BY PYE POD.
The lottery of my destiny
Bars me the right of voluntary choosing.
--_Shakespeare._
Rocky Mountain canaries were singing their lullabys and Bridget
(the clock) had just called eleven o'clock when the house of St.
Joer loomed in the darkness. A hush was upon it and all the
out-buildings. Though nobody greeted me, still I knew where I was
by the odd-looking arch over the corral gate. Mr. St. Joer was at
the soiree in Tooele, and had made me promise to tarry with him a
night before braving the desert; so we camped in the corral. We
were awakened early by the genial ranchman, and escorted in to
breakfast with him and a guest, a young man from Salt Lake City,
who had just ridden horseback from Granite Mountain, where he had
been inspecting some lead mines.
It was a treat for me to sit again at a meal not cooked by myself;
all four of us ate with genuine relish. The stranger was about
thirty, of light complexion, tall and slender, and was dressed in
a nobby riding-suit, with leather leggings and spurs.
"If you take the Granite Mt. trail to Redding Springs," suggested
my host, turning to the young engineer for his indorsement--"but
no, that's too risky," he corrected.
"Save forty miles and more," commented the engineer. "I can give
the Professor a diagram of the desert and all the trails to
Fedora Spring in Granite Mt.; the trail from there to Redding is
not confusing, I understand."
I said I would take the risk to save forty miles, a two days'
journey. My first intention had been to go south of the desert by
Fish Springs, the route generally traveled by emigrant schooners.
Three hours later, we were climbing the rocky summit of the range
that hid the great desert beyond, and threading the jagged
causeway called the Devil's Gate.
They rose sheer and craggy high above us--immutable witnesses of
that sundering catastrophe of nature when the earth's mighty
convulsions of a prehistoric age converted an obstacle into a
convenient pass. When out on the western side and I beheld the
broad expanse of sun-tanned desert reaching from that sage mottled
slope to the parallel-stretch of mesa, some twenty miles away, the
intervening Skull Valley lost for me its legendary terrors. But it
was a forlorn-looking prospect; only two things made up the
perfect picture of a despised Nature--alkali and sage.
About noon, when we had proceeded some distance into the Skull
Valley desert, we stopped to feed and rest an hour before resuming
the march. As we seemed to have abundance of water and provisions,
this glaring solitude with such a lugubrious name caused me no
dread sensations, for when supplied with the necessities of life,
it is difficult for one to realize the dying man's agonies of
starvation or thirst.
By six we had crossed Skull Valley. The last mile of trail wound
up a slight grade to a grassy bench, where stood a low-roofed, log
shack; it was the deserted Scribner's Ranch. A few moment's
reconnoitering resulted in our finding the spring.
Then we unpacked and picketed the animals, excepting Mac A'Rony,
who was usually allowed to roam at will; for when tied, he was
forever tangling himself in a snarl that required time and
patience to unravel.
Our tent was pitched a hundred feet from the shack, whose dusky
contour, wrapped in the sombre veil of night, on the mesa above us
and against the sparkling firmament, looked cold and repelling
indeed.
Day had advanced two hours when we awoke. The broad desert to the
west gleamed at white heat. While I cooked breakfast, Coonskin
saddled the animals, to save time; then, the meal over, we quickly
packed and started for the scorching sands. The trail was as hot
and level as a fire-brick floor. As far as the eye could reach in
three directions, the blue, curved dome of heaven and the
glistening desert met in a gaseous haze, hiding the horizon, but
in time, far to the west, as we proceeded gradually, rose a
bluish-gray pyramid, which we know to be Granite Mountain; while,
to the rear, the distant hills, where stood the deserted cabin,
looked to be mere dust-heaps at the base of Nature's architecture--the
towering rocks of the Cedar Mountains through which we trailed
the morning before.
Every few minutes we had to tap our canteens; the powdered alkali
dust rose in our faces and swelled our eyes and tongues; no amount
of water would alleviate our pangs of thirst. Besides, the
evaporation of the water in our cloth-wrapped canteens and
basket-covered demijohn was frightfully great; I feared lest the
supply would not last us through to Fedora Spring. I gave Don
frequent drinks, yet his eyes were blood-shot and his tongue hung
out foaming and swollen. As a precaution against any sudden freak
of madness on his part, I held my revolver in readiness to
dispatch the dear fellow should it become necessary.
