We had come twenty miles before lunch so did not start very early.

When we did, however, we headed right northeast for Dry Lake and got nearly across before we decided to camp, Kate having lost a shoe. We saw another coyote just before reaching the lake, but as usual our 30-30 wasn't handy to the fellow who saw him first, and that is sufficient explanation in that country where everything is the same color as the coyote and little draws and gulches are handy.

This Dry Lake was just that and nothing more. At times during the year, or some years, there must be water here, but I guess it is not often. It was really a wonderful place to look at, flat as a floor, almost as smooth as a tennis court, hard as a board, creamy white in color, and I should say seven miles long and about two and a half miles across at the widest part, surrounded by sage brush and grease-wood. I should hate to cross it in the middle of the day--it must be awfully hot; but at night it would make a racecourse for horses or automobiles, if one could only sc.r.a.pe up an audience.

We camped at 6:30 P. M. that evening on the lake bed, where it was smooth and cool. Our coal oil stove was proving a great success in a land without wood, and even where there was any, it saved time, as did our water barrels, and our fireless cooker saved coal oil, and gave us better oatmeal, prunes, and rice than we could have had at home.

The next morning before starting we put a new shoe on Kate; that is, Doc blacksmithed an old one we had on hand and I nailed it on, and the surprising thing about it was that it stayed on.

We got off the lake bottom and on towards Jean, Sunday morning, May twenty-ninth. We had made thirty miles Sat.u.r.day, but that was an easy day, which, with the level lake bed to walk over in the evening, was like driving on Michigan Avenue. No such good fortune awaited us from now on. It was up grade and hard pulling all the way to Jean, but here we got grain and wheat hay, so, pulling out from the store about a mile, we fed grain and hay, and then turned the horses loose to graze until they were completely filled up before we started on.

Kate's shoulder is better and her cracked heel is about well. The film is going off her eye and I think very soon she will be able to take her place with Bess again and let Dixie pack the saddle. Dixie has pulled her end so far very well, although not being used to a collar her neck is getting sore, and I can see Kate will not be well enough to wear a collar any too soon.

At night we conclude we have made about twenty-two miles up grade, and at a guess figure we are twenty-three miles from Las Vegas, mostly a downhill pull, so we think it will be an easy trip for the morrow.

It had not been unbearably hot up to this time and the nights were simply glorious--clear and cool--and we were congratulating ourselves on having such fine traveling weather. My memorandum book notes a change in the weather the next day, May 30, Decoration Day, and I give my memorandum here _verbatim_:

"Started from camp at 5:45 A. M. for Las Vegas, the last lap of our first real desert experience. We have been ten days in crossing from Daggett, California, to Las Vegas, Nevada, probably one hundred and fifty miles, so we have averaged fifteen miles, including stop of a day at Kelso and going up to Lake Crucero by mistake, which put us back two days, so we could have made it in seven days if we had not got lost and pulled down the team in getting out. We drive up dry rivers and down dry rivers, over sand and rocks, _mostly up hill_, because the sand is usually so deep the wagon pulls on the team going down grade. We have found no cows and believe, with the old pioneer, that this country contains more rivers and less water, and you can see farther and see less, than any other part of the United States.

"Coming into Las Vegas this morning we saw our first artesian well, forty inches, and learned they were now going to have one on each section of this desert slope. Some time we are going back to see if they do and how much good it does them. The soil looked too full of alkali to suit me. However, while this well made quite a stream, it mostly evaporated or sunk into the ground, as it seemed to do very little good.

"We reached the end of the down grade part of the trip at 11 A. M., stayed near this well for lunch, and then at 1:30 made a start on the eight-mile pull up through the sand, arriving at Las Vegas at 4:45 P. M., after the hardest eight miles we ever made, on account of heat. The wind was in our faces, but how hot it was we did not know. It most blistered us--probably about 115 to 120 degrees, as we found it 107 in the hotel after we arrived.

"It certainly was hot. We took a drink every fifteen minutes and watered the horses every hour, besides putting water on Tuck's head and back to keep him from being overcome. We put team in shed of livery, the only one in town, and went to a hotel.

