Brighty of the Grand Canyon

by Marguerite Henry

  Jake Irons plucked at his beard, figuring a way to accept the invitation and seem casual about it. “I see you got a tent big enough for two,” he said at last. “And it’s been a long time since I slept out of the wind. Besides,” he added, looking toward the river, “it’d be risky tryin’ to cross on that cableway in the dark. Guess I’ll stay till morning, anyway. But your burro,” he hesitated, “does he hug camp all night?”

  “Ye’re durn tootin’ he does! And it makes me mighty proud. Until I chanced on this-here copper mine, I had only two things I took a pride in—one was my grandpap’s gold watch with the gold key to wind it, and the other’s Brighty. Found the little feller runnin’ wild along Bright Angel Creek.”

  “So you named him Bright Angel, him being so bright, I suppose.”

  “Yup. Only he weren’t no Bright Angel at the time. Great horns, but he was a sight! Some porcupine had made a pincushion outa his face.” The old man clapped Brighty’s rump. “ ’Member, feller? If I hadn’t come along about then and roped ye and pulled out the quills with my pliers, ye’d have gone under, fer sure.”

  Chuckling, the prospector turned now to Jake Irons. “Guess he was so hungry and hurted, he figgered I was his best friend.”

  Irons’ eyes avoided Brighty and he strove to keep the contempt out of his voice. “And so he’s latched onto you ever since, I take it.”

  The white head nodded. “ ’Cept for summertimes. Y’see, Irons, he’s like a migrator-bird. Winters, he lives down here in the canyon where it’s warm, and summers, he hightails it up to the North Rim where it’s cool. Y’know,” he went on, leaning back against Brighty, “ ’twas him that made the trail all the way up to the North Rim. And mind ye, Irons, that wall is so steep he couldn’t go the short way; he had to zig and zag! It’s over twenty-one mile to the top!”

  The old man stretched his legs and dug his heels in the sand. “If ever you decides to top out north ’stead o’ south, Brighty here knows the way. Don’t fergit that. And if he’s a mind to, he can pack a pick and pan as nice as you please.”

  “You don’t say!” Jake Irons’ eyes glinted in the firelight.

  “But I do say! And what’s more, Brighty knows character. If ever he out-and-out kicks a man, there’s a man can’t be trusted. Once when we went to town, Brighty near kicked a barber up on the chandelier. Next I heard about him, that haircutter feller was servin’ time fer thievin’.”

  The trapper went over to feel his beaver skin, but his mind was listening.

  “Now, on the other hand,” Old Timer went on, “take Uncle Jimmy Owen up on the North Rim. Know him, son?”

  “Just by hearsay,” Irons answered. “He’s the government lion hunter, ain’t he?”

  “Yeah. He’s the one. Well, Brighty’s got good reason to mistrust Uncle Jimmy because he smells to high heaven of lions, and anyone knows a burro hates lions worser’n work. But does he hate Uncle Jimmy?”

  “Don’t he?”

  “Indeedy no! He sidles up to him to get his back scratched, same as he does to me. Like I say, Brighty knows character even when it’s wrapped up in lion smell. Why, if’n I was to die tonight, Uncle Jimmy’d step right into my boots, fur as Brighty goes. Right into my boots!”

  Irons sharpened his knife blade on a rock, thinking. He hardly heard the next words.

  “Y’see,” Old Timer was saying, “Uncle Jimmy understands, just like I do, that Brighty’s a free spirit. Seems like he’s got to be free to breathe.”

  The talk petered out and the fire burned low. Yawning, the two men went into the tent and settled down for the night, the old man on his cot, the young man wrapped in his blanket. Between them the big gold watch hung from the ridgepole, ticking the minutes away.

  GOOD-BY, OLD TIMER

  THE NIGHT was noiseless except for the wind and the river. A few sparks gleamed in the fire, like fallen stars. Brighty edged closer to the dying glow. The sand felt warm and scratchy to his skin as he lay squirming on his back, his hoofs pawing at the chink of sky between the canyon walls.

  After a time the moon showed itself and gradually, very gradually, began whitewashing rocks and promontories. It whitened Brighty’s belly, too, and his nose as he lay blinking upward. At last he snuggled into the nest he had made in the sand. He closed his eyes and let sleep claim him while the wind played with his scraggly mane.

