by Zane Grey
CHAPTER 11.
ON TO THE SIWASH
"Who all was doin' the talkin' last night?" asked Frank next morning,when we were having a late breakfast. "Cause I've a joke on somebody.Jim he talks in his sleep often, an' last night after you did finallyget settled down, Jim he up in his sleep an' says: 'Shore he's windy ashell! Shore he's windy as hell'!"
At this cruel exposure of his subjective wanderings, Jim showed extremehumiliation; but Frank's eyes fairly snapped with the fun he got out oftelling it. The genial foreman loved a joke. The week's stay at Oak, inwhich we all became thoroughly acquainted, had presented Jim as alwaysthe same quiet character, easy, slow, silent, lovable. In his brothercowboy, however, we had discovered in addition to his fine, frank,friendly spirit, an overwhelming fondness for playing tricks. Thisboyish mischievousness, distinctly Arizonian, reached its acme wheneverit tended in the direction of our serious leader.
Lawson had been dispatched on some mysterious errand about which mycuriosity was all in vain. The order of the day was leisurely to get inreadiness, and pack for our journey to the Siwash on the morrow. Iwatered my horse, played with the hounds, knocked about the cliffs,returned to the cabin, and lay down on my bed. Jim's hands were whitewith flour. He was kneading dough, and had several low, flat pans onthe table. Wallace and Jones strolled in, and later Frank, and they alltook various positions before the fire. I saw Frank, with the quicknessof a sleight-of-hand performer, slip one of the pans of dough on thechair Jones had placed by the table. Jim did not see the action;Jones's and Wallace's backs were turned to Frank, and he did not know Iwas in the cabin. The conversation continued on the subject of Jones'sbig bay horse, which, hobbles and all, had gotten ten miles from campthe night before.
"Better count his ribs than his tracks," said Frank, and went ontalking as easily and naturally as if he had not been expecting a veryentertaining situation.
But no one could ever foretell Colonel Jones's actions. He showed everyintention of seating himself in the chair, then walked over to his packto begin searching for something or other. Wallace, however, promptlytook the seat; and what began to be funnier than strange, he did notget up. Not unlikely this circumstance was owing to the fact thatseveral of the rude chairs had soft layers of old blanket tacked onthem. Whatever were Frank's internal emotions, he presented aremarkably placid and commonplace exterior; but when Jim began tosearch for the missing pan of dough, the joker slowly sagged in hischair.
"Shore that beats hell!" said Jim. "I had three pans of dough. Couldthe pup have taken one?"
Wallace rose to his feet, and the bread pan clattered to the floor,with a clang and a clank, evidently protesting against the indignity ithad suffered. But the dough stayed with Wallace, a great whiteconspicuous splotch on his corduroys. Jim, Frank and Jones all saw itat once.
"Why--Mr. Wal--lace--you set--in the dough!" exclaimed Frank, in aqueer, strangled voice. Then he exploded, while Jim fell over the table.
It seemed that those two Arizona rangers, matured men though they were,would die of convulsions. I laughed with them, and so did Wallace,while he brought his one-handled bowie knife into novel use. BuffaloJones never cracked a smile, though he did remark about the waste ofgood flour.
Frank's face was a study for a psychologist when Jim actuallyapologized to Wallace for being so careless with his pans. I did notbetray Frank, but I resolved to keep a still closer watch on him. Itwas partially because of this uneasy sense of his trickiness in thefringe of my mind that I made a discovery. My sleeping-bag rested on araised platform in one corner, and at a favorable moment I examined thebag. It had not been tampered with, but I noticed a string turning outthrough a chink between the logs. I found it came from a thick layer ofstraw under my bed, and had been tied to the end of a flatly coiledlasso. Leaving the thing as it was, I went outside and carelesslychased the hounds round the cabin. The string stretched along the logsto another chink, where it returned into the cabin at a point nearwhere Frank slept. No great power of deduction was necessary toacquaint me with full details of the plot to spoil my slumbers. So Ipatiently awaited developments.
