A LONE HAND AGAINST HUNGER
Early the next morning quite a large group of tourists gathered to see
the Survey party set out, it having become known that it was to make use
of the old Cameron trail and endeavor to climb the other side of the
Canyon. Some, who had been part of the way down the trail, were politely
incredulous as to the possibility of the feat, others took an especial
pleasure in prophesying disaster, and a few expressed a wish that they
might accompany the party "to see how it was done."
To these various people Masseth paid no heed. Indeed he scarcely
responded to questions, returning but the briefest replies, except once,
when an old lady, quiet and gentle in manner, came up and laid her hand
on his arm.
"You will pardon an old lady," she said, "but I should not like to think
of your going down there, unless you can assure me that it is really
safe."
The topographer turned to her immediately, raising his cap and smiling:
"I have been over the trail before," he said, "and indeed I have been in
many worse places than this part of the Canyon, so you really need feel
no alarm. It is very kind of you to be solicitous of our well-being, and
I shall take your expressed interest as a happy omen for the journey."
This little speech, overheard by Roger as he came up with the head
packer to say that everything was ready, gave him a quick insight into
the intense graceful courtesy, which was so strong a characteristic of
the man who was to be his chief for a couple of months to come. A few
sentences between Masseth and the chief packer were followed by the
words, spoken in a sharp tone of command, markedly different from the
suavity of a moment before:
"You may start, then!"
Roger waited for instructions.
"Doughty," said the leader, "you will ride in the rear with Black, and
you will do well to let him teach you how to handle the animals in rough
spots. I shall go ahead, of course."
"Very well, sir," answered Roger, and cantered off to the pack train,
where the assistant topographer was helping the second packer to get the
mules started. The head packer had gone as far as the brink of the
Canyon with the chief and there waited to deploy the animals on the
trail in good order and to scrutinize every pack as it passed him, to
make sure that none should become loose and slip.
The boy chatted freely with Black as they paced along behind the last of
the mules, and he found his companion well-informed, as Masseth had
said, but except on matters of the trail, somewhat non-communicative. In
brief remarks, however, he explained to the boy many of the troubles he
must expect to encounter and the best manner of meeting them, and his
curt references to the lie of the land struck Roger as being of immense
value. He pointed out certain striking landmarks as features of the
landscape which were to be ignored, because, from any point of view,
they would appear entirely different; and certain other eminences,
perhaps not even as noticeable as the former, which he must remember,
since, by reason of their conformation they would always appear the same
and thus could be taken as absolute and certain guides.
But as soon as the trail fell over the edge there was no more speaking.
Fell over the edge, Roger thought, was almost the only way to describe
the road, which was precipitous and winding beyond belief. There was a
supposition that the way had been made smooth for mules, but it did not
seem to the lad that any four-footed animal short of a goat could keep
his footing. The long line of mules treading easily in front, however,
was evidence that he need not fear, so warily keeping an eye on his mule
lest his mount should stumble, he preceded the assistant, following
immediately after the last pack mule.
For several hundred feet the trail went down in this rough fashion, then
suddenly turned sharply to the left along one of the broad terraces of
rock, whereof Masseth had spoken to the boy before. After a quarter of a
mile of easy going, the party came to a slope of loose shale, almost
filling up the terrace. The pack mules picked their way over this
without any apparent demur, but Black called out:
"Guess you'd better get off!"
Roger slipped from his saddle, and going to the mule's head started to
walk beside it.
"Go in front, you chump," called the other. "If the trail's none too
wide for one, how do you suppose two can go abreast?"
"But I can't help him then!" protested Roger.
This speech was greeted with a hoarse chuckle.
"Any old time a mule needs a tenderfoot to teach him where to put his
feet," he said, "I want to have a front seat to watch it. Don't you ever
worry about that, I guess he can walk anywhere that you can, but on a
shelving bank a rider makes a beast topheavy."