  All night long the wind and the river went on about their business, sweeping down the canyon. Sounds came through Brighty’s sleep—the voices of coyotes and foxes, and the occasional ringing sound of a rock tumbling from crag to crag. But all of this was canyon music to Brighty, and he slept on in the friendly darkness.

  Toward morning his thirst awakened him, and he took off for Bright Angel Creek, a small gray shadow winding among the deeper shadows of morning.

  There was burro-brush on his way, and he stopped to browse here and there until his thirst pulled him on to the chattering creek. He waded far upstream, up where the water flowed so clear he could see trout darting under the rocks. He drank his fill—not in one long draught, but a little here, then up the creek a way and another mouthful, until he was satisfied. Sometimes he stood quite still, letting the water foam and feather around his legs. But more often he got into a rough-and-tumble fight with it, pawing madly until he churned whirlpools and eddies. Then he stood over it like a victor, blowing and snorting as he watched the sand settle to the bottom again.

  Bright Angel Creek seemed to flow especially for him, to quench his thirst and wash his feet, and to grow willows and grasses that stayed green for him, no matter what.

  Morning passed. The whole day passed, while Brighty played in the creek and browsed alongside it. Only occasionally he clambered over the rocks and up the stern granite walls to get away from its gushing chatter. But always he hurried back, as to an old friend.

  With the coming of twilight, however, the babble of the creek seemed idle nonsense. He felt a need for human company. Somewhere in the shadows far below a nice old man would be stirring biscuits or hot cakes. A hunger and a longing came to him, and he clattered out upon the rocks to a parapet that looked down on the campsite. There! He spotted the white tent, no bigger than a deer tail. He worked himself into a bray that sounded loud and clear. When the last echo had died, he waited, listening. But there was no answer.

  He brayed again, louder, fuller, longer, and again he waited for the answering halloa. But again there was none. None at all. Only the echoes growing fainter and fainter, until at last they were swallowed up by silence.

  Even with no answer, habit was strong in him. He had to get to camp. For the next hour or two he wound along the wayward course of Bright Angel Creek. At every turn he stopped to peer down at the tent. But tonight there was no smoke curling upward, no sign of life. He looked north toward the tunnel. He was close enough now to see the ladder climbing the vertical wall. It too was empty. Old Timer was neither going up nor coming down.

  As Brighty reached the rift of sand on which the tent stood, his feet slowed, then stopped altogether. Muffled voices were coming from inside, and before he could sift them apart, the lion smell of Uncle Jimmy Owen filled his nostrils.

  “How do you like that!” a strange voice said. “Consarn it all, Jim, only once in a coon’s age me and you has a fishing spree, and what happens? Old Timer gone!”

  “He’s sure gone, Sheriff. And there’s something mighty wrong here. Old Timer’d never leave his camp like this, and his watch still hangin’ here. If he’d gone off to Flagstaff, he woulda taken it along and tidied the place. It ain’t like him to leave in a hurry.” Uncle Jim’s voice sharpened. “Somethin’s happened to him, sure as shootin’.”

  “You mean he’s—killed, perhaps? Right under my nose?”

  Brighty pushed the tent flap aside, only to face the muzzle of a gun.

  “Sheriff!” Uncle Jim’s voice was a command. “Save yer lead. It’s only Bright Angel; you ’member him!”

  And the next thing Brighty knew, a sl
ight figure had darted around the sheriff and a pair of friendly hands were fondling his ears.

  Uncle Jimmy Owen was a small-sized man, built wiry. He had sandy hair and a sandy mustache and mild gray eyes that now looked full into Brighty’s as if he expected them to tell him something. But all he saw was his own face mirrored in the black pupils. He placed his hand on Brighty’s chest and gently backed him out of the tent.

  “Brighty,” he said into the big furry ears, “things look bad for our Old Timer.”

  A wind was blowing toward them and Brighty sucked it in. A noise grew in his throat, grew into a crescendo of braying. He faced toward the tunnel as if his calling could penetrate the darkness and pull the old prospector out of it.

  “There now, Brighty; there now, feller,” Uncle Jim soothed.

  The sheriff’s voice was full of annoyance. “Quit talkin’ to that burro and listen to me, Jim Owen.” He pointed to the vertical wall rising behind the tent. “See that narrow scar in the rock? That might be a trail leadin’ away from the tunnel.”

