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.