"No mail, as Decoration Day was a holiday and postoffice closed."

The above memorandum says nothing about scenery, nothing about Las Vegas itself, and nothing even about the road, so I guess we were not long on enthusiasm about that time. We slept in beds that night, but hot ones, and we laid the heat to the town and the hotel. The next day we got our mail, wrote home, and after getting off all the letters we went over and, as Doc said, "patched up the horses." We got a hose and soaked their feet, and after a general clean-up I think they felt better. It was no cooler, however.

In the afternoon I took all the horses around to be shod. The blacksmith said if I would help him, he would shoe them, but not otherwise, as it was too hot. I told him it was not very hot, but I would help him just the same, so we went at it. Before long the canteen ran dry, so I went and filled it and hung it in the shade in a handy place. The blacksmith kept complaining about the heat. He said it was just as hot every year there, but hotter when you had to work.

He wanted me to go into the next building and look at a _spirit_ thermometer and let him know how hot it really was. I did go, and looked at the thermometer, but when I found it registered 126 over there in the shade I concluded I best keep it to myself or the blacksmith would quit work, so when I got back I said, "Well, it is pretty hot; it is 120."

He didn't say anything for a few minutes, but finally as he held a shoe in a tub of water to cool he looked over at me and said, "Guess this country is getting me down. I didn't use to mind 120 before. When it gets up to 130 and 135 I just lay off. About 120,--well, I guess I will take a drink and go look at that thermometer."

I could see myself finishing that job alone and watched him narrowly as he went over to take a look at the thermometer. On his way back I could see he was not feeling as bad as I had expected he would, and was surprised to hear him say, in a more cheerful tone than I had been able to get out of him before, "Well, I thought it must be over 120; why, it is 126--no wonder I was hot. Guess you can't fool me on weather in this country. Now let's finish this job before it gets any hotter. I bet I don't work to-morrow." And we kept at it until all the horses were shod.

Doc came over for a few minutes to see how we were getting on. He picked up a horseshoe from the floor with his bare hand, and dropped it as if it were red hot. He seemed to think we were putting up a job on him, and when I said it was a cold one he said I was joking, but after testing a few more he said that a blacksmith shop was no place to loaf in, and started back to the hotel. We finished the shoeing and returning to the hotel talked over things, especially the heat, and decided we had rather be out on the desert than in town. We concluded it must be cooler at night out there and not so dusty during the day.

Las Vegas ordinarily would have about fifteen hundred people when the railroad is running, but now, I should say, had only about eight hundred. They have a nice railroad station, but that is about all. The stores are not especially interesting and the whole town is on the main street, facing the railroad station, and one other street running at right angles to it.

Through the ownership of the old Stewart Ranch the railroad company owns the water and all the irrigatable land about Las Vegas, except what may be developed from a recent discovery of water, eight miles below town, by sinking of wells. This, however, I don't have much faith in as being of sufficient flow to any more than raise garden truck, but why anybody should want to live in a place that on provocation can get as hot as 135 degrees in the shade (and no shade), simply because they could possibly raise garden truck, I am unable to see.

We have decided to start out again. We have our grub box filled, and our oil can; also grain for the horses and some alfalfa hay. It did not cool off much last night and is still hot to-day, a good stiff breeze blowing, but in spite of the breeze, it is 105 in the shade and, if you open your mouth, it dries out before you get a chance to close it. We have faith that the desert is better than the town, and not knowing the character of the country ahead (no one being able to enlighten us), we take a chance and start, leaving town at 3 P. M., June 1, having spent practically two days here. We are bound for Bunkerville by way of Moapa.

[Ill.u.s.tration: WE STOP FOR WATER]

Chapter VI

The Dixie Country of Utah

Leaving Las Vegas at 3 P. M., with a hot wind at our back, we drove through the Stewart Ranch, which, with its cottonwood trees, patches of alfalfa, and running water, looked awfully good to us. Leaving the ranch we nearly drove over a bobcat, but we were too hot to take much interest in any game at that time. Immediately after we had reached the long valley running north from Las Vegas, it began to get cooler, and that night we slept under blankets again.

