Chapter IV: Part 4

Safely back at our camp with a brisk fire crackling under a pot of coffee, I began to throw off the shivering sensation, and by the time the coffee pot was empty I was ready for new adventures. Word had gone forth that I would buy all the baskets the squaws brought to me. I hoped in this way to get some first-hand information about the feminine side of affairs. Squaws and baskets and information poured in. Baskets of all sizes and shapes were brought, some good, some bad, but I bought them all. If I hesitated a moment over one the owner put the price down to a few cents. Just a dime or two for a whole week's work. Time has no value to them, and the creek banks are covered with the best willows in the world for basket-making. The basket-making art is the only talent these squaws have, while the bucks excel in tanning buckskin and other skins. These they trade to the Navajo Indians for silver and blankets. Then they race their ponies or gamble for the ownership of the coveted blankets. How they do love to gamble! Horses, blankets, squaws--anything and everything changes hands under the spell of the magic cards. Even the squaws and children gamble for beads and bright-colored calico. When a few pieces of real money are at stake, all is wild excitement. How the black eyes snap, and how taut is every nerve!

Their hewas are merely shelters of willow, and there is absolutely no privacy about anything. Yet they are neither immoral nor unmoral. The girls all marry very young. At the age of twelve or thirteen the girl is chosen by some brave, who bargains with the father for her. A pony or its value in buckskin will buy almost any father's favorite daughter. But the girl is not forced to go with a lover whom she does not approve. The marriage ceremony is not elaborate; after all preliminaries are disposed of, the would-be bridegroom takes his blanket and moves into the hewa of the girl's people. If two or three moons pass without any quarrels between the young people, they move into a hewa of their own, and thus it is known that they are married. Divorce is just as simple; he merely sends her back to her father. An Indian brave of the Supai tribe can have as many wives as he can buy according to the tribal law. But since there is only about one squaw to every three braves, a man is lucky to have any wife, and divorce is rare. When two or more braves center their affections on one fair damsel, things are likely to happen. But three Indian judges solemnly sit in council and settle the question. Their solution is usually final, although two or three disgruntled braves have journeyed to our home at El Tovar sixty miles away to appeal to White Mountain for aid.

The valley is fertile, and all sorts of fruits and vegetables thrive. In fact the natives live on what they raise in their haphazard way. They have a rude system of irrigation which carries water to every little garden. One other thing grows in abundance there--dogs! Such a flock of surly, mangy mongrels one would have to travel far to find. I don't know what they live on, for I never saw one of them being fed.

"Big sing tonight," said one of the squaws squatting by our campfire.

"What is a sing, Dottie?"

"Much sing and dance. Medicine man drive away bad spirit from blind man."

Of course we were present at the "sing," although I would never have called it that. An old half-blind Indian afflicted with granulated eyelids was the victim. The night was chilly, but he was clothed only in a look of resignation. The medicine man had a shot-filled gourd, a bunch of dried herbs, and an unlimited capacity for howling. First of all the patient was given a "sweat bath." He was put into a little teepee made of willows closely covered with burlap. Hot rocks were introduced and a pan of water thrown on them. More rocks and more water went inside until the poor Indian could stand it no longer. He came forth choking and gasping with the perspiration running from him. Buckets of cold water were then dashed over him and the medicine man got busy beating him over the head with the bunch of herbs, keeping up an unearthly screeching. This would last until morning, they said, but my interest flagged just about the time the priest found his second wind, and I retired.

Five beautiful waterfalls are scattered down the valley, and I was most anxious to visit these. For some reason Wattahomigie hung back and we had trouble in persuading him to take us there. He reluctantly accompanied us when he saw we intended to go either with him or without. His attitude was explained when we were well along the trail; some freak of formation has made great sounding boxes of the Canyon, and these gather the noises of the water and the wind and return them again in shrieks of demoniacal laughter, barking of dogs, and sounds of talking and singing. It is startling to say the least, and no amount of explaining would convince Wattahomigie that it is not the revel hall of departed Indian spirits. The sun is lost there at midday, and darkness settles down soon after.

We camped at Mooney Falls that night, so called on account of an adventurous prospector of that name losing his life by falling over the ledge there. It took ten months for his comrades to get equipment together and recover his body, which they buried at the foot of the falls. This place naturally holds no attraction for our Indian friends, and we had literally to push them from under our feet. They almost sat in the campfire, so determined were they to stay near us.

The next day we started to Hilltop, with Big Jim and his squaw with us as an escort of honor. Jim rode serenely along, while Mary trudged after on foot.

"Jim," said the Chief, "how is it that you ride and Mary walks?"

Jim's voice was reproachfully astonished that anyone could be so dense: "Mary, she no got um horse!"

The Indians gathered to see us off. I looked at the faces before me. Even the babies seemed hopeless and helpless. It is a people looking backward down the years with no thought of the morrow.

"Can't you get them to be more hopeful or cheerful? Won't they even try to help themselves?" I asked Wattahomigie in desperation. He sadly shook his head.

