There were three of us sitting on a pile of lumber in a sun-baked
little mining town down near the Arizona border. One of my companions
was the sheriff of the county and the other was an old man with snowy
beard and sky-blue eyes whom every one called "Mac." To look at him
was to behold a vision of the past.
As we were whiling away the time with idle talk something was said
which aroused the spirit of reminiscence within this survivor of the
unfenced West. He closed his jack-knife with a snap, threw away a pine
stick from which he had been peeling shavings, and turning his
sky-blue eyes on the sheriff, "I remember--" he began.
After which he told of cheating Death in quicksand fords, of day-long
battles with naked Apaches in the malapi, of fighting off bandits from
the stage while the driver kept the horses on a run up Dragoon Pass,
of grim old ranchmen stalking cattle-thieves by night, of frontier
sheriffs and desperadoes and a wilderness that was more savage than
the wild riders who sought sanctuary within its arid solitudes. He did
not talk for more than forty-five minutes at the most and the words
came slowly from his lips, but when he had done my head was spinning
from more visions of bold men and large deeds than it had held since
the Christmas night when I reeled off to bed after bolting a full half
of the "Boy's Froissart."
And after that old man had sauntered away in the hot-white Arizona
sunshine I thought of other grizzled chroniclers to whom I had
listened in other parts of the West. Some of their tales came back to
me, straightforward simple stories of the days before the farmers,
barbed-wire fences, and branch railroad lines; and I marveled at the
richness of a lore whose plain unvarnished narratives of fact stand
out with values exceeding those of most adventure fiction, more vivid
and colorful than the anecdotes of the Middle Ages which the French
chronicler set down for all the world to read.
Every State between the Mississippi and the Pacific has its own
stories of deeds that took place during an era when even the
lawbreakers attained a certain harsh nobility, and when plain men must
prove themselves heroic if they would survive. The names of many
heroes in these tales have become like household words all over the
United States, and what they did in many places is printed on the maps
of school geographies; but there is a vanished legion of those
old-timers who are remembered only in the immediate neighborhoods
where they lived swiftly and died hard. Emigrant and prospector,
pioneer and Indian chief, cow-boy and cattle-thief, sheriff,
stage-robber, and pony express rider--only the old men can tell their
stories now.
All of those men, whether they be famous or forgotten, owned a common
virtue which still survives among the people who came after them.
That pioneer spirit which makes the average American eager to try what
no one else has done is the common motive in the tales of their
exploits. It stands out strongly in this story which tells how Death
Valley got its name.
One evening early in November, 1849, a party of emigrants was encamped
near Mountain Meadows down in southern Utah close to the Nevada line.
It was a glorious night of the intermountain autumn; the stars burned
large and yellow overhead. In their faint radiance the white tops of
more than one hundred prairie-schooners gleamed at the base of the
hillside which rose into the west. Here and there one of the canvas
covers glowed incandescent from a candlelight within, where some
mother was tucking her children into their beds. Out on the long slope
the feeding oxen moved like shadows through the sage-brush, and beyond
them coyotes shrieked incessantly.
Fairly in the middle of the camp a leaping flame shone on the faces of
a crowd of men. For the world-old question of a short cut had arisen
to divide opinions in this company and they had gathered around a
large fire to try to settle the matter.
They were on their way to California and the placer fields. In Salt
Lake City they had learned that the season was too far advanced to
permit their crossing the Sierras by the northern passes and they had
organized into what they called the Sand Walking Company, with John
Hunt, a bearded Mormon elder, as their captain and their guide. He was
to conduct them by a trail, unmarked as yet by any wagon track, over
which some of his people had traveled to the old Spanish grant
recently acquired by their church at San Bernardino. This route to the
gold-fields followed the Colorado watershed southward taking advantage
of such few streams as flowed into the basin, to turn northward again
at the pueblo of Los Angeles. Thus it described a great loop nearly
parallel with what is now Nevada's southern boundary.
