Capturing Wild Ponies. On our way back, Sinyela made a proposition that, as our ponies were exceedingly weary, we catch some fresh ones of his, for this was his "stock range," and he knew where there were plenty of good animals. The horses were wild, as range horses generally are, but Sinyela was crafty. He knew of a blind ravine, or rocky pocket, into which we could drive the horses we needed, and to that end all our energies were directed.

Darting back and forth to arrest the dodging and fleeing animals, we at length succeeded in "penning" about a dozen horses in the pocket. Then I watched Sinyela, hand extended, slowly and stealthily approach the pony he needed. Time and again, as he got nearer and nearer, all the time making a peculiar sissing sound, the horse would suddenly swing around and endeavor to dash away. But I was "guard of the gate," and it was my business to see that none of the band escaped. It took us fully two hours to catch the two horses. At last they were ours. Neither was well broken, though both had been ridden, and the first thing Sinyela did was to blindfold them. The saddles were removed from our jaded ponies, and placed upon the new ones.

The starts of terror and anger showed what we had ahead of us. Bridles were adjusted, and then, with our fresh ponies still blindfolded, we sprang into our saddles. When our feet were firmly placed and all was ready, we lifted the blinds from the horses' eyes and then braced ourselves. Digging our heels into the ponies' sides, off we started, at a jerking, bounding, half-bucking pace. Shouting directions to each other, helter-skelter, over and around boulders, we dashed along as if we were after the hounds on a genuine old-fashioned fox-hunt. I suppose we kept it up a full hour, at topmost speed. The horses didn't want to stop, and Sinyela knew that the best way to break them was to let them have their own way. But before the day was over, the ponies were considerably tamed down, and it was a weary band that stopped for camp that night. The animals were duly hobbled and turned loose; I lit a camp fire, though we had nothing to cook and no kettle for boiling water, and dirty, dusty, with every nerve and fibre of my body weary and aching, I finally stretched out on the solid earth and wooed "balmy sleep." The ride was resumed next day. We finally got ourselves to Sinyela's camp in safety, where a sweat-bath and a swim in the delicious waters of Havasu fully rested us.

The Hopi Trail Ascent. We decided to leave Havasu Canyon by way of the "Make" Trail. This is the same trail as that described in the chapter on the descent into Havasu Canyon from El Tovar, as far up as the point where the pictured rocks appear. Here the Hopi trail turns and follows the course of the main Havasu Canyon. Cushing counted forty-four knots in his buckskin fringe from the village to the exit, each knot denoting an abrupt curve or angle in the winding canyons. The Topocobya Trail descends a sheer cliff of stupendous majesty, and the Wallapai Trail is enough to shatter the nervous system of any but the most experienced; but the Hopi Trail ascent out of the Canyon is different, in that, in several places, it pa.s.ses through narrow clefts, with ponderous, overhanging rocks, the whole course barely wide enough to permit a laden mule to get through with its pack. It is an almost vertical ascent of about twelve hundred feet which winds around and up the clefts, up steps hacked out of the solid rock with flint axes and hammers, by the patient hands of long-dead Indians.

The Legend of Ahaiuta. The Hopis and the Zunis believe this to be the spot where the Zuni G.o.d; Ahaiuta, one of the twin G.o.ds of war, after the waters of the world had arisen and overwhelmed the nations of their ancestry, and flooded the whole earth from the far west to the Rio Grande, dug a little outlet for the waters. The flood, finding this hole, had rushed down into the interior of the earth, and had thus worn this terrific cleft, and the gorge below, leaving the marks of its strife upon the banded rocks which surrounded and hovered over us.

Now we scrambled over great rocks, then along a foot-wide trail, and at length wound our way out along a ma.s.sive bank of talus. Around at the head of the trail, I sent Sinyela back, and started alone along the historic trail across the plateau. The general scenery of the plateau already has been described.

A Roundabout Drive. At this point, I prevailed upon Mr. Ba.s.s to hitch two horses and two mules to his ambulance (which had once been a United States Army ambulance and was used in his Arizona campaigns by General Nelson A.

Miles), and drive--a roundabout way to the northeastern slopes of the San Francisco range, thence to the Little Colorado River, where we would again strike the Hopi trail from Moenkopi to Oraibi. There were four of us in the party. From the rim of the Canyon direct to the Little Colorado the route is, at present, inaccessible for wagons. It is a horse trail, and somewhat of the same nature as all the plateau trails through the Kohonino (Coconino) Forest. Hence our roundabout wagon trip.

