Chapter V: Part 5

We filled our canteens from the spring, for this is really the last good water until the bridge is crossed, and rode across the Tonto Trail along the plateau for five miles, through sagebrush, cactus, and yucca. Here and there a chuckwalla darted across the trail or a rock squirrel sat on his haunches and scolded as we passed. Nothing broke the monotony of the ride. At one point on the ride the trail hangs over the edge of Pipe Creek, a mere little chasm two thousand feet deep. Anywhere else this crevice between sheer walls of blackened, distorted, jagged rocks would be considered one of the original Seven Wonders. Placed as it is, one tosses it a patronizing glance, stifles a yawn, and rides on. A mile or so along we crossed a trickle of water coming from Wild Burro Springs, so named because the burros common to this region come there to drink. Just as we drew rein to allow our horses to quench their thirst, the sultry silence was shattered beyond repair. Such a rasping, choking, jarring sound rolled and echoed back and forth from crag to crag! "What's that?" I gasped, after I had swallowed my heart two or three times. The Chief pointed to a rock lying a few feet away. Over the top of this an enormous pair of ears protruded, and two big, solemn eyes were glued on us unblinkingly. It was only a wee wild burro, but what a large voice he owned! The thousand or more of these small gray and black animals are a heritage from the day of the prospector. Some of them are quite tame. One called "Bright Angel" was often utilized by tourists as a mount while they had pictures snapped to take to the admiring family left behind.

We passed on across the plateau and rounded O'Neill Butte, named for Bucky O'Neill, one of Roosevelt's Rough Riders killed at San Juan Hill, and we suddenly came to the "sure 'nuff" jumping-off place at the edge of Granite Gorge. One should have at least a week's warning before this scene is thrown upon the screen. I think it was here that Irvin Cobb tendered his resignation--effective immediately. Straight down, fifteen hundred feet beneath one, flows the Colorado. There are no words to describe this. One must see it for one's self. Down, down, back and forth zigzags that trail, jumping from crag to crag and mesa to mesa, finally running on to the mere thread suspended from wall to wall high above the sullen brown torrent. When once started down this last lap of the journey riverward, one finds that the trail is a great deal smoother than that already traveled. But the bridge! Picture to yourself a four-foot wooden road, four hundred and twenty feet long, fenced with wire, and slung on steel cables fifty feet above a rushing muddy river, and you will see what I was supposed to ride across. My Indian horse stopped suddenly, planted himself firmly--and looked. I did likewise.

"Those cables look light," I said, seeking some excuse to stay right where I was. But the Chief calmly informed me that they were "heavy enough." I presume he should know, having helped to carry them down that twelve-mile trail. Pride alone prevented me from turning and fleeing back up that steep trail like a fly up a wall. I looked at White Mountain. He was riding serenely on, never doubting my close attendance at his horse's heels. I told myself that I had undoubtedly reached a bridge that _had_ to be crossed, and so I spoke firmly, or as firmly as possible under the circumstances, to Supai Bob. No results. Bob was as unresponsive as any other Indian when he doesn't want to "savvy." I coaxed, I pulled, I pushed. I spanked with a board. Bob was not interested in what was across the river. Then and there I formed a high regard for that pony's sound judgment and will-power. At last the Chief looked back and saw my predicament. He turned his horse loose to continue across alone and came back over the wildly swaying bridge to me.

"What's the matter?"

Just as if he couldn't well see! I glared at him and he grinned.

"Why don't you talk to him in Supai language?"

"Speak to him yourself," I snapped and stalked out on that heaving horror. I never learned the details of the conversation, but a clatter of hoofs sounded behind me and Bob anchored his nose against my shoulder, there to remain until terra firma was regained. I worried all the rest of the way over and back about having to get him across again, but returning, he walked on to the bridge as if crossing it were his life work.

On the north end of the bridge where the cables are anchored is a labyrinth of trails crossing and recrossing. The Chief explained that Bright Angel, the little wild burro, had made those at a time when high water had marooned him on that small area. While the bridge was being built he hung around constantly, and when it was completed he was the first animal allowed to cross it. I wonder what he thought of the promised land he had gazed at so longingly for years. Poor Brighty fell a victim to a tramp who refused to listen to advice, and crossed to the North Rim after the snows had come. Perhaps he had reasons for hiding away, but he took little Brighty from his winter home in the bottom of the Canyon to carry his pack for him. After being snowed in for several weeks in a cattle cabin several miles back from the Rim, Brighty died of starvation and was eaten by the man. Brighty had plenty of friends that miss him when they go down into the Canyon, and it will fare badly with his murderer if any of the rangers or guides see him again.

Beside the trail, just across the bridge, is a prehistoric ruin. When Major Powell landed there on his first trip down the Colorado River in 1869, he found broken pottery, an old "matate" and many chipped flints, indicating that this had been the home of an arrowmaker. The mealing stone, or matate, can be seen at Phantom Ranch, half a mile on along the trail.

