hour was near and the threatening black granite had risen to one thousand feet above the water, we heard a deep, sullen roar ahead and from the boats the whole river seemed to vanish instantly from earth. at once we ran in on the right to a small area of great broken rocks that protruded above the water at the foot of the wall, and stepping out on these we could look down on one of the most fearful places i ever saw or ever hope to see under like circumstances,--a place that might have been the gate to hell that steward had mentioned. we were near the beginning of a tremendous fall. the narrow river dropped suddenly and smoothly away, and then, beaten to foam, plunged and boomed for a third of a mile through a descent of from eighty to one hundred feet, the enormous waves leaping twenty or thirty feet into the air and sending spray twice as high.[33] on each side were the steep, ragged granitic walls, with the tumultuous waters lashing and pounding against them in a way that precluded all idea of portage or let-down. it needed no second glance to tell us that there was only one way of getting below. if the rocks did not stop us we could "cross to killiloo," and when a driving rain had ceased andy gathered the few sticks of driftwood available for a fire, by which he prepared some dinner in advance of the experiment. jack and clem took three negatives, and when the dinner was disposed of we stowed all loose articles snugly away in the cabins, except a camp-kettle in each standing-room to bail with, and then battening down the hatches with extra care, and making everything shipshape, we pulled the _dean_ up-stream, leaving the _cañonita_ and her crew to watch our success or failure and profit by it. the major had on his life-preserver and so had jones, but jack and i put ours behind our seats, where we could catch them up quickly, for they were so large we thought they impeded the handling of the oars. jack's back had fortunately now recovered, so that he was able to row almost his usual stroke. we pulled up-stream about a quarter of a mile close to the right-hand wall, in order that we might get well into the middle of the river before making the great plunge, and then we turned our bow out and secured the desired position as speedily as possible, heading down upon the roaring enemy--roaring as if it would surely swallow us at one gulp. [illustration: the grand canyon. running the sockdologer. from a sketch afterwards by f. s. dellenbaugh.] my back being towards the fall i could not see it, for i could not turn round while waiting every instant for orders. nearer and nearer came the angry tumult; the major shouted "back water!" there was a sudden dropping away of all support; then the mighty waves smote us. the boat rose to them well, but we were flying at twenty-five miles an hour and at every leap the breakers rolled over us. "bail!" shouted the major,--"bail for your lives!" and we dropped the oars to bail, though bailing was almost useless. the oars could not get away, for they had rawhide rings nailed around near the handle to prevent them from slipping through the rowlocks. the boat rolled and pitched like a ship in a tornado, and as she flew along jack and i, who faced backwards, could look up under the canopies of foam pouring over gigantic black boulders, first on one side, then on the other. why we did not land on top of one of these and turn over i don't know, unless it might be that the very fury of the current causes a recoil. however that may be, we struck nothing but the waves, the boats riding finely and certainly leaping at times almost half their length out of water, to bury themselves quite as far at the next lunge. if you will take a watch and count by it ninety seconds, you will probably have about the time we were in this chaos, though it seemed much longer to me. then we were through, and immediately took advantage of an eddy on one side to lie to and bail out, for the boat was full of water. setting her to rights as quickly as we could, we got ready to make a dash for the crew of the _cañonita_ in case she fared worse than we did. we looked anxiously for her to appear, and presently, at the top of what seemed to us now to be a straight wall of foam, her small white bulk hung for an instant and then vanished from our sight in the mad flood. soon appearing at the bottom uninjured, she ran in to where we were waiting. the _cañonita_, being lighter than our boat, did not ship as much water as in some other places, and altogether we agreed that notwithstanding its great descent and furious aspect the passage was not more difficult than we had made in several previous rapids. continuing on down the narrow and gloomy granite gorge, we encountered about a mile farther down a singular rapid, which turned the _cañonita_ completely around. about four o'clock we found ourselves before another tremendous fall, and a very ugly one. landing on the left, we discovered that to be the wrong side, and crossed over to a little cove where there was a patch of gravel, surrounded by vertical walls, the crossing being easily made because the water seemed to slacken before the plunge. we did not intend to run the place if it could be avoided, and the south side gave no opportunity whatever for a portage, while the north side offered no very easy course. prof. declared this to be one of the worst rapids we had seen, and we were now about two hundred feet above the head of it, with the vertical cliffs between. immediately at the beginning of the drop on the same side that we were on was a pile of boulders, and our plan was to engineer the boats by lines from where we had landed down to these rocks, from which we believed we could work around over the rocks into an alcove there was there, and thence go down till we reached the lower part of the descent, through which we could navigate. consequently several of the men entered one boat, and we lowered her from the stern of the second as far as her line would reach, and then lowered the second till the first lodged in the rocks at the desired point at the head of the fall. then, pulling up the second boat, we who had remained got on board, and by clinging to the projections of the wall, the current close in being quite slow, we succeeded in arriving alongside the first boat. the next thing was to get around into the alcove. the sky above was heavy and rain began to come down steadily, making the dark granite blacker and intensifying the gloomy character of the locality. by hard work we finally got our boats across the rocks and down about two hundred feet farther into a cove, where they rested easily. up to this time we had made in all, during the day, seven and one-quarter miles. as night was now dropping fast we had to make camp on a pile of broken granite, where a close search yielded an armful or two of small pieces of driftwood, all wet. under a rock several dry sticks were discovered, and by their aid a fire soon blazed up by which the indomitable andy proceeded to get supper. there was no use changing wet clothes for dry ones from the rubber bags as long as the rain fell, and it increased till water was dashing off the walls in streams. the thunder roared and crashed as if it were knocking the cliffs about to rearrange them all, and a deluge swept down in which andy's struggling little fire died with hardly a sputter. the only thing remaining for us to do was to all stand with our backs against the foot of the wall, which was still warm from the day, and wait for something else to happen. the bread-pan seen through the dim and dismal light was a tempestuous lake, with an island of dough in it, while andy the undaunted stood grimly gazing at it, the rain dribbling from his hat and shoulders till he resembled the fabled ferryman of the river styx. the situation was so ludicrous that every one laughed, and the weather god finding that we were not downcast slackened the downpour immediately. then we put some oars against the wall and stretched a paulin to protect our noble chef, who finally got the wet firewood once more ignited, and succeeded in getting the bread almost baked and the coffee nearly hot and some dried peaches almost stewed. the rain ceasing, we hurriedly donned dry clothes and applied ourselves to the destruction of these viands, which tasted better than might be imagined. each man then took his blankets, and, selecting rocks that in his judgment were the softest, he went to sleep. there was another alcove about three hundred yards below our camp, and in the morning, friday, august 30th, we proceeded to work our way down to this, several men clambering along a ledge about 150 feet above the water with the line, while i remained each time in the boat below with an oar to keep the bow in against the wall, so that she could not take the current on the wrong side--that is, on the side next to the wall--and cut out into the river. in this way we got both boats down to the alcove, whence we intended to pull out into the current and run the lower portion of the rapid. it was only noon when we reached the place, but then we discovered that both boats had been so pounded that they badly needed repairs--in fact, it was imperative to halt there for this purpose,--and we hauled them out on a patch of broken rocks, thirty or forty feet square, filling the curve of the alcove and bounded by vertical rocks and the river. while at work on them we happened to notice that the river was rapidly rising, and, setting a mark, the rate was found to be three feet an hour. the rocks on which we were standing and where all the cargo was lying were being submerged. we looked around for some way to get up the cliff, as it was now too late to think of leaving. about fifteen feet above the top of the rocks on which we were working there was a shelf five or six feet wide, to which some of the men climbed, and we passed up every article to them. when the repairs were done darkness was filling the great gorge. by means of lines from above and much hard lifting we succeeded in raising the boats up the side of the cliff, till they were four or five feet above the highest rocks of the patch on which we stood. this insured their safety for the time being, and if the river mounted to them we intended to haul them still higher. the next thing was to find a place to sleep. by walking out on a ledge from the shelf where our goods were we could turn a jutting point above the rushing river by clinging closely to the rocks, and walk back on a shelf on the other side to a considerable area of finely broken rocks, thirty feet above the torrent, where there was room enough for a camp. rain fell at intervals, and the situation was decidedly unpromising. while andy and the others were getting the cook outfit and rations around the point, i climbed the cliffs hunting for wood. i found small pieces of driftwood lodged behind mesquite bushes fully one hundred feet above the prevailing stage of water. i collected quite an armful of half-dead mesquite, which has the advantage of being so compact that it makes a fire hot as coal, and little is needed to cook by. supper was not long in being despatched, and then, every man feeling about worn out, we put on dry clothes, the rain having ceased, and went to sleep on the rocks. before doing so we climbed back to examine the boats, and found the river was not coming up farther, though it had almost completely covered the rocks. saturday, the 21st of august, 1872, was about the gloomiest morning i ever saw. rain was falling, the clouds hung low over our heads like a lid to the box-like chasm in the black, funereal granite enclosing us, while the roar of the big rapid seemed to be intensified. we felt like rats in a trap. eating breakfast as quickly as possible, we got everything together again on the shelf and lowered the boats. though the river was not rising, it beat and surged into the cove in a way that made the boats jump and bounce the moment they touched the water. to prevent their being broken by pounding, one man at each steadied them while the others passed down the sacks and instrument boxes. then it was seen that either a new leak had sprung in the _dean_ amidships or a hole had not been caulked, for a stream as wide as two fingers was spurting into the middle cabin. to repair her now meant hauling both boats back against the side of the cliff and spending another day in this trap, with the chance of the river rising much higher before night so that we might not be able to get away at all--at least not for days. for an instant the major thought of pulling the boats out again, but as his quick judgment reviewed the conditions he exclaimed, "by god, we'll start! load up!" it was the rarest thing for him to use an oath, and i remember only one other occasion when he did so--in marble canyon when he thought we were going to smash. we threw the things in as fast as we could, jammed a bag of flour against the leak in the _dean_, battened down the hatches, threw our rifles into the bottom of the standing rooms where the water and sand washed unheeded over them, and jumped to our oars. the crew of the _cañonita_ held our stern till the bow swung out into the river, and then at the signal jack and i laid to with all our strength--to shoot clear of an enormous rock about fifty feet below against which the fierce current was dashing. the _dean_ was so nearly water-logged that she was sluggish in responding to the oars, but we swept past the rock safely and rolled along down the river in the tail of the rapid with barely an inch of gunwale to spare,--in fact i thought the boat might sink. as soon as we saw a narrow talus on the right we ran in and landed. when the _cañonita_ was ready to start one of clem's oars could not be found, and prof. had to delay to cut down one of the extras for him. then they got their boat up as far as they could, and while prof. and andy kept her from pounding to pieces, clem got in, bailed out, and took his oars. prof. then climbed in at the stern, but the current was so strong that it pulled andy off his feet and he was just able to get on, the boat drifting down stern first toward the big rock. prof. concluded to let the stern strike and then try to throw the boat around into the river. by this time andy had got hold of his oars, and the eddy seemed to carry them up-stream some twenty-five feet, so perverse and capricious is the colorado. they swung the bow to starboard into the main current, and with a couple of strong oar-strokes the dreaded rock was cleared, and down the _cañonita_ came to us over the long waves like a hunted deer. we unloaded the _dean_ and pulled her out for repairs, but it was after four o'clock when we were able to go on again with a fairly tight boat. then for eight miles the river was a continuous rapid broken by eight heavy falls, but luckily there were no rocks in any of them at this stage of water, and we were able to dash through one after another at top speed, stopping only once for examination. two of these rapids were portages on the former trip, proving the ease and advantage of high water in some places; but the disadvantages are much greater. through a very narrow canyon on the right we caught a glimpse of a pretty creek, but we were going so fast the view was brief and imperfect. at 5:15 o'clock we ran up to a wide sandbank on which grew a solitary willow tree and there camp 99 was made. for a space the inner canyon was much wider than above and the mouth of bright angel creek was just below us; a locality now well known because a trail from the hotel tovar on the south rim comes down at this point. the name was applied by the major on his first trip to offset the name dirty devil applied farther up. [illustration: the grand canyon. from top of granite, south side near bright angel creek.] the next day was sunday, september 1st, and after the major had climbed the south wall for observations we started once more on a powerful current. for the first three miles there was a continuous rapid with no opportunity to land. we dashed through waves that tossed us badly and filled the boats half full and then half full again before we had a chance to bail. in fifteen minutes we made the three miles and a half mile more, to arrive at a heavy rapid, which we ran and in two miles reached another with fearful waves, which we also ran. in one jones was overbalanced by his oar hitting the top of a big wave behind the boat and he was knocked out. he clung by his knees and hands, his back in the water, and the boat careened till i thought she would go over. we could not move to help him without upsetting and were compelled to leave him to his own resources. in some way he succeeded in scrambling back. the waves were tremendous and sometimes seemed to come from all directions at once. there were whirlpools, too, that turned us round in spite of every effort to prevent it. the river was about one hundred and fifty feet wide. after an extremely strenuous morning we halted on the right for dinner, continuing as soon as we had disposed of it. presently we arrived at a sharp fall of about twenty feet, where we made a portage, and waited at the foot for the photographers to take some negatives and also for repairing the _cañonita_. finally it was decided to camp on the spot. it was camp 100. our record for the day was a trifle over seven miles with nine rapids run and one portage. almost the first thing in the morning of september 2d was a portage, after which we had fair water for two or three miles, and then reached a very heavy fall, where we landed on the left and had dinner before making another portage. this accomplished, we proceeded on a river still rising and ran a great many bad rapids, some of them having tremendous falls. in one the fierce current set against the cliff so strongly that we were carried within an oar's length of it, notwithstanding our severe effort to avoid so close an acquaintance with the rough wall. even between rapids the velocity of the water was extremely high and we flew along at terrific speed, while in the huge waves of the rapids the boats leaped and plunged with startling violence. toward night a sudden halt was made on the left to examine a bad-looking place half a mile below. the major and prof. tried to climb where they could get a good view of it, but they failed. the major said we would run it in the morning, though prof. was dubious about the feasibility of doing so successfully and said he thought it about the worst place we had yet seen. we camped on a rocky talus where we were. a small sandbank was found nearby for our beds, and we made another discovery, a small pool of clear, pure water, a rare treat after the muddy colorado which we had been drinking for so long. twenty rapids were placed to our credit for this one day in a trifle over fifteen miles, and we felt that we were vanquishing the grand canyon with considerable success. our life now was so strenuous every hour of the day that our songs were forgotten, and when night came every man was so used up that as soon as supper was over rest and sleep were the only things that interested us. though our beds were as hard and rough as anything could be, we slept with the intensity of the rocks themselves, and it never seemed more than a few minutes before we were aroused by the major's rising signal "oh-ho, boys!" and rose to our feet to pack the blankets in the rubber bags, sometimes with a passing thought as to whether we would ever take them out again. for my part, never before nor since have i been so tired. one night when the major called us to look out for the boats i did not hear him and no one waked me so i slept on, learning about it only the next morning. our food supply was composed partly of jerked beef, and as this could not be put in rubber because of the grease it became more or less damp and there developed in it a peculiar kind of worm, the largest about an inch long, with multitudinous legs. there were a great many of them and they gave the beef a queer taste. in order to clear the sacks as far as possible of these undesirable denizens i several times emptied them on wide smooth rocks, and while the worms were scrambling around i scraped up the beef without many of them, but could not get rid of all. andy's method of cooking this beef was to make a gravy with bacon fat and scorched flour and then for a few moments stew the beef in the gravy. ordinarily this made a very palatable dish but the peculiar flavour of the beef now detracted from it, though we were so hungry that we could eat anything without a query, and our diminishing supply of rations forbade the abandonment of the valuable beef. when we arose on the morning of september 3d the dubious rapid was tossing its huge waves exactly as on the night before and humanity seemed to be out of the reckoning. by eight o'clock we were ready for it, and with everything in good trim we pushed off. the current was strong from the start, and a small rapid just below camp gave additional speed, so that we were soon bearing down on the big one with wild velocity. the river dropped away abruptly, to rise again in a succession of fearful billows whose crests leaped and danced high in air as if rejoicing at the prospect of annihilating us. just then the major changed his mind as to running the place, for now standing on the boat's deck he could see it better than before from the region of our camp. he ordered us to pull hard on our left, intending to land at a spot that was propitious on the left or south bank, but no sooner had he given this command than he perceived that no landing above the fall was possible. he gave another order which put us straight in the middle again and down we flew upon the descent. the major as usual had put on his life-preserver and i think jones had on his, but jack and i, as was our custom, placed ours inflated immediately behind our seats, not wishing to be hampered by them. the plunge was exceedingly sharp and deep, and then we found ourselves tossing like a chip in a frightful chaos of breakers which almost buried us, though the boats rose to them as well as any craft possibly could. i bailed with a camp kettle rapidly and jack did the same, but the boat remained full to the gunwales as we were swept on. we had passed the worst of it when, just as the _dean_ mounted a giant wave at an angle perhaps of forty or fifty degrees, the crest broke in a deluge against the port bow with a loud slap. in an instant we were upside-down going over to starboard. i threw up my hand instinctively to grasp something, and luckily caught hold of a spare oar which was carried slung on the side, and by this means i pulled myself above water. my hat was pasted down over my eyes. freeing myself from this i looked about. bottom up the boat was clear of the rapid and sweeping on down with the swift, boiling current toward a dark bend. the _cañonita_ was nowhere to be seen. no living thing was visible. the narrow black gorge rose in sombre majesty to the everlasting sky. what was a mere human life or two in the span of eternity? i was about preparing to climb up on the bottom of the boat when i perceived jones clinging to the ring in the stern, and in another second the major and jack shot up alongside as if from a gun. the whole party had been kept together in a kind of whirlpool, and the major and jack had been pulled down head first till, as is the nature of these suctions on the colorado, it suddenly changed to an upward force and threw them out into the air. there was no time to lose, for we did not wish to go far in this condition; another rapid might be in waiting around the corner. jack and i carefully got up on the bottom, leaving the major at the bow and jones at the stern, and leaning over we took hold of the starboard gunwale under water, and throwing ourselves back quickly together we brought the _dean_ up on her keel, though she came near rolling clear over the other way. she was even full of water, but the cabins supported her. jack helped me in and then i balanced his effort so as not to capsize again. the bailing kettles were gone, but as our hats had strangely enough remained on our heads through it all we bailed with them as fast as possible for a few seconds till we lowered the water sufficiently to make it safe to get the others on board. the major came aft along the gunwale and i helped him in, then jack helped jones. the oars, fortunately, had not come out of the locks, thanks to our excellent arrangement, and grasping them, without trying to haul in the bow line trailing a hundred feet in the water, we pulled hard for a slight eddy on the left where we perceived a footing on the rocks, and as soon as we were near enough i caught up the rope, made the leap, and threw the bight over a projection, where i held the boat while jack and jones bailed rapidly and set things in order so that we could go to the assistance of the _cañonita_. the major's jurgenssen chronometer had stopped at 8:26:30 from the wetting. the _cañonita_, being more lightly laden than the _dean_, and also not meeting the peculiar coincidence of mounting a wave at the instant it broke, came down with no more damage than the loss of three oars and the breaking of a rowlock. probably if the major had sat down on the deck instead of in the chair we might also have weathered the storm.[34] about a mile and a half below we made a landing at a favourable spot on the right, where the cargoes were spread out to dry and the boats were overhauled, while the major and i climbed up the wall to where he desired to make a geological investigation. we joked him a good deal about his zeal in going to examine the geology at the bottom of the river, but as a matter of fact he came near departing by that road to another world. we were now in an exceedingly difficult part of the granite gorge, for, at the prevailing stage of water, landings were either highly precarious or not possible at all, so we could not examine places before running, and could not always make a portage where we deemed it necessary. there were also all manner of whirlpools and bad places. starting on about three o'clock we descended several rapids in about six miles, when we saw one ahead that looked particularly forbidding. the granite came down almost vertically to the water, projecting in huge buttresses that formed a succession of little bays, especially on the left, where we manoeuvred in and out, keeping close against the rocks, the current there being slack. the plan was for me to be ready, on turning the last point, to jump out on some rocks we had noticed from above not far from the beginning of the rapid. as we crept around the wall i stood up with the bight of the line in one hand, while jack pulled in till we began to drift down stern foremost alongshore. at the proper moment i made my leap exactly calculated. unluckily at the instant the capricious colorado threw a "boil" up between the bow and the flat rock i was aiming at, turning the bow out several feet, and instead of landing where i intended i disappeared in deep water. i clung to the line and the acceleration of the boat's descent quickly pulled me back to the surface. she was gliding rapidly past more rocks and the major jumped for them with the purpose of catching the rope, but they were so isolated and covered with rushing water that he had all he could do to take care of himself. jones then tried the same thing, but with the same result. jack stuck to his post. i went hand over hand to the bow as fast as i could, and reaching the gunwale i was on board in a second. one of my oars had somehow come loose, but jack had caught it and now handed it to me. we took our places and surveyed the chances. apparently we were in for running the rapid stern foremost and we prepared for it, but in the middle of the stream there was a rock of most gigantic proportions sloping up the river in such a way that the surges alternately rolled upon it and then slid back. partly up the slope we were drawn by this power, and on the down rush the boat turned and headed diagonally just right for reaching the left bank. we saw our opportunity and, pulling with every muscle, lodged the _dean_ behind a huge boulder at the very beginning of the main rapid, where i made the line fast in the twinkle of an eye. meanwhile the major had hastily scrambled up to where he could see down the canyon, and he heard jack's hearty shout of "all right!" lowering the _dean_ a couple of rods farther to a sandbank at the mouth of a gulch we went into camp feeling that we had done enough river work for one day, and the _cañonita's_ crew without accident lowered down to the same place before andy had supper ready. my hat had come off in my deep plunge and beyond this i did not have one. near by was a small clear spring that gave us another treat of palatable water, the colorado now being muddier than ever, as it was still on the rise, coming up three feet more while we were here. the entire day's run was eight and one-eighth miles. the major and prof. succeeded in getting down three miles on foot to reconnoitre. [illustration: the grand canyon. character of river in rapids. photograph by f. s. dellenbaugh, 1907.] continuing in the morning, september 4th, we lowered the boats past the remainder of the rapid and then shoved out into the terrific current once more. water could hardly run faster than it now did, except in a fall or rapid. the canyon was narrow and for five miles we encountered the worst whirlpools we had anywhere seen. the descent was swift and continuous, but the river was broken only by the whirlpools and "boils" as we called them, the surface suddenly seeming to boil up and run over. these upshoots, as a rule, seemed to follow whirlpools. in the latter the water for a diameter of twenty or twenty-five feet would revolve around a centre with great rapidity, the surface inclining to the vortex, the top of which was perhaps eighteen or twenty inches lower than the general level. the vortex itself was perfectly formed, like a large funnel, and about six or eight inches in diameter, where it began to be a hole in the water, tapering thence down in four or five feet to a mere point. the same effect is often seen when the water is flowing out of a round wash-basin through a pipe at the bottom. these were the most perfect whirlpools i have ever seen, those above having been lacking in so distinct a vortex. there were many and we could often see them ahead, but try as we would to cleave through without a complete revolution or two of the boat we could not do it. the boats sank down into the hollow, enabling one to look over the side into the spinning opening, but the boats, being almost as long as the whirlpool's usual diameter, could not be pulled in and we were not alarmed. we found it rather interesting to see if we could get through without turning, but we never did. any ordinary short object or one that could be tipped on end would surely go out of sight. so furious ran the river along this stretch that we found it impossible to stop, the boats being like bits of paper in a mill-race, swinging from one side to the other, and whirling round and round as we were swept along between the narrow walls till we ran the granite under about five miles from our last camp. finally, after a run all told of fourteen miles with twenty-three rapids, we made camp 103 with walls of friendly sandstone about us. here again we discovered a small clear spring for drinking and cooking purposes. there was no rain this day and at night we put on our dry clothes with confidence and had a warm comfortable camp with a good sound sleep. thursday morning found us early on the river, which to our surprise turned suddenly in a north-north-east direction. when we had gone about nine miles and had run the granite up and down again, it began to turn to the west. at one point the river was not more than fifty feet wide; the current was everywhere exceedingly strong and there were many rapids, of which we ran twelve, and made a portage at another, and a let-down at still another. we camped at the end of the nine miles on a small sandbank, with the total height of walls about four thousand feet, breaking back in terraces after about eight hundred feet. clem and jack made a number of photographs wherever practicable, and altogether they had succeeded in securing a representative collection. during the morning of friday, september 6th, we ran two rapids in two miles, which brought us to one which we thought required a let-down and we made it. as it was easy, jack and clem busied themselves photographing while we were doing it, and we also had dinner here. about two o'clock we went on and in less than three miles ran four rapids, the fourth being an exceedingly heavy fall, at the foot of which we went into camp on the right bank. a little distance above on the same side of the river was a fine clear cold creek larger than the paria in quantity of water. we called it tapeats creek, because a pai ute of that name, who had pointed it out to the major from the kaibab, claimed it. during the day the work had been far less strenuous, there were few whirlpools, the river was falling, and it was in every way much easier than above in the granite. a morning was spent at tapeats creek for examinations, and we found there some ancient house ruins not far up the side canyon. i discovered a fine large metate or indian mill, deeply hollowed out, and foolishly attempted to take it to camp. on arriving there it was so heavy i had to drop it and it broke in two, much to the major's disgust, who told me i ought to have let it alone, a fact which i realised then also. our rations were now running very low again, for we had taken more days for this passage than were planned, and as soon as we launched forth after dinner we began to look longingly for the mouth of kanab canyon and the pack-train. the river was much easier in every respect, and after our experience of the previous days it seemed mere play. the granite ran up for a mile or two, but then we entered sedimentary strata and came to a pretty little cascade falling through a crevice on the right from a valley hidden behind a low wall. we at once recognised it as one which beaman had photographed when he and riley had made their way up along the rocks from the mouth of the kanab during the winter. we remembered that they had called it ten miles to the kanab from this place, and after we had climbed up to examine what they had named surprise valley we went on expecting to reach the kanab before night. running several small and one fairly large rapid, we saw, after twelve miles from the last camp, a seeming crack on the right, and a few seconds later heard a wild yelling. in a little while we landed and lowered to the head of a rapid, and running to the right up the backwater into the mouth of the kanab canyon, we found george adair, nathan adams, and joe hamblin, our three faithful packers, waiting there for us with the rations. they had grown very anxious, for we were several days overdue, and they feared we had been destroyed,--a fear that was emphasised by one of andy's discarded shirts washing ashore at their feet. we pulled the boats a short distance up the kanab on the backwater and made a comfortable camp, 106, on its right bank, where we were soon lost in letters and papers the pack-train had brought down. our altitude was now 1800 feet above sea-level, showing a descent from the little colorado, in about 70 miles, of 890 feet, with 131 rapids run, besides six let-downs and seven portages. the total descent from the paria was 1370 feet. footnotes: [footnote 32: there is but one grand canyon--the one here referred to. persons unfamiliar with western geography frequently confound the canyon of the arkansas with that of the colorado because the former is in the state of colorado. the grand canyon is in arizona but on the _colorado_ river.] [footnote 33: professor thompson in his diary calls the descent 130 feet in three-quarters of a mile.] [footnote 34: for the benefit of any one who contemplates descending the colorado i would state that unsinkable boats are the only kind to use and the centre of gravity should be kept low. cork life-jackets are indispensable.] chapter xv a new departure--farewell to the boats--out to the world through kanab canyon--a midnight ride--at the innupin picavu--prof. reconnoitres the shewits country--winter quarters in kanab--making the preliminary map--another new year--across a high divide in a snow-storm--down the sevier in winter--the last summons. the day following our arrival at the mouth of the kanab canyon was sunday, september 8th, and with the exception of some observations taken by prof., and the writing of notes, the whole camp was in a state of rest. after our trying work in the granite we enjoyed immensely the lying around warm and dry with plenty to eat. monday morning everybody expected to begin preparations for the descent to the grand wash. we were surprised just as we were about to rise from our places around the canvas on which breakfast had been spread, when the major, who was sitting in his chair thinking, suddenly exclaimed, "well, boys, our voyage is done!" in a way these words were a disappointment, for we all wanted to complete the task and we were entirely ready to go on, notwithstanding that our recent experience with high water in the granite indicated great hazard ahead, where there was more granite; but on the whole the disappointment was agreeable. we knew the second granite gorge toward the lower end of the chasm to be nearly as bad as the first one. there was besides one exceedingly difficult passage there, which prof. called catastrophe rapid, where the howlands and dunn had left the first party, which on the prevailing stage of water the major believed would be foolhardy to attempt. prof. in his diary says, "it is nonsense to think of trying the lower bend with this water." he and the major had talked the matter over saturday night and thought of stopping about forty miles down at mount trumbull, where we knew we could climb out; then they thought of sending only one boat that far, but by sunday night they decided to end all river work here. prof. said he could map the course from the notes of the first party and that he would rather explore the adjacent country by land.[35] there were some breaks in the notes from here down to catastrophe rapid, due to the fact that when the papers were divided on that memorable day on which the howlands and dunn left the party, instead of each division having a full copy of all the notes, by a mistake they had only portions of both sets. in addition to the difficulty of the forbidding catastrophe rapid there was a possibility of an attack on us by the shewits. jacob through one of his pai ute friends had information that they were preparing to lay an ambush, and he sent warning to that effect. jacob knew the natives too well to have given us this notice unless he thought it a real danger, but we did not allow it much consideration at the time. yet it would have been an easy matter for the shewits to secrete themselves where they could fall upon us in the night when we were used up by working through some bad rapid, and then, hiding the goods, throw our bodies into the river and burn the boats, or even turn them loose, thus leaving no proof of their action, our disappearance naturally being laid to destruction by the river, a termination generally anticipated. i have sometimes thought that when they killed the howlands and dunn they did it deliberately to get their guns and clothes, thinking it would not be found out, or at least that they could put forth a good excuse, as they did. [illustration: the grand canyon. at a rapid--low water.] we were in the field to accomplish certain work and not to perform a spectacular feat, and the major and prof. having decided that the descent of the remainder of the canyon, considering all the circumstances, was for us impracticable and unnecessary, we prepared to leave for kanab. we unpacked the good old boats rather reluctantly. they had come to possess a personality as such inanimate objects will, having been our faithful companions and our reliance for many a hundred difficult miles, and it seemed like desertion to abandon them so carelessly to destruction. we ought to have had a funeral pyre. the flags of the boats, which mrs. thompson had made and which had been carried in them the entire way, were still to be disposed of, and that of the _dean_ was generously voted to me by the major, jack, and jones, who had crew claims to it; that of the _nellie powell_ was awarded to steward; while clem received the _cañonita's_. i tried to persuade the major to pack the _dean_ out in sections and send her east to be kept as a souvenir of the voyage, but he would not then listen to it, though years later he admitted that he regretted not taking my suggestion. three years afterward i came back to this place with my own party and would then have executed my desire, but no trace of our former outfit remained except a hatch from one of the middle cabins, and the major's chair. the latter i carried to salt lake, where i presented it to cap, who was living there. as before mentioned, the colorado was so extremely high that the water backed up into the kanab canyon, and it was there that we left the boats, each tied to an oar stuck in the ground.[36] we could not get all the goods on the horses of the pack-train, and left a portion to be brought out later. jack and clem remained to make photographs, and taking a last look at the boats, with a good-bye to all, we turned our faces up the narrow chasm of the kanab. a small stream ran in the bottom, and this formed large pools amongst numerous ponderous boulders that had fallen in from the top of the walls some three thousand feet above our heads, the bottom being hardly more than sixty to seventy-five feet wide. it was with considerable difficulty that we got the animals past some of these places, and in one or two the pools were so long and deep they had to swim a little. the prospectors the year before had worked a trail to some extent, but here, where the floods ran high at times, changes occurred frequently. by five o'clock we had gone about eight miles up this slow, rough way, and arrived at a singular spring, where we went into camp. this we called shower-bath spring. the water charged with lime had built out from the wall a semi-circular mass covered by ferns, which was cut away below by the floods till one could walk under in the sprinkling streams percolating through it. it was a very pretty place, but like all of its kind in the deep gorges it was a favourite resort for tarantulas, many of which we had seen in the depths of the grand canyon. these, with scorpions, rattlesnakes, and gila-monsters, were the poisonous reptiles of the gorge. [illustration: b. preliminary map of a portion of the southern part of the unknown country indicated by the blank space on map a at page 95, showing the hurricane ledge, uinkaret and shewits mountains, and the course of the grand canyon from the mouth of kanab canyon to the grand wash. the howlands and dunn left the first expedition at catastrophe rapid, at the sharp bend a few miles below the intersection of the river and longitude 113° 30', climbed out to the north, and were killed near mt. dellenbaugh.] the next morning, tuesday, the 10th of september, our pack-train was early on the way. the walls grew somewhat lower, though still two thousand feet high, and the canyon was usually seventy-five to one hundred feet wide at the bottom. there were patches of alluvial deposit now along the sides of the watercourse, covered by fields of cactus loaded with "apples," the prickly leaves compelling us to keep the trail the prospectors had made by their passage to and from the ephemeral eldorado. after a time we emerged from the lower canyon into a wider one in the way previously described; that is, like going from one floor to another by an incline between narrow walls. the little stream having vanished, a pool of rain-water helped us out for dinner, and while it was preparing prof. and i climbed up to secure notes on the topography. a trifle before sunset we arrived at the cedar tree, a short distance below the mouth of the shinumo canyon, where our party had camped the previous march. the pockets were full of clear, fresh water, and we had plenty for horses as well as men. not far off some human bones were found, old and bleached. we thought they must be the remains of one of the navajo raiders who escaped wounded from the mormon attack near this locality. the canyon bottom was quite wide at this point and comparatively level, covered by rushes and grass, and the horses were able to get a good meal. during the day every time i dismounted to take compass bearings on the trail i felt a sharp, peculiar pain shoot up my right leg from in front about half-way between ankle and knee. i could only discover a small red spot at the initial point, and concluded that i must have struck a sharp rock or cactus spine. our party now again divided, the major and jones going up shinumo canyon to the kaibab region, while prof. and i rode on up the kanab canyon, starting at eight o'clock in the morning, wednesday, september 11th, and riding steadily all day. as we had not expected to come out in this way saddles were scarce. prof. and the major had two of the three used by the packers, while the third was awarded to jones, who was to have a long ride on the kaibab trip. the rest of us had to make shift as we could, and i rigged up a "sawbuck" pack-saddle, with rope loops for stirrups and a blanket across it to sit on. this was not much better than, or as good perhaps as, bareback, and the horse was a very hard trotter. we wished to reach kanab that night. we kept on at as rapid a gait as the canyon would permit, though it was easier than in march, when the numerous miners had not yet broken a way by their ingress and egress in search of the fabulous gold that was supposed to exist somewhere in the inaccessibility of the great chasm. the harder a locality is to arrive at the bigger the stories of its wealth, while often in the attempts to reach it the prospector treads heedlessly ground that holds fortunes up to his very eyes. we continued straight up kanab canyon, the walls running lower and lower, till there was nothing but rounded hills. then we emerged on the summit, which was a valley bottom, about twenty miles from kanab. shortly after dark we halted for a bite to eat and a brief rest before striking for our old storehouse, a log cabin in jacob's corral, where we arrived about eleven o'clock, having made about forty miles. i collected all the blankets i could find, and, throwing them on the inside of jacob's garden fence, i was almost immediately asleep, and knew nothing till jacob came along and said a "good-morning." my ablutions over, i went to sister louisa's to breakfast with prof. and mrs. thompson. the gardens were now yielding an abundance of fresh fruits, peaches, melons, etc., and i blessed the good management and foresight that directed the immediate planting of these things in a mormon settlement. it seemed as if i could not get my fill. [illustration: c. preliminary map of a portion of the central part of the unknown country indicated by the blank space on map a at page 95, showing the kaibab plateau, mouth of the paria, echo peaks, house rock valley, and the course of part of glen canyon and of marble canyon and the grand canyon to the mouth of the kanab canyon. el vado is at the western intersection of the 37th parallel and the colorado river, and kanab is in the upper left-hand corner of the map--just above the 37th parallel which is the boundary between utah and arizona. the words "old spanish trail from santa fé to los angeles" near el vado were added in washington and are incorrect. the old spanish trail crossed at gunnison crossing far north of this point, which was barely known before 1858.] friday the 13th, the next day, was my birthday and mrs. thompson, who was always striving to do something to make our circumstances pleasant, prepared a large peach pie with her own hands in celebration. the major and jones having come in the night before, we passed most of the time that day in a large tent eating melons, the major acting as carver of the fruit. when we had eaten a watermelon he would declare that he thought muskmelon far better. we all agreed. he would cut one only to find when we had eaten it that we had changed our minds and wanted watermelon, which see-saw opinions we kept up till all the melons were gone. it would be impossible for any one who had not had our canyon fare to appreciate the exhilarating effect of this fresh fruit. my leg, which had developed the pain coming up the kanab canyon, now swelled till it was almost the same size throughout and any pressure made an imprint as in a piece of putty. no one knew what to make of it. i rode over to johnson's, that person being the nearest to a doctor of any one in the country, though the mormons do not much believe in medicines, and he gave me a liniment to apply. this did no good. in a few days the swelling disappeared except where the spot of keen pain was, and there a lump was left half as large as a man's fist, with two small red spots in the middle of it. i now concluded that these spots marked the bite of a tarantula that must have gotten in my blankets at shower-bath spring. suppuration set in at the spots where the flesh turned black and all the men said it was a bad-looking wound. they thought i would lose my leg. i concluded to poultice it to draw out any poison that remained, and kept bread-and-milk applied continuously. after a while it seemed to have a tendency to heal. we ran the base line up through kanab and at the head of it pitched a small observatory tent over a stone foundation on which prof, set up a large transit instrument for stellar observations. he got in connection, by the telegraph, with salt lake city and made a series of close observations. i began an hourly set of barometrical readings and as soon as clem came back he helped me to run them day and night for eight consecutive days. jack meanwhile was preparing for a trip to the moki towns, the major and jones had gone off for some special work, and andy started with a waggon for beaver to bring down rations. occasional bands of trading navajos enlivened the days and i secured five good blankets in exchange for old yawger, who was now about useless for our purposes. prof. gave him to me to get what i could for him, and he also gave clem another derelict for the same purpose. on the 9th of october jack, andy, and clem, started with jacob on his annual trip to the mokis by way of lee's lonely dell while jones went north to long valley on the head of the virgin, for topography. the major on foot, with a mormon companion and a pai ute, explored from long valley down the narrow canyon of the virgin to shunesburg, about 20 miles, a trip never before made.[37] the canyon is about two thousand feet deep and in places only twenty or thirty feet wide, twisting in such a way that the sky was not visible at times, and the stream often filled it from side to side so that they had to swim. [illustration: the grand canyon. at the bottom near foot of bass trail.] about eleven o'clock that night prof. came to wake me up to say that a telegram had arrived stating that najavos again had been raiding and had stolen seventy head of horses from parowan. they were supposed to be making for el vado and nobody in the absence of jacob seemed to know just what to do about it. prof. had advised them to organise a party and cut off the raiders, but they preferred to consult jacob before doing anything. prof. now asked me if i would be willing to ride at once to the navajo well where jacob had expected to camp and notify him of the raid, no one else in town understanding where the well was, few besides ourselves and jacob ever having travelled that way. i said i would go if i could have one companion. it was a lonely journey, and besides i might come on the navajos before reaching the well. charley riggs, a splendid fellow whom i liked exceedingly, volunteered. filling our overcoat pockets with cartridges, and each with a good winchester across his saddle, we started about 12:30 under a fine moon and a clear sky. i knew the way perfectly, even by moonlight. we took no wrong turns, had no stops, and made excellent time toward the navajo well twenty miles away. on we went over the open country, skirting the vermilion cliffs on our left. "neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place," but not at the headlong gallop by which they brought the news over a first-class road to aix, we rode steadily as fast as the ground would permit, sometimes on a gallop, sometimes on a trot. about two o'clock, as we neared a canyon where an old trail came down from the north which the raiders might follow, we slowed up and advanced with caution. dimly we perceived what appeared to be a number of sleeping forms under the ordinary navajo dark-blue and white striped service blanket. throwing our guns up ready for action we rode ahead slowly to pass by a detour if not discovered. we then saw that the objects were nothing but peculiar bushes. with a feeling of sympathy for the dear knight of la mancha and his worthy sancho we spurred forward. at half-past four by the watch dawn began to spread on the sky and we rode into the camp at the navajo well. a shout and our hoofbeats had roused the sleepers. i delivered my message to jacob who immediately started for el vado with charley riggs, intending to add several more men to his band at the paria settlement which he would pass through; a route he had often before followed for a like purpose. my leg was by no means well and it would have been imprudent on this account for me to further lend my services. i let jacob have my rifle and ammunition and returned to kanab, jack, andy, and clem going on to lee's to wait. i reached the settlement before noon, when george adair and tom stewart started heavily armed to join jacob at the earliest moment. a pai ute later came in with a report that a fresh party of navajos on a trading trip had recently come across the colorado, and from this we concluded that the alarm was false, or that the culprits were utes who went off into the dirty devil country. prof. with adams went out towards the paria and then to the kaibab to do some topographic work along the north rim of the grand canyon and i was left without any of our party in the village, it being deemed inadvisable for me to do much riding or walking till my wound, which was now doing well, had more nearly healed. i devoted my time to plotting up notes, finishing sketches, drawings of pictographs, etc., and took my meals at sister louisa's. i became much interested in the story of her experiences which she told us from time to time, especially as she was one of the women who had pushed a handcart across the plains. after a few days the major came in from a trip accompanied by several pai utes, among whom was chuarooumpeak, the young chief of the kaibab band, usually called frank by the settlers and chuar by his own people. the pai utes having no "f" in their language pronounced his english name "brank," just as they called me "bred." their usual name for me was untokarowits, derived from the dark red colour of my hair. frank was a remarkably good man. he had been constantly devoted to the safety and welfare of the whites. a most fluent speaker in his native tongue, he would address his people with long flights of uninterrupted rhetorical skill. old patnish came in occasionally. though he did not look particularly dangerous his eye was keen and his bearing positive. nobody would have interfered with him unless prepared for a fight to the finish. one day i rode to johnson by the trail and learned when i got back that patnish had arrived at kanab by the road, so i just missed an interview. the term "old" patnish signifies "that scoundrel" patnish, but when the people spoke of "old" jacob the prefix was one of respect and affection--so contrary is the meaning that can be put into three letters. charley riggs and george adair came back from el vado saying that no raiding navajos had been seen, so our opinion of the false alarm was confirmed. [illustration: e. showing results of recent re-survey of part of the grand canyon near bright angel creek by the geological survey with ample time for detail. compare with map c at page 246, the south end of kaibab plateau.] on the 27th of october we had the first snow of the season, which lasted only a few hours, snow never being heavy at kanab. the major had planned another journey to the uinkaret region and we started november 2d, taking with us three of the kaibab band--chuar, another called george, or, as they pronounced it, "judge," and waytoots; the major desiring to talk to them in our camps to continue his vocabulary and the collection of other linguistic material which he had been gathering from them and others in and around kanab at every opportunity. our party proceeded to pipe spring, camping half a mile below the houses and striking the next day, monday, november 4th, for the wild band pocket. finding no water there the natives led on toward a spring they knew of in a low line of cliffs. i was riding a broncho broken only a few weeks before, and at an unexpected moment i was suddenly deemed _persona non grata_, but i kept my seat and vanquished the beast after a vigorous circus, meeting thereafter with no further opposition. we saw a band of twenty wild horses spinning across the plain one behind another like a train of railway cars, a huge stallion playing locomotive. perhaps my broncho felt the call of the band! darkness dropped down on us before we could get to the spring. we had to make a camp that was not exactly dry, though there was no drinking water, for a drizzling rain, half snow, set in, the snow serving to hold the accompanying rain on the surface. we were wading in slush and it was a task to find a decent place for one's blankets. jones and i bunked together. his side of the bed was a slight hollow, in consequence of which the melting slush formed under him a chilly pool that interfered seriously with his slumbers. i happened to be lying on a lump or ridge and kept fairly dry by never stirring the whole night. the rain ceased by morning and all day tuesday we travelled toward the uinkaret mountains over a comparatively level desert, but not going rapidly, as we had a waggon. the ground having been softened by the rain the wheels cut deeply, there being of course no road. a flock of antelope blew by. we did not give them a second glance, as they were too far off to be hunted. it was after dark when we arrived at the rocky pool where we had before camped in march, which we learned now from chuar the natives called the innupin (or oonupin) picavu, or witch water-pocket. they said the locality was a favourite haunt of witches. these were often troublesome and had to be driven away or they might hurt one. there was plenty of wood and we were soon comfortable, with a keen november wind to emphasise our blessings. the water in the pocket was clear and pure, but it was full of small "wigglers." we tried to dip up a pail which should be free from them. the major, seeing our efforts, took a cup and without looking drank it down with the nonchalant remark, "i haven't seen any wigglers." the pai utes had killed some rabbits, which they now skinned and cooked. i say cooked, but perhaps i should say warmed. dexterously stripping off the skins they slit open the abdomen, removed the entrails, and, after squeezing out the contents by drawing between thumb and fingers, they replaced the interminable string in the cavity, closing the aperture with the ears, and stowed the carcass in the hot ashes for a few minutes. then they ate the whole thing with complete satisfaction. we preferred to fry ours, without the entrails, in a pan with bacon fat. frequently the major gave me little talks on science, as he was much interested in my future career, and by the fire this evening he instructed me in some of the fundamental principles of natural philosophy. chuar having had one of his men remove his shoes, which were heavy "mericats" ones, was reclining in a princely way smoking a cigarette on a bank near the fire. suddenly he rose to his feet, intently listening and peering anxiously out through the enveloping gloom of the piñons and cedars. i asked him what he heard. "oonupits," he whispered solemnly, never ceasing his watchful gaze. then cautiously aiming his long muzzle-loading rifle in the direction, he fired a shot and seemed satisfied that the intruder was driven away or destroyed. he described the noise of the oonupits as a whistling sound. he and his men had a habit of waking in the night in our various camps and singing, first one beginning very low, the others joining in one by one, and increasing the power as they did so till all were singing in full voice. this woke us up. we threw things at them, but with no effect. "what do you do it for?" said i to chuar. "to drive away the oonupits," he answered.[38] in the morning, november 6th, the major, prof. and i went off reconnoitring and did not get back to camp till after dark, when we found there a short, fat, uinkaret whom chuar introduced as teemaroomtekai, chief. in the settlements when he ventured to go there he was known as watermelon, according to frank hamblin, who was with us. teemaroomtekai had a companion and next day prof. and the major climbed mt. trumbull with them. wishing to have a talk with the shewits we moved on the 9th around to oak spring, near which some of them were encamped with their kinsmen the uinkarets. i was interested to see what the slayers of the howlands and dunn looked like. except for a wilder, more defiant aspect, they differed little from other pai utes. their country being so isolated and unvisited they were surly and independent. the uinkarets on the other hand were rather genial, more like the kaivavit band. the major traded for bags of food seeds, baskets, spoons made from mountain sheep's horns, balls of compressed cactus fruit from which the juice had been extracted for a kind of wine, rolls of oose-apple pulp, which they ate like bread, etc., all for the smithsonian institution. with the shewits the major and prof. had a conference. prof. wished to make a reconnaissance through their region and explained to them what he wanted to do. an agreement was reached by which he was to be permitted without molestation of any kind to go anywhere and everywhere with two shewits for guides and one of our party as cook and helper, in order that he could tell "washington" about the country. the helper, however, was to stick to the trail and remain in camp, so that he would know as little as possible, and should not tell that little to the "mormoni" whom the shewits disliked. nathan adams, a mormon, was the man to accompany prof. and he did not enjoy the prospect at all. on monday, november 11th, the major, prof., and jones climbed mount logan for more data and took a general survey of the country, while i went out on foot, climbed, measured and located eight large cinder-cones. when they came down the major said he had seen a fine, isolated mountain to the west which he had called after me, and i naturally felt much pleased with the honour of having my name stamped on the map. the next day, november 12th, our party divided into three. frank hamblin went out to st. george with the waggon after rations; prof. with nathan adams, one shewits, named paantung, and our guide "judge," who may have been a shewits also for all we could tell, prepared for the entrance into shewits land, while the major, jones, and i proceeded to the foot of the toroweap, to a water-pocket near the edge of the grand canyon called by the uinkarets teram picavu. chuar and waytoots went back to kanab and we hired uinkarets to carry our goods nine miles down to the pocket, descending 1200 feet at one point over rough lava. after some work at the canyon we went back to the spring on the 14th, the uinkarets again acting as our pack-horses. we had no salt left by this time and very little food, but we killed some rabbits and cooked them on hot coals, the adhering ashes making a substitute for salt. i reached the spring first and found little, round, beaming, teemaroomtekai, who knew our plans, already there with a great big "mericats" fire to welcome us, as well as a large pile of wood for feeding it. the major got in soon after, but jones failed to come at all, which worried us. before we could go in search of him in the morning he arrived. his horse had given out, compelling him to stay where he was all night. we had travelled hard up and down all kinds of hills, canyons, and mountains, with seldom a trail, and it was wearing on the animals living only on bunch grass. [illustration: the grand canyon. from north side near foot of toroweap valley, uinkaret district. photograph by j. k. hillers.] i continued measuring and locating the oonagaritchets or cinder-cones, of which there were more than sixty, and got in four more on the 15th. then the major decided to move to another water-pocket the uinkarets told about, farther east across the lava, a pocket they called tiravu picavu or pocket-of-the-plain. it was on the edge of the basaltic table overlooking what they termed the wonsits tiravu or antelope plain. they said there was no water now, but as one declared there was a little we decided to go. while the major followed a waggon-track leading to or from st. george, wishing to make some special observations along it and expecting to meet and stop frank with the waggon now due, jones and i struck across on the moccasin trail, leaving our goods to be brought on by the uinkaret packers. at sunset we rounded a clump of cinder-cones studding a black, barren waste. far away across the wonsits tiravu rose the red cliff land up and up to the eastern sky; behind was the great bulk of trumbull, together with scores of the smooth, verdureless heaps of volcanic cinders. everywhere near was the desert of basalt, with nothing but the faint trail to point the way and the night slowly enwrapping us. on we urged our stumbling, weary beasts, their iron clinking on the metallic rocks; on till the thick blackness circled us like a wall. then we halted and built a little brush fire, thinking to stay till dawn. at the instant a weird cry from far back fell leaden on the strangely heavy winter air. our packers saw where we were and presently came to us. they were in a rage, pitching along in the dark under their heavy loads. they were cold, tired, famished, for the way had been long, the packs heavy. frost was in the wind. they now pretended not to know where the end was. i thought this was to see what we would say or do. we did not care; we said and did nothing with all the nonchalance born of the feeling that the further we went the worse it was. then one remembered. the pocket was near and he struck out for it, the rest following as best we could through the thick night, the guide occasionally lighting a torch of grass. after a quarter of a mile he stopped in the bottom of a deep basaltic gulch. here was the place. the uinkarets threw down their loads and squatted glum and silent. from the hill jones and i scraped together an armful of brush and got a small fire started in the bottom of the desolate hollow. at the upper end of it on a sort of bench eight feet wide was a depression covered with ice three or four inches thick. with some difficulty pounding a hole through this we found beneath a small amount of thick, slimy water, full of green scum. we drank some, the uinkarets drank some, but we could not see well enough to get any out for the animals. we tied them to rocks to prevent them from leaving in the night. the indians thawed a little under the influence of the fire, but they would barely speak when spoken to. they skinned a wildcat they had killed on the way and boiled the red meat briefly in our kettle and ate it like hungry wolves, while jones and i, all the time wondering what had become of the major, made a light lunch on some of our scanty supply. then we climbed the hill, and getting together a little more brush jones sat keeping a signal fire going as long as he had fuel. but the wind was keen and strong, wood limited, and he gave it up. spreading our blankets we went to sleep. morning came clear and sharp. i took my glasses and went up to scan the country for some sign of the major or our waggon and i rejoiced to discover him not a quarter of a mile distant. he had headed for the fire, and losing it kept on by a star till he thought he was near us, when he made a small fire of his own, tied his mule, and waited for day. we had a bite together and thawed out some of the ice in our kettle, providing a diminutive drink for each horse; then leaving the natives in charge of the baggage we rode down into the plain to find our waggon, taking along our last bit of bread for lunch. in about ten miles we came to it and frank hamblin gave us the latest news, "grant elected and boston burned." after a lunch we turned back, making a camp at the foot of the basalt, thawing out more ice for the animals, and giving the indians some food. about two o'clock the major and i rode over to the innupin picavu while jones and the waggon went around, as it could not cross the basalt. we arrived at seven, while the waggon did not come till half past eleven, when we prepared a good supper for all hands, turning in about three in the morning. not a man awoke before ten, though the strong sun fell on our faces. the animals were used up and we did what we could on foot that day. i climbed four more cinder-cones, reaching camp at dark. every day i climbed several of the cones, but some were so far away that i had to make a special camp from which to operate. the waggon was loaded with ice from the water-pocket, and a supply of provisions, and driven about seven miles to a basaltic gulch, in a well-wooded locality on the edge of a treeless valley, where the load was dropped and i was left with my horse. before dark i gathered a lot of wood, made a good fire, and melted some of the ice that formed my water supply, in a brass kettle, watering my horse, which i then tethered with a long rope where there was good grass. i did not intend to waste time hunting my mount in the morning. after supper i spread my blankets near the fire and by the light of a bright piñon blaze i began to read _great expectations_, a paper edition with the last leaves gone having gotten into camp. as i read pip's interview in the twilight with the convict on the dreary marshes i was in deep sympathy with the desperate hunger of the terrible man, and when mrs. joe buttered the end of the loaf and carved off the slices i myself was hungry enough to cook supper over again. butter had now been absent from my bill of fare, with a few exceptions, for nearly two years. i was careful to place my fire where it would be well screened and not easily seen from a distance. i did not care to have any shewits or even uinkarets visit me and i hoped they were all in their own camps, though i sometimes had a feeling that one might be watching from the shadows of the great basaltic rocks. this, of course, was due to the circumstances and not to any probability, though i kept my winchester near my hand. when i again got back to the main camp the major told me that the first night of my absence several of the natives came in and, not seeing me around, inquired my whereabouts. he gave them an evasive answer, believing that it was quite as well not to apprise them of the situation. the following day, thursday, november 21st, i covered a wide territory, climbing five cinder-cones a great distance apart and each quite high. several times i crossed recent moccasin tracks, but met no natives, and at nightfall i was still a long way from my camp. when the darkness became so dense that i could not see even faint outlines i took a star for guidance till clouds blotted it out. then i was completely adrift in a sea of mountains. i could not tell one direction from another. throwing the reins on the broncho's neck i sat back in my saddle to see what would come of it. slowly, cautiously the animal plodded over broken, rocky ground succeeded by smoother footing, as i could tell by the motion, and in about an hour suddenly and quietly halted. i perceived that i was in the midst of cedars. a light spot appeared almost beneath. dismounting i dropped to my hands and knees and found that it was the ashes of my fire. the broncho, the same that had tried to buck me off a few days before, had come back to the camp of a single night, about the best example of horse sense that i ever experienced. after another comfortable evening with dickens i was prepared to go on with my special task, and finished it in this place by climbing the group of cones near the tiravu picavu the next day. about two in the afternoon i got back to my camp with a very tired mount, but i loaded all my traps on my saddle, the ice being almost exhausted, and started to find a new locality where i was to meet the major. my pack was high, my broncho tired. while crossing a small open valley near sunset the poor beast suddenly lay down with me. there being no water anywhere in that locality, i was forced to use some brutality to get the animal up. without further incident i came to the place agreed on and found the major there in advance. we camped at the spot and the next day, saturday, november 23d, i climbed five more cones, reaching the camp at sunset. sunday the major went on with his particular task while i added six more of the cones to my list, getting back to the side camp late in the day. the major was to go in by himself when he was ready, so i took all the outfit on my horse again, reached the oak spring trail at sunset, and the main camp two hours after dark, glad enough to drop the load of pails, bags, blankets, etc., in which my broncho sympathised more deeply than could be expressed. [illustration: the grand canyon. storm effect from south rim.] monday morning, november 25th, we turned our faces toward kanab, and i climbed four more cones on the way out, overtaking the waggon about an hour after dark. the night was very cold and i was ready to enjoy the warmth of a fire by the time i reached the camp. in the morning we had a visit from lieutenant dinwiddie of lieut. wheeler's survey. i rode over to the cinder-cone region again and climbed the remaining ones, seven or eight, reaching camp after dark, the days being very short at this time of year. the camp had been moved nearer to the spring in the low line of cliffs where we had halted coming out and the major with his usual original ideas had caused the waggon to be lowered by ropes into a deep gulch. he had estimated that it was possible to go out through the cliffs that way instead of going all the way around. his geological knowledge did not lead him astray. there was no trouble whatever in taking the waggon up the gulch, and when we emerged we were many miles on the road to pipe spring, where the major and i arrived in advance of the others. we had dinner and he then went on alone to kanab, where the whole party arrived the next day--thanksgiving day. prof. had come in on the 25th by way of st. george, having had a successful tour through the shewits region, all agreements on both sides having been carried out to the letter. he had been two weeks in the wild country and adams declared that to him the time was years, his only comfort being that he was wearing his "endowment garment," a sure protection from all evil. prof. had climbed mount dellenbaugh, though the shewits objected to adams's going up and he remained on the trail. it was found to be a basaltic peak 6650 feet above sea-level, but only 1200 or 1500 above its base. on the summit were the ruins of a shinumo building circular in shape, twenty feet in diameter, with walls remaining about two feet high. it was not far from the base of this mountain that the howlands and dunn were killed, paantung, prof.'s guide, saying it was done by some "no sense" shewits. prof. was of the opinion that the guide had been of the party himself. all was preparation in our camp for the departure of the major for salt lake and washington. i had expected to go east at this time also, but both the major and prof. being desirous of having me remain a while longer, to help finish up the preliminary map, i agreed to do so and on the 30th of november all the original party set out but prof., mrs. thompson, and myself. a new member, john renshawe, had arrived a few days before to assist at the topography. when the party had been gone some time it was discovered that they had forgotten several things. i took a horse and rode over with the articles to the camp they intended to make at johnson, where i remained till morning. the major was so eager to get an early start that he had all hands up long before sunrise. when breakfast was eaten we had to sit by the fire three quarters of an hour before there was light enough for the men to trail the horses. then i said good-bye; they went on and i went back. jones and andy i never saw again. prof. concluded to make winter headquarters in kanab and a lot was rented for the purpose. on december 3d, we put up a large tent in one corner, with two small ones for rations and saddles. the next day we put up one in the other corner for prof. and mrs. thompson, and at the back of the lot we arranged a corral for the horses or mules we might want to catch. the large tents were floored with pine boards and along the sides heavy cedar boughs were placed in crotches around which the guy ropes were passed before staking. the tents thus were dry inside and could not blow down. a conical iron stove on a boxing of earth heated the large tent like a furnace. in the middle of the general tent we placed a long drafting-table and were ready for work. another tent, half boards, was erected near ours for kitchen and dining-room, and riley, who had turned up again, hired as cook and master of this structure. riley, who had spent his whole life in camp and saddle, was the best frontier or camp cook i ever saw. scrupulously clean to the last detail of his pots and pans, he knew how to make to perfection all manner of eatables possible under the circumstances. prof. arranged for a supply of potatoes, butter, meats, and everything within reason, so we lived very well, with an occasional dash of dixie wine to add zest, while on christmas day riley prepared a special feast. though the sky was sombre the town was merry and there was a dance in the school-house, but i did not attend. rainy weather set in on the 26th, and the old year welcomed the new in a steady downpour, making january 1, 1873, rather a dismal holiday. even the mail which arrived this day was soaked. toward evening the skies lifted somewhat and a four-horse waggon appeared, or rather two mules and two horses on a common freighting waggon, in which lyman hamblin and two others were playing, as nearly in unison as possible, a fiddle, a drum, and a fife. while we were admiring this feat we heard jack's hearty shout and saw our waggon returning under his charge from salt lake with supplies, with a cook stove for our kitchen, and with a new suit of clothes for me accompanied by the compliments of prof. and the major. our camp in kanab was now as complete and comfortable as any one might wish, and our work of preparing the map went forward rapidly. as soon as it could be finished i was to take it to salt lake, and send it by express to the major in washington, to show congress what we had been doing and what a remarkable region it was that we had been investigating. in the evenings we visited our friends in the settlement or they visited us, or we read what books, papers, and magazines we could get hold of. john and i also amused ourselves by writing down all the songs that were sung around camp, to which i added a composition of my own to the tune of _farewell to the star spangled banner_, an abandoned rebel one. these words ran: oh, boys, you remember the wild colorado, its rapids and its rocks will trouble us no more, etc., with a mention in the various stanzas of each member of the party and his characteristics. the horses became high-spirited with nothing to do and plenty of good feed. one of our amusements was to corral several, and then, putting saddles on the most prancing specimens, mount and ride down on the plain, the horse running at top speed, with the impression that he was full master of the situation and expecting us to try to stop him. instead we enjoyed the exhilaration of it, and let the charger alone till after a couple of miles he concluded the fun was all on our side and took a more moderate gait of his own accord. there were several horse races also, and the days flew by. on february 3d i finished plotting the river down to the kanab canyon, and as if to emphasise this point a snow-storm set in. by the 5th the snow was five inches deep, and we had word that the snow on the divide to the north over the culmination of the various lines of cliffs, where i would have to pass to go to salt lake, was very heavy. on the 7th the mail rider failed to get through. we learned also that an epizoötic had come to utah and many horses were laid up by it, crippling the stage lines. it had been planned that i should go north with our own horses till i could connect with some stage line, and then take that for the remainder of the distance to the utah southern railway, which then had been extended south from salt lake as far as lehi. on the 16th of february, which was sunday, i put the last touches on the map, drawn from the original on a large sheet of tracing cloth, rolled it carefully up, and placed it in a long tin tube we had ordered from the local tinsmith. this i carried on my back, as i did not mean to be separated from it a minute till i gave it into the hands of wells, fargo & co.'s express in salt lake. jack was to go with me. saying a last good-bye to prof. and mrs. thompson, to john, and to some of my kanab friends who came to see the start, we left a little after noon, with one pack on a broncho mule, jack riding a mule and i a favourite horse of mine called by the unusual name of billy. the pack-mule always had to be blindfolded before we could handle him, and if the blind should accidentally slip off there was an instantaneous convulsion which had a most disrupting effect. going straight up the canyon, we crossed over finally into long valley, and were on the headwaters of the virgin. at sunset we came to a little settlement called mt. carmel, but continued to glendale, where we arrived about half-past seven, having come in all thirty miles. at the bishop's house we were welcomed and there got some supper, putting our three animals in his corral. we did not care to sleep in the house, choosing for our resting-place the last remains of a haystack, where we spread our blankets, covering the whole with a paulin, as the sky looked threatening. i never slept more comfortably in my life, except that i was half-aroused in the stillness by water trickling down my neck. half-asleep we pulled the canvas clear up over our heads and were troubled no more. when we awoke in the morning a heaviness on top of us we knew meant snow. we were covered by a full foot of it, soft and dry. valley, mountain, everything was a solid expanse of white, the only dark spot being our red blankets as we threw back the paulin. the sky was grey and sullen. more snow was in the air. as soon as breakfast was eaten we slung our pack, saddled, and rode up the valley, following as well as we could the directions given by the bishop. neither jack nor i had been this way before. we could see the slight depression in the surface of the snow which indicated a waggon-rut beneath, and by that token continued up the ever-narrowing valley; the slopes sprinkled by large pine trees. snow fell thickly. it was not always easy to see our way, but we went on. at a certain point we were to turn to the left up a side gulch, following it till we came to the divide, some eight thousand or nine thousand feet above sea-level, where we expected to go down to the head of the sevier valley, where jack had before been by another route. at the gulch we deemed the correct one, no road or trail being visible, we turned late in the afternoon to the left and rapidly mounted higher, with the fresh snow growing correspondingly deeper till it was about two feet on the level. the going was slow and hard, the sky still dropping heavy flakes upon us. about five o'clock we found ourselves on the summit of a high bald knob topping the world. in every direction through the snow-mist similar bald knobs could be seen looming against the darkening sky. the old drifts were so deep that where a horse broke through the crust he went down to the end of his leg. this excited them, and they plunged wildly. i finally got them all three still and quiet, while jack scanned the outlook intently. "see any landmark, jack?" said i. "not a damned thing i ever saw before!" answered jack. at brief intervals the falling snow would cease, and we could see more clearly, except that the impending night began to cast over all a general obscurity. there was a deep valley beyond to the right. while it was not possible to tell directions we felt that our course must lie there, and i led the way down a long treeless slope, breaking a path as well as i could, my horse following behind; the others urged on by jack from the rear. the snow became shallower near the bottom. we mounted and i rode in the direction that jack thought we ought to take to come to the road down the sevier where he had before travelled. we crossed the valley in doing this, but at one point in the very bottom my horse wanted to turn to the left, which would have taken us down the deepening valley. i prevented his turning and we continued up a gulch a mile or two, where it narrowed till we could barely proceed. jack then climbed up on a cliff and disappeared, endeavouring to see some familiar object, the falling snow having at last stopped. i stood in my tracks with the three animals and waited so long i began to be afraid that jack had met with an accident. just then i heard him descending. it was nearly dark. he could not see any sign of the region he had been in before. snow and darkness puzzle one even in a familiar country. we then went back to the valley where the horse had wished to turn and followed it down, now believing that it might be the right way after all, for billy had been over the road several times. another example of horse sense, which seems to prove that horses know more than we think they do. we had expected to reach asa's ranch before night and had not brought an axe, in consequence. keeping down the valley till we came to a group of cedars, some of which were dead, and a tall pine tree, we camped, pulling branches from the cedars and bark from the pine for a fire, which quickly melted its way down to the ground, leaving a convenient seat all round about twenty inches high, upon which we laid blankets to sit on. our pack contained enough food for supper; breakfast would have to take care of itself. we also had some grain, which we fed to the hungry animals and tied them under the cedars, where they were protected in a measure from the sharp wind though they were standing in deep snow. for ourselves we cut twigs from the green cedars and made a thick mattress on the snow with them. our blankets on top of these made a bed fit for a king. the storm cleared entirely; a brilliant moon shone over all, causing the falling frost in the air to scintillate like diamonds. in the morning, tuesday, february 18th, we packed up at once, having nothing left to eat, and proceeded down the valley wondering if we were on the right road or not. the sky arched over with that deep tone that is almost black in winter in high altitudes, and the sun fell in a dazzling sheet upon the wide range of unbroken white. the surface was like a mirror; the eyes closed against the intense light instinctively. as we went on northwards and downwards a faint, double, continuous hollow began to appear on the snow--a waggon-track at the bottom. it became more and more distinct and we then felt sure that we were on the right road, though we were not positive till near noon when, approaching a rocky point, we suddenly heard the clear ring of an axe on the metallic air. a few moments later turning this we saw a large, swift stream flowing clear between snowy banks, and beyond a log cabin with blue smoke rising from the immense stone chimney. in front was a man chopping wood. his dog was barking. it was a welcome, a beautiful picture of frontier comfort. it was asa's ranch. asa was one of the men who helped the major on his arrival at the mouth of the virgin in 1869, now having changed his residence to this place. we were soon made welcome in the single large room of the cabin where all the family were, and while the horses were having a good feed an equally good one for us was prepared by mrs. asa on the fire burning snugly in the great chimney. never did fried ham, boiled eggs, and hot coffee do better service. we could not have been more cordially received if these mormons had been our own relatives. we rested there till about three o'clock, when we bade them all good-bye and rode on down the valley, the snow continually lessening in depth, till, when we reached the much lower altitude of panguitch at sunset, twenty-six miles from our night's camp, there were only three or four inches and the temperature was not nearly so low, though still very cold. according to custom we applied to the bishop for accomodation for ourselves and our stock and were again cordially received. we were quickly made comfortable before a bright fire on the hearth which illumed the whole room. while the good wife got supper, the bishop, an exceedingly pleasant man, brought out some dixie wine he had recently received. he poured us out each a large goblet and took one himself. after a hearty supper jack and i put down our blankets on the bishop's haystack and knew nothing more till sunrise. leaving panguitch we rode on down the sevier, crossing it frequently, and made about forty miles, passing through sevier canyon and circle valley, where there were a number of deserted houses, and arrived for night at the ranch of a gentile named van buren. by this time my eyes, which had been inflamed by the strong glare of the sun, began to feel as if they were full of sand, and presently i became aware that i was afflicted with that painful malady snowblindness. i could barely see, the pain in both eyes was extreme, and a river of tears poured forth continually. other men whom we heard of as we went on were blinded worse than i. all i could do, having no goggles, was to keep my hat pulled down and cut off the glare as much as possible.