Down they went into the chasm, climbing over heaps of fallen rock,
pitching down slopes which seemed almost perpendicular to the boy, and
as they descended the sun rose higher and the air seemed to become less
tenuous and almost visible. Roger had been expecting the wonderful
radiance of the valley to become tenfold richer under the noonday sun,
and was surprised to note all the color fade out of the rocks and the
air become as it were so solid as to refract the light of the sun. The
whole atmosphere seemed to be glowing with a metallic luster which was
most confusing, because of the way in which it changed the whole
environment. Lines of strata became distorted and even disappeared, the
buttes appeared to flatten, the minor shadows to diminish and the
darker shades to turn an inky black, till, when the halt was made at
noon, the boy realized that he could not have made his way back one mile
by reason of the chaotic look of the abyss under the direct light of the
noonday sun.
After the march had been resumed and the afternoon was drawing to a
close, however, the true witchery of the scene struck deep into Roger's
mind. As the evening clouds began to gather and the twilight shadows
deepened, the Titanic temples and cloisters seemed to awake and stretch
themselves to meet the expected vesper. Little by little the atmosphere
lost its density and the rocks behind began to glow, the colossal buttes
assumed their due proportions; while a thousand bizarre forms, that had
not been observable in the intense light of day, thrust themselves
forward into an uncouth prominence. Then the sun disappeared from the
view of the travelers, though still shining on the rocks above. Black
cantered up beside the boy.
"Now watch," he said: "here's where you see the greatest display of
color in the whole world."
"But how can it be brighter than it is now?" queried Roger, on whom the
bold and striking scene was creating a profound impression.
"The best is yet to come," answered his companion, "and look, it begins
now!"
For the first time since morning Roger was able to look upwards without
being blinded by the sunlight. The sloping rays now fell full upon the
upper part of the Canyon, at the crest of which a vivid yellow cut
athwart the transparent blue of the sky and underneath its pallid
brilliancy ran a soft belt of pale rose. The deep vibrating red of the
body of the Canyon seemed to pulse with life as a faint blue haze began
to gather in the dusk, changing second by second into the countless
differing hues of crimson lakes and ruby violets, deepening as the
hastening twilight passed. Strange and metallic gleams of burnished
bronze and green gloomed from the intervening lines, all yielding place
little by little to the veil of azure mist. And beneath all, the glowing
red, now changed to imperial purple, as though the world were bathed in
a regal radiance at the crowning of a universe's king.
It was not until the dark had really come and the stars were shining
brightly that the boy awakened to the consciousness of a trail and felt
that he could speak. He turned to the assistant.
"And that's been going on every day for years!" he said, struck by the
wastefulness of such a sight to so few eyes.
"For thousands upon thousands of years that went on before any man saw
it," replied Black, smiling slightly, "and it will go on when the
present civilizations are deemed but musty antiquities."
The night was well advanced when the party reached the crest of the
Canyon on the north side. The journey, as Masseth had said, was one
devoid of special risk because of the numbers of the party and the known
trail, though, in truth, it needed a keen eye at times to discern that
such apparently impassable ground was intended for a trail. The top
reached, however, a hasty camp pitched, the packs and saddles taken off,
the mules and the animals hobbled to graze on the rich herbage of the
Kaibab plateau, Roger sank to sleep without loss of time, and it seemed
to him hardly ten minutes before the cook aroused him for the camp
breakfast.
"You know something about the work of a rodman, and of the handling of
the tape?" asked Masseth, after breakfast, referring to the 300-foot
steel tape used in measuring distances in wooded areas.
"Yes, indeed, Mr. Masseth."
"Of course you realize that the tape is generally impracticable in such
a country as this, and that all the work must be done by the computing
of angles with continual astronomical verification. As topographic aid
you can learn as much as you are able of the use of instruments, at such
times as you are not carrying out levels." And Masseth, questioning
closely, elicited the mathematical ability of the lad. The boy had
always hated arithmetic and its kindred studies, not realizing the value
of the higher branches, but with the incentive before him, he found his
chief's teaching markedly interesting.