And just at this point of the trip we came to a tragic spot, the one where Rees Griffith lies buried beside his own well-built trail. It had been in the dead of winter when Rees was buried there by his friends, and now the summer's scorching sun was streaming down on his grave. The colorful lines of the half-breed Déprez drifted through my mind:

And there he lies now, and nobody knows;
And the summer shines, and the winter snows,
And the little gray hawk floats aloft in the air,
And the gray coyote trots about here and there,
And the buzzard sails on,
And comes back and is gone,
Stately and still like a ship on the sea;
And the rattlesnake slides and glitters and glides
Into his rift in a cottonwood tree.

Just that lonely and already forgotten was the resting-place of the master trail-builder.

It was noontime now, and all our grub, with the exception of a box of crackers and a jar of fig jam, likewise our bedding, was far ahead on a pack mule which had decided not to stop for lunch or dinner. Since we were not consulted in the matter we lunched on jam and crackers and then dined on crackers and jam. We hung the remainder of the feast in a tree and breakfasted on it a week later on our return trip.

When one tries to describe the trail as it was to the North Rim in those days, words prove weak. The first twelve miles we had already traveled are too well known to need description; the remaining twenty--all rebuilt since that time--defy it. Sometimes the trail ran along in the creek bed for yards and yards. This made it impassable during the spring freshets. Arizona horses are trained to drink at every opportunity for fear there may never be another chance, and our mounts had learned their lesson well. They tried to imbibe at every crossing, and long after they were loaded to the gunwales they dipped greedy noses into the current.

Six miles north of the river we turned aside from the main trail and followed a path a few rods to Ribbon Falls. We had intended to spend the night there, and I supposed we were to sleep standing up; but there was Chollo, our prodigal pack mule, who had found a luscious patch of grass near the Falls and decided to make it her first stopping-place. In that manner we recovered the bedding roll. White Mountain murmured a few sweet nothings into her innocent ear and anchored her firmly to a stake. That didn't please her at all. She complained loudly to her wild brethren, and they sympathized in heart-comforting brays from all points near at hand. Our horses were given grain and turned into the grassy cove, and supper was prepared. And while the coffee boiled we had a refreshing swim in Nature's bathtub at the bottom of the Falls. High above, the crystal stream bursts forth from the red cliff and falls in a sparkling cascade seventy feet, to strike against a big rock upholstered in softest green. Here it forms a morning-glory pool of almost icy coolness. Hot coffee and bacon with some of White Mountain's famous biscuits baked in a reflector tasted like a feed at Sherry's. I watched the Chief mix his biscuits while I lay resting against the piled-up saddles. I wondered how he intended to cook them, but managed to keep still and find out for myself. He took a folded piece of tin from his pack and with a few magic passes turned it into a roof-shaped structure resting on its side on two short steel legs. Another twist of the wrist lifted a little tin shelf into place. This contraption was set about a yard from the glowing fire and the pan of biscuits was placed on the shelf. As I stared at the open-work baker the biscuits puffed into lightness and slowly turned a rich tempting brown. After we had eaten the last one and the camp was put in order, we sat watching a fat moon wallow lazily up from behind the Rim. Strange forms crept into sight with the moon-rise--ruined Irish castles, fortresses hiding their dread secrets, sculptured groups, and weird goblins. By and by a few stars blossomed--great soft golden splashes, scattered about in an inverted turquoise bowl. The heavens seemed almost at our fingertips from the bottom of this deep southern gorge.

While Bright Angel Creek murmured a soft accompaniment, the Chief told me how it received its name. An old legend says: Among the first Spanish explorers a small party attempted to cross the Colorado Canyon. They wandered down on to the plateau north of the river, and there their food and water gave out. Many hundreds of feet below them at the bottom of a sheer precipice flowed the great river. Their leader swooned from thirst and exhaustion. It seemed certain that death was near. Above them towered a wall they could not surmount. Just as they were ready to throw themselves into the river so far below, their leader revived and pleaded with them to keep going a little longer. He said: "In my dreams I have seen a beautiful _luminoso angelo_ with sparkling water dripping from his pinions. He beckons us on, and promises to lead to water." They took fresh courage and struggled on in desperation, when, lo, at their very feet flowed a crystal stream of life-giving water. In remembrance of the vision this stream was called "Bright Angel." Pretty as this legend is, the bestowal of the name is now officially credited to Major Powell.

After the story ended I crept between my blankets, and as soon as I became sufficiently inured to the conversation between Chollo and her sympathizers I fell asleep. But along toward morning some inquisitive deer came in to share the grain our horses had scattered, and a big porcupine came home from lodge, quarreling and debating with himself about something. He stopped near us and chattered angrily about it, permanently ending our sleep.

After breakfast we followed the trail through more ancient ruins, into a cottonwood grove and then on to a sandy flat. Sitting low in my saddle, almost dozing, I revived suddenly at a never-to-be-mistaken B-u-u-z-z-z! The horses recognized it instantly and froze in their tracks. Sibilant, wicked, it sounded again, and then a yellow streak slid across the trail and disappeared under a low bush. We waited, and pretty soon a coffin-shaped head came up and waved slowly to and fro. The Chief shot him with his forty-five and the snake twisted and writhed into the trail, then lay still. A moment later I had the rattles in my hatband for a souvenir. "Look out for his mate," the Chief said; but we didn't see it, and a few days later a ranger camping there found it coiled in his bed, and its rattles joined the ones already in my possession.

