by Zane Grey
“Hiram, the Indian’s shirt is all wet, and mighty hot, too,” I said. “Did you have a pot of water on the fire? It might have tipped and caused the blow-up.”
It was plain from the fact that Hiram did not trust his memory, and went to look over his outfit of pans and pots, that he was much disturbed in mind.
“Mebbe — mebbe,” he said, as he fumbled among them. “Dog-gone it! — no! Hyar they all are, an’ nary one wet.”
“Jim, can you smell powder?” I asked.
“No. Thet shore must have been a bustin’ log,” replied Jim.
“That was a steam explosion, my man,” I replied. “Somebody put a sealed fruit-can in the fire, or buried a jar of water in the ashes.”
No more was said on the moment, but later, when Hal and Jim were tying up the dogs, Ken broke out emphatically:
“Another job of the kid’s! Whatever it was it certainly got me. I was never so scared in my life. Hiram, isn’t there any way we can scare Hal? It’s got to be done.”
“Wal, youngster, I’ll think on it.”
“Let’s play a trick on Hal, give him a dose of his own medicine. Hiram, it’s a wonder to me he hasn’t done something to you and Dick. He will yet.”
“Wal, youngster, I reckon you’ll find Leslie an’ me accomplices in any reasonable trick on thet thar lad.”
“It’ll be great...But what he’ll do to us, if he ever finds it out, will be a-plenty.”
By this time Ken seemed obsessed with his idea, yet all the while he showed a strange half-reluctance, as if he bore in mind Hal’s remarkable powers of retaliation.
“But how?” he asked. “Can we coax Jim into the scheme?”
“Leave that to me, Ken,” I said. “Jim would fall victim to any fun. Now, we’ll get Jim to fire Hal out of his bed, and we’ll all refuse to take him in ours on some pretext or other. Then the Navajo will naturally gravitate to Hal, and we’ll find some way to scare him.”
Next morning I found a favorable opportunity, wherein I approached Jim with my proposition and won him over easily. He had weakness of that sort.
We hunted that day, and at supper Jim groaned and took as much trouble in sitting down as if his leg was in splints.
“What’s wrong with you?” inquired Hiram, with extraordinary sympathy.
“It’s my leg.”
“Wal?”
“You know I told you. It’s thet place where Hal has been kickin’ me every night in his sleep.”
“Wha — at?” stammered Hal. His eyes opened wide.
“Lad, I’m sorry to hey to hurt your feelin’s,” replied Jim, gently. “But I’ve shore stood it as long as I could. You’re one of them nightmare sleepers, an’ when you git after anythin’, or anythin’ gits after you, then you kick. I never seen a broncho thet could hold a candle to you. No matter how you lay, on your side or back or belly, you can kick, an’ allus in the same place. I was throwed From a horse once an’ hurt this leg, an’ right there’s where you’ve been kickin’ me.”
Hal looked as if he wanted to cry. He seemed unmistakably, genuinely ashamed of himself.
“Oh, Jim, I know I have crazy dreams and thrash about in my sleep. Why — why didn’t you kick back — kick me out of bed?”
“Shore, lad, you needn’t feel bad about it. I ain’t blamin’ you. I realize we’re havin’ some pretty warm times after these cougars, enough to make any feller hey nightmares.”
“I won’t trouble you again that way,” said Hal, earnestly. “I’ll sleep somewhere else...Hiram, can I come in your tent — way over on one side, far from you?”
“Youngster, I wish you hedn’t asked me,” replied Hiram, in apparent distress. “Fer I’ve got to refuse. I’m gittin’ old, Hal, an’ I must hey my rest. You’d keep me awake.”
Pride and mortification held Hal back from further appeal. He finished his supper without another word. Then he took the axe and cutting down some small pines began to make a shack. Navvy got so interested that he offered to help, and to our great delight, when the shack was completed Hal pointed to it and asked the Indian to share it with him.
The next day we had some strenuous chases; the hounds split on fresh trails, and we were separated from one another. One by one we got back to camp, and it was a mooted question which were the most worn out, hunters or hounds. It was about dark when Jim came riding in.
“Fellers, you shore missed the wind-up,” he said, throwing the skin of a cougar on the ground.