Lawson rode in near sundown with the carcasses of two beasts of somespecies hanging over his saddle. It turned out that Jones had planned asurprise for Wallace and me, and it could hardly have been a moreenjoyable one, considering the time and place. We knew he had a flockof Persian sheep on the south slope of Buckskin, but had no idea it waswithin striking distance of Oak. Lawson had that day hunted up theshepherd and his sheep, to return to us with two sixty-pound Persianlambs. We feasted at suppertime on meat which was sweet, juicy, verytender and of as rare a flavor as that of the Rocky Mountain sheep.
My state after supper was one of huge enjoyment and with intenseinterest I awaited Frank's first spar for an opening. It camepresently, in a lull of the conversation.
"Saw a big rattler run under the cabin to-day," he said, as if he werespeaking of one of Old Baldy's shoes. "I tried to get a whack at him,but he oozed away too quick."
"Shore I seen him often," put in Jim. Good, old, honest Jim, led awayby his trickster comrade! It was very plain. So I was to be frightenedby snakes.
"These old canyon beds are ideal dens for rattle snakes," chimed in myscientific California friend. "I have found several dens, but did notmolest them as this is a particularly dangerous time of the year tomeddle with the reptiles. Quite likely there's a den under the cabin."
While he made this remarkable statement, he had the grace to hide hisface in a huge puff of smoke. He, too, was in the plot. I waited forJones to come out with some ridiculous theory or fact concerning theparticular species of snake, but as he did not speak, I concluded theyhad wisely left him out of the secret. After mentally debating amoment, I decided, as it was a very harmless joke, to help Frank intothe fulfillment of his enjoyment.
"Rattlesnakes!" I exclaimed. "Heavens! I'd die if I heard one, letalone seeing it. A big rattler jumped at me one day, and I've neverrecovered from the shock."
Plainly, Frank was delighted to hear of my antipathy and my unfortunateexperience, and he proceeded to expatiate on the viciousness ofrattlesnakes, particularly those of Arizona. If I had believed thesucceeding stories, emanating from the fertile brains of those threefellows, I should have made certain that Arizona canyons were Brazilianjungles. Frank's parting shot, sent in a mellow, kind voice, was thebest point in the whole trick. "Now, I'd be nervous if I had a sleepin'bag like yours, because it's just the place for a rattler to ooze into."
In the confusion and dim light of bedtime I contrived to throw the endof my lasso over the horn of a saddle hanging on the wall, with theintention of augmenting the noise I soon expected to create; and Iplaced my automatic rifle and .38 S. and W. Special within easy reachof my hand. Then I crawled into my bag and composed myself to listen.Frank soon began to snore, so brazenly, so fictitiously, that Iwondered at the man's absorbed intensity in his joke; and I was atgreat pains to smother in my breast a violent burst of riotousmerriment. Jones's snores, however, were real enough, and this made meenjoy the situation all the more; because if he did not show a mildsurprise when the catastrophe fell, I would greatly miss my guess. Iknew the three wily conspirators were wide-awake. Suddenly I felt amovement in the straw under me and a faint rustling. It was so soft, sosinuous, that if I had not known it was the lasso, I would assuredlyhave been frightened. I gave a little jump, such as one will makequickly in bed. Then the coil ran out from under the straw. How subtlysuggestive of a snake! I made a slight outcry, a big jump, paused amoment for effectiveness in which time Frank forgot to snore--then letout a tremendous yell, grabbed my guns, sent twelve thundering shotsthrough the roof and pulled my lasso.
Crash! the saddle came down, to be followed by sounds not on Frank'sprogramme and certainly not calculated upon by me. But they were allthe more effective. I gathered that Lawson, who was not in the secret,and who was a nightmare sort of sleeper anyway, had knocked over Jim'stable, with its array of pots and pans and then, unfortun
ately forJones had kicked that innocent person in the stomach.
As I lay there in my bag, the very happiest fellow in the wide world,the sound of my mirth was as the buzz of the wings of a fly to themighty storm. Roar on roar filled the cabin.