On and on climbed the trail, growing steeper at every turn. I could have walked with a greater degree of comfort, but the Chief said: "Ride!" So I rode; and I mean just that. I rode every inch of that horse several times over. What time I wasn't clinging to his tail being dragged up a precipice, I was hanging around his neck like a limpet. One time, when the girth slipped, both the saddle and I rode upside down under his belly. Some time ago I saw a sloth clinging, wrong end to, to the top bars of his cage. It brought back painful memories of when the saddle slipped.

When we reached the blue-wall a mighty roaring was audible. Far above, a torrent of water from some subterranean cavern bursts from the ledge with such force that the sound carries for miles. This is called Roaring Springs. Getting up over the blue-wall limestone was arduous. This limestone formation is difficult to conquer wherever it is found. Almost straight up, clinging to the horse's mane, we climbed, stopping frequently to let the panting animals breathe.

As we neared the North Rim, now and then along the trail a wild rose blossomed, and as we climbed higher we threaded a maze of sweet locust, fern, and bracken. It was a fairyland. And then the trail topped out at an elevation of eight thousand feet into the forest primeval. Towering yellow pines, with feet planted in masses of flowers, pushed toward heaven. Scattered among the rugged pines were thousands of slender aspen trees, swaying and quivering, their white trunks giving an artificial effect to the scene as if the gods had set a stage for some pagan drama. Ruffed grouse strutted about, challenging the world at large. Our horses' hoofs scattered a brood and sent them scuttling to cover under vines and blossoms. Roused from his noonday siesta, a startled deer bounded away. One doe had her fawn secreted near the trail and she followed us for some distance to make sure her baby was safe.

As we swung around a curve into an open valley, we came to a decrepit signpost. And what do you suppose it said? Merely: "Santa Fe R. R. and El Tovar," while a hand pointed back the way we had come. I wondered how many travelers had rushed madly around the corner in order to catch the Santa Fe Limited. But in those days the North Rim seemed to sprout signs, for soon we overtook this one:

THE JIM OWENS CAMP
GUIDING TOURISTS AND HUNTING PARTIES A SPECIALTY
COUGARS CAUGHT TO ORDER
RATES REASONABLE

Of course the signing of Park lands is contrary to the policies of the National Park Service, and after White Mountain's inspection trip, these were promptly removed.

At length we arrived at Jim's camp. Uncle Jim must have caught several cougars to order, for the cabin walls were covered with pelts and murderous-looking claws frescoed the ceiling. Uncle Jim told us that he has caught more than eleven hundred cougars in the past twenty years. He guided Teddy Roosevelt on his hunts in Arizona, and I doubt if there is a hunter and guide living today that is as well known and loved by famous men as is Jim Owens. He has retired from active guiding now, and spends his time raising buffalo in the Rock House Valley.

Scenery on the North Rim is more varied and beautiful than that where we lived at El Tovar. Do you favor mountains? "I will lift up mine eyes to the hills from whence cometh my help." Far across the Canyon loom the snow-capped heights of San Francisco Peaks. Truly from those hills comes help. Water from a huge reservoir filled by melting snow on their summits supplies water to towns within a radius of a hundred miles.

Look to the south and you see the Navajo Reservation, and the glorious, glowing Painted Desert. If peaceful scenes cloy, and you hanker for a thrill, drop your glance to the Colorado River, foaming and racing a mile or so below. Sunset from this point will linger in my memory while I live. A weird effect was caused by a sudden storm breaking in the Canyon's depths. All sense of deepness was blotted out and, instead, clouds billowed and beat against the jutting walls like waves breaking on some rock-bound coast.

Point Sublime has been featured in poems and paint until it needs little introduction. It was here that Dutton drew inspiration for most of his poems of Grand Canyon, weaving a word picture of the scene, awe-inspiring and wonderful. How many of you have seen the incomparable painting of the Grand Canyon hanging in the Capitol at Washington? The artist, Thomas Moran, visited Point Sublime in 1873 with Major Powell, and later transferred to canvas the scene spread before him.

Deer and grouse and small animals were about us all the way, and I had the pleasure of seeing a big white-tailed squirrel dart around and around a tree trunk. This squirrel is found nowhere else.

That evening at sunset we drove with Blondy Jensen to VT Park through the "President's Forest." At first we saw two or three deer together, and then we came upon them feeding like herds of cattle, literally hundreds of them. They were all bucks. Blondy said the does were still back in the deep woods with their fawns. We reached the Diamond Bar Ranch just as supper was ready, and the cowboys invited us to eat. Two big Dutch ovens were piled with live coals before the fireplace. I eyed them with a lot of curiosity until a smiling cowboy lifted the lids for me to peep within. One was full of simmering tender beef and the other held biscuits just turning a delicious brown. I made up our minds then, and we all stayed for supper.