"No help," he said; "plenty for today, maybe no tomorrow."

And maybe he's right. Not many more morrows for that doomed tribe.

_Chapter X: WHERE THEY DANCE WITH SNAKES_[2]

A few days after our visit to Supai, Ranger Fisk dropped in.

"Going to the Snake Dance?" he asked me.

"What's a Snake Dance, and where is it?"

"Oh, it's over in the Hopi Reservation, and the crazy redskins hop around with rattlesnakes in their mouths so it'll rain."

"I don't believe _that_. I'm going over and ask Joe about it," I replied, indignant that Charlie would try to tell me anything so improbable.

I returned pretty soon from my visit to Joe, who is Chief of the Hopi Indians. He made his home with the Spencers at the Hopi House, and we were tried and true friends.

"What did he say?" Both the Chief and Ranger Fisk hurled the question at me.

"He said rattlesnakes are their brothers and they carry messages to the rain gods telling them of the need for rain in Hopi land. He didn't want to tell me much about it. White Mountain, let's go. _Please!_"

So we went. But before we started I managed to gather a little more information about the yearly ceremony that is held in the Painted Desert country. Joe told me that the Government at Washington was opposed to their Snake Dance. He told me to bear in mind that water is the very breath of life to the desert dwellers, and that while his people did not like to oppose the agents placed there by the Government they certainly intended to continue their dance.

We loaded the flivver with food and water, since we knew our welcome would be a shade warmer if we did not draw on the meager water supply in the Reservation. We dropped down to Flagstaff, and there on every street corner and in every store and hotel the Hopi Snake Dance was the main subject of conversation. It seemed that everybody was going!

We left the main road there and swung off across the desert for the Hopi villages, built high on rocky mesas overlooking the surrounding country. It was delightful during the morning coolness, but all too soon the sun enveloped us. We met two or three Navajo men on their tough little ponies, but they were sullen and refused to answer my waves to them. While we repaired a puncture, a tiny Navajo girl in her full calico skirt and small velvet basque drove her flock of sheep near and shyly watched us. I offered her an apple and she shied away like a timid deer. But candy was too alluring. She crept closer and closer, and then I got sorry for her and placed it on a rock and turned my back. She lost no time in grabbing the sweet and darting back to her flock.

The road was badly broken up with coulees and dry washes that a heavy rain would turn into embryo Colorados. I found myself hoping that the Snake Dance prayer for rain would not "take" until we were safely back over this road.

Evening found us encamped at the foot of the high mesa upon which was built the Hopi village where the dance would be held this year. Close beside was the water hole that furnished the population with a scant supply. It was a sullen, dripping, seeping spring that had nothing in common with our gushing, singing springs of the Southern mountains. The water was caught in a scooped-out place under the cliff, crudely walled in with stones to keep animals away. Some stray cattle, however, had passed the barrier and perished there, for their bones protruded from the soft earth surrounding the pool. It was not an appetizing sight. Rude steps were cut in the rocky trail leading to the pueblo dwellings above two miles away, from whence came the squaws with big ollas to carry the water. This spring was the gossiping ground for all the female members of the mesa. They met there and laughed and quarreled and slandered others just as we white women do over a bridge table.

I found myself going to sleep with my supper untasted, and leaving White Mountain to tidy up I went to bed with the sand for a mattress and the stars for a roof. Some time in the night I roused sufficiently to be glad that all stray rattlers, bull snakes, and their ilk were securely housed in the kivas being prayed over by the priests. At dawn we awakened to see half a score of naked braves dash by and lose themselves in the blue-shadowed distance. While we had breakfast I spoke of the runners.

"Yes," said the Chief, "they are going out to collect the rattlesnakes."

"Collect the rattlesnakes! Haven't they been garnered into the fold yet?"

"No, today they will be brought from the north, tomorrow from the west, next day from the south, and last from the east." He glanced at me. "Provided, of course, that they don't show up here of their own accord. I _have_ heard that about this time of year every snake within a radius of fifty miles starts automatically for the Snake Dance village."

"Well, _I_ shall sleep in the car tomorrow night and the next night and the next one, too."

"Where will you sleep tonight?"

"I'll not sleep. I intend to sit on top of the machine and see if any snakes do come in by themselves. Not that I'm afraid of snakes," I hastened to add; "but I'd hate to delay any pious-minded reptile conscientiously bent on reaching the scene of his religious duties."

We solved the difficulty by renting a room in one of the pueblo houses.

We followed the two-mile trail up the steep cliff to Walpi and found ourselves in a human aerie. Nobody knows how many centuries have passed since this tribe first made their home where we found them now. Living as they do in the very heart of a barren, arid waste, they control very little land worth taking from them and have therefore been unmolested longer than they otherwise would have been. They invite little attention from tourists except during the yearly ceremonial that we had come to witness. What _is_ this Snake Dance? The most spectacular and weird appeal to the gods of Nature that has ever been heard of!