When the three hypocrites recovered sufficiently from the startlingclimax to calm Lawson, who swore the cabin had been attacked byIndians; when Jones stopped roaring long enough to hear it was only aharmless snake that had caused the trouble, we hushed to repose oncemore--not, however, without hearing some trenchant remarks from theboiling Colonel anent fun and fools, and the indubitable fact thatthere was not a rattlesnake on Buckskin Mountain.
Long after this explosion had died away, I heard, or rather felt, amysterious shudder or tremor of the cabin, and I knew that Frank andJim were shaking with silent laughter. On my own score, I determined tofind if Jones, in his strange make-up, had any sense of humor, orinterest in life, or feeling, or love that did not center and hinge onfour-footed beasts. In view of the rude awakening from what, no doubt,were pleasant dreams of wonderful white and green animals, combiningthe intelligence of man and strength of brutes--a new speciescreditable to his genius--I was perhaps unjust in my conviction as tohis lack of humor. And as to the other question, whether or not he hadany real human feeling for the creatures built in his own image, thatwas decided very soon and unexpectedly.
The following morning, as soon as Lawson got in with the horses, wepacked and started. Rather sorry was I to bid good-by to Oak Spring.Taking the back trail of the Stewarts, we walked the horses all day upa slowly narrowing, ascending canyon. The hounds crossed coyote anddeer trails continually, but made no break. Sounder looked up as if tosay he associated painful reminiscences with certain kinds of tracks.At the head of the canyon we reached timber at about the time duskgathered, and we located for the night. Being once again nearly ninethousand feet high, we found the air bitterly cold, making a blazingfire most acceptable.
In the haste to get supper we all took a hand, and some one threw uponour tarpaulin tablecloth a tin cup of butter mixed with carbolicacid--a concoction Jones had used to bathe the sore feet of the dogs.Of course I got hold of this, spread a generous portion on my hotbiscuit, placed some red-hot beans on that, and began to eat like ahungry hunter. At first I thought I was only burned. Then I recognizedthe taste and burn of the acid and knew something was wrong. Picking upthe tin, I examined it, smelled the pungent odor and felt a queer numbsense of fear. This lasted only for a moment, as I well knew the useand power of the acid, and had not swallowed enough to hurt me. I wasabout to make known my mistake in a matter-of-fact way, when it flashedover me the accident could be made to serve a turn.
"Jones!" I cried hoarsely. "What's in this butter?"
"Lord! you haven't eaten any of that. Why, I put carbolic acid in it."
"Oh--oh--oh--I'm poisoned! I ate nearly all of it! Oh--I'm burning up!I'm dying!" With that I began to moan and rock to and fro and hold mystomach.
Consternation preceded shock. But in the excitement of the moment,Wallace--who, though badly scared, retained his wits made for me with acan of condensed milk. He threw me back with no gentle hand, and wassqueezing the life out of me to make me open my mouth, when I gave hima jab in his side. I imagined his surprise, as this peculiar receptionof his first-aid-to-the-injured made him hold off to take a look at me,and in this interval I contrived to whisper to him: "Joke! Joke! youidiot! I'm only shamming. I want to see if I can scare Jones and geteven with Frank. Help me out! Cry! Get tragic!"
From that moment I shall always believe that the stage lost a greattragedian in Wallace. With a magnificent gesture he threw the can ofcondensed milk at Jones, who was so stunned he did not try to dodge."Thoughtless man! Murderer! it's too late!" cried Wallace, laying meback across his knees. "It's too late. His teeth are locked. He's fargone. Poor boy! poor boy! Who's to tell his mother?"
I could see from under my hat-brim that the solemn, hollow voice hadpenetrated the cold exterior of the plainsman. He could not speak; heclasped and unclasped his big hands in helpless fashion. Frank was aswhite as a sheet. This was simply delightful to me. But the expressionof miserable, impotent distress on old Jim's sun-browned face was morethan I could stand, and I could no longer keep up the deception. Justas Wallace cried out to Jones to pray--I wished then I had not weakenedso soon--I got up and walked to the fire.
"Jim, I'll have another biscuit, please."
His under jaw dropped, then he nervously shoveled biscuits at me. Jonesgrabbed my hand and cried out with a voice that was new to me: "You caneat? You're better? You'll get over it?"
