The story is finished, but there is yet time for an hour or two of sleep. I take Chuar'ruumpeak to one side for a talk. The three men who left us in the canyon last year found their way up the lateral gorge, by which they went into the Shi'wits 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 these people and are intimate with them, I ask Chuar'ruumpeak 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 wickerwork jug, straps them on his back, and starts at a good round pace.

We have concluded to go down the canyon, 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 canyon 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 canyon 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 our ponies refuse to drink it. We pass on, still descending. A mile or two from the water basin we come to a precipice more than 1,000 feet to the bottom. There is a canyon running at a greater depth and at right angles to this, into which this enters by the precipice; and this second canyon 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, the echoes rolling through distant canyons. 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 canyon for two or three miles, to where it terminates in the Grand Canyon, 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, 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 to 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 faintly hear it strike, 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, thus we make our passage into the depths of the canyon.

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 torchlight 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 athirst and hungry, 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 Canyon, by the side of the Colorado, more than 6,000 feet below our camp on the mountain side, which is 18 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 depot 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 canyon 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 canyon our jaded ponies toil and we reach the second cliff; up this we go, by easy stages, leading the animals. Now we reach the offensive 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 it 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 make it a little better, for it was full of loathsome, wriggling larvae, 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 the 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 pawpaw 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 are rich and luscious, and eat them as grapes or express the juice from them, making the dry pulp into cakes and saving them for winter and drinking the wine about their camp fires until the midnight is merry with their revelries.

They gather the seeds of many plants, as sunflowers, golden-rod, 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 seeds and 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. 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 as if by magic.

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 they drop 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 sunbonnet," 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 mothers' 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. Then 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 soaked in water until quite soft, cut into long thin strips, and glued together; they are then quite elastic. During the autumn, grasshoppers are very abundant, 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 hot stones 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.

When cold weather sets in, these insects are numbed and 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 of 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, 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 is a strange receptacle for such stories and they are apt to sprout new limbs. Maybe much of their added quaint-ness is due to the way in which they were told by the "fathers." But in a confidential way, while alone, or when admitted to their camp fire on a winter night, one may 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 nonplused. 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, exceedingly repulsive. 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; that the white men want to know all about the mountains and the valleys, the rivers and the canyons, 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 canyons 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 occupies much time, and the matter and manner make 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'purats, and that 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. Wo 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 you 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'purats 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 side 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 canyon; 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.

That night I slept in peace, although these murderers of my men, and their friends, the Uinkarets, were sleeping not 500 yards away. While we were gone to the canyon, 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 Uinkarets, 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 canyon 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 10 to 20 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 the outlines of streams and waves can be seen. 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 laud spread out before us, gently rising to the other edge. There are two peaks on the mountain. We walk two miles to the foot of the one looking to be the highest, then a long, hard climb to its summit. 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 Mountains to the northwest, clothed in mellow, perspective haze; unnamed mountains to the southwest, towering over canyons bottomless to my peering gaze, like chasms to 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, and follow it through the dark until we see the camp fire—a welcome sight.

Two days more, and we are at Pipe Spring; one day, and we are at Kanab. Eight miles above the town is a canyon, on either side of which is a group of lakes. Four of these are in caves where the sun never shines. By the side of one of these I sit, at my feet the crystal waters, of which I may drink at will.



CHAPTER XIII.

OVER THE RIVER.

It is our intention to explore a route from Kanab to the Colorado River at the mouth of the Paria, and, if successful in this undertaking, to cross the river and proceed to Tusayan, and ultimately to Santa Fe, New Mexico. We propose to build a flatboat for the purpose of ferrying over the river, and have had the lumber necessary for that purpose hauled from St. George to Kanab. From here to the mouth of the Paria it must be packed on the backs of mules; Captain Bishop and Mr. Graves are to take charge of this work, while with Mr. Hamblin I explore the Kaibab Plateau.

September 24—To-day we are ready for the start. The mules are packed and away goes our train of lumber, rations, and camping equipage. The Indian trail is at the foot of the Vermilion Cliffs. Pushing on to the east with Mr. Hamblin for a couple of hours in the early morning, we reach the mouth of a dry canyon, which comes down through the cliffs. Instead of a narrow canyon we find an open valley from one fourth to one half a mile in width. On rare occasions a stream flows down this valley, but now sand dunes stretch across it. On either side there is a wall of vertical rock of orange sandstone, and here and there at the foot of the wall are found springs that afford sweet water.

We push our way far up the valley to the foot of the Gray Cliffs, and by a long detour find our way to the summit. Here again we find that wonderful scenery of naked white rocks carved into great round bosses and domes. Looking off to the north we can see vermilion and pink cliffs, crowned with forests, while below us to the south stretch the dunes and red-lands of the Vermilion Cliff region, and far away we can see the opposite wall of the Grand Canyon. In the middle of the afternoon we descend into the canyon valley and hurriedly ride, down to the mouth of the canyon, then follow the trail of the pack train, for we are to camp with the party to-night. We find it at the Navajo Well. As we approach in the darkness the camp fire is a cheerful sight. The Navajo Well is a pool in the sand, the sands themselves lying in a basin, with naked, smooth rocks all about on which the rains are caught and by which the sand in the basin is filled with water, and by digging into the sand this sweet water is found.

September 25.—At sunrise Mr. Hamblin and I part from the train once more, taking with us Chuar, a chief of the Kaibabits, for a trip to the south, for one more view of the Grand Canyon from the summit of the Kaibab Plateau. All day long our way is over red hills, with a bold line of cliffs on our left. A little after noon we reach a great spring, and here we are to camp for the night, for the region beyond us is unknown and we wish to enter it with a good day before us. The Indian goes out to hunt a rabbit for supper, and Hamblin and I climb the cliffs. From an elevation of 1,800 feet above the spring we watch the sun go down and see the sheen on the Vermilion Cliffs and red-lands slowly fade into the gloaming; then we descend to supper.

September 26.—Early in the morning we pass up a beautiful valley to the south and turn westward onto a great promontory, from the summit of which the Grand Canyon is in view. Its deep gorge can be seen to the westward for 50 or 60 miles, and to the southeastward we look off into the stupendous chasm, with its marvelous forms and colors.

Twenty-one years later I read over the notes of that day's experience and the picture of the Grand Canyon from this point is once more before me. I did not know when writing the notes that this was the grandest view that can be obtained of the region from Fremont's Peak to the Gulf of California, but I did realize that the scene before me was awful, sublime, and glorious—awful in profound depths, sublime in massive and strange forms, and glorious in colors. Years later I visited the same spot with my friend Thomas Moran. From this world of wonder he selected a section which was the most interesting to him and painted it. That painting, known as "The Chasm of the Colorado," is in a hall in the Senate wing of the Capitol of the United States. If any one will look upon that picture, and then realize that it was but a small part of the landscape before us on this memorable 26th day of September, he will understand why I suppress my notes descriptive of the scene. The landscape is too vast, too complex, too grand for verbal description.