To gain an understanding of what rain means to these Indians we had only to live in their village the few days preceding the dance. They are compelled to exist on the water from winter's melting snow and the annual summer showers, which they catch in their rude cisterns and water holes. One's admiration for this unconquerable tribe is boundless, as the magnitude of their struggle for existence is comprehended. Choosing the most inaccessible and undesirable region they could find in which to make a determined and successful stand against the Spanish and the hated friars, they have positively subjugated the desert. Its every resource is known and utilized for their benefit. Is there an underground irrigation that moistens the soil, they have searched it out and thrust their seed corn into its fertile depths. The rocks are used to build their houses; the cottonwood branches make ladders and supports for the ceilings; the clay is fashioned into priceless pottery; grasses and fiber from the yucca turn into artistic baskets under their skillful fingers. Every drop of water that escapes from the springs nourishes beans and pumpkins to be stored away for winter use. Practically every plant on the desert is useful to them, either for their own needs or as food for their goats and burros.

We knew and were known by many of the younger members of the tribe who had visited at the Grand Canyon, so we found a warm welcome and ready guides in our stroll around the village.

The Hopi Indians are friendly and pleasant. They always respond to a greeting with a flashing smile and a cheery wave of the hand. This is not the way the sullen Navajos greet strangers. We saw many of that nomad tribe walking around the Hopi village. They were just as curious as we were about this snake dance.

"Do the Navajos believe your dance will make the rain come?" I asked a young Hopi man who was chatting with the Chief.

"Oh, yes. They believe."

"Well, why don't you Hopis make them pay for their share of the rain you bring. It falls on their Reservation." That was a new thought to the Hopi and we left him staring over the desert, evidently pondering. I hope I didn't plant the seed that will lead to a desert warfare!

I watched with fascinated eyes the antics of round, brown babies playing on the three-story housetops. I expected every instant that one would come tumbling off, but nobody else seemed to worry about them. On one housetop an aged Hopi was weaving a woolen dress for his wife. What a strange topsy-turvy land this was--where the men do the weaving and the wives build the houses. For the women do build those houses. They are made from stone brought up from the desert far below, and then they are thickly plastered with a mixture of adobe and water. Many families live in the same pueblo, but there are no openings from one room to another. Each house has its own entrance. There are generally three stories to each pueblo, the second one set back eight or ten feet on the roof of the first, and the third a like distance on the top of the second. This forms a terrace or balcony where many household duties are performed.

I noticed that one pueblo was completely fenced in with head and foot pieces of ornate iron beds! Evidently the Government had at some time supplied each family with a bed and they had all passed into the hands of this enterprising landscape engineer. The houses we peeped into were bare of furniture with the exception of a Singer sewing machine. I venture to say there was one in every home up there. Many family groups were eating meals, all sitting in a circle around the food placed in dishes on the floor. It was difficult to see what they were serving, on account of the swarms of flies that settled on everything around. I saw corn on the ear, and in many places a sort of bean stew. Where there was a baby to be cared for, the oldest woman in the family sat apart and held it while the others ate. One old grandmother called my attention to the child she had on her lap. He was a big-eyed, shrunken mite, strapped flat to his board carrier. The day was broiling hot, but she motioned me to touch his feet. "Sick," she said. His tiny feet were like chunks of ice. It was a plain case of malnutrition, and what could I do to help, in the few days I was to be there?

Many of the school boys and girls from boarding-schools were home for vacation, but they knew little or nothing about the meaning of the different dances and ceremonies that were going on in a dozen underground kivas in the village. One pretty maiden with marvelous masses of gleaming black hair volunteered to help us interview her uncle, an old Snake Priest, about his religion. We found "Uncle" lounging in the sunshine, mending his disreputable moccasins. He was not an encouraging subject as he sat there with only a loin cloth by way of haberdashery. He welcomed us as royally, however, as if he wore a king's robes, and listened courteously while the girl explained our errand.

If there is a more difficult feat in the world than extracting information from a reluctant Indian I have never come across it. We gave up at last, and waited to see what was going to happen.

The exact date of the dance is determined by the Snake Priest, and announced from the housetops nine days before it takes place. The underground "kivas" are filled with the various secret orders, corresponding to our lodges, going through their mystic ceremonies. From the top of the ladder that extends above the kiva opening, a bunch of turkey feathers hung, notifying outsiders that lodge was in session and that no visitors would be welcome.

What candles and a cross mean to good Catholics, feathers mean to a Hopi. Flocks of turkeys are kept in the village for the purpose of making "bahos," or prayer sticks. These little pleas to spirits are found stuck all over the place. If a village is particularly blessed, they have a captive eagle anchored to a roof. And this bird is carefully fed and watered in order that its supply of feathers may not fail.

Days before the dance, the young men are sent out to bring in the snakes. Armed with a little sacred meal, feathers, a long forked stick, and a stout sack, they go perhaps twenty miles from the village. When a snake is located dozing in the sun, he is first sprinkled with the sacred meal. If he coils and shows fight the ever trusty feather is brought into play. He is stroked and soothed with it, and pretty soon he relaxes and starts to crawl away. Quick as a flash he is caught directly behind the head and tucked away in the sack with his other objecting brethren. Every variety of snake encountered is brought in and placed in the sacred kiva.