[39] at marysvale the stage had been abandoned. we kept on, finding as we advanced that all the stages were put out of business by the epizoötic. there was nothing for jack to do but to go on with me to nephi. in riding through one village i saw a sign on the closed door of a store just off the road and my curiosity led me to ride up close enough to read it. i did not linger. the words i saw were "small pox." that night we reached nephi under the shadow of the superb mount nebo, where i tried again for a stage so that jack could return. no stage arrived and the following morning we rode on northward over very muddy roads, finally reaching spanish fork, where a fresh snow-storm covered the country about a foot, making travelling still more difficult. another day's journey put us as far as american fork, only three miles from the end of the railway, a place called lehi, for which we made a very early start the next day, wednesday, february 25th, but when we arrived there through the mud and slush the train had taken its departure. our pack mule was now very lame and travelled with difficulty, but we continued on toward salt lake. the train had become stalled in the immense snowdrifts at the point-of-the-mountain and there we overtook it. i was soon on board with my tin case and other baggage, but it was a considerable time before the gang of men and a snow plough extricated the train. about five o'clock we ran into the town. i went to the walker house, then the best hotel, and that night slept in a real room and a real bed for the first time in nearly two years, but i opened the windows as wide as they would go. in the morning i sent off the map and then turned my attention to seeing the mormon capital. cap. was now living there and it was fennemore's home. i also found bonnemort and macentee in town, and jack came on up the remaining short distance in order to take a fresh start for kanab. nearly forty years have slipped away since the events chronicled in this volume. never was there a more faithful, resolute band of explorers than ours. many years afterward prof. said in a letter to me speaking of the men of the second powell expedition, "i have never seen since such zeal and courage displayed." from out the dark chasm of eternity comes the hail, "tirtaan aigles dis wai!" and already many of that little company have crossed to killiloo. the major and prof. repose in the sacred limits of arlington. strew their graves with roses and forget them not. they did a great work in solving the last geographical problem of the united states. footnotes: [footnote 35: professor thompson declared to me not long before his death that the river was accurate as far as catastrophe rapid, (about where longitude 113.39 intersects the river) but from there to the virgin it might need some corrections.] [footnote 36: some men from kanab afterwards came in, sawed one in two and made it shorter, and then tried to go up the canyon by towing. they did not get far, and the boat was abandoned. the floods then carried both down to destruction.] [footnote 37: a description of this journey ascribed to september, 1870, occurs at page 108, _et seq._, in powell's report on the _exploration of the colorado river of the west_, 1875.] [footnote 38: oonupits or innupits is the singular, innupin the plural. it may be translated witch, elf, or goblin, with evil tendencies. on the other hand they did not fear a spirit. when on the kaibab in july with chuar and several other indians, prof. while riding along heard a cry something like an indian halloo. "after we got into camp," he said in his diary: "chuar asked george adair what he called that which lived after the body died. george replied, 'a spirit.' 'well,' said chuar, 'that was what hallooed in the forest to-day. it was the spirit of a dead indian. i have often heard it. sometimes it is near, sometimes far away. when i was here with beaman i heard it call near me. i answered, telling it to come to me. it did not come nor reply, and i felt very much ashamed to think i had called.'"] [footnote 39: for travelling across snow one should always be provided with smoked goggles. failing to have them, lines of charcoal should be drawn below the eyes or a scarf tied so as to break the glare.] index a adair, george, 153, 241 adams, nathan, 241, 253; his endowment garment, 259 agua grande, navajo chief, 147 aigles, tirtaan, slogan, 75, 267 alcove brook, 47 altitude of colorado river above sea, black's fork, 15; junction green and grand, 114; paria, 151, 217; grand wash, 217; little colorado, 223; kanab canyon, 241 american fork, 266 amerind, viii. andy, _see_ hattan aquarius plateau, 200, 202 arlington, powell and thompson buried there, 267 arms, kind used, 12 asa, ranch, 264, 265; assisted powell, 265 ashley, wm. h., through red canyon, 2, 28, 95; name on rocks, 28 ashley falls, 26; portage at, 27 ashtishkal, navajo chief, 177 aspen lakes, 201 averett, elijah, grave of, 197 azure cliffs, 99 b baird, professor spencer, vi. bangs, mount, climbed, 194 barbenceta, principal chief of the navajos, 168 base line, 166, 173, 174 basor, teamster, 68 beadle, j. h., 215; under name of hanson, 215 beaman, e. o., place in boat, 11; duty of, 11; leaves party, 179; passes paria on way to moki towns, 216; up from kanab canyon to surprise valley, 241 beaver, ground, 77; shoot one, 78; steak cooked, 78; soup, 78 berry's spring, 188; arrive at, 191 berthoud and bridger lay out waggon road, 67 best expedition, place of starting, 95 big boulder creek, 202 bishop, francis marion (cap.), place in boat, 11; duty of, 11; leaves party, 180 bishop's creek, 54 bison, pictographs, 61; range on green river, 61 black rock canyon, 193 black's fork, 15 boats of the second powell expedition, the, 4; names of, 4; described, 5, 6; method of packing, 8; order of going, 11; crews of, 11; no iron on keels, 14; built to float when full of water, 25; reassignment of crews, 136, 215; _cañonita_ cached, 135; launched again, 209; crew for, 209; _dean_ cached, 154; _nellie powell_ cached, 154; _dean_ discovered by beadle, 215; _nellie powell_ abandoned, 215; _cañonita_ and _dean_ abandoned, 244 bonito bend, 111 bonnemort, john, 143; leaves party, 179; in salt lake city, 267 boston burned, news of, received, 256 bow-knot bend, 108 bread, kind used, 4 bridger and berthoud lay out waggon road, 67 bridger, jim, 95 brigham young, 170, 185 bright angel creek, arrive at mouth of, 232; why so named, 232 brown expedition, place of starting, 95 brown's hole, name changed to brown's park, 18, 30; arrive at, 30 brush creek, 54 buckskin mountain (kaibab plateau), 159 buenaventura, rio san, escalante's name for green river, 67 buffalo _express_, letters from f. s. dellenbaugh to, vii. butte of the cross, 110 c campbell, richard, knew of ford el vado de los padres, 96 camp moved to the gap, 171 _cañonita_, left behind, 135; reached overland, 209 canyon of desolation, enter it, 77; character and height of walls, 80, 84, 85; length of, 91 canyon of lodore, enter it, 34; declivity of, 43; length of, 48; fall of, 48 canyons, for list of, with heights of walls, lengths, etc., see _the romance of the colorado river_, appendix canyons not dark in daytime, 25 cap., _see_ bishop capsize, of the _cañonita_, 23; of the _dean_, 235 carleton, companion of beaman, 216 carson, kit, 95 cascade creek, 43, 202 cascades of rain, 105, 106, 132 cataract canyon, declivity compared, 43; beginning of, 115; height of walls, 116, 122, 126, 128, 129; we enter it, 118; declivity in, 118; boulders rolled by current, 118; width of river, 119; boat runs rapid alone, 121; stones rocked by current, 127; length of, 132; end of, 132; number of rapids, 132 cataract creek, 96, 202 catastrophe rapid, vi., 242, 243 caves once occupied, 132 chandler falls, 87; creek, 87 chicago, burning of, first news, 157 chicago _tribune_, letters from clement powell to, v. chief douglas, major and mrs. powell winter near his camp, 172 chocolate cliffs, 166 chuarooumpeak, chief of kaibab band of pai utes, 250; shoots at oonupits, 252; singing, 252; hears spirit call, 253; goes back to kanab, 254 circle valley, pass through it, 266 clarkson, mormon settlement, 197 clear or spring creek (badger creek), 158 clem, _see_ powell clemente, rio san, escalante's name for white river, 67 cliff-of-the-harp named, 43 coal canyon, 91 colob plateau, 191 colorado, from, into utah, 56 colorado river, accuracy of plat of course, vi., vii., 243; upper continuation of, 1; white salmon, 98; actual beginning of, 115; excessive high water, 244 compass creek, 24 condition of party at end of first season's river work, 145 course of the colorado river, accuracy of, vi., vii., 243 craggy canyon, 57 crater, recent, in uinkaret country, 188 creek, sentinel, 149 crescent creek, 209 crossing of the fathers, the, _see_ el vado de los padres d dance, mormon, 173 davy crockett, fort, 30 _dean_, the _emma_, cached for the winter, 154; discovered by j. h. beadle, 215 deer, game, etc., 26 dellenbaugh, butte, 102, 104; mount, named, 254; thompson climbs it, 259 dellenbaugh, f. s., joins party, 3; position in boat, 11; duty of, 11; letters from, to buffalo _express_, vii. de motte, professor, 213 denver, colorado canyon, and pacific railway, 119 denver and rio grande railway crossing of green river, 95 denver to salt lake, waggon road _via_ golden and provo, and robideau crossing of green river, 67 descent, in feet of green-colorado river, from union pacific railway to black's fork, 15; to flaming gorge, 17; in red canyon, 33; in lodore, 48; in whirlpool, 56; to the mouth of the uinta, 71; from wonsits valley to gunnison crossing, 93; from the union pacific to gunnison crossing, 93; from gunnison crossing to junction of green and grand, 114; from union pacific to mouth of grand river, 114; from mouth of grand river to dirty devil, 134; from union pacific to dirty devil (frémont), 135; from union pacific to paria (lee ferry), 151; from paria to little colorado, 223; from little colorado to grand wash, 223; from little colorado to kanab, 241; from paria to kanab, 241 desolation, canyon of, enter it, 77; perforations in walls of, 82; width of river in, 83, 89; height of walls, 84, 85; natural arches in, 87, 88; end of, 91; length of, 91 diamond butte, how named, 192 diamond creek mouth astronomically determined, 95 diary, of professor thompson, vii.; of john f. steward, vii.; of f. s. dellenbaugh, vii.; of jack summer, 7 dinwiddie, lieut., 258 dirty devil mountains, _see_ unknown mountains dirty devil (frémont) river, viii.; point of junction with colorado, 3; failure to get to it overland, 70, 99; arrive at mouth by river, 133; overland trip to, 195; on head of, according to dodds, 199; mistake discovered, 199, 200; reach mouth of, overland, 209 disaster falls, 39; dinner from wreckage of _no-name_, 40; fall of river at, 42 distance, from union pacific railway to gate of lodore, 33; to echo park, 48; to junction of green and grand, 114; to dirty devil, 135; paria to little colorado, 223; little colorado to kanab canyon, 241; wonsits valley to gunnison crossing, 93. _see also_ appendix, _romance of the colorado river_ dixie, name for virgin valley, 164 dodds, captain pardyn, fails to reach dirty devil river, 70; meet him at el vado, 143 dog, dandie dinmont, of mrs. thompson, 166, 195 douglas boy, first meeting with, 64; comes to mouth of uinta, 70; an eloper, 71; farewell to, 76 dummy and his prophecy, 9 dunn, william h., vi.; name carved in music temple, 141; killed by shewits, 141, 259 dunn's cliff, 43 dutch oven, 4 dutton, major, vii. e echo, cliff, 49; park, 49; rock, 53; peaks, how named, 151 eight mile spring, camp at, 165 el vado de los padres (crossing of the fathers), 7, 8, 41, 95, 96; first white man to ford after escalante, 96; arrive at, 1871, 143; description of, 168; arrive at, 1872, 210; early known by richard campbell, 96 emma, sister, a wife of john d. lee, 211 endowment garment, adams wears one, 259 epizoötic visits utah, 262 escalante, his crossing of the colorado, 7; sierra, 43; of green river, 67; his name for green river, 67; for white river, 67; river, 210; river named by professor thompson, 210 f failure creek, 129 fennemore, joins party, 187; falls sick, 212; leaves party, 216; in salt lake, 267 field, 5; arm-chair obtained from, 8; breakfast at, 9 flaming gorge, 1, 2; height of walls, 17; green river enters, 17; accessibility, 20; gateway to the series of canyons, 22 frank, _see_ richardson frank, pai ute, _see_ chuarooumpeak frémont, river, 3; _see_ dirty devil; general, 95; first granite gorge of the grand canyon, declivity in, 43 first powell expedition, v.; plat of river by, vi., 2, 96; boats of, x. food supply exhausted, 141 fort davy crockett, 30 fort defiance, jacob hamblin goes there, 143 fort pierce, 188 fort robideau, 67; only house on the river, 72 fretwater falls, 83 fuzz, mrs. thompson's dog, 166, 195 g gate of lodore, 32 gentile frontier town compared with mormon, 174 gila monster, 245 gilbert, g. k., vii., 136 glen canyon, beginning, 137; width of river in, 139; height of walls, 139-143; end of, 151 glencove, attempt to reach dirty devil river from, 99 glendale, mormon settlement, 262 goblin city, journey to, 68; description of, 69 gold, found on colorado, 144; at mouth of kanab, 174; miners go after, 185 golden to provo, waggon road, 67 gosi-utes, gunnison killed by, 95 gould's ranch, 190 grand canyon, jacob hamblin circumtours it, 96; powell finds way in to the mouth of the kanab, 174; dodds and jones get to it, 188; whitmore describes a crossing, 188; dodds and johnson reach river, 189; dodds and dellenbaugh go to river at lava falls, 192; marble division begins, 216; length of, including marble canyon, 217; beginning of, 223; enter it, 223 grand river, 109 grand wash, 96; altitude of, 217 granite, the, runs up, 225 grant, news of election of, 256 graves, ancient, discovered, 77 gray canyon, enter it, 91; colour, height, and character of walls, 91, 92; end of, 93; length of, 93 gray cliffs, 164 great basin, 164 green river, points on, astronomically fixed before powell, 19, 95 green river city, arrive there, 3; described, 5; settlements below, 8 green river suck, 20 green river valley, 1, 2 grizzly bears, 26 gunnison, captain, crossed green river, 95; killed, 95 gunnison butte, 93, 99 gunnison crossing, powell plans to rejoin his party there, 70 gypsum canyon, 127 h habasu (havasu), 96 haight, 153, 157 hamblin, frank, 254 hamblin, fred, 99 hamblin, jacob, scout and pioneer, 96; first after escalante to cross at el vado, 96; circumtours the marble and grand canyons, 96; arrives at paria, 153; treaty with navajos, 168; title of his book, 169; indian engagements, 170; goes to mt. trumbull with powell, 170; wives of, 174; hears plot to ambush, 243 hamblin, joseph, 156, 241 hamblin, lyman, 99 hanson, name assumed by j. h. beadle, 215 harrell brothers, camp in brown's park, 30 hastele, navajo chief, 169 hattan, andrew, 4; place in boat, 11; his call to meals, 11; departure, 260 headquarters, winter, of, 1872-73, 260 hell's half mill, 44 henry mountains (unknown mts., _q. v._), 207 henry's fork, mouth of, 17; astronomically fixed, 95 henry, professor joseph, vi. henry (azure) cliffs, 99 hidden lakes, the, 201 high plateaus of utah, continuation of wasatch range, 95; end of, 164 hillers, john k., joins party, 7; catches fish, 15; songs of, 52, 74; catches salmon, 98; photographer, 217; hurts his back, 225; trip to moki towns, 248 hog-backs, topographical feature described, 198 hook, theodore, drowned, 25; grave of, 25 horse discovered, 90 horse sense, 258, 264 horseshoe canyon, why so called, 21 hotel tovar, 232 house ruins, shinumo, 112, 137, 138 house rock spring, 157, 160 house rock valley, 160, 175 howland, seneca, and o. g., 141 howlands and dunn, vi., vii.; why killed by shewits, 171; left first party, 242; killed near mt. dellenbaugh, 259 hurricane hill, 190 hurricane ledge, 190 i illustrations in powell's _report_, x. innupin, definition of, 252 innupin picavu (water-pocket), 251 island park, 56 ives, comes up colorado, 1858, 2; reconnoitres south of grand canyon, 96; names north side mountains, 186 j jack, _see_ hillers jacob, _see_ hamblin jacob's pools, 159 johnson, will, 186; leaves party, 211 johnson's, mormon settlement 166 jones, s. v., 10; place in boat, 11; falls ill, 152; leaves, 260 julien, d., inscriptions by, 108, 113, 118 junction, the, of the grand and green, 113; summit at, 116; trail to, 118 k kaibab (buckskin mountain), seen from echo peaks, 150; band of pai utes, 177; trip to south-west corner of, 182; point f established on, 184; seen from marble canyon, 222 kanab, settlement of, 8; headquarters, 145; headquarters, winter of 1872-73, 260; description of, 166; base line near, 173; christmas dance, 173 kanab canyon, journey up, 185, 244; supplies to be brought in there, 224 kapurats, pai ute name for major powell, 171 kettle creek, 24 killiloo, refrain, 75, 81, 226, 267 kingfisher canyon, 22; why so called, 22 kingfisher creek, 21 kit carson, 95 koneco, navajo chief, 154 l labyrinth canyon, enter it, 105; end of, 110; length of, 110 la sal, sierra, 103, 109, 127 latter-day saints, 212 lava falls, dodds and dellenbaugh climb to river there, 192 leaping brook, 46 lee, john doyle, 195; settles at paria, 210; meet him, 210; wife rachel, 210; wife emma (his xviii.), 210; called naguts, 211; executed, 211 lee ferry, 215 lehi, mormon town, 262, 266 let-down, 26; method of accomplishing a, 90 letters from clement powell to the chicago _tribune_, v.; from f. s. dellenbaugh to the buffalo _express_, vii. life preservers, 8; indispensable, 237 light, the controversy of the, 63 lighthouse rock, 80 lignite canyon, 91 line portage, 26 little brown's hole, 29; name changed to red canyon park, 29 little canyon, 31 little colorado, canyon of, forms division between marble and grand canyons, 217; mouth of, 222; altitude of mouth, 223 little white, or price river, 92 little zion valley, 190 lodore canyon, party goes through on the ice, 2; gate of, 32; why so called, 32; we enter it, 34; width of river in, 35, 42, 43; velocity of current in, 35, 42; sunlight in, 36; wreckage found in, 41; height of walls, 42, 43, 46; character of 42; declivity in, 43; end of, 48; length of, 48 logan, mt., 188 log-cabin cliff, 84 lonely dell, 211 long valley, route _via_, 262 lost creek (crescent creek), 209 louisa, a wife of jacob hamblin, 174, 195, 250 lower disaster falls, 42 m macentee, 166; leaves party, 179; in salt lake, 267 mackenzie, general, ix., map a, facing page 95 macomb, 95 "major, the" viii., _see_ powell, john wesley mangum, joseph, 153; the lost guide, 155, 157 manti, mormon settlement, 99, 174 map, accuracy of plat of colorado river, vi., vii., 243; sheets giving colorado river, viii.; preliminary, finished, 262; sent to washington, 267 marble canyon, 150; miners wrecked in, 195, 217; enter it, 216; total length with grand canyon, 217; height of walls, 216, 217-222; end of 222; descent in, 223; number of rapids in, 223 markargunt plateau, 191 meek, joseph, goes through lodore on the ice, 95 melvin falls, 86 millecrag bend, 129, 132 moki (hopi) ruin, 79 monument built 1869 by powell, 78 mookoontoweap or little zion valley, 190 mormon, settlements, 96; method of pioneering, 167, 174; dance, 173 mt. carmel, mormon settlement, 262 mount dellenbaugh, named, 254; altitude, 259; shinumo remains on, 259 mount ellen, henry mountains, 208 mount hillers, henry mountains, 208 mount logan, 188, 253 mount nebo, 266 mount pennell, henry mountains, 207, 208 mount seneca howland (navajo mt.), 141 mountain meadows massacre, 195; lee's version, 211 music temple, grotto, 141, 210 n narrow canyon, 3, 133 natural arches in canyon of desolation, 87, 88 navajos, agency, 143; meet with, 146; afraid of our boats, 153; dance with, 154; ceremonial, 177 navajo creek, 149 navajo mountain, 139, 141, 201 navajo well, 175, 248 nephi, 266 new year's day, 1872, 174; 1873, 260 _no-name_, boat, wreck of, 38 north side mountains (uinkaret mts.), 186 o oak spring, 187, 188, 191 old jacob, _see_ jacob hamblin old spanish trail, 95, 246 oonupits, sound made by, 252; described, 252; indian shoots at, 252 orange cliffs, 110 order of going, 11, 72, 136, 215 overland stage co. road, salt lake to denver _via_ provo, robideau crossing, and golden, 67 p paantung, thompson's shewits guide, 259 painted desert, 150 pai ute women, jacob hamblin, scaled to, 174; language without an "f," 250; name for major powell, 250; name for professor thompson, 250; name for dellenbaugh, 250; george, waytoots, chuar, 250; _see also_ chuarooumpeak; method of cooking rabbits, 252 pai utes, despised by navajos, 170; kaibab band of, 177; wickiups, 177; arms, 178; rabbit skin robe, 178; fire obtained by drill, 178; ceremonial, 178; songs, 178, 179; stone arrowhead making, 178 panguitch, arrive at, 265 paria, 95, 151, 197; up cliffs at, 155; settlement, 166 parowan, 248 patnish, chief of renegades, 8, 167, 250 photographic outfit, 6, 58 pictographs, 61 pierce, fort, 188, 191 pine valley mountains, 189, 190 pink cliffs, 164 pipe spring, 185; wash, 185 plateau province, the, 109 point f, 184 portage, line, 26; method of making, 40 potato valley, 199 powell, clement, letters from to chicago _tribune_, v.; place in boat, 11; duties of, 11; leaves party, 259 powell, emma dean (mrs. j. w.), 7; and infant daughter, 165; in middle park, 172; leaves for washington, 179 powell, john wesley (the major), the conqueror of the colorado, 2; title in volunteer army, 2; first descent of colorado; v., 3, 96, no right arm, 8; titles of reports, v., vi., position in boat, 11; duty of, 11; goes up yampa, 50; on yampa river 1868, 50; goes ahead to uinta, 56; to salt lake, 67, 70, 99, 144, 179, 259, 266; songs of, 73; rejoins party, 98; fails to reach dirty devil overland, 99; leaves for washington, 179, 259; reports through smithsonian institution, vi.; runs course of river, vii; buried at arlington, 267 price river, 92 "prof.," viii., _see_ thompson, a. h. provo to golden, waggon road, 67 _putnam's magazine_, copy found, 43 r rabbits, pai ute method of cooking, 252 rain cascades, 105, 106, 132 rapid, the first, 21; method of running, 35, 36; tails of, 36; eddys at, 36; catastrophe, vi., 242, 243 rations, 4, 111, 119 red canyon, 2; entrance of, 22; upset of _nellie powell_ in, 23; width of river in, 24; speed of current, 24; height of cliffs, 24, 28; end of, 30 red canyon park, 29 red cliff, 176 red lake utes, jacob pacifies them, 170; meet with band of, 204 regiment marches from salt lake to denver, 68 renshawe, john, joins party, 259 richardson, frank c. a., 10; position in boats, 11; skill in dressing deer, 16; leaves party, 31 riggs, 157 riggs, charley, 248 riley, george, 143; head of pack train, 156; cook, 260 rio, san buenaventura, 67; san clemente, 67; san rafael, 95, 103; san juan, 140, 210 robideau, crossing of green river, 67; fort, 67 rocking stones in current, 127 roundy, lorenzo w., 153 rudder useless on the colorado, x. s sag, the, at disaster falls, 38 st. george, mormon settlement, 194 salmon, white, caught, 98 salt lake city, 7, 17; the major goes to, 67, 70, 99, 144, 179, 259, 266 salt lake to denver, waggon road, _via_ provo and golden, 67 san clemente, rio, escalante's name for white river, 67 san francisco mts., seen from mt. trumbull, 187; from echo peaks, 250 san juan river, mouth of, 140; pass it, 1872, 210 san rafael river, 95; arrive at, 103 santa fé and los angeles trail, 94 santa fé railway to the grand canyon, x. scorpions, 132 second powell expedition, the, vi., 3; material used for report on first expedition, vi.; supplies of, 4; method of sacking rations, 6; ready to start, 8; personnel of, 11 selden, 95 sentinel rock and sentinel creek, 149 sevier canyon, 266 sharp mountain falls, 91 shewits, killed powell's men, vii., 96; territory of, 186; afraid of us, 191; plan to ambush us, 243; meet us, 253; conference and agreement, 253; thompson's guide, 259 shinumo, the, 112, 149; trail, 113, 145; caves, 132; canyon, 184; ruin on mt. dellenbaugh, 259 shower bath spring, 245 shunesburg, powell descends virgin river to, 248 sierra, escalante, 43; la lal, 103; abajo, 127 simpson, captain, 95 sinav-to-weap, 117 sister emma, 211 sister louisa, 174 smithsonian institution, powell reported through, vi. snowblind, 266 soap creek, 159; frank m. brown, drowned near mouth of, 159, 217; rapid, 217 "sockdologer, of the world," 222; rapid, 226 songs of the camp, 73, 74 sorghum molasses, 172 spanish fork, 266 spanish trail, old, 95 split mountain canyon, 57; enter it, 58; end of, 60; length of, 60 springs in river bottom, 103 stanton, r. b., proves the white story incorrect, v.; completed brown expedition, ix.; canyon railway project, x steward, john f., place in boat, 11; duty of, 11; on a raft, 16; discovers gigantic fossil, 20; determines nature of unknown mts., 136; ill, 146; recovers, 152; leaves party, 160 stewart, bishop, of kanab, 167; saw-mill of, on kaibab, 181 stewart, john, goes with powell to grand canyon, 172; returns with news of gold find, 174 stillwater canyon, beginning of, 110; nature of walls, 111, 113; house ruins in, 112; width, 113; end of, 113; length, 114 summit valley, 164 sumner amphitheatre, 79 sumner, jack, 7 supplies, nature of, 4; to be brought in at three places, 7 surprise valley, 241 swallow canyon, 31 swallow park, 197 t table mountain, 198 tapeats creek, 240 tavaputs plateau, 80 teemaroomtekai, uinkaret chief, 253 teram picavu, 254 thompson, professor alvin harris, vi., vii., ix., 7; place in boat, 11; duty of, 11; first white man to explore shewits country, 254; to climb mt. dellenbaugh, 259; buried at arlington, 267 thompson, mrs. ellen powell, 7, 165, 166, 172, 181, 195, 216, 259 tiravu picavu, 254 tirtaan aigles, slogan, 75, 267 tokerville, mormon settlement, 190 tom, pai ute guide, 197; leaves party, 199 toroweap valley, 192 trachyte creek, 208 trail up cliffs of paria, 155 _tribune_, chicago, letters to, from clement powell, v. trin alcove, 107 triplet falls, 43 trumbull, mt., why so called, 186; climbed, 187, 192; height of, 187 trumbull, senator, 186 tuba, a moki (hopi), goes home with jacob, 169; ceremony on crossing colorado river, 169 u uinkaret, indians, 186; region, 186; plateau, 190; chief, 253 uinta, indian agency, 7, 8, 71 uinta mountains, 1; first view of from river, 15 uinta river, pass mouth of, 76; arrival at, 66; powell goes ahead to, 56; mouth astronomically determined, 95 uinta utes, 61 undine springs, 103 union pacific railway, crossing of green river, 3; _see_ descent _and_ distance unknown country, the, 95, 96, 199, 200, 201, 202 unknown mountains (henry mts.) viii., 104, 127, 133; steward determines nature of, 136; position of dirty devil (frémont) river with reference to, 199; arrive at, 207; map of, 207 untokarowits, pai ute name for f. s. dellenbaugh, 250 utah southern railway finished to lehi, 262 utah, from, into colorado, 31 utes of wonsits valley, uinta and white river, 61 ute crossing of colorado in uinkaret region, 188 ute ford, the (el vado de los padres), 148 ute law as applied to capture, 71 v van buren, gentile settler on the sevier, 266 vasey's paradise, 219 vermilion cliffs, 158, 164; length of, 164 vermilion river, 31 virgin mountains, 194 virgin river, canyon of, explored down to shunesburg, 248; little zion or mookoontoweap valley of, 190 volunteers march from salt lake to denver, 68 voyage, canyon, the end of, 242 w walcott, professor, vii. walker house, salt lake city, 267 wasatch cliffs, 200 wheeler, lieut. george m., goes up colorado to diamond creek, 145 whirlpool canyon, 53; end of, 55; descent in, 56 whirlpools described, 239 whiskey not taken, 6 white, james, 2; story of his trip through canyons disproved, v. white river, 66; journey down, 69; pass mouth, 76 white river utes, 61 whitmore, dr., killed by navajos, 169; ranch, 188 wild band pocket, 251 winnie's grotto, 35 winsor, of pipe spring, 185; castle, 185 winter quarters, 1872-73, 260 witch water-pocket (innupin picavu), 251 wolfskill, william, pioneer, 94 wolves, 161, 162, 165 wonsits tiravu, 254 wonsits valley, 60 woonoopits, _see_ oonupits workman's ranch, 190 wreckage found in lodore, 41 wyoming, from, into utah, 16 y yampa river, 48, 49; powell on it in 1868, 50; goes up, in boat, 50 young, brigham, 170, 185; alfred, 187 ----------------------------------------------------------------| transcriber's notes: | | | | the original contained inconsistencies in spelling and | | hypenation. the following variations were retained: | | | | air-line airline | | arm-chair armchair | | arrow-heads arrowheads | | ball-room ballroom | | bow-knot bowknot | | near-by nearby | | row-lock rowlock | | sand-bank sandbank | | school-house schoolhouse | | ship-shape shipshape | | south-westerly southwesterly | | up-stream upstream | | clarkson clarkston | | frémont fremont | | konéco koneco | | de motte demotte | | | | the following typographical errors in the original were | | corrected: | | | | pg 62: "eaving" to "leaving" | | ("leaving us hardly a rock") | | | | pg 175: "bame" to "came" | | ("came to the edge") | | | | pg 198: added "of" | | ("like the roof of a house") | | | | pg 220: "bat-battened" to "battened" | | ("hatches firmly battened") | | | | pg 229: "dashig" to "dashing" | | ("water was dashing") | | | | pg 250: "prononnced" to "pronounced" | | ("in their language pronounced") | | | | pg 273: "canyon" to "kanab canyon" | | ("kanab canyon, journey up") | | | ----------------------------------------------------------------the enchanted canyon by honoré willsie author of "the forbidden trail," "still jim," "the heart of the desert," "lydia of the pines," etc. a. l. burt company publishers -------new york published by arrangement with william morrow and company, inc. copyright, 1921, by honoré willsie morrow all rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages printed in the united states of america contents book i bright angel chapter i minetta lane ii bright angel book ii the secretary of the interior iii twenty-two years later iv diana allen v a photographer of indians vi a newspaper reporter book iii the enchanted canyon vii the desert viii the colorado ix the cliff dwelling x the expedition begins xi the perfect adventure xii the end of the cruise xiii grant's crossing xiv love in the desert book iv the phantasm destroyed xv the firing line again xvi curly's report xvii revenge is sweet book i bright angel chapter i minetta lane "a boy at fourteen needs a mother or the memory of a mother as he does at no other period of his life."--_enoch's diary_. except for its few blocks that border washington square, macdougal street is about as squalid as any on new york's west side. once it was aristocratic enough for any one, but that was nearly a century ago. alexander hamilton's mansion and minetta brook are less than memories now. the blocks of fine brick houses that covered richmond hill are given over to italian tenements. minetta brook, if it sings at all, sings among the sewers far below the dirty pavements. but minetta lane still lives, a short alley that debouches on macdougal street. edgar allan poe once strolled on summer evenings through minetta lane with his beautiful annabel lee. but god pity the sweethearts to-day who must have love in its reeking precincts! it is a lane of ugliness, now; a lane of squalor; a lane of poverty and hopelessness spelled in terms of filth and decay. about midway in the lane stands a two-story, red-brick house with an exquisite georgian doorway. the wrought-iron handrail that borders the crumbling stone steps is still intact. the steps usually are crowded with dirty, quarreling children and a sore-eyed cat or two. nobody knows and nobody cares who built the house. enough that it is now the home of poverty and of ways that fear the open light of day. just when the decay of the old dwelling began there is none to say. but new yorkers of middle age recall that in their childhood the lane already had been claimed by the slums, with the italian influx just beginning. one winter afternoon a number of years ago a boy stood leaning against the iron newel post of the old house, smoking a cigarette. he was perhaps fourteen or fifteen years of age, but he might have been either older or younger. the city gives even to children a sophisticated look that baffles the casual psychologist. the children playing on the steps behind the boy were stocky, swarthy italians. but he was tall and loosely built, with dark red hair and hard blue eyes. he was thin and raw boned. even his smartly cut clothes could not hide his extreme awkwardness of body, his big loose joints, his flat chest and protruding shoulder blades. his face, too, could not have been an italian product. the cheek bones were high, the cheeks slightly hollowed, the nose and lips were rough hewn. the suave lines of the three little latins behind him were entirely alien to this boy's face. it was warm and thawing so that the dead horse across the street, with the hugely swollen body, threw off an offensive odor. "smells like the good ol' summer time," said the boy, nodding his head toward the horse and addressing the rag picker who was pulling a burlap sack into the basement. "like ta getta da skin. no good now though," replied luigi. "you gotta da rent money, nucky?" "got nuttin'," nucky's voice was bitter. "that brown liz you let in last night beats the devil shakin' dice." "we owe three mont' now, nucky," said the italian. "yes, and how much trade have i pulled into your blank blank second floor for you durin' the time, you blank blank! if i hear any more about the rent, i'll split on you, you--" but before nucky could continue his cursing, the italian broke in with a volubility of oaths that reduced the boy to sullen silence. having eased his mind, luigi proceeded to drag the sack into the basement and slammed the door. "nucky! nucky! he's onlucky!" sang one of the small girls on the crumbling steps. "you dry up, you little alley cat!" roared the boy. "you're just a bastard!" screamed the child, while her playmates took up the cry. nucky lighted a fresh cigarette and moved hurriedly up toward macdougal street. once having turned the corner, he slackened his gait and climbed into an empty chair in the bootblack stand that stood in front of the café roma. the bootblack had not finished the first shoe when a policeman hoisted himself into the other chair. "how are you, nucky?" he grunted. "all right, thanks," replied the boy, an uneasy look softening his cold eyes for the moment. "didn't keep the job i got you, long," the officer said. "what was the rip this time?" "aw, i ain't goin' to hold down ho five-dollar-a-week job. what do you think i am?" "i think you are a fool headed straight for the devil," answered the officer succinctly. "now listen to me, nucky. i've knowed you ever since you started into the school over there. i mind how the teacher told me she was glad to see one brat that looked like an old-fashioned american. and everything the teachers and us guys at the police station could do to keep you headed right, we've done. but you just won't have it. you've growed up with just the same ideas the young toughs have 'round here. all you know about earnin' money is by gambling." nucky stirred, but the officer put out his hand. "hold on now, fer i'm servin' notice on you. you've turned down every job we got you. you want to keep on doing luigi's dirty work for him. very well! go to it! and the next time we get the goods on you, you'll get the limit. so watch yourself!" "everybody's against a guy!" muttered the boy, "everybody's against a fool that had rather be crooked than straight," returned the officer. nucky, his face sullen, descended from the chair, paid the boy and headed up macdougal street toward the square. a tall, dark woman, dressed in black entered the square as nucky crossed from fourth street. nucky overtook her. "are you comin' round to-night, liz?" he asked. she looked at him with liquid brown eyes over her shoulder. "anything better there than there was last night?" she asked. nucky nodded eagerly. "you'll be surprised when you see the bird i got lined up." liz looked cautiously round the park, at the children shouting on the wet pavements, at the sparrows quarreling in the dirty snow drifts. then she started, nervously, along the path. "there comes foley!" she exclaimed. "what's he doin' off his beat?" "he's seen us now," said nucky. "we might as well stand right here." "oh, i ain't afraid of that guy!" liz tossed her head. "i got things on him, all right." "why don't you use 'em?" nucky's voice was skeptical. "he's going down waverly place, the blank, blank!" liz grunted. "he's got too much on me! i ain't hopin' to start trouble. you go chase yourself, nucky. i'll be round about midnight." nucky's chasing himself consisted of the purchase of a newspaper which he read for a few minutes in the sunshine of the park. even as he sat on the park bench, apparently absorbed in the paper, there was an air of sullen unhappiness about the boy. finally, he tossed the paper aside, and sat with folded arms, his chin on his breast. officer foley, standing on the corner of washington place and macdougal street waved a pleasant salute to a tall, gray-haired man whose automobile drew up before the corner apartment house. "how are you, mr. seaton?" he asked. "rather used up, foley!" replied the gentleman, "rather used up! aren't you off your beat?" the officer nodded. "had business up here and started back. then i stopped to watch that red-headed kid over there." he indicated the bench on which nucky sat, all unconscious of the sharp eyes fastened on his back. "i see the red hair, anyway,"--mr. seaton lighted a cigar and puffed it slowly. he and foley had been friends during seaton's twenty years' residence on the square. "i know you ain't been keen on boys since you lost jack," the officer said, slowly, "but--well, i can't get this young nucky off my mind, blast the little crook!" "so he's a crook, is he? how old is the boy?" "oh, 'round fourteen! he's as smart as lightning and as crooked as he is smart. he turned up here when he was a little kid, with a woman who may or may not have been his mother. she lived with a dago down in minetta lane. guess the boy mighta been six years old when she died and luigi took him on. we were all kind of proud of him at first. teachers in school all said he was a wonder. but for two or three years he's been going wrong, stealing and gambling, and now this fellow luigi's started a den on his second floor that we gotta clean out soon. his rag-picking's a stall. and he's using nucky like a kid oughtn't to be used." "why don't you people have him taken away from the italian and a proper guardian appointed?" "well, he's smart and we kinda hoped he'd pull up himself. we got a settlement worker interested in him and we got jobs for him, but nothing works. judge harmon swears he's out of patience with him and'll send him to reform school at his next offense. that'll end nucky. he'll be a gunman by the time he's twenty." "you seem fond of the boy in spite of his criminal tendencies," said seaton. "aw, we all have criminal tendencies, far as that goes," growled foley; "you and i and all of us. don't know as i'm what you'd call fond of the kid. maybe it's his name. yes, i guess it's his name. now what is your wildest guess for that little devil's name, mr. seaton?" the gray-hatred man shook his head. "pat donahue, by his hair." "but not by his face, if you could see it. his name is enoch huntingdon. yes, sir, enoch huntingdon! what do you think of that?" the astonishment expressed in seaton's eyes was all that the officer could desire. "enoch huntingdon! why, man, that gutter rat has real blood in him, if he didn't steal the name." "no kid ever stole such a name as that," said foley. "and for all he's homely enough to stop traffic, his face sorta lives up to his name. want a look at him?" mr. seaton hesitated. the tragic death of his own boy a few years before had left him shy of all boys. but his curiosity was roused and with a sigh he nodded. foley crossed the street, seaton following. as they turned into the square, nucky saw them out of the tail of his eye. he rose, casually, but foley forestalled his next move by calling in a voice that carried above the street noises, "nucky! wait a moment!" the boy stopped and stood waiting until the two men came up. seaton eyed the strongly hewn face while the officer said, "that person you were with a bit ago, nucky--i don't think much of her. better cut her out." "i can't help folks talking to me, can i?" demanded the boy, belligerently. "especially the ladies!" snorted foley. "regular village cut-up, you are! well, just mind what i say," find he strolled on, followed by seaton. "he'll never be hung for his beauty," said seaton. "but, foley, i'll wager you'll find that lad breeds back to plymouth rock!" foley nodded. "thought you'd be interested. every man who's seen him is. but there's nothing doing. nucky is a hard pill." "maybe he needs a woman's hand," suggested seaton, "sometimes these hard characters are clay with the right kind of a woman." "or the wrong kind," grunted the officer. "no, the right kind," insisted mr. seaton. "i'm telling you, foley, a good woman is the profoundest influence a man can have. there's a deep within him he never gives over to a bad woman." foley's keen gray eyes suddenly softened. he looked for a moment above the tree tops to the clouds sailing across the blue. "i guess you're right, mr. seaton," he said, "i guess you're right! well, poor nucky! and i must be getting back. good day, mr. seaton." "good day, foley!" and nucky, staring curiously from the square, saw the apartment house door close on the tall, well-dressed stranger, and saw a taxi-cab driver offer a lift to his ancient enemy, officer foley. "thinks he's smart, don't he!" he muttered aloud, starting slowly back toward the café roma. "i wonder what uplifter he's got after me now?" in the café roma, nucky sat down at a little table and ordered a bowl of ministrone with red wine. he did not devour his food as the normal boy of his age would have done. he ate slowly and without appetite. when he was about half through the meal, a young irishman in his early twenties sat down opposite him. "hello, nucky! what's doin'?" "nothin' worth talking about. what's doin' with you?" "o, i been helping marty, the dude, out. he's going to be alderman from this ward, some day." "that's the idea!" cried nucky. "that's what i'd like to be, a politician. i'd rather be mayor of n' york than king of the world." "i thought you wanted to be king o' the dice throwers," laughed the young irishman. "if i was, i'd buy myself the job of mayor," returned nucky. "coming over to-night?" "i might, 'long about midnight. anything good in sight?" "i hope so," nucky's hard face looked for a moment boyishly worried. "business ain't been good, eh?" "not for me," replied nucky. "luigi seems to be goin' to the bank regular. you bet that guy don't risk keepin' nothin' in the house." "i shouldn't think he would with a wonder like you around," said the young irishman with a certain quality of admiration in his voice. nucky's thin chest swelled and he paid the waiter with an air that exactly duplicated the café manner of marty, the dude. then, with a casual nod at frank, he started back toward luigi's, for his evening's work. it began to snow about ten o'clock that night. the piles of dirty ice and rubbish on macdougal street turned to fairy mountains. the dead horse in minetta lane might have been an indian mound in miniature. an occasional drunken man or woman, exuding loathsome, broken sentences, reeled past officer foley who stood in the shadows opposite luigi's house. he was joined silently and one at a time by half a dozen other men. just before midnight, a woman slipped in at the front door. and on the stroke of twelve, foley gave a whispered order. the group of officers crossed the street and one of them put a shoulder against the door which yielded with a groan. when the door of the large room on the second floor burst open, nucky threw down his playing cards and sprang for the window. but foley forestalled him and slipped handcuffs on him, while nucky cursed and fought with all the venom that did the eight or ten other occupants of the room. tables were kicked over. a small roulette board smashed into the sealed fire-place. brown liz broke a bottle of whiskey on an officer's helmet and the reek of alcohol merged with that of cigarette smoke and snow-wet clothes. luigi freed himself for a moment and turned off the gas light roaring as he did so. "get out da back room! da backa room!" but it was a well-planned raid. no one escaped, and shortly, nucky was climbing into the patrol wagon that had appeared silently before the door. that night he was locked in a cell with a drunken greek. it was his first experience in a cell. hitherto, officer foley had protected him from this ignominy. but officer foley, as he told nucky, was through with him. the greek, except for an occasional oath, slept soddenly. the boy crouched in a corner of the cell, breathing rapidly and staring into black space. at dawn he had not changed his position or closed his eyes. it was two days later that officer foley found a telephone message awaiting him in the police station. "mr. john seaton wants you to call him up, foley." foley picked up the telephone. mr. seaton answered at once. "it was nothing in particular, foley, except that i wanted to tell you that the red-headed boy and his name, particularly that name, in minetta lane, have haunted me. if he gets in trouble again, you'd better let me know." "you're too late, mr. seaton! he's in up to his neck, now." the officer described the raid. "the judge has given him eighteen months at the point and we're taking him there this afternoon." "you don't mean it! the young whelp! foley, what he needs is a licking and a mother to love him, not reform school." "sure, but no matter how able a new york policeman is, mr. seaton, he can't be a mother! and it's too late! the judge is out o' patience." "look here, foley, hasn't he any friends at all?" "there's several that want to be friends, but he won't have 'em. he's sittin' in his cell for all the world like a bull pup the first time he's tied." mr. seaton cleared his throat. "foley, let me come round and see him before you send him over the road, will you?" "sure, that can be fixed up. only don't get sore when the kid snubs you." "nothing a boy could do could hurt me, foley. you remember that jack was not exactly an angel." "no, that's right, but jack was always a good sport, mr. seaton. that's why it's so hard to get hold of these young toughs down here! they ain't sports!" and foley hung up the receiver with a sigh. mr. seaton preferred to introduce himself to nucky. the boy was sitting on the edge of his bunk, his red hair a beautiful bronze in the dim daylight that filtered through the high window. "how are you, enoch?" said mr. seaton. "my name is john seaton. officer foley pointed you out to me the other day as a lad who was making bad use of a good name. that's a wonderful name of yours, do you realize it?" "every uplifter i ever met's told me so," replied nucky, ungraciously, without looking up. mr. seaton smiled. "i'm no uplifter! i'm a new york lawyer! supposing you take a look at me so's to recognize me when we meet again." nucky still kept his gaze on the floor. "i know what you look like. you got gray hair and brown eyes, you're thin and tall and about fifty years old." "good work!" exclaimed enoch's caller. "now, look here, enoch, can't i help you out of this scrape?" "don't want to be helped out. i was doin' a man's job and i'll take my punishment like a man." seaton spoke quickly. "it wasn't a man's job. it was a thief's job. you're taking your sentence like a common thief, not like a man." "aw, dry up and get out o' here!" snarled nucky, jumping to his feet and looking his caller full in the face. seaton did not stir. in spite of its immaturity, its plainness and its sullenness, there was a curious dignity in nucky's face, that made a strong appeal to his dignified caller. "you guys always preachin' to me!" nucky went on, his boyish voice breaking with weariness and excitement. "why don't you look out for your own kids and let me alone?" "my only boy is beyond my care. he was killed three years ago," returned seaton. "i've had nothing to do with boys since. and i don't give a hang about you. it's your name i'm interested in. i hate to see a fine name in the hands of a prospective gunman." "and you can't get me with the sob stuff, either," nucky shrugged his shoulders. seaton scowled, then he laughed. "you're a regular tough, eh, enoch? but you know even toughs occasionally use their brains. do you want to go to reform school?" "yes, i do! go on, get out o' here!" "you infernal little fool!" blazed seaton, losing his temper. "do you think you can handle me the way you have the others? well, it can't be done! huntingdon is a real name in this country and if you think any pig-headed, rotten-minded boy can carry that name to the pen, without me putting up a fight, you're mistaken! you've met something more than your match this time, you are pretty sure to find out sooner or later, my sweet young friend. my hair was red, too, before--up to three years ago." seaton turned and slammed out of the cell. when foley came to the door a half hour later, nucky was again sitting on the edge of the bunk, staring sullenly at the floor. "come out o' this, nucky," said the officer. nucky rose, obediently, and followed foley into the next room. mr. seaton was leaning against the desk, talking with captain blackly. "look here, nucky," said blackly, "this gentleman has been telephoning the judge and the judge has paroled you once more in this gentleman's hands. i think you're a fool, mr. seaton, but i believe in giving a kid as young as huntingdon the benefit of the doubt. we've all failed to find a spark of decent ambition in him. maybe you can. just one word for you, young fellow. if you try to get away from mr. seaton, we'll get you in a way you'll never forget." nucky said nothing. his unboyish eyes traveled from one face to another, then he shrugged his shoulders and dropped his weight to the other hip. john seaton, whose eyes were still smoldering, tapped nucky on the arm. "all right, enoch! i'm going to take you up to my house to meet mrs. seaton. see that you behave like a gentleman," and he led the way into the street. nucky followed without any outward show of emotion. his new guardian did not speak until they reached the door of the apartment house, then he turned and looked the boy in the eye. "i'm obstinate, enoch, and quick tempered. no one but mrs. seaton thinks of me as a particularly likable chap. you can do as you please about liking me, but i want you to like my wife. and if i have any reason to think you've been anything but courteous to her, i'll break every bone in your body. you say you don't want sob stuff. you'll get none of it from me." not a muscle of nucky's face quivered. mr. seaton did not wait for a reply, but led the way into the elevator. it shot up to the top floor and nucky followed into the long, dark hall of the apartment. "put your hat and coat here," said his guardian, indicating the hat rack on which he was hanging his own overcoat. "now follow me." he led the boy into the living room. a small woman sat by the window that overlooked the square. her brown hair was just touched with gray. her small round face was a little faded, with faint lines around eyes and lips. it was not an intellectual face, but it was sweet and patient, from the delicate curve of the lips to the slight downward droop of the eyebrows above the clear blue eyes. all the sweetness and patience was there with which the wives of high tempered, obstinate men are not infrequently blessed. "mary, this is young enoch huntingdon," said seaton. mrs. seaton offered her hand, which nucky took awkwardly and unsmilingly. "how do you do, enoch! mr. seaton told me about your red hair and your fine old name. are you going to stay with us a little while?" "i don't know, ma'am," replied enoch. "sit down, enoch! sit down!" seaton waved enoch impatiently toward a seat while he took the arm chair beside his wife. "mary, i've got to take that trip to san francisco, after all. houghton and company insist on my looking into that jameson law-suit for them." mary seaton looked up, a little aghast. "but mercy, john! i can't get away now, with sister alice coming!" "i know that. so i'm going to take enoch with me." "oh!" mary looked from her husband to enoch, sitting awkwardly on the edge of the chippendale chair. his usually pale face was a little flushed and his thin lips were set firmly together. from her scrutiny of enoch's face, she turned to his hands. they were large and bony and the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand were yellow. "you don't look as if you'd been eating the right kind of things, enoch," she said, kindly. "and it's cigarettes that give your lips that bad color. you must let me help you about that. when do you start, john dear?" "to-morrow night, and i'm afraid i'll be gone the best part of three weeks. by that time, i ought to know something about enoch, eh?" for the first time enoch grinned, a little sheepishly, to be sure, and a little cynically. nevertheless it was the first sign of tolerance he had shown and mr. seaton was cheered by it. "that will give time to get enoch outfitted," said mary. "we'll go up to best's to-morrow morning." "this suit is new," said nucky. "it looks new," agreed mrs. seaton, "but a pronounced check like that isn't nice for traveling. and you'll need other things." "i got plenty of clothes at home, and i paid for 'em myself," nucky's voice was resentful. "well, drop a line to that italian you've been living with, and tell him--" began mr. seaton. "aw, he'll be doin' time in sing sing by the time i get back," interrupted nucky, "and he can't read anyhow. i always 'tended to everything but going to the bank for him." "did you really?" there was a pleasant note of admiration in mrs. seaton's voice. "you must try to look out for mr. seaton then on this trip. he is so absent-minded! come and i'll show you your room, enoch. you must get ready for dinner." she rose, and led the boy down the hall to a small room. it was furnished in oak and chintz. enoch thought it must have been the dead boy's room for there was a gun over the bureau and photographs of a football team and a college crew on the walls. "supper will be ready in ten or fifteen minutes," said mrs. seaton, as she left him. a moment later, he heard her speaking earnestly in the living-room. he brushed his hair, then amused himself by examining the contents of the room. the supper bell rang just as he opened the closet door. he closed it, hastily and silently, and a moment later, mr. seaton spoke from the hall: "come, enoch!" and the boy followed into the dining-room. his table manners were bad, of course, but mrs. seaton found these less difficult to endure than the boy's unresponsive, watchful ways. at last, as the pudding was being served, she exclaimed: "what in the world are you watching for, enoch? do you expect us to rob you, or what?" "i dunno, ma'am," answered nucky, "do you enjoy your supper?" asked mrs. seaton. "it's all right, i guess. i'm used to wine with my supper." "wine, you young jack-donkey!" cried john seaton. "and don't you appreciate the difference between a home meal like this and one you pick up in minetta lane?" "i dunno!" nucky's face darkened sullenly and he pushed his pudding away. there was silence around the table for a few moments. mrs. seaton, quietly watching the boy, thought of what her husband had told her of officer foley's account. the boy did act not unlike a bull pup put for the first time on the lead chain. she was relieved and so was mr. seaton when nucky, immediately after the meal was finished, said that he was sleepy, and went to bed. "i don't envy you your trip, john," said mary seaton, as she settled to her embroidery again. "what on earth possesses you to do it? the boy isn't even interesting in his badness." "he's got the face either of a great leader or a great criminal," said seaton, shaking out his paper. "he makes me so mad i could tan his hide every ten minutes, but i'm going to see the thing through. it's the first time in three years i've felt interested in anything." quick tears sprang to his wife's eyes. "i'm so glad to have you feel that way, john, that i'll swallow even this impossible boy. what makes him so ugly? did he want to go to reform school?" "god knows what any boy of his age wants!" replied john briefly. "but i'm going to try in the next three weeks to find out what's frozen him up so." "well, i'll dress him so that he won't disgrace you." mrs. seaton smiled and sighed and went on with her careful stitching. nobody tried to talk to nucky at the breakfast table. after the meal was over and mr. seaton had left for the office, the boy sat looking out of the window until mrs. seaton announced herself ready for the shopping expedition. then he followed her silently to the waiting automobile. the little woman took great care in buying the boy's outfit. the task must have been painful to her. only three years before she had been buying clothes for jack from this same clerk. but mary seaton was a good soldier and she did a good job. when they reached home in mid-afternoon nucky was well equipped for his journey. to mary's surprise and pleasure he took care of her, helping her in and out of the automobile, and waiting on her vigilantly. he was awkward, to be sure, and silent, but mary was secretly sure that he was less resentful toward her than he had been the day before. and she began to understand her husband's interest in the strong, immature, sullen face. the train left at six o'clock. mrs. seaton went with them to the very train gates. "you'll really try to look out for mr. seaton, won't you, enoch?" she said, taking the boy's limp hand, after she had kissed her husband good-by. "yes, ma'am," replied nucky. "good-by, enoch! i truly hope you'll enjoy the trip. run now, or you'll miss the train. see, mr. seaton's far down the platform!" nucky turned and ran. mr. seaton waited for him at the door of the pullman. his jaw was set and he looked at nucky with curiosity not untinged with resentment. nucky had not melted after a whole day with mary! perhaps there were no deeps within the boy. but as the train moved through the tunnel something lonely back of the boy's hard stare touched him and he smiled. "well, enoch, old man, are you glad to go?" "i dunno," replied nucky. chapter ii bright angel "i was sure, when i was eighteen, that if i could but give to the world a picture of boyhood, flagellated by the world's stupidity and brutality, the world would heed. at thirty, i gave up the hope."--_enoch's diary_. no one could have been a less troublesome traveling companion than nucky. he ate what was set before him, without comment. he sat for endless hours on the observation platform, smoking cigarettes, his keen eyes on the flying landscape. his blue norfolk suit and his carefully chosen cap and linen restored a little of the adolescent look of which the flashy clothing of his own choosing had robbed him. no one glanced askance at mr. seaton's protegé or asked the lawyer idle questions regarding him. and yet nucky was very seldom out of john seaton's thoughts: over and over he tried to get the boy into conversation only to be checked by a reply that was half sullen, half impertinent. finally, the lawyer fell back on surmises. was nucky laying some deep scheme for mischief when they reached san francisco? john had believed fully that he and nucky would be friends before chicago was passed. but he had been mistaken. what in the world was he to do with the young gambler in san francisco, that paradise of gamblers? he could employ a detective to dog nucky, but that was to acknowledge defeat. if there were only some place along the line where he could leave the boy, giving him a taste of out of door life, such as only the west knows! for a long time seaton turned this idea over in his mind. the train was pulling out of albuquerque when he had a sudden inspiration. he knew nucky too well by now to ask him for information or for an expression of opinion. but that night, at dinner, he said, casually, "we're going to leave the main line, at williams, enoch, and go up to the grand canyon. there's a guide at bright angel that i camped with two years ago. it's such bad weather that i don't suppose there'll be many people up there and i telegraphed him this afternoon to give me a week or so. i'm going to turn you over to him and i'll go on to the coast. i'll pick you up on my way back." "all right," said nucky, casually. mr. seaton ground his teeth with impatience and thought of what jack's enthusiasm would have been over such a program. but he said nothing and strolled out to the observation car. it was raining and sleeting at williams. they had to wait for hours in the little station for the connecting train to the canyon. it came in, finally, and seaton and nucky climbed aboard, the only visitors for the usually popular side trip. it was a wild and lonely run to the canyon's rim. nucky, sitting with his face pressed against the window, saw only vague forms of cactus and evergreens through the sleet which, as the grade rose steadily, changed to snow. it was mid-afternoon when they reached the rim. a porter led them at once into the hotel and after they were established, seaton went into nucky's room. the boy was standing by the window, staring at the storm. "we can't see the canyon from our windows," said john. "i took care of that! it isn't a thing you want staring at you day and night! nucky, i want you to get your first look at the canyon, alone. one always should. you'd better put on your coat and go out now before the storm gets any worse. don't wander away. stick to the view in front of the hotel. i'll be out in a half hour." nucky pulled on his overcoat, picked up his cap and went out. a porter was sweeping the walk before the main entrance. "say, mister, i want to see the canyon," said nucky. "nothin' to hinder. yonder she lies, waiting for you, son!" jerking his thumb over his shoulder. nucky looked in the direction indicated. then he took a deep, shocked breath. the snow flakes were falling into nothingness! a bitter wind was blowing but nucky felt the sweat start to his forehead. through the sifting snow flakes, disappearing before his gaze, he saw a void, silver gray, dim in outline, but none the less a void. the earth gaped to its center, naked, awful, before his horrified eyes. yet, the same urgent need to know the uttermost that forces one to the edge of the skyscraper forced nucky to the rail. he clutched it. a great gust of wind came up from the canyon, clearing the view of snow for the moment, and nucky saw down, down for a mile to the black ribbon of the colorado below. "i can't stand it!" he muttered. "i can't stand it!" and turning, he bolted for the hotel. he stopped before the log fire in the lobby. a little group of men and women were sitting before the blaze, reading or chatting. one of the women looked up at the boy and smiled. it seemed impossible to nucky that human beings could be sitting so calmly, doing quite ordinary things, with that horror lying just a few feet away. for perhaps five minutes he struggled with his sense of panic, then he went slowly out and forced himself to the railing again. 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." seaton hailed a tall, rather heavily built man in corduroys and high laced boots, who had lounged up to the cigar stand. as he approached, nucky saw that he was middle aged, with a heavily tanned face out of which the blue of his eyes shone conspicuously. "here he is, frank!" exclaimed seaton. "nucky, this is the man who is going to look out for you while i'm gone." "well, young new york! what're you going to do with the canyon?" frank slapped the boy on the shoulder. nucky grinned uncertainly. "i dunno!" he said. "had a look at it?" demanded the guide. "yes!" nucky spoke with sudden firmness. "and i don't like it. i want to go back to new york." "come on out with frank and me and get used to it," suggested john seaton. "i'm not going near it again," returned nucky. allen looked at the boy with deliberate interest. he noted the pasty skin, the hollow chest, the strong, unformed features, the thin lips that were trembling, despite the cigarette stained fingers that pressed against them. "did you ever talk to indians?" asked allen, suddenly. "no," said nucky. "well, let's forget the canyon and go over to the hogan, yonder. is that the best you two can do on shoes? i'm always sorry for you lady-like new yorkers. come over here a minute. i guess we can rent some boots to fit you." "i'm going to write letters, frank," said seaton. "you and enoch'll find me over at one of the desks. fit the boy out as you think best." not long after, nucky trailed the guide through the lobby. he was wearing high laced boots, with a very self-conscious air. once outside, in the glory of the westering sun, frank took a deep breath. "great air, boy! get all you can of it into those flabby bellows of yours. before we go to the hogan, come over to the corral. my tom horse has got a saddle sore. a fool tourist rode him all day with a fold in the blanket as big as your fist." "is he a bronco?" asked nucky, with sudden animation. "he was a bronco. you easterners have the wrong idea. a bronco is a plains pony before he's broken. after he's busted he's a horse. see?" "aw, you're dead wrong, frank!" drawled a voice. nucky looked up in astonishment to see a tall man, whose skin was a rich bronze, offering a cigarette to the guide. "dry up, mike!" returned frank with a grin. "what does a navaho know about horses! enoch, this is a sure enough indian. mike, let me introduce mr. enoch huntingdon of new york city." the navaho nodded and smiled. "you look as if a little canyon climbing would do you good," said he. "i was looking at tom horse, frank. he's in bad shape. how much did that tender-foot weigh that rode him?" "i don't know. i wasn't here the day they hired him out. i know the cuss would have weighed a good deal less if i'd been here when that saddle was taken off! going down to-morrow with miss planer?" "not unless some one breaks trail for us. are you going to try it?" "not unless my young friend here gets his nerve up. want to try it, enoch?" "try what?" asked nucky. "the trip down bright angel." "not on your life!" cried nucky. both men laughed, the indian moving off through the snow in the direction of a dim building among the cedars, while frank led on to the corral fence. fifteen or twenty horses and mules were moving about the enclosure. allen crossed swiftly among them, with nucky following, apprehensively, close behind him. frank's horse was in the stable, but while he seemed to examine the sore spot on the animal's back, frank's real attention was riveted on nucky. the boy was obviously ill at ease and only half interested in the horse. "these are the lads that take us down the trail," said allen finally, slapping a velvety black mule on the flank. "we can't trust the horses. a mule knows more in a minute than a horse knows all his life." "will you go with me to take another look at it?" asked nucky. an expression of understanding crossed frank's weather-beaten face. "sure i will, boy! let's walk up the rim a little and see if you can steady your nerves." "i'd rather stay by the rail," replied nucky, doggedly. "all right, old man! don't take this thing too hard, you know! after all, it's only a crack in the earth." nucky grinned feebly, and trudged steadily up to the rail. the sun was setting and the canyon was like the infinite glory of god. untiring as was his love for the view allen preferred, this time, to watch the strange young face beside him. nucky's pallor was still intense in spite of the stinging wind. his deep set eyes were strained like a child's, listening to a not-to-be-understood explanation of something that frightens him. for a full five minutes he gazed without speaking. then the sun sank and the canyon immediately was filled with gloom. nucky's lips quivered. "i can't stand it!" he muttered again, "i can't stand it!" and once more he bolted. this time he went directly to his room. neither allen nor seaton attempted to follow him. "he is some queer kid!" said frank, taking the cigar seaton offered him. "he may be a born crook or he may not, but believe me, there's something in him worth finding out about." "just what i say!" agreed seaton. "but don't be sure you're the one that can unlock him. mrs. seaton couldn't and if she failed, any woman on earth would. and i still believe that a chap that's got any good in him will open up to a good woman." "_his_ woman, man! _his_! not to somebody else's woman." allen's tone was impatient. "_his_ woman! don't talk like a chump, frank! enoch's only fourteen." "makes no difference. your wife is an angel as i learned two years ago, but she may not have enoch's number, just the same. if i were you, i'd mooch up to the kid's room if he doesn't come down promptly to supper. his nerves are in rotten shape and he oughtn't to be alone too long." seaton nodded, and shortly after seven he knocked softly on nucky's door. there was an inarticulate, "come in!" nucky was standing by the window in the dark room. "supper's ready, old man. you'd better have it now and get to bed early. jumping from sea level to a mile in the air makes a chap sleepy. are you washed up?" "i'm all ready," mumbled nucky. he went to bed shortly after eight. something forlorn and childish about the boy's look as he said good night moved john seaton to say, "tell a bell boy to open the door between our rooms, will you, enoch?" and he imagined that a relieved look flickered in nucky's eyes. seaton himself went to bed and to sleep early. he was wakened about midnight by a soft sound from nucky's room and he lay for a few moments listening. then he rose and turned on the light in his room, and in nucky's. the boy hastily jerked the covers over his head. seaton pulled the extra blanket at the bed foot over his own shoulders, then he sat down on the edge of the bed and put his hand on nucky's heaving back. "don't you think, if it's bad enough to make you cry, that it's time you told a friend about it, enoch?" he said, his voice a little husky. for a moment sobs strangled the boy's utterance entirely. finally, he pulled the covers down but still keeping his head turned away, he said, "i want to go home!" "home, enoch? where's your home?" "n' york's my home. this joint scares me." "whom do you want to see in new york, enoch?" "anybody! nobody! even the police station'd look better'n that thing. i can feel it out there now, waitin' and listenin'!" seaton stared blankly at the back of nucky's head. his experiment was not turning out at all as he had planned. jack often had puzzled him but there had always been something to grasp with jack. his own boy had been such a good sport! a good sport! suddenly seaton cleared his throat. "enoch, among the men you know, what is the opinion of a squealer?" "we hate him," replied the boy, shortly. "and the other night when you were arrested, you were rather proud of standing up and taking your punishment without breaking down. if one of the men arrested at that time had broken down, you'd all have despised him, i suppose?" "sure thing," agreed nucky, turning his head ever so little toward the man. "enoch, why are you breaking down now?" "aw, what difference does it make?" demanded the boy. "you despise me anyhow!" "oh!" ejaculated seaton as a sudden light came to his groping mind. "oh, i see! what a chump you are, old man! of course, i despise the kind of life you've led, but i blame minetta lane for that, not you. and i believe there is so much solid fine stuff in you that i'm giving you this trip to show you that there are people and things outside of minetta lane that are more worth a promising boy's time than gambling. but, you won't play the game. you are so vain and ignorant, you refuse to see over your nose." "i told you, you despised me," said nucky, sullenly. the man smiled to himself. suddenly he took the boy's hand in both his own. "i suppose if jack had been reared in minetta lane, he'd have been just as wrong in his ideas as you are. look here, enoch, i'll make a bargain with you. i want you to try the canyon for a week or so, until i get back from the coast. if, at the end of that time, you still want minetta lane, i'll land you back there with fifty dollars in your pocket, and you can go your own gait." nucky for the first time turned and looked seaton in the face. "honest?" he gasped. seaton nodded. "do i have to go down the canyon?" asked nucky. "you don't have to do anything except play straight, till i get back." "i--i guess i could stand it,"--the boy's eyes were a little pitiful in their fear. "that isn't enough. i want your promise, enoch!" nucky stared into seaton's steady eyes. "all right, i'll promise. and--and, mr. seaton, would you sit with me till i get to sleep?" seaton nodded. nucky had made no attempt to free his hand from the kindly grasp that imprisoned it. he lay staring at the ceiling for a long moment, then his eyelids fluttered, dropped, and he slept. he did not stir when seaton rose and went back to his own bed. it did not snow during the night and the train that had brought nucky and mr. seaton up announced itself as ready for the return trip to williams, immediately after breakfast. nucky slept late and only opened his eyes when frank allen clumped into the room about nine o'clock. "hello, new york! haven't died, have you? come on, we're going to break trail down the canyon, you and i." "not on your life!" nucky roused at once and sat up in bed, his face very pale under its thatch of dark red hair. "john seaton turned you over to me. said to tell you he thought you needed the sleep more than you did to say good-by to him." "he told me last night," exclaimed nucky; "that i didn't have to go down the canyon." "and you don't, you poor sissy! you aren't afraid to get up and dress, are you?" allen's grin took away part of the sting of his speech. "meet me in the lobby in twenty minutes, enoch," and he turned on his heel. nucky was down in less than the time allotted. as he leaned against the office desk, waiting for the guide, the room clerk said, "so you're the kid that's afraid to go down the trail. usually it's the old ladies that kick up about that. most boys your age are crazy for the trip." nucky muttered something and moved away. in front of the fire the woman who had smiled at him the day before, smiled again. "afraid too, aren't you! they can't get me onto that trail, either." nucky smiled feebly then looked about a little wildly for frank allen. when he espied the guide at the cigar-stand, he crossed to him hurriedly. "say now, mr. allen, listen!" "i'm all ears, son!" "now don't tell everybody i'm afraid of the trail!" "oh, you're the kid!" exclaimed a bell boy. "say, there was an old lady here once that used to go out every morning and pray to the lord to close the earth's gap, it made her so nervous! why don't you try that, kid? maybe the lord would take a suggestion from a new yorker." nucky rushed to the dining room. he was too angry and resentful to eat much. he drank two cups of coffee, however, and swallowed some toast. "ain't you going to eat your eggs?" demanded the waitress. "what's the matter with you? folks always stuff themselves, here. say, don't let the trail scare you. i was that way at first, but finally i got my nerve up and there's nothing to it. say, let me give you some advice. there's only a few folks here now, so the guides and the hotel people have got plenty of time on their hands. they're awful jokers and they'll tease the life out of you, till you take the trip. you just get on a mule, this morning, and start. every day you wait, you'll hate it more." nucky's vanity had been deeply wounded. greater than his fear, which was very great indeed, was nucky's vanity. he gulped the second cup of coffee, then with the air of bravado which belonged to marty the dude, he sauntered up to the cigar stand where the guide still lounged. "all right, frank," said nucky. "i'm ready for bright angel when you are." the guide looked at the boy carefully. two bright red spots were burning in nucky's cheeks. he was biting his lips, nervously. but his blue eyes were hard and steady. "i'll be ready in half an hour, enoch. meet me at the corral. we'll camp down below for a night or two if you hold out and i'll have to have the grub put up. you go over to the store room yonder and get a flannel shirt and a pair of denim pants to pull on over those you're wearing. mr. seaton left his camera for you. i put it on your bureau. bring that along. skip now!" nucky's cheeks were still burning when he met allen at the corral. three mules, one a well loaded pack mule, the others saddled, were waiting. frank leaned against the bars. "enoch," said the man, "there's no danger at all, if you let your mule alone. don't try to guide him. he knows the trail perfectly. all you have to do is to sit in the saddle and look up, not down! remember, up, not down! i shall lead. you follow, on spoons. old foolish face brings up the rear with the pack. did you ever ride, before?" "i never touched a horse in my life," replied nucky, trying to curb the chattering of his teeth. "you had better mount and ride round the road here, for a bit. take the reins, so. stand facing the saddle, so. now put this foot in the stirrup, seize the pommel, and swing the other leg over as you spring. that's the idea!" nucky was awkward, but he landed in the saddle and found the other stirrup, the mule standing fast as a mountain while he did so. spoons moved off at allen's bidding, and nucky grasped at the pommel. but only for a moment. "don't he shake any worse than this?" he cried. "no, but it's not so easy to stay in the saddle when the grade's steep. pull on your right rein, enoch, and bring old spoons in behind me. well done! we're off! see the bunch on the hotel steps! guess you fooled 'em this time, new york!" half a dozen people, including the clerk were standing on the steps, watching the little cavalcade. as the mules filed by, somebody began to clap. "what's the excitement, frank?" demanded nucky. frank turned in his saddle to smile at the boy. "out in this country we admire physical nerve because we need a lot of it. and you're showing a good quality, old chap. just sit easy now and when you want me to stop, yell." nucky was sitting very straight with his thin chest up, and he managed to maintain this posture as the trail turned down over the rim. then he grasped the pommel in both hands. it was a wonderful trail, carved with infinite patience and ingenuity out of the canyon wall. to allen it was as safe and easy as a flight of stairs. nucky, trembling in the saddle would have felt quite as comfortable standing on the topmost window ledge of the flat iron building, in new york. and, to nucky, there was no trail! only a narrow, corkscrew shelf, deep banked with snow into which the mules set their small feet gingerly. for many minutes, the boy saw only this trackless ledge, and the sickening blue depths below. "i can never stand it!" he muttered. "i can never stand it! if this mule makes just one mis-step, i'm dead." he felt a little nauseated. "i can never stand it! 