The next day a semi-permanent camp was pitched, and there the supplies
were kept. The head packer, who became a teamster as soon as things were
settled, immediately left for the village of Kanab in Utah, over a
hundred miles away, where a heavy wagon was in waiting, and whence the
provisions were to be drawn for the party during the two months it
should be on the north side of the Canyon. As it was a three days'
journey there and the same returning, the teamster was a busy man,
having but one day comparatively free and camping on the trail five
nights out of seven.
Roger, of course, went out with the other men every day, scaling points
picked out for him by the chief as places he desired occupied, measuring
from the rod elevated by the boy, who then, at a signal, was ordered to
go to the next point scheduled. To a boy as fond of climbing as was
Roger, for a day or two this was good fun, but the novelty soon passed
by and he did his day's work with a persistent regularity, which, though
it brought forth the results required, was lacking in the adventurous.
In short, the continuity of risky work became monotonous.
It was due to this cause, perhaps, that one afternoon, when this sort of
thing had been proceeding for several weeks, Roger, passing from one
outjutting piece of rock to another, but a few feet away, jumped
carelessly, twisted his ankle beneath him and fell, spraining his wrist.
Despite the sprain, however, he reached the point to which he had been
sent, and then, instead of going on, returned to the topographer.
"What's the matter?" called Masseth, who had seen him fall, as soon as
he came in hearing. "Did you hurt yourself?"
"Sprained my wrist, I think, Mr. Masseth," answered the boy. "Beastly
sorry, but I'm afraid I'll have to lay off for the rest of the
afternoon."
[Illustration: A HARD POINT TO MEASURE.
Note the comparative size of horse and men at the foot.
_Photograph by U.S.G.S._]
"Let's see, son." The topographer felt the wrist, then feeling that no
bones were broken, and that a day or two would set it all right again,
bade Roger go to the main camp and let the cook change places with him
for a few days.
"I'll write to Mr. Mitchon, and tell him of your promotion to camp
cook," called Masseth, laughing as Roger rode away.
On arriving at the camp and giving his message to the cook, the latter
readily agreed to help for a few days.
"I'll go at once," he said, "the teamster should be back to-morrow, and
while things are running pretty short, I guess you'll have enough to
hold out."
The following morning early, after having told Roger everything he was
to look after, the cook started for the side camp to take Roger's place,
while the latter looked after the camp. Long and weary seemed the
morning to the boy, so inactive it was after the strenuous life he had
been leading for some weeks, and, though the teamster usually got in
before noon, when evening came he had not arrived. Roger, who had
counted on the cook's knowledge of the teamster's time, found himself
almost without food for supper, and made a very light repast. He was
just about to turn in for a sleep, when he heard the sound of horses'
hoofs and went out to greet the teamster.
"Is that you, Jim?" he called out.
"Guess not, pardner," answered a strange voice, and a cowman loped into
the circle of light. "This here a United States camp?" he queried.
"Yes," answered the boy.
"An' who's running the shebang?"
"I am just at present," Roger answered. "But I expected the teamster
here to-day."
"You are? No offense, but you don't look more'n a yearling. Well, it's
not so worse to brand 'em young."
The lad explained the circumstances of his being alone, pointing out
that the rest of the party were only three or four hours' ride away, and
the stranger nodded.
"Which I was a plumb forgettin' to explain is that the gent what you was
a-greetin' with the airy name of Jim, won't come none this week to camp,
but he allowed as you-all had a-plenty."
"What's the matter with him?"
"Which I ain't a sharp as a doc. Took a spell or somethin'. I opine
he's a goin' to continue cavortin' around this Vale of Tears some more,
though he has been figurin' on procurin' a brace of wings."
"He's getting better, though?" asked the boy.
"Which he holds a good hand for a long life."
"But I haven't got any extra supply of grub," continued Roger in some
dismay.
