There were no hobbles or pickets to hold him, no restraints whatever. And so he stayed in their midst, feeling happy and wanted.
A GIFT FOR UNCLE JIM
BESIDE THE cottonwood trees a little spit of sand lay as level as if it had been graded for the occasion. All the crew were assembling—workmen in clean shirts, Indians bare to their waists, and boss-men in trim khaki.
“Everybody looks so slicked up and solemn,” one said, “makes you feel like you’re at a wedding or a funeral.”
Facing the crew were the government men, headed by Theodore Roosevelt. And a little apart from them, like actors backstage, stood Uncle Jimmy Owen and Brighty.
“It wouldn’t take no more’n a fleabite,” Uncle Jim whispered into Brighty’s ear, “to make me bolt into the blue yonder.”
Just then a voice boomed out. It belonged to the Governor of Arizona and he began like a roll call. “Mr. Roosevelt, members of the Park Board, engineers of this great bridge, and workmen all.”
He paused, waiting for his echoes to catch up with him. But even when they had smalled down to nothing, he stood quiet, as if the occasion had suddenly grown too big for him.
“This is a wedding, gentlemen,” he said at last. “A wedding between the North Rim and the South. Until now the Colorado River has been a mighty cleaver chopping at the land of Arizona, separating the north from the south.”
The Governor warmed to his subject. “Think on it, gentlemen! Here the river is but four hundred feet across. Yet its treachery has forced men to travel more than two hundred miles around to get from one rim to the other.
“A few dared swim across it, but we know not how many were sucked down into the river that never gives up its dead.”
Uncle Jim’s hand reached out to stroke Brighty, his mind on Old Timer.
“Early in this century,” the Governor went on, “the Mormons of northern Arizona grew tired of making a wide circuit to go just a few miles. They wanted to travel beeline. So one day an enterprising fellow flew a kite across to a man on the opposite bank. And the man waiting had a heavy string ready to tie onto the kite. From this simple spanning the first cable was strung.”
Heads bobbed, remembering the story.
“Back in those days,” the Governor went on, “men never dreamed that materials for a bridge could be packed down the perpendicular walls of the canyon. They tried to make the best of a bad situation. First they swung themselves across the cable in an old boatswain’s chair, and later the chair was replaced by a cage. But even so,” and here the Governor shook his head sadly, “the strain of pulling and braking caused the strongest of men to fall down in exhaustion when they reached the opposite bank.”
Heads nodded again, and Uncle Jim forgot his nervousness, his mind living the past.
“It was in the little wooden cage,” the Governor’s voice mounted, “that Theodore Roosevelt once crossed the river. Yet the hardships he suffered did not lessen his appreciation of the canyon. It was he, as President, who proclaimed it a National Monument.”
Brighty threw back his head and let out a mighty bray.
No one laughed. It was more like an amen than a jeer.
“It is therefore with great pride that we call upon Theodore Roosevelt to dedicate this marvel of engineering, this great new suspension bridge.”
The Governor’s last words were drowned by the clamor of applause and shouting. Here was no place for city hand clapping. Here was a time and place for roaring like the river itself.
Theodore Roosevelt’s smile flashed big. He too felt high-spirited. He groped in his mind for the right words. There was a waiting look in every eye, and ears straining to hear.
“Soldiers of peace,” he boomed out at last, “you have fought a hard campaign against a mighty opponent. That you have won is evidence not only of a great skill but of a great faith. You have spanned a barrier between these mile-high walls—a barrier that has been a sinister, death-dealing force. For centuries the Colorado River has dared men, defied men, defeated men, drowned men. Day and night it has roared its challenge. You accepted that challenge—a hundred men working as one, a hundred pairs of hands and feet and lungs, a hundred minds and hearts working as one. This spider web of steel is everlasting proof of the power of working together.”
Uncle Jim was absently fiddling with Brighty’s ears. He wished, almost, that he knew how to slow time or stop it altogether so that he and Brighty could always be at a little distance from big doings, just hearing and seeing. He listened and liked the dignity of the next words.