But before the Sand Walking Company left Salt Lake City a man named
Williams drew a map for one of its number showing what he claimed was
a shorter pathway to the Land of Gold. This Williams Short Route, as
it came to be called during many a heated discussion, struck off
straight into the west bearing to the San Bernardino road the relation
of a cord to its arc; until it reached a snow-clad peak. This peak,
according to the map, was visible for many miles, a clear landmark
during-nearly half the journey. Reaching it the trail turned sharply
north to cross the range by an easy pass and traverse a long rich
valley to the gold-fields. There were many legends of good feed and
water-holes on the drawing. The promise of time saved was an important
consideration, for all of the company were getting impatient to reach
the placer diggings lest they be too late.
The trail forked near this place where they were encamped to-night.
John Hunt had halted the party here for two days while scouts crossed
the long divide to the west and looked over the country beyond the
summit to see if wagons could travel that way. And now his pathfinders
were giving their reports. They stood in the open space by the fire,
three lean and sunburned men dressed in semi-Indian costume with
their powder-horns slung from their shoulders and long sheath-knives
in their beaded belts. One after the other they addressed the crowd
and each gave it as his opinion that the short cut was impractical.
The country was too rough, they said.
The murmur of many voices arose among the audience. Most of the men
there were nearing middle age and doubt showed on the bearded faces of
the great majority; doubt and disappointment, for they were eager to
see their journey's end and that Williams map had aroused high hopes.
Here and there a woman stood beside her husband, listening anxiously
to what he said, watching his eyes as he harkened to the talk of those
about.
But there was one portion of the circle which stood out in marked
contrast to the rest. The men here were for the most part in their
early twenties; their faces were serene, their eyes untroubled by any
doubt; and there were no women with them. While the others stood
weighed down by uncertainty, they lounged full length on the ground
basking in the heat of the flames, or sat in groups on near-by
wagon-tongues, laughing and whispering jests among themselves. Several
of them were wearing bits of Indian finery, after the manner of the
guides, and this sprinkling of buckskin shirts, fringed leggings, and
beaded moccasins, together with an occasional crop of thick hair that
reached to a pair of broad young shoulders, gave a dash of savage
picturesqueness to their section of the audience. They were a company
of bachelors from Illinois and called themselves the Jayhawkers. Their
end of the camp had been the scene of wrestling matches and frolic
every night since the train had left Salt Lake City; and, as one
might expect, it was one of their number who had gotten that map of
the Williams Short Route. They were unanimous in advocating it.
Now Ed Doty, their captain, stepped forward into the open space by the
fire. Fixing his bold young eyes on John Hunt, whom he addressed
rather than the audience, "We haven't found the country yet," he said,
"that could stop us and we're not afraid of that over there." He
pointed out into the darkness where the summit of the divide showed
black against the western sky. "We're going to try the Williams Short
Route."
Hunt nodded. "All right," he answered quietly, "and if the rest try
it, I'm going through with you if I have to pass through hell to reach
the other end of the trail. But if one wagon sticks to the San
Bernardino road I'll stay with that wagon, for I passed my word to
take you that way."
It was sometime near midnight when the crowd left the fire, but the
sun was barely up the next morning before the wagons were lined out
along the side hill. Far ahead of them where the trail forked, John
Hunt stood waiting alone.
The white-topped prairie-schooners came on slowly toward him from the
northward through the sage; the heads of the long-horned oxen swinging
low from side to side before their heavy wooden yokes. The first span
reached the solitary figure of the captain and went straight on south;
the wagon rumbled by and Hunt knew by its passing that he must keep to
the San Bernardino trail.
But the second driver halted his team and leaned out from his seat to
take the hand which Hunt extended him. "We'll try the short route," he
said.
"Good-by," the captain bade him; "good luck." The man called to his
lead span; the great yokes creaked and the front wheels whined against
the wagon-box as the animals swung the prairie-schooner to the west.
