We have determined to continue the exploration of the cañons of the
Colorado. Our last trip was so hurried, owing to the loss of rations,
and the scientific instruments were so badly injured, that we are not
satisfied with the results obtained, so we shall once more attempt to
pass through the cañons in boats, devoting two or three years to the
trip.
It will not be possible to carry in the boats sufficient supplies for
the party for that length of time, so it is thought best to establish
dépôts of supplies, at intervals of one or two hundred miles along the
river.
Between Gunnison’s Crossing and the foot of the Grand Cañon, we know
of only two points where the river can be reached--one at the Crossing
of the Fathers, and another a few miles below, at the mouth of the
Paria, on a route which has been explored by Jacob Hamblin, a Mormon
missionary. These two points are so near each other that only one of
them can be selected for the purpose above mentioned, and others must
be found. We have been unable, up to this time, to obtain, either from
Indians or white men, any information which will give us a clue to any
other trail to the river.
At the head waters of the Sevier, we are on the summit of a great
water-shed. The Sevier itself flows north, and then westward, into the
lake of the same name. The Rio Virgen, heading near by, flows to the
southwest, into the Colorado, sixty or seventy miles below the Grand
Cañon. The Kanab, also heading near by, runs directly south, into the
very heart of the Grand Cañon. The Paria, also heading near by, runs
a little south of east, and enters the river at the head of Marble
Cañon. To the northeast from this point, other streams, which run into
the Colorado, have their sources, until, forty or fifty miles away,
we reach the southern branches of the Dirty Devil River, the mouth of
which stream is but a short distance below the junction of the Grand
and Green.
The Pouns-a′-gunt Plateau terminates in a point, which is bounded by
a line of beautiful pink cliffs. At the foot of this plateau, on the
west, the Rio Virgen and Sevier Rivers are dovetailed together, as
their minute upper branches interlock. The upper surface of the plateau
inclines to the northeast, so that its waters roll off into the Sevier;
but from the foot of the cliffs, quite around the sharp angle of the
plateau, for a dozen miles, we find numerous springs, whose waters
unite to form the Kanab. But a little farther to the northeast the
springs gather into streams that feed the Paria.
Here, by the upper springs of the Kanab, we make a camp, and from this
point we are to radiate on a series of trips, southwest, south, and
east.
Jacob Hamblin, who has been a missionary among the Indians for more
than twenty years, has collected a number of _Kai′-vav-its_, with
_Chu-ar′-ru-um-peak_, their chief, and they are all camped with us.
They assure us that we cannot reach the river; that we cannot make our
way into the depths of the cañon, but promise to show us the springs
and water pockets, which are very scarce in all this region, and to
give us all the information in their power.
Here we fit up a pack train, for our bedding and instruments, and
supplies are to be carried on the backs of mules and ponies.
_September 5, 1870._--The several members of the party are engaged in
general preparation for our trip down to the Grand Cañon.
Taking with me a white man and an Indian, I start on a climb to the
summit of the Pouns-a′-gunt Plateau, which rises above us on the east.
Our way, for a mile or more, is over a great peat bog, that trembles
under our feet, and now and then a mule sinks through the broken turf,
and we are compelled to pull it out with ropes.
Passing the bog, our way is up a gulch, at the foot of the Pink Cliffs,
which form the escarpment, or wall, of the great plateau. Soon we leave
the gulch, and climb a long ridge, which winds around to the right
toward the summit of the great table.
Two hours’ riding, climbing, and clambering brings us near the top.
We look below, and see clouds drifting up from the south, and rolling
tumultuously toward the foot of the cliffs, beneath us. Soon, all
the country below is covered with a sea of vapor--a billowy, raging,
noiseless sea--and as the vapory flood still rolls up from the south,
great waves dash against the foot of the cliffs and roll back; another
tide comes in, is hurled back, and another and another, lashing the
cliffs until the fog rises to the summit, and covers us all.
There is a heavy pine and fir forest above, beset with dead and fallen
timber, and we make our way through the undergrowth to the east.
It rains! The clouds discharge their moisture in torrents, and we make
for ourselves shelters of boughs, which are soon abandoned, and we
stand shivering by a great fire of pine logs and boughs, which we have
kindled, but which the pelting storm half extinguishes.
One, two, three, four hours of the storm, and at last it partially
abates.
During this time our animals, which we have turned loose, have sought
for themselves shelter under the trees, and two of them have wandered
away beyond our sight. I go out to follow their tracks, and come near
to the brink of a ledge of rocks, which, in the fog and mist, I suppose
to be a little ridge, and I look for a way by which I can go down.
Standing just here, there is a rift made in the fog below, by some
current or blast of wind, which reveals an almost bottomless abyss. I
look from the brink of a great precipice of more than two thousand
feet; but, through the mist, the forms below are half obscured, and
all reckoning of distance is lost, and it seems ten thousand feet, ten
miles--any distance the imagination desires to make it.
Catching our animals, we return to the camp. We find that the little
streams which come down from the plateau are greatly swollen, but at
camp they have had no rain. The clouds which drifted up from the south,
striking against the plateau, were lifted up into colder regions, and
discharged their moisture on the summit, and against the sides of the
plateau, but there was no rain in the valley below.
_September 9._--We make a fair start this morning, from the beautiful
meadow at the head of the Kanab, and cross the line of little hills
at the headwaters of the Rio Virgen, and pass, to the south, a pretty
valley, and at ten o’clock come to the brink of a great geographic
bench--a line of cliffs. Behind us are cool springs, green meadows,
and forest clad slopes; below us, stretching to the south, until the
world is lost in blue haze, is a painted desert; not a desert plain,
but a desert of rocks, cut by deep gorges, and relieved by towering
cliffs and pinnacled rocks--naked rocks, brilliant in the sunlight.
By a difficult trail, we make our way down the basaltic ledge, through
which innumerable streams here gather into a little river, running in
a deep cañon. The river runs close to the foot of the cliffs, on the
right hand side, and the trail passes along to the right. At noon we
rest, and our animals feed on luxuriant grass.
Again we start, and make slow progress along a stony way. At night we
camp under an overarching cliff.
_September 10._--Here the river turns to the west, and our way,
properly, is to the south; but we wish to explore the Rio Virgen as far
as possible. The Indians tell us that the cañon narrows gradually, a
few miles below, and that it will be impossible to take our animals
much farther down the river. Early in the morning, I go down to examine
the head of this narrow part. After breakfast, having concluded to
explore the cañon for a few miles on foot, we arrange that the main
party shall climb the cliff, and go around to a point eighteen or
twenty miles below, where, the Indians say, the animals can be taken
down by the river, and three of us set out on foot.