We sleep another night by the spring on the summit of the Kaibab, and next day we go around to Point Sublime and then push on to the very verge of the Kaibab, where we can overlook the canyon at the mouth of the Little Colorado. The day is a repetition of the glorious day before, and at night we sleep again at the same spring. In the morning we turn to the northeast and descend from Kaibab to the back of Marble Canyon and cross it at the foot of the Vermilion Cliffs, and find our packers camped at Jacob's Pool, where a spring bursts from the cliff at the summit of a great hill of talus. In the camp we find a score or more of Indians, who have joined us here by previous appointment, as we need their services in crossing the river.

On the last day of September we follow the Vermilion Cliffs around to the mouth of the Paria. Here the cliffs present a wall of about 2,000 feet in height,—above, orange and vermilion, but below, chocolate, purple, and gray in alternating bands of rainbow brightness. The cliffs are cut with deep side canyons, and the rainbow hills below are destitute of vegetation. At night we camp on the bank of the Colorado River, on the same spot where our boat-party had camped the year before. Leaving the party in charge of Mr. Graves and Mr. Bishop, while they are building a ferryboat, I take some Indians to explore the canyon of the Paria. We find steep walls on either side, but a rather broad, flat plain below, through which the muddy river winds its way over quicksands. This stream we have to cross from time to time, and we find the quicksands treacherous and our horses floundering in the trembling masses.

These broad canyons, or canyon valleys, are carved by the streams in obedience to an interesting law of corrasion. Where the declivity of the stream is great the river corrades, or cuts its bottom deeper and still deeper, ever forming narrow clefts, but when the stream has cut its channel down until the declivity is greatly reduced, it can no longer carry the load of sand with which it is fed, but drops a part of it on the way. Wherever it drops it in this manner a sand bank is formed. Now the effect of this sand bar is to turn the course of the river against the wall or bank, and as it unloads in one place it cuts in another below and loads itself again; so it unloads itself and forms bars, and loads itself with more material to form bars, and the process of vertical cutting is transformed into a process of lateral cutting. The rate of cutting is greatly increased thereby, but the wear is on the sides and not on the bottom. So long as the declivity of the stream is great, the greater the load of sand carried the greater the rate of vertical cutting; but when the declivity is reduced, so that part of the load is thrown down, vertical cutting is changed to lateral and the rate of corrosion multiplied thereby. Now this broad valley canyon, or "box canyon," as such channels are usually called in the country, has been formed by the stream itself, cutting its channel at first vertically and afterwards laterally, and so a great flood-plain is formed.

For a day we ride up the Paria, and next day return. The party in camp have made good progress. The boat is finished and a part of the camp freight has been transported across the river. The next day the remainder is ferried over and the animals are led across, swimming behind the ferryboat in pairs. Here a bold bluff more than 1,200 feet in height has to be climbed, and the day is spent in getting to its summit. We make a dry camp, that is, without water, except that which has been carried in canteens by the Indians.

October 4-—All day long we pass by the foot of the Echo Cliffs, which are in fact the continuation of the Vermilion Cliffs. It is still a landscape of rocks, with cliffs and pinnacles and towers and buttes on the left, and deep chasms running down into the Marble Canyon on the right. At night we camp at a water pocket, a pool in a great limestone rock. We still go south for another half day to a cedar ridge; here we turn westward, climbing the cliffs, which we find to be not the edge of an escarpment with a plateau above, but a long narrow ridge which descends on the eastern side to a level only 500 or 600 feet above the trail left below. On the eastern side of the cliff a great homogeneous sandstone stretches, declining rapidly, and on its sides are carved innumerable basins, which are now filled with pure water, and we call this the Thousand Wells. We have a long afternoon's ride over sand dunes, slowly toiling from mile to mile. We can see a ledge of rocks in the distance, and the Indian with us assures us that we shall find water there. At night we come to the cliff, and under it, in a great cave, we find a lakelet. Sweeter, cooler water never blessed the desert.

While at Jacob's Pool, several days before, I sent a runner forward into this region with instructions to hunt us up some of the natives and bring them to this pool. When we arrive we are disappointed in not finding them on hand, but a little later half a dozen men come in with the Indian messenger. They are surly fellows and seem to be displeased at our coming. Before midnight they leave. Under the circumstances I do not feel that it is safe to linger long at this spot; so I do not lie down to rest, but walk the camp among the guards and see that everything is in readiness to move. About two o'clock I set a couple of men to prepare a hasty lunch, call up all hands, and we saddle, pack, eat our lunch, and start off to the southwest to reach the Moenkopi, where there is a little rancheria of Indians, a farming settlement belonging to the Oraibis, so we are told. We set out at a rapid rate, and when daylight comes we are in sight of the canyon of the Moenkopi, into which we soon descend; but the rancheria has been abandoned. Up the Moenkopi we pass several miles, in a beautiful canyon valley, until we find a pool in a nook of a cliff, where we feel that we can defend ourselves with certainty, and here we camp for the night. The next day we go on to Oraibi, one of the pueblos of the Province of Tusayan.

At Tusayan we stop for two weeks and visit the seven pueblos on the cliffs. Oraibi is first reached, then Shumopavi, Shupaulovi, and Mashongnavi, and finally Walpi, Sichumovi, and Hano.

In a street of Oraibi our little party is gathered. Soon a council is called by the cacique, or chief, and we are assigned to a suite of six or eight rooms for our quarters. We purchase corn of some of the people, and after feeding our animals they are intrusted to two Indian boys, who, under the direction of the cacique, take them to a distant mesa to herd. This is my first view of an inhabited pueblo, though I have seen many ruins from time to time. At first I am a little disappointed in the people. They seem scarcely superior to the Shoshones and Utes, tribes with whom I am so well acquainted. Their dress is less picturesque, and the men have an ugly fashion of banging their hair in front so that it comes down to their eyes and conceals their foreheads. But the women are more neatly dressed and arrange their hair in picturesque coils.