  Uncle Jim nodded.

  “Well, I’m going up there to follow along and see where it goes. You stay at camp, Jim, and you better have your six-shooter ready. There may be a killer around here.”

  The sheriff strode off while Uncle Jim, with Brighty at heel, walked over to the remains of the fire. He picked up two cups near the ashes.

  “Mark my words, Brighty, Old Timer had company for breakfast. These cups still have a swallow o’ strong coffee in ’em.” He nodded to himself as he picked up two sticky plates. “Now I reconstructs it this way. Some fugitive from justice knew this-here Grand Canyon is made up of hunnerts of little side canyons to hide in. But by and by he gets hungry, see? And tired o’ livin’ on fish. He smells camp smoke and vittles cookin’. And—well—you knowed Old Timer, Brighty. He’d share his grub with you or me or anybody! And prob’ly he couldn’t help tellin’ about that copper vein he’d struck. You knowed how trusting he was. Then this other feller—”

  Uncle Jim broke off as he saw the sheriff hurrying back.

  “It gets worse and worse, Jim,” the sheriff panted, swabbing his hat brim with his handkerchief. “There’s two sets of footprints up in the tunnel, and Old Timer’s pick and shovel lyin’ there. Looks like someone was diggin’ and then left in an all-fired hurry.” His head went around on its neck like an owl’s. “Now, if I was a criminal, where’d I hide?”

  Uncle Jim shrugged. “The canyon’s full o’ hidey-holes. Figger it yourself, Sheriff. Two hunnert mile o’ dens.”

  “All right! All right! And since you’re so smart—if you was sheriff and you spotted a fresh-staked claim and the owner missing, how’d you go about solving the mystery?”

  Uncle Jim thought a moment. His finger moved along the stripe on Brighty’s back, then on the crosspiece over his shoulder. “If I was sheriff,” he said at last, “I’d count on the canyon to trap my man. Ain’t nothin’ like a canyon to squeeze a feller in. The ravens hollerin’ at him. And snakes stickin’ out their tongues, and willows pointin’ their skinny fingers, and faces in the rocks accusin’ him.” Uncle Jim stopped short. “Speakin’ o’ rocks, Sheriff, I’d like to be sure o’ one thing.”

  He led the way down to the big river and began leaping from boulder to boulder, his eyes squinting.

  “You’re looking for clothing snagged onto rocks, ain’t you?” the sheriff shouted, trying to keep up.

  “Yeah.”

  “I already done that.”

  “Hey, look yonder!”

  The sheriff followed Uncle Jim’s finger to Brighty standing on the shore, shaking something black between his teeth.

  As he came toward them, the men saw that the black thing was a hat. Brighty was snaking it along, playing with it, and suddenly a blue jay’s feather loosened from the hatband and fell to the sand.

  Uncle Jim bent down and picked up the feather. He took the hat from Brighty’s mouth and carefully brushed it with his sleeve. He tried to hide his feelings, and then he gave up and buried his face inside the hat and wept.

  “The Colorado River never gives up its dead,” he whispered, too softly for anyone to hear. He stuck the feather back into the hatband and gave his own gray hat to Brighty to play with. Wordless, he tried on the black one. It was an almost fit. A little sweating of the temples and it would mold to his head.

  The sheriff stared into the foaming water, his eyes narrowed in thought. “But how did it happen?” he said to himself. “Old Timer wouldn’t just fall in—not an old canyon man like him. No—it wasn’t an accident.” He paused, and his eyes traveled up the cliff to the ledge of rock running toward the mouth of the mine.

  Suddenly he nodded. “I see it plain as day. Somebody must’ve pushed him into the river.”

  Uncle Jim wiped his eyes. “Good-by, Old Timer.” He touched the hat brim in salute. “And don’t you worry none about Brighty.” Then his face changed. A look of steel came into his eyes, and his jaws clenched. “Afore we die,” he said, staring at a sucking whirlpool, “Brighty and me will find yer killer and even the score!”

  The wind picked up his words and scattered them over the river, while the men and the burro walked toward the camp.

  As soon as Uncle Jim entered the tent, he knew the killer was still in the canyon. Old Timer’s watch was gone!