'twould have been better if i'd just let 'em tease me. hey, frank!" the guide looked back. the red spots were gone from nucky's cheeks now. "we got to go back! i can't get away with it!" cried the boy. "it's impossible to turn here, enoch! look up, man! look up! and just trust old spoons! are you cold? it was only eight above zero, when we left the top. but the snow'll disappear as we go down and when we reach the river it'll be summer. see that lone pine up on the rim to your right? they say an indian girl jumped from the top of that because she bore a cross-eyed baby. look up, enoch, as we round this curve and see that streak of red in the wall. an indian giant bled to death on the rim and his blood seeped through the solid rock to this point. watch how the sky gets a deeper blue, the farther down we go. and now, enoch look out, not down. you may come down bright angel a thousand times and never see the colors you see to-day. the snowfall has turned the world into a rainbow, by heck!" slowly, very slowly, nucky turned his head and clinging to the pommel, he stared across the canyon. white of snow; sapphire of sky; black of sharp cut shadow. mountains rising from the canyon floor thrust scarlet and yellow heads across his line of vision. close to his left, as the trail curved, a wall of purest rose color lifted from a bank of snow that was as blue as allen's eyes. beyond and beyond and ever beyond, the vast orderliness of the multi-colored canyon strata melted into delicate white clouds that now revealed, now concealed the mountain tops. nucky gazed and gazed, shuddering, yet enthralled. another sharp twist in the trail and his knee scraped against the wall. he cried out sharply. frank turned to look but he did not stop the mules. "spoons thinks it's better to amputate your leg, once in a while than to risk getting too close to the outer edge of the trail in all this snow. he's an old warrior, is spoons! he could carry a grand piano down this trail and never scrape the varnish. look up, enoch! we'll soon reach a broad bench where i'll let you rest." "don't you think i'll ever get off this brute till we reach bottom!" shuddered nucky. the guide laughed and silence fell again. the mules moved as silently through the snow as the mists across the mountain tops. in careful gradation the trail zigzagged downward. the snow lessened in depth with each foot of drop. the bitter cold began to give way to the increasing warmth of the sun. sensation crept back into nucky's feet and hands. by a supreme effort for many moments he managed to fix his eyes firmly on frank's broad back, and though he could not give up his hold on the pommel, he sat a little straighter. then, of a sudden, spoons stopped in his tracks, and as suddenly a little avalanche of snow shot down the canyon wall, catching the mule's forelegs. spoons promptly threw himself inward, against the wall. nucky gave a startled look at the sickening depths below and when frank turned in his saddle, nucky had fainted, half clinging to spoons' neck, half supported against the wet, rocky wall. with infinite care, and astonishing speed, frank slid from his mule and made his way back to the motionless spoons. "always said you were more than human, old chap," said allen, kicking the snow away from the mule's fore legs. "easy now! don't lose your passenger!" the mule regained his balance and stepped carefully forward out of the drift, while the guide, balanced perilously on the outer edge of the trail, kept a supporting hand on nucky's shoulders. but there was no need of the flask frank pulled from his pocket. nucky opened his eyes almost immediately. whatever emotion frank may have felt, he kept to himself. "i told you spoons was better than a life insurance policy, enoch." enoch slowly pushed himself erect. he looked from frank's quizzical eyes to spoons' twitching ears, then at his own shaking hands. "i fainted, didn't i?" he asked. allen nodded, and something in the twist of the man's lips maddened nucky. he burst forth wildly: "you think i'm a blank blank sissy! well, maybe i am. but if new york couldn't scare me, this blank blank hole out here in this blank blank jumping off place can't. i'm going on down this trail and if i fall and get killed, it's up to you and mr. seaton." "good work, new york!" responded allen briefly. he edged his way carefully back to his mule and the cavalcade moved onward. perhaps five minutes afterward, as they left the snow line, the guide looked back. nucky was huddled in the saddle, his eyes closed tight, but his thin lips were drawn in a line that caused allen to change his purpose. he did not speak as he had planned, but led the way on for a long half hour, in silence, his eyes thoughtful. but nucky did not keep his eyes closed long. the pull of horror, of mystery, of grandeur was too great. and after the avalanche, his confidence in spoons was established. he was little more than a child and under his bravado and his watchfulness there was a child's recklessness. if he were to fall, at least he must see whither he was to fall. he forced himself to look from time to time into the depths below. the trail dropped steadily, while higher and higher soared canyon wall and mountain peak. it was still early when the trail met the plateau on which lie the indian gardens. frank's mule suddenly quickened his stride as did spoons. but nucky, although he was weary and saddle sore had no intention of crying a halt, now that the trail was level. his pulse began to subside and once more he sat erect in the saddle. when the mules rushed forward to bury their noses in a cress-grown spring, he grinned at frank. "well, here i am, after all!" frank grinned in return. "if i could put through a few more stunts like this, you'd look almost like a boy, instead of a potato sprout. get down and limber up." nucky half scrambled, half fell off his mule. "must be spring down here," he cried, staring about at grass and cottonwood. "just about. and it'll be summer when we reach the river." "that was some trail, wasn't it, frank! do many kids take it?" "lots of 'em, but only with guides, and you were the worst case of scared boy i've ever seen." nucky flushed. "well, you might give me credit for hanging to it, even if i was scared." "i'll give you a lot of credit for that, old man. but if the average new york boy has nerves like yours, i'm glad many of them don't come to the canyon, that's all. your nerves would disgrace a girl." "the guys i gamble with never complained of my lack of nerves," cried nucky, angrily. "gambling! thunder! what nerve does it take to stack the cards against a dub? but this country out here, let me tell you, it takes a man to stand up to it." "and i've been through police raids too, and never squealed and i know two gunmen and they say i'm as hard as steel." "they should have seen you with your arms around spoons' neck, back up the trail there," said allen dryly. "come! mount again, enoch! i want to have lunch at the river." enoch was sullen as they started on but his sullenness did not last long. as his fear receded, his curiosity increased. he gazed about him with absorbed interest, and he began to bombard the guide with questions in genuine boy fashion. "how far is it to the river? do we have any steeper trails than the ones we've been on, already? did any one ever swim across the river? was any one ever killed when he minded what the guide told him? what guys camp in the indian gardens? how much does it cost? did any one ever climb up the side of the canyon, say like one yonder where it looked like different colored stair steps going up? did any one ever find gold in the canyon? how did they know it when they found it? did frank ever do any mining? what was placer mining?" and on and on, only the intermittently returning fear of the trail silencing him until frank ordered him to dismount in a narrow chasm within sight of the roaring, muddy colorado. "one of the ways seaton employed to persuade me to take care of you for a week was by telling me you were a very silent kid," added the guide. nucky grinned sheepishly, and turned to stare wonderingly at the black walls that here closed in upon them breathlessly. their lunch had been prepared at the hotel. frank fed the mules, then handed nucky his box lunch and proceeded to open his own. "does it make you sore to have me ask you questions?" asked the boy. "no! i guess it's more natural for a kid than the sulks you've been keeping up with seaton." "i'm not such a kid. i'm going on fifteen and i've earned my own way since i was twelve. and i earn it with men, too." nucky jerked his head belligerently. frank ate a hard boiled egg before speaking. then, with one eyebrow raised, he grunted, "what'd you work at?" "cards and dice!" this very proudly. "you poor nut!" frank's voice was a mixture of contempt and compassion. nucky immediately turned sulky and the meal was finished in silence. when the last doughnut had been devoured, frank stretched himself in the warm sand left among the rocks by the river at flood. "must be eighty degrees down here," he yawned. "we'll rest for a half hour, then we'll make the night camp. it's after two now and it will be dark in this narrow rift by four." nucky looked about him apprehensively. the canyon here was little more than a gorge whose walls rose sheer and menacing toward the narrow patch of blue sky above. he could not make up his mind to lie down and relax as frank had done. all was too new and strange. "are there snakes round here?" he demanded. frank's grunt might have been either yes or no. nucky glanced impatiently at the guide's closed eyes, then he began to clamber aimlessly and languidly over the rocks to the river edge. at a distance of perhaps a hundred feet from frank he stopped, looked at the bleak, blank wall of the river opposite, bit his nails and shuddering turned back. he crouched on a rock, near the guide, smoking one cigarette after another until frank jumped to his feet. "three o'clock, new york! time to get ready for the night." "i don't want to stay in this hole all night!" protested nucky, "i couldn't sleep." "you'll like it. you've no idea how comfortable i'm going to make you. now, your job is to gather drift wood and pile it on that flat topped rock yonder. keep piling till i tell you to quit. the nights are cold and i'll keep a little blaze going late, for you." "what's the idea?" demanded nucky. "why stay down here, like lost dogs, when there's a first class hotel back up there?" frank sighed. "well, the idea is this! a real he man likes camping in the wilds better'n he likes anything on earth. seaton thought maybe somewhere in that pindling carcass of yours there was the making of a he man and that you'd like the experience. i promised him i'd try you out and i'm trying you, hang you for an ungrateful, cowardly cub." nucky turned on his heel and began to pick up drift wood. he was in poor physical trim but the pile, though it grew slowly, grew steadily. by the time frank announced the camp ready, nucky's fuel pile was of really imposing dimensions. and dusk was thickening in the gorge. before a great flat faced rock that looked toward the river, was a stretch of clean dry sand. against this rock, the guide had placed a rubber air-mattress and a plentiful supply of blankets. a small folding table stood before a rough stone fire place. a canvas shelter stretched vertically on two strips of driftwood, shut off the night wind that was beginning to sweep through the canyon. the mules were tethered close to the camp. "where'd that mattress come from?" exclaimed nucky. "partly off old funny face's back and part out of a bicycle pump. didn't want to risk your sickly bones on the ground until you harden up a bit. pretty good pile of timber for an amateur, new york." frank looked up from the fire he was kindling into nucky's thin, tired face. "now, son, you sit down on the end of your bed and take it easy. i'm an old hand at this game and before we've had our week together i'm banking on you being glad to help me. but to-day you've had enough." "thanks," mumbled nucky, as he eagerly followed the guide's suggestions. the early supper tasted delicious to the boy although every muscle in his body ached. bacon and flap jacks, coffee and canned peaches he devoured with more appetite than he ever had brought to ministrone and red wine. a queer and inexplicable sense of comfort and a desire to talk came over him after the meal was finished, the camp in order, and the fire replenished. "this ain't so bad," he said. "i wish some of the guys that used to come to luigi's could see me now." "and who was luigi?" asked frank, lighting his pipe and stretching himself on a blanket before the fire. "he was the guy i lived with after my mother died. he ran a gambling joint, and we was fixing the place up for women, too, when we all got pinched." this very boastfully. "who were your folks, enoch?" "never heard of none of 'em. luigi's a dago. he wouldn't have been so bad if he didn't pinch the pennies so. were you ever in new york, frank?" this in a patronizing voice. "born there," replied the guide. nucky gasped with surprise. "how'd you ever happen to come out here?" "i can't live anywhere else because of chronic asthma. i don't know now that i'd want to live anywhere else. i used to kick against the pricks, but you get more sense as you grow older--after it's too late." "i should think you'd rather be dead," said nucky sincerely. "if i thought i couldn't get back to macdougal street i'd want to die." "macdougal street and the dice, i suppose, eh? enoch, you're on the wrong track and i know, because that's the track i tried myself. and i got stung." "but--" began nucky. "no but about it. it's the wrong track and you can't get to decency or happiness or contentment on it. there's two things a man can never make anything real out of; cards or women." "i didn't want to make anything out of women. i want to get even with 'em, blank blank 'em all," cried nucky with sudden fury. and he burst into an obscene tirade against the sex that utterly astonished the guide. he lay with his chin supported on his elbow, staring at the boy, at his thin, strongly marked features, and at the convulsive working of his throat as he talked. "here! dry up!" frank cried at last. "i'll bet these canyon walls never looked down on such a rotten little cur as you are in all their history. you gambling, indecent little gutter snipe, isn't there a clean spot in you?" "you were a gambler yourself!" shrieked nucky. "yes, sir, i know cards and i know women, and that's why i know just what a mess of carrion your lovely young soul is. any kid that can see the glory o' god that you've seen to-day and then sit down and talk like an overflowing sewer isn't fit to live. i didn't know that before i came out to this country, but i know it now. you get to bed. i don't want to hear another word out of you to-night. pull your boots off. that's all." half resentful, half frightened, nucky obeyed. for a while, with nerves and over-tired muscles twitching, he lay watching the fire. then he fell asleep. it was about midnight when he awoke. he had kicked the blankets off and was cold. the fire was out but the full moon sailed high over the gorge. frank, rolled in his blankets, his feet to the dead fire, slept noisily. nucky sat up and pulled his blankets over him, but he did not lie down again. he sat staring at the wonder of the canyon. for a long half hour he was motionless save for the occasional moistening of his lips and turning of his head as he followed the unbelievable contour of the distant silvered peaks. then of a sudden he jumped from his bed and, stooping over frank, shook him violently. "wake up!" he cried. "wake up! i gotta tell somebody or the canyon'll drive me crazy. i'll tell you why i'm bad. it's because my mother was bad before me. she was luigi's mistress. she was a bad lot. it was born in me." frank sat up, instantly on the alert. "how old were you when she died?" he demanded. "six," replied nucky. "shucks! you don't know anything about it, then! who told you she was bad?" "luigi! i guess he'd know, wouldn't he?" "maybe he did and maybe he didn't. at any rate, i wouldn't take the oath on his deathbed of a fellow who ran a joint like luigi's and taught a kid what he's taught you. he told you that, of course, to keep a hold on you." "but she lived with him. i remember that myself." "i can't help that. i'll bet you my next year's pay, she wasn't your mother!" "not my mother?" nucky drew himself up with a long breath. "certainly she was my mother." frank uncovered some embers from the ashes and threw on wood. "i'll bet she wasn't your mother," he repeated firmly. "seaton told me that that policeman friend of yours said she might and might not be your mother. seaton and the policeman both think she wasn't, and i'm with 'em." "but why? why?" cried nucky in an agony of impatience. "for the simple reason that a fellow with a face like your's doesn't have a bad mother." in the light of the leaping flames nucky's face fell. "aw, what you giving us! sob stuff?" "i'm telling you something that's as true as god. you can't see him or talk to him, but you know he made this canyon, don't you?" nucky nodded quickly. "all right, then i'm telling you, every line of your face and head says you didn't come of a breed like the woman that lived with luigi. i'll bet if you show you have any decent promise, seaton will clear that point up. a good detective could do it." "i never thought of such a thing," muttered nucky. he continued to stare at frank, his pale boy's face tense with conflicting hope and fear. the guide picked up his blanket, but nucky cried out: "don't go to sleep for a minute, please! i can't stand it alone in this moonlight. i never thought such thoughts in my life as i have down here, about god and who i am and what a human being is. i tell you, i'm going crazy." frank nodded, and began to fill his pipe. "sit down close to the fire, son. that's what the canyon does to anybody that's thin skinned. i went through it too. i tell you, nucky, this life here in the canyon and the thoughts you think here, are the only real things. new york and all that, is just the outer shell of living. understand me?" the boy nodded, his eyes fixed on frank's with pitiful eagerness. "it's clean out here. this country isn't all messed up with men and women's badness. everybody starts even and with a clean slate. lord knows, i was a worthless bunch when i struck here, fifteen years ago. i'd been expelled from yale in my senior year for gambling. i'd run through the money my father'd left me. i'd gotten into a woman scrape and i'd alienated every member of my family. just why i thought a deck of cards was worth all that, i can't tell you. but i did. then i came down here to see what the canyon could do for my asthma and it cured that, and by the eternal, it cured my soul, too. now listen to me, son! you go back and lie down and put yourself to sleep thinking about your real mother. boys are apt to take their general build from their mothers, so she was probably a big woman, not pretty, but with an intellectual face full of character. go on, now, enoch! you need the rest and we've got a full day to-morrow." nucky passed his hand unsteadily over his eyes, but rose without a word, and frank tucked him into his blankets, then sat quietly waiting by the fire. it was not long before deep breaths that were pathetically near to sobs told the guide that nucky was asleep. then he rolled himself in his own blankets. the moon passed the canyon wall and utter darkness enwrapped the canyon and the river which murmured harshly as it ran. nucky wakened the next morning to the smell of coffee. he sat up and eyed frank soberly. "hello, new york! this is the grand canyon!" frank grinned as he lifted the coffee pot from the fire. nucky grinned in response. shortly after, when he sat down to his breakfast the grin had disappeared, but with it had gone the look of sullenness that had seemed habitual. "frank," said nucky, when breakfast was over, "do you care if i talk to you some more about--you know--you know what you said last night? i never talked about it to any one but luigi, and it makes me feel better." "sure, go ahead!" said frank. "my mother--" began nucky. "you mean luigi's wife," corrected the guide. "luigi's wife was crazy about me. she loved me just as much as any mother could. luigi's always been jealous about it. that's why he treated me so rotten." "bad women can be just as fond of kids as good women," was frank's comment. "what did she look like? can you remember?" "i don't know whether i remember it or if it's just what folks told me. she had dark blue eyes and dark auburn hair. luigi said she was italian." "if she was, she was north italian," mused the guide. "did any one ever give you any hints about your father?" a slow, painful red crept over nucky's pale face. "i never asked but once. maybe you can guess what luigi said." "if luigi were in this part of the country," growled allen, "i'd lead a lynching party to call on him." he paused, eying nucky's boyish face closely, then he asked, "did you love your mother?" "i suppose i did. but luigi kept at me so that now i hate her and all other women. mrs. seaton seemed kind of nice, but i suppose she is like the rest of 'em." "don't you think it! and did you know that seaton thinks you were kidnapped?" nucky drew a quick breath and the guide went on, "i think so too. you never belonged to an italian. i can't tell you just why i feel so certain. but i'd take my oath you are of new england stock. john seaton is a first-class lawyer. as i said to you last night, if you show some decent spirit, he'd try to clear the matter up for you." nucky's blue eyes were as eager and as wistful as a little child's. his thin, mobile lips quivered. "i never thought of such a thing, frank!" "well, you'd better think of it! now then, you clean up these dishes for me while i attend to the stock. i want to be off in a half hour." during the remainder of that very strenuous day, nucky did not refer again to the matter so near his heart. he was quiet, but no longer sullen, and he was boyishly interested in the wonders of the canyon. the sun was setting when they at last reached the rim. for an hour nucky had not spoken. when allen had turned in the saddle to look at the boy, nucky had nodded and smiled, then returned to his absorbed watching of the lights and shadows in the canyon. they dismounted at the corral. "now, old man," said frank, "i want you to go in and tuck away a big supper, take a hot bath and go to bed. to-morrow we'll ride along the rim just long enough to fight off the worst of the saddle stiffness." "all right!" nucky nodded. "i'm half dead, that's a fact. but i've got to tell the clerk and the bell boy a thing or two before i do anything." "go to it!" frank laughed, as he followed the mules through the gate. nucky did not open his eyes until nine o'clock the next morning. when he had finished breakfast, he found the guide waiting for him in the lobby. "hello, frank!" he shouted. "come on! let's start!" all that day, prowling through the snow after allen, nucky might have been any happy boy of fourteen. it was only when frank again left him at dusk that his face lengthened. "can't i be with you this evening, frank?" he asked. frank shook his head. "i've got to be with my wife and little girl." "but why can't i--" nucky hesitated as he caught the look in frank's face. "you'll never forget what i said about women, i suppose!" "why should i forget it?" demanded allen. the sullen note returned to nucky's voice. "i wouldn't harm 'em!" "no, i'll bet you wouldn't!" returned allen succinctly. nucky turned to stare into the canyon. it seemed to the guide that it was a full five minutes that the boy gazed into the drifting depths before he turned with a smile that was as ingenuous as it was wistful. "frank, i guess i made an awful dirty fool of myself! i--i can't like 'em, but i'll take your word that lots of 'em are good. and nobody will ever hear me sling mud at 'em again, so help me god--and the canyon!" frank silently held out his hand and nucky grasped it. then the guide said, "you'd better go to bed again as soon as you've eaten your supper. by to-morrow you'll be feeling like a short trip down bright angel. good-night, old top!" when nucky came out of the hotel door the next morning, frank, with a cavalcade of mules, was waiting for him. but he was not alone. seated on a small mule was a little girl of five or six. "enoch," said frank, "this is my daughter, diana. she is going down the trail with us." nucky gravely doffed his hat, and the little girl laughed, showing two front teeth missing and a charming dimple. "you've got red hair!" she cried. nucky grunted, and mounted his mule. "diana will ride directly behind me," said frank. "you follow her, enoch." "can that kid go all the way to the river?" demanded nucky. "she's been there a good many times," replied frank, looking proudly at his little daughter. she was not an especially pretty child, but had nucky been a judge of feminine charms he would have realized that diana gave promise of a beautiful womanhood. her chestnut hair hung in thick curls on her shoulders. her eyes were large and a clear hazel. her skin, though tanned, was peculiarly fine in texture. but the greatest promise of her future beauty lay in a sweetness of expression in eye and lip that was extraordinary in so young a child. for the rest, she was thin and straight and wore a boy's corduroy suit. diana feared the trail no more than nucky feared macdougal street. she was deeply interested in nucky, turning and twisting constantly in her saddle to look at him. "do you like your mule, enoch? he's a very nice mule." "yes, but don't turn round or you'll fall." "how can i talk if i don't turn round? do you like little girls?" "i don't know any little girls. turn round, diana!" "but you know me!" "i won't know you long if you don't sit still in that saddle, miss." "do you like me, enoch?" nucky groaned. "frank, if diana don't quit twisting, i'll fall myself, even if she don't!" "don't bother enoch, daughter!" "i'm not bothering enoch, daddy. i'm making conversation. i like him, even if he has red hair." nucky sighed, and tried to turn the trend of the small girl's ideas. "i'll bet you don't know what kind of stone that is yonder where the giant dripped blood." "there isn't any giant's blood!" exclaimed diana scornfully. "that is just red quartz!" "oh, and what's the layer next to it?" demanded nucky skeptically. "that's black basalt," answered the little girl. then, leaning far out of the saddle to point to the depths below, "and that--" "frank!" shouted nucky. "diana is bound to fall! i just can't stand looking at her." this time frank spoke sternly. "diana, don't turn to look at enoch again!" and the little girl obeyed. had nucky been other than he was, he might have been amused and not a little charmed by diana's housewifely ways when they made camp that afternoon. she helped to kindle the fire and to unpack the provisions. she lent a hand at arranging the beds and set the table, all with eager docility and intelligence. but nucky, after doing the chores frank set him, wandered off to a seat that commanded a wide view of the trail, where he remained in silent contemplation of the wonders before him until called to supper. he was silent during the meal, giving no heed to diana's small attempts at conversation, and wandered early to his blankets. in the morning, however, he was all boy again, even attempting once or twice to tease diana, in a boy's offhand manner. that small person, however, had become conscious of the fact that enoch was not interested in her, and she had withdrawn into herself with a pride and self-control that was highly amusing to her father. nor did she unbend during the day. the return trip was made with but one untoward incident. this occurred after they had reached the snow line. much of the snow had thawed and by late afternoon there was ice on the trail. frank led the way very gingerly and the mules often stopped of their own accord, while the guide roughened the path for them with the axe. in spite of this care, as they rounded one last upper curve, diana's mule slipped, and it was only diana's lightning quickness in dismounting and the mule's skill in throwing himself inward that saved them both. diana did not utter a sound, but nucky gave a hoarse oath and, before frank could accomplish it, nucky had dismounted, had rushed up the trail and stood holding diana in his lank, boyish arms, while the mule regained his foothold. "now look here, frank, diana rides either in your lap or mine!" said nucky shortly, his face twitching. frank raised his eyebrows at the boy's tone. "set her down, enoch! we'll all walk to the top. it's only a short distance, and the ice is getting pretty bad." nucky obediently set the little girl on her feet, and diana tossed her curls and followed her father without a word. and frank, as he led the procession, wore a puzzled grin on his genial face. * * * * * * exactly ten days after nucky's first trip down bright angel trail, john seaton descended somewhat wearily from the pullman that had landed him once more at the canyon's rim. he had telegraphed the time of his arrival and nucky ran up to meet him. "hello, mr. seaton!" he said. seaton's jaw dropped. "what on earth--?" then he grinned. nucky was wearing high laced boots, a blue flannel shirt, gauntlet gloves and a huge sombrero. "some outfit, enoch! been down bright angel yet?" "three times," replied the boy, with elaborate carelessness. "say, mr. seaton, can't we stay one more day and you take the trip with us?" "i think i can arrange it." seaton was trying not to look at the boy too sharply. "i'll be as sore as a dog, for i haven't been in a saddle since i was out here before. but bright angel's worth it." "sore!" nucky laughed. "say, mr. seaton, i just don't try to sit down any more!" they had reached the hotel desk now and as seaton signed the register the clerk said, with a wink: "if you'll leave young huntingdon behind, we'll take him on as a guide, mr. seaton." nucky tossed his head. "huh! and you might get a worse guide than me, too. frank says i got the real makings in me and i'll bet frank knows more about guiding than any white in these parts. navaho mike told me so. and navaho mike says he knows i could make money out here even at fourteen." "how, enoch?" asked seaton, as they followed the bell boy upstairs. he was not looking at nucky, for fear he would show surprise. "how? at cards?" "aw, no! placer mining! it don't cost much to outfit and there's millions going to waste in the colorado! millions! frank and mike say so. you skip, billy,"--this to the bell boy,--"i'm mr. seaton's bell hop." the boy pocketed the tip nucky handed him, and closed the door after himself. nucky opened seaton's suitcase. "shall i unpack for you?" he asked. "no, thanks, i shan't need anything but my toilet case, for i'm going to get into an outfit like yours, barring the hat and gloves." "ain't it a pippin!" giving the hat an admiring glance. "frank gave it to me. he has two, and i rented the things for you, mr. seaton. here they are," opening the closet door. "shall i help you with 'em? will you take a ride along the rim now? shall i get the horses? now? i'll be waiting for you at the main entrance with the best pony in the bunch." he slammed out of the room. john seaton scratched his head after he had shaken it several times, and made himself ready for his ride. frank rapped on the door before he had finished and came in, smiling. "well, i understand you're to be taken riding!" he said. "for the love of heaven, frank, what have you done to the boy?" "me? nothing! it was the canyon. let me tell you about that first trip." and he told rapidly but in detail, the story of nucky's first two days in the canyon. seaton listened with an absorbed interest. "has he spoken of his mother to you since?" he asked, when frank had finished. "no, and he probably never will again. do you think you can clear the matter up for him?" "i'll certainly try! do you like the boy, frank?" "yes, i do. i think he's got the real makings in him. better leave him out here with me, seaton." seaton's face fell. "i--i hoped he'd want to stick by me. but the decision is up to the boy. if he wants to stay out here, i'll raise no objections." "i'm sure it would be better for him," said frank. "gambling is a persistent disease. he's got years of struggle ahead of him, no matter where he goes." "i know that, of course. well, we'll take the trip down the trail to-morrow before we try to make any decisions. i must go along now. he's waiting for me." "better put cotton in one ear," suggested allen, with a smile. the ride was a long and pleasant one. john seaton gave secondary heed to the shifting grandeur of the views, for he was engrossed by his endeavor to replace the sullen, unboyish nucky he had known with this voluble, high strung and entirely adolescent person who bumped along the trail regardless of weariness or the hour. the trip down bright angel the next day was an unqualified success. they took old funny face and camped for the night. after supper, frank muttered an excuse and wandered off toward the mules, leaving nucky and seaton by the fire. "frank thinks you ought to stay out here with him, enoch," said seaton. "what did you say to him when he told you that?" asked nucky eagerly. "i said i hoped you'd go back to new york with me, but that the decision was up to you." nucky said nothing for the moment. seaton watched the fire glow on the boy's strong face. when nucky looked up at his friend, his eyes were embarrassed and a little miserable. "did frank tell you about our talk down here?" seaton nodded. "do you know?" the boy's voice trembled with eagerness. "was she my mother?" "foley thinks not. he says she spoke with an accent he thought was italian. when i get back to new york i'll do what i can to clear the matter up for you. queer, isn't it, that human beings crave to know even the worst about their breed." "i got to know! i got to know! mr. seaton, i ran away from luigi one time. i guess i was about eight. i wanted to live in the country. and i got as far as central park before they found me. he got the police on my trail right off. and when he had me back in minetta lane, first he licked me and then he told me how bad my mother was, and he said if folks knew it, they'd spit on me and throw me out of school, and that i was lower than any low dog. and he told me if i did exactly what he said he'd never let any one know, but if i didn't he'd go over and tell miss brannigan. she was a teacher i was awful fond of, and he'd tell the police, and he'd tell all the kids. and after that he was always telling me awful low things about my mother--" seaton interrupted firmly. "not your mother. call her luigi's wife." nucky moistened his lips. "luigi's wife. and it used to drive me crazy. and he told me all women was like that only some less and some worse. mr. seaton, is that true?" "enoch, it's a contemptible, unspeakable lie! the majority of women are pure and sweet as no man can hope to be. i'd like to kill luigi, blast his soul!" "maybe you don't know!" persisted nucky. "i know! and what's more, when we get back to new york, i'll prove it to you. the world is full of clean, honest, kindly people, enoch. i'll prove it to you, old man, if you'll give me the chance." "but if she was my mother, how can i help being rotten?" "look here, enoch, a fellow might have the rottenest mother and rottenest father on earth, but the lord will start the fellow out with a clean slate, just the same. folks aren't born bad. you can't inherit your parents' badness. you could inherit their weak wills, for instance, and if you live in minetta lane where there's only badness about you, your weak will wouldn't let you stand out against the badness. but you can't inherit evil. if that were possible, humanity would have degenerated to utter brutality long ago. and, enoch, you haven't inherited even a weak will. you're as obstinate as old funny face!" "then you think--" faltered the boy. "i don't think! i know that you come of fine, upstanding stock! and it's about time you moved out of minetta lane and gave your good blood a chance!" enoch's lips quivered, and he turned his head toward the fire. seaton waited, patiently. after a while he said, "enoch, the most important thing in a man's life is his philosophy. what do you think life is for? by what principles do you think a man ought to be guided? do you think that the underlying purpose of life is dog eat dog, every man for himself, by whatever method? that's your gambler's philosophy. or do you think we're put here to make life better than we found it? that was abraham lincoln's philosophy. before you decide for the grand canyon or for new york, you ought to discover your philosophy. do you see what i'm driving at?" "yes," said nucky, "and i don't have to wait to discover it, for i've done that this week. i want to go into politics so i can clean out minetta lane." seaton looked at the lad keenly. "good work, nucky, old man!" the boy spoke quickly. "don't call me nucky! i'm enoch, from now on!" "from now on, where?" asked frank, strolling into the firelight. "new york!" replied enoch. "i'd rather stay here, but i got to go back." "mr. seaton, have you been using bribery?" frank was half laughing, half serious. "well, nothing as attractive as guiding on bright angel trail!" exclaimed john. "and that's the only job i was ever offered i really wanted!" cried enoch ruefully. the men both laughed, and suddenly the boy joined them, laughing long and a little hysterically. "o gee!" he said at last, "i feel as free and light as air! i got to take a run up and down the sand," and a moment later they heard his whistle above the endless rushing of the colorado. "ideas are important things," said seaton, thoughtfully. "such a one as that beast luigi has planted in enoch's mind can warp his entire life. he evidently is of a morbidly sensitive temperament, proud to a fault, high strung and introspective. until some one can prove to him that his mother was not a harlot, he'll never be entirely normal. and it's been my observation that one of the most fundamentally weakening things for a boy's character is his not being able to respect his father or mother. luigi caught enoch when his mind was like modeling clay." "do you think you can clear the matter up?" asked frank. "i'll try my utmost. it's going to be hard, for foley's no fool, and he's done a lot of work on it with no results. if i don't settle the matter, enoch is going to be hag-ridden by minetta lane all his life. i know of a chap who was lame for twenty years because when he was about ten, he had a series of extraordinarily vivid dreams portraying a curious accident that he was not able to distinguish from actual happenings. it was not until he was a man and had accidentally come in contact with a psychologist who analyzed the thing down to facts for him that he was cured. i could cite you a hundred cases like this where the crippling was mental as well as physical. and nothing but an absolute and tangible proof of the falsity of the idea will make a cure. some day there are going to be doctors who will handle nothing but ideas." "the boy's worth saving!" frank lighted his pipe thoughtfully. "there's a power of will there for good or evil that can't be ignored. and i have faith in any one the canyon gets a real grip on. it sure has got this boy. i never saw a more marked case." the lawyer nodded and both men sat smoking, their eyes on the distant rim. book ii the secretary of the interior chapter iii twenty-two years later "it sometimes seemed to me that the colorado said as it rushed through the canyon, 'nothing matters! nothing! nothing!'"--_enoch's diary_. one burning morning in july, jonas, in a cool gray seersucker suit, his black face dripping with perspiration, was struggling with the electric fan in the private office of the secretary of the interior. the windows were wide open and the hideous uproar of street traffic filled the room. it was a huge, high-ceilinged apartment, with portraits of former secretaries on the walls. the secretary's desk, a large, polished conference table, and various leather chairs, with a handsome oriental rug, completed the furnishings. as jonas struggled vainly with the fan, a door from the outer office opened and a young man appeared with the day's mail. charley abbott was nearing thirty but he looked like a college boy. he was big and broad and blonde, with freckles disporting themselves frankly on a nose that was still upturned. his eyes were set well apart and his lips were frank. he placed a great pile of opened letters on enoch's desk. "better peg along, jonas," he said. "the secretary's due in a minute!" jonas gathered the fan to his breast and scuttled out the side door as enoch huntingdon came in at the secretary's private entrance. the years had done much for enoch. he stood six feet one in his socks. he was not heavy but still had something of the rangy look of his boyhood. he was big boned and broad chested. college athletics had developed his lungs and flattened his shoulder blades. his hair was copper-colored, vaguely touched with gray at the temples and very thick and unruly. his features were still rough hewn but time had hardened their immaturity to a rugged incisiveness. his cheek bones were high and his cheeks were slightly hollowed. his eyes were a burning, brilliant blue, deep set under overhanging brows. his mouth was large, thin lipped and exceedingly sensitive; the mouth of the speaker. he wore a white linen suit. "good morning, mr. abbott," he said, dropping his panama hat on a corner of the conference table. "good morning, mr. secretary! i hope you are rested after yesterday. seems to me that was as hard a day as we ever had." enoch dropped into his chair. "was it really harder, abbott, or was it this frightful weather?" "well, we didn't have more appointments than usual, but some of them were unusually trying. that woman who wanted to be reappointed to the pension office, for example." enoch nodded. "i'd rather see satan come into this office than a woman. try to head them off, abbott, whenever you can." "i always do, sir! will you run through this correspondence, mr. huntingdon, before i call in the idaho contingent?" enoch began rapidly to read letters and to dictate terse replies. they were not more than a third of the way down the pile when a buzzer sounded. enoch looked up inquiringly. "i told jonas to buzz for me at 9:20," explained young abbott. "i don't dare keep the people in the waiting-room watching the clock longer than that. we'll fit this in at odd times, as usual. remember, mr. secretary, you can't give these people more than fifteen minutes. shall i come in and speak to you, at that time?" "perhaps you'd better," replied enoch. abbott opened the door into the outer room. "gentlemen, the secretary will receive you," he said. "mr. secretary, allow me to present mr. reeves, mr. carleton, mr. schmidt, mr. dunkel, mr. street, mr. swiftwater and mr. manges." the men filing into the room bowed and mumbled. enoch looked after abbott's retreating back admiringly. "i've been hearing abbott do that sort of thing for two years, but it never fails to rouse my admiration," he said. "a wonderful memory!" commented one of the visitors. "abbott is going into politics later," enoch went on. "a memory such as his will carry him far." "not as far as a silver tongue," suggested another man, with a twinkle in his eye. "that remains to be seen," smiled enoch. he had a very pleasant smile, showing even, white teeth. "well, gentlemen, what can i do for you?" "mr. secretary," said the spokesman of the delegation, "as you know, we represent the business men of the state of idaho. there is a very bitter controversy going on in our state over your recent ruling on the matter of water power control. we believe your ruling works an injustice on the business men of our state and as nothing came of correspondence, we thought we'd come along east and have a talk with you." "i'm glad you did," said enoch. "you see, my work is of such a nature that unless you people on the firing line keep in touch with me, i may go astray on the practical, human side. you are all states' rights men, of course." the delegation nodded. "my ideas on water power are simple enough," said enoch. "the time is approaching when oil, gas, and coal will not supply the power needed in america. we shall have to turn more and more to electricity produced by water power. there is enough water in the streams of this country to turn every wheel in every district. but it must be harnessed, and after it is harnessed it must be sold to the people at a just price. what i want to do is to produce all the available water power latent in our waterways. then i want the poorest people in america to have access to it. there is enough power at a price possible even to the poorest." "we all agree with you so far, mr. secretary," said the chair-man of the delegation. "i thought you would!" enoch's beautiful voice had a curious dignity for all its geniality. "now my policy aims to embody the idea that the men who develop the water power of america shall not develop for themselves and their associates a water power monopoly." "we fear that as much as you do, mr. secretary," said one of the delegates. "but let the state control that. we fear too much bureaucracy and centralization of authority here in washington. and don't forget, if it came to a scratch, we could say to uncle sam, you own the stream, but you shan't use a street or a town facility reaching it." enoch raised his eyebrows. "uncle sam doesn't want more power. if the states had not been so careless and so corrupt in regard to their public lands and their waters, there would be no need now for the department of the interior to assert its authority. show me, mr. delegate, that there are neither politics nor monopolistic dreams in idaho's attitude toward her water power problem and i'd begin to de-centralize our policy toward your state." abbott opened the door and tip-toed to enoch's desk. "i'm sorry, mr. secretary," he said softly, "but senator far has been waiting five minutes." "i'm sorry too," replied enoch. "gentlemen, we have used up the time allotted. will you make arrangements with mr. abbott for a longer conference, to-morrow? come back with the proofs!" he smiled, and the gentlemen from idaho smiled in return, but a little ruefully. the last one had not turned his back when enoch began an attack on the pile of letters. a ruddy-faced, much wrinkled man appeared in the door. "senator far, mr. secretary," announced abbott. enoch rose and held out his hand. "senator, you look warm. oh, abbott, tell jonas to turn on the fan. what can i do for arkansas, senator?" jonas came in hurriedly. "mr. secretary, that fan's laid down on me. how come it to do it, i haven't found out yet. i tried to borrow one from a friend of mine, but--" "never mind, jonas," said enoch. "i don't expect you to be an electrician. perhaps the power's still off in the building. i noticed there were no lights when i came in." jonas' eyes grew as big as saucers. "it sure takes brains to be a secretary," he muttered, as he turned to hurry from the room. the two men grinned at each other. "what i wanted was an appointment for a friend of mine," said senator far. "he's done a lot for the party and i want to get him into the reclamation service." "he's an engineer?" asked enoch, lighting the cigar the senator gave him. "i don't think so. he's been playing politics ever since i knew him. he has a good following in the state." "why the reclamation service then! by the eternal, senator, can't you fellows leave one department clear of the spoils system? i'm here to tell you, i'm proud of the service. it's made up of men with brains. they get their jobs on pure ability. and you fellows--" "oh, all right, mr. huntingdon!" interrupted senator far, rising, "i'm always glad to know where you stand! good morning!" he hurried from the room and enoch sighed, looked out the window, then read a half dozen letters before abbott announced the next caller, a man who wanted his pension increased and who had managed to reach the secretary through a letter from the president of a great college. then followed at five and ten minute intervals a man from kansas who had ideas on the allotment of indian lands; a senator who wanted light on a bill the secretary wished introduced; a man from alaska who objected to the government's attitude on alaskan coal mines; the chairman of a state central committee who wanted three appointments, and a well known engineer who had a grievance against the patent office. followed these, an hour's conference with the attorney general regarding the new pension bill, and at noon a conference with the head of the reclamation service on the matter of a new dam. when this conference was over, enoch once more attacked the correspondence pile which, during the morning, having been constantly fed by the indefatigable abbott, was now of overwhelming proportions. it was nearly two o'clock when jonas, having popped his head in and out of the door a half dozen times, evidently waiting for the boss to look up, entered the room with a tray. "luncheon is served, sir," he said. "put it right here, jonas." enoch did not raise his head. jonas set the tray firmly on the conference table. "no, sir, mr. secretary, i ain't goin' to sit it there. you're going to git up and come over here and keep your mind on your food. how come you think you got iron insides?" enoch sighed. "all right, jonas, i'm coming." he rose, stretched and moved over to the table. the man ceremoniously pulled out a chair for him, then lifted the towel from the tray and hung it over his arm. on the tray were a bottle of milk, a banana and some shredded wheat biscuit, with two cigars. "any time you want me to change your lunch, mr. secretary, you say so," said jonas. enoch laughed. "jonas, old man, how long have i been eating this fodder for lunch?" "ever since you was secretary to the mayor, boss!" "and how many times do you suppose you've told me you were willing to change it, jonas?" "every time, boss. how come you think i like to see a smart man like you living on baby food?" enoch grunted. "and how many times have i told you the only way for me to live through the banquets i have to attend is to keep to this sort of thing when i am alone?" jonas did not reply. enoch's simple lunches never ceased to trouble him. "where do i go to-night, jonas?" "the british ambassador's, mr. secretary." enoch finished his lunch rapidly and had just lighted the first of the cigars when abbott appeared. "there's a woman out here from the sunday times, mr. secretary. she wants to interview you on your ideas on marriage. she has a letter from senator brownlee or i wouldn't have disturbed you. she looks as if she could make trouble, if she wanted to." "tell her i'm sorry, but that i have no ideas about marriage and that jonas is as near a wife as i care to get. he henpecks me enough, don't you, jonas, old man! abbott, just remember, once for all, i won't see the women." "very well," replied abbott. "will you dictate a few moments on your report to the president on the pension controversy?" "yes!" enoch pulled a handful of notes out of his pocket and began to dictate clearly and rapidly. for ten minutes his voice rose steadily above the raucous uproar that floated in at the window. then the telephone rang. abbott answered it. "the white house, mr. secretary," he said. enoch picked up the receiver. after a few moments' conversation he rose, his face eager. "abbott, the mexican trouble appears to be coming to a crisis and the president has called a cabinet meeting. i doubt if i can get back here until after five. will you express my regrets to the argentine delegation and make a new appointment? is there any one in the waiting-room?" "six people. i can get rid of them all except alton of the bureau of mines. i think you must see him." "send him in," said enoch. "i'll ask him to ride as far as the white house with me. and i'll be back to finish the letters, abbott. i dare not let them accumulate a single day." abbott nodded and hurried out. a tall, bronzed man, wiping the sweat from his bald head, came in just as jonas announced, "the carriage, mr. secretary." "come along, alton," said enoch. "we'll talk your model coal mine as we go." it was six o'clock when enoch appeared again in his office. his linen suit was wrinkled and sweat stained between the shoulders. he tossed his hat on a chair. "abbott, will you telephone señor juan cadiz and ask him to meet me at my house at ten thirty to-night? he is at the willard. tell jonas to interrupt us promptly at seven, i mustn't be late to dinner. now, for this mess." once more he began the attack on the day's mail, which abbott had already reduced to its lowest dimensions. enoch worked with a power of concentration and a quick decisiveness that were ably seconded by charley abbott. it was a quarter before seven when enoch picked up the last letter. he read it through rapidly, then laid it down slowly, and stared out of the window for a long moment. abbott gave his chief's face a quick glance, then softly shoved under his hand the pile of letters that were waiting signature. the letter that enoch had just read was dated at the grand canyon. "dear mr. secretary," it ran, "it is twenty-two years since i took a red-headed new york boy down bright angel trail. you and i have never heard from each other since, but, naturally i have followed your career with interest. and now i'm going to ask a favor of you. my daughter diana wants a job in the indian bureau and she's coming to washington to see you. don't give her a job! she doesn't have to work. i can take care of her. i'm an old man and selfish and i don't like to be deprived of my daughter for my few remaining years. "with heart-felt congratulations on your great career, "i am yours most respectfully, "frank allen." enoch drew a deep breath and took up his fountain pen. he signed with a rapid, illegible scrawl that toward the end of the pile became a mere hieroglyphic. jonas put his black face in at the door just as he finished the last. "coming, jonas!" said the secretary. "by the way, abbott, i'll answer that letter from frank allen the first thing in the morning. good night, old man! rather a lighter day than yesterday, eh?" "yes, indeed, mr. secretary!" agreed abbott, as enoch picked up his hat and went hastily out the door jonas held open for him. it was seven twenty when enoch reached home. his house was small, with a lawn about the size of a saucer in front, and a back yard entirely monopolized by a tiny magnolia tree. enoch rented the house furnished and it was full of the home atmosphere created by the former diplomat's wife from whom he leased it. jonas was his steward and his valet. while other servants came and went, jonas was there forever. he followed enoch upstairs and turned on the bath water, then hurried to lay out evening clothes. during the entire process of dressing the two men did not exchange a word but jonas heaved a sigh of satisfaction when at ten minutes before eight he opened the hall door. enoch smiled, patted him on the shoulders and ran down the stairs. a dinner at the british ambassador's was always exceedingly formal as to food and service, exceedingly informal as to conversation. enoch took in a woman novelist, a woman a little past middle age who was very small and very famous. "well," she said, as she pulled off her gloves, "i've been wanting to meet you for a long time." "i'm not difficult to meet," returned enoch, with a smile. "as to that i've had no personal experience but three; several friends of mine have been trampled upon by your secretary. they all were women, of course." "why, of course?" demanded enoch. "one of the qualities that is said to make you so attractive to my sex is that you are a woman hater. now just why do you hate us?" "i don't hate women." enoch spoke with simple sincerity. "i'm afraid of them." "why?" "i don't think i really know. do you like men?" "yes, i do," replied mrs. rotherick promptly. "why?" asked enoch. "they aren't such cats as women," she chuckled. "perhaps cat fear is your trouble! what are you going to do about mexico, mr. huntingdon?" enoch smiled. "i told the president at great length, this afternoon, what i thought we ought to do. he gave no evidence, however, that he was going to take my advice, or any one else's for that matter." "of course, i'm not trying to pick your confidence. mr. secretary!" mrs. rotherick spoke quickly. "you know, i've lived for years in germany. i say to you, beware of germany in mexico, mr. huntingdon." "what kind of people did you know in germany?" asked enoch. "many kinds! but my most intimate friend was an american woman who was married to a german general, high in the confidence of the kaiser. i know the kaiserin well. i know that certain german diplomats are deeply versed in mexican lore--its geography, its geology, its people. i know that germany must have more land or burst. mr. secretary, remember what i say, germany is deeply interested in mexico and she is the cleverest nation in the world to-day." "what nation is that, mrs. rotherick?" asked the ambassador. "germany!" replied the little woman. "possibly you look at germany through the eyes of a fiction writer," suggested the englishman. "it's impossible to fictionize germany," laughed mrs. rotherick. "one could much more easily write a rhapsody on--" "on the secretary of the interior," interrupted the ambassador. "or on the bank of england," laughed mrs. rotherick. "very well, gentlemen! i hope you never will have cause to remember my warning!" it was just as the ladies were leaving the table that enoch said to mrs. rotherick: "will you be so kind as to write me a letter telling me of your suspicions of germany in mexico? i shall treat it as confidential." mrs. rotherick nodded, and he did not see her again that evening. just before enoch departed for his engagement with señor cadiz, the ambassador buttonholed him. "look here, huntingdon," he said, "that little mrs. rotherick knows a thing or two. she's better informed on international relations than many chaps in the diplomatic service. if i were you i'd pump her." "thanks, mr. johns-eaton," replied enoch. "look here, just how much of a row are you fellows going to make about those mines in the alaskan border country? why shouldn't canada take that trouble on?" "just how much trouble are you going to make about the seal misunderstanding?" demanded johns-eaton. "well," replied enoch, with a wide smile, "i have a new gelding i'd like to try out, to-morrow morning. if you'll join me at seven-thirty on that rack of bones you call a bay mare, i'll tell you all i know." "you will, like thunder!" laughed johns-eaton. "but i'll be there and jolly well give you the opportunity!" señor juan cadiz was prompt and so was enoch. for a long hour the two sat in the breathless heat of the july night while the mexican answered enoch's terse questions with a flow of dramatic speech, accentuated by wild gestures. shortly after eleven-thirty jonas appeared in the doorway with two tinkling glasses. "you are sure as to your facts about this bandit leader?" asked enoch in a low voice. "of an absolute sureness. if i--" the secretary interrupted. "could you go to mexico for me, in entire secrecy?" "yes! yes! yes! if you could but see him and he you! if he could but know an american of your type, your fairness, your kindness, your justice! we have been taught to despise and hate americans, you must know." "who has taught you?" "sometimes, i think partly by the germans who have come among the people. but why should germany do so?" "why indeed?" returned enoch, and the two men stared at each other, deep intelligence in the gaze of each. jonas tinkled the glasses again and señor cadiz jumped to his feet. "i know, señor jonas!" he laughed. "that is the good night cap, eh!" jonas grinned acquiescence, and five minutes later he turned off the lights in the library. enoch climbed the stairs, somewhat wearily. his room was stifling despite the wide-flung windows and the electric fan. he slowly and thoughtfully got himself into his pajamas, lighted a cigarette, and walked over to the table that stood in the bay window. he unlocked the table drawer and took out a large blank book of loose leafed variety, opened it, and seating himself he picked up his pen and began to write. "july 17.--rather an easier day than usual, lucy, which was fortunate, for the heat has been almost unbearable and at the end of the office day came that which stirred old memories almost intolerably. a letter from frank allen! you remember him, lucy? i told you about him, when i first began my diary. well, he has written that his daughter, diana, is coming to washington to ask me for a job which he does not wish me to give her. i cannot see her! only you know the pain that such a meeting could give me! it would be like going to bright angel again. and while the thought of going back to the grand canyon has intrigued me for twenty-two years, i must go in my own way and in my own time. and i am not ready yet. i had forgotten, by the way, that frank had a daughter. there was, now that i think of it, a little thing of five or six who went down bright angel with us. i have only the vaguest recollection of what she looked like. "minetta lane and the grand canyon! what a hideous, what a grotesque coupling of names! i have never seen the one of them since i was fourteen and the other but once, yet these two have absolutely made my life. don't scold me, lucy! i know you have begged me never to mention minetta lane again. but to you, i must. do you know what i thought to-night after i left the british ambassador? i thought that i'd like to be in luigi's second floor again, with a deck of cards and the old gang. the old gang! they've all except luigi been in sing-sing or dead, these many years. yet the desire was so strong that only the thought of you and your dear, faithful eyes kept me from charging like a wild elephant into a pullman office and getting a berth to new york." enoch dropped his pen and stared long at the only picture in his room, a beautiful moran painting of bright angel trail. finally, he rose and turned off the light. when jonas listened at the door at half after midnight, the sound of enoch's steady, regular breathing sent that faithful soul complacently to bed. chapter iv diana allen "if only someone had taught me ethics as christ taught them, while i was still a little boy, i would be a finer citizen, now."--_enoch's diary_. it rained the next day and the secretary of the interior and the british ambassador did not attempt the proposed ride. enoch did his usual half hour's work with the punching bag and reached his office punctual to the minute, with his wonted air of lack of haste and general physical fitness. before he even glanced at his morning's mail, he dictated a letter to frank allen. "dear frank: your letter roused a host of memories. some day i shall come to bright angel again and you and i will camp once more in the bottom of the canyon. whatever success i have had in after life is due to you and john seaton. i wonder if you know that he has been dead for twenty years and that his devoted wife survived him only by a year? "i will do my best to carry out your request in regard to your daughter. "cordially and gratefully yours, "enoch huntingdon." after he had finished dictating this, the secretary stared out of the window thoughtfully. then he said, "let me have that at once, mr. abbott. who is waiting this morning?" "mr. reeves of idaho. i made an appointment yesterday for the delegation to meet you at nine-fifteen. reeves has turned up alone. he says the committee decided it would get further if you saw him alone." "reeves was the short, stout man with small eyes set close together!" "yes, mr. secretary." enoch grunted. "any one else there you want to tell me about before the procession begins?" "do you recall the man armstrong who was here six months ago with ideas on the functions of the bureau of education? i didn't let him see you, but i sent you a memorandum of the matter. he is back to-day and i've promised him ten minutes. i think he's the kind of a man you want in the bureau. he doesn't want a job, by the way." "i'll see him," said enoch. "it you can, let us have fifteen minutes." abbott sighed. "it's impossible, mr. secretary. i'll bring reeves in now." the delegate from idaho shook hands effusively. "the rain is a great relief, mr. secretary." "yes, it is. washington is difficult to endure, in the summer, isn't it? well, did you bring in the proofs, mr. reeves?" enoch seated himself and his caller sank into the neighboring chair. "mr. secretary," he began, with a smile, "has it ever occurred to you that we have been stupid in the number and kind of bureaus we have accumulated in department of the interior?" "yes," replied enoch. "i suppose you are thinking of patents, pensions, parks, geological survey, land, indians and education. do you know that beside these we have, american antiquities, the superintendent of capitol buildings, the government hospital for the insane, freedman's hospital, howard university, and the columbia institution for the deaf and dumb?" reeves laughed. "no, i didn't. but it only goes to prove what i say. it's impossible for the secretary of the interior to find time to understand local conditions. why not let the states manage the water and land problems?" "it would be illegal," replied enoch briefly. "oh, illegal! you're too good a lawyer, mr. secretary, to let that thought hamper your acts!" "on the contrary," returned enoch, succinctly, "i was a poor lawyer. in some ways of course it is impossible for me to understand local conditions in idaho. i am told, though, that your present state administration is corrupt as tammany understands corruption." reeves cleared his throat and would have spoken, but enoch pushed on. "i have found, as the head of this complex department that i must limit myself as much as possible to formulating simple, basic policies and putting these policies into the hands of men who will carry them out. in general, my most important work is to administer the public domain. that is, i must discover how best the natural resources that the federal government still controls can be put into public service and public service that is the highest and best. i believe that the water, the land, the mines, ought to be given to the use of the average citizen. i do not think that a corrupt politician nor a favor-seeking business man has the best good of the plain citizen at heart." "that is very interesting from the dreamer's point of view," said reeves. "but a government to be successful must be practical. who's going to develop the water power in our idaho streams?" "the people of idaho, if they show a desire to make a fair interest on their investment. the government of the united states, if the people of idaho fail to show the proper spirit." "and who is to be the judge in the matter?" demanded reeves. "the secretary of the interior will be the judge. and he is not one whit interested in you and your friends growing wealthy. he is interested in bill jones getting electricity up on that lonely ranch of his. never forget, mr. reeves, that the ultimate foundations of this nation rest on the wise distribution of its natural resources. the average citizen, mr. reeves, must have reason to view the future with hope. if he does not, the nation cannot endure." "and why do you consider yourself competent to deal with these problems?" asked the caller, with a half-concealed sneer. "any man with education and horse sense can handle them, provided that his philosophy is sound. you have come to washington with the idea, mr. reeves, of getting at me, of tempting me with some sort of share in the wealth you see in your streams. other men have come to the capitol with the same purpose. i have my temptations, mr. reeves, but they do not lie in the desire to graft. i think there are jobs more interesting in life than the job of getting rich. all the grafting in the world couldn't touch in interest the job of directing america's inland destiny. and i have a foolish notion that a man owes his country public service, that he owes it for no reward beyond a living and for no other reason than that he is a man with a brain." reeves, whose face had grown redder and redder, half rose from his chair. "one moment," said enoch. "have you a sound, fair, policy for idaho water power, that will help bill jones in the same proportion that it helps you?" "i had no policy. i came down here to get yours. i've got it all right, and i'm going back and tell my folks they'd better give up any idea of water power during the present administration." "i wouldn't tell them that," said enoch, "because it wouldn't be true. i am considering a most interesting proposition from idaho farmers. i thought perhaps you had something better." reeves jumped to his feet. "i'll not be made a monkey of any longer!" he shouted. "but i'll get you for this yet," and he rushed from the office. enoch shrugged his shoulders as he turned to the inevitable pile of letters. abbott came in with a broad smile. "mr. secretary, miss diana allen is in the outer office." enoch scowled. "have i got to see her?" "well, she's mighty easy to look at, mr. secretary! and more than that, she announces that if you're engaged, she'll wait, a day, a week, or a month." enoch groaned. "show her in, abbott, and be ready to show her out in five minutes." abbott showed her in. she entered the room slowly, a tall woman in a brown silk suit. everything about her it seemed to enoch at first was brown, except her eyes. even her skin was a rich, even cream tint. but her eyes were hazel, the largest, frankest, most intelligent eyes enoch ever had seen in a woman's head. and with the eyes went an expression of extraordinary sweetness, a sweetness to which every feature contributed, the rather short, straight nose, the full, sensitive lips, with deep, upturned corners, the round chin. true beauty in a woman is something far deeper, far less tangible than mere perfection of feature. one grows unutterably weary of the venus de milo type of face, with its expressionless perfection. and yet, so careless is nature that not twice in a lifetime does one see a woman's face in which are combined fineness of intelligence and of character, and beauty of feature. but diana was the thrice fortunate possessor of this combination. she was so lovely that one's heart ached while it exulted in looking at her. for it seemed a tragic thing that beauty so deep and so rare should embody itself in a form so ephemeral as the human body. she was very slender. she was very erect. her small head with the masses of light brown hair shining beneath the simple hat, was held proudly. yet there was a matchless simplicity and lack of self-consciousness about diana that impressed even the careless observer: if there was a careless observer of diana! enoch stood beside his desk in his usual dignified calm. his keen eyes swept diana from head to foot. "you are kind to see me so quickly, mr. secretary," said diana, holding out her hand. enoch smiled, but only slightly. it seemed to diana that she never had seen so young a man with so stern a face. "you must have arrived on the same train with your father's note, miss allen. is this your first trip east?" "yes, mr. huntingdon," replied diana, sinking into the chair opposite enoch's. "if he had had his way, bless his heart, i wouldn't have had even a first trip. isn't it strange that he should have such an antipathy to new york and washington!" the secretary looked at the girl thoughtfully. "as i recall your father, he usually had a good reason for whatever he felt or did. you're planning to stay in washington, are you, miss allen?" "if i can get work in the indian bureau!" replied diana. "why the indian bureau?" asked enoch. "i'm a photographer of indians," answered diana simply. "i've been engaged for years in trying to make a lasting pictorial record of the indians and their ways. i've reached the limit of what i can do without access to records and books and i can't afford a year of study in washington unless i work. that's why i want work in the indian bureau. killing two birds with one stone, mr. secretary." enoch did not shift his thoughtful gaze from the sweet face opposite his for a long moment after she had ceased to speak. then he pressed the desk button and abbott appeared. he glanced at his chief, then his eyes fastened themselves on diana's profile. "mr. abbott, will you ask the commissioner of indian affairs to come in? i believe he is with the assistant secretary this morning." charley nodded and disappeared. "i brought a little portfolio of some of my prints," diana spoke hesitatingly. "i left them in the other room. mr. abbott thought you might like to see them, but perhaps--you seem so very busy and i think there must be at least a thousand people waiting to see you!" "there always are," said enoch, without a smile as he pressed another button. jonas' black head appeared. "bring in the portfolio miss allen left in the other room, please, jonas!" "yes, mr. secretary," replied jonas, withdrawing his eyes slowly from diana's eager face. the portfolio and the indian commissioner arrived together. after the introduction had been made, enoch said: "watkins, do you know anything about indians?" "very little, mr. secretary," with a smile. "would you be interested in looking at some photographs of indian life?" "made by this young lady?" asked watkins, looking with unconcealed interest at diana. "yes," said enoch. "and shown and explained by her?" asked the indian commissioner, a twinkle in his brown eyes. diana laughed, and so did abbott. enoch's even white teeth flashed for a moment. "i wish i had time to join you," he said. "what i want to suggest, mr. watkins, is that you see if miss allen will qualify to take care of some of the research work you received an appropriation for the other day. you were speaking to abbott, i think, of the difficulty of finding people with authentic knowledge of the indians." the indian commissioner nodded and tucked diana's portfolio under his arm. "come along, miss allen!" diana rose. "if we don't leave now, i have an idea we will be asked to do so," she said, the corners of her mouth deepening suddenly. "what happens if one doesn't leave when requested?" "one is cast in a dungeon, deep under the capitol building," replied enoch, holding out his hand. diana laughed. "thank you for seeing me and helping me, mr. huntingdon," she said, and a moment later jonas closed the door behind her and the commissioner. "how come that young lady to stay so long, mr. abbott?" jonas asked charley in a low voice, as he helped the young man bring in a huge pile of reclamation reports. "did you get a good look at her, jonas?" demanded abbott in the same tone. "yes," replied jonas. "then why ask foolish questions?" "the boss don't like 'em, no matter what they look like." "every man has his breaking point, jonas," smiled charley. enoch turned from the window where he had been standing for a moment in unprecedented idleness. "i think you'd better let me have ten or fifteen minutes on that report to the president, abbott." "i will, mr. secretary. by the way, here is the data you asked me to get for your speech at the willard to-night." enoch nodded, pocketed the notes and began to dictate. the day went on as usual, but it seemed to jonas, when he helped the secretary to dress for dinner that night that he was unusually weary. "how come you to be so tired to-night, boss?" he asked finally. "i don't know, old man! jonas, how long since i've had a vacation?" "seven years, boss." "sometimes i think i need one, jonas." "need one! boss, they work you to death! they all say so. your own work's enough to kill three men. and now they do say the president is calling on you for all the hard jobs he don't dare trust nobody else to do. how come he don't do 'em hisself?" "oh, i'm not doing more than my share, jonas! but you and i'll have to have a vacation one of these days, sure. maybe we'll go to japan. i'll be home early, if i can make it, jonas." jonas nodded, and looked out the window. "carriage's here, sir," and enoch ran quickly down the stairs. it was only eleven o'clock when he reached home. the rain had ceased at sundown and the night was humid and depressing. when enoch was once more in his pajamas, he unlocked the desk drawer and, taking out the journal, he turned to the first page and began to read with absorbed interest. "may 12.--this is my eighteenth birthday. i've had a long ride on the top of the bus, thinking about mr. seaton. he was a fine chap. he gave me a long lecture once on women. he said a guy must have a few clean, straight women friends to keep normal. of course he was right, but i couldn't tell him or anybody else how it is with me. he said that if you can share your worries with your friends they're finished. and he was right again. but they're some things a guy can't share. i did it once, back there in the canyon, and i'll always be glad i did. but i was just a kid then. the hunch that pulled me up straight then wouldn't work now. they never did prove she was not my mother. they never found out a thing about me, except what luigi and the neighbors had to tell. she was my mother, all right. and i don't feel as if i ever can believe in any of them. i don't want to. all i want of women is for them to let me alone and i'll let them alone. but a few weeks ago i had a fine idea--to invent a girl of my own! i got the idea in english literature class, from a poem of wordsworth's. "three years she grew in sun and shower; then nature said, a lovelier flower on earth was never sown; this child i to myself will take, she shall be mine and i will make a lady of my own." "i've invented her and i'm going to keep a journal to her and i'll tell her all the things i'd tell my mother, if she'd been decent, and to my sweetheart, if i could believe in them. i don't know just how old she is. somewhere in her twenties, i guess. she's tall and slim and she has a creamy kind of skin. her hair is light brown, almost gold. it's very thick. she has it in braids wound all round her head. her eyes are hazel and she has a sweet mouth and she is very beautiful. and she is good, and tender, and she understands everything about me. she knows just how bad i've been and the fight i'm putting up to keep straight. and every night before i go to bed, i'll tell her what my day has been. i'll begin to-night by telling her about myself. "i don't know where i was born, lucy, or who my father was. my mother was the mistress of an italian called luigi giuseppi. she died a rotten death, leaving me at six to luigi. he treated me badly but he needed me in his gambling business, and he kept me by telling me how bad my mother was and threatening to tell other people. from the time i was eight till i was fourteen, i don't suppose a day passed without his telling me of the rot i had inherited from my mother. i began gambling for him when i was about ten. "when i was fourteen i was arrested in a gambling raid and paroled in the care of john seaton, a lawyer. he took me to the grand canyon. he and frank allen, a guide, suggested to me the idea that luigi's mistress was not my mother. such an idea never had occurred to me before. they first gave it to me in the bottom of the canyon. "i can't put into writing what that suggestion, coupled with my first view of the canyon meant to me. but it was as if i had met god face to face and he had taken pity on a dirty little street mucker and he had lifted me in his great hands and had told me to try to be good and he would help me. i never had believed in god before. and i came back from that trip resolved to put up a fight. "mr. seaton began the search for my folks right off, but he didn't find anything before he died, which was only a year later. but i made him a solemn promise i'd go through college and study law and i'm going to do it. he was not a rich man but he left me enough money to see me through college. in one more year i'll finish the high school. i still play cards once in a while in a joint on sixth avenue. i know it's wrong and i'm trying hard to quit. but sometimes i just can't help it, especially when i'm worried. "luigi will be in the pen another seven years. when he comes out i am going to beat him up till he tells me about my mother and father. though perhaps he's been telling the truth!" "may 13.--lucy, i made a speech in third year rhetoric to-day and the teacher kept me after class. he said he'd been watching me for some time and he wanted to tell me he thought i'd make a great orator, some day. he's going to give me special training out of school hours, for nothing. i'm darned lucky. if a guy's going into politics, oratory's the biggest help. but to be famous as a speaker isn't why i'm going into politics. i'm going to clean minetta lane up. i'm going to try to fix it in new york so's a fellow couldn't have a mother and a stepfather like mine. you know what i mean, don't you? darn it, a kid suffers so! you know that joint on sixth avenue where i go and play cards once in a while? well, it was raided to-day. i wonder what mr. seaton would have said if he'd been alive and i'd been there and got pinched again! "i'm going to throw no bluffs with you, lucy. gambling's in my blood. luigi used to say i came by my skill straight. and i get the same kind of craving for it that a dope fiend does for dope. i don't care to tell anybody about it, or they'd send me to an insane asylum. when i first came from the canyon and moved out of minetta lane, i swore i'd never put foot in it again until i went in to clean it up. and i haven't and i won't. but for the first year my nails were bitten to the quick. if my mother--but what's the use of that! mr. seaton said every man has to have a woman to whom he opens up the deep within him. i have you and you know you've promised to help me." "june 1.--lucy, i've got a job tutoring for the summer. the rhetoric teacher got it for me. it's the son of an episcopal vicar. he is a boy of twelve and they want him taught english and declamation. lord! if they knew all about me! but the kid is safe in my hands. i know how kids of twelve feel. at least, the minetta lane variety. so i'll be at the sea shore all summer. going some, for minetta lane, eh? "lucy, i made fifty dollars last night at poker from a senior in the student's club. this morning i made him take it back." enoch closed the book and leaned back in his chair as jonas appeared at the door with a pitcher of ice water. "how come you don't try to get a little rest, boss?" asked jonas, glancing disapprovingly at the black book. "i am resting, old man! don't bother your good old head about me, but tumble off to sleep yourself!" "i don't never sleep before you do. i ain't for thirteen years, and i don't calculate to begin now." jonas turned the bed covers back and marched out of the room. enoch smiled and, opening the book again, he turned the pages slowly till another entry struck his eye. "february 6.--if i could only see you, touch you, cling to your tender hand to-night, lucy! you know that i was chosen to represent columbia in the dedication of the lincoln statue. it was to have taken place next wednesday. but the british ambassador, who was to be the chief mogul there, was called home to england for some reason or other and they shoved the dedication forward to to-day, so as to catch him before he sailed. and some of the speakers weren't prepared, so it came about that i, an unknown columbia senior, had to give the chief speech of the day. not that anybody, let alone myself, realized that it was going to be the chief speech. it just turned out that way. lucy dear, they went crazy over it! and all the papers to-night gave it in full. it was only a thousand words. why in the name of all the fiends in hades do you suppose nothing relieves me in moments of great mental stress but gambling? you notice, don't you, that i talk to you of minetta lane only when something tremendous, either good or bad, has happened to me? other men with the same weakness, you say, turn to drink. i suppose so, poor devils. oh, lucy, i wish i were in the grand canyon to-night! i wish you and i were together in frank's camp at the foot of bright angel. it is sunset and the canyon is full of unspeakable wonder. even the thought of it rests me and makes me strong. . . . those stars mean that i've torn into a million pieces a hundred-dollar bill i won in sixth avenue to-night." enoch turned many pages and then paused. "march 28.--there is a chance, lucy, that i may be appointed secretary to the reform mayor of new york. i would be very glad to give up the practice of law. beyond my gift for pleading and a retentive memory, i have no real talents for a successful legal career. you look at me with those thoughtful, tender gray eyes of yours. ah, lucy, you are so much wiser than i, wise with the brooding, mystical wisdom of the canyon in the starlight. you have intimated to me several times that law was not my end. you are right, as usual. law has its face forever turned backward. it is searching always for precedent rather than justice. a man who is going into politics should be ever facing the future. he should use the past only in helping him to avoid mistakes in going forward. and, perhaps i am wrong. i am willing to admit that my unfortunate boyhood may have made me over inclined to brood, but it seems to me very difficult to stick to the law, make money, and be morally honest, in the best sense. if i clear bill jones, who is, as i know, ethically as guilty as satan, though legally within his rights, can i face you as a man who is steel true and blade straight? i hope i get that appointment! i was tired to-night, lucy, but this little talk with you has rested me, as usual." "march 29.--i have the appointment, lucy. this is the beginning of my political career--the beginning of the end of minetta lane. you have a heavy task before you, dear, to keep me, eyes to the goal, running the race like a thoroughbred. some day, lucy, we'll go back to the canyon, chins up, work done, gentlemen unafraid!" enoch turned more pages, covering a year or so of the diary. "march 30.--i've been in the city hall two years today. lucy, the only chance on earth i'll ever have to clean out the rookeries of new york would be to be a tammany police commissioner. and tammany would certainly send its best gunman after a police commissioner who didn't dote on rookeries. lucy, can't city governments be clean? is human nature normally and habitually corrupt when it comes to governing a city? the mayor and all his appointees are simply wading through the vast quagmire of the common citizen's indifference, fought every step by the vile creatures who batten on the administration of the city's affairs. do you suppose that if the schools laid tremendous stress on clean citizenship and began in the kindergarten to teach children how to govern in the most practical way, it would help? i believe it would. i'm going to tuck that thought in the back of my head and some day i may have opportunity to use it. i wish i could do something for the poor boys of new york. i wish the grand canyon were over in jersey!" "sept. 4.--i am unfit to speak to you, but oh, i need you as i never did before. don't turn those kind, clear-seeing eyes away from me, lucy! lucy! it happened this way. i wanted, if possible to make our police commissioner see minetta lane through my eyes. and i took him down there, three days ago. it's unchanged, in all these years, except for the worse. and luigi was dragging a sack of rags into his basement. he was gray and bent but it was luigi. and he recognized me and yelled 'bastard!' after me. lucy, i went back and beat him, till the commissioner hauled me off. and the dirty, spluttering little devil roared my story to all that greedy, listening crowd! i slipped away, lucy, and i hid myself in a place i know in chinatown. no! no! i don't drink and i don't hit the pipe. i _gamble_. my luck is unbelievable. and when the fit is on me, i'd gamble my very soul away. jonas found me. jonas is a colored porter in the city hall who has rather adopted me. and jonas said, 'boss, how come you to do a stunt like this? the police commissioner say to the mayor and i hear 'em, an italian black hander take you for somebody else and he have him run in. i tell 'em you gone down to atlantic city. you come home with me, boss.' he put his kind black hand on my shoulder, and lucy, his eyes were full of tears. i left my winnings with the chinaman, and came back here with jonas. lucy! oh, if i could really hear your voice!" "sept. 5.--i had a long talk with the police commissioner to-day. i can trust him the way i used to trust mr. seaton, lucy. i told him the truth about luigi and me and he promised to do what he could to ferret out the truth about my people. if i could only know that my father was half-way decent, no matter what my mother was, it would make an enormous difference to me." enoch turned another year of pages. "oct. 12.--lucy, the police commissioner says he has to believe that luigi's mistress was my mother. he advises me to close that part of my life for good and all and give myself to politics. easy advice! but i am going to play the game straight in spite of minetta lane." enoch paused long over this entry, then turned on again. "nov. 6.--well, my dear, shake hands with congressman huntingdon. yes, ma'am! it's true! aren't you proud of me? and, lucy, listen! don't have any illusions on how i got there. it wasn't brains. it wasn't that the people wanted me to put over any particular idea or ideal for them. i simply so intrigued them with flights of oratory that they decided i was a natural born congressman! well, bless 'em for doing it, anyhow, and i'll play the game for them. if i ever had had a father i'd like to talk politics with him. he must have had some decency in him, or i'd have been all bad, like my mother. or maybe i'm a throw-back from two degenerate parents. well, we'll end the breed with me. "lucy, it would have been romantic if i could have cleaned out minetta lane and other new york rookeries. but it would have been about like satisfying one's self with washing a boy's face when his body was a mass of running sores. we've got to cure the sores and in order to do that we've got to find the cause. no one thing is going to prove a panacea. i wonder if it's possible to teach children so thoroughly that each one owes a certain amount of altruistic, clean service to his local and his federal government that an honest, responsible citizenry would result?" enoch drank of the ice water and continued to turn the close-written pages. "april 12.--i don't boast much about my career as a congressman. i've been straight and i've gabbed a good deal. that about sums up my history. if i go back as police commissioner, i shall feel much more useful. "lucy, love is a very important thing in a man's life. sometimes, i think that the less he has of it, the more important it becomes. i had thought that as i grew older my career would more and more fill my life, that youth and passion were synonymous and that with maturity would come calm and surcease. this is not the truth. the older i grow the more difficult it becomes for me to feel that work can fully satisfy a man. nor will merely caring for a woman be sufficient. a man must care for a woman whom he knows to be fine, who can meet his mental needs, or love becomes merely physical and never satisfies him. well, i must not whimper. i have talent and tremendous opportunities, many friends and splendid health. and i have you. and each year you become a more intrinsic part of my life. how patient you have been with me all these years! i've been wondering, lately, if you haven't rather a marked sense of humor. it seems to me that nothing else could make you so patient, so tender and so keen! i'm sure i'm an object of mirth to jonas at times, so i must be to you. all right! laugh away! i laugh at myself! "lucy, it has been over eighteen months since i touched a card." jonas put his head in at the door, but enoch turned on to the middle of the book. "dec. 1.--they won't let me keep it up long, lucy, but lord, lord, hasn't the going been good, my dear, while it lasted! i've twisted tammany's tail till its head's dropped off! i've 'got long poles and poked out the nests and blocked up the holes. i shall consult with the carpenters and builders and leave in our town not even a trace of the rats.' i've routed out hereditary grafters and looters. i've run down wealthy gunmen and i've turned men's fame to a notoriety that carried a stench. but they'll get me, lucy! they'll either kill me or send me back to congress." enoch turned more pages. "nov. 1.--congress again, eh, lucy? and you care for washington as little as i! dear, this has been a hard day. i've been saying good-by to the force! by the eternal, but they are men! and now all that wonderful machine, built up, really, by the men themselves, must fall apart! what a waste of human energy! yet, i've come to the conclusion that the man who devotes himself to public service loses much of his usefulness if he allows himself to grow pessimistic about human nature. if there were not more good than bad in the world, we'd still be monkeys! i have ceased to search for some great single ideal for which i can fight. whatever abilities i have in me i shall devote to helping to administer government cleanly. after all, we gave new york a great object lesson in the possibilities of cleaning out tammany's pest house. perhaps somebody's great-grandchild, inspired by the history of my attempt will try again and be successful for a longer period. and oh, woman! it was a gorgeous fight! "jonas is delighted that we are returning to washington. he says we are to keep house. i am a great responsibility to jonas. he is very firm with me, but i think he's as fond of me as i am of him. "lucy, how am i to go on, year after year like this, with only my dream of you? how am i to do my work like a man, with only half a man's life to live? what can all the admiring plaudits mean to me when i know that you are only a dream, only a dream?" enoch sat forward in his chair, laid the book on the desk, opened to the last entry and seized his pen. "so your name is not lucy, but diana! oh, my dearest, and you did not recognize me at all, while my very heart was paralyzed with emotion! you must have been a very lovely little girl that the memory of you should have been so impressed on my subconsciousness. oh, how beautiful you are! how beautiful! and to think that i must never let you know what you are to me. never! never! the strain stops with me." he dropped his pen abruptly and, turning off the light, flung himself down on his bed. jonas, listening long at the door, waited for the full, even breathing that would mark the end of his day's work. but it did not come, and dawn struggling through the hall window found jonas sitting on the floor beside the half-opened door, his black head drooping on his breast, but his eyes open. enoch reached his office on the stroke of nine, as usual. his face was a little haggard and set but he came in briskly and spoke cheerfully to charley abbott. "a little hotter than ever, eh, abbott? i think you're looking dragged, my boy. when are you going to take your vacation?" "in the fall, after you have had yours, mr. secretary." the two men grinned at each other. "did the indian commissioner find work for miss allen?" asked enoch abruptly. "oh, yes! and she was as surprised and pleased as a child." "how do you know that?" demanded the secretary. charley looked a little confused. "i took her out to lunch, mr. huntingdon. jove, she's the most beautiful woman i ever saw!" "well, let's finish off that report to the president, mr. abbott. that must go to him to-morrow, regardless of whom or what i have to neglect to-day." abbott opened his note book. but the dictation hardly had begun when the telephone rang and enoch was summoned to the white house. it was noon when he left the president. washington lay as if scorching under a burning glass. the dusty leaves drooped on the trees. even the carefully cherished white house lawn seemed to have forgotten the recent rains. enoch dismissed his carriage and crossed slowly to pennsylvania avenue. it had occurred to him suddenly that it had been many weeks since he had taken the noon hour outside of his office. he had found that luncheon engagements broke seriously into his day's work. he strolled slowly along the avenue, watching the sweltering noon crowds unseeingly, entirely unconscious of the fact that many people turned to look at him. he paused before a johnstown lunch sign, wondering whimsically what jonas would say if it were reported that the boss had eaten here. and as he paused, the incessantly swinging door emitted miss diana allen. enoch's pause became a full stop. "how do you do, miss allen?" he said. diana flushed a little. "how do you do, mr. secretary! were you looking for a cheap lunch?" "jonas provides the cheapest lunch known to washington," said enoch. "i was looking for some one to walk up pennsylvania avenue with me." "you seem to be well provided with company." diana glanced at the knot of people who were eagerly watching the encounter. enoch did not follow her glance. his eyes were fastened on diana's lovely curving lips. "and i want to hear about the work in the indian bureau." diana fell into step with him. "i think the work is going to be interesting. mr. watkins is more than kind about my pictures. i'm to send home for the best of my collection and he is going to give an exhibition of them." "is he giving you a decent salary?" asked enoch. "ample for all my needs," replied diana. "do your needs stop with the johnstown lunch?" demanded enoch. "well," replied diana, "if you'd lived on the trail as much as i have, you'd not complain of the johnstown lunch. i've made worse coffee myself, and i've seen more flies, too." enoch chuckled. "what does watkins call your job?" "i'm a special investigator for the indian bureau." enoch chuckled again. "right! and that title watkins counts as worth at least five dollars a week. the remainder is the equivalent of a stenographer's salary. i know him!" "he is quite all right," said diana quickly. "it must be extremely difficult to manage a budget. no matter how large they are, they're always too small. to administer the affairs of a dying race with inadequate funds--" diana hesitated. "and in entire ignorance of the race itself," added enoch quietly. "i know! but i had to choose between a rattling good administrator and a rattling good ethnologist." diana nodded slowly. "your choice was inevitable, i suppose. and mr. watkins seems very efficient." "well, and where does your princely salary permit you to live?" enoch concluded. "on new jersey avenue, in a brown stone front with pansies in front and cats in the rear, an old confederate soldier in the basement and rats in the attic. as for odors and furniture, any kind whatever, provided one is not too particular." "my word! how you are going to miss the canyon!" exclaimed enoch. diana nodded. "yes, but after all one's avocation is the most important thing in life."' "is it?" asked enoch. "i've tried to make myself believe that, but so far i've failed." "you mean," diana spoke quickly, "that i ought to have stayed with my father?" "no, i don't!" returned enoch, quite as quickly. "at least, i mean that i know nothing whatever about that. i would say as a general principle, though, that parents who have adequate means, are selfish to hang on the necks of their grown children." "father misses mother so," murmured diana, with apparent irrelevance. enoch said nothing. they were opposite the post office now and diana paused. "i must go to the post office! good-by, mr. secretary." "good-by, miss allen," said enoch, taking off his hat and holding out his hand. "let me know if there is anything further i can do for you!" "oh, i'm quite all right and shall not bother you again, thank you," replied diana cheerfully. enoch was very warm when he reached his office. jonas and the bottle of milk were awaiting him. "how come you to be so hot, boss?" demanded jonas. "i walked back. it was very foolish," replied enoch meekly. "i don't dare to let you out o' my sight," said jonas severely. "i think i do need watching," sighed enoch, beginning his belated luncheon. that night the secretary wrote to diana's father. "my dear frank: diana came and i found a job for her in the indian office. i feel like a dog to have broken my word with you, but her work is very interesting and very important, and i feel that she ought to have her few months of study in washington. she is very beautiful, frank, and very fine. you must try to forgive me. faithfully yours, "enoch huntingdon." chapter v a photographer of indians "when i tutored boys i wondered most at their selfishness and their generosity. they had so much of both! and i believe that as men they lose none of either."