“Wal, dog-gone it, you hed to kill one!” exclaimed Hiram.
“Shore. Curley and Tan treed thet one, an’ I yelled fer you till I lost my voice. He started down, finally, an’ as I was afraid he’d kill a dog I hed to kill him. When I got the skin I started to work up to the place I left my hoss. It’s bad climbin’. I got on a side of a cliff an’ saw where I could work out, if I could climb a smooth place. So I tried. There was little cracks an’ ridges for my hands an’ feet. All to once, just above I heard a low growl. Lookin’ up I saw a big lion, bigger’n any we’ve chased, an’ he was pokin’ his head out of a hole, an’ shore tellin’ me to come no farther. I couldn’t let go with either hand to reach my gun, because I’d have fallen; so I yelled at him with all my might. He spit at me an’ then walked out of the hole, over the bench, as proud as a lord, an’ jumped down where I couldn’t see him no more. I climbed out all right, but he’d gone. An’ I tell you for a minute he shore made me sweat.”
That night Hiram whispered to Ken and Jim and me to stay up till Hal and Navvy had gone to bed. We did not need to wait long, and soon Navvy’s snores and Hal’s deep breathing assured us we might safely talk of our plan.
“Youngster, you slip up an’ steal Hal’s gun,” whispered Hiram. “I wouldn’t be easy in mind monkeyin’ with thet kid if he hed a gun handy.”
Ken got down on his hands and knees and crawled noiselessly toward the shack. He did not return for some time. At last he appeared carrying Hal’s weapons, and we all breathed easier.
“Thet kid shore has us all buffaloed,” remarked Jim.
Then we got our heads together. It was not strange for Ken to be eager to pay Hal back in his own coin, and perhaps I was still young enough to feel the fun of a good, well-deserved trick. But it did seem strange for Hiram Bent and Jim Williams to outdo us in eagerness. Hiram was excited and Jim was bursting with suppressed glee.
“See hyar, youngster, I’ve planned it all,” said Hiram. “Now you take this lasso — thar’s a noose on each end — an’ jest wrap it once round thet little saplin’ thar, an’ then slip a noose over Hal’s foot an’ one over Navvy’s.”
“You’ve planned, and I must execute,” protested Ken. “By George! Hiram, can’t Dick help me?”
“I’ll take one end of the lasso,” I replied. “That will make it easier for us to wrap the middle of the lasso round the sapling. We’ll both walk round it once. Come on.”
The sapling in question was about fifteen feet from Hal’s shack, and quite in the open. Ken and I got the lasso round it, and then dropping on all fours we crawled stealthily toward the shack.
“You take the Indian,” I suggested, in a whisper.
“Good!” whispered Ken. “I’d rather try to rope Geronimo than my kid brother.”
Like snails we crept on, as tense and silent as if there were real danger. We reached the shack and lay low a moment. Hal had wrapped himself in his blanket, but the Navajo lay partially uncovered. It turned out that I had gotten the worse of the choice, for Ken soon slipped his noose over Navvy’s uncovered foot. And I had carefully to remove the blanket from Hal before I could get the lasso over his foot. Hal kicked, but he did not awaken. I returned to the other conspirators to find Ken already there.
“What next?” I demanded.
“Wal, it’s my turn now,” whispered Hiram, “an’ if you fellers don’t see some fun then I’m an old fool.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Ken.
“Youngster, I never seen the sleepin’ Injun
thet I couldn’t scare out of his skin, an’ you jest listen an’ watch.”
Hiram got down flat on the ground and began to squirm like a snake, with a perfectly noiseless motion. He went out of sight toward the shack.
We waited, holding fast to each other, straining eyes, and listening with all our might. The silence was unusual, there being only a faint moan of wind in the pines.
Suddenly a hideous ear-splitting sound rose on the night air. It was neither yell, nor roar, nor bawl. Like a prolonged superhuman shriek it pierced us, transfixed us to the spot. It bore some faint resemblance to a terrible loud, coarse whistle.