The Indian name of the cañon is _Pa-ru′-nu-weap_, or Roaring Water
Cañon. Between the little river and the foot of the walls, is a dense
growth of willows, vines, and wild rose bushes, and, with great
difficulty, we make our way through this tangled mass. It is not a wide
stream--only twenty or thirty feet across in most places; shallow, but
very swift. After spending some hours in breaking our way through the
mass of vegetation, and climbing rocks here and there, it is determined
to wade along the stream. In some places this is an easy task, but
here and there we come to deep holes, where we have to wade to our
arm pits. Soon we come to places so narrow that the river fills the
entire channel, and we wade perforce. In many places the bottom is a
quicksand, into which we sink, and it is with great difficulty that
we make progress. In some places the holes are so deep that we have
to swim, and our little bundles of blankets and rations are fixed to
a raft made of driftwood, and pushed before us. Now and then there is
a little flood-plain, on which we can walk, and we cross and recross
the stream, and wade along the channel where the water is so swift as
to almost carry us off our feet, and we are in danger every moment of
being swept down, until night comes on. We estimate we have traveled
eight miles to-day. We find a little patch of flood-plain, on which
there is a huge pile of driftwood and a clump of box-elders, and near
by a great stream, which bursts from the rocks--a mammoth spring.
We soon have a huge fire, our clothes are spread to dry, we make a cup
of coffee, take out our bread and cheese and dried beef, and enjoy a
hearty supper.
The cañon here is about twelve hundred feet deep. It has been very
narrow and winding all the way down to this point.
_September 11._--Wading again this morning; sinking in the quicksand,
swimming the deep waters, and making slow and painful progress where
the waters are swift, and the bed of the stream rocky.
The cañon is steadily becoming deeper, and, in many places, very
narrow--only twenty or thirty feet wide below, and in some places no
wider, and even narrower, for hundreds of feet overhead. There are
places where the river, in sweeping by curves, has cut far under the
rocks, but still preserving its narrow channel, so that there is an
overhanging wall on one side and an inclined wall on the other. In
places a few hundred feet above, it becomes vertical again, and thus
the view of the sky is entirely closed. Everywhere this deep passage
is dark and gloomy, and resounds with the noise of rapid waters. At
noon we are in a cañon 2,500 feet deep, and we come to a fall where
the walls are broken down, and huge rocks beset the channel, on which
we obtain a foothold to reach a level two hundred feet below. Here the
cañon is again wider, and we find a flood-plain, along which we can
walk, now on this, and now on that side of the stream. Gradually the
cañon widens; steep rapids, cascades, and cataracts are found along the
river, but we wade only when it is necessary to cross. We make progress
with very great labor, having to climb over piles of broken rocks.
Late in the afternoon, we come to a little clearing in the valley, and
see other signs of civilization, and by sundown arrive at the Mormon
town of Schunesburg; and here we meet the train, and feast on melons
and grapes.
_September 12._--Our course, for the last two days, through
_Pa-ru′-nu-weap_ Cañon, was directly to the west. Another stream comes
down from the north, and unites just here at Schunesburg with the
main branch of the Rio Virgen. We determine to spend a day in the
exploration of this stream. The Indians call the cañon, through which
it runs, _Mu-koon′-tu-weap_, or Straight Cañon. Entering this, we have
to wade up stream; often the water fills the entire channel, and,
although we travel many miles, we find no flood-plain, talus, or broken
piles of rock at the foot of the cliff. The walls have smooth, plain
faces, and are everywhere very regular and vertical for a thousand feet
or more, where they seem to break back in shelving slopes to higher
altitudes; and everywhere, as we go along, we find springs bursting out
at the foot of the walls, and, passing these, the river above becomes
steadily smaller; the great body of water, which runs below, bursts out
from beneath this great bed of red sandstone; as we go up the cañon,
it comes to be but a creek, and then a brook. On the western wall of
the cañon stand some buttes, towers, and high pinnacled rocks. Going
up the cañon, we gain glimpses of them, here and there. Last summer,
after our trip through the cañons of the Colorado, on our way from the
mouth of the Virgen to Salt Lake City, these were seen as conspicuous
landmarks, from a distance, away to the southwest, of sixty or seventy
miles. These tower rocks are known as the Temples of the Virgen.
Having explored this cañon nearly to its head, we return to
Schunesburg, arriving quite late at night.
Sitting in camp this evening, _Chu-ar′-ru-um-peak_, the chief of the
_Kai′-vav-its_, who is one of our party, tells us there is a tradition
among the tribes of this country, that many years ago a great light
was seen some-where in this region by the _Pa-ru′-sha-pats_, who lived
to the southwest, and that they supposed it to be a signal, kindled
to warn them of the approach of the _Navajos_, who live beyond the
Colorado River to the east. Then other signal fires were kindled on
the Pine Valley Mountain, Santa Clara Mountains, and U-in-ka-ret
Mountains, so that all the tribes of Northern Arizona, Southern Utah,
Southern Nevada, and Southern California were warned of the approaching
danger; but when the _Pa-ru′-sha-pats_ came nearer, they discovered
that it was a fire on one of the great Temples; and then they knew that
the fire was not kindled by men, for no human being could scale the
rocks. The _Tu′-mu-ur-ru-gwait′-si-gaip_, or Rock Rovers, had kindled
a fire to deceive the people. In the Indian language this is called
_Tu′-mu-ur-ru-gwait′-si-gaip Tu-weap′_, or Rock Rovers’ Land.
_September 13._--We start very early this morning, for we have a long
day’s travel before us. Our way is across the Rio Virgen to the south.
Coming to the bank of the stream here, we find a strange metamorphosis.
The streams we have seen above, running in narrow channels, leaping
and plunging over the rocks, raging and roaring in their course, are
here united, and spread in a thin sheet several hundred yards wide, and
only a few inches deep, but running over a bed of quicksand. Crossing
the stream, our trail leads up a narrow cañon, not very deep, and then
among the hills of golden, red, and purple shales and marls. Climbing
out of the valley of the Rio Virgen, we pass through a forest of dwarf
cedars, and come out at the foot of the Vermilion Cliffs. All day we
follow this Indian trail toward the east, and at night camp at a great
spring, known to the Indians as Yellow Rock Spring, but to the Mormons
as Pipe Spring; and near by there is a cabin in which some Mormon
herders find shelter. Pipe Spring is a point just across the Utah line
in Arizona, and we suppose it to be about sixty miles from the river.
Here the Mormons design to build a fort another year, as an outpost for
protection against the Indians.
Here we discharge a number of the Indians, but take two with us for
the purpose of showing us the springs, for they are very scarce,
very small, and not easily found. Half a dozen are not known in a
district of country large enough to make as many good sized counties
in Illinois. There are no running streams, and these springs and
water-pockets--that is, holes in the rocks, which hold water from
shower to shower--are our only dependence for this element.
Starting, we leave behind a long line of cliffs, many hundred feet
high, composed of orange and vermilion sandstones. I have named them
“Vermilion Cliffs.” When we are out a few miles, I look back, and see
the morning sun shining in splendor on their painted faces; the salient
angles are on fire, and the retreating angles are buried in shade, and
I gaze on them until my vision dreams, and the cliffs appear a long
bank of purple clouds, piled from the horizon high into the heavens.
At noon we pass along a ledge of chocolate cliffs, and, taking out our
sandwiches, we make a dinner as we ride along.
Yesterday, our Indians discussed for hours the route which we
should take. There is one way, farther by ten or twelve miles, with
sure water; another shorter, where water is found sometimes; their
conclusion was that water would be found now; and this is the way we
go, yet all day long we are anxious about it. To be out two days, with
only the water that can be carried in two small kegs, is to have our
animals suffer greatly. At five o’clock we come to the spot, and there
is a huge water-pocket, containing several barrels. What a relief! Here
we camp for the night.