We got an early start the next morning and by 8:30 A. M. had driven the twelve miles to the top of the divide, and by noon reached a railroad water well at Dry Lake. The accompanying picture shows the spot. There is nothing here; in fact, if we had not had explicit directions from a railroad man we wouldn't have found the well. We lunched, and then at 4 P. M., having found some bunch gra.s.s, we camped and turned the horses loose.

We are glad we did not stay at Las Vegas any longer. It may be cooler there now, but we know it is here, and we are happy. Dixie still holds out, so have not tried Kate in harness yet. We are in a bare mountainous country of the same desert variety which we have been traveling through for so long, but in spots the trail is good and in others it is bad. It seems strange not to meet a soul driving through the country. Still, as there does not seem to be any people in the country, I a.s.sume there is no one to travel.

We were computing to-day how much weight we have in our wagon, including water barrels, half full, hay and grain and two people, and set it down as fifteen hundred pounds, which, with the wagon, springs and cover added, makes a good load for two ordinary horses, but we are beginning to think that our horses are more than that.

[Ill.u.s.tration: OUR FIRST CAMP EAST OF LAS VEGAS]

The next morning we were off for Moapa. We had another divide to cross and then down into California Wash for eight miles to the Big Muddy.

This California Wash was a terror. I can't forget its heat and its sand and rocks, and while we started in cheerfully enough, before we got out the boys were both walking and I was driving the team fifty yards only to a stop. We came out suddenly on to the banks of a clear little stream running out of Meadow Valley, and forgot about our troubles, or those other people had had at the time of the Meadow Valley ma.s.sacre, and turned everything loose.

We had a fine camp here, the first stream of water since leaving Daggett on the Mojave three weeks ago. We boys washed up, including our clothes, and shortly after lunch, while the wash was on the line, I rode Kate up to Moapa, two miles, and got a sack of feed, as we found we could save four miles by not going into Moapa.

We hit the stage road near our camp that evening and started east for Bunkerville. Tuck never had so much fun as he seemed to have in that little stream, and on his account, as well as our own, we hated to leave, but at 5 P. M. we moved on to a ranch house at the foot of a range of mountains we had to go over, and camped there for the night, so as to be ready to make the climb in the morning before it should get too hot. These mountains, I think, were the south end of a small range called the Mormon Mountains, although everything in this country seems to be either hills or mountains, but they haven't been discovered yet or else the folks who made up the maps were out of names. They seem to be long on country and short on names.

At this ranch house, which was occupied by a new man, or tenderfoot, we found an old man lying on a bed by the window and a young man fanning him to keep away the flies. On inquiring as to whether he was sick, we were informed he had been hurt in a runaway the night before, so while Bob and I were unpacking, Doc took his bag and went up to see what he could do for him, and we were left to speculate on the case and get supper while he was gone. Doc has a way of making friends whether they are sick or well, and we usually send him out for a parley in any emergency. This, however, was his first case of personal injury on the trip, so I knew he would not be back very soon.

It was late, as I expected, when he returned and we got the whole story while eating supper. It seems the old fellow lived about eight miles down the Muddy River, had been to Moapa with a load of stuff and had stayed too long, so that he was a little the worse for whiskey. It was dark when he started for home and he had a mean team, which, when his brake guard came off and he fell on them, promptly kicked him into insensibility and ran off, leaving him to come to during the night, unable to see or tell where he was. He had wandered about until he came to the ranch fence and was found about daylight by one of the boys of this ranch, who took him in, and when they found out who he was they sent for his son-in-law, the man we saw fanning him, and the doctor who lived at Logan. They had come up and taken him in charge, but the doctor evidently had come unprepared or else, as Doc said, never was prepared, and he had done poorly by him and left, promising to be back as soon as he could get some necessary medicine and bandages. Doc said if we hadn't just happened along the man would have died of blood poisoning, sure. Doc had cleaned him up, dressed his wounds, and left him asleep.