The legend on which they so firmly base their belief in snake magic is this:

An adventurous Hopi went on a journey to find the dwelling-place of the Rain God, so that he might personally present their plea for plenty of showers. He floated down the Colorado until he was carried into the Underworld. There he met with many powerful gods, and finally the Snake God taught him the magic of making the rain fall on Hopi fields. They became fast friends, and when the Hopi returned to his home the Snake God presented him with his two daughters, one for a wife to the Hopi's brother, who belonged to the Antelope Clan, and the other to become his own bride. When the weddings took place all the snake brothers of the brides attended, and a great dance was made in their honor. Since that time a yearly dance and feast is held for the snakes, and they then descend to their Snake God father and tell him the Hopis still need rain.

While the men garner snakes and perform in the kivas, the women are not idle. Far from it! Pottery-makers are busy putting the last touches of paint on their pottery, and basket makers add the last row of weaving to the baskets. These wares are displayed in every doorway and window, where they are most likely to catch the tourist eye. The best specimens are not put out for sale. I believe the attitude is, "Why place pearls before swine?"

Houses are swept, and new plaster is applied inside and out. The girls chatter over their grinding stones, where they crush the meal for making "piki." Others mix and bake this piki, and it is piled high on flat baskets. It is made of cornmeal and water, and is baked on hot flat stones. The stone is first greased with hot mutton tallow, then the cook dips her fingers into the mixture and with one swift swipe spreads it evenly over the scorching surface. How they escape blistered fingers is always a marvel to me.

Squaws are wearily climbing the steep trail with heavy ollas of water on their backs, held there by a shawl knotted around their foreheads. Others pass them going to the spring, where they sit and gossip a while before starting back with their burdens. It takes about the last of the hoarded water to prepare for the dance, since religion demands that every house and street be sprinkled and each and every Hopi must have his yearly bath and shampoo.

I found a pretty girl having her hair put up in squash blossoms for the first time. Her mother told me she was ready to choose her husband now, and that the hairdress would notify the young braves to that effect. In Hopi land the girl chooses her own husband, proposes, and then takes him to live in her house. If she tires of him she throws his belongings out, and _he_ "goes back to mother!" After the Snake Dance my little girl would make her choice. I tried to get advance information, but she blushed and giggled like any other flapper.

The old men were going to and from the planting grounds, many miles away in the valley. They went at a sort of dog trot, unless one was rich enough to own a burro; in that case it did the dog trotting. After the fields are planted, brush shelters are built and the infirm members of the tribe stay there to protect the fields from rabbits and burros. Who could blame a hungry little burro for making away with a luscious hill of green corn in the midst of a barren desert? And yet if he is caught he has to pay, literally--one of his ears for the ear of corn he has eaten. Very few Hopi burros retain their original couple of ears.

The agents say that the time and strength consumed by the Indians in going to and from their fields, and in carrying water up to the village, could better be spent cultivating the crops. Therefore, many attempts have been made to move the Hopis from their lofty homes on the crags to Government houses on the level below. But they steadfastly refuse to be moved.

Stand at the mesa edge and look out across the enchanting scene. To the far south the snow-crowned San Francisco peaks rear their lofty heights. To the north and east the sandy desert stretches away in heart-breaking desolation, relieved only by the tiny green patches of peach trees and corn fields. The blazing sun beats down appallingly. A purple haze quivers over the world. But evening comes, and as the sun drops out of sight a pink glow spreads over the eastern sky, giving a soft radiance to the landscape below. Soon this desert glow fades, and shadows creep nearer and nearer, until one seems to be gazing into the sooty depths of a midnight sea. Turn again toward the village. Firelight darts upward and dies to a glow; soft voices murmur through the twilight; a carefree burst of laughter comes from a group of returned school children.

It suddenly dawns on one that this is the home of these people, their home as it was their fathers' and their fathers' home before them. They are contented and happy. Why leave their sun-kissed, wind-swept heights, seven thousand feet high, for the scorching desert below?

The village was seething at the first hint of dawn on the day of the actual snake dance. Crowding the dizzy mesa edges were masses of Indians and whites drawn there for the ceremony. Somewhere, far below, through the desert dawn, a score of young men were running the grilling race to reach the village. The first to arrive would secure the sacred token bestowed by the Head Priest. This would insure fruitful crops from his planting next year and, perhaps more important, the most popular girl in the village would probably choose him for a husband. We stood near our squash-blossom girl, and the progress of the race was written on her face. I knew her choice was among the runners, and when the first one to arrive darted, panting, up to the priest and grasped the token, I knew who was her choice!