On the Fringe of the Painted Desert. Filling our canteens to the nozzle, we drove over the western fringe of the Painted Desert. Skirting the mountain, we made a "dry camp" that night, and used up every drop of water next morning. Some went for our coffee, and the rest was given to the animals.

Then we started for the far-away Tanner Crossing of the Little Colorado, across the thirsty desert. As we were without water, it was natural that, on that particular day, the elements should combine to make it hotter than usual. A few clouds sprang into existence, but we felt no breath of cooling air, and as the day grew, the clouds became burning gla.s.ses to focus the sun's heat more powerfully upon us. Late in the afternoon, our eyes were delighted with the sight of what seemed to be a pool of water, in the road ahead of us. Parched almost to keen suffering, we drove our weary and thirsty horses right into it, scaring away, as we did so, several horses that were standing there, and then, not waiting for cups or ceremony, each man threw himself flat on his stomach and began to drink the uninviting compound. A heavy shower had fallen in this one spot, and the pool had not yet had time to evaporate.

A Dash Across the Little Colorado. The day was sultry and betokened a heavy rain storm, so, when we reached the Little Colorado, we decided to get over that night, since, if the storm came, it might render crossing impossible.

Our ambulance was heavily laden, and the crossing dangerous. Before I ventured, we unloaded about half the weight, and then I undressed, save for my undershirt, and went to investigate the bed of the crossing for quicksands. As soon as I had determined where to drive, we started across.

Whipping up the mules, and keeping their necks well into their collars, we dashed across in safety. Immediately the wagon was unloaded, I turned it around and crossed alone. The remainder of the load was put in, with our two men, and, one of them seated by my side with the whip, we "yelled"

ourselves across again. Our wagon was stopped in a sandy drift, our grub box thrown out, a fire lighted, and with the impending storm in close proximity, we hurriedly cooked and ate our evening meal. No sooner was my plate cleared than, taking my roll of blankets, I wearily threw them down not more than ten feet from the wagon, too utterly "played out" to seek shelter in the cliff beyond, where a number of cave-like shelves afforded good level sleeping places, secure from the storm. As I unrolled my blankets, I called to the men to be sure to put out the camp fire and place the sugar sack, etc., in the grub box and close the lid. I was no sooner stretched out than I was sound asleep.

A Storm at Night. One of my companions insisted upon unrolling his blankets close to me, in spite of the fact that a terrible storm might break over us at any time. Poor fellow! He had scarcely gotten to sleep when a frightful gust of wind swept down upon us. Awakened with the noise, my eye caught a glimpse of the flaming brands from the fire being tossed into the wagon, and I rushed to the rescue. In a fierce wind, with a wagon and its contents dried out by the fierce Arizona sun, I knew there was not a moment to lose.

Fortunately, I had left a pail, of water close by, and with this I doused out not only the flames in the wagon, but the remnant of the camp fire. It was pitch dark by now. All at once, with a light that was blinding in its intensity, and with a terrible clap of thunder, the storm burst upon us. It was, without any question, one of the fiercest short storms, accompanied with the most vivid lightning, I have ever seen. The darkness was so black, that, like that of Egypt during the plague, it seemed almost as if it might be felt. With a suddenness that was awe-inspiring, it became light as noonday. The lightning was of a brilliant, violet tint, and shone with fervent intensity. And it was not merely a few flashes. It came down in millions of jagged streaks, completely filling the heavens to the horizon in every direction.

A Frightened Traveler. In one of these blinding flashes, I caught sight of my neighbor. His face wore an expression of anguish. In his dread he had arisen, and had tried to pick up his clothes and blankets, in the hope of reaching shelter. In one of the sudden lulls of the tempest, I heard him talking to himself: "Shall I ever live through this awful night? Can I get to those cliffs? Why doesn't some one come to help me? I'm going to die. There's no help for it!" Taking advantage of the next flash, I picked up my blankets and carried them to the cliffs; then returned to him, gathered up his belongings, and urged him to follow me. As soon as he was secure, I spread out my sopping wet blankets in the first s.p.a.ce I could find. Wet through as I was, I rolled myself up in my wetter blankets, and soon should have been asleep, had it not been for the moanings of the man I had rescued. He wished he hadn't come; he was sure the exposure would kill him, and he wondered why people were such fools as to take unnecessary trips. Just then the storm waters from above, seeking their accustomed drainage channels, found their way down to a rock which overhung my sleeping-place as a rude spout, and began to pour upon me in bucketfuls. Yet I vowed I would never admit that my sleep was in the slightest disturbed.