"Sure. Why, carbolic acid never phases me. I've often used it forrattlesnake bites. I did not tell you, but that rattler at the cabinlast night actually bit me, and I used carbolic to cure the poison."
Frank mumbled something about horses, and faded into the gloom. As forJones, he looked at me rather incredulously, and the absolute, almostchildish gladness he manifested because I had been snatched from thegrave, made me regret my deceit, and satisfied me forever on one score.
On awakening in the morning I found frost half an inch thick covered mysleeping-bag, whitened the ground, and made the beautiful silver sprucetrees silver in hue as well as in name.
We were getting ready for an early start, when two riders, withpack-horses jogging after them, came down the trail from the directionof Oak Spring. They proved to be Jeff Clarke, the wild-horse wranglermentioned by the Stewarts, and his helper. They were on the way intothe breaks for a string of pintos. Clarke was a short, heavily beardedman, of jovial aspect. He said he had met the Stewarts going intoFredonia, and being advised of our destination, had hurried to come upwith us. As we did not know, except in a general way, where we weremaking for, the meeting was a fortunate event.
Our camping site had been close to the divide made by one of the long,wooded ridges sent off by Buckskin Mountain, and soon we weredescending again. We rode half a mile down a timbered slope, and thenout into a beautiful, flat forest of gigantic pines. Clarke informed usit was a level bench some ten miles long, running out from the slopesof Buckskin to face the Grand Canyon on the south, and the 'breaks ofthe Siwash on the west. For two hours we rode between the stately linesof trees, and the hoofs of the horses gave forth no sound. A long,silvery grass, sprinkled with smiling bluebells, covered the ground,except close under the pines, where soft red mats invited lounging andrest. We saw numerous deer, great gray mule deer, almost as large aselk. Jones said they had been crossed with elk once, which accountedfor their size. I did not see a stump, or a burned tree, or a windfallduring the ride.
Clarke led us to the rim of the canyon. Without any preparation--forthe giant trees hid the open sky--we rode right out to the edge of thetremendous chasm. At first I did not seem to think; my faculties werebenumbed; only the pure sensorial instinct of the savage who sees, butdoes not feel, made me take note of the abyss. Not one of our party hadever seen the canyon from this side, and not one of us said a word. ButClarke kept talking.
"Wild place this is hyar," he said. "Seldom any one but horse wranglersgits over this far. I've hed a bunch of wild pintos down in a canyonbelow fer two years. I reckon you can't find no better place fer campthan right hyar. Listen. Do you hear thet rumble? Thet's Thunder Falls.You can only see it from one place, an' thet far off, but thar's brooksyou can git at to water the hosses. Fer thet matter, you can ride upthe slopes an' git snow. If you can git snow close, it'd be better, ferthet's an all-fired bad trail down fer water."
"Is this the cougar country the Stewarts talked about?" asked Jones.
"Reckon it is. Cougars is as thick in hyar as rabbits in a spring-holecanyon. I'm on the way now to bring up my pintos. The cougars hev costme hundreds I might say thousands of dollars. I lose hosses all thetime; an' damn me, gentlemen, I've never raised a colt. This is thegreatest cougar country in the West. Look at those yellow crags! Thar'swhere the cougars stay. No one ever hunted 'em. It seems to me theycan't be hunted. Deer and w
ild hosses by the thousand browse hyar onthe mountain in summer, an' down in the breaks in winter. The cougarslive fat. You'll find deer and wild-hoss carcasses all over thiscountry. You'll find lions' dens full of bones. You'll find warm deerleft for the coyotes. But whether you'll find the cougars, I can't say.I fetched dogs in hyar, an' tried to ketch Old Tom. I've put them onhis trail an' never saw hide nor hair of them again. Jones, it's noeasy huntin' hyar."
"Well, I can see that," replied our leader. "I never hunted lions insuch a country, and never knew any one who had. We'll have to learnhow. We've the time and the dogs, all we need is the stuff in us."
"I hope you fellars git some cougars, an' I believe you will. Whateveryou do, kill Old Tom."
"We'll catch him alive. We're not on a hunt to kill cougars," saidJones.