_September 15._--Up at day-break, for it is a long day’s march to the
next water. They say we must “run very hard” to reach it by dark.
Our course is to the south. From Pipe Spring we can see a mountain, and
I recognize it as the one seen last summer from a cliff overlooking the
Grand Cañon; and I wish to reach the river just behind the mountain.
There are Indians living in the group, of which it is the highest, whom
I wish to visit on the way. These mountains are of volcanic origin,
and we soon come to ground that is covered with fragments of lava. The
way becomes very difficult. We have to cross deep ravines, the heads
of cañons that run into the Grand Cañon. It is curious now to observe
the knowledge of our Indians. There is not a trail but what they know;
every gulch and every rock seems familiar. I have prided myself on
being able to grasp and retain in my mind the topography of a country;
but these Indians put me to shame. My knowledge is only general,
embracing the more important features of a region that remains as a map
engraved on my mind; but theirs is particular. They know every rock and
every ledge, every gulch and cañon, and just where to wind among these
to find a pass; and their knowledge is unerring. They cannot describe a
country to you, but they can tell you all the particulars of a route.
I have but one pony for the two, and they were to ride “turn about”;
but _Chu-ar′-ru-um-peak_, the chief, rides, and _Shuts_, the one-eyed,
bare-legged, merry-faced pigmy, walks, and points the way with a
slender cane; then leaps and bounds by the shortest way, and sits down
on a rock and waits demurely until we come, always meeting us with a
jest, his face a rich mine of sunny smiles.
At dusk we reach the water-pocket. It is in a deep gorge, on the flank
of this great mountain. During the rainy season the water rolls down
the mountain side, plunging over precipices, and excavates a deep basin
in the solid rock below. This basin, hidden from the sun, holds water
the year round.
_September 16._--This morning, while the men are packing the animals,
I climb a little mountain near camp, to obtain a view of the country.
It is a huge pile of volcanic scoria, loose and light as cinders from a
forge, which give way under my feet, and I climb with great labor; but
reaching the summit, and looking to the southeast, I see once more the
labyrinth of deep gorges that flank the Grand Cañon; in the multitude,
I cannot determine whether it be in view or not. The memories of grand
and awful months spent in their deep, gloomy solitudes come up, and I
live that life over again for a time.
I supposed, before starting, that I could get a good view of the great
mountain from this point; but it is like climbing a chair to look at a
castle. I wish to discover some way by which it can be ascended, as it
is my intention to go to the summit before I return to the settlements.
There is a cliff near the summit, and I do not see the way yet. Now
down I go, sliding on the cinders, making them rattle and clang.
The Indians say we are to have a short ride to-day, and that we will
reach an Indian village, situated by a good spring. Our way is across
the spurs that put out from the great mountain, as we pass it to the
left.
Up and down we go, across deep ravines, and the fragments of lava clank
under our horses’ feet; now among cedars, now among pines, and now
across mountain side glades. At one o’clock we descend into a lovely
valley, with a carpet of waving grass; sometimes there is a little
water in the upper end of it, and, during some seasons, the Indians
we wish to find are encamped here. _Chu-ar′-ru-um-peak_ rides on to
find them, and to say we are friends, otherwise they would run away,
or propose to fight us, should we come without notice. Soon we see
_Chu-ar′-ru-um-peak_ riding at full speed, and hear him shouting at the
top of his voice, and away in the distance are two Indians, scampering
up the mountain side. One stops; the other still goes on, and is soon
lost to view. We ride up, and find _Chu-ar′-ru-um-peak_ talking with
the one who had stopped. It is one of the ladies resident in these
mountain glades; she is evidently paying taxes, Godiva like. She tells
us that her people are at the spring; that it is only two hours’ ride;
that her good master has gone on to tell them we are coming, and that
she is harvesting seeds.
We sit down and eat our luncheon, and share our biscuit with the woman
of the mountains; then on we go, over a divide between two rounded
peaks. I send the party on to the village, and climb the peak on the
left, riding my horse to the upper limit of trees, and then tugging up
afoot. From this point I can see the Grand Cañon, and know where I
am. I can see the Indian village, too, in a grassy valley, embosomed
in the mountains, the smoke curling up from their fires; my men are
turning out their horses, and a group of natives stand around. Down the
mountain I go, and reach camp at sunset.
After supper we put some cedar boughs on the fire, the dusky villagers
sit around, and we have a smoke and a talk. I explain the object of
my visit, and assure them of my friendly intentions. Then I ask them
about a way down into the cañon. They tell me that years ago, a way
was discovered by which parties could go down, but that no one has
attempted it for a long time; that it is a very difficult and very
dangerous undertaking to reach the “Big Water.” Then I inquire about
the _Shi′-vwits_, a tribe that lives about the springs on the mountain
sides and cañon cliffs to the southwest. They say that their village is
now about thirty miles away, and promise to send a messenger for them
to-morrow morning.
Having finished our business for the evening, I ask if there is a
_tu-gwi′-na-gunt_ in camp: that is, if there is any one present who
is skilled in relating their mythology. _Chu-ar′-ru-um-peak_ says
_To-mor′-ro-un-ti-kai_, the chief of these Indians, is a very noted man
for his skill in this matter; but they both object, by saying that the
season for _tu-gwi′-nai_ has not yet arrived. But I had anticipated
this, and soon some members of the party come with pipes and tobacco,
a large kettle of coffee, and a tray of biscuits, and, after sundry
ceremonies of pipe lighting and smoking, we all feast, and, warmed up
by this, to them, unusual good living, it is decided that the night
shall be spent in relating mythology. I ask _To-mor′-ro-un-ti-kai_ to
tell us about the _So′-kus Wai′-un-ats_, or One Two Boys, and to this
he agrees.
The long winter evenings of an Indian camp are usually devoted to the
relation of mythological stories, which purport to give a history of
an ancient race of animal gods. The stories are usually told by some
old man, assisted by others of the party, who take secondary parts,
while the members of the tribe gather about, and make comments, or
receive impressions from the morals which are enforced by the story
teller, or, more properly, story tellers; for the exercise partakes
somewhat of the nature of a theatrical performance.
THE SO′-KUS WAI′-UN-ATS.
_Tum-pwi-nai′-ro-gwi-nump_, he who had a stone shirt, killed _Si-kor′_,
the Crane, and stole his wife, and seeing that she had a child, and
thinking it would be an incumbrance to them on their travels, he
ordered her to kill it. But the mother, loving the babe, hid it under
her dress, and carried it away to its grandmother. And Stone Shirt
carried his captured bride to his own land.
In a few years the child grew to be a fine lad, under the care of his
grandmother, and was her companion wherever she went.