Oraibi is a town of several hundred inhabitants. It stands on a mesa or little plateau 200 or 300 feet above the surrounding plain. The mesa itself has a rather diversified surface. The streets of the town are quite irregular, and in a general way run from north to south. The houses are constructed to face the east. They are of stone laid in mortar, and are usually three or four stories high. The second story stands back upon the first, leaving a terrace over one tier of rooms. The third is set back of the second, and the fourth back of the third; so that their houses are terraced to face the east. These terraces on the top are all flat, and the people usually ascend to the first terrace by a ladder and then by another into the lower rooms. In like manner, ladders or rude stairways are used to reach the upper stories. The climate is very warm and the people live on the tops of their houses. It seems strange to see little naked children climbing the ladders and running over the house tops like herds of monkeys. After we have looked about the town and been gazed upon by the wondering eyes of the men, women, and children, we are at last called to supper. In a large central room we gather and the food is placed before us. A stew of goat's flesh is served in earthen bowls, and each one of us is furnished with a little earthen ladle. The bread is a great novelty to me. It is made of corn meal in sheets as thin and large as foolscap paper. In the corner of the house is a little oven, the top of which is a great flat stone, and the good housewife bakes her bread in this manner: The corn meal is mixed to the consistency of a rather thick gruel, and the woman dips her hand into the mixture and plasters the hot stone with a thin coating of the meal paste. In a minute or two it forms into a thin paper-like cake, and she takes it up by the edge, folds it once, and places it on a basket tray; then another and another sheet of paper-bread is made in like manner and piled on the tray. I notice that the paste stands in a number of different bowls and that she takes from, one bowl and then another in order, and I soon see the effect of this. The corn before being ground is assorted by colors, white, yellow, red, blue, and black, and the sheets of bread, when made, are of the same variety of colors, white, yellow, red, blue, and black. This bread, held on very beautiful trays, is itself a work of art. They call it piki. After we have partaken of goat stew and bread a course of dumplings, melons, and peaches is served, and this finishes the feast. What seem to be dumplings are composed of a kind of hash of bread and meat, tied up in little balls with cornhusks and served boiling hot. They are eaten with much gusto by the party and highly praised. Some days after we learned how they are made; they are prepared of goat's flesh, bread, and turnips, and kneaded by mastication. As we prefer to masticate our own food, this dainty dish is never again a favorite.

In the evening the people celebrate our advent by a dance, such it seemed to us, but probably it was one of their regular ceremonies.

After dark a pretty little fire is built in the chimney corner and I spend the evening in rehearsing to a group of the leading men the story of my travels in the canyon country. Of our journey down the canyon in boats they have already heard, and they listen with great interest to what I say. My talk with them is in the Mexican patois, which several of them understand, and all that I say is interpreted.

The next morning we are up at daybreak. Soon we hear loud shouts coming from the top of the house. The cacique is calling his people. Then all the people, men, women, and children, come out on the tops of their houses. Just before sunrise they sprinkle water and meal from beautiful grails; then they all stand with bare heads to watch the rising of the sun. When his full orb is seen, once more they sprinkle the sacred water and the sacred meal over the tops of the houses. Then the cacique in a loud voice directs the labor of the day. So his talk is explained to us. Some must gather corn, others must go for wood, water must be brought from the distant wells, and the animals of the strangers must be cared for. Now the house tops present a lively scene. Bowls of water are brought; from them the men fill their mouths and with dexterity blow water over their hands in spray and wash their faces and lave their long shining heads of hair; and the women dress one another's locks. With bowls of water they make suds of the yucca plant, and wash and comb and deftly roll their hair, the elder women in great coils at the back of the head, the younger women in flat coils on their cheeks. And so the days are passed and the weeks go by, and we study the language of the people and record many hundreds of their words and observe their habits and customs and gain some knowledge of their mythology, but above all do we become interested in their religious ceremonies.

One afternoon they take me from Oraibi to Shupaulovi to witness a great religious ceremony. It is the invocation to the gods for rain. We arrive about sundown, and are taken into a large subterranean chamber, into which we descend by a ladder. Soon about a dozen Shamans are gathered with us, and the ceremony continues from sunset to sunrise. It is a series of formal invocations, incantations, and sacrifices, especially of holy meal and holy water. The leader of the Shamans is a great burly bald-headed Indian, which is a remarkable sight, for I have never seen one before. Whatever he says or does is repeated by three others in turn. The paraphernalia of their worship is very interesting. At one end of the chamber is a series of tablets of wood covered with quaint pictures of animals and of corn, and overhead are conventional black clouds from which yellow lightnings are projected, while drops of rain fall on the corn below. Wooden birds, set on pedestals and decorated with plumes, are arranged in various ways. Ears of corn, vases of holy water, and trays of meal make up a part of the paraphernalia of worship. I try to record some of the prayers, but am not very successful, as it is difficult to hold my interpreter to the work. But one of these prayers is something like this:

"Muingwa pash lolomai, Master of the Clouds, we eat no stolen bread; our young men ride not the stolen ass; our food is not stolen from the gardens of our neighbors. Muingwa pash lolomai, we beseech of thee to dip your great sprinkler, made of the feathers of the birds of the heavens, into the lakes of the skies and sprinkle us with sweet rains, that the ground may be prepared in the winter for the corn that grows in the summer."

At one time in the night three women were brought into the kiva. These women had a cincture of cotton about their loins, but were otherwise nude. One was very old, another of middle age, and the third quite young, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old. As they stood in a corner of the kiva their faces and bodies were painted by the bald-headed priest. For this purpose he filled his mouth with water and pigment and dexterously blew a fine spray over the faces, necks, shoulders, and breasts of the women. Then with his finger as a brush he decorated them over this groundwork, which was of yellow, with many figures in various colors. From that time to daylight the three women remained in the kiva and took part in the ceremony as choristers and dancing performers.

At sunrise we are filed out of the kiva, and a curious sight is presented to our view. Shupaulovi is built in terraces about a central court, or plaza, and in the plaza about fifty men are drawn up in a line facing us. These men are naked except that they wear masks, strange and grotesque, and great flaring headdresses in many colors.

Our party from the kiva stand before this line of men, and the bald-headed priest harangues them in words I cannot understand. Then across the other end of the plaza a line of women is formed, facing the line of men, and at a signal from the old Shaman the drums and the whistles on the terraces, with a great chorus of singers, set up a tumultuous noise, and with slow shuffling steps the line of men and the line of women move toward each other in a curious waving dance. When the lines approach so as to be not more than 10 or 12 feet apart, our party still being between them, they all change so as to dance backward to their original positions. This is repeated until the dancers have passed over the plaza four times. Then there is a wild confusion of dances, the order of which I cannot understand,—if indeed there is any system, except that the men and women dance apart. Soon this is over, and the women all file down the ladder into the kiva and the men strip off their masks and arrange themselves about the plaza, every one according to his own wish, but as if in sharp expectancy; then the women return up the ladder from the kiva and climb to the tops of the houses and stand on the brink of the nearer terrace. Now the music commences once more, and the old woman who was painted in the kiva during the night throws something, I cannot tell what, into the midst of the plaza. With a shout and a scream, every man jumps for it; one seizes it, another takes it away from him, and then another secures it; and with shouts and screams they wrestle and tussle for the charm which the old woman has thrown to them. After a while some one gets permanent possession of the charm and the music ceases. Then another is thrown into the midst. So these contests continue at intervals until high noon.