So I turned over in my watery bed, and kept up the play until morning came, while the angry man complained the entire time. Funny? In spite of my own misery, it was funny enough to make a burro laugh.

Two Days' Rest. It took us a couple of days to get well dried out, which we spent at Tuba City, a Mormon town since abandoned by order of the Courts, which found that it was illegally located on an Indian reserve. Then we enjoyed a day or two at Moenkopi, watching the Hopi Indians at their interesting occupations, caring for their fields, and preparing to go on to Oraibi, forty miles distant, where the Snake Dance was soon to occur.

Camp at Blue Canyon. The heat was fearful--it was the middle of August -and the sand made hard pulling for the horses. It was late in the evening before we reached Blue Canyon. The road was uncertain, so we camped on the rim above, leading our animals down, as best we could, to a Navaho hogan, where we thought we might get water and some cornstalks for them. We got both, and then decided to hobble the animals and turn them loose in the Canyon, while we returned to our wagon above. The wind had come up, and was blowing fiercely, so, in the dark, I chose for a sleeping place a piece of ground that was somewhat sheltered from it. It was irregular, rocky and rolling, and as the wind continued to blow, the fine sand blew over and on to my face, while the coa.r.s.er sand settled into my blankets. It was not a refreshing and comforting night.

An Exciting Descent. In the morning, when we went down for our animals, we found that they had broken through the flimsy fence of the Navaho, and had worked considerable havoc in his corn-patch. The Navaho grumbled and gesticulated, and showed unmistakable anger, but I took the matter coolly and, after seeing the extent of the damage, quietly asked the head of the family: "Tu-kwe peso?" (How many dollars?) On receiving his answer, I offered to give him sugar and flour to that amount. We became friends at once, and he invited us to bring our wagon down and spend the day with him.

As we were all wearied, we decided to do so. To save going around by the wagon road, he showed us a quicker way of descent. It was a sand bank not quite vertical, but as nearly so as ever any one drove down and lived to tell the tale. So, harnessing the animals, we brought the wagon to the edge of this sandy descent; then, tying all the wheels securely, so that they would drag, all of us holding on to the hind axle and with weights trailing behind, the whole ma.s.s went over. Though we threw ourselves into the sand and held on to our ropes, it was only by expert driving that the animals were kept from being crushed.

Experience with a Navaho Pilot. The next day we pushed on to Oraibi, piloted by a Navaho. When we reached the western side of the mesa, I decided to go up the foot trail directly to the village, so as to have water and corn fodder awaiting the animals, when they got safely around to the eastern side. The Navaho got it into his head that the wagon was to be driven up the slope on to the mesa, an impossible thing without making a road. There was a trail for horses and burros, however, and the driver yielded to the Navaho's guidance. At last a sheer cliff was reached, up which only trail stock could possibly go. There the party was, with four saddle animals harnessed to a wagon, in a cul de sac, consisting of a spot barely large enough for the wagon to stand on, a deep precipice on the right, a steep cliff ascending on the left, and the animals ahead on a sandy slope as steep as the one we had descended at Blue Canyon, a day or two before. Fearful for the safety of animals and wagon, the only course was retreat. A crude road was built, and, after tying wheels and trailing ropes on as before, with the help of a number of Indians who had come to look on, the whole outfit was lowered to the level below in safety.

An Unforgetable Memory. Thus we had come over a large part of the historic Hopi trail, never designed or planned for a wagon, with our ambulance; and the memories of the trip, arduous though it was, linger in the mind, side by side with experiences of the Snake Dance, and other unforgettable and delightful remembrances.

CHAPTER XXI. The Navaho And His Desert Home

The Navaho Reservation. To see the Navaho in the Hopi House making silverware, or watch his wife weaving blankets, is one thing. To see him on his native heath in the heart of the Painted Desert--is another. With the conveniences of travel now made possible by the excellent equipments of the El Tovar transportation department, any visitor who is not afraid of a strenuous trip may now visit these people with the minimum of discomfort.

Indeed, the Navahos and Hopis may be seen together, on the one excursion described in an earlier chapter. The Navahos are the warlike nomads of the desert. They occupy an extensive reservation in northern Arizona and New Mexico, that adjoins the Hopi reservation on the north and east. They now number some twenty thousand souls, and are slowly on the increase. They are proud, independent, and desirous of being left alone by the United States Government.