"Shore!" The stranger, who was just gathering up his reins, half turned
in the saddle. "I wouldn't bet a small white chip for any gent's success
in a dooel with hunger. Which it is some uncomfortable to ignore the
chuck-wagon. But this here Jim he relates that he toted a big jag last
time, and it must be cached."
"It must be here somewhere, then," said Roger dubiously, "and I'll look.
But it doesn't sound good to me."
"Which if you don't locate, saunter over to the Bar X Double N and we
will supply the existin' demand a whole lot," and with a wave of his
hand the rider cantered away into the darkness, without giving Roger a
chance even to ask where the ranch might be.
But youth is little accustomed to troubled dreams, and Roger slept
soundly enough, awakening the next morning, not to a hot and
well-cooked breakfast, but to having to prepare his own. Laying hands on
everything that he could find, the boy made out a breakfast and then
started on a search for other provision. He doubted its existence for
the cook had told him that it was nearly all gone. At last, in his
rummaging he found a little notebook, marked on the outside, "Record of
Supplies," and thinking that this might give a clew, he opened it.
There, under a date of a few days before, was an entry to the effect
that the cook had sold to a passing party a large supply of surplus
provision, thinking that the teamster would make his regular trip. It
was small wonder, Roger thought, that the teamster was not at all
anxious, because he made sure that the provision was still in the camp,
and of course the cook was not disturbed because he supposed that the
teamster would come the next day.
The situation was gloomy enough so far as Roger was concerned, for he
was practically without food, but what rendered the matter doubly
serious was that the rest of the party would come in from the side camp
two days hence with their supply of provision exhausted, only to find
the camp barren, and leaving five men a long way from getting food
instead of one. The more Roger thought over the matter, the more
determined he was that he must procure supplies. The question was,
where?
If the lad had known the country at all, there were undoubtedly ranches
somewhat near at hand to which he could appeal at a pinch, but he had
wisdom enough to know that it would be the height of folly to ride out
upon the north Arizona plateau without the faintest idea of a
destination. There was the ranch to which he had been told to come, and
he had heard of it often enough to know that it was one of the largest
ranches in the country, but who would direct him there? He feared that a
blind try in the plain might put him out of touch of water as well as
food, a condition insupportable.
There was only one bright spot in the position, and that was the
presence of Jack. Jack was a burro, apparently of extreme age, who had
been found one morning near the camp, and who had attached himself to
the party. Of course all the rest of the animals were away, the cook
having ridden back to the side camp the horse on which Roger had come
from there. True, there was this burro, but what could he do with it,
where could he go?
As he asked himself this question, an answer shot into the boy's mind
which turned him hot and cold. He looked over the plateau to the plains
and shook his head, then quietly went into the tent to think over the
best course for him to pursue. Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed, then
with jaw hard-set and lips compressed Roger walked to where the burro
was grazing, and slipped a halter over his head. Obediently the patient
animal followed him to the edge of the rift of the Canyon, and there
Roger looked down and across. Nine miles away, across those fearful
chasms and lurid cliffs lay food and necessaries not only for himself,
but for the party.
Roger was conscious that prudent judgment would counsel his return to
the side camp for the purpose of informing the party of the situation,
so that they could cross by the old trail to renew supplies, but the boy
knew that Masseth was working against time. Beside this, it would be a
great achievement and the lad was burning with a desire to shine before
the Survey. The old trail was the better way, but it had been night when
they debouched on the plateau and Roger could not have told where the
trail entered. He feared he might lose time by hunting for that faint
trail, and decided to direct his whole strength into an attempt to force
his way straight across the cleft in defiance of the decree that it had
never been done and could never be done.
About a mile away along the bank there was a deep fault which could be
entered a few hundred yards back on the plateau. The lad knew about
this, for the spring whence the camp got its water was close by. Into
this Roger turned with his burro, casting one long glance at the camp
just visible in the distance, before he took his courage in both hands
and plunged into the almost inaccessible ravine.