And now wagon after wagon halted briefly while its occupants exchanged
a brief farewell with the bearded man beside the road; then the outfit
struck out straight westward up the long steep slope; until, when Hunt
turned to rejoin his remnant of a following, three quarters of its
members had forsaken the Sand Walking Company.
The prairie-schooners of the seceders made a slender white line in the
wilderness of sage which reached on before them, up and up. Beyond the
crest which rose gray-brown against the cloudless Indian summer sky,
the desert waited silent as Death itself.
They traveled for three days up that long steep slope and when they
reached the summit to look down upon the other side they discovered
that the Williams map was worthless as a guide. Here, where it
promised easy going, a steep-walled canyon led down from the north
blocking their road. Beyond, a wilderness of sandstone pinnacles and
naked cliffs dropped away and away to depths invisible.
Then most of the drivers turned back their oxen to follow Captain Hunt
and overtake him on the San Bernardino trail by which he led his
company in safety to Los Angeles. But twenty-seven wagons remained
parked among the twisted junipers, their occupants biding the return
of scouts whom they had sent ahead to seek a pass. Although the map
had proved of no value when it came to showing a road, they still
believed in the snow-clad peak which it had promised, somewhere before
them in the hidden west. They were determined to find that landmark
and strike out for it.
The scouts came back on the fourth day and reported a pass far to the
northward around the canyon head. But before the prairie-schooners
lined out on the ridge to make the long detour, the unmarried owners
of outfits banded together in a company, advising those with families
to return to Captain Hunt. They did not care, they said, to be
responsible for the lives of women and children in this unmapped
wilderness. The advice was not taken and the train set forth in two
sections, twenty wagons belonging to the Jayhawkers and their bachelor
companions and seven owned by men who traveled with their wives and
little ones.
The scouts had picked an easy route through rolling hills where
bunch-grass stood in thick clusters among the tall gray sage; the oxen
cropped the rich feed as they went along. Clear streams ran noisily in
most of the ravines. The train passed the canyon head, and one day,
after considerable aimless wandering, it turned westward to cross a
succession of wide tablelands where feed was good and water still
plentiful.
The Indian summer season was at its height now, clear balmy days
and cloudless nights. Their progress was steady for some time,
uninterrupted by ill luck of any kind. When they halted for the midday
meal it was like a great picnic in the soft warm sunshine, and
when evening came the Jayhawkers rollicked around their fires or
gathered where one of their number had tuned up his fiddle. William
Isham was his name, a great bearded fellow who hailed originally
from Rochester, New York; he would sit by the hour on the tongue
of his wagon playing "Oh Susannah" and other lively airs, or strike
up a jig tune while Negro Joe, who had fled from slavery in
Mississippi, did a double shuffle in the firelight. The children
slipped away from their mothers to set peeps at the fun from the
edges of the crowd or play hide and seek in the shadows of the
sage-brush; there were ten of these youngsters in all.
Many of these evenings would find a number of the older men clustered
around the wagon of Asahel Bennett, an Iowa pioneer whose outfit
included a young hunter by the name of William Manley. For Manley went
ahead nearly every day to spy out the country and these men were eager
for tidings of the snow-clad peak which lay before them hidden in the
west.
Now gradually as they went onward the country began to change; the
sage-brush became more stunted, the grass tufts sparser; the streams
ran smaller and smaller. Until there came a day when they traveled
from dawn until long after sunset before they encountered any water;
and this lay lukewarm in hollows of the sandstone, accumulations from
rains of long ago. The earth was hard and dry and there were stretches
where there was no earth at all, only a rubble of sharp rock fragments
radiating heat-waves under the glaring sun.
There was no rollicking about the camp-fires any more. When evening
came the men were weary from hurrying their wagons over rugged ground
or climbing lofty buttes to look ahead for signs of water. Isham the
fiddler left his violin in its case; he never took it from that case
again. The oxen had grown gaunt from lack of feed and drink; they
wandered about the night camps nibbling disdainfully at what growth
there was, low bitter sapless weeds.