On the other hand, my donkeys strode along quietly, without
complaint or seeming discomfort, as if in their native element.
Not a living thing could we see beyond our caravan. No jack-rabbits
ventured into the desert; no more would a water-spaniel
breast a scalding sea. The only living thing we met with in that
gigantic kiln was a horned toad, which was existing as a hermit
and was apparently content. We captured it, and Coonskin named it
Job, because the horns which covered it looked like the extinct
craters of once boiling boils. Our water was vanishing so rapidly
by noon that I decided not to tarry for lunch and rest, but to
hasten to the spring; but at five, when the sun was nearer the
horizon and evaporation less, I ordered a dry camp, and the
donkeys were unpacked and grained with the last of the barley
generously presented by St. Joer. We men lunched on cold meat and
crackers and canned fruit, and sparing draughts of warm water;
after which we reclined and smoked until the sun set. Then we
repacked before darkness set in to confuse us. How the donkeys did
enjoy rolling in the alkali! When they had finished their dry
ablutions they looked like negroes who had been hit with a bag of
flour.
Just before resuming the march, we men poured a few drops of
citric acid into our two quart canteens, whose tepid water was
only an aggravation of our thirst; the acid made it palatable.
Soon afterward I discovered our great error. The acid so worked on
the tin that the water became, in time, unfit to drink; fearing
lest it would poison us, we both had to throw the precious liquid
away.
About mid-way that afternoon I saw my first mirage. It was simply
magnificent, wonderful! A snow-crowned mountain rose out of the
desert, and on top of it, turned bottom-side up, rested its
counterpart, both phantom peaks remaining a while immovable; then
they appeared to crush into each other and dissolve. The spectacle
was bewildering. Like mammoth icebergs in a glistening sea, they
seemed to melt and leave on the arid waste a great lake of crystal
water. At sundown they reappeared with still grander effect.
The sun threw a crimson, fiery mantle over the under mountain,
which produced the effect of flowing lava down its snow-white
slope to a flame-red lake on the desert, while above, on the upper
mountain, reflected and danced shadows of rose-color and pink, as
if reflected from flames within the crater of a volcano
underneath. Then, as the sun sank below the horizon, the upper
mountain gradually rose toward the zenith and opened wider, like a
great fan, tinted with all the colors of a rainbow, until it faded
into radiating webs of gossamer, and disappeared.
One other time we saw plainly the skeletons of a man and a horse
glistening several hundred feet from the trail, but I was too
incredulous to put faith in the old proverb, "Seeing is
believing," and passed on. Just before dark the huge Granite
Mountain looked to be only a couple of miles away. Still we
traveled till midnight before we passed the edge of the dusky
pile, so deceiving are distances in that rarified air.
The evening in that cooling oven of baked sand and alkali was
oppressively long, dull and wearisome. Every trail branching
toward Granite Mountain had to be checked off my diagram, for we
had seen no sign-board. True, the heavens lent a little cheer with
their sparkling lights, but the temperature fell from far above
the 100 degree mark to 70 degrees by eight o'clock, and to 48
degrees before we pitched camp. We had passed three trails not on
the diagram, and I began nervously to speculate whether the
sign-board had been taken by some overland voyager for fuel and
we had passed the trail to Fedora Spring.
The clock pointed to one. A few moments later a well-beaten trail
curved southward toward the towering pyramid of rock. I called a
halt to reason with my man on the advisability of following it.
"We'll chance it," I said; and we trailed toward the mountain.
Narrower, rockier and steeper grew the trail for two miles, before
I discerned the sloping sides of the canyon we were in, when I
ordered camp. The donkeys were securely picketed to the roots of
giant sage with our longest ropes, to enable them to find sleeping
places among the rocks; I knew they must be very thirsty, and
would try to break away in search of water. Then we made our bed
in the trail, and with lantern went to find the spring; but we
searched in vain and returned to our camp-fire discouraged.
Evidently we had taken a wood-trail into a dry canyon.
