The starts of terror and anger showed what we had ahead of us. Bridles were adjusted, and then, with our fresh ponies still blindfolded, we sprang into our saddles. When our feet were firmly placed and all was ready, we lifted the blinds from the horses' eyes and then braced ourselves. Digging our heels into the ponies' sides, off we started, at a jerking, bounding, half-bucking pace. Shouting directions to each other, helter-skelter, over and around boulders, we dashed along as if we were after the hounds on a genuine old-fashioned fox-hunt. I suppose we kept it up a full hour, at topmost speed. The horses didn't want to stop, and Sinyela knew that the best way to break them was to let them have their own way. But before the day was over, the ponies were considerably tamed down, and it was a weary band that stopped for camp that night. The animals were duly hobbled and turned loose; I lit a camp fire, though we had nothing to cook and no kettle for boiling water, and dirty, dusty, with every nerve and fibre of my body weary and aching, I finally stretched out on the solid earth and wooed "balmy sleep." The ride was resumed next day. We finally got ourselves to Sinyela's camp in safety, where a sweat-bath and a swim in the delicious waters of Havasu fully rested us.
The Hopi Trail Ascent. We decided to leave Havasu Canyon by way of the "Make" Trail. This is the same trail as that described in the chapter on the descent into Havasu Canyon from El Tovar, as far up as the point where the pictured rocks appear. Here the Hopi trail turns and follows the course of the main Havasu Canyon. Cushing counted forty-four knots in his buckskin fringe from the village to the exit, each knot denoting an abrupt curve or angle in the winding canyons. The Topocobya Trail descends a sheer cliff of stupendous majesty, and the Wallapai Trail is enough to shatter the nervous system of any but the most experienced; but the Hopi Trail ascent out of the Canyon is different, in that, in several places, it passes through narrow clefts, with ponderous, overhanging rocks, the whole course barely wide enough to permit a laden mule to get through with its pack. It is an almost vertical ascent of about twelve hundred feet which winds around and up the clefts, up steps hacked out of the solid rock with flint axes and hammers, by the patient hands of long-dead Indians.
The Legend of Ahaiuta. The Hopis and the Zunis believe this to be the spot where the Zuni god; Ahaiuta, one of the twin gods of war, after the waters of the world had arisen and overwhelmed the nations of their ancestry, and flooded the whole earth from the far west to the Rio Grande, dug a little outlet for the waters. The flood, finding this hole, had rushed down into the interior of the earth, and had thus worn this terrific cleft, and the gorge below, leaving the marks of its strife upon the banded rocks which surrounded and hovered over us.
Now we scrambled over great rocks, then along a foot-wide trail, and at length wound our way out along a massive bank of talus. Around at the head of the trail, I sent Sinyela back, and started alone along the historic trail across the plateau. The general scenery of the plateau already has been described.
A Roundabout Drive. At this point, I prevailed upon Mr. Bass to hitch two horses and two mules to his ambulance (which had once been a United States Army ambulance and was used in his Arizona campaigns by General Nelson A.
Miles), and drive--a roundabout way to the northeastern slopes of the San Francisco range, thence to the Little Colorado River, where we would again strike the Hopi trail from Moenkopi to Oraibi. There were four of us in the party. From the rim of the Canyon direct to the Little Colorado the route is, at present, inaccessible for wagons. It is a horse trail, and somewhat of the same nature as all the plateau trails through the Kohonino (Coconino) Forest. Hence our roundabout wagon trip.
On the Fringe of the Painted Desert. Filling our canteens to the nozzle, we drove over the western fringe of the Painted Desert. Skirting the mountain, we made a "dry camp" that night, and used up every drop of water next morning. Some went for our coffee, and the rest was given to the animals.
Then we started for the far-away Tanner Crossing of the Little Colorado, across the thirsty desert. As we were without water, it was natural that, on that particular day, the elements should combine to make it hotter than usual. A few clouds sprang into existence, but we felt no breath of cooling air, and as the day grew, the clouds became burning glasses to focus the sun's heat more powerfully upon us. Late in the afternoon, our eyes were delighted with the sight of what seemed to be a pool of water, in the road ahead of us. Parched almost to keen suffering, we drove our weary and thirsty horses right into it, scaring away, as we did so, several horses that were standing there, and then, not waiting for cups or ceremony, each man threw himself flat on his stomach and began to drink the uninviting compound. A heavy shower had fallen in this one spot, and the pool had not yet had time to evaporate.
A Dash Across the Little Colorado. The day was sultry and betokened a heavy rain storm, so, when we reached the Little Colorado, we decided to get over that night, since, if the storm came, it might render crossing impossible.
Our ambulance was heavily laden, and the crossing dangerous. Before Iventured, we unloaded about half the weight, and then I undressed, save for my undershirt, and went to investigate the bed of the crossing for quicksands. As soon as I had determined where to drive, we started across.