Punishment for Depredations. In the early days, before they had learned the power of the new people who had flocked into the land, they committed many depredations upon Americans, and when remonstrated with were insolent and defiant. So an expedition was sent against them, and large numbers--the major portion of the tribe were arrested and moved near Fort Bayard--the Bosque Redondo--in New Mexico, on the Pecos River. Here the conditions were so adverse that many scores of them died, and when, finally, they were allowed to return, it was an humbled people that wended its way back to the high mesa lands they had for so many centuries called their own.

Navaho Customs. Linguistically, the Navaho is akin to the Apache and the Tinneh of Alaska; indeed, he calls himself Tinne. In winter he lives in a rude shelter of logs and mud called a hogan. In summer this is changed for a simple brush stack, which affords shade from the sun, and yet allows free course of the cooling air. He is a polygamist, and lives with his one or more wives, as he can afford. His chief industries are cattle, horse and sheep-raising. The latter supply his wife (or wives) with the wool needed for blanket-weaving, which is her chief industry.

Navaho Superst.i.tion. The Navaho is superst.i.tious about several things: If any one dies in the hogan it is henceforth "tabu." The body is burned and the building with it, and whatever fragments of poles, etc., withstand the fire are regarded with distrust.

Dislikes and Fears. Another tabu of the Navaho is his fear of seeing his mother-in-law. Whenever she comes in sight, he disappears. Technically he never sees her, and I have often had great fun in trying to bring them together. Fish is another object placed under the Navaho ban. He will neither eat, see, nor smell fish, if he can help it.

Essentially Religious. He is an essentially religious being, and has a large number of ritualistic ceremonies. He has many dances for various purposes, the most exciting of which is locally known as the HoshKon. It is a healing ceremony. Dr. Matthews calls it the Mountain Chant. It requires many days for its complete performance, and one of its final ceremonies consists of a wild fire dance which is thrilling in the extreme.

Superior Horsemanship. But perhaps it is in his every-day horsemanship that the Navaho shows himself the superior man. Oftentimes he introduces feats of skill on a horse into his ceremonies. A few years ago at Tuba City, I saw a large band of Navahos unite with the Hopis in their dances and ceremonies of harvest thanksgiving. The Hopi director of the dances was Mootchka, whose costume was as astoundingly frightful as he could possibly make it. His naked body was smeared over with whitewash, some of which adhered and some of which did not. On his head was a ma.s.s of rudely woven black wool, crowned with the duplex pads of some wild flower. Around the waist was a similar black wool mat, fastened on with a Navaho belt of silver disks. When all was ready the dancers began. The trader's store-yard was the plaza, and the roofs of all the buildings on the three sides of the square were covered with Navaho spectators. Hour after hour they continued.

Some of the dancers were decorated, others were in ordinary costume, but all danced and sang with fervor.

Dancing. The chief instrument was a large drum, made by hollowing out a section of a tree trunk, and covering the ends with rawhide, which were tightly laced on with strips of the same material. The dull monotonous thump of the drum kept time, while dancers sang and rattled. Their songs are invocations to "Those Above" to continue their good gifts, and at the same time accept thanks for all that had been given. One dance was particularly beautiful. It was supposed to represent the movements of the planets in and out of the fixed stars. Two little girls, brightly and beautifully dressed, waving feather plumes in their hands, threaded their way in and out of the lines of the dancers, themselves moving with an easy graceful swing.

Origin of Dances. To seek to penetrate the origin of these dances is to find ourselves in the darkness of antiquity. Almost all Indian peoples have the firmly fixed notion that the G.o.ds can be propitiated only by these exhausting dances. Consequently they are not performed by a few professional dancers, or even by certain families; all the people must dance. The smallest child, as soon as he is able to understand, must take his place with the elders, and the women and girls enter into the dances with the same religious fervor and zeal that is displayed by the men. And there is none of that s.e.x enjoyment injected into their sacred dances, as there is in the white man's pleasure dances. The Indian men dance together, and the Indian women together, or, where both s.e.xes partic.i.p.ate, men are in one row and women in another. So that Indian dances are not pleasure dances. Neither are they compet.i.tive. There is none of the negro cake-walk idea connected with them, nor the Italian peasant's carnival, where rivals dance to gain the applause of the village.