“Of what value are dreams and blueprints,” Mr. Roosevelt asked, “if all of you—architects, engineers, packers, and workmen—have not found a power and glory in working together?”
“None!” chorused the crowd.
High up on a cliff a ragged, black-bearded creature, more animal than man, peered down on the proceedings. Brighty’s ears shot forward. Only he saw the figure before it slid from view.
“But as with any great accomplishment,” Mr. Roosevelt went on, “there comes a feeling of sadness when it is done. I’ve seen strong men cry when a job’s finished, as if the doing were more fun than the getting through.”
The men nodded in silent agreement, surprised that an outsider could understand so well.
“For us, however, this is a day of rejoicing, when two lands rent asunder are once more joined together.”
Brighty chose this very moment to bray his brassiest, and now the men laughed with him until the whole canyon burst into a joyful noise.
Theodore Roosevelt’s laughter was last to quiet down. He had to wipe his glasses and then his eyes before he could talk.
“Brighty,” he said, “who is supposed to be awaiting his cue backstage, reminds me to get on with the business at hand. Gentlemen, I came here to accept the distinguished honor of being first to cross your bridge. But now I am here, I forego that honor.”
A great silence came over the gathering.
“I forego it in favor of James Owen—cowboy, lion killer, frontiersman.”
Mr. Roosevelt cleared his throat and his manner became confidential. He looked from one face to another, enjoying himself to the full. “One time on a lion hunt,” he said, “I caught Jim fondling my rifle with his eye. It put me in mind of a lad hankering for his first pair of cowboy boots. Right then I decided that someday he should own a rifle exactly like mine. So I’ve packed it all the way down here, little thinking to make a speech about it. But if you do not mind . . .”
He let his sentence dangle in mid-air while he walked a few paces away to a boulder. He reached behind it for the rifle and carefully removed the leather casing. Then he came back to his audience, turning the rifle so that the gold plate on the stock was face up. Adjusting his eyeglasses, he read aloud the simple inscription:
“To James Owen from his friend, Theodore Roosevelt.”
For a few moments not a voice lifted nor a hand clapped, as with uncertain step Uncle Jim went forward, holding out trembling hands to accept the rifle.
And still the men were silent. But when Uncle Jim tried to read the words through a blur of tears, it was then the tide of happiness burst.
WELL DONE!
CLUTCHING THE rifle to him, Uncle Jim smiled through misted eyes. A few words started in him, but they died on his lips. He turned and went quickly to Brighty and brought him to face the group. With one hand on the burro’s shoulder and the other holding his rifle, he looked to Mr. Roosevelt to get on with the doings.
The men grinned at Brighty’s helmet and ribbons. One nudged his neighbor and pointed. “Little old low-life’s in high company today,” he said.
The color mounted in Uncle Jim’s face. Suddenly he wanted the chance to speak.
Mr. Roosevelt understood and nodded.
“‘Low-life’ is it!” Uncle Jim exploded. “Who was it Jesus chose to carry him into Jerusalem? Who?”
The question hung quivering in the air. Jim Owen took a step forward. “Why, ’twas
a li’l long-eared feller, the spit image o’ Brighty. And on all sides folks gathered round, and some ran on ahead, layin’ down a carpet o’ palm leaves. Why, I kin just see the li’l feller pickin’ his way like he knowed he was workin’ fer God.”
The men’s eyes twinkled.
“And mind ye, fellers!” Uncle Jim shook his big-knuckled forefinger. “Ever since that day, burros has been marked with the cross. Look-a-here!” He traced the black stripe down Brighty’s back and the crossbar over his shoulder. “See them lines? Where’d ye find a stouter-marked cross than this ’un?”
Now the anger washed out of Uncle Jim, and he looked around helplessly, embarrassed that he had talked so much.
Mr. Roosevelt picked up the thought and spliced onto it. “Yes, gentlemen, Brighty has earned the emblem he wears. He has borne burdens and blazed trails. He has packed the sand and cement that built the very bulwark of the bridge. What could be more fitting than that these two frontiersmen, James Owen and Bright Angel, dedicate the new bridge?”