--_enoch's diary_. enoch knew what it was to fight himself. perhaps he knew more about such lonely, unlovely battles than any man of his acquaintance. the average man is usually too vain and too spiritually lazy to fight his inner devils to the death. but enoch had fought so terribly that it seemed to him that he could surely win this new struggle. nothing should induce him to break his vow of celibacy. he cursed himself for a weak fool in not obeying frank allen's request. then he gathered together all his resources, to protect diana from himself. a week or so went by, during which enoch made no attempt to see diana or to hear from her. the office routine ground on and on. the mexican cloud thickened. alaska developed a threatening attitude over her coal fields. the farmers of idaho suddenly withdrew their proposals regarding water power. calmly and with clear vision, enoch met each day's problems. but the lines about his mouth deepened. one day, early in august, charley abbott came to the secretary's desk. "miss diana allen would like to see you for a few moments, mr. secretary." enoch did not look up. "ask her to excuse me, mr. abbott, i am very busy." charley hesitated for an instant, then went quickly out. "luncheon is served, boss," said jonas, shortly after. "is abbott gone?" asked enoch. "yes, sir! he's took that miss allen to lunch, i guess. he's sure gone on that young lady. how come everybody thinks she's so beautiful, boss?" "because she is beautiful, jonas, very, very beautiful." the faithful steward looked keenly at the secretary. he had not missed the appearance of a line in the face that was the whole world to him. "boss," he said, "don't you ever think you ought to marry?" enoch looked up into jonas' face. "a man with my particular history had best leave women alone, jonas." jonas' mouth twitched. "they ain't the woman ever born fit to darn your socks, boss." enoch smiled and finished his lunch in silence. he would have given a month of his life to know what errand had brought diana to his office. but charley abbott, returning at two o'clock with the complacent look of a man who has lunched with a beautiful girl, showed no intention of mentioning the girl's name. and enoch went on with his conferences. but it was many days before he opened the black book again. diana's exhibition must have been of unusual quality, for jaded and cynical washington learned of its existence, spoke of it and went to see it. it seemed to enoch that every one he met took special delight in mentioning it to him. even jonas, one night, as he brought in the bed-time pitcher of ice water, said, "boss, i saw miss allen's pictures this evening. they sure are queersome. that must be hotter'n washington out there. how come you ain't been, boss?" "how do you know i haven't seen them, jonas?" asked enoch quickly. "don't i know every place you go, boss? didn't you tell me that was my job, years ago? how come you think i'd forget?" jonas was eyeing the secretary warily. "mr. abbott, he's got a bad case on that miss allen. he's give me at least a dollar's worth of ten cent cigars lately so's i'll stand and smoke and let him talk to me about her." enoch grunted. "he says she--" jonas rambled on. enoch looked up quickly. "i don't want to hear it, jonas." jonas drew himself up stiffly. the secretary laid his own broad palm over the black hand that still held the handle of the water pitcher. "spare me that, old friend," he said. jonas put his free hand on enoch's shoulder. "are you sure you're right, boss?" he asked huskily. "i know i'm right, jonas." "well, i don't see it your way, boss, but what's right for you is right for me. good night, sir," and shaking his head, jonas slowly left the room. but enoch was destined to see the pictures after all. one day, after cabinet meeting, the president, in his friendly way, clapped enoch on the shoulder. "first time in a great many years, huntingdon, that the indian bureau has distinguished itself for anything but trouble! i saw miss allen's pictures last night. my word! what a sense of heat and peace and, yes, by jove, passion! those photographs tell. the bureau ought to own those pictures, old man. especially the huge enlargement of bright angel trail and the navaho hunters. eh?" "well, to tell the truth, mr. president," said enoch slowly, "i haven't seen the pictures." "not seen them! why some one said you discovered miss allen!" "in a way i did, but i don't deserve any credit for that." "not if he saw her first!" exclaimed the secretary of state, who had loitered behind the others. the president nodded. "she is very lovely. i saw her at a distance, and i want to meet her. now, mr. huntingdon, it's very painful for me to have to chide you for dereliction in office. but a man who will neglect those pictures for the--well, the coal fields of alaska, should be dealt with severely." "hear! hear!" cried the secretary of state. the president laughed. "and so i must ask you, mr. huntingdon, to bring miss allen to see me, after you have gone carefully over the pictures. jokes aside, you know my keen interest in indian ethnology?" enoch nodded, and the president went on. "if this girl has the brains and breadth of vision i'm sure she must have to produce a series of photographs like those, i want to know her and do what i can to push her work. so neglect mexico and alaska for a little while, tomorrow, will you, huntingdon?" enoch's laughter was a little grim, but with a quick leap of his heart, he answered. "a man can but obey the commander in chief, i suppose!" as the door swung to behind him, the president said to the secretary of state, "huntingdon is working too hard, i'm afraid. does he ever play?" "horseback riding and golf. but he's a woman hater. at least, if not a hater, an avoider!" "i like him," said the president. "i want him to play." that evening enoch went to see the pictures. there were perhaps a hundred of them, telling the story of the religion of the navahos. only one whom the indians loved and trusted could have procured such intimate, such dramatic photographs. they were as unlike the usual posed portraits of indian life as is a stage shower unlike an actual thunder storm. there was indeed a subtle passion and poignancy about the pictures that it seemed to enoch as well as to the president, only a fine mind could have found and captured. he had made the rounds of the little room twice, threading his way abstractedly through the crowd, before he came upon diana. she was in white, standing before one of the pictures, answering questions that were being put to her by a couple of reporters. she bowed to enoch and he bowed in return, then stood so obviously waiting for the reporters to finish that they actually withdrew. enoch came up and held out his hand. "these are very fine, miss allen." "i thought you were not coming to see them," said diana. "it makes me very happy to have you here!" "does it?" asked enoch quickly. "why?" "because--" here diana hesitated and looked from enoch's stern lips to his blue eyes. "yes, go on, do!" urged enoch. "for heaven's, sake, treat me as if i were a human being and not--" it was his turn to hesitate. "not the washington monument?" suggested diana. enoch laughed. "am i as bad as that?" he asked. diana nodded. "very nearly! nevertheless, for some reason i don't understand, i've had the feeling that you would like the pictures and get what i was driving at, better than any one." "thank you," said enoch slowly. "i do like them. so much so that i wish that i might own them, instead of the indian bureau. the president, to-day, told me the indian bureau ought to buy them. and also, he asked me to bring you to see him to-morrow." a sudden flush made roses in diana's beautifully modeled cheeks. "did he! mr. huntingdon, how am i ever going to thank you?" "i deserve no thanks at all. it was entirely the president's own idea. in fact, i had not intended to come to your exhibition." "no? why not? do you dislike me so much as that? and, after all, mr. secretary, if the pictures are interesting, the fact that a woman took them should not prejudice you against them." "abbott's been giving me a bad reputation, i see," said enoch. "i'll have to get jonas to tell you what a really gentle and affectionate and er--mild, person i am. i've a notion to reduce abbott's salary." "charley abbott is a dear, and he's a devoted admirer of yours," diana exclaimed. "and of yours," rejoined enoch. "he's very discerning," said diana, her eyes twinkling and the corners of her mouth deepening. "but you shall not evade me this way, mr. huntingdon. why didn't you want to see my pictures?" "i didn't say that i didn't want to see them. women are always inaccurate, or at least, so i have heard." "i would say that mr. abbott had a great deal more data on the general subject of women than you, mr. secretary. you really ought to get him to check you up! please, why didn't you intend to come to my exhibition?" "i have been swamped with extra work of late," answered enoch. "yes?" diana's eyebrows rose and her intelligent great eyes were fastened on enoch's with an expression so discerning and so sympathetic, that he bit his lip and turned from her to the navaho, who prayed in the burning desert before him. the reporters, who had been hovering in the offing, closed in on diana immediately. when she was free once more, enoch turned back and held out his hand. "good night, miss allen. if you don't mind coming over to my office at twelve to-morrow, i can take you to the white house then." "i shall not mind!--too much! good night, mr. secretary," replied diana, with the deepening of the corners of her mouth that enoch now recalled had belonged to the little girl diana. enoch made an entry in the black book that night. "i wonder, diana, how much frank has told you of me and my unhappy history. i wonder how you would feel if a man whose mother was a harlot who died of an unspeakable disease were to ask you to marry him. oh, my dear, don't be troubled! i shall never, never, ask you. your pictures moved me more than i dared try to express to you. it was as if you had carried me in a breath to the canyon and once more i beheld the wonder, the kindliness, the calm, the inevitableness of god's ways. i'm going to try, diana, to make a friend of you. i believe that i have the strength. what i am very sure of is that i have not the strength to know that you are in washington and never see you." the clock struck twelve the next day, when abbott came to the secretary's desk. enoch was deep in a conference with the attorney general. "miss allen is here," he said softly. "give me five minutes!" exclaimed the attorney general. "i'm sorry." enoch rose from his desk. "i'm very sorry, old fellow, but this is an appointment with the president. can you come about three, if that suits abbott's schedule?" "not till to-morrow, i'm afraid," said the attorney general. enoch nodded. "it's just as well. i think i'll have some private advices from mexico by then that may somewhat change our angle of attack. all right, jonas! i'm coming. ask miss allen to meet me at the carriage." but he overtook diana in the elevator. she wore the brown silk suit, and enoch thought she looked a little flushed and a little more lovely than usual. "i'm a marked person, mr. secretary," she said, with a twinkle in her eyes. "you'd scarcely believe how many total strangers have asked me to introduce them to you, since you walked up pennsylvania avenue with me." "i'm glad you have an appreciative mind," returned enoch. "i hope that you are circumspect also, and won't impose on me because of my condescension." "i'll try not to," diana answered meekly, as enoch followed her into the carriage. they smiled at each other, and enoch went on, "of course, i've been feeling rather proud of the opportunity to display myself before washington with you. i've been called indifferent to women. i'm hoping now that the gossips will say, 'aha! huntingdon's a deep one! no wonder he's been indifferent to the average woman!'" diana eyed him calmly. "that doesn't sound at all like washington monument," she murmured. "more like charley abbott, i suppose!" retorted enoch. "no," answered diana thoughtfully, "hardly like mr. abbott's method. i would say that he belonged to a different school from you." "yes? what school does abbott represent?" "well, he has a dash, an ease, that shows long and varied experience. charley abbott is a finished ladies' man. it almost discourages me when i contemplate the serried ranks of women that must have contributed to his perfect finesse." "discourages you?" queried enoch. diana did not answer. "but," she went on, "while charley is a graduate of the school of experience and you--" she paused. "yes, and i--," pressed enoch. "i won't impose on your condescension by telling you," said diana. "pshaw!" muttered the secretary of the interior. suddenly diana laughed. enoch, after a moment, laughed with her, and they entered the white house grounds still chuckling. the president did not keep them waiting. "i may not be able to order my wife and daughter about," he said, as he shook hands with enoch, "but i certainly have my official family well under control. did you see the pictures, huntingdon?" "i saw and was conquered, mr. president," replied enoch. "what would you say, miss allen, if i tell you that i had to force this fellow into going to see your wonderful pictures?" the president asked. "it wouldn't surprise me," replied diana, in an enigmatical voice that made both men smile. "i see you understand our secretary of the interior," the president said complacently. "sit down, children, and miss allen, talk to me. how long did it take you to make that collection of photographs?" "i began that particular collection ten years ago. those pictures have been sifted out of nearly two thousand prints." "did you take any other pictures during that period?" asked the president. "oh, yes! i was, i think, fourteen or fifteen when i first determined to give my life to indian photography. i didn't at that time think of making a living out of it. i had a dream of making a photographic history of the spiritual life of some of the south-western tribes. it didn't occur to me that anything but a museum or possibly a library would care for such a collection. but to my surprise there was a ready market for really good prints of indians and indian subjects. so while i have kept always at work on my ultimate idea, i've made and sold many, many pictures of indians on all sorts of themes." enoch looked from diana's half eager, half abashed eyes, to the president's keen, hawk-like face, then back to diana. "what gave you the idea to begin with?" asked the president. diana looked thoughtfully out of the window. both men watched her with interest. enoch's rough hewn face, with its unalterably somber expression, was set in an almost painful concentration. the president's eyes were cool, yet eager. "it is hard for me to put into words just what first led me into the work," said diana slowly. "i was born in a log house on the rim of the grand canyon. my father was a canyon guide." "yes, frank allen, an old yale man. i know him." "do you remember him?" cried diana. "he'll be so delighted! he took you down bright angel years ago." "of course i remember him. give him my regards when you write to him. and go on with your story." "my mother was a california woman, a very good geologist. my nurse was a navajo woman. somehow, by the time i was into my teens, i was conscious of the great loss to the world in the disappearance of the spiritual side of indian life. i knew the canyon well by then and i knew the indians well and the beauty of their ceremonies was even then more or less merged in my mind with the beauty of the canyon. their mysticism was the canyon's mysticism. i tried to write it and i couldn't, and i tried to paint it, and i couldn't. and then one day my mother said to me, 'diana, nobody can interpret indian or canyon philosophy. take your camera and let the naked truth tell the story!'" diana paused. "i'm not clever at talking. i'm afraid i've given you no real idea of my purpose." "one gets your purpose very clearly, when one recalls your death and the navajo, for instance, eh, huntingdon?" "yes, mr. president!" "i suppose the two leading indian ethnologists are arkwind and sherman, of the smithsonian, are they not, miss allen?" asked the president. "oh, without doubt! and they have been very kind to me." the president nodded. "they both tell me that your work is of extraordinary value. they tell me that you have actually photographed ceremonies so secret, so mystical, that they themselves had only heard vaguely of their existence. and not only, they say, have you photographed them, but you have produced works of art, pictures 'pregnant with celestial fire.'" diana's cheeks were a deep crimson. "oh, i deserve so little credit, after all!" she exclaimed. "i was born in the midst of these things. and the indians love me for my old nurse's sake! but human nature is weak and what you tell me makes me very happy, sir." the men glanced at each other and smiled. "suppose, miss allen," said the president, "that you had the means to outfit an expedition. how long would it take you to complete the entire collection you have in mind?" diana's eyes widened. "why, i could do nothing at all with an expedition! i simply wander about canyon and desert, sometimes with old nurse na-che, sometimes alone. the indians have always known me. i'm as much a part of their lives as their own daughters. i--i believe much of their inner hidden religion and so--oh, mr. president, an expedition would be absurd, for me!" "well, then, without an expedition?" insisted the president. diana sighed. "you see, i'm not able to give all my time to the work. mother died five years ago, and father is lonely and, while he thinks his little income is enough for both of us, it's enough only if i stay at home and play about the desert with my camera, cheaply as i do, and keep the house. it does not permit me to leave home. it seems to me, that working as i have in the past, it would take me at least ten years more to complete my work." "the patience of the artist! it always astounds me!" exclaimed the president. "miss allen, i am not a rich man, but i have some wealthy friends. i have one friend in particular, a self-made man, of enormous wealth. the interest he and i have in common is american history in all its aspects. it seems to me that you are doing a truly important work. i want you to let this friend of mine fund you so that you may give all your time to your photography." "oh, mr. president, i don't need funds!" protested diana. "there is no hurry. this is my life work. let me take a life-time for it, if necessary." "that is all very well, miss allen, but what if you die, before you have finished? no one could complete your work because no one has your peculiar combination of information and artistic ability. people like you, my dear, belong not to themselves, but to the country." enoch spoke suddenly. "why not arrange the matter with the indian bureau, mr. president?" "why not arrange it with the circumlocution office!" exclaimed the president. "i'm surprised at you, huntingdon! you know what the budget and red tape of washington does to a temperament like miss allen's. on the other hand, here is my friend, who would give her absolutely free rein and take an intense pride in providing the money." diana laughed. "you speak, sir, as if i needed some vast fund. it costs a dollar a day in the desert to keep a horse and another dollar to keep a man. camera plates and clothing--why a hundred dollars a month would be luxury! and i don't need help, truly i don't! the mere fact of your interest is help enough for me." "a hundred dollars a month for your expenses," said the president, making a memorandum in his notebook, "and what is your time worth?" "my time? you mean what would i charge somebody for doing this work? why, mr. president, this is not a job! it's an avocation! i wouldn't take money for it. it's a labor of love." the chief executive suddenly rose and diana, rising too, was surprised at the look that suddenly burned in the hawk-like eyes. "you are an unusual woman, miss allen! your angle on life is one seldom found in washington." he took a restless turn up and down the room, glanced at enoch, who stood beside the desk, utterly absorbed in contemplation of diana's protesting eyes, then said, "this friend of mine is a disappointed man. he had believed that in amassing a great fortune he would find satisfaction. he has found that money of itself is dust and ashes and it is too late for him to take up a new work. miss allen, i too am a disappointed man. i had believed that the president of a great nation was a full man, a contented man. i find myself an automaton, whirled about by the selfish desires of a politically stupid and indifferent constituency. one of the few consolations i find in my high office is that once in a while i come upon some one who is contributing something permanent to this nation's real advancement, and i am able to help that person. miss allen, will you not share your great good fortune with my friend and me?" "gladly!" exclaimed diana quickly. then she added, with a little laugh, "i think i understand now, why you are president of the united states!" enoch and the president joined in the laugh, and diana was still smiling when they descended the steps to the waiting carriage. but the smile faded with a sudden thought. "the president mustn't think i will take more than expense money!" she exclaimed. enoch laughed again as he replied, "i don't think that need bother you, miss allen. i imagine a yearly sum will be placed at your disposal. you will use what you wish." diana shook her head uneasily. "i don't more than half like the idea. but the president made it very difficult to refuse." enoch nodded. the carriage stopped before the willard hotel. "miss allen, will you lunch with me?" he asked. diana hesitated. "i'll be late getting back to the office," she said. "i'll ask watkins not to dock you," said enoch soberly. "docking my salary," touching enoch's proffered hand lightly as she sprang to the curb, "would be almost like taking something from nothing. i've never lunched in the willard, mr. secretary." "the johnstown lunch still holds sway, i suppose!" said enoch, following diana down the stairs to peacock row. they were a rather remarkable pair together. at least the occupants of the row evidently felt so, for there was a breathless craning of necks and a hush in conversations as they passed, diana, with her heart-searching beauty, enoch with his great height and his splendid, rugged head. the head waiter did not actually embrace enoch in welcoming him, but he managed to convey to the dining-room that here was a personal and private god of his own on whom the public had the privilege of gazing only through his generosity. finally he had them seated to his satisfaction in the quietest and most conspicuous corner of the room. "now, my dear mr. secretary, what may we give you?" he asked, rubbing his hands together. enoch glanced askance at diana, who shook her head. "this is entirely out of my experience, mr. secretary," she said. "gustav," said enoch, "it's not yet one o'clock. we must leave here at five minutes before two. something very simple, gustav." he checked several items on the card and gave it to the head waiter with a smile. gustav smiled too. "yes, mr. secretary!" he exclaimed, and disappeared. "and that's settled," said enoch, "and we can forget it. miss allen, when shall you go back to the canyon?" "why," answered diana, looking a little startled, "not till i've finished the work for mr. watkins, and that will take six months, at least." "i think the president's idea will be that you must get to your own work, at once. some one else can carry on watkins' researches." "i ought to do some studying in the congressional library," protested diana. "don't you think washington can endure me a few months longer, mr. secretary?" "endure you!" enoch's voice broke a little, and he gave diana a glance in which he could not quite conceal the anguish. a sudden silence fell between the two that was broken by the waiter's appearance with the first course. then diana said, casually: "my father is going to be very happy when i write him about this. do you remember him at all clearly, mr. secretary?" "yes," replied enoch. then with a quick, direct look, he asked, "did your father, ever give you the details of his experience with me in the canyon?" diana's voice was low but very steady as she replied, "yes, mr. secretary. he told me long ago, when you made your famous boyhood on the rack speech in congress. it was the first word he had heard of you in all the years and he was deeply moved." "i'm glad he told you," said enoch. "i'm glad, because i'd like to ask you to be my friend, and i would want the sort of friend you would make to know the worst as well as the best about me." "if that is the worst of you--" diana began quickly, then paused. "as father told me, it was a story of a boy's suffering and the final triumph of his mind and his body." enoch stared at diana with astonishment in every line of his face. then he sighed. "he couldn't have told you all," he muttered. "yes, he did, all! and nothing, not even what the president said to-day, can mean as much to me as your asking me to be your friend." enoch continued to stare at the lovely, tender face opposite him. diana smiled. "don't look so incredulous, mr. secretary! it's not polite. you are a very famous person. i am nobody. we are lunching together in a wonderful hotel. i don't even vaguely surmise the names of the things we are eating. don't look at me doubtingly. look complacent because you can give a lady so much joy." enoch laughed with a quick relief that made his cheeks burn. "and so you are nobody! curious, then, that you should have impressed yourself on me so deeply even when you were a child!" it was diana's turn to laugh. "oh, come, mr. secretary! of course i don't recall it myself, but dad has always said that you were bored to death at having a small girl taking the trail with you." "do you remember that your mule slipped on the home trail and that i saved your life?" demanded enoch. diana shook her head. "i was too small and there were too many canyon trips and too many tourists. i wish--" she did not finish her sentence, but enoch said, with a thread of earnestness in his deep voice that made diana look at him keenly, "i wish you did remember!" there was a moment's silence, then enoch went on, "shall you carry on your work with the indians alone as you always have done? i believe i can quite understand your father's uneasiness." "oh, yes!" exclaimed diana, glad of an opportunity to redirect the conversation. "just as i always have done. i shall have no trouble unless i get soft, living at the johnstown lunch! then i may have to waste time till i get fit again. have you ever lived on the trail, excepting on your trip to the grand canyon, mr. secretary?" "yes, in canada and maine, while i was in college. i used to tutor rich boys, and they had glorious summers, lucky kids! but since getting into national politics, i've had no time for real play." "some day," said diana, "you ought to get up an outfit and go down the colorado from the green river to the needles. that's a real adventure! only a few men have done it since the powell expeditions." enoch's eyes brightened. "i know! some day, perhaps i shall, if jonas will let me! how long do you suppose such a trip would take?" diana plunged into a description of a recent expedition down the canyons of the colorado, and she managed to keep the remainder of the luncheon conversation on this topic. but as far as enoch was concerned, diana's effort was merely a conversational detour. the luncheon finished and the gulf of california safely reached, he said as he handed diana into the carriage: "i've never had a friendship with a woman before," he said. "what do i do next?" diana sighed, while her lips curled at the corners. "well, mr. secretary, i think the next move is to think the matter over for a few days, quietly and alone." "do you?" enoch smiled enigmatically. "i don't know that it's safe for me to rely on your experience after all!" but he said no more. enoch spent the evening in his living-room with señor juan cadiz and a small, lean, brown man in an ill-fitting black suit. the latter did not speak english, and señor cadiz acted as interpreter. the stranger was uneasy and suspicious, until the very last of the evening. then, after a long half hour spent in silent scowling while he stared at enoch and listened to the secretary's replies to cadiz's eager questions, he suddenly burst into a passionate torrent of spanish. a look of great relief came to cadiz's face, as he said to enoch: "now he says he trusts you and will tell you the names of the americans who are paying him." enoch began to jot down notes. when cadiz's translation was finished enoch said: "this in brief, then, is the situation. a group of americans own vast oil fields in mexico. they have enormous difficulty policing and controlling the fields. the mexican method of concession making is exceedingly expensive and uncertain. they wish the united states to take mexico over, either through actual conquest or by mandate. they have hired a group of bandits to keep trouble brewing until the united states is forced by england, germany, or france, to interfere. this group of men is partly german though all dwell in the united states. your friend here, and several of his associates, if i personally swear to take care of them, will give me information under oath whenever i wish." "yes! yes! yes! that is the story!" cried señor cadiz. "oh, mr. secretary, if you could only undo the harm that your cursed american method of making the public opinion has done, both here and in mexico. why should neighbors hate each other? mr. secretary, tell these americans to get out of mexico and stay out! we are foolish in many ways, but we want to learn to govern ourselves. there will be much trouble while we learn but for god's sake, mr. secretary, force american money to leave us alone while we struggle in our birth throes!" enoch stood up to his great height, tossing the heavy copper-colored hair off his forehead. he looked at the two mexicans earnestly, then he said, holding out his hand, "señor cadiz, i'll help you to the best of my ability. i believe in you and in the ultimate ability of your country to govern itself. now will you let me make an appointment for you with the secretary of state? properly, you know, you should have gone to him with this." the mexican shook his head. "no! no! please, mr. secretary! we do not know him well. he has shown no willingness to understand us. you! you are the one we believe in! we have watched you for years. we know that you are honest and disinterested." "but i shall have to give both the president and the secretary of state this information," insisted enoch. "that is in your hands," said señor cadiz. "then," enoch nodded as jonas appeared with the inevitable tinkling glasses, "remain quietly in washington until you hear from me again." jonas held the door open on the departing callers with disapproval in every line of his face. "how come that colored trash to be setting in the parlors of the government, boss?" asked he. "they are mexicans, jonas," replied enoch. "just a new name for niggers, boss," snapped jonas, following enoch up the stairs. "don't you trust any colored man that ain't willing to call hisself black." enoch laughed and settled himself to an entry in the journal. "this was the happiest day of my life, diana. we are going to be great friends, are we not! and the philosophers tell us that friendship is the most soul-satisfying of all human relationships. i have been very vacillating in my attitude to you, since you came to washington. but i cannot lose the feeling that those wise, wistful eyes of yours have seen my trouble and understood. i wonder how soon i can see you again. i'm rather proud of my behavior to-day, diana, dearest." chapter vi a newspaper reporter "i wonder if christ ever cared for a woman. he may have, for god wished him to know and suffer all that men know and suffer, and all love must have been noble in his eyes."--_enoch's diary_. "abbott," said enoch the next day, "do you recall that i have commented to you several times on the fact that some of the southwestern states did not back the geological survey in its search for oil fields as we had expected they would?" "yes, mr. secretary," answered charley, looking up from his notebook with keen interest in eye and voice. "i have wondered just why the matter bothered you so." "it has bothered me for several different reasons. it has, to begin with, conflicted with my idea of the fundamental purpose of this office. what could be a stronger reason for being for the geological survey than to find and show the public the resources of the public lands? when the bureau of mines reports to me that certain oil fields are diminishing at an alarming rate, and when any fool knows that a vital part of our future history is to be written in terms of oil, it behooves the secretary of the interior to look for remedial steps. certain sections of our southwest are saturated with oil and yet, abbott, the states resent our locating oil fields. as far as i know now, no open hostility has been shown, unless"--enoch interrupted himself suddenly,--"do you recall last year that some indians drove a survey group out of apache canyon and that young rice was killed and all his data lost?" "certainly, i recall it. i knew rice." enoch nodded. "do you recall that a number of newspapers took occasion then to sneer at government attempts to usurp state and commercial functions?" "now you speak of it, i do remember. the brown papers were especially nasty." "yes," agreed enoch. "now listen closely, abbott. when my suspicions had been sufficiently roused, i went to the secretary of state, and he laughed at me. then, the mexico trouble began to come to a head and i told the president what i feared. this was after i'd had that letter from juan cadiz. last night, as you know, i had a session with cadiz and one of his bandit friends. here is what i drew from them." enoch reviewed rapidly his conversation of the night before. abbott listened with snapping eyes. "it looks as if secretary fowler would have to stop laughing," he said, when enoch had finished. "abbott," enoch's voice was very low, "john fowler, the secretary of state, always will laugh at it." "why?" asked charley. "i don't know," replied enoch. the two men stared at each other for a long moment. then abbott said, "i've known for a long time that he was jealous of you, politically. also he may own mexican oil stock or he may merely wish to have the political backing of the brown newspapers." "can you think of any method of persuading him that i am not a political rival, that i merely want to go to the senate, when i have finished here?" asked enoch earnestly. abbott shook his head, "he might be convinced that you want to be a senator. but he's a clever man. and even a fool knows that you are america's man on horseback." charley's voice rose a little. "why, even in this rotten, cynical city of washington, they believe in you, they feel that you are the man of destiny. mr. fowler is just clever enough to be jealous of you." a look of sadness came into enoch's keen gaze. "i wonder if the game is worth it, after all," murmured he. "abbott, i'd swap it all for--" he stopped abruptly, looked broodingly out of the window, then said, "charley, my boy, why are you going into political life?" the younger man's eyes deepened and he cleared his throat. "a few years ago, if i'd answered that question truthfully, i'd have said for personal aggrandizement! but my intimate association with you, mr. huntingdon, has given me a different ideal. i'm going into politics to serve this country in the best way i can." "thanks, abbott," said enoch. "i've been wanting to say to you for some time that i thought you had served your apprenticeship as a secretary. how would you like an appointment as a special investigator?" charley shook his head. "as long as you are secretary of the interior, i prefer this job; not only because of my personal feeling for you but because i can learn more here about the way a clean political game can be played than i can anywhere else." "all right, abbott! i'm more than grateful and more than satisfied at having you with me. see if i can have a conference with first the secretary of state and then the president. now let me finish this report before the attorney general arrives." enoch's conference with secretary fowler was inconclusive. the secretary of state chose to take a humorous attitude toward what he termed the secretary of the interior's midnight conference with bandits. enoch laughed with him and then departed for his audience with the chief executive. the president listened soberly. when the report was finished, he scowled. "what attitude does mr. fowler take in this?" "he thinks i'm making mountains out of mole hills. it seems to me, mr. president, that i must be extremely careful not to encroach on the domain of the secretary of state. my idea is very deliberately to push the work of the geological survey and to follow very carefully any activities against its work." "all very well, of course," agreed the president, "but what of the big game back of it all--what's the means of fighting that?" "publicity," replied enoch briefly. "exactly!" exclaimed the president, "there are other newspapers. brown does not own them all. as fast as evidence is produced, let the story be told. by jove, if this war talk grows much more menacing, huntingdon, i think i'll ask you to go across the country and make a few speeches,--on the geological survey!" "i'm willing!" replied enoch, with a little sigh. the president looked at him keenly. "huntingdon, we're working you too hard! you look tired. i try not to overload you, but--" "but you are so overloaded yourself that you have to shift some of the load," said enoch, with a smile. "i'm not seriously tired, mr. president." "i hope not, old man. by the way, what did you think of miss allen yesterday?" "i thought her a very interesting young woman," replied enoch. "my heavens, man!" exclaimed the chief executive. "what do you want! why, diana allen is as rare as--as a great poem. look here, huntingdon, you make a mistake to cut all women out of your life. it's not normal." "perhaps not," agreed enoch briefly. "i would be very glad," he added, as if fearing that he had been too abrupt, "i would be very glad to see more of miss allen." "you ought to make a great effort to do," said the president. "keep me informed on this mexican matter, please, and take care of yourself, my boy. good-by, mr. secretary. think seriously of a speaking tour, won't you?" "i will," replied enoch obediently, as he left the room. the remainder of the day was crowded to the utmost. it was not until midnight that enoch achieved a free moment. this was when in the privacy of his own room jonas had bidden him a final good night. enoch did not open his journal. instead he scrawled a letter. "dear miss allen: after deliberating on the matter a somewhat shorter time, i'll admit, than you suggested, but still having deliberated on it, i have decided that friendship is an art that needs attention and study. will you not dine with me to-morrow, or rather, this evening, at the ashton, at eight o'clock? jonas, who will bring you this, can bring your answer. sincerely yours, enoch huntingdon." he gave the note to jonas the next morning. jonas' black eyes, when he saw the superscription, nearly started from their sockets: for during all the years of his service with enoch, he never had carried a note to a woman. it was mid-morning when he tip-toed to the secretary's desk and laid a letter on it. enoch was in conference at the time with bill timmins, perhaps the foremost newspaper correspondent in america. he excused himself for a moment and opened the envelope. "dear mr. secretary: thank you, yes. sincerely, diana allen." he slipped the letter into his breast pocket and went on with the interview, his face as somber as ever. but all that day it seemed to the watchful jonas that the secretary seemed less tired than he had been for weeks. there was a little balcony at the ashton, just big enough for a table for two, and shielded from the view of the main dining-room by palms. it was set well out from the second floor, overlooking a quiet park. enoch was in the habit of dining here with various men with whom he wished semi-privacy yet whom he did not care to entertain at his own home. diana was more than charmed by the arrangement. the corners of her mouth deepened as if she were also amused, but enoch, engrossed in seating her where the light exactly suited him, did not note the curving lips. he did not know much about women's dress, but he liked diana's soft white gown, and the curious turquoise necklace she wore interested him. he asked her about it. "na-che gave it to me," she said. "it was her mother's. it has no special significance beyond the fact that the workmanship is very fine and that the tracery on the silver means joy." "joy? what sort of joy?" asked enoch. "is there more than one sort?" countered diana, in the bantering voice that enoch always fancied was half tender. "oh, yes!" replied the secretary. "there's joy in work, play, friends. there are as many kinds of joy as there are kinds of sorrow. only sorrow is so much more persistent than joy! a sorrow can stay by one forever. but joys pass. they are always short lived." "joy in work does not pass, mr. secretary," said diana. enoch laid down his spoon. "please, miss allen, don't mr. secretary me any more." diana merely smiled. "granted that one has a real friend, i believe joy in friendship is permanent," she went on. "i hope you're right," said enoch quietly. "we'll see, you and i." diana did not reply. she was, perhaps, a little troubled by enoch's calm and persistent declaration of principles. it is not easy for a woman even of diana's poise and simple sincerity to keep in order a gentleman as distinguished and as courteous and as obviously in earnest as enoch. finally, "do you mind talking your own shop, mr. huntingdon?" she asked. "not at all," replied enoch eagerly. "is there some aspect of my work that interests you?" "i imagine that all of it would," said diana. "but i was not thinking of your work as a cabinet official. i was thinking of you as police commissioner of new york." enoch looked surprised. "father wrote to me the other day," diana went on, "and asked me to send him the collection of your speeches. i bought it at brentano's and i don't mind telling you that it pinched the johnstown lunches a good bit to do so, but it was worth it, for i read the book before mailing it." "you're not hinting that i ought to reimburse you, are you?" demanded enoch, with a delighted chuckle. "well, no--we'll consider that the luncheon and this dinner square the johnstown pinching, perhaps a trifle more. what i wanted to say was that it struck me as worth comment that after you ceased being police commissioner, you never again talked of the impoverished boyhood of america. and yet you were a very successful commissioner, were you not?" enoch looked from diana out over the balcony rail to the fountain that twinkled in the little park. "one of the most difficult things in public life," he said slowly, "is to hew straight to the line one laid out at the beginning." "i should think," diana suggested, "that the difficulty would depend on what the line was. a man who goes into politics to make himself rich, for example, might easily stick to his original purpose." "exactly! but money of itself never interested me!" here enoch stopped with a quick breath. there flashed across his inward vision the picture of a boy in luigi's second story, throwing dice with passionate intensity. enoch took a long sip of water, then went on. "i wanted to be police commissioner of new york because i wanted to make it impossible for other boys to have a boyhood like mine. i don't mean that, quite literally, i thought one man or one generation could accomplish the feat. but i did truly think i could make a beginning. miss allen, in spite of the beautiful fights i had, in spite of the spectacular clean-ups we made, i did nothing for the boys that my successor did not wipe out with a single stroke of his pen, his first week in office." diana drew a long breath. "i wonder why," she said. "i think that lack of imagination, poor memory, personal selfishness, is the answer. there is nothing people forget quite so quickly as the griefs of their own childhood. there is nothing more difficult for people to imagine than how things affect a child's mind. and yet, nothing is so important in america to-day as the right kind of education for boys. it has not been found as yet." "have you a theory about it?" asked diana. "yes, i have. have you?" diana nodded. "i don't think boys and girls should be educated from the same angle." "no? why not?" enoch's blue eyes were eager. "wandering about the desert among the indians, one has leisure to think and to observe the workings of life under frank and simple conditions. it has seemed to me that the boy approaches life from an entirely different direction from a girl and that our system of education should recognize that. both are primarily guided by sex, their femaleness or their maleness is always their impelling force. i'm talking now on the matter of the spiritual and moral training, not book education." "why not include the mental training? i think you'd be quite right in doing so." "perhaps so," replied diana. they were silent for a moment, then enoch said, with a quiet vehemence, "some day they'll dare to defy the creeds and put god into the public schools. i don't know about girls, but, miss allen, the growing boys need him, more than they need a father. something to cling to, something high and noble and permanent while sex with all its thousand varied impulses flagellates them! something to go to with those exquisite, generous fancies that even the worst boy has and that even the best boy will not share even with the best mother. the homes today don't have god in them. the churches with their hide-bound creeds frighten away most men. think, miss allen, think of the travesty of our great educational system which ignores the two great facts of the universe, god and sex." "you've never put any of this into your public utterances." "no," replied enoch, "i've been saving it for you," and he looked at her with a quiet smile. diana could but smile in return. "and so," said enoch, "returning to the answer to your original question, i have found it hard to keep to any sort of fine idealism, partly because of my own inward struggles and partly because politics is a vile game anyhow." "we americans," diana lifted her chin and looked into enoch's eyes very directly, "feel that at least one politician has played a clean game. it is a very great privilege for me to know you, mr. huntingdon." "miss allen," half whispered enoch, "if you really knew me, with all my inward devils and my half-achieved dreams, you would realize that it's no privilege at all. nevertheless, i wish that you did know all about me. it would make me feel that the friendship which we are forming could stand even 'the wreckful siege of battering days'!" "there was a man who understood friendships!" said diana quickly. "he said in his sonnets all that could be said about it." "now don't disappoint me by agreeing with the idiots who try to prove that shakespeare wrote the sonnets to a man!" cried enoch. "only a woman could have brought forth that beauty of song." diana rose nobly to do battle. "what nonsense, mr. huntingdon! as if a man like shakespeare--" she paused as if struck by a sudden thought. "that's a curious attitude for a notorious woman hater to take, mr. secretary." enoch laid down his fork. "do you think i'm a woman hater, miss allen?" looking steadily into diana's eyes. "i didn't mean to be so personal. just like a woman!" sighed diana. "but do you think i'm a woman hater?" insisted enoch. diana looked up earnestly. "please, mr. huntingdon, if our friendship is to ripen, you must not force it." enoch's face grew suddenly white. there swept over him with bitter realism a conception of the falseness of the position into which he was permitting himself to drift. he answered his own question with an attempted lightness of tone. "i can never marry, but i don't hate women." diana's chin lifted and enoch leaned forward quickly. all the aplomb won through years of suffering and experience deserted him. for the moment he was again the boy in the bottom of the grand canyon. "oh, i am stupid, but let me explain. i want you to--" "please don't!" said diana coldly. "i need no warning, mr. huntingdon." "oh, my dear miss allen, you must not be offended! what can i say?" "you might ask me if it's not time to go home," suggested diana, coolly. "you mustn't forget that i'm a wage earner." enoch bit his lip and turned to sign the check. then he followed diana to the door. here they came upon the indian commissioner and his wife, and all opportunity for explanations was gone for the two invited themselves to walk along to diana's rooming place. enoch went up the steps with diana, however, and asked her tensely: "will you lunch with me to-morrow, miss allen, that i may explain myself?" "thank you, no. i shall be very busy to-morrow, mr. huntingdon." "let me call here in the evening, then." "i'd rather you wouldn't," answered the girl, coldly. "good night, mr. secretary," and she was gone. enoch stood as if struck dumb, then he made an excuse to mr. and mrs. watkins, and started homeward. the night was stifling. when jonas let him into the house, his collar was limp and his hair lay wet on his forehead. "i'm going to new york to-night, jonas," he said huskily. "what's happened, boss?" asked jonas breathlessly, as he followed enoch up the stairs. "nothing! i'm going to give myself a day's rest. give me something to travel in," pulling off his coat. "i'm going with you, boss," not stirring, his black eyes rolling. "no, i'm going alone, jonas. here, i'll pack my own grip. you go on out." this in a voice that sent jonas, however reluctantly, into the hall, where he walked aimlessly up and down, wringing his hands. "he ain't been as bad as this in years," he muttered. "i wonder what she did to him!" enoch came out of his room shortly. "tell every one i'm in new york, jonas," he said, and was gone. but enoch did not go to new york. there was, he found on reaching the station, no train for an hour. he checked his suitcase, and the watching jonas followed him out into the dark streets. he knew exactly whither the boss was heading, and when enoch had been admitted into a brick house on a quiet street not a stone's throw from the station, jonas entered nimbly through the basement. he had a short conference with a colored man in the kitchen, then he went up to the second floor and sat down in a dark corner of the hall where he could keep an eye on all who entered the rear room. well dressed men came and went from the room all night. it was nearing six o'clock in the morning when jonas stopped a waiter who was carrying in a tray of coffee. "how many's there now?" he demanded. "only four," replied the waiter. "that red-headed guy's winning the shirts off their backs. i've seen this kind of a game before. it's good for another day." "are any of 'em drinking?" asked jonas. "nothing but coffee. lord, i'm near dead!" "let me take that tray in for you. i want to get word to my boss." the waiter nodded and, sinking into jonas' chair, closed his eyes. jonas carried the tray into a handsome, smoke filled room, where four men with intent faces were gathered around a card table. enoch, in his shirt sleeves, was dealing as jonas set a steaming cup at his elbow. perhaps the intensity of the colored man's gaze distracted enoch's attention for a moment from the cards. he looked up and when he met jonas' eyes he deliberately laid down the deck, rose, took jonas by the arm and led him to the door. "don't try this again, jonas," he said, and he closed the door after his steward. once more jonas took up his vigil. he left his chair at nine o'clock to telephone charley abbott that the secretary had gone to new york, then he returned to his place. noon came, afternoon waned. as dusk drew on again, jonas went once more to the telephone. "that you, miss allen? . . . this is jonas. . . . yes, ma'am, i'm well, but the boss is in a dangerous condition. . . . yes, ma'am, i thought you'd feel bad because you see, it's your fault. . . . no, ma'am, i can't explain over the telephone, but if you'll come to the station and meet me at the news-stand on the corner, i'll tell you. . . . miss allen, for god's sake, just trust me and come along. come now, in a cab, and i'll pay for it. . . . thank you! thank you, ma'am! thank you!" he banged up the receiver and flew out the basement door. when he reached the news-stand, he stood with his hands twitching, talking to himself for a half hour before diana appeared. she walked up to him as directly as a man would have done. "what's happened, jonas?" "you and the boss must have quarreled last night. when anything strikes the boss deep, he wants to gamble. of late years he's mostly fought it off, but once in a while it gets him. he's been at it since last night over yonder, and for the first time in years i can't do anything with him. and if it gets out, you know, miss allen, he's ruined. i don't dast to leave him long, that's why i got you to come here." diana's chin lifted. "do you mean to tell me that a man of mr. huntingdon's reputation and ability, still stoops to that sort of thing?" "stoop! what do you mean, stoop? o lord, i thought, seeing he sets the world by you, that you was different from the run of women and would understand." jonas twisted his brown hands together. "understand what?" asked diana, her great eyes fastened on jonas with pity and scorn struggling in them. "understand what it means to him. how it's like a conjur that luigi wished on him when he was a little boy. how he's pulled himself away from it and he didn't have anybody on earth to help him till i come along. what do you women folks know about how a strong man like him fights satan? i've seen him walk the floor all night and win, and i've seen him after he's given in, suffer sorrow and hate of himself like a man the almighty's forgot. that's why he's so good, because he sins and then suffers for it." as jonas' husky voice subsided, a sudden gleam of tears shone in diana's eyes. "i'll send him a note, jonas, and wait here for the answer. if that doesn't bring him, i'll go after him myself." "the note'll bring him," said jonas, "and he'll give me thunder for telling." "let me have a pencil and get me some paper from the news-stand." she wrote rapidly. "dear mr. huntingdon: "i must see you at once on urgent business. i am in the railway station. could you come to me here? "diana allen." jonas all but snatched the note and dashed away. enoch was scowling at the cards before him when jonas thrust the note into his hand. enoch stared at the address, laid the cards down slowly, and read the note. "all right, gentlemen," he said quietly. "i've had my fun! good night!" he took his hat from jonas and strode out of the room. he did not speak as the two walked rapidly to the station. diana was standing by a cab near the main entrance. "this is good of you, mr. huntingdon," she said gravely, shaking hands. "thank you, jonas!" she entered the cab and enoch followed her. "let me have your suitcase check, boss." jonas held out a black hand that still shook a little. "i'll get miss allen to drop me at the house, jonas," said enoch. jonas nodded and heaved a great sigh as the cab started off. "how did you come to do it?" asked enoch, looking strangely at diana. "i heard you were in new york, mr. secretary. jonas called me up!" "jonas had no business to do so. i am humiliated beyond words!" enoch spoke with a dreary sort of hopelessness. "i thought we were friends," said diana calmly. "it isn't as if we hadn't known each other and all about each other since childhood. you must not say a word against jonas." "how could i? he is my guardian angel," said enoch. diana went on still in the commonplace tone of the tea table. "i want to apologize for my fit of temper, mr. secretary. i was very stupid and i'm thoroughly ashamed of myself. you may tell me anything you please!" "i don't deserve it!" enoch spoke abruptly. diana's voice suddenly deepened and softened. "ah, but you do deserve it, dear mr. secretary. you deserve all that grateful citizens can do for you, and even then we cannot expect to discharge our full debt to you. here's my house. perhaps when you're not too busy, you'll ask me to dine again with you." enoch did not reply. he stood with bared head while she ran up the steps. then he reentered the cab and was driven home. but it was not till two weeks later that enoch sent a note to diana, asking her to take dinner with him. even his diary during that period showed no record of his inward flagellations. he did not receive an answer until late in the afternoon. it had been an exceptionally hectic day. enoch had been summoned before the senate committee on appropriations, and with the director of the reclamation service had endured a grilling that had had some aspects of the third degree. after some two hours of it the director had lost his temper. "gentlemen!" he had cried, "treat me as if i were a common thief, attempting to loot the public funds, if you find satisfaction in it, but at least do not humiliate the secretary of the interior in the same manner!" "these people can't humiliate me, whipple." enoch had spoken quietly. the blow had struck home and the senator who was acting as chairman had apologized. enoch had nodded. "i know! you are in the position of having to appropriate funds for the carrying on of a highly specialized business about which you are utterly ignorant. you are uneasy and you mistake impertinent questioning for keen investigation." "i move we adjourn until to-morrow," a member had said hastily. the motion had carried and enoch, as though it was already past six o'clock, had started for his office, whipple accompanying him. "after all this howl over the proposed paloma dam," said whipple, "we may not be able to build it. there's a bunch of mexicans both this and the other side of the border that have made serious trouble with the preliminary survey, and i have the feeling that there is some power behind that wants to start something." "is that so?" asked enoch with interest. "come in and talk to me a few moments about it." whipple followed to the secretary's office. a sealed letter was lying on the desk. enoch opened it, and read it without ceremony. "dear mr. huntingdon: i find that some old friends are starting for the grand canyon this afternoon and they have given me an opportunity to make one of their party. i have been able to arrange my work to mr. watkins' satisfaction and so, i'm off. i want to thank you very deeply for the wonderful openings you have made for me and for the very great personal kindness you have shown me. when i return in the winter, i hope i may see you again. "very sincerely yours, "diana allen." enoch folded the note and slipped it into his pocket, then he looked at the waiting director. "i hope you'll excuse me, whipple, but this is something to which i must give my personal attention," and without a word further, he put on his hat and walked out of the office. he did not go to his waiting carriage but, leaving the building by another door, he walked quickly to the drug store on the corner and, entering a telephone booth, called the railroad station. the train connecting for the southwest had left an hour before. enoch hung up the receiver and walked out to the curb, scowling and striking his walking stick against his trouser leg. finally he got aboard a trolley. it was a little after three o'clock in the morning when jonas located him. enoch was leaning against the wall watching the roulette table. "good evening, boss," said jonas. enoch looked round at him. "that you, jonas? i haven't touched a card or a dollar this evening, jonas." jonas, who had already ascertained this from the owner of the gambling house, nodded. "have you had your supper yet, boss?" enoch hesitated, thinking heavily. "why, no, jonas, i guess not." then he added irritably, "a man must rest, jonas. i can't slave all the time." "sure!" returned the colored man, holding his trembling hands behind him. "but how come you to think this was rest, boss? you better come back now and let me fix you a bite to eat." "jonas, what's the use? who on earth but you cares what i do? what's the use?" "miss diana allen," said jonas softly, "she told mr. abbott this noon, at lunch, that you was one of the great men of this country and that he was a lucky dog to spend all his time with you." enoch stood, his arms folded on his chest, his massive head bowed. finally he said, "all right, old man, i'll try again. but i'm lonely, jonas, lonely beyond words, and all the greatness in the world, jonas, can't fill an empty heart." "i know it, boss! i know it!" said jonas huskily, as he led the way to the street. there, enoch insisted on walking the three or four miles home. "all right," agreed jonas, cheerfully. "i guess ghosteses don't mind travel, and that's all i am, just a ghost." enoch stopped abruptly, put a hand on jonas' shoulder and hailed a passing night prowler. once in the cab, jonas said: "the white house done called you twice to-night. mr. secretary. i told 'em you'd call first thing in the morning." "thanks!" replied enoch briefly. the house was silent when they reached it. jonas never employed servants who could not sleep in their own homes. by the time the secretary was ready for bed, jonas appeared with a tray, enoch silently and obediently ate and then turned in. the white house called before the secretary had finished breakfast. "you saw last night's papers?" asked the president. "no! i'm sorry. i--i took a rest last evening." "i'm glad you did. well, i think you'd better plan--come up here, will you, at once? i won't try to talk to you over the telephone." enoch, in the carriage, glanced over the paper. the brown paper of the evening before contained a nasty little story of innuendo about the work of the survey near paloma. the morning paper declared in glaring headlines that the president by his pacifist policy toward mexico was tainting the nation's honor and that it would shortly bring england, france and germany about our ears. the president was still at breakfast when enoch was shown in to him. the chief executive insisted that enoch have a cup of coffee. "you don't look to me, my boy, like a man who had enjoyed his rest. and i'm going to ask you to add to your burdens. could you leave next week for a speaking trip?" the tired lines around enoch's mouth deepened. "yes, mr. president. have you a general route planned?" "yes, new york, chicago, denver, san francisco and in between as can be arranged. take two months to it." "i shall be glad to be free of office routine for a while," said enoch. he sipped his coffee slowly, then rose as he added: "i shall stick strictly to the work of my department, mr. president, in the speech making." "oh! absolutely! and let me be of any help to you i may." "thank you," enoch smiled a little grimly. "you might come along and supply records for the phonograph." "by jove, i would if it were necessary!" said the president. jonas and abbott each was perfect in his own line. in five days' time enoch was aboard the private car, with such paraphernalia as was needed for carrying on office work en route. the itinerary had been arranged to the last detail. a few carefully chosen newspaper correspondents were aboard and one hot september evening, a train with the secretary's car hitched to it, pulled out of washington. of enoch's speeches on that trip little need be said here. never before had he spoken with such fire and with such simple eloquence. the group of speeches he made are familiar now to every schoolboy. one cannot read them to-day without realizing that the secretary was trying as never before to interpret for the public his own ideals of service to the common need. he seemed to abbott and to the newspaper men who for six weeks were so intimately associated with him to draw inspiration and information from the free air. and there was to all of his speeches an almost wistful persuasiveness, as if, abbott said, he picked one listener in each audience, each night, and sought anew to make him feel the insidious peril to the nation's soul that lay in personal complacency and indifference to the nation's spiritual welfare. only jonas, struggling to induce the secretary to take a decent amount of sleep, nodded wisely to himself. he knew that enoch made each speech to a lovely, tender face, that no man who saw ever forgot. little by little, the newspapers of the country began to take enoch's point of view. they not only gave his speeches in full, but they commented on them editorially, at great length, and with the exception of the brown papers, favorably. by the time enoch was on his way home, with but two weeks more of speech making before him, it looked as though the thought of war with mexico had been definitely quashed. and enoch was tired to the very marrow of his bones. but the brown papers were not finished. one evening, in arizona, shortly after the train had pulled out of a station, enoch asked for the newspapers that had been brought aboard from the desert city. charley abbott, who had been with the newspaper men on the observation platform for an hour or so, answered the secretary's request with a curiously distraught manner. "i--that is--mr. huntingdon, jonas says you slept worse than ever last night. why not save the papers till morning and try to sleep now?" enoch looked at his secretary keenly. "picked up some brown papers here, eh! nothing that bunch can say can hurt me, old man." "don't you ever think it!" exclaimed charley vehemently. "you might as well say you were immune to rattler bites, mr. huntingdon--" here his voice broke. "look here, abbott," said enoch, "if it's bad, i've got to fight it, haven't i?" "but this sort of thing, a man--" charley suddenly steadied himself. "mr. secretary, they've put some nasty personal lies about you in the paper. the country at large and all of us who know you, scorn the lies as much as they do brown. in a day or so, it we ignore them, the stuff will have been forgotten. i beg of you, don't read any newspapers until i tell you all's clear." enoch smiled. "why, my dear old chap, i've weathered all sorts of mud slinging!" "but never this particular brand," insisted charley. "let's have the papers, abbott. i'm not afraid of anything brown can say." charley grimly handed the papers to the secretary and returned to the observation platform. a reporter had seen enoch in the gambling house on the evening of diana's departure for the canyon. he had learned something from the gambling house keeper of the secretary's several trips there. the reporter had then, with devilish ingenuity, followed enoch back to minetta lane, where he had found luigi. then followed eight or ten paragraphs in luigi's own words, giving an account of enoch and enoch's mother. the whole story was given with a deadly simplicity, that it seemed to the secretary must carry conviction with it. as enoch had told abbott, he had weathered much political mud slinging, but even his worst political enemies had spared him this. his adherents had made much of the fact that enoch was slum bred and self made. that was the sort of story which the inherent democracy of america loved. but the brown account made of enoch a creature of the underworld, who still loved his early haunts and returned to them in all their vileness. and in all the years of his political life, no newspaper but this had ever mentioned enoch's mother. the tale closed with a comment on the fact that enoch, who shunned all women, had been seen several times in washington giving marked attention to miss diana allen. diana and her work were fully identified. enoch read the account to the last word, a flush of agonizing humiliation deepening on his face as he did so. when he had finished, he doubled the paper carefully, and laid it on the chair next to his. then he lighted a cigarette and sat with folded arms, unseeing eyes on the newspaper. when jonas came in an hour later, the cigarette, unsmoked, was cold between the secretary's lips. with trembling hands, the colored man picked up the paper and with unbelievable venom gleaming in his black eyes, he carried it to the rear door, spat upon it and flung it out into the desert night. then he returned to enoch. "mr. secretary," he said huskily, "let me take your keys." mechanically enoch obeyed. jonas selected a small key from the bunch and, opening a large leather portfolio, he took out the black diary. this he placed carefully on the folding table which stood at enoch's elbow. then he started toward the door. the secretary did not look up. nor did he heed the colloquy which took place at the door between jonas and abbott. "how is he, jonas?" "i ain't asked him. he's a sick man." "god! let me come in, jonas." "no, sir, you ain't! how come you think you kin talk to him when even i don't dast to?" "but he mustn't be alone, jonas." "he ain't alone. i left him with his bible. ain't nobody going to trouble him this night." "i didn't know he read the bible that way." abbott's voice was doubtful. "i don't mean the regular lord's bible. it's a book he's been writing for years and he always turns to it when he's in trouble. i don't know nothing about it. what he don't want me to know, i don't know," and jonas slammed the door behind him. it was late when enoch suddenly straightened himself up and, with an air of resolution, opened the black book. he uncapped his fountain pen and wrote: "diana, how could i know, how could i dream that such a thing could happen to you, through me! you must never come back to washington. perhaps they will forget. as for myself, i can't seem to think clearly just what i must do. i am so very tired. one thing is certain, you never must see me again. for one wild moment the desire to return to the canyon, now i am in its neighborhood overwhelmed me. i decided to go up there and see if i could find the peace that i found in my boyhood. then i realized that you were at home, that all the world would see me go down bright angel, and i gave up the idea. but somehow, i must find rest, before i return to washington. oh, diana, diana!" it was midnight when enoch finally lay down in his berth. to jonas' delight, he fell asleep almost immediately, and the faithful steward, after reporting to the anxious group on the platform, was soon asleep himself. but it was not one o'clock when the secretary awoke. the train was rumbling slowly, and he looked from the window. only the moonlit flats of the desert were to be seen. enoch rose with sudden energy and dressed himself. he chucked his toilet case, with his diary and a change of underwear, into a satchel, and scrawled a note to abbott: "dear charley: i'm slipping off into the desert for a little rest. you'll hear from me when i feel better. give out that i'm sick--i am--and cancel the few speaking engagements left. tell jonas he is not to worry. yours, e. h." he sealed this note, then he pulled on a soft hat and, as the train stopped at a water tank, he slipped off the platform and stood in the shadow of an old shed. it seemed to him a long time before the engine, with violent puffing and jolting, started the long train on again. but finally the tail lights disappeared in the distance and enoch was alone in the desert. for a few moments he stood beside the track, drawing in deep breaths of the warm night air. then he started slowly westward along the railway tracks. he had noted a cluster of adobe houses a mile or so back, and toward these he was headed. in spite of the agony of the blow he had sustained enoch, gazing from the silver flood of the desert, to the silver arch of the heavens, was conscious of a thrill of excitement and not unpleasant anticipation. somewhere, somehow, in the desert, he would find peace and sufficient spiritual strength to sustain him when once more he faced washington and the world. book iii the enchanted canyon chapter vii the desert "if i had a son, i would teach him obedience as heaven's first law, for so only can a man be trained to obey his own better self."--_enoch's diary_. the secretary had no intention of waking the strange little village at night. he thought that, once he had relocated it, he would wait until dawn before rousing any one. but he had not counted on the village dogs. these set up such an outcry that, while enoch leaned quietly against a rude corral fence waiting for the hullaballoo to cease, the door of the house nearest opened, and a man came out. he stood for a moment very deliberately staring at the secretary, whose polite "good morning" could not be heard above the dogs' uproar. enoch, with a half grin, dropped his satchel and held up both hands. the man, half smiling in response, kicked and cursed the dogs into silence. then he approached enoch. he was a small, swarthy chap, clad in overalls and an undershirt. "you're a pueblo indian?" asked the secretary. the indian nodded. "what you want?" "i want to buy a horse." "where you come from?" "off that train that went through a while ago." "this not ash fork," said the indian. "you make mistake. ash fork that way," jerking his thumb westward. "you pass through ash fork." enoch nodded. "you sell me a horse?" "i rent you horse. you leave him at hillers' in ash fork. i get him." "no, i want to buy a horse. now i'm in the desert i guess i'll see a little of it. maybe i'll ride up that way," waving a careless arm toward the north. "maybe you'll sell me some camping things, blankets and a coffee pot." "all right," said the indian. "when you want 'em?" "now, if i can get them." "all right! i fix 'em." he spoke to one of the other indians who were sticking curious heads out of black doorways. in an incredibly short time enoch was the possessor of a thin, muscular pony, well saddled, two blankets, one an army, the other a navajo, a frying pan, a coffee pot, a canteen and enough flour, bacon and coffee to see him through the day. he also achieved possession of a blue flannel shirt and a pair of overalls. he paid without question the price asked by the indians. dawn was just breaking when he mounted his horse. "where does that trail lead?" he asked, pointing to one that started north from the corral. "to eagle springs, five miles," answered the indian. "and after that?" "east to allman's ranch, north to navajo camp." "thanks," said enoch. "good-by!" and he turned his pony to the trail. the country became rough and broken almost at once. the trail led up and down through draws and arroyos. there was little verdure save cactus and, when the sun was fully up, enoch began to realize that a strenuous day was before him. the spring boasted a pepper tree, a lovely thing of delicate foliage, gazing at itself in the mirrored blue of the spring. enoch allowed the horse to drink its fill, then he unrolled the blankets and clothing and dropped them into the water below the little falls that gushed over the rocks, anchoring them with stones. after this, awkwardly, but recalling more and more clearly his camping lore, he prepared a crude breakfast. he sat long at this meal. his head felt a little light from the lack of sleep and he was physically weary. but he could not rest. for days a jingling couplet had been running through his mind: "rest is not quitting this busy career. rest is the fitting of self to one's sphere." enoch muttered this aloud, then smiled grimly to himself. "that's the idea!" he added. "there's a bad spot somewhere in my philosophy that'll break me yet. well, we'll see if i can locate it." the sun was climbing high and the shade of the pepper tree was grateful. the spring murmured for a few feet beyond the last quivering shadow of the feathery leaves, then was swallowed abruptly by the burning sand. enoch lifted his tired eyes. far on every side lay the uneven, rock strewn desert floor, dotted with cactus and greasewood. to the east, vivid against the blue sky, rose a solitary mountain peak, a true purple in color, capped with snow. to the north, a green black shadow was etched against the horizon. except for the slight rustle of the pepper tree, the vague murmur of the water, the silence was complete. "it's not a calming atmosphere," thought enoch, "as i remember the canyon to have been. it's feverish and restless. but i'll give it a try. for to-day, i'll not think. i'll concern myself entirely with getting to this navajo camp. first of all, i'll dry the blankets and clothing." he had pulled off his tweed coat some time before. now he hung his vest on the pepper tree and went about his laundry work. he draped blankets and garments over the greasewood, then moved by a sudden impulse, undressed himself and lay down under the tiny falls. the water, warmed by its languid trip through the pool above, was refreshing only in its cleansing quality. but enoch, lying at length in the sand, the water trickling ceaselessly over him, felt his taut muscles relax and a great desire to sleep came upon him. but he was still too close to the railroad and possible discovery to allow himself this luxury. by the time he had finished his bath the overalls were dry and the blue flannel shirt enough so for him to risk donning it. he rolled up his tweed suit and tied it to the saddle, fastened the blankets on in an awkward bunch, the cooking utensils dangling anywhere, the canteen suspended from the pommel. then he smiled at his reflection in the morning pool. the overalls, a faded brown, were patched and, of course, wrinkled and drawn. the blue shirt was too small across the chest and enoch found it impossible to button the collar. the soft hat was in keeping with costume, but the oxford ties caused him to shake his head. "a dead give-away! i'll have to negotiate for something else when i find the navajos. all right, pablo," to the horse, "we're off," and the pony started northward at a gentle canter. the desert was new to enoch. neither his grand canyon experience nor his hunting trips in canada and maine had prepared him for the hardships and privations of desert travel. sitting at ease on the indian pony, his hat well over his eyes, his pots and pans clanging gently behind him, he was entirely oblivious to the menace that lay behind the intriguing beauty of the burning horizon. he was giving small heed, too, to the details of the landscape about him. he was conscious of the heat and of color, color that glowed and quivered and was ever changing, and he told himself that when he was rested he would find the beauty in the desert that diana's pictures had said was there. but for now, he was conscious only of pain and shame, the old, old shame that the canyon had tried to teach him to forget. he was determined that he would stay in the desert until this shame was gone forever. it was a fall and not a summer sun, so the pony was able to keep a steady pace until noon. gradually the blur of green that enoch had observed to the north had outlined itself more and more vividly, and at noon he rode into the shade of a little grove of stunted piñon and juniper. he could find no water but there was a coarse dried grass growing among the trees that the horse cropped eagerly. enoch removed the saddle and pack from pablo, and spread his half dried blankets on the ground. then he threw himself down to rest before preparing his midday meal. in a moment slumber overwhelmed him. he was wakened at dusk by the soft nuzzling of the pony against his shoulder. "by jove!" he exclaimed softly. "what a sleep!" he jumped to his feet and began to gather wood for his fire. he was stiff and his unaccustomed fingers made awkward work of cooking, but he managed, after an hour's endeavor, to produce an unsavory meal, which he devoured hungrily. he wiped out the frying pan with dried grass, repacked his outfit, and hung it on the horse. "it's up to you, pablo, old boy, to get us to water, if you want any to-night," he said, as he mounted, and headed pablo north on the trail. the pony was quite of enoch's opinion, and he started forward at an eager trot. the trail was discernible enough in the starlight, but enoch made no attempt to guide pablo, who obviously knew the country better than his new owner. enoch had dreamed of diana, and now, the reins drooping limply from his hands, he gave his mind over to thought of her. there was no one on earth whom he desired to see so much or so little as diana! no one else to whom in his trouble his whole heart and mind turned with such unutterable longing or such iron determination never to see again. he had no intention of searching for her in the desert. he knew that her work would keep her in the grand canyon country. he knew that it would be easy to avoid her. and, in spite of the fact that every fiber of his being yearned for her, he had not the slightest desire to see her! she would, he knew, see the brown story. no matter what her father may have told her, the newspaper story, with its vile innuendoes concerning his adult life, must sicken her. there was one peak of shame which enoch refused to achieve. he would not submit himself either to diana's pity or to her scorn. but there was, he was finding, a peculiar solace in merely traveling in diana's desert. he had complete faith that here he would find something of the sweet philosophy that had written itself in diana's face. for enoch had not come to middle life without learning that on a man's philosophy rests his ultimate chance for happiness, or if not for happiness, content. he knew that until he had sorted and separated from each other the things that mattered and the things that did not matter, he must be the restless plaything of circumstance. in his younger days he had been able to persuade himself that if his point of view on his life work were right and sane, nothing else could hurt him too much. but now, easing himself to the pony's gentle trot and staring into the exquisite blue silence of the desert night, he told himself that he had been a coward, and that his cowardice had made him shun the only real experience of life. public service? yes, it had been right for him to make that his life work. and such service from such men as himself he knew to be the only vital necessity in a nation's life. but the one vital necessity in a man's spiritual life he had missed. if he had had this, he told himself, life's bludgeons, however searching, however devastating, he could have laughed at. a man must have the thought of some good woman's love to sustain him. but for enoch, the thought of any woman's love, luigi had tainted at its source. he had neither mother nor mate, and until he had evolved some philosophy which would reconcile him to doing without both, his days must be feverish and at the mercy of the mob. pablo broke into a canter and enoch roused himself to observe a glow of fire far ahead on the trail. his first impulse was to pull the horse in. he did not want either to be identified or to mingle with human beings. then he smiled ruefully as he recalled the poverty of his outfit and he gave pablo his way again. in a short time pablo had reached a spring at a little distance from the fire. as the horse buried his nose in the water, a man came up. enoch judged by the long hair that he was an indian. "good evening," said enoch. "can you tell me where i can buy some food?" "what kind of grub?" asked the indian. "anything i can cook and eat," replied enoch, dismounting stiffly. "what kind of camp is this?" "navajo. what your name?" "smith. what's yours?" "john red sun. how much you pay for grub?" "depends on what kind and how much. which way are you folks going?" "we take horses to the railroad," replied john red sun. "me and my brother, that's all, so we haven't got much grub. you come over by the fire." enoch dropped the reins over pablo's head and followed to the fire. an indian, who was boiling coffee at the little blaze, looked up with interest in his black eyes. "good evening," said enoch. "my name is smith." the indian nodded. "you like a cup of coffee? just done." "thanks, yes." enoch sat down gratefully by the fire. the desert night was sharp. "where you going, mr. smith?" asked john red sun. "i'm an easterner, a tenderfoot," replied enoch. "i am very tired and i thought i'd like to rest in the desert. i was on the train when the idea struck me, and i got off just as i was. i bought the horse and these clothes from an indian." "where you going?" repeated john's brother. "to see injun villages?" "no, i don't think so. i just want to be by myself." "it's foolish for tenderfoot to go alone in desert," said john. "you don't know where to get water, get grub." "oh, i'll pick it up as i go." the indians stared at enoch in the firelight. his ruddy hair was tumbled by the night wind. his face was deep lined with fatigue that was mental as well as physical. "you mustn't go alone in desert." john red sun's voice was earnest. "you sleep here to-night. we'll talk it over." "you're very kind," said enoch. "i'll unsaddle my pony. ought i to hobble him or stake him out?" "i fix 'im. you drink your coffee." the brother handed enoch a tin cup as he spoke. "then you go to sleep. you mucho tired." their hospitality touched enoch. "you're very kind," he repeated gratefully, and he drank the vile coffee without blinking. then, conscious that he was trembling with weariness, he rolled himself in his blankets. but he slept only fitfully. the sand was hard, and his long afternoon's nap had taken the edge from his appetite for sleep. he spent much of the night wondering what washington, what the president was saying about him. and his sunburned face was new dyed with his burning sense of shame. at the first peep of dawn, john red sun rose from the other side of the fire, raked the ashes and started a blaze going. enoch discovered that the camp lay at the foot of a mesa, close in whose shadow a small herd of scraggly, unkempt ponies was staked. the two indians moved about deftly. they watered the horses, made coffee and cakes and fried bacon. by the time enoch had shaved, a pie tin was waiting for him in the ashes. "we