One day they were digging flag roots, on the margin of the river,
and putting them in a heap on the bank. When they had been at work a
little while, the boy perceived that the roots came up with greater
ease than was customary, and he asked the old woman the cause of
this, but she did not know; and, as they continued their work, still
the reeds came up with less effort, at which their wonder increased,
until the grandmother said, “Surely, some strange thing is about to
transpire.” Then the boy went to the heap, where they had been placing
the roots, and found that some one had taken them away, and he ran
back, exclaiming, “Grandmother, did you take the roots away?” And she
answered, “No, my child; perhaps some ghost has taken them off; let us
dig no more; come away.” But the boy was not satisfied, as he greatly
desired to know what all this meant; so he searched about for a time,
and at length found a man sitting under a tree, whom he taunted with
being a thief, and threw mud and stones at him, until he broke the
stranger’s leg, who answered not the boy, nor resented the injuries
he received, but remained silent and sorrowful; and, when his leg was
broken, he tied it up in sticks, and bathed it in the river, and sat
down again under the tree, and beckoned the boy to approach. When
the lad came near, the stranger told him he had something of great
importance to reveal. “My son,” said he, “did that old woman ever tell
you about your father and mother?” “No,” answered the boy; “I have
never heard of them.” “My son, do you see these bones scattered on the
ground? Whose bones are these?” “How should I know?” answered the boy.
“It may be that some elk or deer has been killed here.” “No,” said the
old man. “Perhaps they are the bones of a bear;” but the old man shook
his head. So the boy mentioned many other animals, but the stranger
still shook his head, and finally said, “These are the bones of your
father; Stone Shirt killed him, and left him to rot here on the ground,
like a wolf.” And the boy was filled with indignation against the
slayer of his father. Then the stranger asked, “Is your mother in
yonder lodge?” and the boy replied, “No.” “Does your mother live on the
banks of this river?” and the boy answered, “I don’t know my mother;
I have never seen her; she is dead.” “My son,” replied the stranger,
“Stone Shirt, who killed your father, stole your mother, and took her
away to the shore of a distant lake, and there she is his wife to-day.”
And the boy wept bitterly, and while the tears filled his eyes so that
he could not see, the stranger disappeared. Then the boy was filled
with wonder at what he had seen and heard, and malice grew in his heart
against his father’s enemy. He returned to the old woman, and said,
“Grandmother, why have you lied to me about my father and mother?” and
she answered not, for she knew that a ghost had told all to the boy.
And the boy fell upon the ground weeping and sobbing, until he fell
into a deep sleep, when strange things were told him.
His slumber continued three days and three nights, and when he awoke,
he said to his grandmother: “I am going away to enlist all nations in
my fight;” and straightway he departed.
(Here the boy’s travels are related with many circumstances concerning
the way he was received by the people, all given in a series of
conversations, very lengthy, so they will be omitted.)
Finally he returned in advance of the people whom he had enlisted,
bringing with him _Shin-au′-av_, the wolf, and _To-go′-av_, the
rattlesnake. When the three had eaten food, the boy said to the old
woman: “Grandmother, cut me in two!” But she demurred, saying she
did not wish to kill one whom she loved so dearly. “Cut me in two!”
demanded the boy; and he gave her a stone ax, which he had brought
from a distant country, and with a manner of great authority he again
commanded her to cut him in two. So she stood before him, and severed
him in twain, and fled in terror. And lo! each part took the form of an
entire man, and the one beautiful boy appeared as two, and they were so
much alike no one could tell them apart.
When the people or natives, whom the boy had enlisted, came pouring
into the camp, _Shin-au′-av_ and _To-go′-av_ were engaged in telling
them of the wonderful thing that had happened to the boy, and that now
there were two; and they all held it to be an augury of a successful
expedition to the land of Stone Shirt. And they started on their
journey.
Now the boy had been told in the dream of his three days’ slumber, of a
magical cup, and he had brought it home with him from his journey among
the nations, and the _So′-kus Wai′-un-ats_ carried it between them,
filled with water. _Shin-au′-av_ walked on their right, and _To-go′-av_
on their left, and the nations followed in the order in which they had
been enlisted. There was a vast number of them, so that when they were
stretched out in line it was one day’s journey from the front to the
rear of the column.
When they had journeyed two days, and were far out on the desert, all
the people thirsted, for they found no water, and they fell down upon
the sand, groaning, and murmuring that they had been deceived, and they
cursed the One-Two.
But the _So′-kus Wai′-un-ats_ had been told in the wonderful dream of
the suffering which would be endured, and that the water which they
carried in the cup was only to be used in dire necessity; and the
brothers said to each other: “Now the time has come for us to drink the
water.” And when one had quaffed of the magical bowl, he found it still
full; and he gave it to the other to drink, and still it was full; and
the One-Two gave it to the people, and one after another did they all
drink, and still the cup was full to the brim.
But _Shin-au′-av_ was dead, and all the people mourned, for he was a
great man. The brothers held the cup over him, and sprinkled him with
water, when he arose and said: “Why do you disturb me? I did have a
vision of mountain brooks and meadows, of cane where honey-dew was
plenty.” They gave him the cup, and he drank also; but when he had
finished there was none left. Refreshed and rejoicing they proceeded on
their journey.
The next day, being without food, they were hungry, and all were about
to perish; and again they murmured at the brothers, and cursed them.
But the _So′-kus Wai′-un-ats_ saw in the distance an antelope, standing
on an eminence in the plain, in bold relief against the sky; and
_Shin-au′-av_ knew it was the wonderful antelope with many eyes, which
Stone Shirt kept for his watchman; and he proposed to go and kill it,
but _To-go′-av_ demurred, and said: “It were better that I should go,
for he will see you, and run away.” But the _So′-kus Wai′-un-ats_ told
_Shin-au′-av_ to go; and he started in a direction away to the left
of where the antelope was standing, that he might make a long detour
about some hills, and come upon him from the other side. _To-go′-av_
went a little way from camp, and called to the brothers: “Do you see
me?” and they answered they did not. “Hunt for me;” and while they
were hunting for him, the rattlesnake said: “I can see you; you are
doing”--so and so, telling them what they were doing; but they could
not find him.
Then the rattlesnake came forth, declaring: “Now you know I can see
others, and that I cannot be seen when I so desire. _Shin-au′-av_
cannot kill that antelope, for he has many eyes, and is the wonderful
watchman of Stone Shirt; but I can kill him, for I can go where he is,
and he cannot see me.” So the brothers were convinced, and permitted
him to go; and he went and killed the antelope. When _Shin-au′-av_ saw
it fall, he was very angry, for he was extremely proud of his fame as a
hunter, and anxious to have the honor of killing this famous antelope,
and he ran up with the intention of killing _To-go′-av_; but when he
drew near, and saw the antelope was fat, and would make a rich feast
for the people, his anger was appeased. “What matters it,” said he,
“who kills the game, when we can all eat it?”
So all the people were fed in abundance, and they proceeded on their
journey.
The next day the people again suffered for water, and the magical cup
was empty; but the _So′-kus Wai′-un-ats_, having been told in their
dream what to do, transformed themselves into doves, and flew away to a
lake, on the margin of which was the home of Stone Shirt.
Coming near to the shore, they saw two maidens bathing in the water;
and the birds stood and looked, for the maidens were very beautiful.
Then they flew into some bushes, near by, to have a nearer view, and
were caught in a snare which the girls had placed for intrusive birds.