The change in the country had come so imperceptibly that they did not
realize the presence of the desert until they were confronted by
an-appalling revelation one afternoon.
All that day and all the day before the drivers had been goading the
failing oxen while they peered with reddened eyes out on the glaring
plain, from which arose a series of isolated cone-shaped buttes. For
the water in the barrels was running very low and they were always
seeking some sign of stream or pool.
Then one of them uttered a loud cry and at that shout the others saw,
two miles or so off to the right where the plain opened out between
the cone-shaped hills, a lake whose waters were bluer than any they
had ever looked upon. A little breeze was stirring its surface, and on
the further bank there were some trees whose branches were moving as
if perhaps the wind were stronger over there.
Now every driver lashed his oxen to a lumbering run, and the women
lifted the canvas tops of the prairie-schooners to show their children
the pretty lake. The whole train turned away from its course and went
rumbling across the plain, one mile, then a second; and another
followed before they found themselves in the midst of a glaring
expanse of snow-white alkali, baked by the sun to rock-like hardness.
The vision of blue waters had vanished with the suddenness of a dream
which ceases on the instant of awakening.
The mothers lowered the canvas wagon-covers and soothed their crying
children, and the drivers turned the oxen back toward the trail which
they had forsaken for the lure of the mirage. There was no word of
grief among the men, no outcry of despair; but the shoulders of some
were sagging when they made their dry camp that night, and there was a
new hardness in the eyes of all of them. For they had looked upon the
desert and they knew it for what it was.
As they were sitting about their little fires a man came staggering
among them out of the darkness. It was Manley, the young hunter of the
Bennett outfit, who had been away for two days on one of his
reconnoitering expeditions. They gathered around him in silence but he
read the question in their eyes and shook his head.
"No water," he answered, "nor sign, of it, but I have seen a snow
mountain straight west of us."
He told them how he had lain out on the summit of a high butte the
night before until dawn came revealing a dead world. Dark ragged
mountains of volcanic rock lay to the north, and to the south a tangle
of naked ridges whose sides were discolored as though by fire. Between
these scorched ranges a plain stretched for a good one hundred miles
into the west, as level as a floor and gleaming white. Beyond that
plain a low chain of mountains rose, as black as ink, and behind this
gloomy range he saw a snow-clad peak that glistened in the morning
sun.
They talked the situation over; all of them were convinced that Manley
had found the peak described by the Williams map, and now they argued
for different routes. Of the four points of the compass there was only
one which lacked an advocate. For, while some urged a northward
circuit and others believed there would be greater safety to the south
and many were determined to push straight on west across the gleaming
plain of alkali, there was not one word said of turning back into the
east.
Survivors tell how some of the women wept under the covers of the
prairie-schooners that night, but none of those mothers raised her
voice in favor of retreat. They were pioneers, these people, and it
seemed as if they did not know how to turn back.
None can ever set the fulness of their story down in words; for the
Amargossa Desert has a wicked beauty which is beyond the telling, and
one must journey out beyond the black escarpments of the Funeral
Mountains and fight for his life in the silent reaches of that broken
wilderness if he would begin to realize what they went through.
They made their last camp together at a brackish water-hole near the
edge of the plain which Manley had described. Beyond it they could see
the snow-clad peak. They repeated to one another the legends on the
Williams map, its promise of a pass close by that summit and of a
fertile valley leading to the gold-fields in the north. If they could
only reach the mountain, they agreed their hardships would be over,
their journey as good as ended.
They separated here to set forth by two different routes. The
Jayhawkers struck straight out across the flat, while the little
company of families kept to a more roundabout course in the south,
hoping to find water in the mountains there. From this time on,
although their trails converged and crossed, the wagons never united
in one train again.
In that silent land where the skeletons of dead mountain ranges lie
strewn among the graves of seas that died in ages past, they held
their eyes on the one sign of life that rose into the clear sky
beyond, the peak whose promise kept them moving on into the west.
