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.