The beautiful maidens came up, and, taking the birds out of the snare,
admired them very much, for they had never seen such birds before. They
carried them to their father, Stone Shirt, who said: “My daughters,
I very much fear these are spies from my enemies, for such birds do
not live in our land;” and he was about to throw them into the fire,
when the maidens besought him, with tears, that he would not destroy
their beautiful birds; but he yielded to their entreaties with much
misgiving. Then they took the birds to the shore of the lake, and set
them free.
When the birds were at liberty once more, they flew around among the
bushes, until they found the magical cup which they had lost, and
taking it up, they carried it out into the middle of the lake and
settled down upon the water, and the maidens supposed they were drowned.
The birds, when they had filled their cup, rose again, and went back to
the people in the desert, where they arrived just at the right time to
save them with the cup of water, from which each drank; and yet it was
full until the last was satisfied, and then not a drop remained.
The brothers reported that they had seen Stone Shirt and his daughters.
The next day they came near to the home of the enemy, and the brothers,
in proper person, went out to reconnoitre. Seeing a woman gleaning
seeds, they drew near, and knew it was their mother, whom Stone Shirt
had stolen from _Si-kor′_, the crane. They told her they were her sons,
but she denied it, and said she had never had but one son; but the boys
related to her their history, with the origin of the two from one, and
she was convinced. She tried to dissuade them from making war upon
Stone Shirt, and told them that no arrow could possibly penetrate his
armor, and that he was a great warrior, and had no other delight than
in killing his enemies, and that his daughters also were furnished with
magical bows and arrows, which they could shoot so fast that the arrows
would fill the air like a cloud, and that it was not necessary for them
to take aim, for their missiles went where they willed; they _thought_
the arrows to the hearts of their enemies; and thus the maidens could
kill the whole of the people before a common arrow could be shot by a
common person. But the boys told her what the spirit had said in the
long dream, and had promised that Stone Shirt should be killed. They
told her to go down to the lake at dawn, so as not to be endangered by
the battle.
During the night, the _So′-kus Wai′-un-ats_ transformed themselves into
mice, and proceeded to the home of Stone Shirt, and found the magical
bows and arrows that belonged to the maidens, and with their sharp
teeth they cut the sinew on the backs of the bows, and nibbled the bow
strings, so that they were worthless; while _To-go′-av_ hid himself
under a rock near by.
When dawn came into the sky, _Tum-pwi-nai′-ro-gwi-nump_, the Stone
Shirt man, arose and walked out of his tent, exulting in his strength
and security, and sat down upon the rock under which _To-go′-av_ was
hiding; and he, seeing his opportunity, sunk his fangs into the flesh
of the hero. Stone Shirt sprang high into the air, and called to his
daughters that they were betrayed, and that the enemy was near; and
they seized their magical bows, and their quivers filled with magical
arrows, and hurried to his defense. At the same time, all the nations
who were surrounding the camp rushed down to battle. But the beautiful
maidens, finding their weapons were destroyed, waved back their
enemies, as if they would parley; and, standing for a few moments over
the body of their slain father, sang the death song, and danced the
death dance, whirling in giddy circles about the dead hero, and wailing
with despair, until they sank down and expired.
The conquerors buried the maidens by the shores of the lake; but
_Tum-pwi-nai′-ro-gwi-nump_ was left to rot, and his bones to bleach on
the sands, as he had left _Si-kor′_.
There is this proverb among the Utes: “Do not murmur when you suffer
in doing what the spirits have commanded, for a cup of water is
provided.” And another: “What matters it who kills the game, when we
can all eat of it.”
It is long after midnight when the performance is ended. The story
itself was interesting, though I had heard it many times before; but
never, perhaps, under circumstances more effective. Stretched beneath
tall, sombre pines; a great camp fire, and by the fire, men, old,
wrinkled, and ugly; deformed, blear eyed, wry faced women; lithe,
stately young men; pretty but simpering maidens, naked children, all
intently listening, or laughing and talking at times, their strange
faces and dusky forms lit up with the glare of the pine-knot fire.
All the circumstances conspired to make it a scene strange and weird.
One old man, the sorcerer or medicine-man of the tribe, peculiarly
impressed me. Now and then he would interrupt the play for the purpose
of correcting the speakers, or impressing the moral of the story with
a strange dignity and impressiveness that seemed to pass to the very
border of the ludicrous; yet at no time did it make me smile.
The story is finished, but there is yet time for an hour or two’s
sleep. I take _Chu-ar′-ru-um-peak_ to one side for a talk. The three
men who left us in the cañon last year found their way up the lateral
gorge, by which they went into the _Shi′-vwits_ Mountains, lying west
of us, where they met with the Indians, and camped with them one
or two nights, and were finally killed. I am anxious to learn the
circumstances, and as the people of the tribe who committed the deed
live but a little way from and are intimate with these people, I ask
_Chu-ar′-ru-um-peak_ to make inquiry for me. Then we go to bed.
_September 17._--Early this morning the Indians come up to our camp.
They have concluded to send out a young man after the _Shi′-vwits_. The
runner fixes his moccasins, puts some food in a sack and water in a
little wicker work jug, straps them on his back, and starts at a good
round pace.
We have concluded to go down the cañon, hoping to meet the _Shi′-vwits_
on our return. Soon we are ready to start, leaving the camp and pack
animals in charge of the two Indians who came with us. As we move out,
our new guide comes up, a blear eyed, weazen faced, quiet old man,
with his bow and arrows in one hand, and a small cane in the other.
These Indians all carry canes with a crooked handle, they say to kill
rattlesnakes, and to pull rabbits from their holes. The valley is high
up in the mountain, and we descend from it, by a rocky, precipitous
trail, down, down, down for two long, weary hours, leading our ponies
and stumbling over the rocks. At last we are at the foot of the
mountain, standing on a little knoll, from which we can look into a
cañon below. Into this we descend, and then we follow it for miles,
clambering down and still down. Often we cross beds of lava, that have
been poured into the cañon by lateral channels, and these angular
fragments of basalt make the way very rough for the animals.
About two o’clock the guide halts us with his wand, and springing over
the rocks he is lost in a gulch. In a few minutes he returns, and tells
us there is a little water below in a pocket. It is vile and stinking,
and our ponies refuse to drink it. We pass on, still ever descending.
A mile or two from the water basin we come to a precipice, more than
a thousand feet to the bottom. There is a cañon running at a greater
depth, and at right angles to this, into which this enters by the
precipice; and this second cañon is a lateral one to the greater one,
in the bottom of which we are to find the river. Searching about, we
find a way by which we can descend along the shelves, and steps, and
piles of broken rocks.
We start leading our ponies; a wall upon our left; unknown depths on
our right. At places our way is along shelves so narrow, or so sloping,
that I ache with fear lest a pony should make a misstep, and knock a
man over the cliffs with him. Now and then we start the loose rocks
under our feet, and over the cliffs they go, thundering down, down, as
the echoes roll through distant cañons. At last we pass along a level
shelf for some distance, then we turn to the right, and zigzag down a
steep slope to the bottom. Now we pass along this lower cañon, for two
or three miles, to where it terminates in the Grand Cañon, as the other
ended in this, only the river is 1,800 feet below us, and it seems,
at this distance, to be but a creek. Our withered guide, the human
pickle, seats himself on a rock, and seems wonderfully amused at our
discomfiture, for we can see no way by which to descend to the river.