  THE SHERIFF LEARNS A LESSON

  ALL THAT night the two men hunted in the dark recesses of the canyon, but there was no trace of the killer. At daybreak the sheriff came upon a collapsible canvas boat hidden under a cliff.

  “I like to be quick reporting a crime,” he explained to Uncle Jim as he pulled out the bulky bundle. “We can scoot across the river in this, top out the South Rim, and be in the state’s attorney’s office before dark. He’ll round up a whole posse to help us. Now, Jim, some way we got to get Brighty across the river, so we can take turns riding him up the wall. Hiking down is one thing—hiking up, another.”

  Tired after the long night, Uncle Jim was searching Brighty for ticks, not because a few less would make any difference, but because he mourned Old Timer and there was a measure of comfort in doing something for his creature.

  The sheriff sputtered as he began untwisting the ends of the baling wire wrapped around the boat.

  “Whoever used this last sure tied it up tight against the rats. Wish that burro could pick this with his big yella teeth, ’stead of just standing there grinning and getting his ticks squeezed.”

  Uncle Jim came to help, but the sheriff waved him away. “You forget I’m a canyon man, too,” he said testily, “and a sight younger’n you.”

  Once he had the wire off, he demonstrated his strength by opening up the small boat as if it were an umbrella. Inside were a pair of oars and a roll of wire and two life preservers.

  “Here,” Uncle Jim offered, “I’ll help carry ’er to the river.”

  The two men scrambled down the rocks to the water’s edge, carrying the boat over their heads.

  Uncle Jim raised his voice above the river’s roar. “She’ll ship water unless ye soak ’er first.”

  “Delays!” the sheriff fretted. “Always delays! Should be up to Flagstaff now.” He yanked off his boots and socks and rolled his trousers to his knees. He pushed the boat into the water, tilting it to let the waves slosh inside and out.

  Meanwhile, Uncle Jim inflated the life preservers and Brighty stood sleepy-eyed, watching the river lick at the boat with its muddy tongue. A tattered puff of smoke blew across his face from Uncle Jim’s pipe.

  “Ye’d get acrost faster if ye swang over on that cage, Sheriff,” Uncle Jim said. With the stem of his pipe he pointed to a wooden cage hanging from a single cable strung across the river.

  “Not me!” the sheriff shouted. “I get dizzy in a little old tree hammock in my own yard, let alone riding in a swaying cage over the river.” He wedged the boat between two boulders, then cupped his hands to his mouth to make sure he could be heard. “And I ain’t taking no chances
on losing you, neither! You know Old Timer’s sister, and you’re coming along so’s you can c’roborate my story.”

  Uncle Jim cupped his hands, too. “I can’t! Teddy Roosevelt’s comin’ to hunt lion and I’m headin’ up the North Rim. Got to work my hounds.”

  “You was heading thataway,” the sheriff yelled. “I’ll see someone drives you around the rim to your cabin tomorrow, first thing.”

  Brighty, tired of the talk, started to walk away.

  “Stop him!” the sheriff bellowed. “Stop him!”

  Uncle Jim called out “Brighty” just the one time, and the shaggy head came around. He waited for Uncle Jim to catch up to him.

  The sheriff came running too, panic in his face. “Jim, we got to have him for the trip up. We got to. Time’s the thing.”

  The corners of Uncle Jim’s mustache turned up. “Brighty don’t want to go.”

  “Oh,” the sheriff mimicked, “he don’t, don’t he?” Uncle Jim shook his head. “He ain’t never crossed this mad river, and ain’t likely he’ll take the notion now.”

  “Then how come he wets his feet in Bright Angel Creek a dozen times a day and won’t cross the river even once?”

  “Because he’s smarter’n folks, that’s why. Besides, he’s a free spirit. No man can herd him around.”

  “Oh, you reckon not? Well, I say he’s going across. See? No little old burro is going to fox me.”

  Brighty scratched his neck with his hind foot, looking absently from one man to the other.

  “Here’s how we’ll do it.” The sheriff faced around to see if the boat was wetting through. Then he barked out his directions. “Me and you’ll row across, then you snub that wire around a tree on the other side. Whilst you’re snubbing the wire, I’ll row back with the tag end and tie it on Brighty.” The sheriff rubbed his nose, proud of his plan. “And then I’ll push him into the river, and you can pull on the wire and drag him across.”