Voices went up in cheers, and relief, too, as the men realized that the solemn speechmaking was over. The cook stepped out, dried his lips on his sleeve, and lifted a trumpet.
“What will it be, Danny?” Mr. Roosevelt asked.
The cook unpursed his lips. “I’m going to play the extry favorite the men wanted when things was tough. It’s ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers,’ sir!”
The stirring music rolled forth, and to its rhythm Uncle Jim and Brighty marched out of the cottonwood shelter toward the great new bridge. The audience followed like a platoon of soldiers.
The sun struck down on the river and the wind swayed the bridge, causing a black shadow to waver across the water. Now the whole company of men stood at attention. It was as if the months of lifting and pounding and sweating had worked into this moment.
Even with the river drowning the music, the pulsating beat went on. Uncle Jim stepped to it, stepped around now to the apron leading onto the bridge.
Brighty, who had been marching beside him, stopped dead still. In a flash of remembering did he see the cage in place of the bridge? Did he see his jailer atop the cage, and himself hanging by the neck? No one knows what went on in his mind, but all at once he grew rigid.
A tenseness came over the crowd, too. What if Brighty balked? What if he refused to cross and so spoiled the ceremony? The cook blew with all his lung power, trying to give Brighty courage, and the men nearest him made a wall of their bodies, closing off escape.
One cupped his hands to his mouth. “Maybe his stubborn is up!” he yelled, reaching for a willow whip.
Uncle Jim stopped him with a look. Then he turned his back on the man and faced the swaying bridge. Gingerly he thrust out his foot, easing his weight onto the apron. When it gave a little to his step, he stood quiet a long moment, trying to show Brighty how solid it was in spite of the give.
Then without moving his feet he twisted his body, bent down and ran his hand along Brighty’s leg as if he had nothing in mind but to examine the scars. Slowly, carefully, he lifted the tiny hoof and placed it on the bridge alongside his own.
This was the crucial second. One false move and Brighty would spin and bolt through the wall of men.
Scarcely breathing, Uncle Jim pretended to examine the other foreleg. Then slowly he brought it, too, onto the bridge. And with Danny blowing his lungs out, and the men straining forward, shouting the words:
“Onward, Christian soldiers!
Marching as to war,
With the cross of Jesus
Going on before!”
Brighty and Uncle Jim started moving, started teetering across that great long span. One foot forward and then another. They were letting the bridge sway sideways with the wind as it was meant to, and up and down with the weight of their bodies.
Now they were halfway across! On and on they went, step by step, like proud soldiers on the homeward stretch. Then at last they touched the apron on the other side. The roar of voices drowned the river as Uncle Jim lifted the helmet from Brighty’s head and gave him a friendly slap of “Well done.”
BATTLE ON THE MESA
BRIGHTY STOOD quivering, with the river streaming by behind him and the men on the opposite shore starting to cross. He could feel Uncle Jim’s hands undoing his braids, and he let the hands work as he might let a butterfly light on him. It was as if Uncle Jim belonged to faraway times and places while he, Brighty, faced the wonder of a whole new world.
His eyes traveled eagerly up and up the south wall, and his ears were pokers into the future. He swung them to and fro, and he had a rapt look as though listening to a melody half remembered. This south wall of the canyon seemed like, yet strangely unlike, the north. And while his eyes climbed, three wild burros suddenly ran out on a little mesa above and stood staring his way. Glancing up, Uncle Jim caught sight of them, and he, too, gazed fascinated. Their ears showed stiff and erect over the brink of the mesa, and for a long time the three stood frozen. Then the creature in the middle rose up on his hind legs, like a boxer ready to fight.
Brighty pulled in a breath. His body began to shake.
Uncle Jim chuckled. He brought his hands down on the burro’s back, half a pat, half a shove. “Go ahead, boy. Might do ye good to mix with yer own folks; it’s only right and nacherel.”
With a snort of ecstasy Brighty leaped forward and started racing up the wall. He was terrified that the creatures might not wait for him. He bounded from crag to crag, trembling with excitement. When at last he clattered up over the lip of the mesa, he saw that the three jacks were not alone. Dark-eyed jennies and colts were huddled in little bunches behind them. But it was the big black snorty fellow in the center that held Brighty transfixed. He was hypnotized by the fire and frenzy of the jack.