After some minutes, he quietly rises, and, beckoning us to follow,
he points out a narrow sloping shelf on the right, and this is to be
our way. It leads along the cliff, for half a mile, to a wider bench
beyond, which, he says, is broken down on the other side in a great
slide, and there we can get to the river. So we start out on the shelf;
it is so steep we can hardly stand on it, and to fall, or slip, is to
go--don’t look and see!
It is soon manifest that we cannot get the ponies along the ledge. The
storms have washed it down, since our guide was here last, years ago.
One of the ponies has gone so far that we cannot turn him back until
we find a wider place, but at last we get him off. With part of the
men, I take the horses back to the place where there are a few bushes
growing, and turn them loose; in the meantime the other men are looking
for some way by which we can get down to the river. When I return,
one, Captain Bishop, has found a way, and gone down. We pack bread,
coffee, sugar, and two or three blankets among us, and set out. It is
now nearly dark, and we cannot find the way by which the captain went,
and an hour is spent in fruitless search. Two of the men go away around
an amphitheater, more than a fourth of a mile, and start down a broken
chasm that faces us, who are behind. These walls, that are vertical, or
nearly so, are often cut by chasms, where the showers run down, and the
top of these chasms will be back a distance from the face of the wall,
and the bed of the chasm will slope down, with here and there a fall.
At other places, huge rocks have fallen, and block the way. Down such
a one the two men start. There is a curious plant growing out from the
crevices of the rock. A dozen stems will start from one root, and grow
to the length of eight or ten feet, and not throw out a branch or twig,
but these stems are thickly covered with leaves. Now and then the two
men come to a bunch of dead stems, and make a fire to mark for us their
way and progress.
In the meantime we find such a gulch, and start down, but soon come
to the “jumping off place,” where we can throw a stone, and hear it
faintly striking, away below. We fear that we shall have to stay here,
clinging to the rocks until daylight. Our little Indian gathers a
few dry stems, ties them into a bundle, lights one end, and holds it
up. The others do the same, and with these torches we find a way out
of trouble. Helping each other, holding torches for each other, one
clinging to another’s hand until we can get footing, then supporting
the other on his shoulders, so we make our passage into the depths of
the cañon. And now Captain Bishop has kindled a huge fire of driftwood,
on the bank of the river. This, and the fires in the gulch opposite,
and our own flaming torches, light up little patches, that make more
manifest the awful darkness below. Still, on we go, for an hour or two,
and at last we see Captain Bishop coming up the gulch, with a huge
torch-light on his shoulders. He looks like a fiend, waving brands and
lighting the fires of hell, and the men in the opposite gulch are imps,
lighting delusive fires in inaccessible crevices, over yawning chasms;
our own little Indian is surely the king of wizards, so I think, as
I stop for a few moments on a rock to rest. At last we meet Captain
Bishop, with his flaming torch, and, as he has learned the way, he soon
pilots us to the side of the great Colorado. We are hungry and athirst,
almost to starvation. Here we lie down on the rocks and drink, just
a mouthful or so, as we dare; then we make a cup of coffee, and,
spreading our blankets on a sand beach, the roaring Colorado lulls us
to sleep.
_September 18._--We are in the Grand Cañon, by the side of the
Colorado, more than six thousand feet below our camp on the mountain
side, which is eighteen miles away; but the miles of horizontal
distance represent but a small part of the day’s labor before us. It
is the mile of altitude we must gain that makes it a herculean task.
We are up early; a little bread and coffee, and we look about us. Our
conclusion is, that we can make this a dépôt of supplies, should it be
necessary; that we can pack our rations to the point where we left our
animals last night, and that we can employ Indians to bring them down
to the water’s edge.
On a broad shelf, we find the ruins of an old stone house, the walls
of which are broken down, and we can see where the ancient people who
lived here--a race more highly civilized than the present--had made
a garden, and used a great spring, that comes out of the rocks, for
irrigation. On some rocks near by we discover some curious etchings.
Still, searching about, we find an obscure trail up the cañon wall,
marked, here and there, by steps which have been built in the loose
rock, elsewhere hewn stairways, and we find a much easier way to go
up than that by which we came down in the darkness last night. Coming
to the top of the wall, we catch our horses, and start. Up the cañon
our jaded ponies toil, and we reach the second cliff; up this we
go, by easy stages, leading the animals. Now we reach the stinking
water-pocket; our ponies have had no water for thirty hours, and are
eager even for this foul fluid. We carefully strain a kettleful for
ourselves, then divide what is left between them--two or three gallons
for each; but this does not satisfy them, and they rage around,
refusing to eat the scanty grass. We boil our kettle of water, and skim
it; straining, boiling, and skimming makes it a little better, for it
was full of loathsome, wriggling larvæ, with huge black heads. But
plenty of coffee takes away the bad smell, and so modifies the taste
that most of us can drink, though our little Indian seems to prefer the
original mixture. We reach camp about sunset, and are glad to rest.
_September 19._--We are tired and sore, and must rest a day with our
Indian neighbors. During the inclement season they live in shelters,
made of boughs, or bark of the cedar, which they strip off in long
shreds. In this climate, most of the year is dry and warm, and during
such time they do not care for shelter. Clearing a small, circular
space of ground, they bank it around with brush and sand, and wallow in
it during the day, and huddle together in a heap at night, men, women,
and children; buckskin, rags, and sand. They wear very little clothing,
not needing much in this lovely climate.
Altogether, these Indians are more nearly in their primitive condition
than any others on the continent with whom I am acquainted. They have
never received anything from the Government, and are too poor to tempt
the trader, and their country is so nearly inaccessible that the white
man never visits them. The sunny mountain side is covered with wild
fruits, nuts, and native grains, upon which they subsist. The _oose_,
the fruit of the yucca, or Spanish bayonet, is rich, and not unlike the
paw-paw of the valley of the Ohio. They eat it raw, and also roast it
in the ashes. They gather the fruits of a cactus plant, which is rich
and luscious, and eat them as grapes, or from them express the juice,
making the dry pulp into cakes, and saving them for winter; the wine
they drink about their camp fires, until the midnight is merry with the
revelries.
They gather the seeds of many plants, as sunflowers, goldenrods, and
grasses. For this purpose, they have large conical baskets, which hold
two or more bushels. The women carry them on their backs, suspended
from their foreheads by broad straps, and with a smaller one in the
left hand, and a willow woven fan in the right, they walk among the
grasses, and sweep the seed into the smaller basket, which is emptied,
now and then, into the larger, until it is full of seeds and chaff;
then they winnow out the chaff and roast the seeds. They roast these
curiously; they put the seeds, with a quantity of red hot coals, into a
willow tray, and, by rapidly and dexterously shaking and tossing them,
keep the coals aglow, and the seeds and tray from burning. As if by
magic, so skilled are the crones in this work, they roll the seeds to
one side of the tray, as they are roasted, and the coals to the other.
Then they grind the seeds into a fine flour, and make it into cakes and
mush.
It is a merry sight, sometimes, to see the women grinding at the mill.