The white visitors spent the forenoon strolling around the mesa, tasting Hopi food, feeding candy to the naked, roly-poly babies, or bargaining with visiting Navajos for rugs and silver jewelry. French, Spaniards, Mexicans, Germans, Americans, and Indians jostled each other good-naturedly. Cowboys, school teachers, moving-picture men, reporters, missionaries, and learned doctors were all there. One eminent doctor nudged the Chief gleefully and displayed a small flask he had hidden under his coat. I wondered if he had fortified himself with liquor in case of snakebite. He surely had! And how? He had heard for years of the secret antidote that is prepared by the Snake Priest and his wife, to be used all during the nine days the snakes are being handled. He traveled there from Chicago to secure a sample of that mixture. He found the ready ear of a Hopi youth, who supplied him with a generous sample in return for five dollars. The doctor was satisfied, for the time being, and so was the mischief-loving kid. He told us a few minutes later that he had sold seven such samples on the Q.T. and that he was going to have to mix up another brew! "What are you selling them?" I asked, trying to be as stern as possible. "Water we all washed in," he said, and we both had a good laugh.

At noon the snakes were taken from the big jars and washed in other ollas of water. This is a matter of politeness. Since the snake brothers cannot wash themselves, it must be done for them.

The middle of the afternoon found the crowd choosing places of vantage for the Snake Dance, which would begin just before sundown and last perhaps half an hour. Owners of houses were charging a dollar a seat on their roofs, and they could have sold many more seats had there been room for them.

Scarcely a person seemed to realize that they were there to witness a religious ceremony and that to the Indians it was as sacred as could be any High Church service. Shouting and cheering, they waited for the dancers to appear.

Finally a naked Indian, painted white and black and red, with a lot of strung shells draped over his chest, appeared, carrying the olla of snakes. These he deposited in a hut built of willow boughs with a bearskin for a door.

Following him came twenty priests painted as he was, each with a loin cloth and a coyote skin hanging from the cloth behind. These went around the circle seven times, which seems to be the mystic number used in all these ceremonies. They chanted a weird, wordless tune all the time. Then they gathered in front of the kiva, where the snakes could be heard keeping up a constant dull rattling, and chanted this same tune seven times, stamping on the boards that covered the opening to the Underworld, in order that the gods down there might know they were on the job. One priest had a piece of board on the end of a strong string and every so often he would step out in front of the others and whirl and whiz that board around until it wailed like a lost soul. _That_ was the wind before the rain!

A priest entered the snake kiva and passed a snake out to a priest dancer. The dancer placed this big rattler in his mouth and began the circle. Close beside him danced a companion called the "hugger." This protecting Indian kept one arm around the dancer's shoulders and his other hand occupied with a bunch of feathers with which he kept the snake's head from coming too close to the dancer's face. Entirely around the ring they went until the starting-place had been reached, when, with a quick, sharp jerk of his head, the dancer threw the snake into the center of the plaza. It lay there coiled, sputtering, and rattling in rage for a moment, then started to glide away. Quick as a flash a "gatherer" snatched him up and twirled him around his arm.

As soon as the first dancer was rid of his snake he went for another, and we noticed that he was always given rattlers. Some of the other priests had thin, nervous whip snakes; some had big, sluggish bull snakes; but at least eighty per cent of the snakes were active, angry rattlers. The first dancer was an old man, gray-headed, and rather stooped. He had a poor hugger, for at least three times during the dance the hugger let a rattler strike the old priest. Once the priest flinched with pain and let the snake loose from his mouth. It hung on to his cheek with its fangs firmly implanted, and at last he tore him loose with both hands. The blood spurted from the wound, and a Hopi man beside me made a nervous clucking sound.

"Will he die from that bite?" I asked the Hopi.

"I think not. Maybe. I don't know." And I'm sure he didn't know any more about it than I did. But the old fellow continued with his dancing as if nothing had happened. At last about eighty snakes had been danced with and were now writhing, animated bouquets in the hands of the gatherers. A squaw came out and made a circle of sacred meal. Into this all the snakes were dumped, and more meal was sprinkled on them. Then each carrier, of which there were four, gathered all the snakes he could grasp by thrusting his arms into the squirming mass, and one carrier departed in each direction. We watched one running swiftly down the cliff until he reached the level desert, where he dumped his cargo, and came back to the plaza. There he and his other returned companions lined up on the edge of the mesa and drank a big draught of the secret preparation prepared by the Snake Priest and his wife. Then they let nature take its course. Such a heaving, vomiting set of redskins you never saw!

This little chore attended to, they removed their paint and prepared to join in the feast and dancing that would last through the night.

Before I left I hunted up the old Snake Priest and pressed him for an explanation of why the snake bites did not harm them. This is what he told me.

"We do not extract the fangs. We do not cause the snakes to bite at things and exhaust their poison. We do not stupefy them with drugs as you could well see. But we do cleanse the priests so thoroughly that the poison cannot take hold. For nine days they fast, partaking of no food, and only of herb drinks prepared by our wise ones. They have many sweat baths and get the harmful fluids out of their blood. They have absolutely no fear of the snakes, and convey to them no nervousness or anger. Just before the dance they have a big drink of the herb brew, and they are painted thickly with an ointment that contains herbs that kill snake poison. Then after the dance, the emetic. That is all."