It was late when we started back to our camp on the Rim, and the big car slid along at a great rate. Suddenly Blondy jammed on the brakes and almost lost me through the windshield. An enormous full-grown deer loomed directly in front of the headlights. There he stood, head thrown back, nostrils distended, monarch of all he surveyed. A moment longer he posed, then leaped away into the darkness, leaving us wondering if we had really seen anything.

All too soon it was time for us to start back to the South Rim, and we made a reluctant departure. It rained on us part of the way, and loosened rocks made the going perilous. Halfway down the steepest part we met half a dozen loose pack mules. One of the first rules of safety for a trail without turnouts is that no loose stock must be allowed on it. My Indian horse chose that particular time and place to throw a fit of temperament, and he climbed out of the way of the wild mules by scrambling up a perpendicular rock and flattening out against the hillside. I slid off over his tail and landed in the trail on the back of my neck, but popped up to see what had happened to the Chief. The pack mules were being urged on from the rear by a fool mule-skinner, and they had crowded Tony, the Chief's mount, off the trail on to a good-sized rock that stuck out over the brink. He stood trembling on the rock and the Chief stood beside him on the same rock with an arm around the scared horse's neck, talking to him in his usual slow, calm way, all the time stroking Tony's ears and patting his neck. Inch by inch the rock was parting from the earth holding it, and it seemed to me I would just die of terror. White Mountain just kept on talking to the horse and trying to coax him back into the trail. At last Tony turned an almost human look on the Chief and then stepped back into the trail, just as the boulder gave way and went crashing down the incline, carrying trees, rocks, and earth with it.

"Why didn't you let him go? Why did you just stand there like an idiot?" I raved. The reaction was so great that I entirely lost my temper.

"Oh, my good new saddle was on him. I couldn't let that go, you know," said White Mountain.

In the meantime the mules continued to mill and buck in the trail. Up rushed Mr. Mule-Skinner. He addressed the Chief in about these words: "Get the hell outa my way, you ---- ---- fool. Ain't you got no sense at all?"

We will skip the next inch or two of this narrative, and let kind oblivion cover it as cool dusk masks the ravages of burning noon. Anyway, this was part of a hunting outfit, including Fred Stone, bound for the North Rim. To this day I can't see any comedy in Mr. Stone's acting.

Tony seemed quite unnerved by his encounter, and as we crossed the swinging bridge he became startled at something and plunged wildly against the wire fencing the bridge. The Chief threw out a hand to steady himself and his ring, caught on a broken wire, cut into and buried itself in his flesh. When we reached the south end of the bridge we dismounted and tried to care for the painful wound, but with no medicine or water there was little we could do. We bound it up in a handkerchief and went on to the top, the Chief suffering agonies with the injury and the intense heat. On top a ranger cut the flesh away and filed the ring off. I added it to my other souvenirs.

_Chapter XIII: SISTERS UNDER THE SKIN[4]_

"For the Colonel's Lady and Judy O'Grady
Are sisters under the skin!"

"And what of the women and children? How do they live?" I have been asked again and again, when speaking of Indians of the Southwest. And who isn't interested in the intimate details of the home life of our Indian sisters?

What of their work? Their homes? Their dress? And--most interesting to us paleface women--what of their love affairs?

Most of you have seen the stolid squaw, wrapped in a soiled blanket, silently offering her wares to tourists throughout the Southwest. Does it seem strange to you that this same stoical creature is just bubbling over with femininity? That she loves with devotion, is torn with passionate jealousy, and adorns herself just as carefully within her limited means for the benefit of masculine eyes, as you do? Among friends she sparkles, and laughs and gossips with her neighbors over a figurative back fence just as you do in Virginia or Vermont. Just living, loving, joyous, or sorrowing women are these brown-skinned sisters of ours.

Were I looking for inspiration to paint a Madonna I would turn my steps toward the Painted Desert, and there among the Indian people I would find my model. Indian mothers are real mothers. Their greatest passion is mother-love. Not a pampering, sheltering, foolish love, but a great, tender love that seeks always what is best for the child, regardless of the mother's feelings or the child's own desires. The first years of an Indian baby's life are very simple. Apart from being fed without having to catch his dinner, there is not much to choose between his existence and that of any other healthy young animal. He and his little companions dart about in sunshine and rain, naked as little brown kewpies. I have never seen a deformed Indian baby or one with spinal trouble. Why? Because the mothers grow up living natural lives: they dress in loose-fitting, sensible clothing; they wear flat-heeled shoes or moccasins; they eat plain, nourishing food; and they walk and ride and work until almost the minute the child is born. They take the newborn babe to a water hole, bathe it, then strap it on a straight board with its little spine absolutely supported. Here it spends the first six months of its existence.

The child's chin is bound round with a soft strip of leather, so that its breathing is done through its nostrils; no adenoids or mouth breathing among the Indians, and very little lung trouble as long as they do not try to imitate the white man's ways.

Different tribes celebrate the birth of a child in different ways. The gift is always welcome when a little new life comes into an Indian home. The Hopi mother rubs her baby with wood ashes so that its body will not be covered with hair. Then a great feast is held and thank-offering gifts are received. Each relative brings an ear of corn to the mother and gives a name to the child. It may receive twenty or more names at birth, and yet in later life it will choose a name for itself or be named by its mother.