Gifts Thrown to Spectators. During these dances at Tuba, gifts of corn, squash, melons, flour, cloth of native texture, and loaves of unleavened bread were brought and given with accompanying prayers to Mootchka, the leader. Then, at certain times, these were thrown among the spectators and eagerly caught, for not only were the articles themselves to be desired, but there accompanied them the prayers of the original donors, which, in some subtle manner, were supposed to bring good fortune to the final recipients.

The "Rooster" Race. The next day the Navahos had their turn. The two leading chiefs selected a suitable site, and, taking a rooster, buried it up to the neck in sand. The running course was soon cleared, and excited Indians on horseback lined up on either side for half a mile. Horseflesh of all kinds known to the Indians (from fleet, wiry steeds that had won many a prize, to broken-down cayuses fit only for the boneyard) was to be seen.

The riders were decked in all the gorgeousness they could afford. Silk bands were around jet black ma.s.ses of hair; calico of rainbow colors was made into garments, here and there overshadowed by a beautifully woven and exquisitely patterned native blanket. Around the waist of many of the men were leathern belts, to which were attached large silver disks worked by native silversmiths; and rings, bracelets, necklaces and earrings of similar work abounded.

Beginning of the Fun. The compet.i.tors were soon gathered together at one end of the course. The chiefs stated the conditions upon which the prizes must be won, and a signal was given. Like a shot, a rider darted out from the ma.s.s toward the tiny head of the buried rooster, stooping over from the saddle as he neared the bird, with fingers of the right hand extended, the left hand holding the bridle and clutching the horse's mane. With a sweep, sudden as it was delicate, he tried to catch the rooster's head between his extended fingers. He failed, but dashed on, for another horse and rider were at his heels, and another and another; the string seemed endless. Now and again one would touch the bird, or would actually catch the head, but the body was too securely buried to be pulled out easily. Cheers would ascend as the riders showed approximate success. Sometimes a horse would shy, and the white visitor looked for nothing less than a broken neck for his rider. But, laughing and shouting, the athletic and careless Indian would swing himself into the saddle, and in a few rough jerks teach the unruly animal to recognize a master. Of course, long before this, the rooster was dead, for at the first strong clutch his neck was broken, so that there was no unnecessary torture. The stream of riders flowed on, and at last one lucky fellow gave the right kind of a pull, and out came the rooster, to be swung around his head with a fierce yell of triumph.

Pursuit of the Victor. Now the real sport begins. With a shout that only Indian lungs can produce, every rider darts after the possessor of the rooster, and for an hour, more or less, it is a question of hard riding, dodging, evading, whirling to and fro. Over the sand-hills they go, pursued and pursuers, yelling and shouting like demons. The victor's horse seems to know all about the sport. He watches and dodges and doubles, like a hunted hare. Now a stalwart ruffian has caught the rooster carrier, and hangs on like grim death, while he is beaten over head and breast and shoulders with the rooster as a weapon. Others join in. Surely someone will get hurt!

Watch the horses. They nip and pinch each other, and squeal with pain and anger. Ah, the winner still keeps his prize! Again he is caught, and this time it seems as if he must succ.u.mb. But his horse helps him out and, by clinging desperately to the horn of the saddle and his horse's mane, he wrests himself away from his pursuer, aided by the shying of the pursuing horse, which is kicked and bitten by his own animal. But where is the pursuer? His horse is dashing riderless away. Is he trampled to death in that swirling, sandy conflict? No, he is hanging on to the man with the rooster, belabored the while with the now b.l.o.o.d.y and dilapidated bird.

Regardless of this he still clings, although the horse is bounding along at great speed, and a hundred or more are following, all yelling and encouraging him not to let go. With a superb effort, he swings himself onto the horse behind the saddle, and with a second sudden move grabs the rooster and wrests half of it out of the original victor's hands. Seeing a chance to escape he drops upon the sand, picks himself up unhurt, and is soon seated upon a new horse. Now he becomes the pursued, and two bands, instead of one, of howling, raving, shouting demons, occupy the attention.

Finish of Contest. And thus the struggle goes on, good-naturedly, yet with a fierceness of energy that is exhausting in its wild excitement; exhausting to the onlooker, as well as the partic.i.p.ant. When the unlucky bird is all dismembered, and the racers smeared from head to heels with blood, and it seems impossible to divide the pieces any smaller, then, and not till then, the conflict ceases.