sell you two days' grub," said john. "one day north on this trail go two men up to the canyon, to placer mine. they're good men. i know 'em many years. they got good outfit, but burros go slow, so you can easy overtake 'em to-day. you tell 'im you want a job. tell 'im john red sun send you. then you get rested in the desert. not good for any white man to go alone and do nothing in the desert. he'll go loco. see?" enoch suddenly smiled. "i do see, yes. and i must say you're mighty kind and sensible. i'll do as you suggest. by the way, will you sell me those boots of yours? i'll swap you mine and anything you say, beside. i believe our feet are the same size." red sun's brother was wearing navajo moccasins reaching to the knee, but red sun was resplendent in a pair of high laced boots, into which were tucked his corduroy pants. the indians both looked at enoch's smart oxford ties with eagerness. then without a word, red sun began rapidly to unlace his boots. it would be difficult to say which made the exchange with the greater satisfaction, enoch or the indian. when it was done enoch, as far as his costume was concerned, might have been a desert miner indeed, looking for a job. the sun was not over an hour high when pablo and enoch started north once more, the little horse loaded with supplies and enoch loaded with such trail lore as the two indians could impress upon him in the short time at their command. enoch was not deeply impressed by their advice except as to one point, which they repeated so often that it really penetrated his distraught and weary mind. he was to keep to the trail. no matter what or whom he thought he saw in the distance, he was to keep to the trail. if a sand storm struck him, he was to camp immediately and on the trail. if he needed water, he was to keep to the trail in order to find it. at night, he must camp on the trail. the trail! it was, they made him understand, a tenderfoot's only chance of life in this section. and, thus equipped, enoch rode away into the lonely, shimmering, intriguing morning light of the desert. he rode all the morning without dismounting. the trail was very crooked. it seemed to him at such moments as he took note of this fact, he would save much time by riding due north, but he could not forget the indian brothers' reiterated warnings. and, although he could not throw off a sense of being driven, the desire to arrive somewhere quickly, still he was strangely content to let pablo set the pace. at noon he dismounted, fed pablo half the small bag of oats john had given him, and ate the cold bacon and biscuits john's brother had urged on him. there was no water for the horse, but enoch drank deeply from the canteen and allowed pablo an hour's rest. then he mounted and pushed on, mindful of the necessity of overtaking the miners. his mind was less calm than it had been the day before, and his thinking less orderly. he had begun to be nagged by recollections of office details that he should have settled, of important questions that awaited his decision. and something deep within him began to tell him that he was not playing a full man's part in running away. but to this he replied grimly that he was only seeking for strength to go back. and finally he muttered that give him two weeks' respite and he would go back, strength or no strength. and over and about all his broken thinking played an unceasing sense of loss. the public had invaded his last privacy. the stronghold wherein a man fights his secret weakness should be sacred. not even a clergyman nor a wife should invade its precincts uninvited. enoch's inner sanctuary had been laid open to the idle view of all the world. the newspaper reporter had pried where no real man would pry. the brown papers had published that from which a decent editor would turn away for very compassion. only a very dirty man will with no excuse whatever wantonly and deliberately break another man. when toward sundown enoch saw a thread of smoke rising far ahead of him, again his first thought was to stop and make camp. he wished that it were possible for him to spend the next few weeks without seeing a white man. but he did not yield to the impulse and pablo pushed on steadily. the camp was set in the shelter of a huge rock pile, purple, black, yellow and crimson in color, with a single giant ocotilla growing from the top. a man in overalls was bending over the fire, while another was bringing a dripping coffee pot from a little spring that bubbled from under the rocks. a number of burros were grazing among the cactus roots. enoch rode up slowly and dismounted stiffly. "good evening," he said. the two men stared at him frankly. "good evening, stranger!" "john red sun told me to ask you people for work in return for permission to trail with your outfit." "oh, he did, did he!" grunted the older man, eying enoch intently. "my name is mackay, and my pardner's is field." "mine is smith," said enoch. "just smith?" grinned the man field. "just smith," repeated enoch firmly. "well, mr. just smith," mackay nodded affably, as though pleased by his appraisal of the newcomer, "wipe your feet on the door mat and come in and have supper with us. we'll talk while we eat." "you're very kind," murmured enoch. "i--er--i'm a tenderfoot, so perhaps you'd tell me, shall i hobble this horse or--" "i'll take care of him for you," said field. "you look dead tuckered. sit down till supper's ready." enoch sat down on a rock and eyed his prospective bosses. mackay was a tall, thin man of perhaps fifty. he was smooth shaven except for an iron gray mustache. his face was thin, tanned and heavily lined, and his keen gray eyes were deep set under huge, shaggy eyebrows. he wore a gray flannel shirt and a pair of well worn brown corduroys, tucked into the tops of a pair of ordinary shoes. field was younger, probably about enoch's own age. he was as tall as mackey but much heavier. he was smooth shaven and ruddy of skin, with a heavy thatch of curly black hair and fine brown eyes. his clothing was a replica of his partner's. mackay gave his whole attention to the preparation of the supper, while field unpacked pablo and hobbled him. "you're just in time for a darn good meal, mr. smith," said field. "mack is a great cook. if he was as good a miner as he is cook--" "dry up, curly, and get mr. smith's cup and plate for him. we're shy on china. grub's ready, folks. draw up." they ate sitting in the sand, with their backs against the rocks, their feet toward the fire, for the evening was cold. curly had not exaggerated mack's ability. the hot biscuits, baked in a dutch oven, the fried potatoes, stewed tomatoes, the bacon, the coffee were each deliciously prepared. enoch ate as though half starved, then helped to wash the dishes. after this was finished, the three established themselves with their pipes before the fire. "now," said mack, "we're in a condition to consider your proposition, mr. smith. just where was you aiming for?" "i have a two or three weeks' vacation on my hands," replied enoch, "and i'm pretty well knocked up with office work. i wanted to rest in the desert. i thought i could manage it alone, but it looks as if i were too green. i don't know why john red sun thought i could intrude on you folks, unless--" he hesitated. "john an old friend of yours?" asked curly. "no, i met him on the trail. he was exceedingly kind and hospitable." curly whistled softly. "you must have been in bad shape. john's not noted for kindness, or hospitality either." "i wasn't in bad shape at all!" protested enoch. the two men, eying enoch steadily, each suppressed a smile. "field and i are on a kind of vacation too," said mack. "i'm a superintendent of a zinc mine, and he's running the mill for me. we had to shut down for three months--bottom's dropped clean out of the price of zinc. we've been talking about prospecting for placer gold up on the colorado, for ten years. now we're giving her a try." he paused, and both men looked at enoch expectantly. "in other words," said enoch, refilling his pipe, "you two fellows are off for the kind of a trip you don't want an utter stranger in on. well, i don't blame you." "depends altogether on what kind of a chap the stranger is," suggested curly. "i have no letters of recommendation." enoch's smile was grim. "i'd do my share of the work, and pay for my board. i might not be the best of company, for i'm tired. very tired." his massive head drooped as he spoke and his thin fine lips betrayed a pain and weariness that even the fitful light of the fire could not conceal. there was a silence for a moment, then a burro screamed, and mackay got to his feet. "there's mamie burro making trouble again. come and help me catch her, curly." enoch sat quietly waiting while a low voiced colloquy that did not seem related to the obstreperous mamie went on in the shadow beyond the rocks. then the two men came back. "all right, smith," said mack. "we're willing to give it a try. a camping trip's like marriage, you know, terrible trying on the nerves. so if we don't get on together, it's understood you'll turn back, eh?" "yes," enoch nodded. "all right! we'll charge you a dollar and a half a day for yourself and your horse. we're to share and share alike in the work." "i'm exceedingly grateful!" exclaimed enoch. "all right! we hope you'll get rested," said curly. "and i advise you to begin now. have you been sleeping well? how long have you been out?" "three nights. i've slept rottenly." "i thought so. let me show you how to scoop out sand so's to make a hollow for your hips and your shoulders, and i'll bet you'll sleep." and enoch did sleep that night better than for several weeks. he was stiff and muscle sore when he awoke at dawn, but he felt clearer headed and less mentally feverish than he had the previous day. curly and mack were still asleep when he stole over to the spring to wash and shave. it was biting cold, but he felt like a new man when he had finished his toilet and stood drawing deep breaths while he watched the dawn approach through the magnificent desert distances. he gathered some greasewood and came back to build the fire, but his camp mates had forestalled him. while he was at the spring the men had both wakened and the fire was blazing merrily. breakfast was quickly prepared and eaten. enoch established himself as the camp dish washer, much to the pleasure of curly, who hitherto had borne this burden. after he had cleaned and packed the dishes, enoch went out for pablo, who had strayed a quarter of a mile in his search for pasturage. after a half hour of futile endeavor mack came to his rescue, and in a short time the cavalcade was ready to start. they were not an unimposing outfit. mack led. the half dozen burros, with their packs followed, next came curly, and enoch brought up the rear. there was little talking on the trail. the single file, the heavy dust, and the heat made conversation too great an effort. and enoch was grateful that this was so. to-day he made a tremendous endeavor to keep his mind off luigi and the brown papers. he found he could do this by thinking of diana. and so he spent the day with her, and resolved that if opportunity arose that night, to write to her, in the black diary. the trail, which gradually ascended as they drew north, grew rougher and rougher. during the latter part of the day sand gave way to rock, and the desert appeared full of pot holes which mack claimed led to subterranean rivers. they left these behind near sunset, and came upon a huge, rude, cave-like opening in a mesa side. a tiny pool at the back and the evidence of many camp fires in the front announced that this was one of the trail's established oases. there was no possible grazing for the animals, so they were watered, staked, and fed oats from the packs. "well, mr. just smith," said curly, after the supper had been dispatched and cleared up and the trio were established around the fire, pipes glowing, "well, mr. just smith, are you getting rested?" he grinned as he spoke, but mack watched their guest soberly. enoch's great head seemed to fascinate him. "i'm feeling better, thanks. and i'm trying hard to behave." "you're doing very well," returned curly. "i can't recommend you yet as a horse wrangler, but if i permit you to bring mamie in every morning, perhaps you'll sabez better." "this is sure one devil of a country," said mack. "the spanish called it the death trail. wow! what it must have been before they opened up these springs! even the indians couldn't live here." "i'd like to show it to old parsons," said curly. "he claims there ain't a spot in arizona that couldn't grow crops if you could get water to it. he's a fine old liar! why, this country don't even grow cactus! i'd like to hobble him out here for a week." "those survey fellows were up here a few years back trying to fix it to get water out of those pot holes," said mack. "nuts! sounds like a government bunch!" grunted curly. "what came of it?" asked enoch. "it ended in a funny kind of a row," replied mack. "some folks think there's oil up here, and there was a bunch here drilling for wells, when the government men came along. they got interested in the oil idea, and they began to study the country and drill for oil too. and that made these other chaps mad. this was government land, of course, but they didn't want the government to get interested in developing oil wells. government oil would be too cheap. so they got some mexicans to start a fight with these survey lads. but the survey boys turned out to be well armed and good fighters and, by jove, they drove the whole bunch of oil prospectors out of here. everybody got excited, and then it turned out there was no oil here anyhow. that was fowler's bunch, by the way, that got run out. nobody ever thought he'd be secretary of state!" "but fowler is not an arizona man!" exclaimed enoch. "no," said curly, "but he came out here for his health for a few years when he was just out of college. he and my oldest brother were law pardners in phoenix. i always thought he was crooked. all lawyers are." enoch smiled to himself. "fowler sent his prospectors into mexico after that," mack went on reminiscently. "curly and i were in charge of the silver mine near rio chacita where they struck some gushers. they were one tough crowd. we all slept in tents those days, and i remember none of us dared to light a lamp or candle because if one of those fellows saw it, they'd take a pot shot at it. one of my foremen dug a six-foot pit and set his tent over it. then he let 'em shoot at will. those were the days!" "government ought to keep out of business," said curly. "let the states manage their own affairs." "what's field sore about?" asked enoch of mack. "he's just ignorant," answered mack calmly. "hand me some tobacco, curly, and quit your beefing. when you make your fortune washing gold up in the colorado, you can get yourself elected to congress and do fowler up. in the meantime--" "aw, shut up, mack," drawled curly good-naturedly. "what are you trying to do, ruin my reputation with just smith here? by the way, just, you haven't told us what your work is." "i'm a lawyer," said enoch solemnly. the three men stared at each other in the fire glow. suddenly enoch burst into a hearty laugh, in which the others joined. "what was the queerest thing you've ever seen in the desert, mack?" asked enoch, when they had sobered down. mack sat in silence for a time. "that's hard to judge," he said finally. "once, in the death valley country, i saw a blind priest riding a burro fifty miles from anywhere. he had no pack, just a canteen. he said he was doing a penance and if i tried to help him, he'd curse me. so i went off and left him. and once i saw a fat woman in a kimono and white satin high heeled slippers chasing her horse over the trackless desert. lord!" "was that any queerer sight than just smith chasing pablo this morning?" demanded curly. "or than field tying a stone to mamie's tail to keep her from braying to-night?" asked enoch. "you're improving!" exclaimed curly, "dignity's an awful thing to take into the desert for a vacation." "let's go to bed," suggested mack, and in the fewest possible minutes the camp was at rest. the trail for the next two days grew rougher and rougher, while the brilliancy of color in rock and sand increased in the same ratio as the aridity. enoch, pounding along at the rear of the parade, hour after hour, was still in too anguished and abstracted a frame of mind to heed details. he knew only that the vast loveliness and the naked austerity of the desert were fit backgrounds, the first for this thought of diana, the second for his bitter retrospects. mid-morning on the third day, after several hours of silent trekking, curly turned in his saddle: "just, have you noticed the mirage?" pointing to the right. far to the east where the desert was most nearly level appeared the sea, waters of brilliant cobalt blue lapping shores clad in richest verdure, waves that broke in foam and ran softly up on quiet shores. upon the sea, silhouetted against the turquoise sky were ships with sails of white, of crimson, of gold. then, as the men stared with parted lips, the picture dimmed and the pitiless, burning desert shimmered through. the unexpected vision lifted enoch out of himself for a little while and he listened, interested and amused, while curly, half turned in his saddle, discanted on mirages and their interpretations. nor did enoch for several hours after meditate on his troubles. not an hour after the mirage had disappeared the sky darkened almost to black, then turned a sullen red. lightning forked across the zenith and the thunder reverberated among the thousand mesas, the entangled gorges, until it seemed almost impossible to endure the uproar. rain did not begin to fall until noon. there was not a place in sight that would provide shelter, so the men wrapped their navajos about them and forced the reluctant animals to continue the journey. the storm held with fury until late in the afternoon. the wind, the lightning and the rain vied with one another in punishing the travelers. again and again, the burros broke from trail. "get busy, just!" curly would roar. "come out of your trance!" and enoch would ride pablo after the impish mamie with a skill that developed remarkably as the afternoon wore on. enoch could not recall ever having been so wretchedly uncomfortable in his life. he was sodden to the skin, aching with weariness, shivering with cold. but he made no murmur of protest. it was curly who, about five o'clock, called: "hey, mack! i've gone my limit!" mack pulled up and seemed to hesitate. as he did so, the storm, with a suddenness that was unbelievable, stopped. a last flare of lightning seemed to blast the clouds from the sky. the rain ceased and the sun enveloped mesas, gorges, trail in a hundred rainbows. "how about a fire?" asked mack, grinning, with chattering teeth. "it must be done somehow," replied curly. "come on, just, shake it up!" "look here, curly," exclaimed mack, pausing in the act of throwing his leg over the saddle, "i think you ought to treat mr. smith with more respect. he ain't your hired help." "the dickens he isn't!" grinned curly. "it's all right, mack! i enjoy it," said enoch, dismounting stiffly. "if you do," mack gave him a keen look, "you aren't enjoying it the way curly thinks you do." enoch returned mack's gaze, smiled, but said nothing further. mack, however, continued to grumble. "i'm as good as the next fellow, but i don't believe in giving everybody a slap on the back or a kick in the pants to prove it. you may be a lawyer, all right, mr. smith, but i'll bet you're on the bench. you've got that way with you. not that it's any of my business!" he was leading the way, as he spoke, toward the face of a mesa that abutted almost on the trail. curly apparently had not paid the slightest attention to the reproof. he was already hobbling his horse. they made no attempt to look for a spring. the hollows of the rocks were filled with rain water. but the search for wood was long and arduous. in fact, it was nearly dusk before they had gathered enough to last out the evening. but here and there a tiny cedar or mesquite yielded itself up and at last a good blaze flared up before the mesa. the men shifted to dry underwear, wrung out their outer clothing and put it on again, and drank copiously of the hot coffee. in spite of damp clothing and blankets enoch slept deeply and dreamlessly, and rose the next day none the worse for the wetting. even in this short time his physical tone was improving and he felt sure that his mind must follow. chapter viii the colorado "we had a particularly vile place to raid to-day, and as i listened with sick heart to the report of it, suddenly i saw the canyon and f.'s broad back on his mule and the glorious line of the rim lifting from opalescent mists."--_enoch's diary_. they had been a week on the trail when they made camp one night at a spring surrounded by dwarf junipers. mack, who had taken the trip before, greeted the spring with a shout of satisfaction. "ten miles from the river, boys! to-morrow afternoon should see us panning gold." and to-morrow did, indeed, bring the river. there was a wide view of the colorado as they approached it. the level which had gradually lifted during the entire week, making each day cooler, rarer, as it came, now sloped downward, while mesa and headland grew higher, the way underfoot more broken, the trail fainter and fainter, and the thermometer rose steadily. by now deep fissures appeared in the desert floor, and to the north lifted great mountains that were banded in multi-colored strata, across which drifted veils of mist, lavender, blue and gauzy white. enoch's heart began to beat heavily. it was the canyon country, indeed! the country of enchantment to which his spirit had returned for so many years. they ate lunch in a little canyon opening north and south. "at the north end of this," said mack, "we make our first sharp drop a thousand feet straight down. she's a devil of a trail, made by indians nobody knows when. then we cross a plateau, about a mile wide, as i remember, then it's an easy grade to the river. we've got to go over the girths careful. if anything slips now it's farewell!" the trail was a nasty one, zig-zagging down the over-hanging face of the wall. enoch, to his deep-seated satisfaction, felt no sense of panic, although in common with mack and curly, he was apprehensive and at times a little giddy. it required an hour to compass the drop. at the bottom was a tiny spring where men and beasts drank deeply, then started on. the plateau was rough, deep covered with broken rock, but the trail, though faint, held to the edge. at this edge the men paused. the colorado lay before them. fifty feet below them was a wide stretch of sand. next, the river, smooth brown, slipping rapidly westward. beyond the water, on the opposite side, a chaos of rocks greater than any enoch had yet seen, a pile huge as if a mountain had fallen to pieces at the river's edge. behind the broken rock rose the canyon wall, sheer black, forbidding, two thousand feet into the air. its top cut straight and sharp across the sky line, the sky line unbroken save where rising behind the wall a mountain peak, snow capped, flecked with scarlet and gold, towered in the sunlight. "there you are, curly!" exclaimed mack. "there's a spring in the cave beneath us. there's drift wood, enough to run a factory with. have i delivered the goods, or not?" "everything is as per advertisement except the gold," replied curly. "oh, well, i don't vouch for the gold!" said mack. "i just said the indians claim they get it here. there's some grazing for the critters up here on the plateau, you see, and not a bit below. so we'll drive 'em back up here and leave 'em. with a little feed of oats once in a while, they'll do. come ahead! it'll be dark in the canyon inside of two hours." the cave proved to be a hollow overhang of the plateau ten or fifteen feet deep, and twice as wide. the floor was covered with sand. "all ready to go to housekeeping!" exclaimed curly. "judge, you wrangle firewood while mack and i just give this placer idea a ten minutes' trial, will you?" "go ahead!" said enoch, "all the gold in the colorado couldn't tempt me like something to eat. if you aren't ready by the time the fire's going, mack, i shall start supper." "go to it! i can stand it if you can!" returned mack, who had already unpacked his pan. from that moment enoch became the commissary and steward for the expedition. curly and mack, whom he had known as mild and jovial companions of many interests and leisurely manners, changed in a twinkling to monomaniacs who during every daylight hour except for the short interim which they snatched for eating, sought for gold. at first enoch laughed at them and tried to get them to take an occasional half day off in which to explore with him. but they curtly refused to do this, so he fell back on his own resources. and he discovered that the days were all too short. curly had a gun. there was plenty of ammunition. quail and cottontails were to be found on the plateau where the stock was grazing. sometimes on pablo, sometimes afoot, enoch with the gun, and sometimes with the black diary rolled in his coat, scoured the surrounding country. one golden afternoon he edged his way around the shoulder of a gnarled and broken peak, in search of rabbits for supper. just at the outermost point of the shoulder he came upon a cedar twisting itself about a broad, flat bowlder. enoch instantly stopped the search for game and dropped upon the rock, his back against the cedar. lighting his pipe, he gave himself up to contemplation of the view. below him yawned blue space, flecked with rose colored mists. beyond this mighty blue chasm lay a mountain of purest gold, banded with white and silhouetted against a sky of palest azure. an eagle dipped lazily across the heavens. when he had gazed his fill, enoch put his pipe in his pocket, unrolled the diary and, balancing it oh his knee, began to write: "oh, diana, no wonder you are lovely! no wonder you are serene and pure and reverent! 'and her's shall be the breathing balm and her's the silence and the calm'-"you remember how it goes, diana. "i heard curly curse yesterday. a thousand echoes sent his words back to him and he looked at the glory of the canyon walls and was ashamed. i saw shame in his eyes. "it was not cowardice that drove me away for this interval, diana. never believe that of me! i was afraid, yes, but of myself, not of the newspapers. if i had stayed on the train, i would have returned at once to washington and have shot the reporter who wrote the stuff. perhaps i shall do it yet. but if i do, it will be after the canyon and i have come to agreement on the subject. i am very sure i shall shoot brown. some one should have done it, long ago. "i wonder what you are doing this afternoon. somewhere between a hundred and a hundred and fifty miles we are from bright angel, mack says, via the river. and only a handful of explorers, you told me, ever have completed the trip down the colorado. i would like to try it. "diana, you look at me with your gentle, faithful eyes, the corners of your lips a little uncertain as if you want to tell me that i am disappointing you and yet, because you are so gentle, you did not want to hurt me. diana, don't be troubled about me. i shall go back, long enough at least to discharge my pressing duties. after that, who knows or cares! oh, diana! diana! what is the use? there is nothing left in my life. i am empty--empty! "even all this is make believe, for, as soon as you saw that i was beginning to care for you,--beginning is a good word here!--you went away. "good-by, diana." enoch's gun made no contribution to the larder that night. curly uttered loud and bitter comment on the fact. "you're getting spoiled by high living," said enoch severely. "what would you have done if i hadn't come along and taken pity on you? why, you and mack would have starved to death here in the canyon, for it's morally certain neither of you would have stopped panning gold long enough to prepare your food." "right you are, judge," replied curly meekly. "i'm going to try to get mack to rebate two bits a day on your board, as a token of our appreciation." "not when his biscuits have to be broken open with a stone," objected mack, as he sopped in his coffee one of the gray objects enoch had served as rolls. "they say when a woman that's done her own cooking first gets a hired girl, she becomes right picky about her food," rejoined curly. "i'd give notice if i had any place to go," said enoch. "what was the luck to-day, boys?" "well, i've about come to the conclusion," replied mack, "that by working eight hours a day you can just about wash wages out of this sand, and that's all." "you aren't going to give it up now, are you, mack?" asked curly, in alarm. "no, i'll stay this week out, if you want to, and then move on up to devil's canyon." they were silently smoking around the fire, a little later, when curly said: "i have a hunch that you and i're not going to get independent wealth out of this expedition, mack." "what would you do with it, if you had it, curly?" asked enoch. "a lot of things!" curly ruminated darkly for a few moments, then he looked at enoch long and keenly. "smith, you're a lawyer, but i believe you're straight. there's something about you a man can't help trusting, and i think you've been successful. you have that way with you. do you know what i'd do if i was taken suddenly rich? well, i'd hire you, at your own price, to give all your time to breaking two men, fowler and brown." "easy now, curly!" mack spoke soothingly. "don't get het up. what's the use?" "i'm not het up. i want to get the judge's opinion of the matter." "go ahead. i'm much interested," said enoch. "by brown, i mean the fellow that owns the newspapers. when my brother and fowler were in law together--" "you should make an explanation right there," interrupted mack. "you said all lawyers was crooks." "my brother harry was straight and i've just given my opinion of smith here. i never liked fowler, but he had great personal charm and harry never would take any of my warnings about him. brown was a short-legged eastern college boy who worked on the local paper for his health. how he and fowler ever met up, i don't know, but they did, and the law office was brown's chief hang-out. now all three of 'em were as poor as this desert. nobody was paying much for law in arizona in those days. our guns was our lawyers. but by some fluke, harry was made trustee of a big estate--a smelting plant that had been left to a kid. after a few years, the courts called for an accounting, and it turned out that my brother was short about a hundred thousand dollars. he seemed totally bewildered when this was discovered, swore he knew nothing about it and was terribly upset. and this devil of a fowler turns round and says harry made way with it and produces brown as a witness. and, by the lord, the court believed them! my brother killed himself." curly cleared his throat. "it wasn't six months after that that fowler and brown, who left the state right after the tragedy, bought a couple of newspapers. they claimed they got the money from some oil wells they'd struck in mexico." "how is it the country at large doesn't know of fowler's association with brown?" asked enoch. "oh, they didn't stay pardners as far as the public knows, but a few years. they were too clever! they gave out that they'd had a split and they say nobody ever sees them together. all the same, even when they were seeming to ignore him, the brown papers have been making fowler." "and you want to clear your brother's name," said enoch thoughtfully. "that ought not to be difficult. you could probably do it yourself, if you could give the time, and were clever at sleuthing. the papers in the case should be accessible to you." "shucks!" exclaimed curly. "i wouldn't go at it that way at all. i got something real on fowler and brown and i want to use it to make them confess." "sounds like blackmail," said enoch. "sure! that's where i need a lawyer! now, i happen to know a personal weakness of fowler's--" "don't go after him on that!" enoch's voice was peremptory. "if he's done evil to some one else, throw the light of day on his crime, but if by his weakness you mean only some sin he commits against himself, keep off. a man, even a crook, has a right to that much privacy." "did brown ever have decency toward a man's seclusion?" demanded curly. "no!" half shouted enoch. "but to punish him don't turn yourself into the same kind of a skunk he is. kill him if you have to. don't be a filthy scandal monger like brown!" "you speak as if you knew the gentleman," grunted mack. "i don't know him," retorted enoch, "except as the world knows him." "then you don't know him, or fowler either," said curly. "but i happen to have discovered something that both those gentlemen have been mixed up in, in mexico, something--oh, by jove, but it's racy!" "you've managed to keep it to yourself, so far," said mack. "meaning i'd better continue to do so! only so long as it serves my purpose, mack. when i get ready to raise hell about fowler's and brown's ears, no consideration for decency will stop me. i'll be just as merciful to them as they were to harry. no more! i'll string their dirty linen from the atlantic to the pacific. his and brown's! but i want money enough to do it right. no little piker splurge they can buy up! i'll have those two birds weeping blood!" enoch moistened his lips. "what's the story, curly?" he asked evenly. curly filled and lighted his pipe. but before he could answer enoch, mack said; "sleep on it, curly. mud slinging's bad business. sleep on it!" "i've a great contempt for brown," said enoch. "i'm a good deal tempted to help you out, that is, if it is to the interest of the public that the story be told." "it will interest the public. you can bet on that!" curly laughed sardonically. then he rose, with a yawn. "but it's late and we'll finish the story to-morrow night. judge, i have a hunch you're my man! i sabez there's heap devil in you, if we could once get you mad." enoch shrugged his shoulders. "perhaps!" he said, and he unrolled his blankets for bed. but it was long before he slept. the hand of fate was on him, he told himself. how else could he have been led in all the wide desert to find this man who held brown's future in his hands? suddenly enoch saw himself returning to washington with power to punish as he had been punished. his feeble protests to curly were swept away. he felt the blood rush to his temples. and anger that had so far been submerged by pain and shame suddenly claimed its hour. his rage was not only at brown. luigi, his mother, most of all this woman who had been his mother, claimed his fury. the bitterness and humiliation of a lifetime burst through the gates of his self-control. he stole from the cave to the sandy shore and there he strode up and down like a madman. he was physically exhausted long before the tempest subsided. but gradually he regained his self-control and slipped back into his blankets. there, with the thought of vengeance sweet on his lips, he fell asleep. curly was, of course, entirely engrossed the next day by his mining operations. enoch had not expected or wished him to be otherwise. he felt that he needed the day alone to get a grip on himself. that afternoon he climbed up the plateau to the entering trail, up the trail to the desert. he was full of energy. he was conscious of a purposefulness and a keen interest in life to which he had long been a stranger. as he filled the gunny sack which he carried for a game bag with quail and rabbits, he occasionally laughed aloud. he was thinking of the expression that would appear on curly's face if he learned into whose hands he was putting his dynamite? the sun was setting when he reached the head of the trail on his way campward. all the world to the west, sky, peaks, mesas, sand and rock had turned to a burning rose color. the plateau edge, near his feet, was green. these were the only two colors in all the world. enoch stood absorbed by beauty when a sound of voices came faintly from behind him. his first thought was that mack and curly had stolen a march on him. his next was that strangers, who might recognize him, were near at hand. he started down the trail as rapidly as he dared. it was dusk when he reached the foot. for the last half of the trip voices had been floating down to him, as the newcomers threaded their way slowly but steadily. enoch stood panting at the foot of the trail, listening acutely. a voice called. another voice answered. enoch suddenly lost all power to move. the full moon sailed silently over the plateau wall. enoch, grasping his gun and his game bag, stood waiting. a mule came swiftly down the last turn of the trail and headed for the spring. the man who was riding him pulled him back on his haunches with a "whoa, you mule!" that echoed like a cannon shot. then he flung himself off with another cry. "oh, boss! oh, boss! here he is, miss diana! o dear lord, here he is! boss! boss! how come you to treat me so!" and jonas threw his arms around enoch with a sob that could not be repressed. enoch put a shaking hand on jonas' shoulder. "so you found your bad charge, old man, didn't you?" "me find you? no, boss, miss diana, she found you. here she is!" diana dropped from her horse, slender and tall in her riding clothes. "so jonas' pain is relieved, eh, mr. huntingdon! are you having a good holiday?" "great!" replied enoch huskily. "i told jonas it was the most sensible thing a man could do, who was as tired as you are, but he would have it you'd die without him. if you don't want him, i'll take him away." "you'd have to take me feet first, miss diana," said jonas, with a grin. "where's that na-che?" "here she comes!" laughed diana. "poor na-che! she hates to hurry! she's got a real grievance against you, jonas." two pack mules lunged down the trail, followed by a squat figure on an indian pony. "this is na-che, mr. huntingdon," said diana. enoch shook hands with the indian woman, whose face was as dark as jonas' in the moonlight. "where's your camp, mr. huntingdon?" diana went on. "just a moment!" enoch had recovered his composure. "i am with two miners, mackay and field. to them, i am a lawyer named smith. i would like very much to remain unknown to them during the remaining two weeks of my vacation." jonas heaved a great sigh that sounded curiously like an expression of vast and many sided relief. then he chuckled. "easy enough for me. you can't never be nothing but boss to me." but diana was troubled. "i thought we'd camp with your outfit to-night. but we'd better not. i'd be sure to make a break. are you positive that these men don't know you?" "positive!" exclaimed enoch. "why, just look at me, miss allen!" diana glanced at boots, overalls and flannel shirt, coming to pause at the fine lion-like head. "of course, your disguise is very impressive," she laughed. "but i would say that it was impressive in that it accents your own peculiarities." "that outfit is something fierce, boss. i brung you some riding breeches," exclaimed jonas. "i don't want 'em," said enoch. "miss allen, field calls me judge. how would that do?" "well, i'll try it," agreed diana reluctantly. "i know both the men, by the way. mack, especially, is well known among the indians. what explanation shall we make them?" "why not the truth?" asked enoch. "i mean, tell them that i slipped away from my friends and that jonas tagged." "very well!" diana and jonas both nodded. "and now," enoch lifted his game bag, "let's get on. my partners are going to be worried. and i'm the cook for the outfit, too." "boss," jonas took the game bag, "you take my mule and go on with miss diana and na-che and i'll come along with the rest of the cattle." enoch obediently mounted, diana fell in beside him, and looked anxiously into his face. "please, judge, are you very cross with me for breaking in on you? but poor jonas was consumed with fear for you." enoch put his hand on diana's as it rested on her knee. "you must know!" he said, and was silent. "then it's all right," sighed diana, after a moment. "yes, it's quite all right! how did jonas find you?" "it seems that he and charley concluded that you must have headed toward bright angel. charley went on to washington to keep things in order there. jonas went up to el tovar. i had just outfitted for a trip into the hopi country when jonas came to me. he had talked to no one. he is wonderfully circumspect, but he was frantic beneath his calm. he begged me to find you for him and--well, i was a little anxious myself--so i didn't need much urging. we had only been out a week when we met john red sun. the rest was easy. if a person sticks to the trails in arizona it's difficult not to trace them. look, judge, your friends have lighted a signal fire." "poor chaps! they're starved and worried!" enoch quickened his mule's pace and diana fell in behind him. mack and curly were standing beside the blaze at the edge of the plateau. enoch jumped from the saddle. "i'm awfully sorry, fellows! but you see, i was detained by a lady!" "for heaven's sake, diana!" cried mack. "where did you come from?" "hello, mack! hello, curly!" diana dismounted and shook hands. "well, the judge gave his friends the slip. everybody was satisfied but his colored man, jonas. he was absolutely certain the judge wouldn't keep his face clean or his feet dry and he so worked on my feelings that i trailed you people. i was going into the hopi country anyhow." curly gave enoch a knowing glance. "we thought he was putting something over on us. what is he, diana, a member of the supreme bench?" "huh! hardly!" everybody laughed at diana's derisive tone and curly added, "anyhow, he's a rotten cook. i was thinking of putting mack back on his old job." "don't intrude, curly," said enoch. "i've been out and brought in an assistant who's an expert." "that's you, i suppose, diana!" mack chuckled. "no, it's jonas, the colored man. he'll be along with na-che in a moment. this isn't your camp?" "come along, miss allen!" exclaimed enoch. "i'll show you a camp that's run by an expert." mack and curly groaned and followed enoch and diana down to the cave, jonas and na-che appearing shortly. jonas, hobbling to the cave opening stood for a moment, gazing at the group around the fire in silent despair. finally he said: "when i get back to washington, if i live to get there, they'll put me out of the baptist church as a liar, if i try to tell 'em what i been through. boss, what you trying to do?" "dress these quail," grunted enoch. jonas gave curly and mack a withering glance, started to speak, swallowed something and said, "how come you to think you was a butcher, boss? leave me get my hands on those birds. i should think you done enough, killing 'em." "no," said enoch, "i'm the cook for to-night. but, jonas, old man, if you aren't too knocked up, you might make some biscuit." "jonas looks to me," suggested mack, "like a cup of coffee and a seat by the fire was about his limit to-night. i'll get the rest of the grub, if you'll tend to the quail, judge. curly, you go out and unpack for diana. we'll turn the cave over to you and na-che to-night, diana." diana, who was sitting on a rock by the fire, long, slender legs crossed, hands clasping one knee, an amused spectator of the scene, looked up at mack with a smile. "indeed you won't, mack. na-che and i have our tent. we'll put it up in the sand, as usual. and tomorrow, having delivered our prize package, we'll be on our way." enoch looked up quickly. "don't be selfish, miss allen!" he exclaimed. "that's the idea!" mack joined in vehemently. then he added, with a grin, "the judge has plumb ruined our quiet little expedition anyhow. and after two weeks of him and curly, i'm darn glad to see you, diana. how's your dad?" "very well, indeed! if he had had any idea that i was going on this sort of trip, though, i think he'd have insisted on coming with me. judge, let me finish those birds. you're ruining them." "whose quail are these, i'd like to know?" demanded enoch. "yours," replied diana meekly, "but i had thought that some edible portion besides the pope's nose and the neck ought to be left on them." jonas, who had been crouching uneasily on a rock, a disapproving spectator of the scene, groaned audibly. na-che now came into the glow of the fire. she was a comely-faced woman, of perhaps forty-five, neatly dressed in a denim suit. her black eyes twinkled as she took in the situation. "na-che, you come over here and sit down by me," said jonas. "if i can't help, neither can you." na-che smiled, showing strong white teeth. "you feel sick from the saddle, eh, jonas?" "don't you worry about that, woman! i'll show you i'm as good as any indian buck that ever lived!" na-che grunted incredulously, but sat down beside jonas nevertheless. in spite of the gibes, supper was ready eventually and was devoured with approval. when the meal was finished, na-che and jonas cleared up, then jonas took his blanket and retired to a corner of the cave, whence emerged almost immediately the sound of regular snoring. the others sat around the fire only a short time. "you'll stick around for a little while, won't you, diana?" said curly, as he filled his first pipe. "i really ought to pull out in the morning," replied diana. "there are some very special pictures i want to get at oraibai about now." "there is a cliff dwelling down the river about three miles," said enoch. "i haven't found the trail into it yet, but i saw the dwelling distinctly from a curve on the top of the canyon wall. it's a huge construction." "is that so?" exclaimed diana eagerly. "why, those must be the gray ruins. i didn't realize we were so close to them. well, you've tempted me and i've fallen. i really must give a day to those remains. only one or two whites have ever gone through them." enoch smiled complacently. "how long have you and the judge known each other, diana?" asked curly suddenly. diana hesitated but enoch spoke quickly. "the first time i saw miss allen she was a baby of five or six on bright angel trail." curly whistled. "then you've got it on the rest of us. i first saw her when she was a sassy miss in school at tucson." "nothing on me!" said mack. "i held her in my arms when she was ten days old, and my wife was with her mother and na-che when she was born. you were a red-faced, squalling brat, diana." "she was a beautiful baby! she never cried," contradicted na-che flatly. diana laughed and rose. "this is getting too personal. i'm going to bed," she said. the men looked at her, admiration in every face. "anything any of us can do for your comfort, diana?" asked curly. "na-che seemed satisfied with the place i put your tent in." "everything is fine, thank you," diana held out her hand, "good night, curly. i really think you're handsomer than ever." "lots of good that'll do me," retorted curly. diana made a little grimace at him and turned to mack. "good night, mack. i'll bet you're homesick for mrs. mack this minute." "she's a pretty darned fine old woman!" mack nodded soberly. "old!" said diana scornfully. "you ought to have your ears boxed! good night, judge!" "good night, miss allen!" the three men watched the tall figure swing out into the moonlight. "there goes the most beautiful human being i ever hope to see," said curly, turning to unroll his blankets. "if i was a painter and wanted to tell what this here country was really like, at its best, i'd paint diana." mack's voice was very earnest. "shucks!" sniffed curly, "that isn't saying anything, is it, judge?" "it's hard to put her into words," replied enoch carefully. "curly, are you too tired to continue our last night's talk?" "oh, let's put it over till to-morrow! we've lots of time!" curly gave a great yawn. enoch said nothing more but rolled himself in his blankets, with the full intention of formulating his line of conduct toward diana before going to sleep. he stretched himself luxuriously in the sand and the next thing he heard was diana's laugh outside. he opened his eyes in bewilderment. it was dawn without the cave. jonas was hobbling down toward the river. "oh, jonas, you poor thing! do let na-che give you a good rubdown before you try to do anything!" "no, miss diana. if the boss can stand these goings on, i can. how come he ever thought this was sport, i don't know. i'll never live to get him back home!" "where are you going, jonas?" called curly. jonas paused. "i ain't going to turn myself round, unless i have to. what's wanted?" "i just wanted to warn you that the colorado's no place for a morning swim," curly said. "i'm just going to get the boss's shaving water." "there's a hint for you, judge," curly turned to enoch. "i hope you plan to give more attention to your toilet after this." "you go to blazes, curly," said enoch amiably. "i haven't got the reputation for pulchritude to live up to that you have." "diana's imagination was in working order last night," volunteered mack. "to my positive knowledge curly ain't washed or shaved for three days." "you've drunk of the hassayampa too, mack!" curly ran the comb through his black locks vindictively. "what's the effect of that draught?" asked enoch. "you never tell the truth again," said curly. na-che's voice floated in. "jonas, you tell the men i got breakfast already for 'em. tell 'em to bring their own cups and plates." "sounds rotten, huh?" curly sauntered out of the cave. it was a very pleasant meal. to enoch it was all a dream. it seemed impossible for him to absorb the fact that he and diana were together in the colorado canyon. when the last of the coffee was gone, curly looked at his watch, then turned severely to enoch. "we're an hour earlier than we've ever been, and all because of women! aren't you ashamed?" "run along and wash dirt," returned enoch. "for two cents i'd tell how long it took me to get you up yesterday morning." "what's your program, diana?" asked mack. "na-che and i are going over to the cliff dwelling. we'll be gone all day." "i'll act as guide," said enoch with alacrity. "it's not necessary!" exclaimed diana. "i don't want to interrupt your camp routine at all. you just give us directions, judge. na-che and i are old hands at this, you know." "oh, take him along, diana! he'll be crying in a minute," sniffed curly. "jonas, you'll stay and give us a feed, won't you?" "i got to look out for the boss," jonas spoke anxiously. a shout went up. "jonas, old boy," said enoch, "you stay in camp to-day and er--look over my clothes." "i will, boss," with intense relief, "and i'll make you a stew out of those rabbits nobody'll forget in a hurry." mack and curly hurried off to the river's edge. na-che and jonas went into the cave. enoch looked at diana. she was standing by the breakfast fire slender and straight in her brown corduroy riding suit, her wide, intelligent eyes studying enoch's face. there was a glow of crimson in the cream of her cheeks, for the morning air held frost in its touch. "may i go with you?" repeated enoch. "i'll be very good!" diana did not reply at first. moonlight and firelight had not permitted her before to read clearly the story of suffering that was in enoch's face. during breakfast he had been laughing and chatting constantly. but now, as he stood before her, she was appalled by what she saw in the rugged face. there were two straight, deep lines between his brows. the lines from nostril to lip corner were doubly pronounced. the thin, sensitive lips were compressed. the clear, kindly blue eyes were contracted as if enoch were enduring actual physical pain. tall and powerful, his dark red hair tossed back from his forehead, his look of trouble did not detract from the peculiar forcefulness of his personality. "if you hesitate so long," he said, "i shall--" diana laughed. "begin to cry, as curly said? oh, don't do that! i shall be very happy to have you with me, but before we start, i think i shall develop some of the films i exposed on the way over. a ten o'clock start will be early enough, won't it? i have a developing machine with me. it may not take me even until ten." enoch nodded. "how does the work go?" he asked eagerly. "did you attend the ceremony na-che sent word to you about?" "yes! out of a hundred exposures i made there, i think i got one fairly satisfactory picture." diana sighed. "after all, the camera tells the story no better than words, and words are futile. look! what medium could one use to tell the world of that?" she swept her arm to embrace the view before them. the tiny sandy beach was on a curve of the river so sharp that above and below them the rushing waters seemed to drive into blind canyon walls. to the right, the canyon on both sides was so sheer, the river bed so narrow that nothing but sky was to be seen above and beyond. but to the left, the south canyon wall terraced back at perhaps a thousand feet in a series of magnificent strata, yellow, purple and crimson. still south of this, lifted great weathered buttes and mesas, fortifications of the gods against time itself. the morning sun had not yet reached the camp, but it shone warm and vivid on the peaks to the south, burning through the drifting mists from the river, in colors that thrilled the heart like music. enoch's eyes followed diana's gesture. "i know," he said, softly. "it's impossible to express it. i've thought of you and your work so often, down here. somehow, though, you do suggest the unattainable in your pictures. it's what makes them great." diana shook her head and turned toward her tent, while enoch lighted his pipe and began his never-ending task of bringing in drift wood. he paused, a log on his shoulder, before curly, who was squatting beside his muddy pan. "curly," he said, "is that stuff you have on fowler and brown, political, financial, or a matter of personal morals?" "personal morals and worse!" grunted curly. "it's some story!" enoch turned away without comment. but the lines between his eyes deepened. chapter ix the cliff dwelling "love! that which turns the meanest man to a god in some one's eyes! yet i must not know it! suppose i cast my responsibility to the winds and . . . and yet that sense of responsibility is all that differentiates me from minetta lane."--_enoch's diary_. diana began work on her films on a little folding table beside the spring. enoch, throwing down his log close to the cave opening, paused to watch her. jonas and na-che, putting the cave in order, talked quietly to each other. suddenly from the river, to the right, there rose a man's half choking, agonized shout and around the curve shot a skiff, bottom up, a man clinging to the gunwale. the water was too wild and swift for swimming. "the rope, judge, the rope!" cried mack. enoch picked up a coil of rope, used for staking the horses, and ran to mack who snatched it, twirled it round his head and as the boat rushed by him, the noosed end shot across the gunwale. the man caught it over his wrist and it was the work of but a few moments to pull him ashore. he was a young man, with a two days' beard on his face, clad in the universal overalls and blue flannel shirt. he lay on the sand, too exhausted to move for perhaps five minutes, while jonas pulled off his sodden shoes, and na-che ran to kindle a fire and heat water. after a moment, however the stranger began to talk. "almost got me that time! forgot to put my life preserver on. don't bother about me. i'm drowned every day. another boat with the rest of us should be along shortly. hope they salvaged some of the stuff." "what in time are you trying to do on the river, anyhow?" demanded curly. "there's simpler ways of committing suicide." the young man laughed. "oh, we're some more fools trying to get from green river to needles!" "on a bet?" asked mack. "hardly! on a job! geological survey! four of us! there they come! whoo--ee!" he staggered to his feet, as another boat shot around the curve. but this one came through in proper style, right side up, two men manning the oars and a third with a steering paddle. with an answering shout, they ran quickly up on the shore. they were a rough-bearded, overalled lot, young men, all of them. "gee whiz, harden! we thought you were finished!" exclaimed the tallest of the trio. "i would have been, but for these folks," replied harden. "here, let's make some introductions!" they were stalwart fellows. milton, the leader, was sandy-haired and freckled, a university of california man. agnew was stocky and swarthy, an old princeton graduate and forrester, a thin, blonde chap had worked in new york city before he joined the geological survey. they were astonished by this meeting in the canyon, but delighted beyond measure. they had been on the river for seven months and up to this time had met no one except when they went out for supplies. "we camped up above those rapids, last night," said milton. "of course we didn't know of this spot. we really had nothing but a ledge, up there. this morning harden undertook to patch his boat, with this result." he nodded toward the shivering cast-a-way, who had crowded himself to na-che's fire. "have you folks any objection to our stopping here to make repairs?" "lord, no! glad to have you!" said mack. enoch laughed. "mack, it's no use! you and curly are doomed to take on guests as surely as a dog takes on fleas. they started out alone, milton, for a little vacation prospecting trip. i caught them a few days out and made them take me on. then miss allen came along last night, and now your outfit! i'm sorry for you, mack." "i'll try to live through it," grinned mack. "did you fellows find any pay gravel, coming down?" asked curly. "we didn't look for any," answered agnew, "but a few years ago, i picked this out of the river bed." he showed curly a nugget as large as a pea. "where the devil did you find that?" exclaimed curly, eagerly. "i can show you on our map," replied agnew. "i'll go fifty-fifty with you," proffered curly. "me to do all the work." "no, you won't," laughed agnew. "say, old man, i put in four years, trying to make money out of the colorado and i swear, the only real cash i've ever made on it has been the magnificent wages the secretary of the interior allows me. i'll keep the nugget. you can have whatever else you find there. believe me, you'll earn it, before you get it!" "you're foolish but i'm on! mack, when shall we move?" "i want to know a lot more before i break up my happy home." mack's voice was dry. "in the meantime you fellows make yourselves comfortable. come on, curly. let's get back to work!" "mr. curly," said jonas, "will you let me see that nugget?" "sure, jonas, here it is!" jonas turned it over on his brown palm. "you mean to say you pick up gold like that, down here?" "that's what i did," replied agnew. "kin any one do it?" "yes, sir!" "how come it everybody ain't down here doing it right now?" "the going is pretty stiff," said harden, with a grin, glancing at his steaming legs. "boss," jonas turned the nugget over and over, "let's have a try at these ructions, before we go back!" "are you game to take to the boats, jonas?" asked enoch. "no, boss, we'll just go over the hills, like miss diana does. for the lord's sake, who'd want to go back to--" "jonas," interrupted diana. "if you and na-che will put together a lunch for us, the judge and i will get started." "i didn't quite get your name, sir," said milton to enoch. "just smith," called curly, from over his pan of gravel. "mr. just smith! judge, for short." "oh!" milton continued to stare at enoch in a puzzled way. "i beg your pardon! come on, harden, you're pretty well steamed out. let's go back and see what we can salvage, while ag and forr begin to overhaul the stuff we've already pulled out." not a half hour later, enoch, diana and na-che were making their way slowly up the plateau trail, not however, to climb up the old trail to the main land. they turned midway toward their right. there was no trail, but enoch knew the way by the distant peaks. they traveled afoot, single file, each with a canteen, a little packet of food and na-che with the camera tripod, while enoch insisted on toting the camera and the coil of rope. the sun was hot on the plateau and the way very rough. they climbed constantly over ragged boulders, and chaotic rock heaps, or rounded deep fissures that cut the plateau like spider webs. muscular and in good form as was the trio, frequent rests were necessary. they had one mishap. na-che, lagging behind, slipped into a fissure. enoch and diana blanched at her sudden scream and ran back as she disappeared. mercifully a great rock had tumbled into the crevice some time before and na-che landed squarely on this, six feet below the surface. when diana and enoch peered over, she was sitting calmly on the rock, still clinging to the tripod. "i lost my lunch!" she grumbled as she looked up at them. diana laughed. "you may have mine! better no lunch than no na-che. give us hold of the end of the tripod, honey, and we'll help you out." a few moments of strenuous scrambling and pulling and na-che was on the plateau brushing the sand from her clothes. "sit down and get your breath, na-che," said enoch. "i'm fine! i don't need to sit," answered na-che. "let's get along." she started on briskly. "i suppose things like that are of daily occurrence!" exclaimed enoch. "miss allen, don't you think you could be more careful!" again diana laughed. "it wasn't i who slipped into the crevice!" "no, but i'll wager you've had many an accident." "that's where part of the fun comes in. why, only yesterday we had the most thrilling escape. we--" "please! i don't want to hear it!" protested enoch, "pshaw! there's no more daily risk here, than there is in the streets of a large city." enoch grunted and followed as diana hurried after na-che. the course now led along the edge of the plateau which here hung directly above the river. the water twisted far below like a sinuous brown ribbon. the nooning sky was bronze blue and burning hot. the world seemed very huge, to enoch; the three of them, toiling so carefully over the yellow plateau, very small and insignificant. he did not talk much during the rest intervals. he would light his pipe and smoke as if in physical contentment, but his deep blue eyes were burning and somber as they rested on the vast emptiness about them. na-che always dozed during the stops. diana, after she had observed the look in enoch's eyes, occupied herself in writing up her note book. it was just noon when they came to an old trail which enoch believed dropped to the cliff dwelling. before descending it, they ate their lunch, enoch and diana sharing with na-che. this done, they began to work carefully down the faint old trail. for ten or fifteen minutes, they wormed zig-zag downward, the angle of descent so great that frequently they were obliged to sit down and slide, controlling their speed by clinging to the rocks on either side. they could not see the cliff dwelling; only the river winding so remotely below. but at the end of the fifteen minutes the trail stopped abruptly. so unexpectedly, in fact, that enoch clung to a rock while his legs dangled over the abyss. he shouted to the others to wait while he peered dizzily below. a great section of the wall had broken away and the trail could not be taken up again until a sheer gap of twenty feet had been bridged. diana crept close behind enoch and peered over his shoulders. "if we tie the rope to this pointed rock, i think we can lower ourselves, don't you?" he asked. "easily!" agreed diana. "i'll go first." "well, hardly! i'll go first and na-che can bring up the rear, as usual." they knotted the rope around the rock and enoch and diana quickly and easily made the descent. na-che lowered the camera and tripod to them, then examined, with a sudden exclamation, the rock to which the rope was tied. "that rock will give way any minute," she cried. "your weight has cracked it." even as she spoke, the rock suddenly tilted and slid, then bounded out to the depths below, carrying the rope with it. for a moment no one spoke, then na-che, her round brown face wrinkled with amusement, said, "almost no na-che, no diana, no judge, eh?" "jove, what an escape!" breathed enoch. "na-che," said diana, "you'll just have to return to the camp for another rope. you'd better ride back here. in the meantime, the judge and i'll explore the dwelling." na-che nodded and without another word, disappeared. diana turned to enoch. "lead ahead, judge!" the trail now led around a curve in the wall. enoch edged gingerly beyond this and paused. the trail again was broken, but they were in full view of the cliff dwelling, which was snuggled in an inward curve of the canyon, filling entirely a gigantic gap in the gray wall. diana exclaimed over its mute beauty. "i must see it!" she said. "but we can't bridge this gap without more ropes and more people to help." "it looks to me," enoch spoke with a sudden smile, "as though the lord intended me to have a few moments alone with you!" diana smiled in return. "it does, indeed," she agreed. "let's try to settle ourselves comfortably here in view of the dwelling. i like to look at it. we can hear na-che when she calls." the trail was several feet wide at this point. diana sat down on a rock, her back to the wall, clasping one knee with her brown fingers. for a little while enoch stood looking from the dwelling to diana, then far out to the glowing peaks across the canyon to the north. finally, he turned to silent contemplation of the lovely, slender figure against the wall. diana's dignity, her utter sweetness, the something quieting and steadying in her personality never had seemed more pronounced to enoch than in this country of magnificent heights and depths. "well," said diana, finally, "after you've finished your inspection, perhaps you'll sit down and talk." enoch smiled and established himself beside her. he refilled his pipe, lighted it and laid it down. "miss allen," he said abruptly, "you saw the article in the brown papers?" "yes," replied diana. "what did you think of it?" "i thought what others think, that brown is an unspeakable cur." "i can't tell you how keenly i feel for you in the matter, miss allen. i would have given anything to have saved you from it." "would you? i'm not so sure that i would! you see, i'm just enough of a hero worshiper to be proud to have my name coupled in friendship with that of a great man." "a great man!" repeated enoch quietly, yet with a bitterness in his voice that wrung diana's heart. "yes, mr. huntingdon," diana's voice broke a little and she turned her head away. the utter silence of the canyon enveloped them. at last enoch said, "you have a big soul, miss allen, but you shall not sacrifice one smallest fragment of--of your perfection for me. if it is necessary for me to kill brown, i shall do so." diana gasped, "enoch!" enoch, at the sound of his name on her lips, touched her hand quickly and softly with his own, and as quickly drew it away, jumped to his feet and began to pace the trail. "yes, kill him, the cur! diana, he did not even leave me a mother in the public mind! he maligned you. the burdens that i have carried for all the years, the horrors that i've wrestled with, the secret shames that i've hidden, he's exposed them all in the open marketplace. and he dragged you into my mire! diana, each man must be broken in a different way. some are broken by money, some by physical fear, some by spiritual fear, some--" diana interrupted. "enoch, are you a friend of mine?" enoch turned his tortured eyes to hers. "i shall never tell you how much a friend i am to you, diana. but my friendship is a fact you may draw on all the days of your life, as heavily as you will." "and i am your friend. though i know you so little, no friend is as dear to me as you are." she rose and coming to his side, she took his hand in both of hers. "dear enoch, what a man like brown can say of you in an article or two, has no permanent weight with the public. scurrilous stories of that type kill themselves by their very scurrility. no matter how eagerly the public may lap up the stuff, it cannot really heed it for, enoch, america knows you and your service. america loves you. brown cannot dislodge you by slandering your mother. the real importance and danger of that story lies in its reaction on you. i--i could not help recalling the story of that tormented, red-haired boy who went down bright angel trail with my father and i had to come to help him, if i could. o enoch, if the canyon could only, once more, wipe luigi guiseppi out of your life!" enoch watched diana's wide gray eyes with a look of painful eagerness. "nothing matters, nothing can matter, enoch, except that you find the strength in the canyon to go back to your work and that you leave brown alone. that is what i want to demand of your friendship, that you promise me to do those two things." "i shall go back, of course," replied enoch, gravely. "i had no thought of doing otherwise. but about brown, i cannot promise." "then will you agree not to go back until you have talked to me again?" "again? but i expect to talk to you many times, diana! you are not going away, are you?" diana nodded. "i'm using another person's money and i must get on, to-morrow, with the work i agreed to do. promise me, enoch." "but, diana--o diana! diana! let me go with you!" diana turned to face the dwelling. "the canyon can do more for you than i can, enoch. but we'll meet, say at el tovar before you go back to washington. promise me, enoch." "of course, i promise. but, diana, how can i let you go!" enoch put his arm across diana's shoulders and stood beside her, staring at the silent, deserted dwelling. it seemed to enoch, standing so, that this was the sweetest and saddest moment of his life; saddest because he felt that in nothing more than friendship must he ever touch her hand with his: sweetest because for the first time in his history he was beginning to understand the depth and beauty that can exist in a friendship between a man and a woman. "diana," he said at last, "you may take yourself away from me, but nevertheless, i shall carry with me the thought of your loveliness, like a rod and a staff to sustain me." when diana turned to look at him there were tears in her eyes. "i've always been glad that i was not ugly," she said, "but now,"--smiling through wet lashes--"you make me proud of it, though i can't see how the thought of it can--" she paused and enoch went on eagerly: "it's a seamy, rough world, diana, all higgledy-piggledy. the beautiful souls are misplaced in ugly carcasses and the ugly souls in beautiful. those who might be friends and lovers too often meet only to grieve that it is too late for their joy. in such a world, when one beholds a body that nature has chiseled and molded and polished to loveliness like yours and discovers that that loveliness is a true index of the intelligence and fineness of the character dwelling in the body--well, diana, it gives one a new thought about god. it does, indeed!" "enoch, i don't deserve it! i truly don't!" looking at him with that curious mingling of tenderness and courtesy and understanding in her wide eyes that made diana unique. enoch only smiled and again silence fell between them. finally, enoch said, "i would like to go down the river with milton and his crowd." diana's voice was startled. "o no, enoch! it's a frightfully dangerous trip! you risk your life every moment." "i want to risk my life," returned enoch. "i want a real man's adventure. i've got a battle inside of me to fight that will rend me unless i have one of equal proportions to fight, externally." a loud halloo sounded from above. "there's na-che!" exclaimed diana. "we'll talk this over later, enoch." but enoch shook his head. "no, diana, please! i've dreamed all my life of this canyon trip. you mustn't dissuade me. milton will be starting to-morrow and i'm going to crowd in, somehow." na-che called again. diana turned silently and in silence they returned to the end of the broken trail. here they explained to na-che the conditions of the trail beyond and that they had determined to give up the expedition for that day. "i doubt if i try to investigate it at all, on this trip," said diana, when they had made the difficult ascent to the plateau. "i really ought to get into the hopi country. my conscience is troubling me." na-che looked disappointed. "that is a good camp, by the river," she said. "but maybe," eagerly, "the judge and jonas will come with us." "you like jonas, don't you, na-che?" asked enoch. the indian woman laughed and tossed her head, but did not answer. it was only four o'clock when they reached camp, but already dusk was settling in the canyon. a good fire was going in front of the cave and jonas was guarding his stew which simmered over a smaller blaze near diana's tent. na-che lifted the lid of the kettle, sniffed and turned away with a shrug of her shoulders. "what's troubling you, woman?" demanded jonas. "i thought you was making stew," replied na-che. "oh, you did! well, what do you think now?" "oh, i guess you're just boiling the mud out of the river water. you give me the kettle and i'll show you how to make rabbit stew." "i'll give you a piece of my mind, miss na-che, that's what i'll give you. how come you to think you can sass a washington man, huh, a government man, huh? how come you suppose i don't know women, huh? why child, i was taking girls to fancy dress balls when you indians was still wearing nothing but strings. i was--" "o jonas!" called enoch, who had been standing by the cave fire, an amused auditor of jonas' tirade; "treat na-che gently. she's leaving to-morrow." "leaving? don't we go, too, boss?" asked jonas. "no, i'm going to see if i can go down river with the boats." curly, who was cleaning up in the cave, came out, comb in hand. "you haven't gone crazy, have you, judge?" "no more than usual, curly. how about it, milton?" as that sturdy personage came up from the river and dropped wearily down by the fire. "don't you need another man?" "yes, judge, we're two short. one of our fellows broke an arm a week ago and we had to send him out, with another chap to help him." "will you let me work my passage as far as bright angel?" asked enoch. milton scowled thoughtfully. "it's a god-awful job. you realize that, do you?" enoch nodded. milton turned to harden and the other two men. "what do you fellows think?" "we're awful short-handed," replied harden, cautiously. "can you swim, judge?" "i'm a strong swimmer." "but gee willikums, judge, what're we going to do without you?" demanded mack. "ain't that just the usual luck? you get a cook trained and off he goes!" "and how about that deal of ours, smith?" asked curly, in a low voice. "i haven't forgotten it for a moment, curly," enoch replied. "i'll talk to you about it, to-night. how about it, milton?" "can you stand rotten hard luck without belly-aching?" asked agnew. "yes, he can!" exclaimed mack, "but he's a darn fool to think of going. it's as risky as the devil and nobody that's got a family dependent on 'em ought to consider it for a moment." "i have no one," said enoch quietly. "and i'm strong and hard as nails." "what fool ever sent you folks out?" asked curly. "it's not a fool trip, really," expostulated milton. "it's very necessary for a good many reasons that the government have more accurate geographical and geological knowledge of this section." "what part of the government do you work for?" asked mack. "the geological survey. it's a bureau in the department of the interior." "oh, then huntingdon's your big boss!" exclaimed mack. "do you know him?" "never met him," replied milton. "he doesn't know the small fry in his department." "he sits in washington and gets the glory while you guys do the work, eh!" said curly. "i don't think you should put it that way, curly," protested mack. "enoch huntingdon's a big man and he's done more real solid work for his country than any man in washington to-day and i'll bet you on it." "right you are!" exclaimed forrester. "my oldest brother was in college with huntingdon. says he was a good fellow, a brilliant student and even then he could make a speech that would break your heart. his one vice was gambling. he--" "my father knew huntingdon!" diana spoke quickly. "he knew him when he was a long-legged, red-headed boy of fourteen. my father was his guide down bright angel trail. dad always said that he never met as interesting a human being as that boy." "queer thing about personal charm," contributed agnew. "i heard huntingdon make one of his great speeches when he was police commissioner. i was just a little kid and he was a big, homely, red-headed chap, but i remember how my kid heart warmed to him and how i wished i could get up on the stage and get to know him." "so he was a gambler, was he?" curly spoke in a musing voice. "well, if he was once, he is now. it's a worse vice than drink." "how come you say that, mr. curly?" demanded jonas. "in the meantime," interrupted enoch, gruffly, "how about my trip down the canyon?" "well," replied milton, "if you go at it with your eyes open, i don't see why you can't try it as far as grant's crossing. that's seventy-five miles west of here. barring accidents, we should reach there in a week, cleaning up the survey as we go along. if you live to reach there, you can either go out or come along, as you wish. but understand that from the time we leave here till we reach grant's crossing, there's no way out of the canyon, at least as far as the maps indicate." "say, the placer where i found my nugget is just above grant's!" exclaimed harden. "why don't you placer fans start on west and we'll all try to meet there in a week's time. i couldn't tell field where it was in a hundred years." "suits me!" exclaimed curly. "me too!" echoed mack. "then," said enoch, "will you take jonas along as cook, mack?" "you bet!" cried mack. "does that suit you, jonas?" asked enoch. "no, boss, it don't suit me. i've gotta go with you. i ain't never going to live through it, but i'll die praying." a shout went up of laughter and expostulation, but jonas, though grim with terror, was entirely unmoved. nothing, not even mortal horror of the colorado could break his determination never to be separated from enoch again. his agitation was so deep and so obvious that enoch and milton finally gave in to him. "all right!" said milton. "a daylight start will about suit us all, i guess. i don't think i can give you much previous instruction, judge, that will help you. we'll put jonas in harden's boat and you in mine. you must wear your life preserver all the time that we are on the water. when we are in the boat, do as i tell you, instantly, and you'll soon pick up what small technique we have. it's mostly horse sense and brute strength that we use. no two rapids are alike and the portages are nearly all difficult beyond words." "my gawd!" muttered jonas. "you go over to the hopi country with us," said na-che, softly. "i dassen't do it!" groaned jonas. "you'll have to serve that stew, na-che. my nerves is just too upset. i gotta go off and sit down somewhere." "don't you worry," whispered na-che, "i'll give you a navajo charm. you can't drown if you wear it." jonas' black face grew less tense. "honest, na-che?" na-che nodded emphatically. "well," said jonas, "i had a warming of my heart to you the minute i laid eyes on you, up there at the grand canyon. any woman as handsome as you is, na-che, is bound to be a comfort to a man in his hours of trouble." again na-che nodded and began to dish the stew, which came quite up to jonas' estimate of it. after supper, the big fire was replenished and mack produced a deck of cards. "who said draw-poker?" he inquired. "most any of our crowd will shout," said agnew. "judge?" mack looked at enoch, who was sitting before the fire, arms clasped about his knees. enoch pulled his pipe out of his mouth to answer. "no!" with a look of repugnance that caused milton to exclaim, "got conscientious scruples against cards, judge?" "yes, but don't stop your game for me," replied enoch, harshly. then his voice softened. "miss allen, the moon is shining, up on the plateau. while these chaps play, will you take a walk with me?" "i'd like to very much!" diana spoke quickly. "well, don't be gone over an hour, children," said curly. "cards don't draw me like a good gab round the fire. and diana's our best gabber." "an hour's the bargain then," said enoch. "come along, miss allen!" it was, indeed, glorious moonlight on the plateau. the two did not speak until they reached the upper level, then enoch laughed. "jove! this is the greatest luck a game of cards ever brought me! think, diana, three days ago i was fighting my despair at the thought that i must never see you again and that you despised me. and here i am, with moonlight and you and a whole hour. are you a little bit glad, diana?" "a little bit! i'd be gladder if i weren't so disturbed at the thought of the trip you are to begin to-morrow!" "nonsense, diana! i'm learning more about my own department every day. aren't they a fine lot of fellows? milton scares me to death. i don't doubt for a moment that if he tells me to dash to destruction in a whirlpool, i shall do so. there's a chap that could exact obedience from a mule. i'll look up his record when i get back to washington." "shall you reveal your identity before you leave them?" asked diana. "no, certainly not! not for worlds would i have them know who i am. and now tell me, diana, just what are your plans?" "oh, nothing at all exciting! i am going to make some studies of indian children's games. they are picturesque and ethnologically, very interesting. i shall come home across the painted desert and take some pictures in color. my adventures will be very mild compared with yours." "and you and na-che will be quite alone, out in this trackless country! i shall worry about you, diana." diana laughed. "enoch, you have no idea of what you are undertaking! you'll have no time to give me a thought. for a week you're going to struggle as you never did before to keep breath in your body." "oh, it'll not be that bad!" exclaimed enoch. "are you cold, diana? i thought you shivered. what a strange, ghostlike country it is! it would be horrible up here alone, wouldn't it!" they paused to gaze out over the fantastic landscape. in the gray light the strangely weathered mesas were ruined castles, stupendous in bulk; the mighty buttes and crumbled peaks were colossal cities overthrown by the cataclysm of time. it seemed to enoch, that nowhere else in the world could one behold such epic loneliness. the excitement that had buoyed him up since diana's arrival suddenly departed, and his life with all its ugly facts was vividly in his consciousness again. "diana," he said, abruptly, "when you were talking to me this afternoon, you spoke of the brown matter in the plural. was there more than one article about me?" diana turned her tender eyes to enoch's. "let's not spoil this beautiful evening," she pleaded. "i don't want to bother you, diana. just tell me the facts and we'll drop it." "i'd rather not talk about it," replied diana. "please, diana! whatever fight i have down here, whatever conclusion i reach, i want to work with my eyes open, so that my decisions shall be final. i don't want to have to revamp and revise when i get out." "as far as i know," said diana, in a low voice, "there was but one other reference to the matter. the day after the first article appeared, brown published a photograph of you and me in front of a johnstown lunch place. there was a long caption, which said that you had always been proud that you were slum-reared and a woman hater. that you had persisted in keeping some of your early habits, perhaps out of bravado. that miss allen was an intimate friend, the only woman friend you had made and kept. that was all." "all!" echoed enoch. the pale, silver landscape danced in a crimson mist before him. he stood, clenching and unclenching his fists, breathing rapidly. "oh, enoch! enoch! since you had to know, it was better for you to know from me than any one else. and as far as i am concerned, as i told you before, i'm only amused. it's only for the reaction on you that i'm troubled." "you mustn't be troubled, diana." said enoch, huskily. "but i'd be less than a man, if i didn't pay that yellow cur up. you see that, don't you?" "a dutch family i have heard of has this family motto: 'eagles do not see flies.'" enoch gave a dry, mirthless laugh. for a long time they tramped in silence. then diana said, "we've been out half an hour, enoch." enoch turned at once, taking diana's hand as he did so. he did not release it until they had reached the edge of the trail and the sound of men's voices floated up to them. then taking off his hat, he lifted the slender fingers to his lips. "this is our real good-by, diana, for we'll not be alone, again. if anything should happen to me, i want you to have my diary, if they save it. i'll have it with me, on the trip." diana's lips quivered. "god keep you, enoch, and help you." then she turned and led the way to the cave. chapter x the expedition begins "after all, there is a place still untouched by humanity, where skies are unmarred and the way leads through uncharted beauty. when i have earned the right, i shall go there again."