Not so much ceremony greets the Navajo baby. Navajo mothers are far too busy and baby additions are too frequent to get excited about. The mother bathes herself and the newcomer in cold water, wraps him in his swaddling clothes of calico, straps him on his board cradle, suspends it on a limb, and goes on with the spinning or weaving that had occupied her a few minutes before. All Indian babies are direct gifts from the Powers That Be, and a token of said Powers' favor. A childless Indian wife is pitied and scoffed at by her tribe.

After a few months the child is released from his cradle prison and allowed to tumble around the mother's loom while she weaves her blankets. He entertains himself and learns to creep and then to walk without any help. If there is an older child he is left in its care. It is not unusual to see a two or three-year-old youngster guarding a still younger one, and keeping it out of the fire or from under the hoofs of the ponies grazing around the camp.

As the children grow older they are trained to work. The boys watch the flocks and help cultivate the fields, if fields there be, and the little girls are taught the household tasks of tanning the sheep hides, drying the meat in the sun, braiding the baskets, carding and spinning wool and making it into rugs, shaping the pottery and painting and baking it over the sheep-dung fires. These and dozens of other tasks are ever at hand for the Indian woman to busy herself with. If you think for an instant that you'd like to leave your own house and live a life of ease with the Indian woman, just forget it. It is a life of labor and hardship, of toil and endless tasks, from day-break until long after dark, and with the most primitive facilities one can imagine. Only on calendars do we see a beauteous Indian maiden draped in velvet, reclining on a mossy bank, and gazing at her own image in a placid pool. That Indian is the figment of a fevered artist brain in a New York studio. Should a real Indian woman try that stunt she'd search a long way for the water. Then she'd likely recline in a cactus bed and gaze at a medley of hoofs and horns of deceased cows bogged down in a mud hole. Such are the surroundings of our real Indians.

Indian women are the home-makers and the home-keepers. They build the house, whether it be the brush hewa of the Supai or the stone pueblo of the Hopi. They gather the piñon nuts and grind them into meal. They crush the corn into meal, and thresh and winnow the beans, and dry the pumpkin for winter use. They cut the meat into strips and cure it into jerky. They dry the grapes and peaches. They garner the acorns and store them in huge baskets of their own weaving. They shear the sheep, and wash, dye, spin, and weave the wool into marvelous blankets. They cut the willows and gather sweet grasses for the making of baskets and trays. They grind and knead and shape clay into artistic pottery and then paint it with colors gleaned from the earth. They burn and bake the clay vessels until they are waterproof, and they carry them weary miles to the railway to sell them to the tourists so that their children may have food and clothing.

The Hopi woman brings water to the village up a mile or two of heart-breaking trail, carrying it in great ollas set on her head or slung on her back. She must have water to make the mush for supper, and such trivial things as a shampoo or a bath are indulged in only just before the annual Snake Dance. Religion demands it then!

Where water is plentiful, however, the Indians bathe and swim daily. They keep their hair clean and shining with frequent mud baths! Black, sticky mud from the bottom of the river is plastered thickly over the scalp and rubbed into the hair, where it is left for several hours. When it is washed away the hair is soft, and gleams like the sheeny wing of the blackbird. Root of the yucca plant is beaten into a pulp and used as a shampoo cream by other tribes. Cosmetics are not greatly in use among these women. They grow very brown and wrinkled at an early age, just when our sheltered women are looking their best. This is accounted for by the hard lives they live, exposed to the burning summer suns and biting winter winds, and by cooking over smoky campfires or hovering over them for warmth in the winter.

An Indian's hands are never beautiful in an artistic sense. How could they be? They dress and tan the sheep and deer hides; they make moccasins and do exquisite bead work; they cut and carry the wood and keep the fires burning. They cook the meals and sit patiently by until the men have gobbled their fill before they partake. They care tenderly for the weaklings among the flocks of sheep and goats. Navajo women often nurse a deserted or motherless lamb at their own ample breasts. They make clothes for themselves and their families, although to look at the naked babies one would not think the dress-making business flourished.

But with all the duties incumbent on an Indian mother she never neglects her children. They are taught all that she thinks will help them live good lives. The girls grow up with the knowledge that their destiny is to become good wives and mothers. They are taught that their bodies must be kept strong and fit to bear many children. And when the years of childhood are passed they know how to establish homes of their own.

Many interesting customs are followed during courtship among the tribes. The Pueblos, among whom are the Hopis, have a pretty way by which the maidens announce their matrimonial aspirations. How? By putting their soft black hair, which heretofore has been worn loose, into huge whorls above the ears. This is called the squash-blossom headdress and signifies maturity. When this age is reached, the maiden makes up her mind just which lad she wants, then lets him know about it. The Hopi girl does her proposing by leaving some cornmeal piki or other edible prepared by her own hands at the door of the selected victim under cover of darkness. He usually knows who has left it, and then, if "Barkis is willin'," he eats out of the same bowl of mush with her, the medicine man holds a vessel of water into which both dip their hands, and the wedding ceremony is finished. He moves into the bride's house and they presumably live happily ever afterward. However, squalls do arise sometimes, and then the husband is likely to come home from work in the fields or a night at the lodge and find his wardrobe done up in his Sunday bandanna waiting on the doorstep for him. In that case all he can do is take his belongings and "go home to mother." His wife has divorced him by merely throwing his clothes out of her house.