"How many of your tribe know of this secret preparation?"

"Only two. Myself and my squaw. Should I die my squaw tell the secret to my son. When my squaw die he teach _his_ squaw."

Probably because this dance is staged at the time of year the rains are due in Arizona, it is seldom that twenty-four hours elapse after the dance before a downpour arrives. Hopi Snake Priests are good weather prophets!

_Chapter XI: THE TERRIBLE BADGER FIGHT_

When winter ends, spring comes with a rush at the Canyon, and flowers pop up over night. They follow the melting snow until the hills are covered with flaming paintbrushes and tender blue lupine. Greasewood and manzanita put out fragrant, waxy blossoms, and wild pinks and Mariposa lilies hedge the trails.

Encouraged by the glorious display of wild flowers, I planned, with more enthusiasm than judgment, to have a real flower garden beside our new house.

I built a low rock wall around the space I had selected, and piled it full of rich black loam as fine as any green-house could afford. Father had sent seeds from the old garden at home, and various friends had contributed from their gardens in the East. These seeds had been planted in boxes which I kept near the stove until frost was gone. They were full of promising plants. Hollyhocks, larkspur, pansies, and foxglove were ready to transplant, when a terrible catastrophe occurred--a little neighbor girl called on me, and, finding me gone, was right peeved. She entertained herself by uprooting my posies. With a complete thoroughness she mixed plants and dirt together, stirring water into the mixture with my trowel. If her grown-up cake-making is done as conscientiously as was that job, she'll be a wonderful pastry cook! I discovered the mischief while it was still fresh, and out of the wreckage salvaged a few brave seedlings. They pouted awhile before they took heart, and root, but finally perked up again. Time healed their wounds and if an ambitious squirrel hadn't been looking for a place to hide a nut I might still have taken prizes in the state fair. As it was, only a very few sturdy plants lived to grace the garden. They flourished, and I had begun to look in their direction without crossing my fingers when a hungry cow and her yearling boy appeared on the scene.

"Help yourself, son!" Ma cow said, suiting her actions to the advice given.

Midsummer found a lonely cactus and a horned toad blooming in my garden.

The weather got hotter and more hot, and my bird bath was duly appreciated by the feathered population. They gathered there in flocks, and the news went far and wide that water was to be had at the Chief's house. All the birds that had been fed during the winter brought their aunts, uncles, and cousins seventy times seven removed, until all I had to do was lie in my hammock and identify them from a book with colored plates.

White Mountain's special pet was a tiny chickadee. This fragile little speck of birddom fluttered into the house one stormy day, and the Chief warmed it in his hands and fed it warm milk and crumbs. From that day on it belonged, brave soul and wee body, to him. As the days grew warmer it spent its time somewhere in the forest, but at mealtime when the Chief came home all he had to do was step outside the door and whistle. Out of the sky a diminutive atom would hurl itself downward to light on his outstretched palm. While we ate it would perch on White Mountain's shoulder and twitter and make soft little noises in its throat, now and then coming across to me but soon returning to its idol. There was something so touching in the confidence of the helpless bird, it brought a tight feeling into one's throat.

At the height of the drought a national railroad strike was called, and for a few weeks things looked serious for us poor mortals stranded a hundred miles from our water supply. Life took a backward leap and we lived as our forefathers did before us. No water meant no light except oil lamps, and when the oil supply failed we went to bed at dark. Flashlights were carefully preserved for emergencies. We learned that tomato juice will keep life in the body even if it won't quench thirst.

There was one well four miles away, and rangers were stationed there to see that nothing untoward happened to that supply. The water was drawn with a bucket, and it was some job to water all the park animals. Visitors were at that time barred from the Park, but one sage-brusher managed to get in past the sentry. He camped at Headquarters and sent his ten-year-old boy walking to Rowe Well to fill a pail with water and carry it back. Just before dark that night the Chief and I coming in from Hilltop met the little fellow, courageously struggling along eight miles from Headquarters and getting farther away every step. His bucket was leaky, and little of the precious water remained. We took him back to the well again, filled his bucket, and delivered him to his father. The lad pulled a dime from his pocket and extended it toward the Chief.

"You keep it, son," said White Mountain.

"Better take it, Mister. You hauled me quite a ways."

The Chief leaned toward him confidentially. "You see it's like this. I work for the Government and Uncle Sam doesn't like for us to take tips."

And so the matter rested. The boy had discharged his obligation like a gentleman. He didn't know he had offered the Chief Ranger a dime for saving his life.

