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 Ma.s.seth, 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 circ.u.mstances 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.

"Sh.o.r.e!" 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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sed, 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 Ma.s.seth 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 gra.s.s 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!

CHAPTER VII

SAVED BY HIS NERVE