We filled our water barrels just half full that night and the next morning were off up the mountain, driving spike team for Bunkerville, thirty miles away, and twenty-seven miles to water. Before leaving Doc made a call on his patient; refused any compensation for his services, as usual, and tried to satisfy the son-in-law by telling him it was against the rules of the profession for a doctor to collect from another doctor's patient. He would collect from the doctor himself. I couldn't hear exactly what the man said in reply and did not ask Doc, but thought he said something like this: "Well, you fellows are a queer bunch, but I sure am thankful and wish you luck."

It was Sat.u.r.day morning, June fourth, when we left the ranch camp on the Muddy River, and we had a three-mile pull nearly straight up before reaching the mesa. From here we had a grand view, which reminded me somewhat of the view at the Grand Canyon in miniature. The valley of the Muddy lay beneath us and had widened out in green spots here and there, where the ranchers were raising alfalfa, but the spots were so far below they didn't look bigger than flower beds. Behind us stretched the dry, hard mesa, over which our road led to Bunkerville, a Mormon settlement on the Virgin River.

There was nothing of interest in going over this stretch of about twenty-five miles except the stage which we met, carrying the mail to Moapa. We could see the dust raised by the horses a long way off and finally hailed the driver as he pa.s.sed. Not that we had anything to say to him, but as the Irishman would say, "just for conversation." He drove two horses and led one; had a two-seated, canopy-topped wagon, no merchandise or pa.s.sengers, just a mail bag and a bundle of alfalfa hay. He said he came over one day and went back the next. Told us to make the ford before dark and to make it quick, and then he drove on.

This was quite an event for us as it was the first vehicle we had met on the desert highway, so I made a note of it.

After that nothing happened until we came to the edge of the mesa and started down again. This took some careful driving to get down safely with so heavy a wagon, but our brake, of which up to date we had had little use, worked admirably, although I concluded I could adjust it a little better, and did so later on.

We had sighted Bunkerville from the mesa, and Virgin Valley lay before us, but it was green only in spots, very small spots, and it was nearly dark when we reached the river. Here I remembered the stage driver's advice to get across quick, so we put Dixie on ahead and started. Much to my surprise Dixie seemed to get frightened and refused to pull and backed into the team, and we came very near getting "set" right there; but between a few stones thrown at her by Doc and a cussing from me she started up quickly enough and we got across. This was her first real river-crossing and not being near where I could reach her with the whip, she came near making a mess of it, but after that first time she never refused to take a ford again.

We did not drive any farther that day, but camped on a gra.s.sy spot and after feeding the horses grain turned them loose.

The next morning we drove through Bunkerville, a Mormon town, or settlement, they would call it, of sixty families. We bought feed of one man and groceries at the store. Miss Bunker waited on us, and when Doc found out her grandmother was sick he went right over and paid a professional call, and cheered the old lady up.

The houses are built mostly of adobe or clay bricks. The people raise alfalfa and vegetables, small grains by irrigation, and some stock.

The store is a community affair and the houses are built fairly close together, the real farming being done outside in small tracts, under ditches taken from the Virgin River higher up. We stayed about an hour and a half in this place and then moved on, our next objective point being St. George, Utah.

We are still in Nevada. To-night we will be in the northwest corner of Arizona and the next day in Utah. That sounds as if we are moving fast.

Driving up the river we have some fine views, but very hard going, up steep and rocky hills, fording the river half a dozen times, through quicksand and long stretches of sand. We are appreciating our horses more than ever; they are game to the core and never refuse to pull.

Dixie especially is a tough little beast, Bess a steady plodder, and Kate a good wheel horse and saddler, but she hates to leave the other horses.

Shortly after leaving Bunkerville we pa.s.sed Mesquite, a small town on the north side of the river, where the cowboys started from who pa.s.sed us near Moapa on their way to Los Angeles with the bunch of horses. At five-thirty we reached the top of a mesa overlooking Littlefield, a quaint Mormon settlement of five houses.

Here we drove down to the river again, through the town and under the pomegranate and fig trees, and alongside of the alfalfa and grain fields. We took note that they had some very good horses here and everybody looked happy and prosperous. By this I mean they had just what they needed and no more. This, I take to be prosperity; anything more would be affluence, which makes trouble.