Days passed and the smaller party found no water in any of the canyons
which came down to them from the south. They used the last drops from
their casks; and now they could not eat for thirst, they could not
sleep. The children wailed for drink until their voices died away to
dry whisperings, and when the mothers strove to comfort them they
found their arid tongues had lost the power of shaping any words.
At last Mauley, the young hunter with the Bennett wagons, discovered a
warm spring near a canyon head, but the oxen lay down in their traces
on their way up the gorge and the men were obliged to bring water down
to them in buckets before they could get the unhappy brutes to rise.
They filled the barrels with the tepid fluid and goaded the teams on,
seeking some sign of a pass in the low black range which lay between
them and the snow peak. If there were only an opening, it seemed as if
they might win through.
Meantime the Jayhawkers were pressing hard across the gleaming plain.
The surface of that plain was white as snow, as level as a floor. It
was so hard that the wheels left no track on it; no shrub grew from
it, only a low bitter weed that crumbled to a gray powder at the
slightest touch. The oxen plodded along with their heads hung so low
that their muzzles almost swept the ground; they stood about the camp
at night, emaciated beyond belief, swaying from weakness, grating
their teeth as they moved their jaws with a pathetic instinct of
rumination. Five days passed and on the night of the fifth, when these
young fellows knew they could not live another twenty-four hours
without water, a light cloud came between them and the stars. They
felt the cool touch of snowflakes on their faces and they spread their
blankets to gather what they could while the oxen licked the moisture
from the earth. The next morning the sun shone hot again upon the
plain against whose vast expanse the wagons showed, a little line of
dots creeping slowly toward the white-topped mountain in the west.
At Ash Meadows where the bitter waters of the Amargossa River rise
from their hidden depths to flow for a few hundred yards between gray
hills of shifting sand, the trails of the two parties converged. By
the time they reached this dismal oasis they were killing their oxen
for such shreds of meat as they could strip from the bones; but as
every wagon left the place, climbing the divide beyond, the occupants
forgot their sufferings and talked of the desert as something which
they had left behind. For Furnace Creek canyon lay ahead of them, a
rift in the black range which rose between them and the snow-clad
peak.
The Jayhawkers were now in the lead. They went down the gorge whose
black walls seemed to shut out the sky in places, and on Christmas
morning, 1849, they emerged from its mouth to see the great peak just
ahead of them.
But, as they looked up at the mountain toward which they had been
striving for so many weary days, they discovered that its sides were
verdureless, bare of any earth, so steep no man could climb them. And
there was no pass.
They had descended into the pitfall at its lowest depths. Here where
they first saw the place, more than two hundred feet below the level
of the sea, great beds of rock salt covered its floor worn by the wind
into a myriad of pinnacles, as high as a man's waist, sharp as knives
and coated with brown dust. In the center of this weird forest a level
sheet of white salt lay glistening in the sun. Northward the deposit
stretched away to dunes of shifting sand, and in the south long mud
flats lay, covered with traceries of sun cracks as far as the eye
could reach. The eastern mountains came straight down in cliffs as
black as ink. Eight miles away the western mountains rose in a sheer
wall surmounted by Telescope Peak, whose snow-clad crest towered
eleven thousand feet above the heads of the men whom it had lured
here. There was no sound of any life, no track of any animal. No
bird--not even a buzzard--flew overhead. The very air was a desert
like the burning earth.
Now, even as they came down out of Furnace Creek canyon into this trap,
they began their efforts to escape from it.
The Bennett party crossed the sink through the forest of rock-salt
pinnacles and headed southward along a strip of loose sand which lay
between the mud flat and the mountains. They believed the range might
yet show a rift at this end which their wagons could traverse. But the
Jayhawkers turned to the north, seeking some outlet through the
Panamints at that end of the range. One family followed them. J. W
Brier, a minister from a little frontier community in the Middle West,
left the other section with his wife and three children in the hope
that the young men might find a route to safety.