The shack flew up and tumbled to pieces, out of which bounded the Navajo. His screech of terror rose above Hiram’s unearthly cry. Navvy leaped, and then, like a nine-pin, down he went. Hal jumped up, and, yelling, ran the other way, and down he went. Both sprang up and leaped away again, only to go tumbling down. Quick as thought Navvy rose and started to run; Hal, doing the same, ran into the Indian’s arms. Then Hiram stopped his unearthly noise. The frightened dogs burst into an uproar. Everything happened so quickly that I could scarcely keep track of it. Down went Navvy and Hal all in a heap.
Suddenly Hiram roared out. “Hyar, you Carnal redskin! stop thet!”
We rushed up to find Navvy sitting astride Hal and pommeling him at a great rate. It was only the work of a moment to rescue poor Hal, after which he roared as loudly as Hiram, but our roaring was laughter.
We had not thought that Navvy would suspect Hal, and that had made our little trick thrice successful.
“How — much — does — it take — to scare — you — Hal?” choked Ken.
Hiram added his say: “Hal — I was jest — wonderin’ — what your pa — would hey thought — if he hed seen you.”
We did not see any more of Hal till next day. As that was to be a day of rest, particularly for the hounds, we lounged in the shade. Hiram, however, who was seldom idle, spent his time in making buckskin moccasins for the hounds. More or less we all bantered Hal with our several opinions of what it took to scare him. Like a waiting volcano with a cold exterior, Hal endured our sallies in silence. Indeed he did not appear to hold resentment — Hal was not that sort of a boy — but all the same his brain was busy. And we all shivered in our boots. Whatever Hal’s feelings were toward us he did not reveal, but he watched the Indian steadily and thoughtfully. By that we knew Hal had designs on Navvy, and we awaited developments with some relief and much interest.
Toward sunset we were interrupted by yells from the Navajo, off in the woods. The brushing of branches and pounding of hoofs preceded his appearance. In some remarkable manner he had got a bridle on Marc, and from the way the big stallion hurled his huge bulk over logs and through thickets, it appeared evident he meant to usurp Jim’s ambition and kill the Navajo. Hearing Hiram yell, the Indian turned Marc toward camp. The horse slowed down when he neared the glade and tried to buck. But Navvy kept his head up. With that Marc seemed to give way to ungovernable rage and plunged right through camp; he knocked over the dog-shelter, and thundered down the ridge.
Now, the Navajo, with a bridle in his hands, was thoroughly at home; he was getting his revenge on Marc, and he would have kept his seat on a wild mustang. But Marc swerved suddenly under a low branch of pine, sweeping the Indian off.
When Navvy did not rise we began to fear he had been seriously hurt, perhaps killed, and we ran to where he lay.
Face downward, hands outstretched, with no movement of body or muscle, he certainly appeared dead.
“Badly hurt,” said Hiram, “probably back broken. I’ve seen it afore from jest sich accidents.”
“Oh no!” I cried. And I felt so deeply I could not speak. Jim, who always wanted Navvy to be a dead Indian, looked profoundly sorry.
“He’s a dead Injun, all right,” replied Hiram.
We rose from our stooping postures and stood around, uncertain and deeply grieved, till a mournful groan from Navvy afforded us much relief.
“Thet’s your dead Indian!” exclaimed Jim. Hiram stooped and felt the Indian’s back, and got in reward another mournful groan.
“It’s his back,” said Hiram, and true to his ruling passion, forever to minister to the needs of horses and men and things, he began to rub the Indian and called for the liniment.
Hal went to fetch it, while I, who still believed Navvy to be dangerously hurt, knelt by him, and pulled up his shirt, exposing the hollow of his brown back.
“Here you are,” said Hal, returning on the run with a bottle.
“Pour some on,” replied Hiram. Hal removed the cork and soused the liniment all over the Indian’s back.
“Don’t waste it,” remonstrated Hiram, starting to rub Navvy.
Then occurred a most extraordinary thing. A convulsion seemed to quiver through the Indian’s body; he rose at a single leap, and uttering a wild, piercing yell, broke into a run. I never saw an Indian or anybody else run so fleetly. Yell after yell pealed back at us.
Absolutely dumfounded, we all gazed at each other.
“Thet’s your dead Indian!” ejaculated Jim. “Dog-gone me!” exclaimed Hiram.
“Look here,” I cried, picking up the bottle. “See! Don’t you smell it?”
Jim fell face downward and began to shake.