Navajo bucks purchase their wives for a certain number of sheep or horses, as do also the Supai, Cheyenne, Apache, and other desert tribes. There is not much fuss made over divorce among them, either. If a wife does not like her husband's treatment of her, she refuses to cook for him or to attend to any of her duties, and he gladly sends her back to her father. He, like Solomon of old, agrees that "it is better to dwell alone in the wilderness than with an angry and contentious woman." The father doesn't mind getting her back, because he keeps the original purchase price and will also collect from the next brave that wants to take a chance on her; why should he worry? In a few instances braves have been known to trade wives and throw in an extra pony or silver belt to settle all difficulties. The missionaries are doing much to discourage this practice and are trying to teach the Indians to marry in a civilized manner. In case they do succeed let us hope that while the savages embrace the marrying idea they will not emulate civilized people in divorce matters.

For a primitive people with all the untrained impulses and natural instincts of animals, there is surprisingly little sexual immorality among the tribes. It seems that the women are naturally chaste. For there is no conventional standard among their own people by which they are judged. If an unmarried squaw has a child, there are deploring clucks, but the girl's parents care tenderly for the little one and its advent makes no difference in the mother's chances for a good marriage. Also the child does not suffer socially for its unfortunate birth, which is more humane at least than our method of treating such children. The children of a marriage take the mother's name and belong to her clan. She has absolute control of them until the girl reaches a marriageable age; then Dad collects the marriage price.

Another thing we civilized parents might take into consideration. Indian babies are never punished by beating or shaking. It is the Indian idea that anything which injures a child's self-respect is very harmful. Yet Indian children are very well-behaved, and their respect and love for their elders is a beautiful thing. I have never seen an Indian child cry or sulk for anything forbidden it.

Schools for Reservation children are compulsory, but whether they are altogether a blessing or not is still doubtful. To take an Indian child away from its own free, wild life, teach it to dress in white man's clothes, eat our food, sleep in our beds, bathe in white-tiled bathtubs, think our thoughts, learn our vices, and then, having led them to despise their own way of living, send them back to their people who have not changed while their children were being literally reborn--what does this accomplish? Doesn't Aesop tell us something of a crow that would be a dove and found himself an outcast everywhere? We are replacing the beautiful symbolism of the Indian by our materialism and leaving him bewildered and discouraged. Why should he be taught to despise his hogan, shaped after the beautiful rounded curve of the rainbow and the arched course of the sun in his daily journey across the sky--a type of home that has been his for generations? Do we ever stop to think why the mud hut is dome-shaped, why the door always faces the east?

I have been watching one Hopi family for years. In this case simple housekeeping, plain sewing, and suitable cooking have been taught to the girl in school. The mother waits eagerly for the return of the daughter from school so that she can hear and learn and share what has been taught to her girl. Her efforts to keep pace with the child are so intense and her pride in her improved home is so great that it is pitiful. Isn't there some way the elders can share the knowledge we are trying to give the younger generation, so that parents and children may be brought closer together rather than estranged?

No matter what color the skin, feminine nature never varies! Let one squaw get a new calico dress, and it creates a stir in every tepee. The female population gathers to admire, and the equivalent to our ohs and ahs fills the air. It takes something like twenty yards of calico to make an Indian flapper a skirt. It must be very full and quite long, with a ruffle on the hem for good measure. There is going to be no unseemly display of nether limbs. When a new dress is obtained it is put on right over the old one, and it is not unusual for four or five such billowing garments to be worn at once. A close-fitting basque of velvet forms the top part of this Navajo costume, and over all a machine-made blanket is worn. Store-made shoes, or more often the hand-made moccasins of soft doeskin trimmed with silver and turquoise buttons, are worn without stockings. The feet of Indian women are unusually small and well-shaped. The amount of jewelry that an Indian wears denotes his social rank, and, like their white brothers, they adorn the wife, so that it is not unusual to see their women decked out until they resemble prosperous Christmas trees. Many silver bracelets, studded with the native turquoises, strings and strings of silver beads, and shell necklaces, heavy silver belts, great turquoise earrings, rings and rings, make up the ensemble of Navajo jewelry. Even the babies are loaded down with it. It is the family pocketbook. When an Indian goes to a store he removes a section of jewelry and trades it for whatever takes his fancy. And one thing an Indian husband should give fervent thanks for--his wife never wears a hat.

Our Indian sisters are not the slaves of their husbands as we have been led to believe. It is true that the hard work in the village or camp is done by the squaws, but it is done cheerfully and more as a right than as a duty. In olden times the wives kept the home fires burning and the crops growing while the braves were on the warpath or after game. Now that the men no longer have these pursuits, it never occurs to them to do their wives' work. Nor would they be permitted to do it.

After the rugs, baskets, or pottery are finished, the husband may take them to the trading-post or depot and sell them; but the money must be turned over to the wife or accounted for to her full satisfaction.