Sometimes to this day the winds, moving the dunes of white sand in the
valley's northern arm--a task which they are always at from year's end
to year's end--uncover the fragments of wagons, and prospectors come
upon a tire or spoke or portion of a sun-dried axle. Then they know
that they are at the place where the Jayhawkers abandoned their
prairie-schooners.
They killed some of their oxen at this point and divided the
meat--there was so little of it that although the men were now very
weak two of them were able to carry the beef from an animal. Then they
started out on foot across the sand dunes toward the Panamints. Most
of them still believed that feed and water lay just beyond those
heights.
And now, while they were straggling along through the loose sand in
single file, one of their number, a man named Fish, was seen to throw
his hands above his head and pitch forward on his face. Those who were
behind came upon him lying with arms outspread, dead.
The next afternoon as they were climbing toward the head of a steep
canyon in the range, several of the foremost ones found a little spring
among the rocks. While they were resting here they saw a man far below
them. He was crawling toward them on his hands and knees. One of the
party filled his canteen and hurried down to meet him; but when he
arrived, the other was gasping his last in the bottom of the sun-baked
gorge. It was Captain Culverwell, a skipper who had forsaken the deep
sea and its ships to make this journey with them in the hope of
finding gold.
That evening the strongest of their number reached the summit of the
Panamints and looked down the western side where they had thought to
find that fertile valley which the Williams map had promised leading
to the north. They saw dead mountain ranges and dried lake floors like
those through which they had been traveling for months. The Mohave
Desert lay in front of them.
When they were crossing those arid reaches William Isham, who had
fiddled so blithely for them every evening in the Utah hills, sank
down beside the trail; and the others passed him with empty canteens,
unable to give him any help. Some of the stragglers buried his body a
few days later on.
During the next day or two a Frenchman, whose name none of the
survivors remember, went insane from thirst and wandered off into the
sand-hills. No one ever saw him afterward.
So one after another of their number lay down and died or went mad and
ran off toward some of the mirages which were perpetually torturing
all of them with visions of cool lakes, until thirteen had perished.
The others struggled on and on into the southwest; for they knew that
Los Angeles lay somewhere in that direction and it offered them their
only hope.
Meantime the Bennett party went southward along the western edge of
the sink where the sands lie as loose and fine as ashes between the
mud flats and the mountains, until they found a little spring with a
few patches of coarse grass among the mesquite thickets which
surrounded it. From this point they tried escape by one route and then
another, only to reach a blind wall in each case and retrace their
steps to the water-hole.
In later years the mule-drivers of the borax company enlarged the well
which Asahel Bennett and J. B. Arcane dug here in the sand. Otherwise
the place remains unchanged, a patch of mesquite in a burning plain
where heat devils dance all day long from year's end to year's end.
The plain reaches on and on between black mountain walls, and even the
mirage which springs from its surface under that hot sun throws off
the guise of a cool lake almost on the moment of its assumption to
become a repellant specter that leaps and twists like a flame. The
Paiute Indians called the spot Tomesha, which means "Ground Afire."
The party held a council when they had retreated here after the last
unsuccessful attempt to escape. It was clear that they could not take
the women and children out of the sink unless some one got food for
the journey and found a route between water-holes. They appointed
Manley, the young hunter, and an ox-driver named John Rogers for the
venture, and the pair set out across the Panamints just north of
Telescope Peak with the beef from an ox in their knapsacks, while the
others sat down to await their return--or death.
There were two wagon outfits of unmarried men among them; they had
forsaken the Jayhawkers at about the time the Brier family joined that
section. When several days had passed these bachelors departed to seek
the trail of their former companions in the valley's north arm. They
said that the chances were ten to one that Manley and Rogers would
never get through alive, and if they did they would be fools to
attempt coming back. The others watched the two prairie-schooners
crawling off into the gray plain until a mirage engulfed them and
lifted them distorted into the blazing sky.