A few stray I. W. W.'s ("I Won't Works," the rangers called them) came in to see that nobody did anything for the Santa Fe. Of course the rangers were put on for guard duty around the railroad station and power house, day and night, and the fact that they protected the railroad's property at odd hours did not relieve them from their own regular duties the rest of the time. For weeks they did the work of three times their actual number, and did it cheerfully. It finally became necessary to import Indians from the Navajo Reservation to help with the labor around the car yard and the boiler yard. These could hardly be described as having a mechanical turn of mind, but they were fairly willing workers, and with careful supervision they managed to keep steam up and the wheels turning. The shop foreman, however, was threatened with apoplexy a dozen times a day during their term of service.

When it seemed that we just couldn't endure any more, some boss somewhere pulled a string and train service was resumed. This brought in a mass of tourists, and the rangers were on the alert again to keep them out of messes.

One day as the Chief and I were looking at some picturegraphs near the head of Bright Angel Trail we saw a simple old couple wandering childlike down the trail.

"You mustn't go far down the trail," advised White Mountain. "It's very hot today, and you would not be able to make the return trip. It's lots harder coming back, you know."

The old folks smiled and nodded, and we went on home. About midnight the phone rang, and the Chief groaned before he answered it. A troubled voice came over the wire.

"My father and mother went down the trail to the river and haven't come back. I want the rangers to go and find them," said their son.

"In the morning," replied the Chief.

"Right _now_!" ordered the voice.

"I, myself, told your father and mother not to go down there. They went anyway. They are probably sitting on a rock resting, and if so they are safe. If they are not on the trail the rangers could not find them, and I have no right to ask my men to endanger their lives by going on such a wild-goose chase."

The son, a middle-aged man, acted like a spoiled child. He threatened and blustered and raved until the Chief hung up the receiver. At dawn the rangers went after the two old babes in the wood and found them creeping slowly up the trail.

"Ma give out," puffed the husband.

"Pa was real tuckered hisself," explained Ma. "But we had a nice time and we'll know to do what we're told next time." She was a game old sport. Son was speedily squelched by Ma's firm hand, and the adventure ended. Ma confessed to me that she had sat through the night in deadly fear of snakes, catamounts, and other "varmints," but, with a twinkle in her eye: "Don't you dare tell them men folks I was a-scairt!" I knew just how she felt.

Everything was up in the air over the Fourth of July celebration that we intended to stage. It was to be a combination of Frontier Days, Wild West Show, and home talent exhibition. Indians came from the various reservations; cow-hands drifted in from the range; tourists collected around the edges; the rangers were there; and every guide that could be spared from the trail bloomed out in gala attire. We women had cooked enough grub to feed the crowd, and there was a barrel of lemonade, over which a guard was stationed to keep the Indians from falling in head first.

The real cowboys, unobtrusive in their overalls and flannel shirts, teetered around on their high-heeled tight boots and gazed open-mouthed at the flamboyance of the Fred Harvey imitations. Varied and unique remarks accompanied the scrutiny. Pretty soon they began to nudge each other and snicker, and I saw more than one of them in consultation with the rangers. I felt in my bones that mischief was brewing.

The usual riding and roping and tying stunts were pulled off, and in the afternoon the Indians were challenged to race horses with the white boys. The race was for half a mile and back, around the curve of a hillside. Off they went amid the wildest war-whoops and cowboy yells I ever heard. The Indians had the advantage, since they burdened their mounts with neither saddle nor bridle. Stretched flat along the pony's back, the rider guided him by knee pressure and spurred him to victory by whistling shrilly in a turned back ear. I was amused to see how the wily Indians jockeyed for the inside of the track, and they always got it too. Not a white man's horse won a dollar in the race. It might have been different, probably would have, in an endurance race, for Indian horses are swift only in short runs. They never have grain, and few of them have as much water as they need.

Just before the sports ended, White Mountain announced that some of the cowboys had brought a badger into Headquarters with them and that they had another one located. If they succeeded in capturing it, there would be a badger fight at the Fred Harvey mess hall that night--provided no gambling or betting was done. Since the show was to be put on by the cowboys, they themselves should have the honor of picking the men fortunate enough to hold the ropes with which the badgers would be tied. Among the rangers broke out a frenzied dispute as to which ones should be chosen. That was more than the guides could stand for. No ranger could put that over on _them_. They pushed in and loudly demanded their rights from the owners of the fightin' badgers. In fair play to both sides, Frank Winess was chosen from the ranger force and a sheik stage-driver, newly arrived, represented Fred Harvey. The guides were forced to be satisfied with this arrangement. We disbanded to meet at seven for the fight. In case the other badger made good his escape we could still have a look at the one already in captivity and the evening would not be wasted.

"Better wear your riding boots," Ranger Winess advised me. "Badgers scratch and fight like forty, and you know your failing when it comes to getting into the middle of a bad fix." I didn't reply to this, but I put on my high boots.

At seven we reached the scene of battle. I was not entirely pleased with the idea of letting two frantic animals scratch each other to death, but the Chief seemed quite serene and I had the utmost confidence in his kindness to dumb animals. Two or three hundred onlookers, including tourists, were circled around an open space, which was lighted with automobile headlights. Under each of two big wooden boxes at opposite sides of the circle, a combatant lay.