In the evening we return to Oraibi. And now for two days we employ our time in making a collection of the arts of the people of this town. First, we display to them our stock of goods, composed of knives, needles, awls, scissors, paints, dyestuffs, leather, and various fabrics in gay colors. Then we go around among the people and select the articles of pottery, stone implements, instruments and utensils made of bone, horn, shell, articles of clothing and ornament, baskets, trays, and many other things, and tell the people to bring them the next day to our rooms. A little after sunrise they come in, and we have a busy day of barter. When articles are brought in such as I want, I lay them aside. Then if possible I discover the fancy of the one who brings them, and I put by the articles the goods which I am willing to give in exchange for them. Having thus made an offer, I never deviate from it, but leave it to the option of the other party to take either his own articles or mine lying beside them. The barter is carried on with a hearty good will; the people jest and laugh with us and with one another; all are pleased, and there is nothing to mar this day of pleasure. In the afternoon and evening I make an inventory of our purchases, and the next day is spent in packing them for shipment. Some of the things are heavy, and I engage some Indians to help transport the cargo to Fort Wingate, where we can get army transportation.

October 24-.—To-day we leave Oraibi. We are ready to start in the early morning. The whole town comes to bid us good-by. Before we start they perform some strange ceremony which I cannot understand, but, with invocations to some deity, they sprinkle us, our animals, and our goods with water and with meal. Then there is a time of handshaking and hugging. "Good-by; good-by; good-by!" At last we start. Our way is to Walpi, by a heavy trail over a sand plain, among the dunes. We arrive a little after noon. Walpi, Sichumovi, and Hano are three little towns on one butte, with but little space between them; the stretch from town to town is hardly large enough for a game of ball. The top of the butte is of naked rock, and it rises from 300 to 400 feet above the sand plains below by a precipitous cliff on every side. To reach it from below, it must be climbed by niches and stairways in the rock. It is a good site for defense. At the foot of the cliff and on some terraces the people have built corrals of stone for their asses. All the water used in these three towns is derived from a well nearly a mile away—a deep pit sunk in the sand, over the site of a dune-buried brook.

When we arrive the men of Walpi carry our goods, camp equipage, and saddles up the stairway and deposit them in a little court. Then they assign us eight or ten rooms for our quarters. Our animals are once more consigned to the care of Indian herders, and after they are fed they are sent away to a distance of some miles. There is no tree or shrub growing near the Walpi mesa. It is miles away to where the stunted cedars are found, and the people bring curious little loads of wood on the backs of their donkeys, it being a day's work to bring such a cargo. The people have anticipated our coming, and the wood for our use is piled in the chimney corners. After supper the hours till midnight are passed in rather formal talk.

Walpi seems to be a town of about 150 inhabitants, Sichumovi of less than 100, and Hano of not more than 75. Hano, or "Tewa" as it is sometimes called, has been built lately; that is, it cannot be more than 100 or 200 years old. The other towns are very old; their foundation dates back many centuries—so we gather from this talk. The people of Hano also speak a radically distinct language, belonging to another stock of tribes. They formerly lived on the Rio Grande, but during some war they were driven away and were permitted to build their home here.

Two days are spent in trading with the people, and we pride ourselves on having made a good ethnologic collection. We are especially interested in seeing the men and women spin and weave. In their courtyards they have deep chambers excavated in the rocks. These chambers, which are called kivas, are entered by descending ladders. They are about 18 by 24 feet in size. The kiva is the place of worship, where all their ceremonies are performed, where their cult societies meet to pray for rain and to prepare medicines and charms against fancied and real ailments and to protect themselves by sorcery from the dangers of witchcraft. The kivas are also places for general rendezvous, and at night the men and women bring their work and chat and laugh, and in their rude way make the time merry. Many of the tribes of North America have their cult societies, or "medicine orders," as they are sometimes called, but this institution has been nowhere developed more thoroughly than among the pueblo Indians of this region. I am informed that there are a great number in Tusayan, that a part of their ceremonies are secret and another part public, and that the times of ceremony are also times for feasting and athletic sports.

Here at Walpi the great snake dance is performed. For several days before this festival is held the people with great diligence gather snakes from the rocks and sands of the region round about and bring them to the kiva of one of their clans in great numbers, by scores and hundreds. Most of these snakes are quite harmless, but rattlesnakes abound, and they are also caught, for they play the most important role in the great snake dance. The medicine men, or priest doctors, are very deft in the management of rattlesnakes. When they bring them to the kiva they herd all the snakes in a great mass of writhing, hissing, rattling serpents. For this purpose they have little wands, to the end of each one of which a bunch of feathers is affixed. If a snake attempts to leave its allotted place in the kiva the medicine man brushes it or tickles it with the feather-armed wand, and the snake turns again to commingle with its fellows. After many strange and rather wearisome ceremonies, with dancing and invocations and ululations, the men of the order prepare for the great performance with the snakes. Clothed only in loincloth, each one seizes a snake, and a rattlesnake is preferred if there are enough of them for all. It is managed in this way: The snake is teased with the feather wand and his attention occupied by one man, while another, standing near, at a favorable moment seizes the snake just, back of the head. Then he puts the snake in his mouth, holding it across, so that the head protrudes on one side and the body on the other, which coils about his hand and arm. A few inches of the head and neck are free, and with this free portion the snake struggles, squirming in the air; but the attention of the snake is constantly occupied by the attendant who carries the wand. Then the men of the priest order carrying the snakes in their mouths arrange themselves in a line in the court and move in a procession several times about the court, and then engage in a dance. After the ceremony all of the snakes are carried to the plain and given their freedom.

This snake dance was not witnessed at the time of the first visit, but an account of it was then obtained, such as given above. It has since been witnessed by myself and by others, and carefully prepared accounts of the ceremonies have been published by different persons.

At last our work at Walpi is done, on October 27, and we arrange to leave on the morrow.



CHAPTER XIV.

TO ZUNI.