For a mill, they use a large flat rock, lying on the ground, and
another small cylindrical one in their hands. They sit prone on the
ground, hold the large flat rock between the feet and legs, then fill
their laps with seeds, making a hopper to the mill with their dusky
legs, and grind by pushing the seeds across the larger rock, where it
drops into a tray. I have seen a group of women grinding together,
keeping time to a chant, or gossiping and chatting, while the younger
lassies would jest and chatter, and make the pine woods merry with
their laughter. Mothers carry their babes curiously in baskets. They
make a wicker board, by plaiting willows, and sew a buckskin cloth to
either edge, and this is fulled in the middle, so as to form a sack,
closed at the bottom. At the top, they make a wicker shade, like “my
grandmother’s sun bonnet,” and, wrapping the little one in a wild cat
robe, place it in the basket, and this they carry on their backs,
strapped over the forehead, and the little brown midgets are ever
peering over their mother’s shoulders. In camp, they stand the basket
against the trunk of a tree, or hang it to a limb.
There is little game in the country, yet they get a mountain sheep now
and then, or a deer, with their arrows, for they are not yet supplied
with guns. They get many rabbits, sometimes with arrows, sometimes
with nets. They make a net of twine, made of the fibers of a native
flax. Sometimes this is made a hundred yards in length, and is placed
in a half circular position, with wings of sage brush. They have a
circle hunt, and drive great numbers of rabbits into the snare, where
they are shot with arrows. Most of their bows are made of cedar, but
the best are made of the horns of mountain sheep. These are taken,
soaked in water, until quite soft, cut into long thin strips, and glued
together, and are then quite elastic. During the autumn, grasshoppers
are very abundant. When cold weather sets in, these insects are numbed,
and can be gathered by the bushel. At such a time, they dig a hole in
the sand, heat stones in a fire near by, put some in the bottom of the
hole, put on a layer of grasshoppers, then a layer of hot stones, and
continue this, until they put bushels on to roast. There they are left
until cool, when they are taken out, thoroughly dried, and ground into
meal. Grasshopper gruel, or grasshopper cake, is a great treat.
Their lore consists in a mass of traditions, or mythology. It is very
difficult to induce them to tell it to white men; but the old Spanish
priests, in the days of the conquest of New Mexico, have spread among
the Indians of this country many Bible stories, which the Indians are
usually willing to tell. It is not always easy to recognize them, the
Indian mind being a strange receptacle for such stories, and they are
apt to sprout new limbs. Maybe much of their added quaintness is due to
the way in which they were told by the “fathers.” But in a confidential
way, while you are alone, or when you are admitted to their camp fire
on a winter night, you will hear the stories of their mythology. I
believe that the greatest mark of friendship, or confidence, that an
Indian can give, is to tell you his religion. After one has so talked
with me, I should ever trust him; and I feel on very good terms with
these Indians, since our experience of the other night.
A knowledge of the watering places, and of the trails and passes, is
considered of great importance, and is necessary, to give standing to a
chief.
This evening, the _Shi′-vwits_, for whom we have sent, come in, and,
after supper, we hold a long council. A blazing fire is built, and
around this we sit--the Indians living here, the _Shi′-vwits_, Jacob
Hamblin, and myself. This man, Hamblin, speaks their language well,
and has a great influence over all the Indians in the region round
about. He is a silent, reserved man, and when he speaks, it is in a
slow, quiet way, that inspires great awe. His talk is so low that they
must listen attentively to hear, and they sit around him in deathlike
silence. When he finishes a measured sentence, the chief repeats it,
and they all give a solemn grunt. But, first, I fill my pipe, light it,
and take a few whiffs, then pass it to Hamblin; he smokes, and gives it
to the man next, and so it goes around. When it has passed the chief,
he takes out his own pipe, fills, and lights it, and passes it around
after mine. I can smoke my own pipe in turn, but, when the Indian pipe
comes around, I am nonplussed. It has a large stem, which has, at some
time, been broken, and now there is a buckskin rag wound around it,
and tied with sinew, so that the end of the stem is a huge mouthful,
and looks like the burying ground of old dead spittle, venerable for
a century. To gain time, I refill it, then engage in very earnest
conversation, and, all unawares, I pass it to my neighbor unlighted.
I tell the Indians that I wish to spend some months in their country
during the coming year, and that I would like them to treat me as a
friend. I do not wish to trade; do not want their lands. Heretofore
I have found it very difficult to make the natives understand my
object, but the gravity of the Mormon missionary helps me much. I
tell them that all the great and good white men are anxious to know
very many things; that they spend much time in learning, and that the
greatest man is he who knows the most. They want to know all about the
mountains and the valleys, the rivers and the cañons, the beasts, and
birds, and snakes. Then I tell them of many Indian tribes, and where
they live; of the European nations; of the Chinese, of Africans, and
all the strange things about them that come to my mind. I tell them
of the ocean, of great rivers and high mountains, of strange beasts
and birds. At last I tell them I wish to learn about their cañons and
mountains, and about themselves, to tell other men at home; and that
I want to take pictures of everything, and show them to my friends.
All this occupied much time, and the matter and manner made a deep
impression.
Then their chief replies: “Your talk is good, and we believe what you
say. We believe in Jacob, and look upon you as a father. When you are
hungry, you may have our game. You may gather our sweet fruits. We will
give you food when you come to our land. We will show you the springs,
and you may drink; the water is good. We will be friends, and when
you come we will be glad. We will tell the Indians who live on the
other side of the great river that we have seen _Ka′-pu-rats_, and he
is the Indians’ friend. We will tell them he is Jacob’s friend. We are
very poor. Look at our women and children; they are naked. We have
no horses; we climb the rocks, and our feet are sore. We live among
rocks, and they yield little food and many thorns. When the cold moons
come, our children are hungry. We have not much to give; you must not
think us mean. You are wise; we have heard you tell strange things. We
are ignorant. Last year we killed three white men. Bad men said they
were our enemies. They told great lies. We thought them true. We were
mad; it made us big fools. We are very sorry. Do not think of them, it
is done; let us be friends. We are ignorant--like little children in
understanding compared with you. When we do wrong, do not get mad, and
be like children too.
“When white men kill our people, we kill them. Then they kill more of
us. It is not good. We hear that the white men are a great number. When
they stop killing us, there will be no Indian left to bury the dead. We
love our country; we know not other lands. We hear that other lands are
better; we do not know. The pines sing, and we are glad. Our children
play in the warm sand; we hear them sing, and are glad. The seeds
ripen, and we have to eat, and we are glad. We do not want their good
lands; we want our rocks, and the great mountains where our fathers
lived. We are very poor; we are very ignorant; but we are very honest.
You have horses, and many things. You are very wise; you have a good
heart. We will be friends. Nothing more have I to say.”
_Ka′-pu-rats_ is the name by which I am known among the Utes and
Shoshones, meaning “arm off.” There was much more repetition than I
have given, and much emphasis. After this a few presents were given, we
shook hands, and the council broke up.
Mr. Hamblin fell into conversation with one of the men, and held him
until the others had left, and then learned more of the particulars of
the death of the three men. They came upon the Indian village almost
starved and exhausted with fatigue. They were supplied with food, and
put on their way to the settlements. Shortly after they had left, an
Indian from the east of the Colorado arrived at their village, and
told them about a number of miners having killed a squaw in drunken
brawl, and no doubt these were the men. No person had ever come down
the cañon; that was impossible; they were trying to hide their guilt.