"Stand well back," ordered the Chief. And the crowd edged away. "Hey, you, Billy, I said no betting!" Billy Joint hastily pocketed the roll of bills he had been airing.

"What's wrong, Frank?" For Ranger Winess limped into the ring, flinching at every step.

"Nothin', Chief," bravely trying to cover up the pain with a grin.

"I asked you what's the matter!"

"Well, gee whiz, if you have to know everything, one of them broncs piled up with me this afternoon, and I busted my knee."

The Chief felt sorry for Frank, because he knew how his heart was set on the sport in hand.

"Sorry, Winess, but you'll have to step out and let Charley take your place."

Ranger Fisk began to protest: "Gee, Chief, I ain't a fightin' man. I don't hanker to hold that tearing varmint." Frank was too crushed to say anything. But Shorty--in the foremost ranks stood Shorty! No guide so wonderfully chapped, so brightly handkerchiefed, so amazingly shirted, or so loudly perfumed as Shorty. He had a tourist girl on his manly arm and he longed for worlds to conquer.

He advanced with a firm and determined tread. "Look here, Chief Ranger. Your man has been disqualified. The rangers have had their chance. It's up to us guides now. I demand the right to enter this ring."

The Chief considered the matter. He looked at the rangers, and after a few mutters they sullenly nodded.

"All right, Shorty. But you are taking all responsibility. Remember, whatever happens you have made your own choice. Charley, you and Frank look out for Margie. You know how foolish she is. She's likely to get all clawed up."

I was mad enough to bite nails into tacks! Foolish! Look out for _me_! He was getting awfully careful of me all of a sudden. I jerked my arm loose from Ranger Fisk when he tried to lead me back from the front, and he reluctantly stayed beside me there.

The pretty stage-driver was nervous. With his gloved hand he kept smoothing his hair back and he shifted from one foot to the other, while he grasped the rope firmly. As for Shorty, he was entirely unconcerned, as became a brave bold man. He merely traded his sheepskin chaps for a pair of silver-studded leather ones. Then he clamped his wide sombrero firmly on his head and declared himself ready.

"Jerk quick and hard when we raise the boxes," the referee directed. "If they see each other at once, you boys aren't so liable to get bit up."

"Jerk them out," bellowed Frank.

They jerked. The onlookers gasped; then howled! then _roared_!!

The gladiators fled! Nor stood on the order of their going.

In the middle of the ring, firmly anchored to the ropes, were two articles of crockery well known to our grand-mothers in the days when the plumbing was all outside.

So ended the Glorious Fourth.

_Chapter XII: GRAND CANYON UPS AND DOWNS_[3]

I was busy baking pies one morning when White Mountain sauntered into the kitchen and stood watching me. "How soon can you be ready to start across the Canyon?" he asked, as carelessly as though I had not been waiting for that priceless moment nearly two years.

"How soon?" I was already untying my apron. "Right _now_!"

"Oh, not that sudden. I mean can you be ready to start in the morning?"

And with no more ceremony than that my wonderful adventure was launched. Long before dawn the next morning I was up and dressed in breeches, wool shirt, laced boots, and a wide felt hat, and felt like a full-fledged "dude." The Chief had insisted that I should ride a mule, but I had my own notions about that and "Supai Bob" was my mount. This was an Indian racing horse, and the pride of Wattahomigie's heart, but he cheerfully surrendered him to me whenever I had a bad trail to ride. He was high from the ground, long-legged, long-necked and almost gaunt, but gentle and sure-footed.

We left El Tovar before anybody was stirring and while the depths of the Canyon were still lost in darkness. At the head of the trail I involuntarily pulled up short. "Leave hope behind all ye who enter here," flashed through my brain. Dante could have written a much more realistic _Inferno_ had he spent a few days in the Grand Canyon absorbing local color. Far below, the trail wound and crawled, losing itself in purple shadows that melted before the sun as we descended. The world still slept, with the exception of a few saucy jays who flew about us loudly claiming the heavens, the earth, and the waters beneath, should there be any. Two hours of steady descent brought us to the base of the red-wall limestone. In that two hours we had passed from the belt of pine and shrub to the one of sagebrush and cactus. Half an hour farther, and we arrived at Indian Gardens, a clump of willows and cottonwoods shading a stream of cold bubbling water from a never-failing spring. This little stream is full of delicious watercress, and more than once on festive occasions a ranger had gone down and brought back a supply to garnish the turkey. Not until I made the ride myself could I appreciate his service. At one time this spot was cultivated by the Havasupai Indians; hence the name. Every dude that has followed a Fred Harvey guide down the trail remembers this God-given oasis with gratitude. Water and shade and a perfectly good excuse for falling out of the saddle! No flopping mule ears; no toothache in both knees; no yawning void reaching up for one. Ten whole minutes in Paradise, and there's always a sporting chance that Gabriel may blow his horn, or an apoplectic stroke rescue one, before the heartless guide yells: "All aboard."