Two Thousand Hors.e.m.e.n. But for superb riding watch nearly two thousand of these sons of the desert as they train their young men and boys in daring control of their horses. The greatest chief of the Navahos is a good friend of mine, and it was by his kind invitation that I was privileged to see this never-to-be-forgotten sight. He commanded the "regiment"--shall I call it?--riding alongside at times, and again standing where he could signal his demands and note the result.

An Exhibition of Riding. Let us stand with him. These riders are about to dash past. Just before they reach us, a signal is given, and every rider, in an instant, disappears over the side of his mount, while the horses continue running under perfect control. Simultaneously, every Indian reappears upon his saddle, sits about as long as one might count three, and then slides over to our side of his horse, fully in our sight, holding on by stirrup and mane, but completely hidden from one who might be looking from the other side.

Wonderful Agility. The chief was delighted, in his dignified quiet way, as I burst into warm encomiums, and told me I should soon see "some more"

riding. Again the hors.e.m.e.n dashed past. This time I watched for their disappearance and saw where and how they went, but I was scarcely prepared to see many of them peeping at me from under the bellies of their animals.

This was done several times; then Pacoda gave me another treat. The riders came toward us. At a sign, every man sprang from his horse to the ground, to our left, gave three or four wild jumps, sprang completely over the saddle to the other side of his horse, where he gave more jumps, and then, with a yell of joyful triumph, landed into his saddle, the horse, meanwhile, keeping up his speed.

An Impressive Spectacle. But to see the whole party ride furiously away from us, nothing but black hair, st.u.r.dy backs, horses' tails and hindquarters with galloping feet presented, and then, in the twinkle of an eye it almost seemed, to have the same party dashing towards you, was a feat in horsemanship which impressed me most profoundly.

Hors.e.m.e.n almost from Birth. It is not to be wondered at that the Navaho is an expert horseman. He is as nearly born on horseback, literally, as he can be, for on several occasions I have ridden with Navaho friends, among whom was an expectant mother, have stopped half an hour for the birth, and then, with the new-born babe strapped on the mother's back, have resumed the trip, completing, perhaps, forty or fifty miles in a day. Children born under such conditions could not fail to be skilful hors.e.m.e.n.

CHAPTER XXII. From El Tovar To The Havasupai Indians And Their Wonderful Cataract Canyon Homes

Havasu Canyon. The Grand Canyon has two important tributary canyons. The most important of these is the Havasu Chic-i-mi-mi (canyon of the blue water). This is where the Havasupai Indians live.

First White Visitor. The first white man to visit the Havasu, as far as we know, was Padre Francisco Garces, of whom I have written in another chapter. Four times he made long journeys into the interior, visiting a large number of Indian tribes. Among these were the Wallapais and the Havasupais.

Garces' Diary. Dr. Elliott Coues, who visited the Havasupais in 1881 with a governmental party, has translated Garces' diary, and it was published a short time ago by Francis P. Harper, of New York. In this translation, he describes the descent of his (Coues's) party into the Canyon, and his description is so vivid that it is well worth repet.i.tion here.

Dr. Coues' Description of Trail to Havasu Canyon. "On the 10th, a march of ten miles in the same direction brought us abruptly to the brink of the precipice--a sharp-edged jump-off of perhaps a thousand feet. There was no side canyon here for gradual descent; the firm level ground gave no hint of the break before us until we were actually upon the verge, and when the soldiers lined up to look down an involuntary murmur of astonishment ran through the ranks. Dismounting and going in single file, each man leading his horse, we took the dizzy trail--a narrow footpath, in many parts of which a misstep would have been destruction to man or beast. The way zigzagged at first for some distance, on the 'switchback' principle by which railroads sometimes make grades otherwise impracticable; the face of the precipice was so steep that, as we filed along, those of us at the head of the procession looked up to see the other sections of the train almost overhead; certainly a fall of any man there would have been right on top of us. Then the trail took a long lurch to the left with little descent, hugging the face of the cliff, and we looked like a row of ants on a wall.

This brought us at length to the head of a great talus, down which the trail zigzagged--the incline was too steep for straight descent, probably at an angle of forty-five degrees. This fetched us into the bed of Cataract Canyon, perfectly dry. The trail was nearly a mile long, and it took us an hour to make our creepy way down. The Havasupai chief, who had been advised of our coming, was there to meet us with some of his men, all mounted; and he took us up the canyon about five miles to a place where there was a scanty aguage, not sufficing for the wants of the whole party.