Only half a two-quart canteen of water was left us. We ate a cold
lunch, and drank sparingly; after which I took charge of the
canteen for the night. Coonskin remonstrated at once, saying he
was thirsty. I said I was, too, and that when I should drink, he
could, but not otherwise. We were in desperate circumstances, and
I must exercise my authority. So we crawled into our blankets, on
the hard and narrow trail under the glittering canopy of heaven,
and were soon asleep. But, before lying down, with a realizing
sense that we were lost and without the water to keep us alive
half the distance either to Skull Valley or to Redding Springs, I
knelt in fervent prayer to God to guide us out of that awful
wilderness to water in time to save us from the death that seemed
to be in store for us on the morrow. The beaming planets, also
voyagers on a limitless sea of mystery and doubt, looked down,
cold and unsympathetic. Coonskin was first asleep; when I was
sure, by his breathing, I quietly rose and gave my faithful dog a
few drops of water in the wash basin. He was grateful indeed, and
tried to be content; he seemed to realize the situation, and
licking my cheek, lay down close to my side.
The sun shone over the walls of the canyon and awoke us
frightfully late. We stretched and yawned. Now, I thought, if I
had only taken Mac's suggestion to lay in a store of carrots and
turnips, the water in the vegetables would have sufficed in
emergency, and the donkeys had feed.
As my hopeful outfit tramped and slipped and tumbled down to the
shining plain, I almost felt I could see my finish on that
sun-scorched lime-hued gridiron which faded away into a gaseous
nothingness in three directions. When we came to the main desert
trail, I halted my caravan to debate with my despondent valet as
to what would be the wisest move. Should we go east or west?
"Flip a penny," said Coonskin, "Heads, west; tails, east!" and he
at once threw the coin whirling in the air, and caught it, tails
up.
"West we have been traveling, and west we shall continue to go," I
said positively; and gave the command to move on, adding: "If we
fail to discover the sign-board after passing beyond the mountain,
then we'll come back and search to the east."
We had proceeded a mile and a half when Coonskin went crazy, or
had a fit, and I emptied the canteen in his mouth. This revived
him. He had partially undressed and was trying his best to
frighten me and the dog. The sun beat down furiously; the sky
wasn't the only thing that looked blue. I raised the canteen to my
lips and drained it of the last and only drop. My tongue hung out
swollen, and my palate and throat burned. Another half mile, and I
should have despaired, when, suddenly, a small white board, nailed
to a short stake, loomed up ahead of us. I knew intuitively it
marked the branch trail to the coveted spring. No two happier
mortals ever lived than Coonskin and I. We threw our hats in the
air; we shouted, and hurrahed, and sang; and turned handsprings
and somersaults on the white, dusty floor of the desert. An hour
later my little caravan had climbed the canyon to its fountain,
and there we men fell on our stomachs with my dog, under the heels
of the five donkeys which crowded about the cool, delicious
waters, and drank until seized by the collar and dragged away from
the spring by a man and boy.
Near by stood prairie schooners, and some yards beyond were their
horses, nibbling on the tops of sage brush. The party was bound
east, and did us a kindness by preventing our drinking to excess
in our condition.
The man was kind enough to caution me before departing to mark
well the sky and the wind, for should we be caught in a rain in
that dreaded Red Desert, whose soil is so tenacious, we would
"pass in our chips" without doubt.
At one o'clock we struck out. The afternoon's march was just as
tedious, and uncomfortably hot, and thirst-provoking as that of
the previous day. But, with the exception of a fright we received
late in the day when a few drops of rain fell from a passing
cloud, there was nothing to mar the serenity of the journey to
Redding Springs. The long-traveled trail was worn to a depth of
twenty inches and more for many miles. We men, especially I, had
to sit our animals Turkish-fashion to avoid being drawn out of the
saddles by our dragging feet. The march after sunset to two in the
morning was the most wearisome. Finally, when we were still three
or four miles to Redding, I heard a dog bark ahead in the
darkness, and thought we were almost there. Yet we traveled an
hour and a half before the buildings of the ranch loomed in the
darkness. Soon we had supped, and were wrapped in slumber.
Redding Springs is a great oasis in the Salt Lake Desert. Three
springs, varying from fifty to one hundred and fifty feet in
diameter, overflow the reeded banks and irrigate a wide area of
what otherwise might be an arid spot. An Italian owns this
cattle-ranch and grows most of the necessities of life; he
seemingly is content, though far removed from the cheerful and
busy world. He believed that two of the springs were bottomless,
and had some subterranean outlet. A steer once attempted to swim
across one pond, and was drawn under by the suction and never seen
again. To prove the Italian's theory, these two ponds, or springs,
contained fish whose blindness indicates they must have lived in
underground channels where eyesight was not required, soon losing
their optics altogether.