All the Indian women are tireless and fearless riders. They ride astride, with or without a saddle, and carry two or three of the smaller children with them. However, if there is only one pony, wifie walks, while her lordly mate rides. That is Indian etiquette.

_Chapter XIV: THE PASSING SHOW_

Tourists! Flocks of them, trainloads and carloads! They came and looked, and passed on, and were forgotten, nine-tenths of them at least.

Anyone who is interested in the study of human nature should set up shop on the Rim of the Grand Canyon and watch the world go by. I have never been able to determine why Eastern people can't act natural in the West! For instance: Shy spinster schoolma'ams, the essence of modesty at home, catch the spirit of adventure and appear swaggering along in the snuggest of knickers. They would die of shame should their home-town minister or school president catch them in such apparel. Fat ladies invariably wear breeches--tight khaki breeches--and with them they wear georgette blouses, silk stockings, and high-heeled pumps. I have even seen be-plumed chapeaux top the sport outfit. One thing is a safe bet--the plumper the lady, the snugger the breeches!

Be-diamonded dowagers, hand-painted flappers, timid wives from Kansas, one and all seem to fall for the "My God" habit when they peer down into the Canyon. Ranger Winess did tell me of one original damsel; she said: "Ain't it cute?"

I was standing on the Rim one day, watching a trail party through field glasses, when a stout, well-dressed man stopped and asked to borrow my glasses. He spoke of the width and depth of the Canyon, and stood seemingly lost in contemplation of the magnificent sight. I had him classified as a preacher, and I mentally rehearsed suitable Biblical quotations. He turned to me and asked, "Do you know what strikes me most forcibly about this place?"

"No, what is it?" I hushed my soul to listen to some sublime sentiment.

"_I haven't seen a fly since I've been here!_"

I was spluttering to White Mountain about it and wishing I had pushed him over the edge, but the Chief thought it was funny. He said the man must have been a butcher.

It is a strange fact that tourists will not listen to what Rangers tell them to do or not to do. The Government pays men who have spent their lives in such work to guide and guard strangers when they come into the National Parks. Many visitors resent advice, and are quite ready to cry for help when they get into difficulties or danger by ignoring instructions. And usually they don't appreciate the risks that are taken to rescue them from their own folly.

A young man from New York City, with his companion, walked down the Bright Angel Trail to the Colorado River. Everybody knows, or should know, that the Colorado River is a most treacherous river. One glance at the sullen, silt-filled current tells that story. It seldom gives up its dead. But the New Yorker swam it, with his shoes and underclothing on. By the time he reached the far side he was completely exhausted. More than that he was panic-stricken at the undercurrents and whirlpools that had pulled at him and almost dragged him under. He would not swim back. His companion signaled and yelled encouragement, but nothing doing.

Behind him rose a hundred-foot precipice; his clothes and his friend were on the southern bank. The bridge was four miles above, but unscalable walls made it impossible for him to reach that. Furthermore, night was at hand.

When his friend knew that it was hopeless to wait any longer, he left him perched on a rock and started to Headquarters for help. This was a climb over seven miles of trail that gained a mile in altitude in that distance. Disregarding the facts that they had already done their day's work, that it was dark, and that his predicament was of his own making, the rangers went to the rescue.

A canvas boat was lashed on a mule, another mule was led along for the victim to ride out on, and with four rangers the caravan was off. It was the plan to follow the trail to the Suspension Bridge, cross to the northern bank, follow down the river four miles to the cliff above the spot where the adventurer was roosting let the boat down over the ledge to the river, and, when the New Yorker got in, pull the boat upstream by means of the ropes until they found a safe place to drag it to shore.

When almost down the trail they met the lad coming up, and he was mad! "Why didn't they come quicker? Why wasn't there a ranger down there to keep him from swimming the river?" And so forth. But no thanks to the men that had gone willingly to his rescue. However, they said they were well paid by the sight of him toiling up the trail in the moonlight, _au naturel_! They loaded him on a mule and brought him to the top. Then he refused to pay Fred Harvey for the mule. I might add _he paid_!

I often wondered why people pay train fare across the continent and then spend their time poking around in _our_ houses. They would walk in without knocking, pick up and examine baskets, books, or anything that caught their fancy. One woman started to pull a blanket off my couch, saying "What do you want for this?" It was an old story to members of the Park Service, and after being embarrassed a few times we usually remembered to hook the door before taking a bath.

One day Chief Joe and I were chatting in front of the Hopi House. His Indians had just completed one of their entertaining dances. As it happened we were discussing a new book that had just been published and I was interested in his view of the subject, _Outline of History_. All at once an imposing dowager bore down upon us with all sails set.

"Are you a real Indian?"

"Yes, madam," Joe bowed.

"Where do you sleep?"

"In the Hopi House."

"What do you eat?" She eyed him through her lorgnette.

"Most everything, madam," Joe managed to say.

Luckily she departed before we lost control of ourselves. Joe says that he has been asked every question in the category, and then some. I think some of our stage idols and movie stars would be jealous if they could see the number of mash notes Joe receives. He is flattered and sought after and pursued by society ladies galore. The fact that he is married to one of his own people and has a fat, brown baby does not protect him.