He slowed, approaching cautiously.
At once, the black drove the two small jacks into the bunch. Then with a bellowing whistle he came charging the intruder, yellow teeth bared, sides going in and out, forefeet raking the air.
In joyous rage Brighty met him, head on. It was a fight; the big, battle-scarred veteran against the gray rookie. Like men in a ring they sparred—dancing, punching, interlocking, breaking apart. Behind the fighters the eyes of the mares gleamed darkly. They saw hoofs strike home at ribs, at chests; saw jaws rip pieces of hide; saw drops of blood stain the sand.
Screams echoed down the canyon, followed by rasping grunts. Then the dull sound of bodies meeting again and again.
The black’s breath rattled in his nose. He meant to kill the gray stranger, to fasten his teeth on the throat, to puncture the big vein. He fought with cunning, biting at Brighty’s legs to get him down, then going for his neck. Twice Brighty’s knees buckled, and the black tried to seize the vein. But Brighty wrenched free, only to take a fresh battering of hoofs.
Again he went down. This time he pulled the black with him, and for a few seconds sucked in the air his lungs craved. Each breath was a quick surge of power, and now he was up again. But the black lunged at him, pushed him toward the edge of the mesa. For an instant Brighty caught the red warning of the abyss. He slued around, using his forefeet as ramrods, kicking out in wild fury, giving his foe punch after punch in the ribs. With a groan the black fell heavily on his side, the wind knocked out of him.
Only a moment Brighty stood over him. Then the defeated jack picked himself up and limped off. And suddenly Brighty heard his own voice sounding the triumphant bray of the victor.
The jennies and colts stirred apart, some answering in sniffles and some in high whinnies. Brighty did a quick leap skyward. Instinctively he knew that now he was their leader.
A NEW WORLD FOR BRIGHTY
THE WORLD suddenly opened out for Brighty. It was a new kind of freedom, a freedom charged with power and strength. He was king, and his realm big beyond belief. The Tonto Plateau hung like an enormous shelf on the south wall of the canyon. It spread flat and green, so different from the canyon he had known. He could look out upon a
cres and acres of sagebrush and cactus, and then up at the pyramids that rose like a throne at his back.
Brighty had never set foot on a mesa before. The immensity of it gave him a wild-spirit feeling. He raced his band of mares and colts across it, and for sheer fun he skirted them dangerously along the edges where the walls fell off vertically into black space.
Every deep-drawn breath was exciting. Instead of one trail, there were hundreds of tiny corkscrew trails worn by the feet of many burros. Years ago they had been turned loose by miners and trappers, and now lived in wild bands. But so vast was the mesa there was room for all.
Brighty traveled like a king on the land. He explored the labyrinth of trails. Some, he found, crissed and crossed, ending up nowhere at all, but others led to fine watering places. Here he took on the full stature of ruler.
As he and his flock approached a spring, he tasted the wind, sampling it for the scent of enemies. Had some rival jack preceded? Was he hiding in ambush, ready to steal Brighty’s new-found family?
At the first scent of a foe Brighty wheeled his band in the opposite direction, sometimes nipping the mares and kicking at the foals to force them to safety. He brooked no foolishness. He knew that suffering thirst was better than fighting to the death.
But often as not the breeze blew fresh. Then they all ran snorting to the water, drinking their fill and afterward rolling in the mud around it.
Brighty was an intelligent, devoted father, and he and his family lived in a little paradise of their own, a world of sun and plenty in the heart of the canyon. Sometimes days passed without their sighting another living creature.
But even when their world seemed snug and secure, Brighty’s eyes forever searched the distance, picking out movement miles away—an eagle coasting down the sky, a coyote or wolf mounting a rock to look for prey.
Early in his career as leader Brighty developed his own signals. A rumbling snort meant, “All’s well.” But a shrill cry said, “Danger, mares! Bunch up! Gather in your colts!”
Brighty of the Grand Canyon (Marguerite Henry Horseshoe Library) Page 8