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.