The Fred Harvey guides could throw interesting lights on tourist conduct if they wished, but they seldom relate their experiences. Our card club met in the recreation room of the guide quarters, and sometimes I would get a chance to listen in on the conversation of the guides. Their narrations were picturesque to say the least.

"What held you up today, Ed?"

"Well," drawled Ed, "a female dude wouldn't keep her mule movin' and that slowed up the whole shebang. I got tired tellin' her to kick him, so I jest throwed a loop round his neck and hitched 'im to my saddle horn. She kept up then."

"Make her mad?"

"Uh-huh." A pause while he carefully rolled and lighted a cigarette. "I reckon so. When we topped out an' I went to help her down, she wuz right smart riled."

"Say she wuz goin' to report you to the President of these here United States?"

"Don't know about that. She gimme a cut across the face with her bridle reins." Another pause. "'Twas real aggravatin'."

Personally, I marveled at his calm.

"What made you late in toppin' out?" Ed asked in his turn.

"Well, we wuz late in startin' back, anyhow, and then I had to stop fer an hour pickin' cactus thorns outta an old-maid female."

"Mule unload her in a patch, or did she sit down on one?" Ed was interested.

"Naw, didn't do neither one. She tried to eat a prickly pear offa bush of cactus, and got her tongue full uv stickers. Said she always heard tell them cactus apples wuz good eatin'. I propped her mouth open with a glove so she couldn't bite none, and I picked cactus stickers till I wuz plumb weary."

"Yeh, women is funny that way," philosophized the listener. "They do say Eve et an apple when she shouldn't ought to had."

Another lad was lamenting because he had a pretty girl next to him in the trail party; as he said: "I was sure tryin' to make hay before the sun went down. Every time I'd say something low and confidential for her ear alone, a deaf old coot on the tail-end of the line would let out a yarp--

"'What'd you say, Guide?' or, 'I didn't get _that_, Guide.'

"I reckon he thought I was exclaimin' on the magnificence of the picturesque beauty of the scenery, and he wasn't gittin' his money's worth of the remarks."

One guide said he had trouble getting a man to make the return trip. He was so scared going down he figured he'd stay down there rather than ride back up the trail.

Every morning, rain, snow, or shine, these guides, in flaming neckerchiefs, equally audible shirts, and woolly chaps, lead their string of patient mules up to the corral at the hotel, where the trail parties are loaded for the trip into the Canyon. Each mule has a complete set of individual characteristics, and mules are right set in their ways. If one wants to reach over the edge of a sheer precipice and crop a mouthful of grass, his rider may just as well let him reach. Mules seldom commit suicide, although at times the incentive must be strong.

"Powder River," "Dishpan," "Rastus," and a few other equally hardy mule brethren are allotted to carry helpless fat tourists down the trail. It's no use for a fragile two-hundred-pound female to deny her weight. Guides have canny judgment when it comes to guessing, and you can't fool a Harvey mule.

"Saint Peter," "Crowbar," and "By Jingo" are assigned to timid old ladies and frightened gentlemen.

If I were issuing trail instructions for Canyon parties I would say something like this, basing my directions on daily observation:

"The trail party starts about nine o'clock, and the departure should be surrounded with joyous shouts of bravado. After you have mounted your mule, or been laboriously hoisted aboard, let your conscience guide you as to your actions up and down the trail. When you top out at the end of the day and it is your turn to be unloaded, weakly drag your feet out of the stirrups, make sure that the guide is planted directly underneath you, turn loose all holds, and fall as heavily as possible directly on top of him.

"After you have been placed on your feet, say about the third time, it might be well to make a feeble effort to stand alone. This accomplished, hobble off to the hotel, taking care to walk as bow-legged as possible. If you have a room with bath, dive into a blistering hot tubful and relax. If you were having a stingy streak when you registered, order a bath at the public bathroom and be thankful you have seventy-five cents with which to pay for it. Later take an inventory of your damages and, if they are not too severe, proceed to the dining-room and fill up on the most soul-satisfying meal Fred Harvey ever placed before the public.

"Afterward, in the lobby, between examinations of 'I wish you were here' postcards, it might be well to warn newcomers about the dangers of the trip. Probably few tourists are as expert riders as you."

We liked to poke fun at the saddle-sore dudes, but all the same the trip is a soul-trying one, and the right to boast to home folks about it is hardly earned.

It is really a revelation to study the reaction of the Canyon on various races. On leaving the train a Japanese or Korean immediately seeks out a ranger or goes to the Park Office and secures every bit of information that is to be had. Age, formation, fauna, and flora are all investigated. Then armed with map, guidebook, and kodak he hikes to the bottom of the trail, and takes everything apart en route to see how it is made. English and German travelers come next in earnest study and observation. I am sorry to say that all foreigners seemed to show more intelligent interest in the Canyon than our own native Americans. Perhaps that is because only the more educated and intellectual foreigners are able to make the trip across the ocean. Lots of Americans never get farther than El Tovar, where they occupy easy chairs, leaving them several times a day to array themselves in still more gorgeous raiment.