October 28.—To-day we leave the Province of Tusayan for a journey through the Navajo country. There is quite an addition to the party now, for we have a number of Indians employed as freighters. Their asses are loaded with heavy packs of the collections we have made in the various towns of Tusayan. After a while we enter a beautiful canyon coming down from the east, and by noon reach a spring, where we halt for refreshment. The poor little donkeys are thoroughly wearied, but our own animals have had a long rest and have been well fed and are all fresh and active. On the rocks of this canyon picture-writings are etched, and I try to get some account of them from the Indians, but fail.

After lunch we start once more. It is a halcyon day, and with a companion I leave the train and push on for a view of the country. Away we gallop, my Indian companion and I, over the country toward a great plateau which we can see in the distance. The Salahkai is covered with a beautiful forest. We have an exhilarating ride. When the way becomes stony and rough we must walk our horses. My Indian, who is well mounted on a beautiful bay, is a famous rider. About his brow a kerchief is tied, and his long hair rests on his back. He has keen black eyes and a beaked nose; about his neck he wears several dozen strings of beads, made of nacre shining shells, and little tablets of turkis are perforated and strung on sinew cord; in his ears he has silver rings, and his wrists are covered with silver bracelets. His leggings are black velvet, the material for which he has bought from some trader; his moccasins are tan-colored and decorated with silver ornaments, and the trappings of his horse are decorated in like manner. He carries his rifle with as much ease as if it were a cane, and rides with wonderful dexterity. We get on with jargon and sign language pretty well. At night, after a long ride, I descend to the foot of the mesa, and near a little lake I find the camp. The donkey train has not arrived, but soon one after another the Indians come in with their packs, and with white men, Oraibi Indians, Walpi Indians, and Navajos, a good party is assembled.

October 29.—We have a long ride before us to-day, for we must reach old Fort Defiance. I stay with the train in order to keep everything moving, for we expect to travel late in the night. On the way no water is found, but in mid-afternoon the trail leads to the brink of a canyon, and the Indians tell me there is water below; so the animals are unpacked and taken down the cliff in a winding way among the rocks, where they are supplied with water. Again we start; night comes on and we are still in the forest; the trail is good, yet we make slow progress, for some of the animals are weary and we have to wait from time to time for the stragglers. About ten o'clock we descend from the plateau to the canyon beneath and are at old Port Defiance, and the officers at the agency give us a hearty greeting.

We spend the 30th of October at the agency and see thousands of Indians, for they are gathered to receive rations and annuities. It is a wild spectacle; groups of Indians are gambling, there are several horse races, and everywhere there is feasting. At night the revelry is increased; great fires are lighted, and groups of Indians are seen scattered about the plains.

November 1.—After a short day's ride we camp at Rock Spring. A fountain gushes from the foot of the mesa. Then another day's ride through a land of beauty. On the left there is a line of cliffs, like the Vermilion Cliffs of Utah. In the same red sandstones and on the top of the cliff the Kaibab scenery is duplicated. A great tower on the cliff is known as "Navajo Church." Early in the afternoon we are at Fort Wingate and in civilization once more. The fort is on a beautiful site at the foot of the Zuni Plateau. And now our journey with the pack train is ended, and I bid good-by to my Indian friends. My own pack train is to go back to Utah, while from Fort Wingate I expect to go to Santa Fe in an ambulance. But the region about is of interest for its wonderful geologic structure and for the many ruins of ancient pueblos found in the neighborhood. On the 2d of November Captain Johnson, an artillery officer, takes me for a ride among the ruins. Many of these ancient structures are found, but those which are of the most interest are the round towers. Nothing remains of these but the bare walls. They average from 18 to 20 feet in diameter, and are usually two or three stories high. Probably they were built as places of worship.

Above Fort Wingate there is a great plateau; below, there stretches a vast desert plain with mesas and buttes. The ruins are at the foot of the plateau where the streams come down from the pine-clad heights.

On the 3d of November with a party of officers I visit Zuni in an ambulance. The journey is 40 miles, along the foot of the plateau half the way, and then we turn into the desert valley, in the midst of which runs the Zuni River, sometimes in canyons cut in black lava. Zuni is a town much like those already visited, except that it is a little larger. Nothing can be more repulsive than the appearance of the streets; irregular, crowded, and filthy, in which dogs, asses, and Indians are mingled in confusion. In the distance Toyalone is seen, a great butte on which an extensive ruin is found, the more ancient home of these people, though Zuni itself appears to be hundreds of years old. The people speak a language radically different from that of Tusayan, and no other tribe in the United States has a tongue related to it.

In the midst of the town there is an old Spanish church, partly in ruins, but it is still graced with the wooden image of a saint, gayly colored; and the old tongueless bell remains, for it was sounded with a stone hammer held in the hand of the bellman; the marks of his blows are deeply indented in the metal. Alvar Nunez Caveza de Vaca was the first white man to see Zuni, when he wandered in that long journey from Florida around by the headwaters of the Arkansas, through what is now New Mexico and Arizona, southward to the City of Mexico. He had with him a Barbary negro, who was killed by the Zuni, and his burial place is still pointed out.

Among the Zuni, as among the tribes of Tusayan, the form of government which prevails throughout the North American tribes is well illustrated. Kinship is the tie by which the members of the tribe are bound together as a common body of people. Each tribe is divided into a series of clans, and a clan is a group of people that reckon kinship through the family line. The children therefore belong to the clan of the mother. Marriage is always without the clan; the husband and father must belong to a different clan from the mother and children, and the children belong to their mother and are governed by her brothers, or by her mother's brothers if they be still living. The husband is but the guest of the wife and the clan, and has no other authority in the family than that acquired by personal character. If he is an able and wise man his advice may be taken, but each clan is very jealous of its rights, and the members do not submit to dictation from the guest husband. The woman is not the ruler of the clan; the ruler is the patriarch or elder man, or if he is not a man of ability a younger and more able man is chosen, who by legal fiction is recognized as the elder. Over the officers of the clan are the officers of the tribe,—a chief with assistant chiefs. The organization by tribal governors varies from tribe to tribe. Sometimes the chieftaincy is hereditary in a particular clan, but more often the chieftaincy is elective. There is very little personal property among the tribal people, such property being confined to clothing, ornaments, and a few inconsiderable articles. The ownership of the great bulk of the property inheres in the clan, such as their houses, their patches of land, the food raised from the soil, and the game caught in the chase. Sometimes the clans are grouped, two or more constituting a phratry, and then there are other officers or chiefs standing between the clan and tribal authority. Again, tribes are sometimes organized into confederacies, and a grand confederate chief recognized. In addition to the chieftaincy of confederate tribes, phratries, and clans, there are councils; but these are not councils of legislation in the ordinary sense. The councils are clans whose decisions become a precedent. Tribal law is therefore court-made law, and such customary law grows out of the exigencies which daily life presents to the people. The problems as they arise are solved as best they may be, and the deliberations of the councils look not to the future but only to the present, and are invoked to settle controversy, that peace may be maintained. Of course there is no written constitution or body of laws, but there are traditional regulations which are well preserved in the idioms of oral speech, every rule of procedure or of justice being sooner or later coined into an aphorism.