"What!" exclaimed Clarke, looking from Jones to us. His rugged facewore a half-smile.
"Jones ropes cougars, an' ties them up," replied Frank.
"I'm -- -- if he'll ever rope Old Tom," burst out Clarke, ejecting ahuge quid of tobacco. "Why, man alive! it'd be the death of you to gitnear thet old villain. I never seen him, but I've seen his tracks ferfive years. They're larger than any hoss tracks you ever seen. He'llweigh over three hundred, thet old cougar. Hyar, take a look at myman's hoss. Look at his back. See them marks? Wal, Old Tom made them,an' he made them right in camp last fall, when we were down in thecanyon."
The mustang to which Clarke called our attention was a sleek cream andwhite pinto. Upon his side and back were long regular scars, some aninch wide, and bare of hair.
"How on earth did he get rid of the cougar?" asked Jones.
"I don't know. Perhaps he got scared of the dogs. It took thet pinto ayear to git well. Old Tom is a real lion. He'll kill a full-grown hosswhen he wants, but a yearlin' colt is his especial likin'. You're sureto run acrost his trail, an' you'll never miss it. Wal, if I find anycougar sign down in the canyon, I'll build two fires so as to let youknow. Though no hunter, I'm tolerably acquainted with the varmints. Thedeer an' hosses are rangin' the forest slopes now, an' I think thecougars come up over the rim rock at night an' go back in the mornin'.Anyway, if your dogs can follow the trails, you've got sport, an'more'n sport comin' to you. But take it from me--don't try to rope OldTom."
After all our disappointments in the beginning of the expedition, ourhardship on the desert, our trials with the dogs and horses, it wasreal pleasure to make permanent camp with wood, water and feed at hand,a soul-stirring, ever-changing picture before us, and the certaintythat we were in the wild lairs of the lions--among the Lords of theCrags!
While we were unpacking, every now and then I would straighten up andgaze out beyond. I knew the outlook was magnificent and sublime beyondwords, but as yet I had not begun to understand it. The great pinetrees, growing to the very edge of the rim, received their full quotaof appreciation from me, as did the smooth, flower-decked aislesleading back into the forest.
The location we selected for camp was a large glade, fifty paces ormore from the precipice far enough, the cowboys averred, to keep ourtraps from being sucked down by some of the whirlpool winds, native tothe spot. In the center of this glade stood a huge gnarled and blastedold pine, that certainly by virtue of hoary locks and bent shouldershad earned the right to stand aloof from his younger companions. Underthis tree we placed all our belongings, and then, as Frank sofelicitously expressed it, we were free to "ooze round an' see things."
I believe I had a sort of subconscious, selfish idea that some onewould steal the canyon away from me if I did not hurry to make it mineforever; so I sneaked off, and sat under a pine growing on the veryrim. At first glance, I saw below me, seemingly miles away, a wildchaos of red and buff mesas rising out of dark purple clefts. Beyondthese reared a long, irregular tableland, running south almost to theextent of my vision, which I remembered Clarke had called Powell'sPlateau. I remembered, also, that he had said it was twenty milesdistant, was almost that many miles long, was connected to the mainlandof Buckskin Mountain by a very narrow wooded dip of land called theSaddle, and that it practically shut us out of a view of the GrandCanyon proper. If that was true, what, then, could be the name of thecanyon at my feet? Suddenly, as my gaze wandered from point to point,it was attested by a dark, conical mountain, white-tipped, which rosein the notch of the Saddle. What could it mean? Were there such thingsas canyon mirages? Then the dim purple of its color told of its greatdistance from me; and then its familiar shape told I had come into myown again--I had found my old friend once more. For in all that plateauthere was only one snow-capped mountain--the San Francisco Peak; andthere, a hundred and fifty, perhaps two hundred miles away, far beyondthe Grand Canyon, it smiled brightly at me, as it had for days and daysacross the desert.
Hearing Jones yelling for somebody or everybody, I jumped up to find aprocession heading for a point farther down the rim wall, where ourleader stood waving his arms. The excitement proved to have been causedby cougar signs at the head of the trail where Clarke had started down.