"They call this Bright Angel Canyon, Jack," he said aloud. "I'd like to
have a pair of their wings right now."
The little gray burro looked at him for a moment, then went on picking
his steps carefully. It was rough but not perilous for a few hundred
yards and the boy's spirits rose until in an hour or so he came to an
obstruction about ten feet high, but this puny ten feet, which had
looked simply like a little ridge of dirt, baffled him for hours. He
traveled up and down, but found the terrace continuous, and it seemed as
though his quest would fail almost before it had well begun.
Suddenly there flashed into the boy's mind one of the old fables, and,
as before, he took his rough-haired friend into his confidence.
"We can't jump it or knock it down, Jack, old boy," he said. "It's up to
us to climb it some way."
With immense toil and labor he carried stone and rock and bits of
boulders, and though hours were spent on the task he built up a kind of
shaky and insecure pile up which the burro, following him patiently,
reached the top. There luck was with him, for, by picking his steps
carefully for twenty yards or so, he was enabled to reach a newly fallen
piece of cliff, by which he got to firm ground on the other side.
Stopping to rest, this obstacle over, the boy's ears were greeted by the
musical and grateful sound of falling water, and hurrying to the place,
he found a little stream fed by springs and gurgling merrily in tiny
cascades to the river.
Although he knew but little of geology, Roger's sense speedily showed
him that, by following this little tributary, he probably would have a
fair path down to the river, or at least, while he would probably find
many drops downward, there would be no walls across his path unless it
were one through which the little creek had tunneled. So, ankle deep in
the grooved bed, they started down the streamlet on its way to the
bottom of the valley.
It was perhaps fortunate for the lad that he was not too well-informed
in the customary ways of the burro, and was entirely unaware of the
animal's intense objection to running water. Had he known this, in all
probability he would have left the burro behind, which would have
resulted grievously. But this old burro, as it fortunately chanced, must
have belonged to some prospector working in a mountain country, for he
evinced no fear of or dislike to the stream. One hundred and seven times
did Roger and the burro cross Bright Angel Creek, each crossing growing
swifter and deeper than the last. Dusk was falling as they reached the
bank of the Colorado River at the base of the Canyon.
Before it became entirely dark, the boy climbed up a peak of rock to
make sure of the direction of his objective point, a matter hard to be
determined because of the windings of the river, and on descending laid
several stones in a row pointing to the direction sought. Then,
supperless and almost spent, he resolutely refrained from eating the
few last morsels he had brought with him, and flinging himself down
beneath an overhanging ledge he fell asleep.
In spite of the strangeness of his position it was bright daylight when
he awoke and the burro was standing patiently near by. Taking from his
wallet the solitary crust of bread and the few biscuits that remained,
and noting that Jack had found some grass just at the water's edge,
Roger put on his shoes and walked gravely to the edge of the river.
There is only one Colorado River in the world, and it is perhaps the
most violent stream in the two hemispheres. It was not at its height at
this time, but it ran like a mill race with a vicious swirl and spume,
and was ugly to look at. Roger was no mean swimmer, but his heart sank
at the thought of plunging into it.
"Jack," he said, "I'd as soon try to swim the Niagara gorge," and the
burro looked wonderingly at his master.
So up and down the bank for several hundred yards he went, striving to
find some rapids that might be forded, but only at one place did it even
appear possible and that, the boy thought, had large odds against it.
Still, it was all he saw, and he put the burro at it. But Jack refused,
point-blank, and as the obstinacy of a burro needs some considerable
persuasion to overcome, things looked black for the boy.
There was just the river between him and safety, for Roger had heard the
men speak of an Indian trail which paralleled the river on the southern
side and whence he could reach one of the three trails that ascended the
plateau, and not only safety, but the welfare of the party, which he
felt was intrusted to his care. The burro would not try the ford. Very
well, then, he would cross himself. On this side of that torrent,
hunger, defeat, and death, on the other food, success, and reputation.
Come what might, he would cross!