It has been seen that a clan is a body of kinship in the female line; but the members of the different clans are related to one another by intermarriage. Thus the first tie is by affinity; but, as fathers belong to other clans than the children, the tie is also by consanguinity. Thus the entire tribe is a body of kindred, and the tribal organization is a fabric with warp of streams of blood and woof of marriage ties. When different tribes unite to form a confederacy for offensive or defensive purposes, artificial kinship is established. One tribe perhaps is recognized as the grandfather tribe, another is the father tribe, a third is the elder-brother tribe, a fourth is the younger-brother tribe, etc. In these artificial kinships the members of one tribe address the members of another tribe by kinship terms established in the treaty. Strangers are sometimes adopted into a clan, and this gives them a status in the tribe. The adoption is usually accomplished by the woman claiming the individual as her youngest son or daughter, and such adopted person has thereupon the status belonging to such a natural child; and, though he be an adult, he calls the child born into the clan before his advent, though it be but a year old, his elder brother or his elder sister. Then often young men are advanced in the clan because of superior ability, and this is done by giving them a kinship rank higher than that belonging to their real age; so that it is not infrequently found that old men address young men as their elder brothers and yield to their authority. The ties of the tribe are kinship, and authority inheres in superior age; but in order to adjust these rules so that the abler men may be given control, artificial kinship and artificial age are established. The civil chiefs direct the daily life of the people in their labors.

To the civil organization of the tribe, as thus indicated, there is added a military organization, and war chiefs are selected. But usually these war chiefs are something more than war chiefs, for they also constitute a constabulary to preserve peace and mete out punishment; and young men from the various clans are designated as warriors and advanced in military rank according to merit. There is thus a brotherhood of warriors, and every man in this brotherhood recognizes all others of the group as being elder or younger, and so assumes or yields authority in all matters pertaining to war and the enforcement of criminal law.

In addition to the secular government there is always a cult government. In every tribe there are Shamans, designated variously by white men as "medicine men," "priests," "priest doctors," "theurgists," etc. In many tribes, perhaps in all, the people are organized into Shamanistic societies; but that these societies are invariably recognized is not certain. The Shamans are always found. Among the Zuni there are thirteen of these cult societies. The purpose of Shamanistic institutions is to control the conduct of the members of the tribe in relation to mythic personages, the mysterious beings in which the savage men believe. In the mind of the savage the world is peopled by a host of mythic beings, anthropomorphic and zoomorphic. The difference between man and brute recognized in civilization, is unrecognized in savagery. All animal life is wonderful and magical co sylvan man. Wisdom, cunning, skill, and prowess are attributed to the real animals to a degree often greater than to man; and there are mythic animals as well as mythic men—monsters dwelling in the mountains and caves or hiding in the waters, who make themselves invisible as they pass over the land. Not only are there great monsters, beasts, and reptiles in their mythology, but there are wonderful insects and worms. All life is miraculous and is worshiped as divine. The heavenly bodies, the sun and moon and stars, are mythic animals, and all of the phenomena of nature are attributed to these zoic beings. For example, the Indian knows nothing of the ambient air. The wind is the breath of some beast, or it is a fanning which rises from under the wings of a mythic bird. All the phenomena of nature, the rising and setting of the sun, the waxing and waning of the moon, the shining of the stars, the coming of comets, the flash of meteors, the change of seasons, the gathering and vanishing of the clouds, the blowing of the winds, the falling of the rain, the spreading of the snow, and all other phenomena of physical nature, are held to be the acts of these wonderful zoic deities. It is deemed of prime importance that such deities should be induced to act in the interest of men. Thus it is that Shamanistic government is held to be of as great importance as tribal government, and the Shamans are the peers of the chiefs. With some tribes the cult societies have greater powers than the clan; with other tribes clan government is the more important; but always there is a conflict of authority, and there is a perpetual war between Shamanistic and civil government.

These Shamans and cult societies have a great variety of functions to perform. All disease and all injuries are attributed to mythic beings or to witchcraft, and on these pathologic ideas the medicine practices of the people are based. The medicine men are sorcerers, who work wonders in discovering witchcraft and averting its effects or in discovering the disease-making animals and overcoming their power. So the Shamans and the cult societies are the possessors of medicine and ceremonies designed to prevent and cure human ailments. They also have charge of the ceremonies necessary to avert disaster and to secure success in all the affairs of life in peace and war; and they prescribe methods and observances and furnish charms and amulets, and in every way possible control human conduct in its relation to the unknown. No small part of savage life is devoted to cult ceremonies and observances. The hunter cannot penetrate the forest without his charm; the woman cannot plant corn until a ceremony is performed for securing the blessings of some divine being. Religious festivals and ceremonies are carried on for days and weeks. A war must be submitted to the gods, and a sneeze demands a prayer.

Our arrival at Fort Wingate practically ended the exploration of the great valley of the Colorado. This was in 1870. In 1891 we can look back upon the completion of the survey of all of that region, for it has now been carefully mapped. The geology of the country has been studied, and the tribes which inhabit it have been subjects of careful research. This work has been carried on by a large corps of men, and interesting results have accrued.



CHAPTER XV.

THE GRAND CANYON.

The Grand Canyon is a gorge 217 miles in length, through which flows a great river with many storm-born tributaries. It has a winding way, as rivers are wont to have. Its banks are vast structures of adamant, piled up in forms rarely seen in the mountains.

Down by the river the walls are composed of black gneiss, slates, and schists, all greatly implicated and traversed by dikes of granite. Let this formation be called the black gneiss. It is usually about 800 feet in thickness.

Then over the black gneiss are found 800 feet of quartzites, usually in very thin beds of many colors, but exceedingly hard, and ringing under the hammer like phonolite. These beds are dipping and unconformable with the rocks above; while they make but 800 feet of the wall or less, they have a geological thickness of 12,000 feet. Set up a row of books aslant; it is 10 inches from the shelf to the top of the line of books, but there may be 3 feet of the books measured directly through the leaves. So these quartzites are aslant, and though of great geologic thickness, they make but 800 feet of the wall. Your books may have many-colored bindings and differ greatly in their contents; so these quartzites vary greatly from place to place along the wall, and in many places they entirely disappear. Let us call this formation the variegated quartzite.