"They're here, boys, they're here," Jones kept repeating, as he showedus different tracks. "This sign is not so old. Boys, to-morrow we'llget up a lion, sure as you're born. And if we do, and Sounder sees him,then we've got a lion-dog! I'm afraid of Don. He has a fine nose; hecan run and fight, but he's been trained to deer, and maybe I can'tbreak him. Moze is still uncertain. If old Jude only hadn't been lamed!She would be the best of the lot. But Sounder is our hope. I'm almostready to swear by him."
All this was too much for me, so I slipped off again to be alone, andthis time headed for the forest. Warm patches of sunlight, like gold,brightened the ground; dark patches of sky, like ocean blue, gleamedbetween the treetops. Hardly a rustle of wind in the fine-toothed greenbranches disturbed the quiet. When I got fully out of sight of camp, Istarted to run as if I were a wild Indian. My running had no aim; justsheer mad joy of the grand old forest, the smell of pine, the wildsilence and beauty loosed the spirit in me so it had to run, and I ranwith it till the physical being failed.
While resting on a fragrant bed of pine needles, endeavoring to regaincontrol over a truant mind, trying to subdue the encroaching of thenatural man on the civilized man, I saw gray objects moving under thetrees. I lost them, then saw them, and presently so plainly that, withdelight on delight, I counted seventeen deer pass through an open archof dark green. Rising to my feet, I ran to get round a low mound. Theysaw me and bounded away with prodigiously long leaps. Bringing theirforefeet together, stiff-legged under them, they bounced high, likerubber balls, yet they were graceful.
The forest was so open that I could watch them for a long way; and as Icircled with my gaze, a glimpse of something white arrested myattention. A light, grayish animal appeared to be tearing at an oldstump. Upon nearer view, I recognized a wolf, and he scented or sightedme at the same moment, and loped off into the shadows of the trees.Approaching the spot where I had marked him I found he had been feedingfrom the carcass of a horse. The remains had been only partly eaten,and were of an animal of the mustang build that had evidently beenrecently killed. Frightful lacerations under the throat showed where alion had taken fatal hold. Deep furrows in the ground proved how themustang had sunk his hoofs, reared and shaken himself. I traced roughlydefined tracks fifty paces to the lee of a little bank, from which Iconcluded the lion had sprung.
I gave free rein to my imagination and saw the forest dark, silent,peopled by none but its savage denizens, The lion crept like a shadow,crouched noiselessly down, then leaped on his sleeping or browsingprey. The lonely night stillness split to a frantic snort and scream ofterror, and the stricken mustang with his mortal enemy upon his back,dashed off with fierce, wild love of life. As he went he felt his foecrawl toward his neck on claws of fire; he saw the tawny body and thegleaming eyes; then the cruel teeth snapped with the sudden bite, andthe woodland tragedy ended.
On the spot I conceived an antipathy toward lions. It was born of thefrightful spectacle of what had once been a glossy
, prancing mustang,of the mute, sickening proof of the survival of the fittest, of the lawthat levels life.
Upon telling my camp-fellows about my discovery, Jones and Wallacewalked out to see it, while Jim told me the wolf I had seen was a"lofer," one of the giant buffalo wolves of Buckskin; and if I wouldwatch the carcass in the mornings and evenings, I would "shore as hellget a plunk at him."
White pine burned in a beautiful, clear blue flame, with no smoke; andin the center of the campfire left a golden heart. But Jones would nothave any sitting up, and hustled us off to bed, saying we would be"blamed" glad of it in about fifteen hours. I crawled into mysleeping-bag, made a hood of my Navajo blanket, and peeping from underit, watched the fire and the flickering shadows. The blaze burned downrapidly. Then the stars blinked. Arizona stars would be moons in anyother State! How serene, peaceful, august, infinite and wonderfullybright! No breeze stirred the pines. The clear tinkle of the cowbellson the hobbled horses rang from near and distant parts of the forest.The prosaic bell of the meadow and the pasture brook, here, in thisenvironment, jingled out different notes, as clear, sweet, musical assilver bells.