--_enoch's diary_. before dawn the camp fires were lighted and the various breakfasts were in preparation. when these had been eaten there was light from the pale sky above by which to complete the packing of the boats. these were strongly built, wooden skiffs with three water tight compartments in each; one amidships, one fore and one aft, with decks flush with the gunwales. there was room between the middle and end compartments for the oarsmen to sit. the man who worked the steersman's oar sat on the rear compartment. in these compartments were packed all the dunnage, clothing, food, tools, surveying and geological instruments and cameras. each man was allowed about fifty pounds of personal luggage. everything that water could hurt was packed in rubber bags. milton was troubled when he found that enoch had no change of shoes. "you'll reach camp each night," said he, "soaked to the skin. you must have warm, dry clothing to change to. shoes are especially important. jonas must have them, too." "how about indian moccasins, mr. milton?" asked jonas. "i bought three pairs while i was with miss diana." "well, they're better than nothing," grumbled milton. "are you ready, harden?" "aye! aye! sir!" said harden, pulling his belt in tightly. "are you all set, ag and jonas?" "all set, harden," agnew picked up his oar. "are you ready, matey?" to jonas, who was saying good-by in a whisper to na-che. "i'm as ready as i'll ever be, mr. agnew," groaned jonas. "good-by, everybody!" stepping gingerly into the boat. "all aboard then, judge and forr," cried milton. "i'll shove off." "good-by, diana! good-by, curly and mack!" enoch waved his hand and took his place, and the racing water seized the boats. hardly had enoch turned to look once more at the four watching on the beach, when the boats shot round the curving western wall. for the first half hour, the water was smooth and swift, sweeping between walls that were abrupt and verdureless and offered not so much as a finger hold for a landing place. enoch, following instruction did not try to row at first. he sat quietly watching the swift changing scenery, feeling awkward and a little helpless in his life preserver. "we're due, sometime this morning, to strike some pretty stiff cataracts," said milton, "but the records show that we can shoot most of them. keep in to the left wall, forr, i want to squint at that bend in the strata." they swung across the stream, and as they did so they caught a glimpse of jonas. he was crouched in the bottom of the boat, his eyes rolling above his life preserver. "didn't na-che give you that navaho charm, jonas?" called forrester. "it'll take more than a charm to help poor old jonas," said enoch. "i really think he'll like it in a day or so. he's got good pluck." "he's only showing what all of us felt on our maiden trip," chuckled milton. then he added, quickly, "listen, forr!" above the splash of the oars and the swift rush of the river rose a sound like the far roar of street traffic. "our little vacation is over," commented forrester. "easy now, forr! we'll land for observation before we tackle a racket like that. let the current carry us. be ready to back water when i shout." he raised his voice. "harden, don't follow too closely! you know your failing!" they rounded a curving wall, the current carrying them, milton said, at least ten miles an hour. a short distance now, and they saw spray breaking high in the middle of the stream. "we'll land here," said milton, steering to a great pile of bowlders against the right wall. enoch watched with keen interest the preparation for the descent. first sticks were thrown into the water, to catch the trend of the main current. milton pointed out to enoch that if the stick were deflected against one wall or another, great care had to be exercised to prevent the boats being dashed against the walls in like manner. but, he said, if the current seemed to run a fairly unobstructed course, it was hopeful that the boats would go through. there were a number of rocks protruding from the water, but the current appeared to round these cleanly and milton gave the order to proceed. they worked back upstream a short distance so as to catch the current straight prow on, and in a moment they were dashing through a sea of roaring waves that drenched them to the skin. forrester and milton steered a zigzag course about the menacing rocks, grazing and bumping them now and again, but emerging finally, without accident, in quieter waters. here they hugged the shore and waited for harden's boat, the mary, to come down. and come it did, balancing uncannily on the top of the waves, with jonas' yells sounding even above the uproar of the waters. "more of it below, harden," said milton as the mary shot alongside. more indeed! it seemed to enoch that the first rapid was child's play to the one that followed. the jutting rocks were more frequent. the fall greater. the waves more menacing. but they shot it safely until they reached its foot and there an eddy caught them and carried them back upstream in spite of all that could be done. enoch seized the oars that were in readiness beside him and pulled with all his might but to no avail. and suddenly the mary rushed out of the mist striking them fairly amidship. the ida half turned over, but righted herself and the mary darted off. milton shouted hoarsely, forrester and enoch obeyed blindly and after what seemed to enoch an endless struggle, spray and waves suddenly ceased and they found themselves in quieter waters where the mary awaited them. harden and agnew were laughing. "thought you knew an eddy when you saw one, milt!" cried agnew. "i don't know anything!" grinned milton, "except that jonas is going to be too scared to cook." "if ever i get to land," retorted jonas, "i'll cook something for a thanksgiving to the lord that you all will never forget." they examined the next fall and passed through it successfully. the canyon was widening now and an occasional cedar tree could be seen. enoch was vaguely conscious, too, that the colors of the walls were more brilliant. but the ardors of the rapids gave small opportunity for aesthetic observations. curiously enough, after the passage of this last fall the waters did not subside in speed, though the waves disappeared. the spray of another fall was to be seen beyond. "we mustn't risk shooting her without observation," cried milton. "make for that spit of sand with the cedars on it, fellows." enoch and forrester put their backs into their strokes in their endeavor to guide the ida to the place indicated, which appeared to be the one available landing spot. but the current carried them at such velocity that when within half a dozen feet of the shore it seemed impossible to stop and make the landing. "overboard!" shouted milton. all three plunged into the water, clinging to the gunwale. the water was waist deep. for a few feet boat and men were dragged onward. then they found secure foothold on the rocky river bottom and, with huge effort, beached the ida. scarcely was this done, when the mary hove in view and with milton shouting directions, they rushed once more into the current to help with the landing. "the cook and the bacon both are in your boat, harden!" chuckled milton, "or you'd be getting no such delicate attentions from the ida." jonas crawled stiffly out of his compartment. enoch began preparation for a fire, white the others busied themselves with notes and observations. it was 90 degrees on the little sandy beach and the wet clothing was not chilling. they ate enormously of jonas's dinner, then the survey men scattered to their work for an hour or so, while enoch explored the region. there was no getting to the top of the walls, so he contented himself with crawling gingerly over the rocks to a point where a little spring bubbled out of a narrow cave opening. peering through this, enoch saw that it was dimly lighted, and he crawled through the water. to his astonishment, he was in a great circular amphitheater, a hundred feet in diameter, domed to an enormous height, with the blue sky showing through a rift at the top. the little spring trickled down the wall, now dropping sheer in spray, now trickling in a delicate, glistening sheet. but the greatest wonder of the cave was in the texture of its walls, which appeared to enoch to be of purest marble of a deep shell pink and translucent creamy white. moisture had collected on the walls and each tiny globule of water seemed to hold a miniature rainbow in its heart. there was a holy sort of loveliness about the spot, and before he returned to the rugged adventure outside, enoch pulled off his hat and christened the place diana's chapel. nor did he, on his arrival at the camp, tell of his find. shortly after two o'clock milton ordered all hands aboard. but before this he had shown them all the map, adding a rough sketch of his own. the next rapid appeared to be no more dangerous than the previous one. but below it the river widened out into a circular bay, a great tureen within which the waters moved with an oil-like smoothness. but when milton threw a stick into this strange basin, it was whirled the entire circumference of the bay with a velocity that all the men agreed boded ill for any boat that did not cling to the wall. the west end of the bay, where it was all but blocked by the closing in of the canyon sides, could not be seen from the rocks where the men stood. but the old maps reported a steep fall which must be portaged. "cling to the right-hand wall," ordered milton. "if you steer out, harden, for the sake of the short cut, you may be lost. the reports show that two other boats were lost here. cling to the wall! when we reach the mouth we must go ashore again and examine the falls. be sure your life preservers are strapped securely." "mr. milton," said jonas, "you better let me get my hands on a oar. if i got to die, i'm going to die fighting." "good stuff, jonas!" exclaimed harden. "can you row?" "brought up on the potomac," replied jonas. "all right, folks," cried milton. "we're off." the ida would have shot the rapid successfully, but for one important point. it was necessary, in order to land on the right side of the whirlpool, to steer to the right of a tall, finger-like rock, that protruded from the water at the bottom of the rapids. about a boat's length from this rock, however, a sudden wave shot six feet into the air, throwing the ida off its course, and drenching the crew, so that they entered the churning tureen at a speed of twenty miles an hour and almost at the middle of the stream. "pull to the right wall! to the right!" roared milton. but he might as well have roared to the wind. enoch and forrester rose from their seats and threw the whole weight of their bodies on their oars. but the noiseless power of the whirlpool thrust the ida mercilessly toward the center. "harder!" panted milton, straining with all his might at the steering oar. "put your back into her, judge! bend to it, forr!" enoch's breath came in gasps. his palms, the cords of his wrists felt powerless. his toe muscles cramped in agony. as in a mist he saw the right wall recede, felt the boat twist under his knees like a disobedient horse. suddenly there was a crack as of a pistol shot behind him. one of forrester's oars had snapped. forrester drew in the other and crawled back to add his weight to the steering oar. "it's up to you, judge!" cried milton. they were in the center of the bay now and the boat began to spin. for one terrible moment it seemed as if an overturn were imminent. out of the tail of his eyes, enoch saw the mary hugging the right wall. "judge!" shouted milton. "if you can back water into that rough spot six feet to your right, i think we can stop the spin." enoch was too spent to reply but he gathered every resource in his body to make one more effort. the boat slowly edged into the rough spot and for a moment the spin ceased. "now shoot her downstream! we'll have to trust to the mary to keep us from entering the falls," milton shouted. with enoch giving all that was left in him to the oars, and forrester and milton steering with their united strength and skill, the ida slowly worked toward the narrow opening which marked the head of the falls. the crew of the mary had landed and harden stood on the outermost rock at the opening, swinging a coil of rope, while agnew crawled up behind him with another. jonas hung onto the mary's rope. perhaps a half dozen boat lengths from the falls the whirling motion of the water ceased, and it leaped ferociously toward the narrow opening. when the ida felt this straight pull, milton roared: "back her, judge, back her! now the rope, harden! you too, ag!" her prow was beyond the opening before the speed of the ida was stopped by the ropes. a moment later her crew had dropped flat on the rocks, panting and exhausted. "well, milt, of all the darn fools!" exclaimed harden. "after telling us to keep to the right, what did you try to do yourself? if you'd gone inside that big finger rock at the end of the rapid you'd have had no trouble." "i never had a chance to go inside that rock," panted milton. "a pot-hole spouted a boat's length ahead and threw me clear to the left." "say," said agnew, "we got some crew in our boat now. jonas, you are some little oarsman!" "scared as ever, jonas?" asked enoch. "i wasn't never so much scared, you know, boss, as i was nervous. but this charm is sure a good one. if we can live through this here day, we can live through anything. i want you to wear it, to-morrow, boss. seems like the head boat needs it more'n us folks." jonas' liquid black eyes twinkled. enoch laughed. "if i hadn't known you were a good sport, jonas, i'd never have let you come with us. keep your charm, old man. i don't expect ever to gather together enough strength to get into the boat again!" "nobody's going to try to get in to-night," said milton, without lifting his head from the rocks on which he lay. "we camp right here. it's four o'clock anyhow." "then i've something still left to be thankful for!" enoch closed his eyes with a deep sigh of relief. when he next opened them it was dusk. above him, on the narrow canyon top, gleamed the wonder of the desert stars. there was a glow of firelight on the rocks about him. enoch sat up. it was an inhospitable spot for a camp. the roar of the falls was harsh and menacing. the canyon walls shot two thousand feet into the air on either side of the sliding waters. enoch was suddenly oppressed by a vague sense of suffocation. he realized, fully, for the first time that the menace of the canyon was very real; that should a sudden rise of the waters come at this point, there was no climbing out, no going back; that should the boats be lost--- he shook himself, rose stiffly and joined the group around the fire. "ship ahoy, judge!" cried harden. "are you still traveling in circles?" "humph!" grunted milton. "the judge may be a tenderfoot in the canyon, but he's no tenderfoot in a boat. ever on a college crew, judge?" "yes, columbia," replied enoch. "i thought you'd raced! jove, how you did heave the old tub round! jonas, how about grub for the judge?" "how come you to think you have to tell me to look out for my boss, mr. milton?" grumbled jonas, coming up with a pie tin loaded with beans and bacon. "hello, jonas, old man! what do you think of this parlor, bedroom and bath?" asked enoch. "i feel like joseph in the pit, boss! folks back home wouldn't never believe me if mr. agnew hadn't promised to take some pictures of me and my boat. that's an awful good boat, the mary, boss. she is some boat! did you see me jerk her round?" "no, i missed that, jonas. i was a little preoccupied at the time. is to-day a fair sample of every day, you fellows?" "lately, yes," replied forrester. "to-morrow'll be a bell ringer too, from the looks of that portage. need any help on those dishes, jonas, before i go to bed?" "all done, thanks," answered jonas. "say, mr. milton, you know what i was thinking? mary's no name for a sassy, gritty boat like ours. let me give her a good name." "what name, for instance?" demanded harden. jonas cleared his throat. "i was thinking of the na-che." "my word!" exclaimed harden. "say, ag, would you want our boat renamed the na-che?" "who'd repaint the name?" asked agnew carefully. "that's the point with me." "the trouble with you, ag," said harden, "is that you haven't any soul." "i'd do the painting," jonas went on eagerly. "i was thinking of getting her all fixed up with that can of paint i see to-day. red paint, it was." "do you think that na-che would mind our making free with her name?" milton's tone was serious. "mind!" cried jonas. "well, if you knew women like i do you'd never ask a question like that! a woman would rather have a boat or a race horse named after her any time than have a baby named for her. i know women!" "in that case, let's rename the mary," said milton. "everybody ready to turn in?" "i am, sir," replied harden. "jonas, you turn off the lights and put the cat down cellar. good night, everybody!" jonas chuckled and hobbled off to his blankets. it was not seven o'clock when the rude camp was silent and every soul in it in profound slumber. enoch was stiff and muscle-sore in the morning but he ate breakfast with a ravenous appetite and with a keen interest in the day's program. in response to his questions milton said: "we unload the boats and make the dunnage up into fifty pound loads. then we look over the trail. sometimes we have merely to get up on our two legs and walk it. other times we have to make trail even for ourselves, let alone for the boats. sometimes we can portage the freight and lower the boats through the water by tow ropes. but for this falls, there's nothing to do but to make trail and drag the boats over it." "it's no trip for babes!" exclaimed enoch. "that's certain! do you like the work, milton?" "it's a work no one would do voluntarily without liking it," replied the young man. "i like it. i wouldn't want to give my life to it, but--" he paused to look over toward the others busily unloading the na-che,--"but nothing will ever do again for me what this experience has." "and may i ask what that is?" enoch's voice was eager. milton searched enoch's face carefully, then answered slowly. "sometime when we are having a rest, i'll tell you, if you really want to know." "thanks! and now set me to work, captain," said enoch. the way beside the falls was nothing more than a narrow ledge completely covered with giant bowlders. beyond the falls, the river hurled itself for a quarter of a mile against broken rocks that made the passage of a boat impossible. it was a long portage. after the bowlder-strewn ledge was passed, however, it was not necessary to make trail, for although the shore was strewn with broken rock and driftwood, the way was fairly open. after the contents of the boats had been made up into rough packs, both crews attacked the trail-making. it was mid-morning before pick-ax, shovel and crowbar had opened up a way which jonas claimed was fit only for kangaroos or elephants. rough as it was, when milton declared it fit for their purposes, the rest without protest heaved the packs to their shoulders. it was hot at midday in the canyon. the thermometer registered 98 degrees in the shade. enoch, following milton, dropped his third pack at the end of the quarter mile portage and sat down beside it. "old man!" he groaned, "you've got to give me a ten minutes' rest." milton grinned and nodded sympathetically. "take all the time you want, judge!" "i'm ashamed," said enoch, "but don't forget you fellows have had ten months of this, as against my two days." "i don't forget for a minute, judge. and just let me tell you that if ever i were on trial for a serious offense of any kind i'd be perfectly satisfied to be tried before a real he-man, like you." and milton disappeared over the trail, leaving enoch with a warm glow in his heart, such as he had scarcely felt since his first public speech won the praise of the newspapers. for a quarter of an hour he sat with his back against a half buried mesquite log smoking, and now eying the magnificent sheer crimson wall which lay across the river, now wondering where diana was and now contemplating curiously the sense of his own unimportance which the canyon was thrusting into his consciousness more persistently every hour. jonas joined him for the last part of his rest, but when milton announced that they had finished the packing and must now portage the boats, jonas was on the alert. "that name isn't dry yet!" he exclaimed. "i got to watch the prow of my boat myself," and he started hurriedly back over the trail, enoch following him more slowly. sometimes lifting, sometimes skidding on drift logs, sometimes dragging by main strength, the six men finally landed the ida and the na-che in quiet waters. jonas and agnew prepared a simple dinner and immediately after they embarked. for two hours the river flowed swiftly and quietly between sheer walls of stratified granite, white and pale yellow, shot with rose. now and again a cedar, dwarfed and distorted, found toe hold between the strata and etched its deep green against the white and yellow. about four o'clock the river widened and the walls were broken by lateral canyons that led back darkly and mysteriously into the bowels of the desert. for half an hour more milton guided the ida onward. then enoch cried, "milton, see that brook!" and he pointed to a tumbling little stream that issued from one of the side canyons. milton at once called for a landing on the grassy shore beside the brook. never was there a sweeter spot than this. willows bent over the brook and long grass mirrored itself within its pebbly depths for a moment before the crystal water joined the muddy colorado. the canyon no longer overhung the river suffocatingly, but opened widely, showing behind the fissured white granite peaks, crimson and snow capped and appalling in their bigness. "here's where we put in a day, boys!" exclaimed milton. "i'm sure we can scramble to the top here, somehow, and get a general idea of the country." his crew cheered this statement enthusiastically. the landing was easily made and the boats were beached and unloaded. "never thought i could unload a boat again without bursting into tears," said enoch, grunting under three bed rolls he was carrying up to the willows, "but here i am, full of enthusiasm!" "you need a lot of it down here, i can tell you," growled forrester, who had skinned his chin badly in a fall that morning. "you look like a goat, forr," said harden, sympathetically, as he set a folding table close to the spot where jonas was kindling a fire. "i'd rather look like a goat than a jack-ass," returned forrester with an edge to his voice. "forr," said milton, "don't you want to try your luck at some fish for supper? the salmon ought to be interested in a spot like this." forrester's voice cleared at once. "sure! i'd be glad to," he said, and went off to unload his fishing tackle. when he was out of hearing, milton said sharply to harden: "why can't you let him alone, hard! you know how touchy he is when anything's the matter with him." "i'm sorry," replied harden shortly. enoch glanced with interest from one man to the other, but said nothing, not even when, milton's back being turned, harden winked at him. and when forrester returned with a four-pound river salmon, there was no sign of irritation in his face or manner. this night, for the first time, they sat around the fire, luxuriating in the thought that for the next twenty-four hours they were free of the terrible demands of the river. forrester possessed a good tenor voice and sang, jonas joining with his mellow baritone. harden, lying close to the flames, read a chapter from "david harum," the one book of the expedition. agnew, on request, told a long and involved story of a chinese laundryman and a san francisco broker which evoked much laughter. then milton, as master of ceremonies, turned to enoch: "now then, judge, do your duty!" "i haven't a parlor trick to my name," protested enoch. "i like what you call our efforts!" cried harden. "hit him for me, ag! he's closest to you." "not after the way he wallops the ida," grunted agnew. "let milt do it." "boss," said jonas suddenly, "tell 'em that poem about mercy i heard you give at--at that banquet at our house." enoch smiled, took his pipe from his lips, and began: "'the quality of mercy is not strained, it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven, upon the place beneath--'" enoch paused a moment. the words held a new and soul-shattering significance for him. then as the others waited breathlessly, he went on. his beautiful, mellow voice, his remarkable enunciation, the magnetism of his personality stirred his little audience, just as thousands of greater audiences had been stirred by these same qualities. when he had finished, there was a profound silence until milton said: "that's the only thing i have heard said in the canyon that didn't sound paltry." "if any of the rest of us had repeated it, though, it might have sounded so." harden's tone was dry. "shakespeare couldn't sound paltry anywhere!" exclaimed enoch. "hum!" sniffed agnew. "depends on what and when you're quoting. give us another, judge." enoch gazed thoughtfully at the fire for a moment, then slowly and quietly he gave them the prayer of habakkuk. the liquid phrases rolled from his lips, echoed in the canyon, then dropped into silence. enoch sat with his great head bowed, his sensitive mouth compressed as if with pain. his friends stared from him to one another, then one by one slipped away to their blankets. when enoch looked up, only milton was left. "and so," said enoch, "the canyon has been a great experience for you, milton!" "yes, judge. i became engaged to a girl who is a catholic. i am a protestant, one of the easy going kind that never goes to church. yet, do you know, when she insisted that i turn catholic, i wouldn't do it? we had a fearful time! i didn't have any idea there was so much creed in me as i discovered i had. in the midst of it the opportunity came for this canyon work, and this trip has changed the whole outlook of life for me. judge, creeds don't matter any more than bridges do to a stream. they are just a way of getting across, that's all. creeds may come and creeds may go, but god goes on forever. nothing changes true religion. christ promulgated the greatest system of ethics the world has known. the ethics of god. he put them into practical working form for human beings. whatever creed helps you to live the teachings of christ most truly, that's the true creed for you. that's what the canyon's done for me. and when i get out, i'm going back to alice and let her make of me whatever will help her most. i'm safe. i've got the creed of the colorado canyon!" enoch looked at the freckled, ruddy face and smiled. "thank you, milton. you've given me something to think about." "i doubt if you lack subjects," replied milton drily. "but--well, i have an idea you came out here looking for something. there are lines around your eyes that say that. so i just thought i'd hand on to you what i got." enoch nodded and the two smoked for a while in silence. then enoch said in a low voice: "do you have trouble with forrester and harden?" "yes, constant friction. they're both fine fellows, but naturally antagonistic to each other." "a fellow may be ever so fine," said enoch, "yet lack the sense of team play that is absolutely essential in a job like this." "exactly," replied milton. "the great difficulty is that you can't judge men until they're undergoing the trial. then it's too late. in powell's first expedition, soon after the civil war, there was constant friction between powell and three of his men. at last, although they had signed a contract to stick by him, they deserted him." "how was that?" asked enoch with interest. "they simply insisted on being put ashore and they climbed out of the canyon with the idea of getting to some of the mormon settlements. but the indians killed them almost at once, poor devils! powell got the story of it on his second expedition. the history of those two expeditions, i think, are as glorious as any chapter in our american annals." "was it so much harder than the work you are doing?" "there is no comparison! we're simply following the trail that powell blazed. think of his superb courage! these terrible waters were enshrouded in mystery and fear. he did not know even what kind of boats could live in them. hostile indians marauded on either hand. and as near as i recall the only settlements he could call on, if he succeeded in clambering out of the canyon, were ft. defiance in new mexico, and mormon settlements, miles across the desert in utah." "hum!" said enoch slowly, "it doesn't seem to me that things are so much better now, that we need to boast about them. there are no indians, to be sure, but the river is about all human endurance and ingenuity can cope with, just as it was in powell's day." "she's a bird, all right!" sighed milton. "well, judge, i'm going to turn in. to-morrow's another day! good night." "good night, captain!" replied enoch. he threw another stick of driftwood on the fire and after a moment's thought fetched the black diary from his rubber dunnage bag. when the fire was clear and bright, he began to write. "diana, you were wrong. no matter how strenuous the work is, you are never out of the background of my thoughts. but at least i am having surcease from grieving for you. i have had no time to dwell on the fact that you cannot belong to me. i am afraid to come out of the canyon. afraid that when these wonderful days of adventure are over, the knowledge that i must not ask you to marry me will descend on me like a stifling fog. as for brown! diana, why not let me kill him! i'd be willing to stand before any jury in the world with his blood on my hands. what he has done to me is typical of brown and all his works. he is unclean and clever, a frightful combination. consider the class of readers he has! the majority of the people who read brown, read only brown. his readers are the great commonalty of america, the source, once, of all that was best in our life. brown tells them nasty stories, not about people alone, but about systems; systems of money, systems of work, systems of government. and because nasty stories are always luscious reading, and because it is easier to believe evil than good about anything, twice every day, as he produces his morning and evening editions, brown is polluting the head waters of our national existence. i say, why not let me kill him? what more useful and direct thing could i do than rid the nation of him? and o diana, when i think of the smut to which he coupled your loveliness, i feel that i am less than a man to have hesitated this long." enoch closed the book, replaced it in the bag, and sat for a long hour staring into the fire. then he went to bed. chapter xi the perfect adventure "who cares whether or not my hands are clean? does god? wouldn't god expect me to punish evil? god is mercilessly just, is he not? else why disease and grief in the world? if you could only tell me!"--_enoch's diary_. it was nipping cold in the morning. ice encrusted the edges of the little brook. but by the time breakfast was finished, the sun had appeared over the distant mountain peaks and the long warm rays soon brought the thermometer up to summer heat. milton expounded his program at breakfast. jonas was to keep the camp. enoch and milton were to climb to the rim for topographical information. harden was to look for fossils. agnew and forrester were to make a geological report on the strata of the section. jonas was extraordinarily well pleased with his assignment. "i'm going to finish painting the na-che," he said. "mr. milton, have you got anything i can mend the tarpaulins with that go over the decks?" "needles and twine in the bag labeled repairs," replied milton. "how about giving the ida the once over, too, jonas." "all right! if i get around to it!" jonas' manner was vague. "can't love but one boat at a time, eh, jonas?" asked enoch. "i always wanted to have a boat to fix up," said jonas. "when i was a kid my folks had an old flat-bottom tub, but i never earned enough for a can of paint. will you folks be home by twelve for dinner?" there was a chorus of assent as the crew scattered to its several tasks. milton and enoch started at once up the edge of the brook, hoping that the ascent might be made more easily thus. but the crevice, out of which the little stream found its way to the colorado, narrowed rapidly to the point where it became impossible for the two men to work their way into it. they were obliged, after a half hour's struggle, to return to the camp and start again. a very steep slope of bright orange sand led from the shore to a scarcely less oblique terrace of sharp broken rock. there were several hundred feet of the sand and, as it was dry and loose, it caused a constant slipping and falling that consumed both time and strength. the rocky terrace was far easier to manage, and they covered that rapidly, although enoch had a nasty fall, cutting his knee. they were brought to pause, however, when the broken rock gave way to a sheer hard wall, which offered neither crack nor projection for hand or foot hold. milton led the way carefully along its foot for a quarter of a mile until they reached a fissure wide enough for them to enter. the walls of this were crossed by transverse cracks. by utilizing these, now pulling, now boosting each other, they finally emerged on a flat, smooth tableland, of which fissures had made a complete island. at the southern end of the island rose an abrupt black peak. "if we can get to the top of that," said milton, "it ought to bring us to the general desert level. is your knee bothering you, judge?" "not enough to stop the parade," replied enoch. "how high do you think that peak is, milton?" "not less than a thousand feet, i would guess. i bet it's as easy to climb as a greased pole, too." the pinnacle, when they reached it, appeared very little less difficult than milton had guessed it would be. the north side offered no hope whatever. it rose smooth and perpendicular toward the heavens. but the south side was rough and though a yawning fissure at its base added five hundred feet to its southern height they determined to try their fortunes here. ledges and jutting rocks, cracks and depressions finally made the ascent possible. the top, when they achieved it, was not twenty feet in diameter. they dropped on it, panting. the view which met their eyes was superb. to the south lay the desert, rainbow colored. rising abruptly from its level were isolated peaks of bright purple, all of them snow capped, many of them with crevices marked by the brilliant white of snow. miles to the south of the isolated peaks lay a long range of mountains, dull black against the blue sky, but with the white of snow caps showing even at this distance. to the north, the river gorge wound like a snake; the gorge and one huge mountain dominating the entire northern landscape. satiated by wonders as milton was, he exclaimed over the beauty of this giant, sleeping in the desert sun. a sprawling cone in outline, there was nothing extraordinary about it in contour, but its size and color surpassed anything that enoch had as yet seen. from base to apex it was a perfect rose tint, deepening where its great shoulders bent, to crimson. as if still not satisfied with her work, nature had sent a recent snow storm to embellish the verdureless rock, and the mountain was lightly powdered with white which here was of a gauze-like texture permitting pale rose to glimmer through, there lay in drifts, white defined against crimson. enoch sat gazing about him while milton worked rapidly with his note book and instruments. finally he slipped his pencil into his pocket with a sigh. "and that's done! what do you say to a return for lunch, judge?" "i'm very much with you," replied enoch. "here! hold up, old man! what's the matter?" for milton was swaying and would have fallen if enoch had not caught him. milton clung to enoch's broad shoulder for a moment, then straightened himself with a jerk. "sorry, judge. it's that infernal vertigo again!" "what's the cause of it?" asked enoch. "might be rather serious, might it not, on a trip such as yours?" "i think the water we have to drink must be affecting my kidneys," replied milton. "i never had anything of the sort before this trip, but i've been troubled this way a dozen times lately. it only lasts for a minute." "but in that minute," enoch's voice was grave, "you might fall down a mountain or out of the boat." "oh, i don't get it that bad! and anyhow, i haven't gone off alone since these things began. when we get to el tovar i'll try to locate a doctor." enoch looked admiringly at the grim young freckled face beneath the faded hat. "i see i shall have to appoint myself bodyguard," he said. "i'd suggest jonas, only he's deserted me for the na-che, and i doubt if you could win him from her." milton laughed. "nothing on earth can equal the joy of puddling about in boats, to the right kind of a chap, as the _wind in the willows_ has it. and jonas certainly is the right kind of a chap!" "jonas is a man, every inch of him," agreed enoch. "shall we try the descent now, milton?" "i'm ready," replied the young man, and the slow and arduous task was begun. jonas was just lifting the frying pan from the fire when they slid down the orange sand bank. the rest of the crew was ready and waiting around the flat rock that served as dining table. "what's the matter with your knee, boss?" cried jonas, standing with the coffee pot in his hand. enoch laughed as he glanced down at his torn and blood-stained overalls. "of course, if you were giving me half the care you give your boat, jonas, these things wouldn't happen to me!" "you better let me fix you up, before you eat, boss," said jonas. "not on your life, old man! food will do this knee more good than a bandage." "it's a wonder you wouldn't offer to help the rest of us out once in a while, jonas!" harden looked up from his plate of fish. "look at this scratch on my cheek! i might get blood poisoning, but lots you care if my fatal beauty was destroyed! as it is, i look as much like an inmate of a menagerie as old goat forrester here." "too bad the scratch didn't injure your tongue, harden," returned forrester, sarcastically. "nothing seems able to stop your chin, though, forr! why do you have to get sore every time i speak to you?" "because you're always going out of your way to say something insulting to me." "don't make a mountain out of a mole hill, forr," said milton. "if you fellows aren't careful you'll have a real quarrel, and that's the last thing i'm going to stand for, i warn you." "very well, milt," replied forrester, "if you don't want trouble make harden keep his tongue off me." "the fault is primarily yours, hard," milton went on. "you know forrester is foolishly sensitive and you can't control your love of teasing. now, once for all, i ask you not to speak to forrester except on the business of the survey." harden shrugged his shoulders and forrester scowled a little sheepishly. agnew, a serene, kindly fellow, began one of his endless irish stories, and the incident appeared to be closed. the work assigned for the day was accomplished in shorter order than milton had anticipated. by two o'clock all hands were back in camp and milton decided to embark and move on as far as possible before nightfall. but scarcely had they finished loading the boats and tied on the tarpaulins when a heavy rain began to fall, accompanied by lightning and tremendous peals of thunder that echoed through the canyon deafeningly. milton, in his anxiety to get on with his task, would have continued in spite of the rain, but the others protested so vigorously that he gave in and the whole party crawled under a sheltering ledge beside the brook. for an hour the storm raged. a few flakes of snow mingled with the descending rain drops. then with a superb flash of lightning and crash of thunder the storm passed as suddenly as it had come, though for hours after they heard it reverberate among the distant peaks. at last they embarked and proceeded along a smooth, swift-flowing river for a short time. then, however, the familiar roar of falls was heard, the current increased rapidly in velocity and milton made a landing for observation. they were at the head of the wildest falls that enoch had yet seen. the canyon walls were smooth and perpendicular. there was no possibility of a portage. the river was full of rocks against which dashed waves ten to twelve feet high. "we'll have to run it!" shouted milton above the din of the waters. "powell did it and so can we. give the ida five minutes' start, hard. then profit by the mistakes you see us make. all ready, judge and forr!" under milton's directions, they rowed back upstream far enough to gain complete control of the boat before entering the falls. then they shot forward. instantly the oars became useless. they were carried upward on the crest of a wave that seemed about to drop them down an unbelievable depth to a jagged rock. but at this point, another wave seized them and hurled them sidewise, half rolled them over, then uptilted them until the ida's nose was deep in the water. they bailed like mad but to little avail for the waves broke over the sides constantly. they could see little for the air was full of blinding spray. suddenly, after what had seemed an eternity but was really five minutes of time, there was a rending crash and the ida slid into quieter water, turning completely over as she did so. enoch, as the sucking current seized him, was convinced that his hour had come, and a quick relief was his first sensation. then diana's wistful eyes flashed before him and he began to fight the colorado. as his head emerged from the water, he saw the na-che land on all fours from the top of a wave upon the overturned ida, then whirl away. he began to swim with all his strength. the mud forever suspended in the colorado weighed down his clothing. but little by little he drew near the ida, to which he could see two dark bodies clinging. the na-che, struggling to cross a whirlpool toward him, made slow progress. he had, indeed, dizzily grasped the ida, before the other boat came up. "we can hang on, hard!" gasped milton. "give us a tow to that sand spit yonder." they reached the sand spit and staggered to land, while harden and his crew turned the ida over and beached her. she had a six-inch gap in her side. "well," panted enoch, "i'm glad we managed to keep dry during the rainstorm!" "my lord, judge!" exclaimed milton, "your own mother wouldn't own you now! i don't see how one human being could carry so much mud on his face!" "i'll bet it's not as bad as yours at that," returned enoch. "jonas, as long as it's not the na-che that's hurt--" "coming, boss, coming!" cried jonas. "here's your moccasins and here's your suit. sure you aren't hurt any?" "jonas," replied enoch in a low voice that the others might not hear, "jonas, i'm having the greatest time of my life!" "so am i, mr. secretary! honest, i'm so paralyzed afraid that i enjoy it!" and jonas hurried away to inspect the ida. it was so biting cold, now that the afternoon was late, that all the wrecked crew changed clothing before attempting to make camp or unload the ida. "how many miles have we made by this venture, milton?" called enoch, as he pulled on his moccasins. "one and a half!" enoch grinned, then he began to laugh. the others looked at him, then joined him, and homeric laughter echoed for a long minute above the snarl of the water. fortunately the hole in the ida did not open into one of the compartments, so there was no damage done to the baggage. it was too dark by the time this had been ascertained to attempt repairs that night, so milton agreed to call it a day, and after supper was over every one but enoch and milton went to bed. these two sat long in silence before the fire, smoking and enjoying the sense of companionship that was developing between them. finally enoch spoke in a low voice: "you're going to have trouble between forrester and harden." "it certainly looks like it, i've tried every sort of appeal to each of them, but trouble keeps on smoldering." milton shook his head. "that's one of the trivial things that can wreck an expedition like this; just incompatibility among the men. what would you do about it, judge?" "i'd put it to them that they could either keep the peace or draw lots to see which of them should leave the expedition at the ferry. in fact, i don't believe i'd temporize even that much. i'd certainly set one of them ashore. my experience with men leads me to believe that with a certain type of men, there is no appeal. as you say, they're both nice chaps but they have a childish streak in them. the majority of men have. a leader must not be too patient." "you're right," agreed milton. "judge, couldn't you complete the trip with us?" "how long will you be out?" asked enoch. "another six months!" enoch laughed, then said slowly: "there's nothing i'd like to do better, but i must go home, from the ferry." milton gazed at enoch for a time without speaking. then he said, a little wistfully, "i suppose that while this is the most important experience so far in my life, to you it is the merest episode, that you'll forget the moment you get into the pullman for the east." "why should you think that?" asked enoch. "i can't quite tell you why. but there's something about you that makes me believe that in your own section of the country, you're a power. perhaps it's merely your facial expression. i don't know--you look like some one whom i can't recall. perhaps that some one has the power and i confuse the two of you, but--i beg your pardon, judge!" as enoch's eyebrows went up. "you have nothing to beg it for, milton. but you're wrong when you think this trip is merely an episode to me. all my life i have longed for just such an experience in the canyon. it's like enchantment to really find myself here." milton smiled. "well, we all have our carcasonnes." "what's yours?" demanded enoch. the younger man hesitated. "it's so absurd--but--well, i've always wanted to be chief of the geological survey." "why?" "why did you dream of a wild trip down the colorado as the realization of your greatest desire?" asked milton. "i couldn't put it into words," answered enoch. "but i suppose it's the pioneer in me or something elemental that never quite dies in any of us, of anglo-saxon blood." milton nodded. "the chief of the geological survey's job is to administer nature in the raw. i'd like to have a chance at it." "i believe you'd get away with it, too, milton," enoch replied thoughtfully. milton laughed. "too bad you aren't secretary of the interior! well, i'm all in! let's go to bed." "you go ahead. i'll sit here with my pipe a bit longer." but, after all, enoch did not write in his diary that night. before milton had established himself in his blankets, harden rose and went to a canteen for a drink of water. on his return he stumbled over forrester's feet. instantly forrester sat erect. "what're you doing, you clumsy dub foot?" he shouted. "oh, dry up, forr; i didn't mean to hurt you, you great boob!" "we'll settle this right now!" forrester was on his feet and his fist had landed on harden's cheek before enoch could cross the camp. and before he or milton could separate the combatants, harden had returned the blow with interest, and with a muttered: "take that, you sore-headed dog, you!" forrester tried to twist away from enoch, but could not do so. harden freed himself from milton's grasp, but did not attempt to go on with the fight. "one or the other of you," said milton briefly, "leaves the expedition at the ferry. i'll tell you later which it will be. i'm ashamed of both of you." "i'd like to know what's made a tin god of you, jim milton!" shouted forrester. "you don't own us, body and soul. i've been in the survey longer than you! i joined this expedition before you did. and i'll leave it when i get ready!" "you'll leave it at the ferry, forrester!" milton's voice was quiet, but his nostrils dilated. "and i'm telling you, i'll leave it when i please, which will be at needles! if any one goes, it'll be that skunk of a harden." harden laughed, turned on his heel and deliberately rolled himself in his blankets. forrester stood for a moment, muttering to himself, then he took his blankets off to an obscure corner of the sand. and enoch forgot his diary and went to bed, to ponder until shortly sleep overtook him, on the perversity of the male animal. in the morning jonas constituted himself ship's carpenter and mended the ida very creditably. forrester was surly and avoided every one. harden was cheerful, as usual, but did not speak to his adversary. the sun was just entering the canyon when the two boats were launched and once more faced the hazards of the river. during the morning the going was easy. the river was swift and led through a long series of broken buttes, between which one caught wild views of a tortured country; twisted strata, strange distorted cedar and cactus, uncanny shapes of rock pinnacles, in colors somber and strange. they stopped at noon in the shadow of a weathered overhanging rock, with the profile of a witch. the atmosphere of dissension had by this time permeated the crew and this meal, usually so jovial, was eaten with no general conversation and all were glad to take to the boats as soon as the dishes were washed. the character of the river now changed again. it grew broader and once more smooth canyon walls closed it in. as the river broadened, however, it became more shallow and rocks began to appear above the surface at more and more frequent intervals. at last the na-che went aground amid-stream on a sharp rock. the ida turned back to her assistance but enoch and milton had to go overboard, along with the crew of the na-che, in order to drag and lift her into clear water. then for nearly two hours, all thought of rowing must be given up. both crews remained in the water, pushing the boats over the rough bottom. it was heartbreaking work. for a few moments the boats would float, plunging the men beyond their depths. they would swim and flounder perhaps a boat's length, clinging to the gunwale, before the boat would once more run aground. again they would drag their clumsy burden a hundred yards over sand that sucked hungrily at their sodden boots. this passed, came many yards of smooth rock a few inches below the surface of the water, which was so muddy that it was impossible to see the pot holes into which some one of the crew plunged constantly. jonas suffered agonies during this period; not for himself, though he took his full share of falls. his agony was for the na-che, whose freshly painted bottom was abraded, scraped, gorged and otherwise defaced almost beyond jonas's power of endurance. "look out! don't drag her! lift her! lift her!" he would shout. "oh, my lord, see that sharp rock you drag her onto, mr. hard! ain't you got any heart?" once, when all three of the na-che's crew had taken a bad plunge, and jonas had come up with an audible crack of his black head against the gunwale, he began to scold while the others were still fighting for breath. "you shouldn't ship her full of water like that! all that good paint i put on her insides is gone! hey, mr. agnew, don't drip that blood off your hand on her!" "shut up, jonas," coughed agnew good-naturedly. "let him alone, ag!" exclaimed harden, between a strangling cough and a sneeze. "what do you want to divulge your cold-heartedness for? go to it, jonas! you're some lover, all right!" the shallows ended in a rapid which they shot without more than the usual difficulties. they then had an hour of quiet rowing through gorges that grew more narrow and more dusky as they proceeded. about four o'clock snow began to fall. it was a light enough powder, at first, but shortly it thickened until it was impossible to guide the boats. they edged in shore where a ledge overhanging a heap of broken rock offered a meager shelter. here they planned to spend the night. the shore was too precipitous to beach the boats. much to jonas' sorrow, they could only anchor them before the ledge. there was plenty of driftwood, and a brisk fire dispelled some of the discomfort of the snow, while a change to dry clothing did the rest. to enoch it was a strange evening. the foolish quarrel between harden and forrester was sufficient to upset the equanimity of the whole group which before had seemed so harmonious. the situation was keenly irritating to enoch. he wanted nothing to intrude on the wild beauty of the trip, save his own inward struggle. the snow continued to fall long after the others had gone to sleep. enoch, with his diary on his knees, wrote slowly, pausing long between sentences to watch the snow and to listen to the solemn rush of waters so close to his feet. "i've been sitting before the fire, diana, thinking of our various conversations. how few they have been, after all! and i've concluded that in your heart you must look on me as presumptuous and stupid. you never have given me the slightest indication that you cared for me. you have been, even in the short time we have known each other, a gallant and tender friend. a wonderful friend! and you are as unconscious of my passion for you, of the rending agony of my giving you up as the canyon is of the travail of milton and his little group. and i'm glad that this is so. if i can go on through life feeling that you are serene and happy it will help me to keep my secret. strange that with every natural inclination within me to be otherwise, i should be the custodian of ugly secrets; secrets that are only the uglier because they are my own. it seems a sacrilegious thing to add my beautiful love for you to the sinister collection. but it must be so. "i am so glad that i am going to see you so soon after i emerge from the canyon. there will be much to tell you. i thought i knew men. but i am learning them anew. and i thought i had a fair conception of the wonders of the colorado. diana, it is beyond human imagination to conceive or human tongue to describe." enoch had looked forward with eager pleasure to seeing the canyon snowbound. but he was doomed to disappointment. during the night the snow turned to rain. the rain, in turn, ceased before dawn and the camp woke to winding mists that whirled with the wind up and out of the canyon top. the going, during the morning, offered no great difficulties. but toward noon, as the boats rounded a curve, a reef presented itself with the water of the river boiling threateningly on either side. as the canyon walls offered no landing it was necessary to make one here and forrester volunteered to jump with a rope to a flat rock which projected from the near end of the reef. "leap just before we are opposite the rock, forr," directed milton. "when that rough water catches us, we're going to rip through at top speed." forrester nodded and, after shipping his oars, he clambered up onto the forward compartment. "now," shouted milton. forrester leaped, jumped a little short, and splashed into the boiling river. the ida, in spite of enoch madly backing water, shot forward, dragging forrester, who had not let go the rope, with her. milton relinquished the steering oar, dropped on his stomach on the compartment deck, his arms over the stern, and began to haul with might and main on the rope. now and again forrester, red and fighting for breath, showed a distorted face above the waves. the na-che shot by at uncontrollable speed, her crew shouting directions as she passed. milton at last, just as the ida entered a roaring fall, brought forrester to the gunwale, but having achieved this, the end of the rope dropped from his fingers and he lay inert, his eyes closed. forrester clung to the edge of the boat and roared to enoch: "milt's fainted!" but enoch, fighting to guide the ida, dared not stop rowing. the falls were short, with a vicious whirlpool at the foot. one glance showed the na-che broken and inverted, dancing in this. enoch bent to his right oar and by a miracle of luck this, with a wave from a pot hole, threw them clear of the sucking whirlpool, but dashed them so violently against the rocky shore that the ida's stern was stove in and milton rolled off into the water. enoch dropped his oars, seized the stern rope, jumped for the rocks and sprawled upon one. he made a quick turn of the rope, then leaped back for milton, whose head showed a boat's length downstream. forrester staggered ashore, then with a life preserver on the end of a rope, he started along the river's edge. half a dozen strokes brought enoch to milton. he lifted the unconscious man's mouth out of water and caught the life preserver that forrester threw him. it seemed for a moment as if poor forrester had reached the limit of his strength, but enoch, after a violent effort, brought milton into a quiet eddy and here forrester was able to give help and milton was dragged up on the rocks. at this moment, jonas, his eyes rolling, clothes torn and dripping, clambered round a rocky projection, just beyond where they were placing milton. "got 'em ashore!" he panted, "but they can't walk yet." "anybody hurt?" asked enoch. "nobody but the na-che. i gotta take the ida out after her." "she's beyond help, jonas," said enoch. "go up to the ida and bring me the medicine chest." he was unbuttoning milton's shirt as he spoke, and feeling for his heart. "he's alive!" exclaimed forrester, who was holding milton's wrist. "yes, thank god! but i don't like that!" pointing to milton's left leg. "it's broken!" cried forrester. "poor old milt!" poor old milt, indeed! when he finally opened his eyes, he was lying on his blankets on a flat rock, and jonas and harden, still dripping, were finishing the fastenings of a rude splint around his left leg. enoch was kindling a fire. forrester and agnew were unloading the ida. he tried to sit up. "what the deuce happened?" he demanded. "that's what we want to know!" exclaimed harden cheerfully. "you had a dizzy attack after you pulled forr in," said enoch, "and rolled off the boat. just how you broke your leg, we don't know." "broke my leg!" dismay and disbelief struggled in milton's face. "broke my leg! why, but i can't break my leg!" "that's good news," said agnew unsmilingly, "and it would be important if it were only true." "but i can't!" insisted milton. "what becomes of the work?" "the work stops till you get well." harden stood up to survey his and jonas's surgical job with considerable satisfaction. "we'll hurry on down to the ferry and get you to a doctor." milton sank back with a groan, then hoisted himself to his elbow to say: "you fellows change your clothes quick, now." the men looked at each other, half guilty. "what is it!" cried milton. "what are you keeping from me." "the na-che's gone!" jonas spoke huskily. "how'd she go?" demanded milton. "a sucking whirlpool up there took her, after we struck a rock at the bottom of the falls," answered harden. "we struck at such speed that it stove in her bottom and threw us clear of the whirlpool. but she's gone and everything in her." "how about the ida?" milton's face was white and his lips were compressed. "she'll do, with some patching," replied enoch. "some leader, i am, eh?" milton lay back on his blanket. "i think i've heard of a number of other leaders losing boats on this trip," said enoch. "now, you fellows can dry off piecemeal. this fire would dry anything. we've got to shift milton's clothes somehow. lucky for you your clothes were in the ida, milt. mine were in the na-che." "and two thirds of the grub in the na-che, too!" exclaimed agnew. jonas had rooted out milton's change of clothing and very tenderly, if awkwardly, agnew and harden helping, he was made dry and propped up where he could direct proceedings. "forrester, i wish you'd bring the whole grub supply here," milton said, when his nurses had finished. it was a pitifully small collection that was placed on the edge of the blanket. "i wonder how many times," said milton, "i've told you chaps to load the grub half and half between the boats? somebody blundered. i'm not going to ask who because i'm the chief blunderer myself, for neglecting to check you over, at every loading. with care, we've about two days' very scanty rations here, and only beans and coffee, at that. with the best of luck and no stops for survey work we're five days from the ferry." "guess i'd better get busy with my fishing tackle!" exclaimed forrester. "ain't any fishing tackle," said jonas succinctly. "she must 'a' washed out of the hole in the ida. i was just looking for it myself." "suppose you put us on half rations," suggested enoch, "and one of us will try to get to the top, with the gun." milton nodded. "judge, are you any good with a gun?" "yes, i've hunted a good deal," replied enoch. "very well, we'll make you the camp hunter. the rest understand the river work better than you. forrester, you and agnew and jonas, patch up the ida; and harden, you stay with me and let's see what the maps say about the chances of our getting out before we reach the ferry. when the rest have finished the patch, you and agnew row downstream and see if you can pick up any wreckage from the na-che." jonas made some coffee and enoch, after resting for a half hour, took the gun and started slowly along the river's edge. his course was necessarily downstream for, above the heap of stones where he had tied the ida, the river washed against a wall on which a fly could scarcely have found foothold. there was a depression in the wall, where the camp was set. enoch worked out of this depression and found a foothold on the bottom-most of the deep weathered, narrow strata that here formed a fifty-foot terrace. these terraced strata gave back for half a mile in uneven and brittle striations that were not unlike rude steps. above them rose a sheer orange wall, straight to the sky. far below a great shale bank sloped from the river's edge up to a gigantic black butte, whose terraced front seemed to enoch to offer some hope of his reaching the top. he slung the gun across his back and began gingerly to clamber along the stratified terrace. he found the rock extremely brittle and he was a long hour reaching the green shale. he was panting and weary and his hands were bleeding when he finally flung himself down to rest at the foot of the black butte. a near view of this massive structure was not encouraging; terraces, turrets, fortifications, castles and above enoch's head a deep cavern, out of which the wind rushed with a mighty blast of sound that drowned the sullen roar of the falls. beyond a glance in at the black void, enoch did not attempt to investigate the cave. he crept past the opening on a narrow shelf of rock, into a crevice up which he climbed to the top of the terrace above the cavern. here a stratum of dull purple projected horizontally from the black face of the butte. with his face inward, his breast hard pressed against the rock, hands and feet feeling carefully for each shift forward, enoch passed on this slowly around the sharp western edge of the butte. here he nearly lost his balance, for there was a rush of wings close to the back of his head. he started, then looked up carefully. far above him an eagle's nest clung to the lonely rock. the purple stratum continued its way to a depression wide enough to give enoch sitting room. here he rested for a short moment. the back of the depression offered an easy assent for two or three hundred feet, to the top of another terrace along whose broad top enoch walked comfortably for a quarter of a mile to the point where the butte projected from the main canyon wall. the slope here was not too steep to climb and enoch made fair speed to the top. the view here was superb but enoch gave small heed to this. to his deep disappointment, there was no sign of life, either animal or vegetable, as far as his eye could reach. he stood, gun in hand, the wind tossing his ruddy hair, his great shoulders drooping with weariness, his keen eyes sweeping the landscape until he became conscious that the sun was low in the west. with a start, he realized that dusk must already be peering into the bottom of the canyon. then he bethought himself of the eagle's nest. it was a terrible climb, before he lay on a ledge peering ever into the guano-stained structure of sticks from which the eagle soared again at his approach. as he looked, he laughed. the forequarters of a mountain goat lay in the nest. hanging perilously by one hand, enoch grasped the long, bloody hair and then, rolling back on to the ledge, he stuffed his loot into his game bag and started campward. the way back was swifter but more nerve wracking than the upward climb had been. by the time he reached the green shale, enoch was trembling from muscle and nerve strain. it was purple dusk now, by the river, with the castellated tops of butte and mountain molten gold in the evening sun. when he reached the brittle strata, the water reflected firelight from the still unseen camp blaze. enoch, clinging perilously to the breaking rock, half faint with hunger, his fingers numb with the cold, laughed again, to himself, and said aloud: "'. . . . . . . . . . . . . and yet dauntless the slug horn to my lips i set and blew, childe roland to the dark tower came.'" chapter xii the end of the cruise "christ could forgive the unforgivable, but the colorado in the canyon is like the voice of god, inevitable, inexorable."--_enoch's diary_. jonas stood on a projecting rock peering anxiously down the river. enoch, staggering wearily into the firelight, called to him cheerfully: "ship ahoy, jonas!" "my gawd, boss!" exclaimed jonas, running up to take the gunny sack and the gun. "don't you never go off like that alone again. how come you stayed so late?" "now the na-che's gone i suppose i'll have a few attentions again!" said enoch. "how are you, milton?" he turned toward the stalwart figure that lay on the shadowy rock beyond the fire. "better than i deserve, judge," replied milton. "what luck, judge?" cried harden, who had been watching a game of poker between agnew and forrester. "my lawdy lawd!" shouted jonas, emptying the gunny sack on the rock which served as table. there was a chorus of surprise. "what happened, judge! did you eat the rest raw?" "a goat, by jove! where on earth did it come from?" "what difference does that make? get it into the pot, jonas, for the love of heaven!" "as a family provider, judge, you are to be highly recommended." enoch squatted against milton's rock and complacently lighted his pipe, then told his story. "there are goats still here, then! i wish we'd see some," said milton, when enoch had finished. "but what would they live on?" asked enoch. "that's easy," replied milton. "there are hidden canyons and gulches in this colorado country that are veritable little paradises, with all the verdure any one could ask for." "wish we could locate one," sighed forrester. "that wouldn't help me much," grunted milton. "what luck with the ida?" enoch turned to agnew who, next to jonas, took the greatest interest in ship repair and building. "the forward compartment was pretty well smashed, but another hour's work in the morning will make the old girl as good as ever." "she'll never be the boat the na-che was," groaned jonas mournfully from his fire. "what are we all going to do now, with just one boat?" for a moment no one spoke, then enoch said drily, "well, jonas, seeing that you and i don't really belong to the expedition anyhow and that we invited ourselves, i think it's up to us to walk." there was a chorus of protests at this. but enoch silenced the others by saying with great earnestness: "milton, you know i'm right, don't you?" milton, who had been saying nothing, now raised himself on his elbow. "two of you fellows will have to walk it; which two we'd better decide by lot. we're up against a rotten situation. it would be bad, even if i weren't hurt. but with a cripple on your hands, well--it's awful for you chaps! simply awful!" "with good luck, and no survey work, how many days are we from the ferry?" asked enoch. "between four and five, is what milton and i calculated this afternoon," replied harden. "what's the nearest help by way of land?" "there's a ranch, about eighty miles south of here. i guess the traveling would be about as bad as anybody would hope for. the fellows that go out have got to be used to desert work, like me." harden scratched a match and by its unsteady light scrutinized the detail map spread open on his knee. "isn't miss allen working nearer than eighty miles from here?" asked agnew. "she's in the hopi country, whatever distance that may be," replied enoch. "i should suppose it would be rather risky trying to catch some one who is moving about, as she is." "i guess maybe she's on her way to the ferry now." jonas straightened up from his stew pot. "leastways, na-che kind of promised to kind of see if maybe they couldn't reach there about the time we did." the other men laughed. "i guess we won't gamble too heavily on the women folks," exclaimed forrester. "i guess miss allen's the kind you don't connect gambling with," retorted agnew. enoch cut in hastily. "then two of us are to go out. what about those who stay?" "well, you have to get my helpless carcass aboard the ida and we'll make our way to the ferry, as rapidly as we can. the food problem is serious, but we won't starve in four days. we won't attempt any more hunting expeditions but we may pot something as we go along. it's the fellows who go out who'll have the worst of it." enoch had been eying milton closely. "look here, milton, i believe you're running a good deal of temperature. why don't you lie down and rest both mind and body until supper's ready? after you've eaten, we'll make the final decisions." "i don't want any food," replied milton, dropping back on his blankets, nevertheless. "the beans is done but you only get a handful of them in the stew, to-night," said jonas, firmly. "i'm cooking all the meat, 'cause it won't keep, but you only get half of that now." agnew groaned. "well, there doesn't seem much to look forward to. let's finish that game of poker, forr. take a hand, judge and hard?" "no, thanks," replied enoch. "i'll just rest my old bones right here." "i'll help you out, if forr won't pick on me." harden glanced at milton, but the freckled face gave no sign that harden's remark had been heeded. enoch quietly took the injured man's pulse. it was rapid and weak. enoch shook his head, laid the sturdy hand down and gave his attention to his pipe and the card game. it was not long before an altercation between forrester and harden began. several times agnew interfered but finally forrester sprang to his feet with an oath. "no man on earth can call me that!" shouted harden, "take it back and apologize, you rotter!" "a rotter, am i?" sneered forrester. "and what are you? you come of a family of rotters. i know your sister's history! i know--" enoch laid a hand on agnew's arm. "don't interfere! nothing but blood will wipe that out." but milton roared suddenly, "stop that fight! stop it! judge! agnew! i'm still head of this expedition!" reluctantly the two moved toward the swaying figures. it was not an easy matter to stop the battle. forrester and harden were clinched but enoch and agnew were larger than either of the combatants and at a word from enoch, jonas seized forrester, with agnew. after a scuffle, harden stood silent and scowling beside enoch, while forrester panted between agnew and jonas. "i'm ashamed of you fellows," shouted milton. "ashamed! you know the chief's due in the morning." he stopped abruptly. "i'm ashamed of you. you know what i mean. the chief--god, fellows, i'm a sick man!" he fell back heavily on his blankets. enoch and harden hurried to his side. "quit your fighting, judge! quit your fighting!" muttered milton. "here! i'll make you stop!" he tried to rise and jonas rushed to hold the injured leg while harden and enoch pressed the broad shoulders back against the flinty bed. it was several moments before he ceased to struggle and dropped into a dull state of coma. "it doesn't seem as if a broken leg ought to do all that to a man as husky as milt!" said agnew, who had joined them with a proffer of water. "i'm afraid he was sickening with something before the accident," enoch shook his head. "those dizzy spells were all wrong, you know." "we'd better get this boy to a doctor as soon as we can," said agnew. "poor old milton! i swear it's a shame! his whole heart was set on putting this trip through." "he'll do it yet," enoch patted the sick man's arm. "yes, but he'll be laid up for months and his whole idea was to put it through without a break. the department never condones accidents, you know." "i guess i can give you all some supper now," said jonas. "better get it while he's laying quiet." "where's forrester?" asked enoch as they gathered round the stew pot. "he mumbled something about going outside to cool down," replied agnew. "better let him alone for a while." "too bad you couldn't have kept the peace, under the circumstances, harden," said enoch. "you heard what he said to me?" demanded harden fiercely. "yes, i did and i heard you deliberately tease him into a fury. of course, after what he finally said there was nothing left to do but to smash him," said enoch. "i don't see why," agnew spoke in his calm way. "i never could understand why a bloody nose wiped out an insult. a thing that's said is said. shooting a man even doesn't unsay a dirty speech. it's not common sense. why ruin your own life in the effort to punish a man for something that's better forgotten?" "so you would swallow an insult and smile?" sneered harden. "not at all! i wouldn't hear the alleged insult, in most cases. but if the thing was so raw that the man had to be punished, i'd really hurt him." "how?" asked enoch. "i'd do him a favor." "slush!" grunted harden. agnew shrugged his shoulders and the scanty meal was finished in silence. when jonas had collected the pie tins and cups, enoch said, "while you're outside with those, jonas, you'd better persuade forrester to come in to supper. tell him no one will bother him. boys, i think we ought to sit up with milton for a while. i'll take the first watch, if you'll take the second, harden." harden nodded. "i'll get to bed at once. call me when you want me." he rolled himself in his blanket, agnew following his example. a moment or so later jonas could be heard calling, "mr. forrester! ohee! mr. forrester!" the canyon echoed the call, but there was no answer, enoch strolled down to the river's edge where jonas was standing with his arms full of dishes. "what's up, jonas?" he asked. "boss, i think he's lit out!" "lit out? where, jonas?" "well, there's only one way, like you went this afternoon. but his canteen's gone. and he had his shoes drying by the fire. he must have sneaked 'em while we was working over mr. milton, because they're gone, and so's his coat that was lying by the ida, with the rest of the clothes." enoch lifted his great voice. "forrester! forrester!" a thousand echoes replied while agnew joined them and in a moment, harden. jonas repeated his story. "no use yelling!" exclaimed enoch. "let's build a fire out here." "do you suppose he's had an accident?" enoch's voice was apprehensive. "no, i don't," replied agnew, stoutly. "he's told me two or three times that if he had any real trouble with hard, he'd get out. what a fool to start off, this way!" "you fellows go to bed," harden spoke abruptly. "i'll keep a fire going and if milt needs more than me, i'll call. the judge had a heavy afternoon and i was resting. and this row is mine anyhow." enoch, who was dropping with fatigue needed no urging. he rolled himself in his blanket and instantly was deep in the marvelous slumber that had blessed him since the voyage began. it was dawn when he woke. he started to his feet, contritely, wondering who of the others had sacrificed sleep for him. but enoch was the only one awake. milton was tossing and muttering but his eyes were closed. jonas lay with his feet in last night's ashes. agnew was curled up at milton's feet. harden was not to be seen. enoch hurried to the river's edge. a sheet of paper fluttered from the split end of a stake that had been stuck in a conspicuous spot. it was unaddressed and enoch opened it. "i have gone to find forrester, and help him out. i took one-third of the grub and one of the guns and a third of the shells. if we have good luck, you'll hear of us at the ferry. i have the detail map of this section. "c. l. harden." enoch looked from the note up to the golden pink of the sky. far above the butte an eagle soared. the dawn wind ruffled his hair. he drew a deep breath and turned to wake jonas and agnew, and show them the note. "did you folks go to sleep when i did?" asked enoch when they had read the note in silence. jonas and agnew nodded. "then he must have left at once. no fire has been built out in front." "well, it's solved the problem of who walks," remarked agnew, drily. "how come mr. harden to think he could find him?" demanded jonas, excitedly. "well, they both will have had to start where i did, yesterday. and neither could have gone very far in the dark." enoch spoke thoughtfully. "if they don't kill each other!" "they won't," interrupted agnew comfortingly. "neither of them is the killing kind." "then i suggest," said enoch, "that with all the dispatch possible we get on our way. you two tackle the ida and i'll take care of milton and the breakfast." "aye! aye, sir!" agnew turned quickly toward the boat, followed eagerly by jonas. milton opened his eyes when enoch bent over him. "let me give you a sip of this hot broth, old man," said enoch. "come! just to please me!" as milton shook his head. "you've got to keep your strength and a clear head in order to direct the voyage." milton sipped at the warm decoction, and in a moment his eyes brightened. "tastes pretty good. too bad we haven't several gallons of it. tell the bunch to draw lots for who goes out." enoch shook his head. "that's all settled!" and he gave milton the details of the trouble of the night before. "well, can you beat that?" demanded milton. "the two fools! why, there were a hundred things i had to tell the pair who went out. judge, they'll never make it!" "they've got as good a fighting chance as we have," insisted enoch, stoutly. "quit worrying about them, milton. you've got your hands full keeping the rest of us from being too foolish." but try as he would, milton could do little in the way of directing his depleted crew. his leg and his back pained him excruciatingly, and the vertigo was with him constantly. enoch after trying several times to get coherent commands from the sufferer finally gave up. as soon as the scanty breakfast of coffee and a tiny portion of boiled beans was over, enoch divided the rations into four portions and stowed away all but that day's share, in the ida. then he discussed with agnew and jonas the best method of placing milton on the boat. they finally built a rough but strong framework on the forward compartment against which milton could recline while seated on the deck, the broken leg supported within the rower's space. they padded this crude couch with blankets. this finished, they made a stretcher of the blanket on which milton lay, by nailing the sides to two small cedar trunks which they routed out of the drift wood. when they had lifted him carefully and had placed him in the ida, stretcher and all, he was far more comfortable, he said, than he had been on his rigid bed of stone. by eight o'clock, all was ready and they pushed slowly out into the stream. agnew took the steering oar, enoch, his usual place, with jonas behind him. the river was wild and swift here, but, after they had worked carefully and painfully out of the aftermath of the falls, the current was unobstructed for several hours. all the morning, jonas watched eagerly for traces of the na-che but up to noon, none appeared. the sky was cloudy, threatening rain. the walls, now smooth, now broken by pinnacles and shoulders, were sad and gray in color. milton sometimes slept uneasily, but for the most part he lay with lips compressed, eyes on the gliding cliffs. about an hour before noon, the familiar warning roar of rapids reached their ears. rounding a curve, carefully, they snubbed the ida to a rock while agnew clambered ashore for an observation. just below them a black wall appeared to cut at right angles across the river bed. the river sweeping round the curve which the ida had just compassed, rushed like the waters of a mill race against the unexpected obstacle and waves ten to twenty feet high told of the force of the meeting. agnew with great difficulty crawled along the shore until he could look down on this turmoil of waters. then, with infinite pains, he returned. "it's impossible to portage," he reported, "but the waves simply fill the gorge for two hundred feet." "tie me in the boat," said milton. "the rest of you get out on the rocks and let the boat down with ropes." agnew looked questioningly at enoch, who shook his head. "agnew," he said, "can you and jonas manage to let the ida down, with both milton and me aboard?" "no, sir, we can't!" exclaimed jonas. "that ain't to be thought of!" "right you are, jonas!" agreed agnew, while milton nodded in agreement. "then," said enoch, "let's land milton and the loose dunnage on this rock, let the boat down, come back and carry milton round." "it's the only way," agreed agnew, "but i think we can take a hundred feet off the portage, if you fellows are willing to risk rowing down to a bench of rock below here. you take the steering oar, judge. i'll stay ashore and catch a rope from you at the bench." cautiously, jonas backing water and enoch keeping the ida almost scraping the shore, they made their way to the spot where agnew caught the rope, throwing the whole weight of his body back against the pull of the boat, even then being almost dragged from the ledge. milton was lifted out as carefully as possible, the loose dunnage was piled beside him, then the three men, each with a rope attached to the ida, began their difficult climb. there was nothing that could be called a trail. they made their way by clinging to projecting rocks, or stepping perilously from crack to crevice, from shelf to hollow. the pull of the helpless ida was tremendous, and they snubbed her wherever projecting rocks made this possible. she danced dizzily from crest to crest of waves. she slid helplessly into whirlpools, she twisted over and under and fought like a wild thing against the straining ropes. but at the end of a half hour, she was moored in safe water, on a spit of sand on which a cotton wood grew. "agnew," said enoch, "i think we were fools not to have broken a rough trail before we attempted this. it's obviously impossible to carry milton over that wall as it is." "i thought the three of us might make it, taking turns carrying milt on our backs. it wastes a lot of time making trail and time is a worse enemy to us now than the colorado." "that's true," agreed enoch, "but i'm not willing to risk milton's vertigo on our backs." he took a pick-ax out of the rear compartment of the boat, as he spoke and began to break trail. the others followed suit. the rock proved unexpectedly easy to work and in another hour, enoch announced himself willing to risk milton and the stretcher on the rude path they had hacked out. milton did not speak during his passage. his fortitude and endurance were very touching to enoch whose admiration for the young leader increased from hour to hour. jonas boiled the coffee and heated the noon portions of beans and goat. it was entirely inadequate for the appetites of the hard working crew. enoch wondered if the others felt as hollow and uncertain-kneed, as he did, but he said nothing nor did they. there was considerable drift wood lodged against the spit of sand and from it, jonas, with a shout that was half a sob, dragged a broken board on which appeared in red letters, "-a-che." "all that's left of the prettiest, spunkiest little boat that ever fought a dirty river!" he mourned. "i'm going to put this in my dunnage bag and if we ever do get home, i'll have it framed." the others smiled in sympathy. "i wonder if hard has found forr, yet?" said milton, uneasily. "i can't keep them off my mind." "i wouldn't be surprised if they both had run on curly and mack's outfit by this time," agnew answered cheerfully. "it's funny we didn't think of them instead of diana allen, last night." "not so very funny, either," returned milton with an attempt at a smile. "i'll bet most of us have thought of miss allen forty times to once of the men, ever since we met her." "she's the most beautiful woman i ever saw," said agnew, dreamily. "lawdy!" groaned jonas, suddenly, "if i only had something to fish with! when we make camp to-night, i'm a-going to try to rig up some kind of a line." "i'm glad the tobacco supply was in the ida." enoch rose with a yawn and knocked the ashes from his pipe. "well, boys, shall we move?" again they embarked. the river behaved in a most friendly manner until afternoon, when she offered by way of variety a series of sand bars, across which they were obliged to drag the ida by main strength. these continued at intervals for several miles. in the midst of them, the rain that had been threatening all day began to fall while the wind that never left the canyon, rose to drive the icy waters more vehemently through their sodden clothing. milton, snugly covered with blankets, begged them feverishly to go into camp. "i'll have you all sick, to-night!" he insisted. "you can't take the risk of pneumonia on starvation rations that you did on plenty of grub." "i'm willing," said agnew, finally, as he staggered to his feet after a ducking under the ida's side. "oh, let's keep going, as long as there's any light to see by," begged enoch. as if to reward his persistence, just as dusk settled fully upon them, a little canyon opened from the main wall at the right, a small stream, tumbling eagerly from it into the colorado. they turned the ida quickly into this and managed to push upward on it for several minutes. then they put ashore under some dim cottonwoods, where grass was ankle deep. the mere feeling of vegetation about them was cheering, and the trees, with a blanket stretched between made a partial shelter from the rain. "i'll sure cook grass for you all for breakfast!" said jonas. "how come folks not to bile grass for greens, i don't see. maybe birds here, too. whoever's the fancy shot, put the gun close to his hand." "i've done some fair shooting in my day," said agnew, "but i never potted a goat in an eagle's nest. you'd better give the gun to the judge." he polished off his pie tin, scraped the last grain of sugar from his tin cup and lighted a cigarette. "i'm trying to bear my blushing honors modestly," grinned enoch, crowding closer to the great fire. "milton, i've a bone to pick with you." "where'd you get it?" demanded agnew. enoch smiled but went on. "i accuse you of deliberately starving yourself for the rest of us. it won't do, sir. i'm going to set your share aside and by jove, if you refuse it, i'll throw it in the river!" milton rose indignantly on one elbow. "judge, i forbid you to do anything of the kind! you fellows have got to have food to work on. all i need is plenty of water." "especially as you think the water is making you sick," returned enoch drily. "you can't get away with it, milton. am i not right, agnew and jonas?" "absolutely!" agnew exclaimed, while jonas nodded, vigorously. "so, beginning to-morrow morning, you're to do your share of eating," enoch concluded, cheerfully. but in spite of all efforts to keep a stiff upper lip, the night was wretched. the rain fell in torrents. the only way to keep the fire alight was by keeping it under the blanket shelter, and milton was half smothered with smoke. he insisted on the others going to sleep, but in spite of their utter weariness, the men would not do this. hunger made them restless and the rain crept through their blankets. enoch finally gave up the attempt to sleep. he crouched by milton, feeding the fire and trying as best he could to ease the patient's misery of mind and body. it was long after midnight when milton said, "judge, i've been thinking it over and i've come to a conclusion. i want you folks to go on for help and leave me here." "i don't like to hear you talk suicide, milton." enoch shook his head. "as far as i'm concerned, i wouldn't consider such a suggestion for a minute." "but don't you see," insisted milton, "i'm imperilling all your lives. without me, you could have made twice the distance you did to-day." "that's probably true," agreed enoch. "what of it? would you leave me in your fix, thinking you might bring help back?" "that's different! you're a tenderfoot and i'm not. moreover, greater care on my part would probably have prevented this whole series of accidents." "now you are talking nonsense!" enoch threw another log on the fire. "your illness is undermining your common sense, milton. we've got a tough few days ahead of us but we'll tackle it together. if we fail we fail together. but i can see no reason why if we run as few risks as we did to-day, we should get into serious trouble. we're going to lose strength for lack of food, so we've got to move more and more slowly and carefully, and we'll be feeling weak and done up when we reach the ferry. but i anticipate nothing worse than that." milton sighed and was silent, for a time. then he said, "i could have managed forr and harden better, if i'd been willing to believe they were the pair of kids they proved to be. as it is--" "as it is," interrupted enoch, firmly, "both chaps are learning a lesson that will probably cure them for all time of their foolishness." milton looked long at enoch's tired face; then he lifted himself on one elbow. "all right, judge, i'm through belly-aching! we'll put it through somehow and if i have decent luck, early spring will see me right here, beginning where i left off. after all, powell had to take two trials at it." "that's more like you, milton! is that dawn breaking yonder?" "yes," replied milton. "keep your ear and eye out for any sort of critters in this little spot, judge." but, though enoch, and the others, when he had roused them, beat the tiny blind alley thoroughly, not so much as a cottontail reward their efforts. "curious!" grumbled enoch, "up at mack's camp where we really needed nothing, i found all the game in the world. the perversity of nature is incomprehensible. even the fish have left this part of the river," as jonas with a sigh of discouragement tossed his improvised fishing tackle into the fire. agnew pulled his belt a notch tighter. his brown face was beginning to look sagged and lined. "well," cheerfully, "there are some advantages in being fat. i've still several days to go before i reach your's and jonas' state of slats, judge." "don't get sot up about it, ag," returned enoch. "you look a good deal like a collapsed balloon, you know! shall we launch the good ship ida, fellows?" "she ain't anything to what the na-che was," sighed jonas, "but she's pretty good at that. if i ain't too tired, to-night, i may clean her up a little." even milton joined in the laughter at this and the day's journey was begun with great good humor. it was the easiest day's course that had been experienced since enoch had joined the expedition. there were three rapids during the day but they rode these with no difficulties. enoch and jonas rowed fairly steadily in the morning, but in the afternoon, they spelled each other. the light rations were making themselves felt. the going was so smooth that dusk was upon them before they made camp. milton had been wretchedly sick, all day, but he made no complaint and forced down the handful of boiled beans and the tin cup of pale coffee that was his share of each meal. they made camp languidly. enoch found the task of piling fire wood arduous and as the camp was in dry sand and the blankets had dried out during the day, they did not attempt the usual great blaze. jonas insisted on acting as night nurse for milton, and enoch was asleep before he had more then swallowed his supper. he had bad dreams and woke with a dull headache, and wondered if jonas and agnew felt as weak and light-headed as he did. but although both the men moved about slowly and jonas made no attempt to clean up the ida, they uttered no complaints. milton was feeling a little better. before the day's journey was begun, he and agnew plotted their position on the map. "well, does to-morrow see us at the ferry?" asked enoch, cheerfully, when agnew put up his pencil with an abstracted air. "no, judge," sighed milton, "that rotten first day after the wreck, cost us a good many miles. i thought we'd make up for it, yesterday. but we're a full day behind." "that is," exclaimed enoch, "we must take that grub pile and redivide it, stretching it over three days instead of two!" "yes," replied milton, grimly. "jove, agnew, you're going to be positively fairy like, before we're through with this," said enoch. "jonas, get out the grub supply, will you?" jonas, standing on a rock that projected over the water, did not respond. he was watching eagerly as his new fishline of ravelled rope pulled taut in the stream. suddenly he gave a roar and jerked the line so violently that the fish landed on milton's blanket. "must weigh two pounds!" cried agnew. "you start her broiling, mr. agnew!" shouted jonas, "while i keep on a-fishing." "what changed your luck, jonas?" asked enoch. "you're using beans and bent wire, just as you did yesterday." "aha! not just as i did yesterday, boss! this time i tied na-che's charm just above the hook. no fish could stand that, once they got an eye on it." but evidently no second fish cast an eye on the irresistible charm, and enoch was unwilling to wait for further luck longer than was necessary to cook the fish and eat it. but during the day jonas trolled whenever the water made trolling possible, hopefully spitting on the hook each time he cast it over, casting always from the right hand and muttering fish! fish! fish! three times for each venture. yet no other fish responded to na-che's charm that day. but the river treated them kindly. if their strength had been equal to hard and steady rowing they might have made up for the lost miles. as it was they knocked off at night with just the number of miles for the day that milton had planned on in the beginning, and were still a day behind their schedule. milton grew no worse, though he was weaker and obviously a very sick man. a light snow fell during the night but the next morning was clear and invigorating. they encountered two difficult rapids on the fourth day. the first one they portaged. the trail was not difficult but in their weakened condition the boat and poor milton were heavy burdens and it took them three times as long to accomplish the portage as it would have taken had they been in normal condition. the second rapids, they shot easily in the afternoon. the waves were high and every one was saturated with the icy water. enoch dared not risk milton's remaining wet and as soon as they found a likely place for the camp they went ashore. the huge pile of drift wood had helped them to decide on this rather unhospitable ledge for what they hoped would be their last night out. they kindled a big fire and sat about it, steaming and silent, but with the feeling that the worst was behind them. they rose in a cold driving rain the next morning, ate the last of the beans, drank the last of the coffee, covered milton as well as could be with blankets and launched the boat. it was a day of unspeakable misery. they made one portage, and one let down, and dragged the boat with almost impossible labor over a long series of shallows. by mid-afternoon they had made up their minds to another night of wretchedness and agnew was beginning to watch for a camping place, when suddenly he exclaimed, "fellows, there's the ferry!" "how do you know?" demanded enoch. "i've been here before, judge. yes, by jove, there's old grant's cabin. i wonder if any one's reached here yet!" "well, milton, old man, here's thanks and congratulations," cried enoch. "you'd better thank the almighty," returned milton. "i certainly had very little to do with our getting here." the rain had prevented agnew's recognizing their haven until they were fairly upon it. even now all that enoch could see was a wide lateral canyon with a rough unpainted shack above the waterline. a group of cottonwoods loomed dimly through the mist beside a fence that surrounded the house. jonas, who had seemed overcome with joy at agnew's announcement, recovered his power of speech by the time the boat was headed shoreward and he raised a shout that echoed from wall to wall. "na-che! ohee, na-che! here we are, na-che!" agnew opened his lips to comment, but before he uttered the first syllable there rose a shrill, clear call from the mists. "jonas! ohee, jonas!" enoch's pulse leaped. with sudden strength, he bent to his oars, and the ida slid softly upon the sandy shore. as she did so, two figures came running through the rain. "diana!" cried enoch, making no attempt for a moment to step from the boat. "oh, what has happened!" exclaimed diana, putting a hand under milton's head as he struggled to raise it. "just a broken leg, miss allen," he said, his parched lips parting in a smile. "have forr and hard turned up?" "no! and curly and mack aren't here, either! o you poor things! here, let me help! na-che, take hold of this stretcher, there, on the other side with the judge and jonas. finished short of grub, didn't you! let's bring mr. milton right up to the cabin." the cabin consisted of but one room with an adobe fireplace at one end and bunks on two sides. there was a warm glow of fire and the smell of meat cooking. they laid milton tenderly on a bunk and as they did so jonas gave a great sob: "welcome home, i say, boss, welcome home!" chapter xiii grant's crossing "perfect memories! they are more precious than hope, more priceless than dreams of the future."