Above the quartzites there are 500 feet of sandstones. They are of a greenish hue, but are mottled with spots of brown and black by iron stains. They usually stand in a bold cliff, weathered in alcoves. Let this formation be called the cliff sandstone.

Above the cliff sandstone there are 700 feet of bedded sandstones and limestones, which are massive sometimes and sometimes broken into thin strata. These rocks are often weathered in deep alcoves. Let this formation be called the alcove sandstone.

Over the alcove sandstone there are 1,600 feet of limestone, in many places a beautiful marble, as in Marble Canyon. As it appears along the Grand Canyon it is always stained a brilliant red, for immediately over it there are thin seams of iron, and the storms have painted these limestones with pigments from above. Altogether this is the red-wall group. It is chiefly limestone. Let it be called the red wall limestone.

Above the red wall there are 800 feet of gray and bright red sandstone, alternating in beds that look like vast ribbons of landscape. Let it be called the banded sandstone.

And over all, at the top of the wall, is the Aubrey limestone, 1,000 feet in thickness. This Aubrey has much gypsum in it, great beds of alabaster that are pure white in comparison with the great body of limestone below. In the same limestone there are enormous beds of chert, agates, and carnelians. This limestone is especially remarkable for its pinnacles and towers. Let it be called the tower limestone.

Now recapitulate: The black gneiss below, 800 feet in thickness; the variegated quartzite, 800 feet in thickness; the cliff sandstone, 500 feet in thickness; the alcove sandstone, 700 feet in thickness; the red wall limestone, 1,600 feet in thickness; the banded sandstone, 800 feet in thickness; the tower limestone, 1,000 feet in thickness.

These are the elements with which the walls are constructed, from black buttress below to alabaster tower above. All of these elements weather in different forms and are painted in different colors, so that the wall presents a highly complex facade. A wall of homogeneous granite, like that in the Yosemite, is but a naked wall, whether it be 1,000 or 5,000 feet high. Hundreds and thousands of feet mean nothing to the eye when they stand in a meaningless front. A mountain covered by pure snow 10,000 feet high has but little more effect on the imagination than a mountain of snow 1,000 feet high—it is but more of the same thing; but a facade of seven systems of rock has its sublimity multiplied sevenfold.

Let the effect of this multiplied facade be more clearly realized. Stand by the river side at some point where only the black gneiss is seen. A precipitous wall of mountain rises over the river, with crag and pinnacle and cliff in black and brown, and through it runs an angular pattern of red and gray dikes of granite. It is but a mountain cliff which may be repeated in many parts of the world, except that it is singularly naked of vegetation, and the few plants that find footing are of strange tropical varieties and are conspicuous because of their infrequency.

Now climb 800 feet and a point of view is reached where the variegated quartzites are seen. At the summit of the black gneiss a terrace is found, and, set back of this terrace, walls of elaborate sculpture appear, 800 feet in height. This is due to the fact that though the rocks are exceedingly hard they are in very thin layers or strata, and these strata are not horizontal, but stand sometimes on edge, sometimes highly inclined, and sometimes gently inclined. In these variegated beds there are many deep recesses and sharp salients, everywhere set with crags, and the wall is buttressed by a steep talus in many places. In the sheen of the midday sun, these rocks, which are besprinkled with quartz crystals, gleam like walls of diamonds.

A climb of 800 feet over the variegated beds and the foot of the cliff sandstone is reached. It is usually olive green, with spots of brown and black, and presents 500 feet of vertical wall over the variegated sandstone. The dark green is in fine contrast with the variegated beds below and the red wall above.

Climb these 500 feet and you stand on the cliff sandstone. A terrace appears, and sometimes a wall of terraces set with alcoves of marvelous structure. Climb to the summit of this alcove sandstone—700 feet—and you stand at the foot of the red wall limestone. Sometimes this stands in two, three, or four Cyclopean steps—a mighty stairway. Oftener the red wall stands in a vertical cliff 1,600 feet high. It is the most conspicuous feature of the grand facade and imparts its chief characteristic. All below is but a foundation for it; all above, but an entablature and sky-line of gable, tower, pinnacle, and spire. It is not a plain, unbroken wall, but is broken into vast amphitheaters, often miles abound, between great angular salients. The amphitheaters also are broken into great niches that are sometimes vast chambers and sometimes royal arches 500 or 1,000 feet in height.

Over the red wall limestone, with its amphitheaters, chambers, niches, and royal arches—a climb of 1,600 feet—is the banded sandstone, the entablature over the niched and columned marble, an adamantine molding 800 feet in thickness, stretching along the walls of the canyon through hundreds of miles. This banded sandstone has massive strata separated by friable shales. The massive strata are the horizontal elements in the entablature, but the intervening shales are carved with a beautiful fretwork of vertical forms, the sculpture of the rills. The massive sandstones are white, gray, blue, and purple, but the shales are a brilliant red; thus variously colored bands of massive rock are separated by bands of vertically carved shales of a brilliant hue.

On these highly colored beds the tower limestone is found, 1,000 feet in height. Everywhere this is carved into towers, minarets, and domes, gray and cold, golden and warm, alabaster and pure, in wonderful variety.

Such are the vertical elements of which the Grand Canyon facade is composed. Its horizontal elements must next be considered. The river meanders in great curves, which are themselves broken into curves of smaller magnitude. The streams that head far back in the plateau on either side come down in gorges and break the wall into sections. Each lateral canyon has a secondary system of laterals, and the secondary canyons are broken by tertiary canyons; so the crags are forever branching, like the limbs of an oak. That which has been described as a wall is such only in its grand effect. In detail it is a series of structures separated by a ramification of canyons, each having its own walls. Thus, in passing down the canyon it seems to be inclosed by walls, but oftener by salients—towering structures that stand between canyons that run back into the plateau. Sometimes gorges of the second or third order have met before reaching the brink of the Grand Canyon, and then great salients are cut off from the wall and stand out as buttes—huge pavilions in the architecture of the canyon. The scenic elements thus described are fused and combined in very different ways.

We measured the length of the Grand Canyon by the length of the river running through it, but the running extent of wall cannot be measured in this manner. In the black gneiss, which is at the bottom, the wall may stand above the river for a few hundred yards or a mile or two; then, to follow the foot of the wall, you must pass into a lateral canyon for a long distance, perhaps miles, and then back again on the other side of the lateral canyon; then along by the river until another lateral canyon is reached, which must be headed in the black gneiss. So, for a dozen miles of river through the gneiss, there may be a hundred miles of wall on either side. Climbing to the summit of the black gneiss and following the wall in the variegated quartzite, it is found to be stretched out to a still greater length, for it is cut with more lateral gorges. In like manner, there is yet greater length of the mottled, or alcove, sandstone wall; and the red wall is still farther stretched out in ever branching gorges. To make the distance for ten miles along the river by walking along the top of the red wall, it would be necessary to travel several hundred miles. The length of the wall reaches its maximum in the banded sandstone, which is terraced more than any of the other formations. The tower limestone wall is less tortuous. To start at the head of the Grand Canyon on one of the terraces of the banded sandstone and follow it to the foot of the Grand Canyon, which by river is a distance of 217 miles, it would be necessary to travel many thousand miles by the winding Way; that is, the banded wall is many thousand miles in length.

