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.