In this way he worked them into a great rage. They followed, surrounded
the men in ambush, and filled them full of arrows.[11]
That night I slept in peace, although these murderers of my men, and
their friends, the _U-in-ka-rets_, were sleeping not five hundred yards
away. While we were gone to the cañon, the pack-train and supplies,
enough to make an Indian rich beyond his wildest dreams, were all
left in their charge, and were all safe; not even a lump of sugar was
pilfered by the children.
_September 20._--For several days we have been discussing the relative
merits of several names for these mountains. The Indians call them
_U-in-ka-rets_, the region of pines, and we adopt the name. The great
mountain we call Mount Trumbull, in honor of the Senator. To-day the
train starts back to the cañon water-pocket, while Captain Bishop and
I climb Mount Trumbull. On our way we pass the point that was the last
opening to the volcano.
It seems but a few years since the last flood of fire swept the valley.
Between two rough, conical hills it poured, and ran down the valley to
the foot of a mountain standing almost at the lower end, then parted,
and ran on either side of the mountain. This last overflow is very
plainly marked; there is soil, with trees and grass, to the very edge
of it, on a more ancient bed. The flood was everywhere on its border
from ten to twenty feet in height, terminating abruptly, and looking
like a wall from below. On cooling, it shattered into fragments, but
these are still in place, and you can see the outlines of streams and
waves. So little time has elapsed since it ran down, that the elements
have not weathered a soil, and there is scarcely any vegetation on
it, but here and there a lichen is found. And yet, so long ago was it
poured from the depths, that where ashes and cinders have collected in
a few places, some huge cedars have grown. Near the crater the frozen
waves of black basalt are rent with deep fissures, transverse to the
direction of the flow. Then we ride through a cedar forest, up a long
ascent, until we come to cliffs of columnar basalt. Here we tie our
horses, and prepare for a climb among the columns. Through crevices we
work, till at last we are on the mountain, a thousand acres of pine
land spread out before us, gently rising to the other edge. There are
two peaks on the mountain. We walked two miles to the foot of the one
looking to be the highest, then a long, hard climb to its summit. And
here, oh, what a view is before us! A vision of glory! Peaks of lava
all around below us. The Vermilion Cliffs to the north, with their
splendor of colors; the Pine Valley Mountain to the northwest, clothed
in mellow, perspective haze; unnamed mountains to the southwest,
towering over cañons, bottomless to my peering gaze, like chasms to
the nadir hell; and away beyond, the San Francisco Mountains, lifting
their black heads into the heavens. We find our way down the mountain,
reaching the trail made by the pack-train just at dusk.
Two days more, and we are at Pipe Spring; one day, and we are at Kanab.
Eight miles above the town is a cañon, on either side of which is a
group of lakes. By the side of one of these I sit, the crystal waters
at my feet, at which I may drink at will.
THE END
FOOTNOTES:
[10] Here the story is continued in September of the following year,
1870. (_Ed._)
[11] The murder of the two Howlands and Dunn was committed at what is
now known as Ambush Waterpocket, south of Mount Dellenbaugh. (_Ed._)
* * * * *
OUTING ADVENTURE LIBRARY
_Edited by Horace Kephart_
¶ Here are brought together for the first time the great stories of
adventure of all ages and countries. These are the personal records
of the men who climbed the mountains and penetrated the jungles; who
explored the seas and crossed the deserts; who knew the chances and
took them, and lived to write their own tales of hardship and endurance
and achievement. The series will consist of an indeterminate number of
volumes--for the stories are myriad. The whole will be edited by Horace
Kephart. Each volume answers the test of these two questions: Is it
true? Is it interesting?
¶ The entire series is uniform in style and binding. Among the titles
now ready or in preparation are those described on the following pages.
PRICE $1.00 EACH, NET. POSTAGE 10 CENTS EXTRA
THE NUMBERS MAKE ORDERING CONVENIENT
1. IN THE OLD WEST, by George Frederick Ruxton. The men who blazed the
trail across the Rockies to the Pacific were the independent trappers
and hunters in the days before the Mexican war. They left no records
of their adventures and most of them linger now only as shadowy names.
But a young Englishman lived among them for a time, saw life from
their point of view, trapped with them and fought with them against
the Indians. That was George Frederick Ruxton. His story is our only
complete picture of the Old West in the days of the real Pioneers, of
Kit Carson, Jim Bridger, Bill Williams, the Sublettes, and all the rest
of that glorious company of the forgotten who opened the West.
2. CASTAWAYS AND CRUSOES. Since the beginnings of navigation men have
faced the dangers of shipwreck and starvation. Scattered through the
annals of the sea are the stories of those to whom disaster came and
the personal records of the way they met it. Some of them are given in
this volume, narratives of men who lived by their hands among savages
and on forlorn coasts, or drifted helpless in open boats. They range
from the South Seas to the Gulf of St. Lawrence, from the iron coast of
Patagonia to the shores of Cuba. They are echoes from the days when the
best that could be hoped by the man who went to sea was hardship and
man’s-sized work.
3. CAPTIVES AMONG THE INDIANS. First of all is the story of Captain
James Smith, who was captured by the Delawares at the time of
Braddock’s defeat, was adopted into the tribe, and for four years lived
as an Indian, hunting with them, studying their habits, and learning
their point of view. Then there is the story of Father Bressani who
felt the tortures of the Iroquois, of Mary Rowlandson who was among the
human spoils of King Philip’s war, and of Mercy Harbison who suffered
in the red flood that followed St. Clair’s defeat. All are personal
records made by the actors themselves in those days when the Indian was
constantly at our forefathers’s doors.
4. FIRST THROUGH THE GRAND CANYON, by Major John Wesley Powell. Major
Powell was an officer in the Union Army who lost an arm at Shiloh. In
spite of this four years after the war he organized an expedition which
explored the Grand Canyon of the Colorado in boats--the first to make
this journey. His story has been lost for years in the oblivion of a
scientific report. It is here rescued and presented as a record of one
of the great personal exploring feats, fitted to rank with the exploits
of Pike, Lewis and Clark, and Mackenzie.
5. ADRIFT IN THE ARCTIC ICE-PACK, By Elisha Kent Kane, M. D. Out of
the many expeditions that went north in search of Sir John Franklin
over fifty years ago, it fell to the lot of one, financed by a New York
merchant, to spend an Arctic winter drifting aimlessly in the grip of
the Polar ice in Lancaster Sound. The surgeon of the expedition kept a
careful diary and out of that record told the first complete story of a
Far Northern winter. That story is here presented, shorn of the purely
scientific data and stripped to the personal exploits and adventures of
the author and the other members of the crew.
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
Footnotes have been moved to the end of each chapter and relabeled
consecutively through the document.
Punctuation has been made consistent.
Variations in spelling and hyphenation were retained as they appear in
the original publication, except that obvious typographical errors have
been corrected.
The following change was made:
p. 84: standstone changed to sandstone (homogeneous sandstone. There)