Mac A'Rony observed, when I had related to him the dago's story
that in all probability the steer had undertaken an underground
voyage to join a herd of sea-cows in the Pacific.
Our much-needed day of rest was a delightful one.
It was a twenty-eight mile journey to Deep Creek. My outfit was in
readiness to start at 7 a. m. next day. The nine miles across the
sage-covered plain to the mountains was accomplished in a little
over three hours; then my animals began slowly to climb the ascent
over a rough but well-beaten trail.
By carrying out the directions given me by the Italian, at ten
that night my fatigued caravan was straggling along the western
slope of the broad-shouldered Deep Creek range. The sky was
clouded, the air heavy with mist; a shower was imminent. I
strained my eyes to ferret out a habitation of some sort from
among the distant and faintly twinkling lights, but when I had
selected one for our objective point and gone a hundred yards or
so, it suddenly went out, and I had to single out another one.
Again we were disappointed. Evidently it was the bed-time hour;
soon all the lights would be extinguished.
Presently rain began to fall. I took it as a timely warning, and
ordered camp. We pitched our tent in the trail, the only place in
which we could spread our bed, and crawled under cover just as the
rain poured down with a vengeance.
We had not more than closed our eyes than Don uttered a growl of
warning, and I heard the sound of galloping hoofs approaching. I
sat up. Then I heard the trampling of sage to one side of the
trail, and looking out, saw a man on horseback. "Hello there! Who
be you? Travelin' er goin' somewhere?" called a voice. I liked the
tone; the words were genial, even cheery. When I answered, he gave
us an urgent invitation to pack up and go on with him to his cabin
a half mile distant, as his guests until the storm abated.
"I thought you were drunken Injuns at first," said he. "Not common
for white men to camp in the trail. My horse was so frightened he
nearly spilt me, shying into the chaparral."
I laughed good-naturedly, and promised to arrive at his house in
time for breakfast, explaining that it would not be worth our
while to dress and pack in the rain, since we were perfectly
comfortable. Soon a hush fell upon the scene, and the beating rain
on the canvas lulled us sweetly to sleep.
When we arose in the morning, everything was dripping and a
furious gale blowing. The rain appeared to be over, but no sooner
had we packed up than down again it came. We hustled our animals
up the muddy incline, and soon rode into the door-yard of the only
cabin on the trail, and commenced unpacking. Soon our midnight
acquaintance, Murray, and his chum, an old man who went by the
cognomen of Uncle Tom, came out and welcomed us; both our hosts
were effusive in their hospitality. One stabled and fed the
donkeys, and the other ushered us into the cabin where we were
provided with dry raiment and a hot breakfast. The fire in the
stove roared in triumph and scorn at the scudding rain and wind
without, while I smiled in gratitude.
The men brought us books and tobacco, and couldn't do enough for
us. The storm soon assumed the character of a hurricane; and I
tried to fancy my little party struggling in the throes of those
merciless elements to make headway across the valley and up the
western mesa. The gale waged all day and night, but on the
following morning the sky was clear and the wind had died
considerably. It was a relief to get out of the stuffy house into
the free and open air. I took the axe and exercised myself with
chopping wood for an hour, which display of energy greatly pleased
Uncle Tom, who, I assumed, provided the fuel for the camp.
Murray was to start at eight on a round-up; so I resumed my
pilgrimage at the same time. Before good-byes were said he
presented me with a fine hair rope, braided with his own hands, as
a souvenir of the happy occasion. The place to find large hearts
is out on the western plains!
Nine o'clock saw us trampling sage in a short cut down the slope
toward a small group of log houses, designated as Deep Creek. The
frontier store was kept by an Irishman, but bossed by his wife,
who tried to impress me with her importance. Adjoining it stood
another old shack, and projecting from its front eves was a small
signboard on which was the following startling announcement:
1st. class dentestry
All kinds dun cheap. Horses a specilty.
Wimen prefured.
TERMS CASH or credit.
I was amused at the novelty of this dentist's shingle; so was Mac
A'Rony.
"Poor Damfino!" he ejaculated presently, as I rubbed his nose.
"Can't you help her out of her suffering? The poor girl has had a
toothache for two days."
"Most assuredly I will," I said. "Why didn't you inform me
before?" And forthwith I ferreted out the frontier tooth-doctor.
He, resurrected from his prolonged lethargy, hunted up a
dust-covered tool-chest, and followed me impetuously to his
asinine patient.