And now the families faced the question which these men had left with
them. Would Manley and Rogers get through? They did not know what
hazards lay beyond those mountains to the west, but none of them had
the Jayhawkers' faith in a fertile valley leading to the north. As it
turned out Mount Whitney was the snow-clad peak to which the faulty
Williams map referred and the valley was the Owens Lake country, many
a weary mile from this sink.
If the pair did survive the desert, would they be men enough to face
it for the second time? The marooned ones could only hope. That hope
had become an abiding faith in Bennett's wife. She had given the two
young fellows a double handful of rice--half her store of grain--on
the morning of their departure, and pointed mutely to her children as
she placed the little bag in Manley's hand. "They will come back," she
told the others many times.
The food was running low; the few remaining oxen could not last them
long. There was a dog with the Bennett wagons; he had followed them
all the way from Iowa; and in this time of dire extremity some talked
of killing him. But even in his starved condition he was able to wag
his tail when the children came near him; sometimes he comforted them
by his presence when their mothers could not. The men had not the
heart to do away with him.
Hope lingered within those people like the breath in an old man who is
dying hard. Rogers and Manley had gone northward on the burning plain
to reach a ridge which mounted toward the Panamints. Now as the days
dragged by to weary weeks, the men and women always gazed into the
north where nothing lived except the hatred for the sun. But no man
came, and when the weeks had grown beyond a month, they knew the time
was here when they must make one last attempt to save themselves. They
yoked up the oxen and set out into the south toward a spot where
Bennett had discovered what looked like a gap in the mountains. Three
days later they returned, half dead from thirst, and unhitched the
staggering animals by the well.
There remained one shadow of a chance, as ephemeral as the mirage
which came before them with the mounting of each morning's sun. They
stripped the tops from the prairie-schooners and began to make
pack-saddles from them with the idea of abandoning the vehicles and
following the trail of the Jayhawkers.
At midday they were sitting under the wagons for what shade they gave,
working at this task. They knew it was a futile proceeding; the time
had long since gone when they had enough provisions to last them
through that long northern route. But they were not the sort of people
who can sit down and die. If they must perish it would be while they
were still fighting. No one spoke. The silence of the dead land had
crept over them.
That silence was broken by a shot. Unbelieving, they crept forth and
saw three figures moving toward them from the north. Manley and Rogers
were hurring across the flat leading a laden mule.
While the others ate from the store in the pack-sacks, the two young
fellows told of their journey two hundred and fifty miles across the
Mohave Desert; of the dead of the Jayhawker party whom they had found
beside the trail; of the survivors whom they passed shortly before
reaching a ranch near the head of the San Fernando valley where the
little town of Newhall stands to-day; of great arid mountain ranges
and shimmering floors of dried lakes; and of the long torture between
water-holes. At the Newhall ranch a man named French had given them
the mule and the provisions. With this food supply they believed the
women and children stood a chance of getting through.
They slung the sacks of canvas on the gaunt oxen and placed the
children in them; then they set out on their long climb up the
Panamints.
Before they left the summit of the divide to go downhill into the
west, they halted for one last look back. And as they stood there
among the rocks gazing down into the sink which lay thousands of feet
below them walled in by the mountains on both sides, one of the
mothers lifted her arm in a gesture of farewell.
"Good-bye, Death Valley!" she cried.
That is the way the place was named.
They turned their backs on it and descended the long western slope.
The dog, which they had taken with them all this distance, limped
along behind the little train. The mule went on before. And in Los
Angeles, where they joined the other survivors of the company weeks
later and told the people of the pueblo of their sufferings, they
called the sink Death Valley when they spoke of it.
Later, when they had gone into the north--for all of them pressed on
as soon as they were able to travel again--they separated, seeking
their fortunes in the mines. Years passed and occasionally some of
them met again. At such times, or when they told others of the pitfall
into which they descended striving toward the snow peak, they always
used the name Death Valley. And so it has come down to us to-day.