Stand at some point on the brink of the Grand Canyon where you can overlook the river, and the details of the structure, the vast labyrinth of gorges of which it is composed, are scarcely noticed; the elements are lost in the grand effect, and a broad, deep, flaring gorge of many colors is seen. But stand down among these gorges and the landscape seems to be composed of huge vertical elements of wonderful form. Above, it is an open, sunny gorge; below, it is deep and gloomy. Above, it is a chasm; below, it is a stairway from gloom to heaven.

The traveler in the region of mountains sees vast masses piled up in gentle declivities to the clouds. To see mountains in this way is to appreciate the masses of which they are composed. But the climber among the glaciers sees the elements of which this mass is composed,—that it is made of cliffs and towers and pinnacles, with intervening gorges, and the smooth billows of granite seen from afar are transformed into cliffs and caves and towers and minarets. These two aspects of mountain scenery have been seized by painters, and in their art two classes of mountains are represented: mountains with towering forms that seem ready to topple in the first storm, and mountains in masses that seem to frown defiance at the tempests. Both classes have told the truth. The two aspects are sometimes caught by our painters severally; sometimes they are combined. Church paints a mountain like a kingdom of glory. Bierstadt paints a mountain cliff where an eagle is lost from sight ere he reaches the summit. Thomas Moran marries these great characteristics, and in his infinite masses cliffs of immeasurable height are seen.

Thus the elements of the facade of the Grand Canyon change vertically and horizontally. The details of structure can be seen only at close view, but grand effects of structure can be witnessed in great panoramic scenes. Seen in detail, gorges and precipices appear; seen at a distance, in comprehensive views, vast massive structures are presented. The traveler on the brink looks from afar and is overwhelmed with the sublimity of massive forms; the traveler among the gorges stands in the presence of awful mysteries, profound, solemn, and gloomy.

For 8 or 10 miles below the mouth of the Little Colorado, the river is in the variegated quartzites, and a wonderful fretwork of forms and colors, peculiar to this rock, stretches back for miles to a labyrinth of the red wall cliff; then below, the black gneiss is entered and soon has reached an altitude of 800 feet and sometimes more than 1,000 feet; and upon this black gneiss all the other structures in their wonderful colors are lifted. These continue for about 70 miles, when the black gneiss below is lost, for the walls are dropped down by the West Kaibab Fault, and the river flows in the quartzites.

Then for 80 miles the mottled, or alcove, sandstones are found in the river bed. The course of the canyon is a little south of west and is comparatively straight. At the top of the red wall limestone there is a broad terrace, two or three miles in width, composed of hills of wonderful forms carved in the banded beds, and back of this is seen a cliff in the tower limestone. Along the lower course of this stretch the whole character of the canyon is changed by another set of complicating conditions. We have now reached a region of volcanic activity. After the canyons were cut nearly to their present depth, lavas poured out and volcanoes were built on the walls of the canyon, but not in the canyon itself, though at places rivers of molten rock rolled down the walls into the Colorado.

The next 80 miles of the canyon is a compound of that found where the river is in the black gneiss and that found where the dead volcanoes stand on the brink of the wall. In the first stretch, where the gneiss is at the foundation, we have a great bend to the south, and in the last stretch, where the gneiss is below and the dead volcanoes above, another great southern detour is found. These two great beds are separated by 80 miles of comparatively straight river. Let us call this first great bend the Kaibab reach of the canyon, and the straight part the Kanab reach, for the Kanab Creek heads far off in the plateau to the north and joins the Colorado at the beginning of the middle stretch. The third great southern bend is the Shiwits stretch. Thus there are three distinct portions of the Grand Canyon of the Colorado: the Kaibab section, characterized more by its buttes and salients; the Kanab section, characterized by its comparatively straight walls with volcanoes on the brink; and the Shiwits section, which is broken into great terraces with gneiss at the bottom and volcanoes at the top.

The Grand Canyon of the Colorado is a canyon composed of many canyons. It is a composite of thousands, of tens of thousands, of gorges. In like manner, each wall of the canyon is a composite structure, a wall composed of many walls, but never a repetition. Every one of these almost innumerable gorges is a world of beauty in itself. In the Grand Canyon there are thousands of gorges like that below Niagara Palls, and there are a thousand Yosemites. Yet all these canyons unite to form one grand canyon, the most sublime spectacle on the earth. Pluck up Mt. Washington by the roots to the level of the sea and drop it headfirst into the Grand Canyon, and the dam will not force its waters over the walls. Pluck up the Blue Ridge and hurl it into the Grand Canyon, and it will not fill it.

The carving of the Grand Canyon is the work of rains and rivers. The vast labyrinth of canyon by which the plateau region drained by the Colorado is dissected is also the work of waters. Every river has excavated its own gorge and every creek has excavated its gorge. When a shower comes in this land, the rills carve canyons—but a little at each storm; and though storms are far apart and the heavens above are cloudless for most of the days of the year, still, years are plenty in the ages, and an intermittent rill called to life by a shower can do much work in centuries of centuries.

The erosion represented in the canyons, although vast, is but a small part of the great erosion of the region, for between the cliffs blocks have been carried away far superior in magnitude to those necessary to fill the canyons. Probably there is no portion of the whole region from which there have not been more than a thousand feet degraded, and there are districts from which more than 30,000 feet of rock have been carried away. Altogether, there is a district of country more than 200,000 square miles in extent from which on the average more than 6,000 feet have been eroded. Consider a rock 200,000 square miles in extent and a mile in thickness, against which the clouds have hurled their storms and beat it into sands and the rills have carried the sands into the creeks and the creeks have carried them into the rivers and the Colorado has carried them into the sea. We think of the mountains as forming clouds about their brows, but the clouds have formed the mountains. Great continental blocks are upheaved from beneath the sea by internal geologic forces that fashion the earth. Then the wandering clouds, the tempest-bearing clouds, the rainbow-decked clouds, with mighty power and with wonderful skill, carve out valleys and canyons and fashion hills and cliffs and mountains. The clouds are the artists sublime.