“What?” shouted Hiram. “Turpentine! You idiots! Turpentine! Hal brought the wrong bottle!”
CHAPTER XIII - THE CAÑON AND ITS DISCOVERERS
HAL, HOWEVER, WAS not always making trouble. Like Ken, he had a thoughtful turn of mind, and when in this mood he was not slow to seek information.
“What made this Cañon?” he asked.
And I undertook to tell him.
“Well, Hal, I don’t see how any one could look at this Cañon without wondering how it was made,” I said. “It seems to me the forces of nature were no more wonderful here than elsewhere. But here you can see so much of what’s been done, and that makes you curious.
“Ages ago, you know, the whole face of the earth was covered by water. And as the crust began to cool, and shrink, and crumple up, the first land began to rise above the water. In this part of the country the Rockies were the first points of land to appear. As the earth’s crust kept on crumpling these mountains kept rising above the water. As they rose they began to weather, and dust, sand, silt, and rock washed back into the ocean, and formed layers on the bottom. This went on for thousands and thousands of years.
“All this time the earth was lifting itself out of the sea, and finally a continent was formed. But it wasn’t much like the continent of to-day. Florida and the Southern States were still under water. There was a great inland sea north of this plateau region, and as the uplift continued this inland sea began to flow out, cutting a river into the plateau. This river was the Colorado.
“Probably it rained much harder and longer in those early days, and the river, with its tributaries, had greater power, and there was a greater erosion. The Colorado cut its way through to the Gulf of California. As time went on, and the uplift of land continued, the river cut deeper and deeper, and erosion by rain and wind and frost widened the channel into a cañon. The different layers of rock raised up were of different degrees of hardness and softness.
“Some readily wore away; others were durable. These layers were the deposit of silt into the ocean bed, where they had been burned or cemented into rock strata. There have been fifteen thousand feet — three miles — of strata washed off from the earth here, where we sit now.
“Then the uplift increased, or there was a second and quicker uplift of the plateau. It was greater here, where we are, than southward. That’s why the north rim is so much higher. The whole plateau has a tilt to the north. This second uplift gave the river a greater impetus toward the sea, and that, of course, gave it greater cutting power. The narrow inner cañon was thus formed. This drained the inland sea. The river is small now to what it was then. But the same washing, grinding of sand on rock is going on down there And up
above the same eroding and weathering of rims.”
“Gee whiz!” exclaimed Hal. “It’s easy to understand the way you put it. Then these different-colored cliffs, the yellow, and red, and white — they’re made out of the sand and silt once washed into the sea, and petrified into the layers — the strata, you called it — and then uplifted, to be washed away again. It takes my breath!”
“Yes, and from these layers we can determine when life first appeared in the sea. For we find shells and bones of a low order of life imbedded in this rock.”
“Who discovered the Cañon, anyhow?” asked Hal. “If the fellow rode out of the cedars right upon the rim, without being prepared, I’ll bet he thought he’d come to the jumping-off place.”
“Ken can tell you that better than I,” I replied.
“It’s worth knowing, Hal,” said Ken. “Look here, who were the first white people in America, anyway?”
“The Jamestown, Virginia, colony in 1607,” Hal answered, triumphantly, “and the Plymouth colony in 1620.”
Ken laughed.
“Well,” said Hal, rather sulkily, “of course, there are all the stories of Norsemen dropping in any old time all the way from Newfoundland to Long Island Sound, but they certain didn’t amount to much as settlers.”
“No, we won’t count the Norsemen,” said Ken. “But, Hal, just think of this. The Grand Cañon, away out here in this wilderness, was discovered in 1540, sixty-seven years before the Jamestown colony landed, and eighty years before the Mayflower dropped anchor at Plymouth.”
Hal whistled.
“That makes Plymouth Rock look young,” he said. “Who found the Cañon?”
“It was discovered by a Spaniard. His name was Don Lopez de Cardenas. He was a lieutenant of the great Spanish explorer Coronado, who sent him out from his camp near the so-called Seven Cities of Cibola, usually identified as the Pueblos of Zuni. Cardenas with a handful of men traveled into northern Arizona, and finally reached the gorge now known as the Grand Cañon. He must have traversed the southerly edge of the Colorado plateau and passed through the Coconina forests.”