--_enoch's diary_. "now, every one of you get into dry clothes as quickly as you can," said diana. "no! don't one of you try to stir from the cabin! come, na-che, we'll bring the men's bags up and go out to our tent while they shift." the two women were gone before the men could protest. they were back with the bags in a few moments and in almost less time than it takes to tell, the crew of the ida was reclothed, enoch in the riding suit that jonas had left with some of his own clothes in na-che's care. when this was done, na-che put on the coffee pot, while diana served each of them with a plate of hot rabbit stew. "don't try to talk," she said, "until you get this down. you'd better help mr. milton, na-che. here, it will take two of us. oh, you poor dear! you're burning with fever." "don't you worry about me," protested milton, weakly, as, with his head resting on diana's arm, he sipped the teaspoonsful of stew na-che fed him. "this is as near heaven as i want to get." "i should hope so!" grunted agnew. "jonas, don't ever try to put up a stew in competition with na-che again." "not me, sir!" chuckled jonas. "that gal can sure cook!" "and make charms," added enoch. "don't fail to realize that you're still alive, jonas." "i'm going to bathe mr. milton's face for him," said na-che, with a fine air of indifference. "i can set a broken leg, too." "it's set," said agnew and enoch together, "but," added enoch, "that isn't saying that milton mustn't be gotten to a doctor with all speed." diana nodded. "where are mr. forrester and mr. harden?" she asked. "we lost the na-che--" said agnew. "the what?" demanded diana. "jonas rechristened the mary, the na-che," agnew replied. "we lost her in a whirlpool six days back. most of the food was in her. two of us had to go out and harden and forrester volunteered. we are very much worried about them." "and when did mr. milton break his leg?" "on that same black day! the water's been disagreeing with him, making him dizzy, and he took a header from the ida, after rescuing forrester from some rapids," said enoch. "doesn't sound much, when you tell it, does it!" agnew smiled as he sighed. "but it really has been quite a busy five days." "one can look at your faces and read much between the lines," said diana, quietly. "now, while na-che works with mr. milton, i'm going to give you each some coffee." "diana, how far are we from the nearest doctor?" asked enoch. "there's one over on the navajo reservation," replied diana. "wouldn't it be better to keep milton right here and one of us go for the doctor?" "much better," agreed diana and agnew. "lord," sighed milton, "what bliss!" "then," said enoch, "i'm going to start for the doctor, now." "nonsense!" exclaimed diana, "that's my job. we've been here two days and we and our outfit are as fresh as daisies." "i'm going, myself," agnew rose as firmly as his weak and weary legs would permit. it was na-che who settled the matter. "that's an indian's job," she said. "you take care of mr. milton, diana, while i go." "that's sensible," agreed diana. "start now, na-che. you should reach wilson's by to-morrow night and telephone to the agent's house. that'll save you forty miles." jonas' face which had fallen greatly suddenly brightened. "somebody's coming!" he cried. "i hope it's our folks!" the door opened abruptly and in walked curly and mack. "here's the whole family!" exclaimed curly. "well, if you folks don't look like siberian convicts, whiskers and all! some trip, eh?" mack, shaking hands all round, stopped beside milton's bunk. "what went wrong, bud? and where's the rest of the bunch?" enoch told the story, this time. mack shook his head as the final plans were outlined. "na-che had better stay and nurse milton. i'm feeling fine. we just loafed along down here. i'll start out right away. i should reach wilson's to-morrow night, as you say, and telephone the doctor. then i'll load up with grub at wilson's and turn back. do you find much game round here?" diana nodded. "plenty of rabbit and quail, and we have some bacon and coffee." "i guess i'd better go out and look for the two foot-passengers," suggested curly. "i'll stay out to-night and report to-morrow evening." "we'll be in shape by morning to start on the search," said enoch. curly turned to his former cook with a grin. "well, judge, is your little vacation giving you the rest you wanted?" enoch, gaunt, unshaven, exhausted, his blue eyes blood-shot, nodded contentedly. "i'm having the time of my life, curly." "i had a bull dog once," said curly. "if i'd take a barrel stave and pound him with it, saying all the time, 'nice doggie, isn't this fun! isn't this a nice little stick! don't you like these little love pats?' he'd wag his tail and slobber and tell me how much he enjoyed it and beg for more. but, if i took a straw and tapped him with it, telling him he was a poor dog, that nobody loved him, that i was breaking his ribs which he richly deserved, why that bull pup nearly died of suffering of body and anguish of mind." enoch shook his head sadly. "a great evangelist was lost when you took to placer mining, curly." mack had been talking quietly to milton. "i don't believe it was the river water, that upset you. i think you have drunk from some poison spring. i did that once, up in this country, and it took me six months to get over it, because i couldn't get to a doctor. but i believe a doctor could fix you right up. do you recall drinking water the other men didn't?" "any number of times, on exploring trips to the river!" milton looked immensely cheered. "i think you may be right, mack." "i'll bet you two bits that's all that ails you, son!" mack rose from the edge of the bunk. "well, folks, i'm off! look for me when you see me!" "i'll mooch along too," curly rose and stretched himself. "i'm not going to try to thank all you folks!" milton's weak voice was husky. "that's what us arizonians always wait for before we do the decent thing," said mack, with a smile. "come along, curly, you lazy chuckawalla you!" and the door slammed behind them. "they're stem winders, both of them!" exclaimed agnew. "diana," said enoch, "i wish you'd sit down. you've done enough for us." diana smiled and shook her head. "i struck the camp first, so i'm boss. na-che and i are going out to see that everything's all right for the night and that mack and curly get a good start. while we're out, you're all going to bed. then na-che is coming in to make mr. milton as comfortable as she can. our tent is under the cottonwoods and if you want anything during the night, mr. milton, all you have to do is to call through the window. neither of us will undress so we can be on duty, instantly. there is plenty of stew still simmering in the pot, and cold biscuit on the table. good night, all of you." "na-che, she don't need to bother. i'll look out for mr. milton," said jonas, suddenly rousing from his chair where he had been dozing. "you go to bed and to sleep, jonas," ordered diana. "good night, judge." "good night, diana!" the door closed softly and diana was seen no more that night. the rain ceased at midnight and the stars shone forth clear and cold, but milton was the only person in the camp to be conscious of the fact. just as the dawn wind was rising, though, and the cottonwoods were outlining themselves against the eastern sky, stumbling footsteps near the tent wakened both diana and na-che, and they opened the tent flap, hastily. forrester was clinging to a cottonwood tree. at least it was a worn, bleached, ragged counterfeit of forrester. "hard's back on the trail apiece. i came on for help," he said huskily. "is he sick or hurt?" cried diana. "no, just all in." "i'll take a horse for him, right off," said na-che. "you help mr. forrester into the house, diana." "call jonas!" said diana, supporting forrester against the tree. "one of the men had better go for mr. harden." "then they got here!" exclaimed forrester. "thank god! how's milton? any other accident?" "everything's all right! here they all come!" for jonas, then agnew and enoch were rushing from the door and amid the hubbub of exclamations, forrester was landed in a bunk while agnew started up the trail indicated by forrester. but he hardly had set out before he met curly, leading his horse with harden clinging to the saddle. both the wanderers were fed and put to bed and told to sleep, before they tried to tell their story. the day was warm and clear and na-che and jonas prepared breakfast outside, serving it on the rough table, under the cottonwoods. enoch and agnew, washed and shaved, were new men, though still weak, enoch, particularly, being muscle sore and weary. harden and forrester woke for more food, at noon, then slept again. milton dozed and woke, drank feverishly of the water brought from the spring near the cabin, and gazed with a look of complete satisfaction on the unshaved dirty faces in the bunks across the room. agnew and curly played poker all day long. jonas and na-che found endless small tasks around the camp that required long consultations between them and much laughter. when enoch returned after breakfast from a languid inspection of the ida, diana was not to be seen. she had gone out to get some quail, na-che said. she returned in an hour or so, with a good bag of rabbit and birds. "to-morrow, that will be my job," said enoch. "if she wouldn't let me go, she mustn't let you!" called curly, from his poker game, under the trees. "yes, i'll let any of you take it over, to-morrow," replied diana, giving na-che gun and bag. "to-morrow, na-che and i turn the rescue mission over to you men and start for bright angel." "oh, where's your heart, miss allen!" cried agnew. "aren't you going to wait to learn what the doctor says about milton?" "and diana," urged enoch, "jonas and i want to go up to bright angel with you and na-che. won't you wait a day longer, just till we're a little more fit?" diana, in her worn corduroy habit, her soft hat pulled well over her great eyes, looked from agnew to enoch, smiled and did not reply. enoch waited impatiently without the door while she made a call on milton. "diana!" he exclaimed, when she came out, "aren't you going to talk to me even? do come down by the ida and see if we can't be rid of this horde of people for a while." "i've been wanting to see just how badly you'd treated the poor old boat," said diana, following enoch toward the shore. but enoch had not the slightest intention of holding an inquest on the ida. in the shade of a gnarled cedar to which the boat was tied as a precaution against high water, he had placed a box. thither he led diana. "do sit down, diana, and let me sit here at your feet. i'll admit it should be unexpected joy enough just to find you here. but i'm greedy. i want you to myself, and i want to tell you a thousand things." "all right, judge, begin," returned diana amiably, as she clasped her knee with both hands and smiled at him. but enoch could not begin, immediately. sitting in the sand with his back against the cedar he looked out at the colorado flowing so placidly, at the pale gray green of the far canyon walls and a sense of all that the river signified to him, all that it had brought to him, all that it would mean to him to leave it and with it diana,--diana who had been his other self since he was a lad of eighteen,--made him speechless for a time. diana waited, patiently. at last, enoch turned to her, "all the things i want to say most, can't be said, diana!" "are you glad you took the trip down the river, judge?" "glad! was roland glad he made his adventure in search of the dark tower?" "yes, he was, only, judge--" enoch interrupted. "has our friendship grown less since we camped at the placer mine?" diana flushed slightly and went on, "only, enoch, surely the end of your adventure is not a dark tower ending!" "yes, it is, diana! it can never be any other." enoch's fingers trembled a little as he toyed with his pipe bowl. diana slowly looked away from him, her eyes fastening themselves on a buzzard that circled over the peaks across the river. after a moment, she said, "then you are going to shoot brown?" enoch started a little. "i'm not thinking of brown just now. i'm thinking of you and me." he paused again and again diana waited until she felt the silence becoming too painful. then she said, "aren't you going to tell me some of the details of your trip?" "i want to, diana, but hang it, words fail me! it was as you warned me, an hourly struggle with death. and we fought, i think, not because life was so unutterably sweet to any of us, but because there was such wonderful zest to the fighting. the beauty of the canyon, the awfulness of it, the unbelievable rapidity with which event piled on event. why, diana, i feel as if i'd lived a lifetime since i first put foot on the ida! and the glory of the battle! diana, we were so puny, so insignificant, so stupid, and the canyon was so colossal and so diabolically quick and clever! what a fight!" enoch laughed joyfully. "you're a new man!" said diana, softly. enoch nodded. "and now i'm to have the ride back to el tovar with you and the trip down bright angel with you and your father! for once diana, fate is minding her own business and letting me mind mine." jonas approached hesitatingly. "na-che said i had to tell you, boss, though i didn't want to disturb you, she said i had to though she wouldn't do it herself. dinner is on the table. and you know, boss, you ain't like you was when a bowl of cereal would do you." "i shouldn't have tempted fate, diana!" enoch sighed, as he rose and followed her to the cottonwood. try as he would, during the afternoon, he could not bring about another tête-a-tête with diana. finally as dusk drew near, he threw himself down, under the cedar tree, his eyes sadly watching the evening mists rise over the river. his dark figure merged with the shadow of the cedar and na-che and jonas, establishing themselves on the gunwale of the ida for one of their confidential chats did not perceive him. he himself gave them no heed until he heard jonas say vehemently: "you're crazy, na-che! i'm telling you the boss won't never marry." "how do you know what's in your boss's mind?" demanded na-che. "i know all right. and i know he thinks a lot of miss diana, too, but i know he won't marry her. he won't marry anybody." "but why?" urged the indian woman, sadly, "why should things be so wrong? when he loves her and she loves him and they were made for each other!" "how come you to think she loves him?" demanded jonas. "don't i know the mind of my diana? isn't she my little child, even if her mother did bear her. don't i see her kiss that little picture she has of him in her locket every night when she says her prayers?" "well--" began jonas, but he was interrupted by a call from curly. "whoever's minding the stew might be interested in knowing that it's boiling over!" "coming! coming!" cried jonas and na-che. darkness had now settled on the river. enoch lay motionless until they called him in to supper. when he entered the cabin where the table was set, curly cried, "hello, judge! where've you been? i swear you look as if you'd been walking with a ghost." "perhaps i have," enoch replied, grimly, as he took his seat. harden and forrester, none too energetic, but shaven and in order, were at the table, where their story was eagerly picked from them. forrester had slept the first night in the cavern enoch had noted. harden never even saw the cavern but had spent the night crawling steadily toward the rim. at dawn, forrester had made his way to the top of the butte by the same route enoch had followed, and had seen harden, a black speck moving laboriously on the southern horizon. he had not recognized him, and set out to overtake him. it was not until noon that he had done so. even after he realized whom he was pursuing, he had not given up, for by that time he was rueing bitterly his hasty and ill-equipped departure. none of the auditors of the two men needed detailed description either of the ardors of that trip nor of the embarrassment of the meeting. nor did forrester or harden attempt any. after they had met they tried to keep a course that moved southwest. there were no trails. for endless miles, fissures and buttes, precipices to be scaled, mountains to be climbed, canyons to be crossed. for one day they were without water, but the morning following they found a pot hole, full of water. weakness from lack of food added much to the peril of the trip, one cottontail being the sole contribution of the gun to their larder. they did not strike the trail until the day previous to their arrival in the camp. "have you had enough desert to last you the rest of your life?" asked curly as harden ended the tale. "not i!" said forrester, "nor canyon either! i'm going to find some method of getting milt to let me finish the trip with him." "me too," added harden. "how much quarreling did you do?" asked milton, abruptly, from the bunk. neither man answered for a moment, then forrester, flushing deeply, said, "all we ask of you, milt, is to give us a trial. set us ashore if you aren't satisfied with us." milton grunted and diana said, quickly, "what are you people going to do until mr. milton gets well?" all of the crew looked toward the leader's bunk. "wait till we get the doctor's report," said milton. "hard, you were going to show curly a placer claim around here, weren't you?" "yes, if i can be spared for a couple of days. we can undertake that, day after to-morrow." "you're on!" exclaimed curly. "judge, don't forget you and i are due to have a little conversation before we separate." "i haven't forgotten it," replied enoch. "sometime to-morrow then. to-night i've got to get my revenge on agnew. he's a wild cat, that's what he is. must have been born in a gambling den. sit in with us, judge or anybody!" "not i," said enoch, shortly. "still disapprove, don't you, judge!" gibed curly. "how about the rest of you? diana, can you play poker?" "thanks, curly! my early education in that line was neglected." diana smiled and turned to enoch. "judge, do you think you'll feel up to starting to-morrow afternoon? there's a spring five miles west that we could make if we leave here at two o'clock and i'd like to feel that i'd at least made a start, to-morrow. my father is going to be very much worried about me. i'm nearly a week overdue, now." "i'll be ready whenever you are, diana. how about you, jonas?" "i'm always on hand, boss. mr. milton, can i have the broken oar blade we kept to patch the ida with?" "what do you want it for, jonas?" asked milton. "i'm going to have it framed. and mr. harden and mr. agnew, don't forget those fillums!" "lucky for you the films were stored in the ida, jonas!" exclaimed agnew. "i'll develop some of those in the morning, and see what sort of a show you put up." diana rose. "well, good night to you all! mr. milton, is there anything na-che or i can do for you?" "no, thank you, miss allen, i think i'm in good hands." enoch rose to open the door for diana. "thank you, judge," she said, "good night!" "diana," said enoch, under cover of the conversation at the table, "before we start to-morrow, will you give me half an hour alone with you?" there was pain and determination both in enoch's voice. diana glanced at him a little anxiously as she answered, "yes, i will, enoch." "good night, diana," and enoch retired to his bunk, where he lay wide awake long after the card game was ended and the room in darkness save for the dull glow of the fire. he made no attempt the next day to obtain the half hour diana had promised him. he helped jonas with their meager preparations for the trip, then took a gun and started along the trail which led up the ferry canyon to the desert. but he had not gone a hundred yards, when diana called. "wait a moment, judge! i'll go with you." she joined him shortly with her gun and game bag. "we'll have na-che cook us a day's supply of meat before we start," she said. "the hunting is apt to be poor on the trail we're to take home." enoch nodded but said nothing. something of the old grim look was in his eyes again. he paused at the point where the canyon gave place to the desert. here a gnarled mesquite tree and an old half-buried log beneath it, offered mute evidence of a gigantic flooding of the river. "let's sit here for a little while, diana," he said. they put their guns against the mesquite tree and sat down facing the distant river. "diana," enoch began abruptly, "in spite of what your father and john seaton believed and wanted me to believe, the things that the brown papers said about my mother are true. only, brown did not tell all. he did not give the details of her death. i suppose even luigi hesitated to tell that because i almost beat him to death the last time he tried it. "seaton and i never talked much about the matter. he tried to ferret out facts, but had no luck. by the time i was seventeen or eighteen i realized that no man with a mother like mine had a right to marry. but i missed the friendship of women, i suppose, for when i was perhaps eighteen or nineteen i made a discovery. i found that somewhere in my heart i was carrying the image of a girl, a slender girl, with braids of light brown hair wrapped round her head, a girl with the largest, most intelligent, most tender gray eyes in the world, and a lovely curving mouth, with deep corners. i named her lucy, because i'd been reading wordsworth and i began to keep a diary to her. i've kept it ever since. "you can have no idea, how real, how vivid, how vital a part of my life lucy became to me. she was in the very deepest truth my better self, for years. and then this summer, a miracle occurred! lucy walked into my office! beauty, serenity, intelligence, sweetness, gaiety, and gallantry--these were lucy's in the flesh as i could not even dream for lucy of the spirit. only in one particular though had i made an actual error. her name was not lucy, it was diana! diana! the little girl of bright angel who had entered my turbulent boyish heart, all unknown to me, never to leave it! . . . diana! lucy! i love you and god help me, i must not marry!" enoch, his nails cutting deep into his palms turned from the river, at which he had been staring steadily while speaking, to diana. her eyes which had been fastened on enoch's profile, now gazed deep into his, pain speaking to pain, agony to agony. "if," enoch went on, huskily, "there is no probability of your growing to care for me, then i think our friendship can endure. i can crowd back the lover and be merely your friend. but if you might grow to care, even ever so little, then, i think at the thought of your pain, my heart would break. so, i thought before it is too late--" suddenly diana's lips which had grown white, trembled a little. "it is too late!" she whispered. "it is too late!" and she put her slender, sunburned hands over her face. "don't! oh, don't!" groaned enoch. he took her hands down, gently. diana's eyes were dry. her cheeks were burning. enoch looked at her steadily, his breath coming a little quickly, then he rose and with both her hands in his lifted her to her feet. "do you love me, diana?" he whispered. she looked up into his eyes. "yes, enoch! oh, yes!" she answered, brokenly. "how much do you love me, dear?" he persisted. she smiled with a tragic beauty in droop of lips and anguish of eyes. "with all there is in me to give to love, enoch." "then," said enoch, "this at least may be mine," and he laid his lips to hers. when he lifted his head, he smoothed her hair back from her face. "remember, i am not deceiving myself, diana," he said huskily. "i have acted like a selfish, unprincipled brute. if i had not, in washington, let you see that i cared, you would have escaped all this." "i did not want to escape it, enoch," she said, smiling again while her lips quivered. "yet i thought i would have strength enough to go away, without permitting you to tell me about it. but i was not strong enough. however," stepping away from enoch, "now we both understand, and i'll go home. and we must never see each other again, enoch." "never see each other again!" he repeated. then his voice deepened. "go about our day's work year after year, without even a memory to ease the gnawing pain. god, diana, do you think we are machines to be driven at will?" diana drew a long breath and her voice was very steady as she answered. "don't let's lose our grip on ourselves, enoch. it only makes a hard situation harder. now that we understand each other, let us kiss the cross, and go on." enoch, arms folded on his chest, great head bowed, walked up and down under the trees slowly for a moment. when he paused before her, it was to speak with his customary calm and decision, though his eyes smoldered. "diana, i want to take the trip with you, just as we planned, and go down bright angel with your father and you. i want those few days in the desert with you to carry me through the rest of my life. you need not fear, dear, that for one moment i will lose grip on myself." diana looked at him as if she never had seen him before. she looked at the gaunt, strong features, the massive chin, the sensitive, firm mouth, the lines of self-control and purposefulness around eyes and lips, and over all the deep-seated sadness that made enoch's face unforgettable. slowly she turned from him to the desert, and after a moment, as if she had gathered strength from the far horizon, she answered him, still with the little note of steadiness in her voice: "i think we'll have to have those last few days, together, enoch." enoch heaved a deep sigh then smiled, brilliantly. "and now," he said, "i dare not go back to camp without at least discharging my gun, do you?" "no, judge!" replied diana, picking up her gun, with a little laugh. "don't call me judge, when we're alone!" protested enoch. diana with something sweeter than tenderness shining in her great eyes, touched his hand softly with hers. "no, dear!" she whispered. enoch looked at her, drew a deep breath, then put his gun across his arm and followed diana to the yucca thicket where quail was to be found. they were very silent during the hour of hunting. they bagged a pair of cottontails and a number of quail, and when they did speak, it was only regarding the hunt or the preparations for the coming exodus. they reached camp, just before dinner, diana disappearing into the tent, and enoch tramping prosaically and wearily into the cabin to throw himself down on his bunk. he had not yet recovered from the last days in the canyon. "you shouldn't have tackled that tramp this morning, judge," said milton. "you should have saved yourself for this afternoon." "you saw who his side pardner was, didn't you?" asked curly. "yes," replied milton, grinning. "then why make foolish comments?" "i am a fool!" agreed milton. "judge," asked curly, "how about you and me having our conflab right after dinner?" "that will suit me," replied enoch, "if you can drag yourself from agnew and poker that long." "i'll make a superhuman effort," returned curly. the conference, which took place under the cedar near the ida, did not last long. "curly," said enoch, lighting his pipe, "i haven't made up my mind yet, whether i want you to give me the information about fowler and brown or not." "what's the difficulty?" demanded curly. "well, there's a number of personal reasons that i don't like to go into. but i've a suggestion to make. you say you're trying to get money together with which to retain a lawyer and carry out a campaign, so you aren't in a hurry, anyway. now you write down in a letter all that you know about the two men, and send the letter to me, i'll treat it as absolutely confidential, and will return the material to you without reading it if i decide not to use it." curly puffed thoughtfully at his cigarette. "that's fair enough, judge. as you say there's no great hurry and i always get het up, anyhow, when i talk about it. i'd better put it down in cool black and white. where can i reach you?" "no. 814 blank avenue, washington, d. c.," replied enoch. curly pulled an old note book out of his hip pocket and set down the address: "all right, judge, you'll hear from me sometime in the next few weeks. i'll go back now and polish agnew off." and he hurried away, leaving enoch to smoke his pipe thoughtfully as he stared at the ida. chapter xiv love in the desert "while i was teaching my boy obedience, i would teach him his next great obligation, service. so only could his manhood be a full one."--_enoch's diary_. shortly after two o'clock, diana announced that she was ready to start. but the good-bys consumed considerable time and it was nearly three before they were really on their way. enoch's eyes were a little dim as he shook hands with milton. "curly has my address, milton," he said, "drop me a line once in a while. i shall be more deeply interested in your success than you can realize." "i'll do it, judge, and when i get back east, i'll look you up. you're a good sport, old man!" "you're more than that, milton! good-by!" and enoch hurried out in response to jonas' call. they were finally mounted and permitted to go. na-che rode first, leading a pack mule, jonas second, leading two mules, diana followed, enoch bringing up the rear. much to jonas' satisfaction, enoch had been obliged to abandon the overalls and flannel shirt which he had worn into the canyon. even the tweed suit was too ragged and shrunk to be used again. so he was clad in the corduroy riding breeches and coat that jonas had brought. but john red sun's boots were still doing notable service and the soft hat, faded and shapeless, was pulled down over his eyes in comfort if not in beauty. there was a vague trail to the spring which lay southwest of the ferry. it led through the familiar country of fissures and draws that made travel slow and heavy. the trail rose, very gradually, wound around a number of multi-colored peaks and paused at last at the foot of a smooth-faced, purple butte. here grew a cottonwood, sheltering from sun and sand a lava bowl, eroded by time and by the tiny stream of water that dripped into it gently. there was little or no view from the spring, for peaks and buttes closely hemmed it in. the november shadows deepened early on the strange, winding, almost subterranean trail, and although when they reached the cottonwood, it was not sundown, they made camp at once. diana's tent was set up in the sand to the right of the spring. enoch collected a meager supply of wood and before five o'clock supper had been prepared and eaten. for a time, after this was done, enoch and diana sat before the tiny eye of fire, listening to the subdued chatter with which jonas and na-che cleared up the meal. suddenly, enoch said, "diana, how brilliant the stars are, to-night! why can't we climb to the top of the butte for a little while? i feel smothered here. it's far worse than the river bottom." "aren't you too tired?" asked diana. "not too tired for as short a climb as that, unless you are feeling done up!" "i!" laughed diana. "why, na-che will vouch for it that i've never had such a lazy trip before! na-che, the judge and i are going up the butte. just keep a little glow of fire for us, will you, so that we can locate the camp easily." "yes, diana, and don't be frightened if you hear noises. i'm going to teach jonas a navajo song." "we'll try not to be," replied diana, laughing as she rose. it was an ascent of several hundred feet, but easily made and the view from the top more than repaid them for the effort. in all his desert nights, enoch never had seen the stars so vivid. for miles about them the shadowy peaks and chasms were discernible. and diana's face was delicately clear cut as she seated herself on a block of stone and looked up at him. "diana," said enoch, abruptly, "you make me wish that i were a poet, instead of a politician." "but you aren't a politician!" protested diana. "you shall not malign yourself so." "a pleasant comment on our american politics!" exclaimed enoch. "well, whatever i am, words fail me utterly when i try to describe the appeal of your beauty." "enoch," there was a note of protest in diana's voice, "you aren't going to make love to me on this trip, are you?" enoch's voice expressed entire astonishment. "why certainly i am, diana!" "you'll make it very hard for me!" sighed diana. enoch knelt in the sand before her and lifted her hands against his cheek. "sweetheart," he said softly, his great voice, rich and mellow although it hardly rose above a whisper, "my only sweetheart, not for all the love in the world would i make it hard for you. not for all your love would i even attempt to leave you with one memory that is not all that is sweet and noble. only in these days i want you to learn all there is in my heart, as i must learn all that is in yours. for, after that, diana, we must never see each other again." diana freed one of her hands and brushed the tumbled hair from enoch's forehead. "do you realize," he said, quietly, "that in all the years of my memory no woman has caressed me so? i am starved, diana, for just such a gentle touch as that." "then you shall be starved no more, dearest. sit down in the sand before me and lean your head against my knee. there!" as enoch turned and obeyed her. "now we can both look out at the stars and i can smooth your hair. what a mass of it you have, enoch! and you must have been a real carrot top when you were a little boy." "i was an ugly brat," said enoch, comfortably. "a red-headed, freckled-faced, awkward brat! and unhappy and disagreeable as i was ugly." "it seems so unfair!" diana smoothed the broad forehead, tenderly. "i had such a happy childhood. i didn't go to school until i was twelve. until then i lived the life of a little indian, out of doors, taking the trail trips with dad or geologizing with mother. i don't know how many horses and dogs i had. their number was limited only by what mother and father felt they could afford to feed." "there was nothing unfair in your having had all the joy that could be crammed into your childhood," protested enoch. "nature and circumstance were helping to make you what you are. i don't see that anything could have been omitted. listen, diana." plaintively from below rose na-che's voice in a slow sweet chant. jonas's baritone hesitatingly repeated the strain, and after a moment they softly sang it together. "oh, this is perfect!" murmured enoch. "perfect!" then he drew diana's hand to his lips. how long they sat in silence listening to the wistful notes that floated up to them, neither could have told. but when the singing finally ceased, diana, with a sudden shiver said, "enoch, i want to go back to the camp." enoch rose at once, with a rueful little laugh. "our first precious evening is ended, and we've said nothing!" "nothing!" exclaimed diana. "enoch, what was there left to say when i could touch your hair and forehead so? we can talk on the trail." "starlight and you and na-che's little song," murmured enoch; "i am hard to satisfy, am i not?" he put his arms about diana and kissed her softly, then let her lead the way down to the spring. and shortly, rolled in his blankets, his feet to the dying fire, enoch was deep in sleep. sun-up found them on the trail again. all day the way wound through country that had been profoundly eroded. na-che led by instinct, it seemed, to enoch, for when they were a few miles from the spring, as far as he, at least, could observe, the trail disappeared, entirely. during the morning, they walked much, for the over-hanging ledges and sudden chasms along which na-che guided them made even the horses hesitate. they were obliged to depend on their canteens for water and there was no sign of forage for the horses and mules. every one was glad when the noon hour came. "it will be better, to-night," explained diana. "there are water holes known as indian's cups that we should reach before dark. they're sure to be full of water, for it has rained so much lately. the way will be far easier to-morrow, enoch, so that we can talk as we go." they were standing by the horses, waiting for jonas and na-che to put the dishes in one of the packs. "diana, do you realize that you made no comment whatever on what i told you yesterday? didn't the story of lucy seem wonderful to you?" "i was too deeply moved to make any very sane comment," replied diana. "enoch, will you let me see the diary?" "when i die, it is to be yours, but--" he hesitated, "it tells so many of my weaknesses, that i wouldn't like to be alive and feel that you know so much about them." he laughed a little sadly. "yet you told lucy them, didn't you?" insisted diana with a smile. "don't make me jealous of that person, enoch!" "she was you!" returned enoch, briefly. "to-night, i'll tell you, lucy, some of the things you have forgotten." "you're a dear," murmured diana, under her breath, turning to mount as jonas and na-che clambered into their saddles. all the afternoon, enoch, riding under the burning sun, through the ever shifting miracles of color, rested in his happy dream. the past and the future did not exist for him. it was enough that diana, straight and slender and unflagging rode before him. it was enough that that evening after the years of yearning he would feel the touch of lucy's hand on his burning forehead. for the first time in his life, enoch's spirit was at peace. the pools were well up on the desert, where pinnacles and buttes had given way at last to a roughly level country, with only occasional fissures as reminders of the canyon. bear grass and yucca, barrel and fish-hook cactus as well as the ocotilla appeared. the sun was sinking when the horses smelled water and cantered to the shallow but grateful basins. far to the south, the chaos out of which they had labored was black, and mysterious with drifting vapors. the wind which whirled forever among the chasms was left behind. they had entered into silence and tranquillity. after supper and while the last glow of the sunsets still clung to the western horizon, na-che said, "jonas, you want to see the great navajo charm, made by navajo god when he made these waterholes?" jonas pricked up his ears. "is it a good charm or a hoo-doo?" "if you come at it right, it means you never die," na-che nodded her head solemnly. jonas put a cat's claw root on the fire. "all right! you see, woman, that i come at it right." na-che smiled and led the way eastward. "bless them!" exclaimed enoch. "they're doing the very best they can for us!" "and they're having a beautiful time with each other," added diana. "i think jonas loves you as much as na-che loves me." "i don't deserve that much love," said enoch, watching the fire glow on diana's face. "but he is the truest friend i have on earth." diana gave him a quick, wide-eyed glance. "ah, but you don't know me, as jonas does! i wouldn't want you to know me as he does!" exclaimed enoch. "i'll not admit either lucy or jonas as serious rivals," protested diana. enoch laughed. "dearest, i have told you things that jonas would not dream existed. i have poured out my heart to you, night after night. all a boy's aching dreams, all a man's hopes and fears, i've shared with you. jonas was not that kind of friend. i first met him when i became secretary to the mayor of new york. he was a sort of porter or doorman at the city hall. he gradually began to do little personal things for me and before i realized just how it was accomplished, he became my valet and steward, and was keeping house for me in a little flat up on fourth avenue. "and then, when i was still in the city hall i had a row with luigi. he spoke of my mother to a group of officials i was taking through minetta lane. "diana, it was luigi who taught me to gamble when i was not over eight years old. i took to it with devilish skill. what drink or dope or women have been to other men, gambling has been to me. after i came back from the grand canyon with john seaton, i began to fight against it. but, although i waited on table for my board, i really put myself through the high school on my earnings at craps and draw poker. as i grew older i ceased to gamble as a means of subsistence but whenever i was overtaxed mentally i was drawn irresistibly to a gambling den. and so after the fight with luigi--" enoch paused, his face knotted. his strong hands, clasping his knees as he sat in the sand, opposite diana, were tense and hard. diana, looking at him thought of what this man meant to the nation, of what his service had been and would be: she thought of the great gifts with which nature had endowed him and she could not bear to have him humble himself to her. she sprang to her feet. "enoch! enoch!" she cried. "don't tell me any more! you are entitled to your personal weaknesses. even i must not intrude! i asked you about them because, oh, because, enoch, you are letting your only real weakness come between you and me." enoch had risen with diana, and now he came around the fire and put his hands on her shoulders. "no! no! diana! not my weaknesses keep us apart, bitterly as they mortify me." diana looked up at him steadily. "enoch, your great weakness is not gambling. who cares whether you play cards or not? no one but brown! but your weakness is that you have let those early years and luigi's vicious stories warp your vision of the sweetest thing in life." "diana! i thought you understood. my mother--" "don't!" interrupted diana, quickly. "don't! i understand and because i do, i tell you that you are warped. you are america's only real statesman, the man with a vision great enough to mold ideals for the nation. still you are not normal, not sane, about yourself." enoch dropped his hands from her shoulders and stood staring at her sadly. "i thought you understood!" he whispered, brokenly. diana wrung her hands, turned and walked swiftly toward a neighboring heap of rocks whose shadows swallowed her. enoch breathed hard for a moment, then followed. he found diana, a vague heap on a great stone, her face buried in her hands. enoch sat down beside her and took her in his arms. "sweetheart," he whispered, "what have i done?" diana, shaken by dry sobs, did not reply. but she put her arms about his neck and clung to him as though she could never let him go. enoch sat holding her in an ecstasy that was half pain. dusk thickened into night and the stars burned richly above them. enoch could see that diana's face against his breast was quiet, her great eyes fastened on the desert. he whispered again, "diana, what have i done?" "you have made me love you so that i cannot bear to think of the future," she replied. "it was not wise of us to take this trip together, enoch." enoch's arms tightened about her. "we'll be thankful all our lives for it, diana. and you haven't really answered my question, darling!" diana drew herself away from him. "enoch, let's never mention the subject again. the things you understand by weakness--why, i don't care if you have a thousand of them! but, dear, i want the diary. when you leave el tovar, leave that much of yourself with me." enoch's voice was troubled. "i have been so curiously lonely! you can have no idea of what the diary has meant to me." "i won't ask you for it, enoch!" exclaimed diana. suddenly she leaned forward in the moonlight and kissed him softly on the lips. enoch drew her to him and kissed her fiercely. "the diary! it is yours, diana, yours in a thousand ways. when you read it, you will understand why i hesitated to give it to you." "i'll find some way to thank you," breathed diana. "i know a way. give me some of your desert photographs. choose those that you think tell the most. and don't forget death and the navajo." "oh, enoch! what a splendid suggestion! you've no idea how i shall enjoy making the collection for you. it will take several months to complete it, you know." "don't wait to complete the collection. send the prints one at a time, as you finish them. send them to my house, not my office." soft voices sounded from the camping place. "we must go back," said diana. "another evening gone, forever," said enoch. "how many more have we, diana?" "three or four. one never knows, in the canyon country." they moved slowly, hand in hand, toward the firelight. just before they came within its zone, enoch lifted diana's hand to his lips. "good night, diana!" "good night, enoch!" jonas and na-che, standing by the fire like two brown genii of the desert, looked up smiling as the two appeared. "ain't they a handsome pair, na-che?" asked jonas, softly. "ain't he a grand looking man?" na-che assented. "i wish i could get each of 'em to wear a love ring. i could get two the best medicine man in the desert country made." "where are they?" demanded jonas eagerly. "up near bright angel." "you get 'em and i'll pay for 'em," urged jonas. "we can't buy 'em! they got to be taken." "well, how come you to think i couldn't take 'em, woman? you show me where they are. i'll do the rest." "all right," said na-che. "diana, don't you feel tired?" "tired enough to go to bed, anyway," replied diana. "it's going to be a very cold night. be sure that you and the judge have plenty of blankets, jonas. good night!" and she disappeared into the tent. the night was stinging cold. ice formed on the rain pools and they ate breakfast with numbed hands. as usual, however, the mercury began to climb with the sun and when at mid-morning, they entered a huge purple depression in the desert, coats were peeled and gloves discarded. the depression was an ancient lava bed, deep with lavender dust that rose chokingly about them. there was a heavy wind that increased as they rode deeper into the great bowl and this, with the swirling sand, made the noon meal an unpleasant duty. but, in spite of these discomforts, enoch managed to ride many miles, during the day, with his horse beside diana's. and he talked to her as though he must in the short five days make up for a life time of reticence. he told her of the seatons and all that john seaton had done for him. he told her of his years of dreaming of the canyon and of his days as police commissioner. he told of dreams he had had as a congressman and as a senator and of the great hopes with which he had taken up the work of the secretary of the interior. and finally, as the wind began to lessen with the sinking sun, and the tired horses slowed to the trail's lifting from the bowl, he told her of his last speaking trip, of its purpose and of its results. "the more i know you," said diana, "the more i am confirmed in the opinion i had of you years before i met you. and that is that however our great departments need men of your administrative capacity and integrity--and i'm perfectly willing to admit that their need is dire--your place, enoch huntingdon, is in the senate. yet i suppose your party will insist on pushing you on into the white house. and it will be a mistake." "why?" asked enoch quickly. "because," replied diana, brushing the lavender dust from her brown hands thoughtfully, "your gift of oratory, your fundamental, sane dreams for the nation, your admirable character, impose a particular and peculiar duty on you. it has been many generations since the nation had a spokesman. patrick henry, daniel webster, have been dead a long time. most of our orators since have killed their own influence by fanatical clinging to some partisan cause. you should be bigger than any party, enoch. and in the white house you cannot be. our spoils system has achieved that. but in the senate is your great, natural opportunity." enoch smiled. "without the flourishes of praise, i've reached about the same conclusion that you have," he said. "i have been told," he hesitated, "that i could have the party nomination for the presidency, if i wished it. you know that practically assures election." diana nodded. "and it's a temptation, of course!" "yes and no!" replied enoch. "no man could help being moved and flattered, yes, and tempted by the suggestion. and yet when i think of the loneliness of a man like me in the white house, the loneliness, and the gradual disillusionment such as the president spoke of you, the temptation has very little effect on me." "how kind he was that day!" exclaimed diana, "and how many years ago it seems!" they rode on in silence for a few moments, then diana exclaimed, "look, enoch dear!" ahead of them, along the rim of the bowl, an indian rode. his long hair was flying in the wind. both he and his horse were silhouetted sharply against the brilliant western sky. "make a picture of it, diana!" cried enoch. diana shook her head. "i could make nothing of it!" na-che gave a long, shrill call, which the indian returned, then pulled up his horse to wait for them. when enoch and diana reached the rim, the others already had overtaken him. "it's wee-tah!" exclaimed diana, then as she shook hands, she added: "where are you going so fast, wee-tah?" the indian, a handsome young buck, his hair bound with a knotted handkerchief, glanced at enoch and answered diana in navajo. diana nodded, then said: "judge, this is wee-tah, a friend of mine." enoch and the indian shook hands gravely, and diana said, "can't you take supper with us, wee-tah?" "you stay, wee-tah," na-che put in abruptly. "jonas and i want you to help us with a charm." "na-che says you know a heap about charms, mr. wee-tah!" exclaimed jonas. wee-tah grinned affably. "i stay," he said. "only the whites have to hurry. good water hole right there." he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, then turned his pony and led the way a few hundred yards to a low outcropping of stones, the hollowed top of which held a few precious gallons of rain water. "my lordy!" exclaimed jonas, as he and enoch were hobbling their horses, "if i don't have some charms and hoo-doos to put over on those baptist folks back home! why, these indians have got even a georgia nigger beat for knowing the spirits." "jonas, you're an old fool, but i love you!" said enoch. jonas chuckled, and hurried off to help na-che with the supper. the stunted cat's claw and mesquite which grew here plentifully made possible a glorious fire that was most welcome, for the evening was cold. enoch undertook to keep the big blaze going while wee-tah prepared a small fire at a little distance for cooking purposes. after supper the two indians and jonas gathered round this while enoch and diana remained at what jonas designated as the front room stove. "what solitary trip was wee-tah undertaking?" asked enoch. "or mustn't i inquire?" "on one of the buttes in the canyon country," replied diana, "wee-tah's grandfather, a great chief, was killed, years ago. wee-tah is going up to that butte to pray for his little son who has never been born." "ah!" said enoch, and fell silent. diana, in her favorite attitude, hands clasping her knees, watched the fire. at last enoch roused himself. "shall you come to washington this winter, diana?" "i ought to, but i may not. i may go into the havesupai country for two months, after you go east, and put washington off until late spring." "don't fear that i shall disturb you, when you come, dear." enoch looked at diana with troubled eyes. she looked at him, but said nothing, and again there was silence. enoch emptied his pipe and put it in his pocket. "after you have finished this work for the president, then what, diana?" she shook her head. "there is plenty of time to plan for that. if i go into the angle of the children's games and their possible relations to religious ceremonies, there's no telling when i shall wind up! then there are their superstitions that careful study might separate clearly from their true spiritism. the great danger in work like mine is that it is apt to grow academic. in the pursuit of dry ethnological facts one forgets the artistry needed to preserve it and present it to the world." "whew!" sighed enoch. "i'm afraid you're a fearful highbrow, diana! hello, jonas, what can i do for you?" "we all are going down the desert a piece with wee-tah. they's a charm down there he knows about. they think we'll be gone about an hour. but don't worry about us." "don't let the ghosts get you, old man,", said enoch. "after all you've lived through, that would be too simple." jonas grinned, and followed the indians out into the darkness. "now," inquired enoch, "is that tact or superstition?" "both, i should say," replied diana. "we'll have to agree that na-che and jonas are doing all they can to make the match. i gather from what na-che says that they're working mostly on love charms for us." "more power to 'em," said enoch grimly. "diana, let's walk out under the stars for a little while. the fire dims them." they rose, and enoch put his arm about the girl and said, with a tenderness in his beautiful voice that seemed to diana a very part of the harmony of the glowing stars: "diana! oh, diana! diana!" she wondered as they moved slowly away from the fire, if enoch had any conception of the beauty of his voice. it seemed to her to express the man even more fully than his face. all the sweetness, all the virility, all the suffering, all the capacity for joy that was written in enoch's face was expressed in his voice, with the addition of a melodiousness that only tone could give. although she never had heard him make a speech she knew how even his most commonplace sentence must wing home to the very heart of the hearer. they said less, in this hour alone together, than they said in any evening of their journey. and yet they both felt as if it was the most nearly perfect of their hours. perhaps it was because the sky was more magnificent than it had been before; the stars larger and nearer and the sky more deeply, richly blue. perhaps it was because after the dusk and heat of the day, the uproar of the sand and wind, the cool silence was doubly impressive and thrice grateful. and perhaps it was because of some wordless, intangible reason, that only lovers know, which made diana seem more beautiful, more pure, her touch more sacred, and enoch stronger, finer, tenderer than ever before. at any rate, walking slowly, with their arms about each other, they were deeply happy. and enoch said, "diana, i know now that not one moment of the loneliness and the bitterness of the years, would i part with. all of it serves to make this moment more perfect." and suddenly diana said, "enoch, hold me close to you again, here, under the stars, so that i may never again look at them, when i'm alone in the desert, without feeling your dear arms about me, and your dear cheek against mine." and when they were back by the fire again, enoch once more leaned against diana's knee and felt the soft touch of her hand on his hair and forehead. the three magic-makers returned, chanting softly, as magic-makers should. faint and far across the desert sounded the intriguing rhythm long before the three dark faces were caught by the firelight. when they finally appeared, jonas was bearing an eagle's feather. "miss diana," he said solemnly, "will you give me one of your long hairs?" quite as solemnly, diana plucked a long chestnut spear and jonas wrapped it round the stem of the feather. then he joined the other two at the water hole. enoch and diana looked at each other with a smile. "do you think it will work, diana?" asked enoch. "eagle feather magic is strong magic," replied diana. "i shall go to sleep believing in it. good night, enoch." "good night, diana." wee-tah left them after breakfast, cantering away briskly on his pony, his long hair blowing, na-che and jonas shouting laughingly after him. it was a brisk, clear morning, with ribbons of mist blowing across the distant ranges. by noon, their way was leading through scattered growths of stunted cedar and juniper with an occasional gnarled, undersized oak in which grew mistletoe thick-hung with ivory berries. bear grass and bunch grass dotted the sand. orioles and robins sang as they foraged for the blue cedar berry. all the afternoon the trees increased in size and when they made camp at night, it was under a giant pine whose kindred stretched in every direction as far as the eye could pierce through the dusk. there was water in a tiny rivulet near by. "it's heavenly, diana!" exclaimed enoch, as he returned from hobbling the horses. "we must be getting well up as to elevation. there is a tang to the air that says so." diana nodded a little sadly. "one night more, after this, then you'll sleep at el tovar, enoch." "i'm not thinking even of to-morrow, diana. this moment is enough. are you tired?" "tired? no!" but the eyes she lifted to enoch's were faintly shadowed. "perhaps," she suggested, "i'm not living quite so completely in the present as you are." "necessity hasn't trained you during the years, as it has me," said enoch. "if the trail had not been so bad to-day and i could have ridden beside you, i think i could have kept your thoughts here, sweetheart." "i think you could have, enoch," agreed diana, with a wistful smile. the hunting had been good that day. amongst them, the travelers had bagged numerous quail and cottontails, and jonas had brought in at noon a huge jack rabbit. this they could not eat but its left hind foot, jonas claimed, would make a sensation in washington. supper was a festive meal, na-che producing a rabbit soup, and jonas broiling the quail, which he served with hot biscuit that the most accomplished chef might have envied. after the meal was finished and enoch and diana were standing before the fire, debating the feasibility of a walk under the pines, jonas and na-che approached them solemnly. jonas cleared his throat. "boss and miss diana, na-che and me, we want you to do something for us. we know you all trust us both and so we don't want you to ask the why or the wherefore, but just go ahead and do it." "what is it, jonas?" asked diana. "well, up ahead a spell in these woods, there's a round open space and in the middle of it under a big rock an injun and his sweetheart is buried. something like a million years ago he stole her from over yonder from the--" he hesitated, and na-che said softly: "hopis." "yes, the hopis. and her tribe come lickety-cut after her, and overtook 'em at that spot yonder, and her father give her the choice of coming back or both of 'em dying right there. they chose to die, and there they are. wee-tah and na-che and all the injuns believe--" na-che pulled at his sleeve. "oh, i forgot! we ain't going to tell you what they believe, because whites don't never have the right kind of faith. let me alone, na-che. how come you think i can't tell this story? but what we ask of you is, will you and miss allen, boss, go up to that stone yonder, and lay this eagle's feather beside it, then sit on the stone until a star falls." enoch and diana looked at each other, half smiling. "don't say no," urged na-che. "you want to take a walk, anyhow." "and what happens, if the star falls?" asked diana. "something mighty good," replied jonas. "it's pretty cold for sitting still so long, isn't jonas?" asked enoch. "you can take a blanket to wrap round yourselves. do it, boss! you know you and miss diana don't care where you are as long as you get a little time alone together." enoch laughed. "come along, diana! who knows what indian magic might do for us!" "that's right," na-che nodded approval. "there's an old trail to it, see!" she led diana beyond the camp pine, and pointed to the faint black line, that was traceable in the sand under the trees. the pine forest was absolutely clear of undergrowth. "come on, enoch," laughed diana, and enoch, chuckling, joined her, while the two magicians stood by the fire, interest and satisfaction showing in every line of their faces. diana had little difficulty following the trail. to enoch's unaccustomed eyes and feet, the ease with which she led the way was astonishing. she walked swiftly under the trees for ten minutes, then paused on the edge of a wide amphitheater, rich in starlight. in the center lay a huge flat stone. they made their way through the sand to this. dimly they could discern that the sides of the rock were covered with hieroglyphics. diana laid the eagle's feather in a crevice at the end of the rock. "see!" exclaimed enoch. "other lovers have been here before!" he pointed to feathers at different points in the rock. "it must indeed be strong magic!" he folded one blanket for a seat, another he pulled over their shoulders, for in spite of the brisk walk, they both were shivering with the cold. "what do you suppose the world at large would say," chuckled diana, "if it would see the secretary of the interior, at this moment." "i think it would say that as a human being, it was beginning to have hope of him," replied enoch. then they fell silent. the great trees that widely encircled them were motionless. the heavens seemed made of stars. enoch drew diana close against him, and leaned his cheek upon her hair. slowly a jack rabbit loped toward the ancient grave, stopped to gaze with burning eyes at the two motionless figures, twitched his ears and slowly hopped away. shortly a cottontail deliberately crossed the circle, then another and another. suddenly diana touched enoch's hand softly. "in the trees, opposite!" she breathed. two pairs of fiery eyes moved slowly out until the starlight revealed two tiny antelope, gray, graceful shadows of the desert night. the pair stared motionless at the ancient grave, then gently trotted away. now came a long interval in which neither sound nor motion was perceptible in the silvery dusk. then like little gray ghosts with glowing eyes half a dozen antelope moved tranquilly across the amphitheater. enoch and diana watched breathlessly but for many moments more there was no sign of living creature. and suddenly a great star flashed across the radiant heavens. "the magic!" whispered diana, "the desert magic!" "diana," murmured enoch in reply, "this is as near heaven as mortals may hope to reach." "desert magic!" repeated diana softly. "come, dear, we must go back to camp." enoch rose reluctantly and put his hands on diana's shoulders. "those lovers, long ago," he said, his deep voice tender and wistful, "those lovers long ago were not far wrong in their decision. i'm sure, in the years to come, when i think of this evening, and this journey, i shall feel so." diana touched his cheek softly with her hand. "i love you, enoch," was all she said, and they returned in silence to the camp. "we saw the star fall!" exclaimed jonas, waiting by the fire with na-che. enoch nodded and, after a glance at his face, jonas said nothing more. all the next day they penetrated deeper and deeper into the mighty forest. all day long the trail lifted gradually, the air growing rarer and colder as they went. it was biting cold when they made their night camp deep in the woods. but a glorious fire before a giant tree trunk made the last evening on the trail one of comfort. na-che and jonas had run out of excuses for leaving the lovers alone, but nothing daunted, after supper was cleared off they made their own camp fire at a distance and sat before it, singing and laughing even after diana had withdrawn to her tent. "enoch," said diana, "i have something that i want to say to you, but i'll admit that it takes more courage than i've been able to gather together until now. but this is our last evening and i must relieve my mind." enoch, surprised by the earnestness of diana's voice, laid down his pipe and put his hand over hers. "i don't see why you need courage to say anything under heaven to me!" "but i do on this subject," returned diana, raising wide, troubled eyes to his. "enoch, you have made me love you and then have told me that you cannot marry me. i think that i have the right to tell you that you are abnormal toward marriage. you are spoiling our two lives and i am entering a most solemn protest against your doing so." "but, diana--" began enoch. "no!" interrupted diana. "you must hear me through in silence, enoch. i remember my father telling me that seaton believed that you had been made the victim of almost hypnotic suggestion by that beast, luigi. not that luigi knew anything about auto-suggestion or anything of the sort! he simply wanted to enslave a boy who was a clever gambler. and so he planted the vicious suggestion in your mind that you were necessarily bad because your mother was. and all these years, that suggestion has held, not to make you bad but to make you fear that your children would be or that disease, mental or physical, is latent in you which marriage would uncover. enoch, have you never talked your case over with a psychologist?" "no!" replied enoch. "i've always felt that i was perfectly normal and i still feel so. moreover, i've wanted to bury my mother's history a thousand fathoms deep. consider too, that i've never wanted to marry any woman till i met you." "and having met me," said diana bitterly, "you allow a preconceived idea to wreck us both. you astonish me almost as much as you make me suffer. enoch, did you ever try to trace your father?" "diana, what chance would i have of finding my father when you consider what my mother was? nevertheless, i have tried." and enoch told in detail both seaton's and the police commissioner's efforts in his behalf. diana rose and paced restlessly up and down before the fire. enoch rose with her and stood leaning against the tree trunk, watching her with tragic eyes. finally diana said: "i'm not clever at argument, but every woman has a right to fight for her mate. i insist that your reasons for not marrying are chimeras. and if i'm willing to risk marrying the man who may or may not be the son of luigi's mistress, he should be willing to risk marrying me." "but, you see, you do admit it's a risk!" exclaimed enoch. "no more a risk than marriage always is," declared diana, with a smile that had no humor in it. "enoch, let's not be cowardly. let's 'set the slug horn dauntless to our lips.'" enoch covered his eyes with his hands. cold sweat stood on his brow. all the ugly, menacing suggestions of thirty years crowded his answer to his lips. "diana, we must not!" he groaned. diana drew a quick breath, then said, "enoch, i cannot submit tamely to such a decision. i have a friend in boston who is one of the great psycho-analysts of the country. when i return to washington in the spring i shall go to see him." "god! shall i never be able to bury minetta lane?" cried enoch. "not until you dig the grave yourself, my dear! yours has been a case for a mind specialist, all these years, not a detective. i, for one, refuse to let minetta lane hag ride me if it is possible to escape it." suddenly she smiled again. "i'll admit i'm not at all victorian in my attitude." "you couldn't be anything that was not fine," returned enoch sadly. "but i cannot bear to have you buoy yourself with false hopes." "a drowning woman grasps at straws, i suppose," said diana, a little brokenly. "good night, my dearest," and diana went into the tent, leaving enoch to ponder heavily over the fire until the cold drove him to his blankets. breaking camp the next morning was dreary and arduous enough. snow was still falling, the mules were recalcitrant and a bitter wind had piled drifts in every direction. the four travelers were in a subdued mood, although enoch heartened himself considerably by urging diana to remember that they had still to look forward to the trip down bright angel. they floundered through the snow for two heavy hours before diana looked back at enoch to say, "we're only a mile from the cabin now, enoch!" "only a mile!" exclaimed enoch. "diana, i wonder what your father will say when he sees me!" "he thinks you are two thousand miles from here!" laughed diana. "we'll see what he will say." "and so," murmured enoch to himself, "any perfect journey is ended." book iv the phantasm destroyed chapter xv the firing line again "when i shall have given you up, diana, i shall love my own solitude as never before. for you will dwell there and he who has lovely thoughts is never lonely."--_enoch's diary_. the cabin was built of cedar logs. frank had added to it as necessity arose or his means permitted, and it sprawled pleasantly under the pines, as if it belonged there and enjoyed being there. na-che gave her peculiar, far-carrying call, some moments before the cabin came into view, and when the little cavalcade jingled up to the door, it was wide open, a ruddy faced, white-haired man standing before it. "hello, diana!" he shouted. "where in seven thunders have you been! you're a week late!" then his eyes fastened wonderingly on enoch's face. he came slowly across the porch and down the steps. enoch did not speak, and for a long moment the two men stared at each other while time turned back its hands for a quarter of a century. suddenly frank's hand shot out. "my god! it's enoch huntingdon!" "yes, frank, it's he," replied enoch. "where on earth did you come from? come in, mr. secretary! come in! or do you want to go up to the hotel?" "hotel! frank, don't try to put on dog with me or snub me either!" exclaimed enoch, dismounting. "and i am enoch to you, just as that cowardly kid was, twenty-two years ago!" "cowardly!" roared frank. "well, come in! come in before i get started on that." "this is jonas," said na-che gravely. "i know who jonas is," said frank, shaking hands. "come in! come in! before i burst with curiosity! diana girl, i've been worried sick about you. i swear once more this is the last trip you shall take without me." the living-room was huge and beautiful. a fire roared in the great fireplace. indian blankets and rugs covered the floor. there were some fine paintings on the walls and books and photographs everywhere. after enoch and diana had removed their snowy coats, frank impatiently forced them into the arm-chairs before the fire, while he stood on the bearskin before them. "for the love of heaven, diana, where did you folks meet?" "you begin, enoch," said diana quietly. at the use of the secretary's name, frank glanced at diana quickly, then turned back to enoch. "well, frank, i was on a speaking trip, and the pressure of things got so bad that i decided to slip away from everybody and give myself a trip to the canyon. that was about a month ago. i outfitted at a little village on the railroad, and shortly after that i joined some miners who were going up to the canyon to placer prospect. we had been at the canyon several days when jonas and diana and na-che found us. diana stayed a day or so, then jonas and i went with a geological survey crew for a boating trip down the river. we had sundry adventures, finally landing at grant's ferry, our leader, milton, with a broken leg. here we found diana and na-che. jonas and i left the others and came on here because i want to go down the trail with you. that, in brief, is my story." "devilish brief!" snorted frank. "thank you for nothing! diana, suppose you pad the skeleton a little." "yes, i will, dad, if you'll let enoch go to his room and get into some dry clothes. i told na-che to help herself for him from your supply." "surely! surely! what a rough bronco, i am! let me show you to the guest room, mr. secretary--enoch, i should say," and frank led the way to a comfortable room whose windows gave a distant view of the canyon rim. when enoch returned to the living-room after a bath and some strenuous grooming at jonas' hands, diana had disappeared and frank was standing before the fire, smoking a cigarette. he tossed it into the flames at enoch's approach. "enoch, my boy!" he said, then his voice broke, and the two men stood silently grasping each other's hands. enoch was the first to find his voice. "except for the white hair, frank, the years have forgotten you." "not quite, enoch! not quite! i don't take those trails as easily as i did once. you, yourself are changed, but one would expect that! fourteen to thirty-six, isn't it?" enoch nodded. "will the snow make bright angel too difficult for you, frank?" "me? my lord, no! do i look a tenderfoot? we'll start to-morrow morning and take two days to it. sit down, do! i've a thousand questions to ask you." "before i begin to answer them, frank, tell me if there is any way in which i can send a telegram. i must let my office know where i am, much as i regret the necessity." "you can telephone a message to the hotel," replied frank. "they'll take care of it. but you realize that your traveling incog. will be all out if you do that?" "not necessarily!" enoch chuckled. frank called the hotel on the telephone and handed the instrument to enoch, who smiled as he gave the message. "mr. charles abbott, 8946 blank street, washington, d. c. the boss can be reached now at el tovar, jonas." "but won't abbott wire you?" asked frank. "no, he'll wire jonas. see if he doesn't," replied enoch. "and now for the questions. oh, diana!" rising as diana, in a brown silk house frock, came into the room. "how lovely you look! doesn't she, frank?" "she looks like her mother," said frank. "only she'll never be quite as beautiful as helen was." "'whose beauty launched a thousand ships'!" enoch exclaimed, smiling at diana. "my boyish memoir of mrs. allen is that she was dark." "she was darker than diana, and not so tall. just as high as my breast; a fine mind in a lovely body!" frank sighed deeply and stared at the fire. enoch, lying back in the great arm-chair, watched diana with thoughtful, wistful eyes, until frank roused himself, saying abruptly, "and now once more for the questions. enoch, what started you in politics?" "well," replied enoch, "that's a large order, but i'll try to tell the story." he began the tale, but was so constantly interrupted by frank's questions that luncheon was announced by na-che, just as he finished. after luncheon they returned again to the fire, and frank, urged on by enoch, told the story of his early days at the canyon. perhaps frank guessed that enoch and diana were in no mood for speech themselves, for he talked on and on, interrupted only by enoch's laughter, or quick word of sympathy. diana, her hands clasped loosely in her lap, watched the fire or stared at the snow drifts that the wind was piling against the window. it seemed to enoch that the shadows about her great eyes were deepening as the hours went on. suddenly frank looked at his watch. "four o'clock! i must go out to the corral. want to come along, enoch?" "i think not, frank. i'll sit here with diana, if you don't mind." "i can stand it, if diana can," chuckled frank, and a moment later a door slammed after him. enoch turned at once to diana. "are you happy, dear?" "happy and unhappy; unbearably so!" replied diana. "don't forget for a moment," said enoch quickly, "that we have two whole days after to-day." "i don't," diana smiled a little uncertainly. "enoch, i wonder if you know how well you look! you are so tanned and so clear-eyed! i'm going to be jealous of the women at every dinner party i imagine you attending!" enoch laughed. "diana, my reputation as a woman hater is going to be increased every year. see if it's not!" the telephone rang and diana answered the call. "yes! yes, jonas is here, fred jonas--i'll take the message." there was a pause, then diana said steadily, "see if i repeat correctly. tell the boss the president wishes him to take first train east, making all possible speed. wire at once date of arrival. signed abbott." diana hung up the receiver and turned to enoch, who had risen and was standing beside her. "orders, eh, enoch?" she said, trying to smile with white lips. enoch did not answer. he stood staring at the girl's quivering mouth, while his own lips stiffened. then he said quietly: "will you tell me where i can find jonas, diana?" "he's in the kitchen with na-che. i'll go bring him in." "no, stay here, diana, sweetheart. your face tells too much. i'll be back in a moment." jonas looked up from the potatoes he was peeling, as enoch came into the kitchen. "jonas, i've just had a reply from the wire i sent abbott this morning. the president wants me at once. will you go up to the hotel and arrange for transportation out of here tonight? remember, i don't want it known who i am." "yes, mr. secretary!" exclaimed jonas. hastily wiping his hands, he murmured to na-che, as enoch turned away: "no trip down bright angel, na-che. ain't it a shame to think that love ring--" but enoch heard no more. diana stood before the fire in the gathering twilight. "is there anything dad or i can do to facilitate your start, enoch?" "nothing, diana. jonas is a past master in this sort of thing, and he prefers to do it all himself. you and i have only to think of each other until i have to leave." he took diana's face between his hands and gazed at it hungrily. "how beautiful, how beautiful you are!" he said, his rich voice dying in a sigh. "don't sigh, enoch!" exclaimed diana. "we must not make this last moment sad. you are going back into the arena, fit for the fight. that makes me very, very glad. and while you have told me nothing as to your intentions concerning brown, i know that your decision, when it comes, will be right." "i don't know what that decision will be, diana. i have given my whole mind to you for many days. but i shall do nothing rash, nor without long thought. my dearest, i wish i could make you understand what you mean to me. i had thought when we were in the canyon to-morrow i could tell you something of my boyhood, so that you would understand me, and what you mean to me. but all that must remain unsaid. perhaps it's just as well." enoch sighed again and, turning to the table, picked up the flat package he had laid there on entering the room. "this is my diary, diana," placing it in her hands. "be as gentle as you can in judging me, as you read it. if we were to be married, i think i would not have let you see it, but as it is, i am giving to you the most intimate thing in my possession, and i feel somehow as if in so doing i am tying myself to you forever." diana clasped the book to her heart, and laid her burning cheek against enoch's. but she did not speak. enoch held her slender body against his and the firelight flickered on the two motionless forms. "diana," said enoch huskily, "you are going on with your work, as earnestly as ever, are you not?" "not quite so earnestly because, after i reach the east again, minetta lane will be my job." "oh, diana, i beg of you, don't soil your hands with that!" groaned enoch. "i must! i must, enoch!" then diana's voice broke and again the room was silent. they stood clinging to each other until frank's voice was heard in the rear of the house. "it's an infernal shame, i say. president or no president!" "i'm going to my room for a little while," whispered diana. and when frank stamped into the room, enoch was standing alone, his great head bowed in the firelight. "can't you stall 'em off a little while?" demanded frank. enoch shook his head with a smile. "i've played truant too long to dictate now. jonas and i must pull out to-night. perhaps it's best, after all, frank, and yet, it seemed for a moment as if it were physically impossible for me to give up that trip down bright angel. i've dreamed of it for twenty-two years. and to go down with diana and you--" "it's life!" said frank briefly. he sank into an armchair and neither man spoke until na-che announced supper. diana appeared then, her cheeks and eyes bright and her voice steady. enoch never had seen her in a more whimsical mood and the meal, which he had dreaded, passed off quickly and pleasantly. not long after dinner, frank announced the buck-board ready for the drive to the station. he slammed the door after this announcement, and enoch took diana in his arms and kissed her passionately. "good-by, diana." "good-by, enoch!" and the last golden moment was gone. enoch had no very clear recollection of his farewells to na-che and frank. outwardly calm and collected, within he was a tempest. he obeyed jonas automatically, went to his berth at once, and toward dawn fell asleep to the rumble of the train. the trip across the continent was accomplished without untoward incident. enoch was, of course, recognized by the trainmen, but he kept to the stateroom that jonas had procured and refused to see the reporters who boarded the train at kansas city and again at chicago. after the first twenty-four hours of grief over the parting with diana, enoch began to recover his mental poise. he was able to crowd back some of his sorrow and to begin to contemplate his whole adventure. nor could he contemplate it without beginning to exult, and little by little his spirits lifted and even the tragedy of giving up diana became a sacred and a beautiful thing. his grief became a righteous part of his life, a thing he would not give up any more than he would have given up a joy. undoubtedly jonas enjoyed this trip more than any railway journey of his experience. certainly he was a marked man. he wore the broadest brimmed hat in frank allen's collection, and john red sun's high laced boots. strapped to his suitcase were the ida's broken paddle and the battered board with "a-che" on it. these stood conspicuously in his seat in the pullman, where he held a daily reception to all the porters on the train. true to his orders, he never mentioned enoch's name in connection with his tale of the canyon, but his own adventures lost nothing by that. enoch did not wire the exact time of his arrival in washington, as he wished no one to meet the train. it was not quite three o'clock of a cold december day when charley abbott, arranging the papers in enoch's private office, looked up as the inner door opened. enoch, tanned and vigorous, came in, followed by jonas, in all his western glory. charley sprang forward to meet enoch's extended hand. "mr. huntingdon! thank the lord!" "all set, abbott!" exclaimed enoch, "and ready to steam ahead. let me introduce old canyon bill, formerly known as jonas!" charley clasped jonas' hand, burst out laughing, and slapped him on the back. "some story goes with that outfit, eh, jonas, old boy! say! if you let the rest of the doormen and messengers see you, there won't be a stroke of work done for the rest of the day." "i'm going to look harry up, right now, if you don't need me, boss!" exclaimed jonas. "take the rest of the day, jonas!" "no, i'll be back prompt at six, boss!" and jonas, with his luggage, disappeared. enoch pulled off his overcoat and seated himself at the desk, then looked up at charley with a smile. "i had a great trip, abbott. i went with a mining outfit up to the canyon country. with miss allen's help, jonas located me at the placer mine, and after several adventures, we came back with her to el tovar, where i wired you." abbott looked at enoch keenly. "you're a new man, mr. secretary." enoch nodded. "i'm in good trim. what happens first, abbott?" "i didn't know what time you'd be in to-day, so your appointments don't begin until to-morrow. but the president wants you to call him at your earliest convenience. shall i get in touch with the white house?" "if you please. in the meantime, i may as well begin to go through these letters." "i kept them down pretty well, i think," said abbott, with justifiable pride, as he picked up the telephone. after several moments he reported that the president would see enoch at five o'clock. "very well," enoch nodded. "then you'd better tell me the things i need to know." abbott went into the outer office for his note book and, returning with it, for an hour he reported to enoch on the business of the department. enoch, puffing on a cigar, asked questions and made notes himself. when charley had finished, he said: "thank you, abbott! i don't see but what i could have remained away indefinitely. matters seem in excellent shape." "not everything, mr. secretary. your oil bill has been unaccountably blocked in the senate. the intervention in mexico talk has begun again. the geological survey is in a mix-up and it looks as if a scandal were about to burst on poor old cheney's head. i'm afraid he's outlived his usefulness anyhow. the newspapers in california are starting a new states-rights campaign for water power control and, every day since i've returned, secretary fowler's office has called and asked for the date of your return." "interested in me, aren't they!" smiled enoch. "why is the president in such a hurry to see me, abbott?" "i don't know, sir. i promised his secretary that the moment i heard from you i'd send such a message as i did send you." "all right, abbott, i'll start along. don't wait or let jonas wait after six. i'll go directly home if i'm detained after that." the president looked at enoch intently as he crossed the long room. "wherever you've been, huntingdon, it has done you good." "i took a trip through the canyon country, mr. president. i've always wanted it." the president waited as if he expected enoch to say more, but the younger man stood silently contemplating the open fire. "how about this tale of brown's?" the chief executive asked finally. "i dislike mentioning it to you, huntingdon, but you are the most trusted member of my cabinet, and you have issued no denial to a very nasty scandal about yourself." enoch turned grave eyes toward the president. "i shall issue no denial, mr. president. but there is one man in the world i wish to know the whole truth. if you have the time, sir, will you permit me to go over the whole miserable story?" the president studied the secretary's face. "it will be a painful thing for both of us, huntingdon," he said after a moment, "but for the sake of our future confidential relationship, i think i shall have to ask you to go over it with me. sit down, won't you?" enoch shook his head and, standing with his back to the fire, his burning eyes never leaving the president's face, he told the story of minetta lane. he ceased only at the moment when he dropped off the train into the desert. he did not spare himself. and yet when the quiet, eloquent voice stopped, there were tears in the president's eyes. he made no comment until enoch turned to the fire, then he said, with a curious smile: "a public man cannot afford private vices." "i know that now," replied enoch. "you may have my resignation whenever you wish it. i think it probable that i'll never touch a card again. but i dare not promise." "i'm told," said the chief executive drily, "that you were not without good company in blank street; that a certain famous person from the british legation, a certain admiral of our own navy and an italian prince contributed their share to the entertainment." enoch flushed slightly, but did not speak. "i don't want your resignation, huntingdon. it's a most unfortunate affair, but we cannot afford to lose you. brown is a whelp, also he's a power that must be reckoned with. that article turned washington over for a while. the talk has quieted now. it was the gambling that the populace rolled under its tongue. only he and the scandal mongers like brown gave any but a pitying glance at the other story. the fears that i have about the affair are first as to its reaction on you and second as to the sort of capital the opposite party will make of it. i think you let it hit you too hard, huntingdon." enoch lifted sad eyes to the chief executive. his lips were painfully compressed and the president said, huskily: "i know, my boy! i sensed long ago that you were a man who had drunk of a bitter cup. i wish i could have helped you bear it!" there was silence for a moment, then the president went on: "what are you going to do to brown, huntingdon?" "i haven't decided yet," replied enoch slowly. "but i shall not let him go unpunished." the president shook his head and sighed. "you must feel that way, of course, but before we talk about that let's review the political situation. i'm ending my second term. for years, as you know, a large portion of the party has had its eye on you to succeed me. in fact, as the head of the party, i may modestly claim to have been your first endorser! long ago i recognized the fact that unless youth and virility and sane idealism were injected into the old machine, it would fall apart and radicalism would take its place." "or tammanyism!" interjected enoch. "they are equally menacing in my mind," said the older man. "as you know, too, huntingdon, there has been a quiet but very active minority very much against you. they have spent years trying to get something on you, and they've never succeeded. but--well, you understand mob psychology better than i do--if brown evolves a slogan, a clever phrase, built about your gambling propensities, it will damn you far more effectively than if he had proved that you played crooked politics or did something really harmful to the country." enoch nodded. "whom do you think brown is for, mr. president?" "has it ever occurred to you that brown often picks up fowler's policies and quietly pushes them?" again enoch nodded and the president went on, "brown never actively plays fowler's game. there's an old story that an ancient quarrel separates them. but word has been carefully passed about that there is to be a dinner at the willard to-morrow night, of the nature of a love feast, at which fowler and brown are to fall on each other's necks with tears." enoch got up from his chair and prowled about the great room restlessly, then he stood before the chief executive. "mr. president, why shouldn't fowler go to the white house? he's a brilliant man. he's done notable service as secretary of state. i don't think the cabinet has contained his equal for twenty-five years. he has given our diplomatic service a distinction in europe that it never had before. he has a good following in the party. perhaps the best of the old conservatives are for him. i don't like his attitude on the mexican trouble and sometimes i have felt uneasy as to his entire loyalty to you. yet, i am not convinced that he would not make a far more able chief executive than i?" "suppose that he openly ties to brown, huntingdon?" "in that case," replied enoch slowly, "i would feel in duty bound to interfere." "and if you do interfere," persisted the president, "you realize fully that it will be a nasty fight?" "perhaps it would be!" enoch's lips tightened as he shrugged his shoulders. the president's eyes glowed as he watched the grim lines deepen in enoch's face. then he said, "huntingdon, i'm giving a dinner to-morrow night too! the british ambassador and the french ambassador want to meet señor juan cadiz. did you know that your friend cadiz is the greatest living authority on aztec worship and a hectic fan for bullfighting as a national sport? my little party is entirely informal, one of the things the newspapers ordinarily don't comment on. you know i insist on my right to cease to be president on occasions when i can arrange for three or four real people to meet each other. this is one of those occasions. you are to come to the dinner too, huntingdon. and if the conversation drifts from bullfighting and aztec gods to mexico and england's and france's ideas about your recent speeches, i shall not complain." "thank you, mr. president," said enoch. "i would do as much for you personally, of course," the older man nodded, as he rose, "but in this instance, i'm playing politics even more than i'm putting my hand on your shoulder. it's good to have you back, huntingdon! good night!" and a few minutes later enoch was out on the snowy street. it was after six and he went directly home. he spent the evening going over accumulated reports. at ten o'clock jonas came to the library door. "boss, how would you feel about going to bed? you know we got into early hours in the canyon." "i feel that i'm going immediately!" enoch laughed. "jonas, what have your friends to say about your trip?" as he went slowly up the stairs. "boss, i'm the foremost colored man in washington to-night. i'm invited to give a lecture on my trip in the baptist church. they offered me five bones for it and i laughed at 'em. how come you to think, i asked 'em, that money could make me talk about my life blood's escape. no, sir, i give my services for patriotism. i can't have the paddle nor the name board framed till i've showed 'em at the lecture. i'm requested to wear my costume." "good work, jonas! remember one thing, though! leave me and miss diana absolutely out of the story." jonas nodded. "i understand, mr. secretary." when enoch reached his office the next morning he said to charley abbott: "when or if secretary fowler's office calls with the usual inquiry, make no reply but connect whomever calls directly with me." charley grinned. "very well, mr. secretary. shall we go after those letters?" "whenever you say so. you'd better make an appointment as soon as possible with cheney. he--" the telephone interrupted and abbott took the call, then silently passed the instrument to enoch. "yes, this is the secretary's office," said enoch. "who is wanted? . . . this is mr. huntingdon speaking. please connect me with mr. fowler. . . . good morning, mr. fowler! i'm sorry to have made your office so much trouble. i understand you've been calling me daily. . . . oh, yes, i thought it was a mistake. . . . late this afternoon, at the french ambassador's? yes, i'll look you up there. good-by." enoch hung up the receiver. "was i to go to tea at madame foret's this afternoon, abbott?" "yes, mr. secretary. madame foret called me up a few days ago and was so kind and so explicit--" "it's quite all right, abbott. mr. fowler wondered, he said, if i was to be invited!" the two men looked at each other, then without further comment enoch began to dictate his long-delayed letters. the day was hectic but enoch turned off his work with zest. shortly after lunch the director of the geological survey appeared. enoch greeted him cordially, and after a few generalities said, "mr. cheney, what bomb are they preparing to explode now?" cheney ran his fingers through his white hair and sighed. "i guess i'm getting too old for modern politics, mr. secretary. you'd better send me back into the field. neither you nor i knew it, but it seems that i've been using those fellows out in the field for my own personal ends. i have a group mining for me in the grand canyon and another group locating oil fields for me in texas." enoch laughed, then said seriously: "what's the idea, mr. cheney? have you a theory?" cheney shook his head. "just innate deviltry, i suppose, on the part of congress." "you've been chief of the survey fifteen years, haven't you, mr. cheney?" "yes, too long for my own good. times have changed. people realized once that men who go high in the technical world very seldom are crooked. but your modern politician would believe evil of the almighty." "what sort of timber are you developing among your field men, cheney?" "only so-so! young men aren't what they were in my day." enoch eyed the tired face under the white hair sympathetically. "mr. cheney, you're letting these people get under your skin. and that is exactly what they are aiming to do. you aren't the man you were a few months ago. my advice to you is, take a vacation. when you come back turn over the field work to a younger man and devote yourself to finding who is after you and why. i have an idea that the gang is not interested in you, personally." cheney suddenly sat up very straight. "you think that you--" then he hesitated. "no, mr. secretary, this is a young man's fight. i'd better resign." "perhaps, later on, but not now. after years of such honorable service as yours, go because you have reached the fullness of years and have earned your rest. don't let these fellows smirch your name and the name of the service. clear both before you go." "what do i care for what they say of me!" cried cheney with sudden fire. "i know what i've given to the government since i first ran surveys in utah! you're an eastern man and a city man, mr. secretary. if you had any idea of what a field man, in utah, for example, or new mexico, or arizona endures, of the love he has for his work, you'd see why my pride won't let me justify my existence to a congressional committee." "and yet," insisted enoch, "i am going to ask you to do that very thing, mr. cheney. i am asking you to do it not for me or for yourself, but for the good of the survey. find out who, what and why. and tell me. will you do it, mr. cheney?" there was something winning as well as compelling in enoch's voice. the director of the survey rose slowly, and with a half smile held out his hand to the secretary. "i'll do it, mr. secretary, but for just one reason, because of my admiration and friendship for you." enoch smiled. "not the best of reasons, i'm afraid, but i'm grateful anyhow. will you let me know facts as you turn them up?" cheney nodded. "good day, mr. secretary!" and enoch turned to meet his next visitor. shortly before six o'clock enoch shook hands with madame foret in her crowded drawing-room. he seemed to be quite unconscious of the more than usually interested and inquiring glances that were directed toward him. "you had a charming vacation, so your smile says, mr. huntingdon!" exclaimed madame foret. "i am so glad! where did you go?" "into the desert, madame foret." "oh, into the desert of that beautiful miss allen! she and her pictures together made me feel that that was one part of america i must not miss. she promised me that she would show me what she called the painted desert, and i shall hold her to the promise!" "no one could show you quite so wonderfully as miss allen, i'm sure," said enoch. "now, just what did you do to kill time in the desert, huntingdon?" asked mr. johns-eaton, the british ambassador. "why didn't you go where there was some real sport?" "oh, i found sport of a sort!" returned enoch solemnly. johns-eaton gave enoch a keen look. "i'll wager you did!" he exclaimed. "any hunting?" "some small game and a great deal of boating!" "boating! now you are spoofing me! listen, mr. fowler, here's a man who says he was boating in the desert!" fowler and enoch bowed and, after a moment's more general conversation, they drew aside. "about this mexican trouble, huntingdon," said fowler slowly. "i said nothing as to your speaking trip, until your return, for various reasons. but i want to tell you now, that i considered it an intrusion upon my prerogatives." "have you told the president so?" asked enoch. "the president did not make the tour," replied fowler. "just why," enoch sipped his cup of tea calmly, "did you choose this occasion to tell me of your resentment?" "because," replied fowler, in a voice tense with repressed anger, "it is my express purpose never to set foot in your office again, nor to permit you to appear in mine. when we are forced to meet, we will meet on neutral ground." "well," said enoch mildly, "that's perfectly agreeable to me. but, excepting on cabinet days, why meet at all?" "you are agreed that it shall be war between us, then?" demanded fowler eagerly. "oh, quite so! only not exactly the kind of war you think it will be, mr. secretary!" said enoch, and he walked calmly back to the tea table for his second cup. he stayed for some time longer, chatting with different people, taking his leave after the secretary of state had driven away. then he went home, thoughtfully, to prepare for the president's dinner. the chief executive was a remarkable host, tactful, resourceful, and witty. the dinner was devoted entirely at first to juan cadiz and his wonderful stories of aztec gods and of bullfighting. gradually, however, cadiz turned to modern conditions in mexico, and mr. johns-eaton, with sudden fire, spoke of england's feeling about the chaos that reigned beyond the texan border lines. monsieur foret did not fully agree with the englishman's general attitude, but when cadiz quoted from one of enoch's speeches, the ambassadors united in praise of the sanity of enoch's arguments. the president did not commit himself in any way. but when he said good night to enoch, he added in the hearing of the others: "thank you, old man! i wish i had a hundred like you!" enoch walked home through a light snow that was falling. and although his mind grappled during the entire walk with the new problem at hand, he was conscious every moment of the fact that a week before he had tramped through falling snow with diana always within hand touch. jonas, brushing the snow from enoch's broad shoulders, said casually: "i had a telegram from na-che this evening, boss. she and miss diana start for havasu canyon to-morrow." enoch started. "why, how'd she happen to wire you, jonas?" "i done told her to," replied jonas coolly, "and moreover, i left the money for her to do it with." enoch said nothing until he was standing in his dressing-gown before his bedroom fire. then he turned to jonas and said: "old man, it won't do. i can't stand it. i must not be able to follow her movements or i shall not be able to keep my mind on matters here. i shall never marry, jonas. all the charms and all the affectionate desires of you and na-che cannot change that." jonas gave enoch a long, reproachful look that was at the same time well-tinctured with obstinacy. without a word he left the room. chapter xvi curly's report "and now my house-mate is grief. but she is wise and beautiful as the canyon is wise and beautiful and i claim both as my own."--_enoch's diary_. the washington papers, the next morning, contained the accounts of two very interesting dinner parties. one was a detailed story of the president's dinner. the other told of the public meeting and reconciliation of secretary fowler and hancock brown. the evening papers contained, as did the morning editions the day following, widely varied comment on the two episodes. enoch did not see the president for nearly a week after the dinner party, excepting at the cabinet meeting. then, in response to a telephone call one evening, he went to the white house and told the president of his break with fowler. "that was a curious thing for him to do," commented the chief executive. "it looks to me like a plain case of losing his temper." "it struck me so," agreed enoch. "do you think that he had anything to do with the publishing of that canard about you, huntingdon?" "i would not be surprised if he had. if i find that he was mixed up in it, mr. president, i shall have to punish him as well as brown." "horsewhipping is what brown deserves," growled the president. "huntingdon, why are they after cheney?" "i've told him to find out," replied enoch. "i want him to put himself in the position of being able to give them the lie direct, and then resign." "who is after him?" "i believe, if we can probe far enough, we'll find this same mexican controversy at the bottom of it. cheney has been immensely interested in the fuel problem. he's given signal help to the bureau of mines." the telephone rang, and the president answered it. he returned to his arm-chair shortly, with a curious smile on his face. "secretary fowler wants to see me. i did not tell him that you are calling. as far as he has informed me, you and he are still on a friendly basis. he will be along shortly, and i shall be keenly interested in observing the meeting." enoch smoked his cigar in silence for some moments before he said, with a chuckle: "i like a fight, if only it's in the open." "so do i!" exclaimed the president. the conversation was desultory until the door opened, admitting the secretary of state. he gave enoch a glance and greeted the chief executive, then bowed formally to enoch, and stood waiting. "sit down, fowler! try one of those cigars! they haven't killed huntingdon yet." "i beg your pardon, mr. president," stiffly, "it is quite impossible for me to make any pretense of friendship for the present secretary of the interior." the president raised his eyebrows. "what's the trouble, fowler?" "you may have heard," fowler's voice was sardonic, "that your secretary of the interior swung around the circle on a speech-making trip this fall!" "i heard of it," replied the chief executive, "probably before you did, because i asked mr. huntingdon to make the trip." "and may i ask, mr. president, why you asked this gentleman to interfere with my prerogatives?" "come! come, fowler! you are too clever a man to attempt the hoity-toity manner with me! you undoubtedly read all of huntingdon's speeches with care, and you observed that his entire plea was for the states to allow the federal government to proceed in its normal function of developing the water power and oil resources of this country; that a few american business men should not be permitted to hog the water power of the state for private gain, nor to embroil us in war with mexico because of private oil holdings there. you will recall that whatever information he used, he procured himself and, before using, laid it in your hands. you laughed at it. you will recall that i asked you, a month before huntingdon went out, if you would not swing round the circle, and you begged to be excused." still standing, the secretary of state bowed and said, "mr. huntingdon has too distinguished an advocate to permit me to argue the matter here." enoch spoke suddenly. "although i'm grateful to the president, mr. fowler, i need no advocate. what in thunder are you angry about? if you and i are to quarrel, why not let me know the _casus belli_!" "i've stated my grievance," said fowler flatly. "your new attitude toward me has nothing to do, i suppose," suggested enoch, lighting a fresh cigar, "with the fact that you dined with hancock brown the other evening?" fowler tapped his foot softly on the rug, but did not reply. enoch went on. "i don't want to quarrel with you, fowler. i'm a sincere admirer of yours. but i'm going to tell you frankly, that i don't like brown and that brown must keep his tongue off of me. and i'm deeply disappointed in you. you did not need brown to add to your prestige in america." "i don't know what the idea is, fowler," said the president suddenly, "but i do know that the aplomb and finesse with which you conduct your official business are entirely lacking in this affair. it looks to me as if you had a personal grievance here. come, fowler, old man, you are too brilliant, too valuable--" the secretary of state interrupted by bowing once more. "i very much appreciate my scolding, mr. president. with your permission, i'll withdraw until you feel more kindly toward me." the president and enoch did not speak for several minutes after fowler had left. then the president said, "enoch, how are you going to handle brown?" "i haven't fully made up my mind," replied enoch. "the bitterest pill you could make him swallow would be to put yourself in the white house at the next election." "i'm afraid brown would look on that as less a punishment than a misfortune." enoch smiled, as he rose and said-good night. nearly a month passed before enoch heard from cheney. during that time neither from fowler nor from the brown papers was there any intimation of consciousness of enoch's existence. he believed that as long as he chose to remain silent on the mexican situation that they would continue to ignore him. there could be little doubt that both brown and the public looked on enoch's sudden silence following the luigi statement as complete rout. enoch knew this and writhed under the knowledge as he bided his time. on a morning early in january, charley abbott answered a telephone call which interrupted him while was taking the secretary's dictation. "it's mr. cheney!" he said, "he's very anxious to see you for ten minutes, mr. secretary." "crowd him in, abbott," replied enoch. abbott nodded, and in less than half an hour the director of the survey came in. "mr. secretary," he began without preliminaries, "i took your advice and began investigating the trouble spots. among other steps i took, i detached two men temporarily from a colorado river expedition and sent them into texas to discover if possible what the ordinary oil prospectors felt toward the survey." enoch's face brightened. "that was an interesting move!" he exclaimed. "were these experienced oil men?" "one of them, harden, knew something of drilling. well, they struck up some sort of a pseudo partnership with a man, a miner, name field, and the three of them undertook to locate some wells in southern texas. they were near the mexican border and were heckled constantly by bands of mexicans. finally, as the man field, curly, harden calls him in his report, was standing guard over the horses one night, he was shot through the abdomen. three days later, he died." "died!" exclaimed enoch. "are you sure of that?" "so harden reports. field knew that his wound was fatal. he was perfectly cool and conscious to the last, and he spent the greater part of the period before his death, dictating to harden a long story about hancock brown's early activities in mexico. he swore harden to absolute secrecy as to details and made him promise to send the story to some lawyer here in washington, who seems to have taken a small portion of the canyon trip with the expedition and who had prospected with field." "and curly field is dead!" repeated enoch. "yes, poor fellow! now then, here's the point, both harden and forrester, the other survey man, are morally certain that there is a well-organized gang whose business is to make oil prospecting on the border unhealthy. they have several lists of names they want investigated, and they suggest that secret service men be put on the job, at once. there was a small item in texas papers about the killing and a new york paper was after me this morning for the story. that's why i hurried to you." "did you gather that field's story had anything to do with the present trouble with mexico?" asked enoch. the director shook his head. "no, mr. secretary. i merely brought that detail in because brown is known to be your enemy and--" he hesitated as he saw the grim lines deepening around enoch's mouth. the secretary tapped the desk thoughtfully with his pencil, then said: "keep it all out of the papers, mr. cheney, if you please. or, rather if you are willing, let the publicity end be handled from this office. send the newspaper men to mr. abbott." "that will be a relief!" exclaimed cheney. "shall i go ahead on the lines indicated?" "yes, and bring me your next budget of news!" as cheney went out, enoch rang for jonas. "jonas, i wish you'd go home and see if there is any mail there for judge smith. if there is, lock it in the desk in my room," tossing jonas the key. "yes, mr. secretary," exclaimed jonas, disappearing out the door. he returned shortly to report that mail had arrived for judge smith, and that it was safely locked away. enoch had no engagement that evening. when he had finished his solitary dinner he went to his room and took out of the desk drawer a large document envelope and a letter. the letter he opened. "my dear judge: forrester and i have just completed a sad bit of work, the taking of poor curly's body back to arizona for burial. soon after you left, we took milton over to wilson's ranch and left ag to look out for him. he's coming along fine, by the way. we wired our dilemma to our chief in washington and he told us to go into southern texas and investigate some conditions there for him. to our surprise, curly wanted to go along, as soon as he found we were later going into mexico to an old stamping ground of his. well, we had a great time on the border. it wasn't so bad until the hombres began to get nasty, and as you may recall, neither curly nor my now good pal forr stand well under sniping. it got so finally that we had to stand watch over our outfit at night, and curly got a bullet in his bladder. he bled so we couldn't move him and forr went out, thirty miles, after a doctor. while we waited, curly got me to set down the stuff i am sending you under separate cover. he also made his will and left you his mining claims, all merely prospects so far. he says you know how he came to feel as he does about brown and fowler. however that may be, it certainly is the dirtiest story i ever heard one man tell on others and, dying though he was, i begged curly to let me tear the paper up and let the story go into the grave with him. but he held me to my promise, so i'm sending it to you, with this apology for contaminating either of us with the dope. poor old curly! he was a man who'd been a little embittered by some early trouble, but he was a good scout, for all that. "we all missed you and jonas,--don't forget jonas!--very much, after you left. milton said half a dozen times that when he gets in shape to go on with the work in the spring, he was going to try to persuade you to finish the trip with us. so say we all! with best wishes, sincerely yours, c. l. harden." after enoch had finished harden's letter he replaced it in its envelope slowly and dropped it into the desk drawer. next, as slowly, he picked up the bulkier envelope and placed it on edge on the mantel under the moran painting. then he began to walk the floor. he knew that, in that dingy envelope, lay the whip by which he could drive brown to public apology. as far as fearing any publicity with which brown could retaliate, enoch felt immune. he believed that he had sounded the uttermost depths of humiliation. and at first he gloated over the thought that now brown could be made to suffer as he had suffered. he would give the story to the newspapers, exactly as it had come to him. and what a setting! curly shot from ambush, by creatures, it was highly probable, who were ignorantly actuated by brown's own crooked mexican policy. curly flinging, with his dying hands, the boomerang that was to strike brown down. that incidentally it would pull fowler down, moved enoch little. fowler too would be hoist by his own petard. for a long hour enoch paced the floor. then he came to a sudden pause before the mantel and turned on the light above the painting of bright angel trail. outside the room sounded the clatter of washington's streets. enoch did not hear it. once more a passionate, sullen boy, he was clinging to his mule on the twisting trail. once more swept over him the horror of the canyon and of human beings that had tortured the soul of the boy, enoch, on that first visit into the canyon's depths. the sweat started to his forehead and, as he stared, he grasped the mantel with both hands. then he picked up the envelope. his hand shook as he inserted a finger under the flap, lifting his eyes as he did so, once more to the painting. he paused. unearthly calm, drifting mists, colors too ephemeral, too subtle for words--drawn in the canyon! the lift of the ida under his knees, the eager welter of the whirlpool, the sting of the icy colorado dragging him under, the flash of diana's face and his winning fight with death. the chaos of the river and two tiny figures staggering hour after hour over the hopeless, impossible chasms and buttes; harden going to the rescue of forrester. starlight on the desert. diana's touch on his forehead, her tender, gentle fingers smoothing his hair as they gazed together at the mysterious shadowy depth beyond which flowed the colorado; that tender touch on his hair and forehead and the desert stars thrilling near, infinitely remote. suddenly enoch, resting his arm on the mantel, dropped his forehead upon it and stood so, the wonderful glowing colors of the painting seeming to shimmer on his bronze hair. at last, at the sound of jonas's footstep in the hall, he lifted his head, turned off the light above the painting, crossed to his desk and, dropping the still unopened envelope into a secret drawer, locked it and put the key in his pocket. the following morning senator havisham came to see enoch. he was one of the leading members of enoch's party, a virile, progressive man, very little older than the secretary himself. after shaking hands with enoch and taking one of his cigars, he sat staring at him as if he scarcely knew how to begin. enoch smiled half sadly. "go ahead, senator," he said. "you and i have known each other a long time." the senator smiled in return. "yes, we have, huntingdon, and i'm proud of the fact. that is why i was asked to undertake this errand which has an unpleasant as well as a pleasant side. we want you to run as our presidential nominee. but before we pass the word around, we want you to issue a denial of the brown canard that will settle that kind of mud slinging at you for good and all." enoch's face was a cold mask. "i can't deny it, havisham. the facts stated are true. the inferences drawn as to my character are false. the bringing of miss allen into the story was a blasphemy. all things considered, as far as publicity goes, utter silence is my only recourse. as for my private retaliation on brown, that's another and a personal matter." senator havisham looked at enoch through half-shut eyes. "huntingdon, let me issue that statement, exactly as you have made it." "no," replied enoch flatly. "the less reference made by us to the brown canard, the better chance of its being forgotten." the senator puffed silently, then said, "why does brown hate you?" "i have fought his mexican policy." "yes, i know, but is that the only reason?" "as far as my knowledge goes," replied enoch. "of course, now that he's openly committed to fowler, he has an added grievance." "there is nothing personal between you?" "i never laid eyes on the man in my life. i never did him an intentional injury. i am merely in his way. i always have despised his papers and now i despise him. understand, senator, that, without regard to diplomacy, brown and i must have it out." havisham shook his head. "you'd better let him alone, huntingdon. he has an awful weapon in his papers and he can smear you in the public mind no matter how obviously false his stories may be." enoch's lips tightened. "i'm not afraid of brown. but all things considered, havisham, you'd better leave me out of your list of presidential possibilities." "there is no list! or, at least, you're the list!" the senator's laugh was a little rueful. "and," enoch went on, "strange as it may seem, i'm not sure that i want the presidency. it seems to me that i might be far more useful in the capitol than in the white house." "not to the party!" exclaimed havisham quickly. "no, to the country!" "perhaps, but it's a debatable matter, which i don't intend to debate. you are our man. if you won't deny the brown canard, then we must go ahead without the denial." enoch looked thoughtfully from the window, then turned back to the senator. "there is no great hurry, is there? give me a month to get matters clear in my own mind." "there is no hurry, except that the brown papers work while others sleep, and fowler is brown's nominee. however, take your month, old man. i don't doubt that you have troubles of your own!" enoch nodded. havisham shook hands heartily and departed, and the secretary turned to his loaded desk. the alaskan situation was causing him keen anxiety. the old war between private ownership, with all its greed and unfairness to the common citizen, and government control, with all its cumbersome and often inefficient methods, had reached acute proportions in the great northern province. enoch was faced with the necessity of deciding between the two. it must be a long distance decision and any verdict he rendered was predestined to have in it elements of injustice. for days enoch thrust, as far as possible, his personal problem into the background while he struggled with this greater one. it was only at night that the thought of diana overwhelmed all else to torture him and yet to fill him with the joy of perfect memories. it was on the morning after he had given his alaskan decision that charley abbott, eyebrows raised, laid a brown paper before the secretary, with the comment: "either cheney or some one in cheney's office has leaked." it was a twisted story of curly's death. curly, according to this version, had been doing his utmost to keep two survey men, harden and forrester, from hogging for obscure government purposes, certain oil lands, belonging to curly. in the ill feeling that had resulted, curly had been shot. before his death, however, he had been able to write a statement of the affair which had been sent to a well-known lawyer in washington. he also had left sufficient property to the lawyer to enable him to expose the workings of the geological survey to its bones. enoch's face reddened. "i don't know what there is about a piece of work like this that gets under my skin so intolerably!" he exclaimed. "whether it's the cruelty of it, or the dishonesty or the brute selfishness, i don't know. but we are going to answer this, abbott." "how shall we go about it, sir? we might find out if cheney knows these men personally and have him make a statement." "have him tell of their previous records," said enoch. "let the world know the heroism and the self-sacrifice of those men. and at the end let him give the lie direct to the brown papers. tell him i'll sign it for him." "that will give brown just the opening he's looking for, mr. secretary, i'm afraid," said abbott, doubtfully. "i mean, your signature." "i'm ready for brown," replied enoch shortly. still charley hesitated. "what is it, abbott?" asked the secretary. "it's miss allen i'm thinking about," blurted out the younger man. "you've gone through the worst that they can hand to a man, so you've nothing more to fear. but if they bring her into it again, mr. secretary, i'll go crazy!" the veins stood up on enoch's forehead, and he said, with a cold vehemence that made abbott recoil, "if miss allen's name is brought up with mine in that manner again, i shall kill brown." charley moistened his lips. "well, but after all, mr. huntingdon, harden and forrester are just a couple of unknown chaps. is your championing them worth the risk to miss allen?" "miss allen would be the last person to desire that kind of shielding. i've reached my limit, abbott, as far as the brown papers are concerned. they've got to keep their foul pens off the department of the interior. i'd a little rather kill brown than not. why should decent citizens live in fear of his dirty newsmongers? life is not so sweet to me, abbott, nor the future so full of promise that i greatly mind sacrificing either." "it's just--it's just that i care so much about miss allen," reiterated charley, miserably and doggedly. enoch drew a quick breath. the two men stared at each other, pain and hopelessness in both faces. enoch recovered himself quickly. "i'm sorry, my boy," he said gently, "but life, particularly public life, is full of bitter situations like this. brown must be stopped somewhere by somebody. let's not count the cost. get in touch with cheney and have that statement ready for the morning paper." he turned back to his letters and abbott left the room. before he went home that night, enoch had signed the very readable account of some of harden's and forrester's exploits in the survey and had added, before signing, a line to the effect that the slurs and insinuations regarding the two men which had appeared in the morning papers were entirely untrue. for several days there was no reply from the brown camp. enoch's friends commented to him freely on his temerity in deliberately drawing brown on, but enoch only smiled and shrugged his shoulders, while curly's statement lay unopened in his drawer. but underneath his calm, the still raw wound of brown's earlier attack tingled as it awaited the rubbing in of the salt. finally, one morning, charley laid a brown paper on enoch's desk. the secretary of the interior, said the account, had denied the truth of certain statements made by the publication. a repetition of the story followed. a careful reinvestigation of the facts, the account went on, showed the case to be as originally stated. the well-known lawyer had been interviewed. he had told the reporter that the contents of field's letter were surprising beyond words and that as soon as he had made full preparations some arrests would follow that would startle the country. the lawyer, whose name was withheld for obvious reasons, was a man whose integrity was beyond question. he had no intention of using the funds willed him by field, for he and field had grown up together in a little new england town. the money would be put in trust for field's son, who would be sent to college with the lawyer's own boy. in the meantime, the secretary of the interior would not be beyond a most respectful and discriminating investigation himself. it was known that he had cut short an unsuccessful speaking tour for very good reasons, and had disappeared into the desert country for a month. where had he been? enoch suddenly laughed as he laid the paper down. "it is so childish, so preposterous, that even a fool wouldn't swallow it!" he exclaimed. "it's just the sort of thing that people swallow whole," returned abbott. "even at that, it's absolutely unimportant," said enoch. again charley disagreed with him. "mr. secretary, it's very important, for it's a threat. it says that if you don't keep still, they will investigate your desert trip. and you know what they could make of that!" "let them keep their tongues off my department, then," said enoch, sternly. nevertheless when abbott had left him alone he did not turn immediately to his work. his cigar grew cold, and the ink dried on his pen, while he sat with the look of grim determination in his eyes and lips, deepening. he dined out that night and was tired and depressed when he returned home. jonas was smiling when he let the secretary in and took his coat. "boss, they's a nice little surprise waiting for you up on your desk." "who'd be surprising me, jonas? no one on earth but you, i'm afraid." jonas chuckled. "you're a bad guesser, boss! a bad guesser! how come you to think i could do anything to surprise you?" enoch went into his brightly lighted room and stopped before his desk with a low exclamation of pleasure. a large photograph stood against the book rack. three little naked indian children with feathers in their hair were dancing in the foreground. behind them lay an ancient cliff dwelling half in ruins. to the left an indian warrior, arms folded on his broad chest stood watching the children, his face full of an inscrutable sadness. the children were extraordinarily beautiful. diana had worked with a very rapid lens and had caught them atilt, in the full abandonment of the child to joy in motion. the shadowed, mysterious, pathetic outline of the cliff dwelling, the somber figure of the chief only enhanced the vivid sense of motion and glee in the children. the picture was intrinsically lovely even without that haunting sense of the desert's significance that made diana's work doubly intriguing. enoch's depression dropped from him as if it had never been. "oh, my dearest!" he murmured, "you did not forget, did you! it is your very self you have sent me, your own whimsical joyousness!" jonas tapped softly on the door. "come in, jonas! isn't it fine! how do you suppose a photograph can tell so much!" "it's miss diana, it ain't the camera!" exclaimed jonas, with a chuckle. "na-che says she ain't never seen her when she couldn't smile. that buck looks like that fellow wee-tah. boss, do you remember the night he took me out to see that desert charm?" "tell me about it, jonas. it will rest me more than sleep." enoch sank back in his chair where he could face the photograph, and jonas established himself on the hearth rug and told his story with gusto. "i got a lot of faith in injun charms," he said, when he had finished. "they didn't get us our trip down bright angel," sighed enoch, even as he smiled. "we'll get it yet, see if we don't!" protested jonas stoutly. "na-che and i ain't give up for a minute. don't laugh about it, boss." "i'm not laughing," replied enoch gravely. "i'm thinking how fortunate i am in my friends, you being among those present, jonas." "as i always aim to be," agreed jonas. "do you think you could maybe sleep now, boss?" "yes, i think so, jonas," and enoch was as good as his word. nearly two weeks passed before the attack on the department of the interior was renewed. this time it was a deliberate assault on enoch's honesty. the alaskan decision served as a text. this was held up as a model of corruption and an example of the type of decision to be expected from a gambling lawyer. followed a list of half a dozen of enoch's rulings on water power control, on forest conservation and on coal mining, each one interpreted in the light of enoch's mania for gambling. a man, the article said in closing, may, if he wishes, take chances with his own fortune or his own reputation, but what right has he to risk the public domain? several days went by after the appearance of this edifying story, but enoch made no move. then the president summoned him to the white house. "enoch, shall you let that screed go unchallenged?" he demanded. "what can i say, mr. president?" asked enoch. "and really, that sort of thing doesn't bother me much. it is only the usual political mud slinging. they are feeling me out. they want more than anything to get me into a newspaper controversy with them. i am going to be difficult to get." "so i see!" retorted the president. "if you are not careful, old man, people will begin to think brown is right and you are afraid." enoch laughed. "i am not afraid of him or any other skunk. but also, in spite of my red hair, i have a good deal of patience. i am waiting for our friends to trot out their whole bag of tricks." "what do you hear from fowler?" asked the president. "nothing. i am desperately sorry that he has got mixed up with brown. he is a brilliant man and the party needs him. i hope his attitude toward me has made no break in the pleasant relationship between you and him, mr. president." "it did for a short time. but we got together over the dutch guiana matter and he's quite himself again. as you say, the party can ill afford to lose him. but a man who works with brown i consider lost to the party, no matter if he keeps the name." "fowler used to like me," said enoch, thoughtfully. "he certainly did. but the reason that fowler will always be a politician and not a statesman is that he is still blind to the fact that the biggest thing a man can do for himself politically is to forget himself and work for the party." "you mean for the country, do you not?" asked enoch. "it should be the same thing. if fowler can get beyond himself, he'll be a statesman. but he's fifty and characters solidify at fifty. he's been a first rate secretary of state, because he's a first rate international lawyer, because his tact is beyond reproach and because he is forced by the nature of his work to think nationally and not personally." "i'm sorry he's taken up with brown," repeated enoch. "there never was such a dearth of good men in national politics before." "i've known him for many years," the president said thoughtfully, "and i never knew him to do a dishonest thing. he's full of horse sense. i've heard rumors that in his early days in the far west he got in with a bad crowd, but he threw them off and any one that knew details has decently forgotten them. i've tried several times to speak to him about this new alliance but although he's never shown temper as he did that night when you were here, i get nowhere with him. his ideas for the party are sane and sound and constructive." "you mean for the country, do you not, sir?" asked enoch again with a smile. the older man smiled too. "hanged if i don't mean both!" he exclaimed. "what do you think of havisham as presidential material?" asked enoch. "too good-natured! a splendid fellow but not quite enough chin! by the way, i understand you refused to commit yourself to him the other day." enoch rose with a sigh. "life to some people seems to be a simple aye! aye! nay! nay! proposition. it never has been to me. each problem of my life presents many facets, and the older i grow the more i realize that most of my decisions concerning myself have been made for one facet and not for all. this time i'm trying to make a multiple decision, as it were." "i think i understand," said the chief executive. "good night, enoch." and enoch went home to the waiting jonas. chapter xvii revenge is sweet "and then, after that day on the colorado was ended, after the agony of toil, the wrestling with death while our little boats withstood the shock of destiny itself, oh, then, the wonder and the peace of the night's camp. rest! rest at last!"--_enoch's diary_. january slipped swiftly by and february, with its alternate rain and snow came on. the splendid mental and physical poise that enoch had brought back with him from the canyon stood him in good stead under the pressure of office business which never had been so heavy. one morning, late in february, cheney came to see the secretary. "well, mr. cheney, have you made your discovery?" asked enoch. cheney nodded slowly. "but i didn't make it until last night, mr. huntingdon. i've followed up all sorts of leads that landed me nowhere. last night, a newspaper reporter came to my house. he's with the news now, but he used to be with brown. he came round to learn something about our men finding gold in the grand canyon. he wanted the usual fool thing, an expression of opinion from me as director. as soon as he let slip that he'd been on the brown papers, i began to question him and i found that he'd been fired because he'd refused to go out to arizona and follow up your vacation trip. but, he said, two weeks ago they started another fellow on the job." enoch did not stir by so much as an eye wink. "i thought you ought to know this, although, personally, it may be a matter of indifference to you." enoch nodded. "and what are your conclusions, mr. cheney?" "that brown is determined to discredit the department of the interior and you, until you are ousted and a man in sympathy with his mexican policy is put in." "i agree with you, entirely. and what are your plans?" "i shall stick by my bureau until we lick him. i haven't the slightest desire to desert my chief. when i thought it was i they were after, i felt differently." "thanks, mr. cheney! will you give me the name of the reporter of whom you were speaking." "james c. capp. he's not a bad chap, i think." enoch nodded and cheney took his departure. there were several important conferences after this which enoch cleared off rapidly and with his usual efficiency. when, however, jonas announced luncheon, abbott asked for a little delay. "here is an interesting item from this morning's brown," he said. enoch read the clipping carefully. "the visitor to el tovar, the rim hotel of the grand canyon receives some curious impressions of our governmental prerogatives. recently a government expedition down the colorado was too well equipped with spirits and had some severe smash-ups. two of the men became disgusted and quit, but nothing daunted, milton, the leader took on two fugitives from justice in utah and proceeded on his way. a week later, however, there was a complete smash-up both moral and material. the boats were lost and the expedition disbanded. the expensive equipment lies in the bottom of the colorado. so much for the efficiency and morale of the u. s. geological survey." enoch laughed, but there was an unpleasant twist to his mouth as he did it. "abbott," he said, "will you please find out if brown is in new york. wherever he is, i am going to see him, immediately and i want you to go with me. no, don't be alarmed! there will be no personal violence, yet." the locating of the newspaper publisher was a simple task. an hour after lunch, charley reported brown as in his new york office. "very well," said enoch, "telegraph him that we will meet him at his office at nine to-night. we will take the three o'clock train and return at midnight." it was not quite nine o'clock when enoch and charley entered hancock brown's office. the building was buzzing with newspaper activities, but the publisher's office was quiet. a sleepy office attendant was awaiting them. with considerable ceremony he ushered the two across the elaborate reception room and throwing open a door, said: "the secretary of the interior, sir." a small man, with a van dyke beard and gentle brown eyes crossed the room with his hand outstretched. "mr. huntingdon! this is a pleasure and an honor!" "it is neither, sir," said enoch, giving no heed to the outstretched hand. brown raised his eyebrow. "will you be seated, mr. huntingdon?" "not in your office, sir. mr. brown, i have endured from your hands that which no _man_ would think to make another endure." enoch's beautiful voice was low but its resonance filled the office. his eyes were like blue ice. "i have remained silent, for reasons of my own, under your personal attacks on me, but now i have come to tell you that the attacks on the department of the interior and on my personal life must cease." hancock brown looked at enoch with gentle reproach in his eyes. "surely you don't want to muzzle the press, mr. huntingdon?" "we're not speaking of the press," returned enoch, "i have sincere admiration for the press of this country." brown flushed a little at this. "i shall continue on exactly the line i have laid down," he said quietly. "if," said enoch, clearly, "miss allen is brought into your publication again either directly or by implication, i shall come to your office, mr. brown, and shoot you. abbott, you are the witness to what i say and to the conversation that has led to it." "i am, mr. secretary," said charley. "and if for any reason you should be unable to attend to the matter, i would do the shooting for you." "this will make interesting copy," said brown. "i have within my control," enoch went on, steadily, "the means to force you to cease to put out lies concerning the department of the interior and me. i seriously consider not waiting for your next move, but of making use of this in retaliation for what you have done to me. as to that, i have reached no conclusion. this is all i have to say." enoch turned on his heel and closely followed by charley left the office. as they entered the taxicab, abbott said, "gee, that did me more good than getting my salary doubled! i thought you were going to use this morning's item as a text!" "you'd better have cheney prepare a reply to that, for me to sign," said enoch and he lapsed into silence. they went directly to their train and to bed and the next morning office routine began promptly at nine as usual. february slipped into march. one cold, rainy morning abbott, with a broad smile on his face, came in to take dictation. "what's happened, abbott?" asked enoch. "some one left you some money?" "better than that!" exclaimed charley. "i dined at the indian commissioner's last night and whom do you think i took out? miss allen!" a slow red suffused enoch's forehead and died out. "when did she return to washington?" he asked, quietly. "a day or so ago. she is studying at the smithsonian. she says she'll be here two months." "she is well, i hope," said enoch. "she looks simply glorious!" enoch nodded. "instead of dictating letters, this morning, abbott, suppose you start the visitors this way. somehow, the thought of wading through that pile, right now, sickens me." charley's face showed surprise, but he rose at once. "mr. cheney's been waiting for an hour out there with an interesting chap from the western field. perhaps you'd better see them before i let the committee from california in." cheney came first. "mr. secretary, one of my men is in from arizona. he is very much worked up over brown's last effort and he's got so much to say that i thought you'd better meet him. incidentally, he's a very fine geologist." "bring him in," said enoch. the director swung open the door and moving slowly on a cane, milton came into the room. "mr. secretary, mr. milton," said cheney. "he--" then he stopped with his mouth open for milton had turned white and the secretary was laughing. "judge!" gasped milton. enoch left his desk and crossing the room seized both milton's hands, cane and all. "milton, old boy, there's no man in the world i'd rather see than you." "why, are you two old friends?" asked cheney. "intimate friends!" exclaimed enoch. "cheney, i'll remember the favor all my life, if you'll leave me alone with milton for a little while." "why certainly! certainly! i didn't know milton was trying to spring a surprise on you. i'll be just outside when i'm needed." "sit down, milton," said enoch, soberly, when they were alone. "don't hold my deception against me. i was not spying. it was the blindest fate in the world that brought me to the canyon and to your expedition." milton's freckled face was still pale. "hold it against you! of course not! but you've rattled me, judge,--mr. secretary." "no one but abbott knows of my trip and he in baldest outline. keep my secret for me, old man, as long as you possibly can. i suppose it will leak out eventually." milton was staring at enoch. "think of all we said and did!" he gasped. "especially what we did! oh, it was glorious! glorious!" cried enoch. "it did all for me that you thought it might, milton. do you remember?" "yes, i remember. and i remember telling you my personal ambitions! i'd rather have cut out my tongue!" "and once you all told what you thought of enoch huntingdon!" the secretary burst out laughing, and milton joined him with a great "ha! ha!" "so you were the fugitive from justice, that joined my drunken crew," chuckled milton, wiping the tears from his eyes. "and i came over to try to put myself straight as to that with the big boss!" "the best part of it all is that excepting abbott and jonas and now you, not a living soul knew it was the secretary of the interior who took the trip." "of course, there was miss allen!" added milton. "don't forget her! but she's as safe as the canyon itself at keeping a secret." "how about the reporter who's said to be on my trail?" asked enoch. "he's prowling round on the river, running up an expense account twenty-three hours and making up lies on the twenty-fourth. capp told mr. cheney that this reporter, whose name is ames, i believe, was to write nothing until his return to new york. mr. secretary, can't something be done to shut him off?" "yes," replied enoch, sternly. the two men were silent for a moment, then enoch said with a sudden lighting of his blue eyes. "where are you stopping, old man." "i haven't located the cheapest hotel in washington yet. when i do, that'll be where i'll stop. you remember we used to speak our minds on the salaries the department paid." "i remember," chuckled enoch. "well, milton, the cheapest stopping place in washington is over at judge smith's place. i believe you have the address. by the way, have you seen jonas?" "no, but i want to," replied milton. enoch pressed the button, and jonas' black head popped in at the door. as his eyes fell on milton, they began to bulge. "the lord have mercy! how come you didn't tell me, boss--" he began. then he rushed across the room and shook hands. "mr. milton, i'd rather see you than my own brother. did you find any pieces of the na-che?" "no, jonas, but i've got some fine pictures in my trunk of you shooting rapids in the old boat." "no! my lordy! where's your trunk, mr. milton?" "jonas," said enoch, "you get mr. milton's trunk check and--but he says he's going to a hotel." jonas looked at milton, indignantly. "going to a hotel! how come you to try to insult the boss' and my house, mr. milton? huh! hotel! huh!" he took the check and left the room, still snorting. milton rose. "i mustn't intrude any longer, mr. secretary." "luckily i'm free, to-night," said enoch. "we'll have a great talk. ask cheney to come in, please." "mr. cheney," asked enoch, when milton had gone, "do you think you could find out whether or not that fellow ames has returned from arizona?" "yes, we can do that without much trouble. was milton able to straighten matters up with you, mr. secretary?" "he didn't have to. i'm an ardent admirer of milton's. he's going to stop at my house, while he's in washington. why don't you take him out of the field and begin to groom him for your job, mr. cheney? he should be ready for it in a few years." cheney nodded. "he's a good man. i'll think it over. and i will telephone abbott about ames." it was fortunate for enoch that milton was with him that evening, for the knowledge that diana was in washington and that he could not see her was quite as agonizing as he had suspected it would be. yet it was impossible not to enjoy milton's continual surprise and pleasure at the change in the judge's identity and it was a real delight to make once more the voyage to the ferry not only for its own sake but because with the landing at the ferry came much conversation on the part of jonas and milton about diana. but enoch did not sleep well that night and reached his office in the morning, heavy-eyed and grim. abbott, standing beside the secretary's desk was even more grim. "mr. cheney was too slow getting us the information about ames," he said, pointing to the newspaper that lay on the desk. enoch lighted a cigar very deliberately, then began to read. it was a detailed account of the vacation trip of the secretary of the interior. it was written with devilish ingenuity, purporting to show that enoch in his hours of relaxation was a thorough-going good fellow. the account said that enoch had picked up a mining outfit made up of two notorious gamblers. that the three had then annexed two indian bucks and a squaw and had slowly made their way into the grand canyon, ostensibly to placer mine, actually to play cards and hunt. the story was witty, and contained some good word pictures of the canyon country. it was subtle in its wording, but it was from first to last an unforgettable smirching of enoch's character. enoch laid the paper down. "abbott," he said slowly, "the time has come to act. i want mr. fowler, mr. brown, this fellow ames, or whatever reporter wrote the first article about me to come to my office tomorrow afternoon at five o'clock. if it is necessary to ask the president for authority to bring them here, i shall ask for it." abbott's eyes glowed. "thank god, at last!" he exclaimed. "shall i prepare a denial of this stuff." "no! at least they have left miss allen out. we may be thankful and let it stand at that. now, start the procession in, abbott. i'm in no mood to dictate letters." enoch threw himself into the day's work with burning intensity. about three o'clock, he told abbott to deny all visitors that he might devote himself to an alaskan report. "mr. milton just rushed in. will you let him have a moment?" asked charley. "yes, but--" here milton came in unceremoniously. "mr. huntingdon," he said, "i've just finished lunching with miss allen. we are both nearly frantic over this morning's paper. you must let us publish the truth." "no," thundered enoch. "you know the brown papers. if they discovered what miss allen did for us all at the ferry, how she led me back to el tovar, what would they do with it?" abbott looked from enoch to milton in astonishment. milton started to speak, but enoch interrupted, "you are, of course, thinking that i should have thought of that long before, when i asked her to let me go back to el tovar with her. but i didn't! i had been in the canyon long enough to have forgotten what could be made of my adventure by bad minds. i was a cursed fool, moving in a fool's paradise and i must take my punishment. if ever--" jonas opened the door from the outer office. "the president, mr. secretary," he said. enoch started toward the telephone, but jonas spoke impatiently--"no! no! not that." "the president of what, jonas!" asked abbott. jonas lifted his chest and flung the door wide. "the president of the united states of america," he announced, and the president came in. enoch rose. "don't let me disturb you, mr. secretary. i can wait," said the chief executive. "we were quite finished, mr. president. may i, i wonder, introduce mr. milton to you, the geologist whom brown said headed the drunken expedition down the colorado." the president looked keenly at milton as they shook hands. "mr. huntingdon took great pains to deny that story, publicly," he said. "can't you persuade him, mr. milton, to do as much for himself, to-day." "that's exactly why i'm here, mr. president!" exclaimed milton. "but he's absolutely obdurate!" jonas came into the room and spoke to enoch softly. "mr. fowler's office is on the outside wire, mr. secretary. i wouldn't connect in here while the president was here. mr. fowler wants to speak to you, hisself, before he catches a train." "i'll go into your office to get it, abbott," said enoch. "may i detain you, a moment, mr. president? mr. fowler wants to speak to me." the president raised his eyebrows with a little smile. "yes, if you tell me what's happened to fowler." enoch's smile was twisted as he went out. milton immediately began to speak. "mr. president, can't you make mr. huntingdon tell about his vacation?" the chief executive shook his head. "perhaps it's not best. perhaps he did have a lapse into his boyhood habits. not that it makes any difference to me." "no! no! mr. president. i know--" began charley. but milton interrupted, "mr. president, he was with me and part of the time miss diana allen, a wonderful woman, was with us. and mr. huntingdon is afraid they'll turn their dirty tongues on her." the president's face lighted as if he had received good news. "really! with you!" "yes, with me for a week and more. and i want to tell you, sir, that for nerve and endurance and skill in a boat and as a pal and friend under life and death conditions i've never seen any one to surpass him. he scorned cards while he was with us. we had no liquor. we admired him beyond words and had no idea who he was." "no!" cried the president, delightedly. "why, there must be a real story in this! go on with it, milton! enoch," as the secretary came in, "i'm winning the truth out of your old cruising pal, here!" "i can't help it, mr. huntingdon!" cried milton as enoch turned toward him indignantly. "miss diana said this noon that if you didn't tell the story, she would." "there you are!" exclaimed the president. "wouldn't you know she'd take it that way? and on second thoughts i think i'd rather hear the story from her than any one else." "but she can't tell you about the voyage, sir," protested milton. "that's true," agreed the president. "i shall have to arrange one of my choice little dinners and have you and miss diana allen there to pad out the secretary's account." then, with a sudden change of voice, he walked over to enoch and put his hand on the younger man's shoulder. abbott nodded to milton and the two slipped out. "you are a bit twisted about women, dear old man! come, you must let milton put out the right kind of a denial of brown's story." "brown will put the denial out for himself," said enoch sternly. "i've reached my limit. mr. president, i have asked mr. fowler, brown, and the reporter who's been maligning me to come to my office to-morrow afternoon. i think i shall be able to settle this matter. i would perhaps have done it before but i could not settle in my own mind just how i wanted to go about it. fowler refused to come until i told him the purpose of the meeting." "and you know now how to end this miserable affair?" asked the president, wonderingly. "yes," replied enoch. "and now, mr. president, what can i do for you?" "exactly what you are doing, enoch. clear up this disgusting matter." "you came to see me for that, sir?" the president smiled. "you do not seem to realize that a great many people, people who never saw you, are deeply troubled about you. you do not belong to yourself but to us, mr. secretary." "perhaps you are right, sir," said enoch humbly. "i thank you most sincerely for coming." "will you come to me as soon as you have finished, to-morrow, enoch?" "yes, mr. president! abbott, will you show the president out?" then when charley had returned, he said, "abbott, the secretary of state will be here. how about brown?" "he will be here," replied charley. "i used the president's name pretty freely, but i think i finally got him curious enough and worried enough." enoch nodded. "abbott, for the first time since i've been in this office, i'm going to quit early and go for a ride." "it's what you ought to do every day," said abbott. "look here, abbott, if i get this beastly matter settled to-morrow, i want you to go away for two months' vacation." "well," said charley, doubtfully, "if you get it settled!" "don't let that worry you," said enoch grimly as he pulled on his overcoat and left the office. "i'll settle it." promptly at three o'clock, the next day, abbott ushered three men into the secretary's office. enoch rose and bowed to secretary fowler, to hancock brown, and to ames, the reporter. the last was a clear cut young fellow with a nose a little too sharp and eyes set a trifle too close together. "if you will be seated, gentlemen, i'll tell you the object of this call upon your time. mr. abbott, please remain in the room. "on the third of november, mr. brown, you published in one of your evening papers an article about me written under your direction by ames. the facts in that article were in the main true. the deductions you drew from them were vilely false. it is not, mr. brown, a pleasant knowledge for a man to carry through life that his mother was what my mother was. i have suffered from that knowledge as it is obviously quite beyond your power to comprehend. i say obviously, because no men with decency or the most ordinary imagination would have dared to harrow a man's secret soul as you harrowed mine. even in my many battles with tammany, my unfortunate birth has been respected. it remained for you to write the unwriteable. "as for my gambling, that too is true, to a certain extent. i have played cards perhaps half a dozen times in as many years. i was taught to play by the luigi whom you interviewed. i have a gambler's instinct, but since i was fourteen i have fought as men can fight and latterly i have been winning the battle. "your insinuations as to my adult relationship to the underworld and to women are lies. and your dragging miss allen into the dirty tale was a gratuitous insult which it is fortunate for both of you, her father has not yet seen. it happened that while i was on the vacation recently in which you have taken so impertinent an interest, that i joined the camp of two miners. one of them, curly field, told me an interesting story. he probably would not have told me had i not been calling myself smith and had he not discovered that i am a lawyer." the smile suddenly disappeared from brown's face. "that fellow curly always was a liar," he said. enoch shrugged his shoulders. "you should be a good judge of liars, brown. curly told me that mr. fowler was his brother-in-law's partner." fowler spoke, his face drawn. "spare me that story, mr. huntingdon, i beg of you." "did you beg brown to spare me?" demanded enoch, sternly. "pshaw!" exclaimed brown, "that is old stuff. it couldn't be proved that we had anything to do with it." "no?" queried enoch. "what would you say to my taking the fund left judge smith by curly and employing a first-class lawyer and a detective to go on the trail of those mis-appropriated funds?" brown did not answer and enoch went on: "curly's idea was to get even with fowler. it was, in fact, a type of mania with him. he told me that for years he had been in possession of facts concerning certain doings of brown and fowler in mexico, which if they were properly blazed across the country would utterly ruin both of them. he wanted to put me in possession of those facts." suddenly fowler rose and went to stand at a window, his back to the group around the secretary's desk. enoch continued, clearly and firmly: "i could scarcely believe my good fortune. here was my chance to pay brown in kind." "did curly give you the facts?" asked brown, who had grown a little white around the mouth. enoch did not heed him. "i asked curly if the story was a reflection on these two men morally or financially. he said, morally; that it was bad beyond words. at this point i weakened and told him that i had no desire to display any man's weakness in the market place. and curly laughed at me and asked me what mercy fowler had shown his brother? but still i could not make up my mind to take those facts from curly." mr. brown eased back in his chair with a sneering smile. young ames sat sickly pale, his mouth open. "but when i left him," the calm, rich voice went on, "i told him that he could write down the story and send it to my house in washington. now the chances are that having drifted so many years without telling it, he would have drifted on indefinitely. but fate intervened. curly went to the mexican border. certain gentlemen have seen to it that the mexican border is not safe. curly was shot and he made it his death-bed duty to dictate this delectable tale to a friend. in due course of time, the document reached my house in washington, and here it is!" he tapped the upper drawer of his desk. there was utter silence in the room while enoch lighted a cigarette. "have you told any one the er--tale?" demanded brown, hoarsely. "i can prove that not a word of it is true!" "can you?" enoch squared round on him. "are you willing to risk having the story told with the idea of disproving it, afterward? isn't your system of scandal mongering built on the idea that mud once slung always leaves a stain in the public mind? and curly was an eye witness. he is dead, but i do not believe all the other eye witnesses are dead. at any rate--" brown suddenly leaned forward in his chair. "mr. huntingdon, i'll give you my check for $100,000, if you will give me that document and swear to keep your mouth shut." "your bribe is not large enough," enoch answered tersely. "five hundred thousand! i'll agree to make a public retraction of everything i said about you and to work for you with all the power of my newspapers." "not enough!" repeated enoch, watching brown's white face, keenly. "what do you want?" demanded the newspaper publisher. "first," enoch threw his cigarette away, "i want secretary fowler to break with you, absolutely and completely." "curly can't implicate me, in that mexican affair!" cried fowler. "why, my whole attitude was one of disapproval and disgust. i told brown over and over, that he was a fool and after the shooting i broke with him, absolutely, for years. i am--" enoch interrupted. "brown, was fowler in on the trouble?" "no!" replied brown, sullenly. "i'm very glad to hear it," enoch exclaimed. "mr. fowler, as far as i am concerned all that i learned from field regarding you is a closed book and forgotten if you will break with brown." "i'd break with him, gladly, if he'd cease to blackmail me about the field matter," said fowler. "good god! how many of us are there who've not committed sins that we never forgive ourselves?" "none of us!" said enoch. "mr. fowler, why did you break with me?" "didn't you do your best to undermine me with the president? didn't you go to ambassador johns-eaton and tell him--" here, catching a curious flickering of young ames' eyelids, fowler interrupted himself to demand, "or was that more of your dirty work, ames?" "answer, ames!" enoch's voice was not to be ignored. "brown paid me for it," muttered ames. fowler groaned and looked at enoch, who was lighting a fresh cigarette. "will you agree, brown, to an absolute break with fowler and no come backs?" asked enoch. "yes," said brown eagerly. "what else?" "you are to go out of the newspaper business." there was another silence. then brown said, "i'll not do it!" "very well," returned enoch, "then the mexican affair will be published as curly has written it with all the attendant circumstances." again there was silence, with all the eyes in the room focused on the pale, gentle face, opposite enoch. the noise of street traffic beat against the windows. telephones sounded remotely in the outer office. for ten minutes this was all. then brown in a husky voice said, "very well! give me the document!" "not at all," returned enoch, coolly. "this document goes into my safety deposit box. in case of my death, it will be left to responsible parties. when you die, it will be destroyed. i am not a rich man, mr. brown, but i shall devote a part of my income to having you watched; watched lest indirectly and by the underhand methods you know so well you again attempt to influence public opinion. after to-morrow, you are through." "to-morrow! impossible!" gasped brown. "nothing is impossible except decency to a man of your capacity," said enoch. "to-morrow you publish a complete denial of your lies about me and this department and then you are no longer a newspaper publisher. that is all i have to say to you, mr. brown." he pressed a button, "jonas, please show mr. brown out." jonas' black eyes snapped. "how come you think i'd soil my shadow letting that viper trail it, boss? i never disobeyed you before, mr. secretary, but that trash can show hisself out!" and jonas withdrew to his own office, while brown, shrugging his shoulders, opened and closed the door for himself. ames would have followed him, but enoch said, "one moment, ames! what assurance are you going to give me that you will keep your mouth shut as to what you've heard this afternoon?" "i give you my word," began ames, eagerly. enoch raised his hand. "don't be silly, ames. do you know that i can make serious legal trouble for you for your part in libelling me and the department?" "but brown said his lawyers--" "brown's lawyers? do you think brown's lawyers will fight for you now?" "no, mr. secretary," muttered the reporter. "very well! keep your mouth shut and you'll have no trouble from this, but let me trace one syllable to you and i shall have no bowels of compassion. one word more, ames. you are clever or brown would not have used you as he did. get a job on a clean paper. there is no finer profession in the world than that of being a good newspaper man. newspaper men wield a more potent influence in our american life than any other single factor. use your talent nobly, not ignobly, ames. and above all things never tell a vile tale about any man's mother. don't do it, ames!" and here enoch's voice for the first time broke. ames, his hands trembling, picked up his hat. his face had turned an agonized red. biting his lips, he made his way blindly from the room. "and now," said enoch, "if you'll leave mr. fowler and me alone for a few minutes, abbott, i'll appreciate it." as the door closed after charley he said, "sit down, fowler. i'm sorry to have put you through such an ordeal, but i knew no other way." "i deserve it, i guess." fowler sat down wearily. "i was an unlicked whelp in my youth, huntingdon, but though i got into rotten company, i never did anything actually crooked." "i believe you," enoch nodded. "let the guiltless throw the first stone. we both have paid in our heart's blood, i guess, for all that we wrought in boyhood." "a thousand-fold," agreed fowler. "huntingdon, let me try to express my regret for--" "don't!" interrupted enoch. "if you are half as eager as i am to forget it all you'll never mention it even to yourself. but i do want to talk candidly to you about our political aspirations. mr. fowler, i don't want to go to the white house! i have a number of reasons that i don't think would interest you particularly. but i want to go back to the senate when i finish here. fowler, if you were not so jealous and so personal in your ambitions i would be glad to see you get the party nomination." fowler's fine, tired face expressed incredulity mingled with bewilderment. enoch went on, "you and i are talking frankly as men rarely talk and as we probably never shall again. so perhaps you will forgive me if i make some personal comments. it seems to me that the only permanent satisfaction a man gets out of public life is the feeling that he has added in greater or less degree to the sum total of his country's progress and stability. i think your weakness is that you place yourself first and your country second." "no!" said fowler, eagerly. "you don't understand me, huntingdon! my own aim in life is to make my service to my country compensate for the selfishness and foolishness of my youth. my methods may, as you say, have been open to misinterpretation. but god knows my impulses have been disinterested. and you must realize now, huntingdon, that it has been the business of certain people to see that you and i misunderstand each other." "that's true," said enoch, thoughtfully. "well, i doubt if that is possible again." "it is absolutely impossible!" exclaimed fowler. "i am yours to command!" "no, you're not!" laughed enoch. "brown is finished and you're your own man. i look for great things from you, fowler. i wanted to tell you that and to tell you that in me you have no rival." "no," fowler spoke slowly, "no, because no one can win, no one deserves to win the place in the hearts of america that you have. huntingdon, your kindness and courtesy is the most exquisite punishment you could visit upon me." enoch looked quickly from the secretary of state to the opposite wall. but he did not see the wall. he saw a crude camp in the bottom of the canyon. he heard the epic rush of waters and the sigh of eternal winds and he saw again the picture of harden fighting his way up the menacing walls to rescue forrester. it seemed to fowler that the silence had lasted five minutes before enoch turned to him with his flashing smile. "we are friends, fowler, are we not?" the older man rose and held out his hand. "yes, huntingdon, as long as we live," and he slowly left the room. enoch sank back on his chair, wearily, and opening the top drawer of his desk, took out the familiar envelope. _the seal was still unbroken_! he placed it in a heavy document envelope, sealed this and wrote a memorandum on it, and dropped it on the desk. then for a long time he sat staring into the dusk. at last, as if the full realization of the loneliness of his life had swept over him he dropped his head on his desk with a groan. "o diana! diana!" he did not hear the door open softly. abbott with ames just behind him, stood on the threshold. the two young men looked at each other, abashed, and abbott would have withdrawn, but ames went doggedly into the room. "mr. secretary!" he said, hesitatingly. enoch sat erect. abbott flashed on the light. "mr. ames insists on seeing you again, mr. huntingdon," charley spoke hesitatingly. "come in, ames," said enoch, coldly. "abbott, see that this envelope is put in a safe place." abbott left them alone. ames advanced to the desk, where he stood, his face eager. "mr. secretary, you've been so decent. you,--you--well, you're such a man! i--i want to tell you something but i don't know how you'll take it. the truth is, i believe that i could prove that luigi's mistress was not your mother!" enoch clutched his desk and his face turned to stone. "don't you think you went far enough with that matter before?" he asked sternly. ames stumbled on, doggedly. "this last trip out west i just thought i'd go down to brown's early stamping grounds and see what kind of a reputation he had there. i was getting a little fed up on him and i thought it couldn't hurt me to have a little something on him against a rainy day, as it were. you see i never did know what this curly field stuff was, but it didn't take me long to run that story down, even if it was a generation old. of course, i don't know what curly told you, but certainly the official reports of the field scandal never proved anything on either brown or fowler." enoch moved impatiently. but young ames, standing rigidly before his desk exclaimed, "just a moment longer, please, mr. secretary! some of these facts you know unless field was so obsessed with the thought of his brother's alleged wrongs that he did not mention them, but i'll state them anyhow. the mining and smelting property that caused the whole row was originally owned by an old timer named post who struck it rich late in life, married and died soon after, leaving everything to his son, a little chap named arthur. this is the child field was supposed to have robbed. little arthur died a couple of years after field's suicide but by that time there was nothing left of the property and no one paid any attention to the child's death. but in reading old post's will, something piqued my curiosity. in the event of arthur's death, the property was to go to old post's baby nephew, huntingdon post." enoch knit his brows quickly but he did not speak and ames went on, "being, of course, in a suspicious state of mind, it struck me as an unusual coincidence that this child should have died, too. so i made some inquiries. it was difficult to trace the facts because there were no relatives. old post seemed to have been just a solitary prowler, coming from nowhere, like so many of the old timers. but finally, i found an old fellow in the back country who had known old post. he told me that little hunt post, as he called him, had been killed with his father and mother in a railway accident. i asked where they got the child's name and he said the mother's name was huntingdon. he knew her when she was a girl living alone with her father in the kanab country, north of the grand canyon. he said her father died when she was ten or eleven and a family named smith sort of brought her up and she was known as mary smith. but when she married, she named the boy after her father who was a raw boned, red headed man named enoch huntingdon." enoch gave ames a long steady look and the younger man relaxed a little. "now," ames went on, "knowing brown as i do, i wonder if little hunt post, who, like his mother was red headed and blue eyed, was burned up in a railroad accident. did field speak of the child?" enoch pressed the desk button and abbott came. "give me the field envelope, please, abbott." when the envelope was in his hands, enoch tore the flap up and began to read the close written pages. when he had finished, he put the manuscript back with steady hands. "most of the letter," he said quietly, "is taken up by the recital of brown's shady moral career in mexico. at the end he speaks of a mexican woman with red hair and violet eyes who lived with brown for some months. she left to act as nurse to little hunt post. some time after the railroad accident, curly was the unsuspected witness to a secret meeting between this anita and brown. the woman demanded money and brown demanded proof that little hunt was dead. the conference ended only when anita produced a box containing the child's body. curly did not know how much brown paid her or where she went." ames gave an ugly laugh. "hoist with his own petard! think of him starting me after the luigi scandal!" "tell abbott what you've just told me," said enoch. he did not stir while ames repeated the story. charley's eyes blazed. when ames finished, charley started to speak but the young reporter interrupted. "mr. secretary, i want you to let me tie up the loose ends for you. we've got to put the screws on luigi and i'll take another trip west." "wait a bit!" exclaimed charley. "mr. secretary, i'm going to claim that long deferred vacation. let me spend it with ames clearing this matter up for you." enoch drew a quick breath. "when could you begin, you two?" "now!" the two young men said together. enoch smiled. "wait until to-morrow. i've more important work to-night, and i want to go over every detail with you before you start out. in the meantime, abbott, guard this envelope as you would your life." "what won't we do to brown!" exclaimed charley. "i've punished brown," said enoch. "he'll never hurt me again. as soon as this thing is cleared, we'll forget him." again ames laughed. "believe me, he's going to be good the rest of his life. think of your reading that stuff about little hunt, mr. secretary, and never realizing its import!" "god knows, i didn't want to read the story of another man's ignominy!" said enoch, earnestly, "and i never would have, had not--" he paused, then said as if to himself, "god moves in a mysterious way, his wonders to perform!" the two younger men stood in silence. then enoch said, "thank you, ames, i'll see you at nine o'clock to-morrow morning. abbott, get the white house for me and then go home to dinner." a few minutes later enoch was speaking to the president. "i have to report victory, mr. president, all along the line. . . . yes, sir, it's a long story and i want to tell it to you to-morrow, not to-night. mr. president, i'm going to find miss allen and dine with her, to-night, if i have to take her from a state function. . . . yes, you may chuckle if you wish. i thought you'd understand. . . . thank you! good night, mr. president." enoch hung up the receiver and sat looking at the floor, his face as white as marble. for five minutes he did not stir, then he heaved a great sigh and the tense muscles of his face relaxed. he tossed back the hair from his forehead, sprang to his feet and began to pace the floor. after a short time of this, he rang for jonas. "jonas, do you know where miss diana is stopping?" jonas did not seem to hear the question. he stood staring at enoch with eyes that seemed to start from their sockets. "my lordy, boss, what's happened? you look like i never hoped to see you look!" then he paused for he could not express what he saw in the secretary's shining eyes. "jonas, old man, i've had the greatest news of my life, but i can't tell even you, first." "miss diana!" ejaculated jonas. "boss, she's at the larson; one of these boarding houses that calls themselves a name. didn't i tell you injun charms was strong? tell me! huh!" "all right, jonas! i won't be home to dinner. better sit up for me though, for i'll want to talk to you." "did i ever not sit up for you?" demanded jonas as he gave enoch his coat. enoch paced the floor of the larson while a slatternly maid went in search of diana. when, a little pale and breathless, diana appeared in the doorway, enoch did not stir for a moment from under the chandelier. nor did he speak. diana gazed at him as if she never had seen him before. his eyes were blazing. his lips quivered. he was very pale. suddenly, tossing his hat and cane to a chair, he crossed the room. he tried to smile. "diana, have you seen your friend, the psychologist yet?" "no, enoch, but i have an appointment with him for next week." enoch seized her hands and held them both against his heart. "you need never see him, diana, i have been made whole. i--" his voice broke hoarsely--"i have something to tell you. diana, you are going to dine with me." "yes, enoch!" "diana! oh, how lovely you are! diana, it's a wonderful night, with a full moon. i want you to walk with me to the eastern club. i have something to tell you. and while i'm telling you, no four walls must hem us in." diana, her great eyes shining in response to enoch's, turned without a word and went back upstairs. she returned at once, clad for the walk. enoch opened the street door and paused to look down into her face with a trembling smile. then they descended the steps into the moonlight together. 