By Joseph A. Munk
CHAPTER
I. A
II. MY FIRST TRIP TO
III. THE
IV. RANCH LIFE
V. THE ROUND-UP
VI. RANCH HAPPENINGS
VII. A MODEL RANCH
VIII. SOME DESERT
PLANTS
IX. HOOKER'S HOT SPRINGS
X. CANON ECHOES
XI. THE
XII. THE CLIFF DWELLERS
XIII. THE MOQUI
INDIANS
XIV. A FINE CLIMATE
CHAPTER I
A
A stranger on first
entering
newness and
wildness that surrounds him. Indeed, the
change is
so great that it
seems like going to sleep and waking up in a
new world. Everything that he sees is different from the
familiar objects of
his home, and he is filled with wonder and
amazement at the
many curious things that are brought to his
notice. Judging the country by what is common back
east, the
average man is
disappointed and prejudiced against what he sees;
but, estimated on
its merits, it is found to be a land of many
attractions and
great possibilities.
A hasty trip
through the country by rail gives no adequate idea
of its intrinsic
value, as such a limited view only affords a
superficial glimpse
of what should be leisurely and carefully
examined to be
properly understood or appreciated. At
the first
glance it presents
the appearance of a desert, but to one who is
acquainted with its
peculiarities it is by no means desolate.
It
furnishes a strong
contrast to the rolling woodlands of the far
east, and to the
boundless prairies of the middle west; and,
though it may never
develop on the plan of the older states, like
California, it has
an individuality and charm of its own; and its
endowment of
natural wealth and beauty requires no borrowing from
neighbors to give
it character or success.
It has grand
scenery, a salubrious climate, productive soil, rich
mineral deposits
and rare archaeological remains. It also
has a
diversified fauna
and flora. The peccary, Gila monster,
tarantula,
centipede, scorpion and horned toad are specimens of
its strange animal
life; and, the numerous species of cacti,
yucca, maguey, palo
verde and mistletoe are samples of its
curious
vegetation. It is, indeed, the
scientist's Paradise
where much valuable
material can be found to enrich almost every
branch of natural
science.
Hitherto its growth
has been greatly retarded by its remote
position in Uncle
Sam's domain; but, with the comparatively
recent advent of
the railroad, the influx of capital and
population, and the
suppression of the once dreaded and
troublesome Apache,
a new life has been awakened that is destined
to redeem the
country from its ancient lethargy and make it a
land of promise to
many home seekers and settlers.
When the Spaniards
under Coronado first entered the land more
than three hundred
and fifty years ago in search of the seven
cities of Cibola,
they found upon the desert sufficient evidence
of an extinct race
to prove that the land was once densely
populated by an
agricultural and prosperous people. When
or how
the inhabitants
disappeared is unknown and may never be known.
It is even in doubt
who they were, but, presumably, they were of
the Aztec or Toltec
race; or, perhaps, of some civilization even
more remote.
The Pueblo Indians
are supposed to be their descendants, but, if
so, they were, when
first found, as ignorant of their ancestors
as they were of
their discoverers. When questioned as to
the
past they could
give no intelligent answer as to their
antecedents, but
claimed that what the white man saw was the work
of Montezuma. All that is known of this ancient people is
what
the ruins show, as
they left no written record or even tradition
of their life,
unless it be some inscriptions consisting of
various
hieroglyphics and pictographs that are found painted upon
the rocks, which
undoubtedly have a meaning, but for lack of
interpretation
remain a sealed book. The deep mystery
in which
they are shrouded
makes their history all the more interesting
and gives unlimited
scope for speculation.
Arizona is a land
that is full of history as well as mystery and
invites
investigation. It has a fascination that
every one
feels who crosses
its border. Paradoxical as it may seem
it is
both the oldest and
newest portion of our country--the oldest in
ancient occupation
and civilization and the newest in modern
progress. In natural wonders it boasts of the Grand
Canon of
Arizona, the
painted desert, petrified forest, meteorite
mountain, natural
bridge, Montezuma's well and many other marvels
of nature. There are also ruins galore, the cave and
cliff
dwellings, crumbled
pueblos, extensive acequias, painted rocks,
the casa grande and
old Spanish missions. Anyone who is in
search of the old
and curious, need not go to foreign lands, but
can find right here
at home in Arizona and the southwest, a
greater number and
variety of curiosities than can be found in
the same space
anywhere else upon the globe.
Arizona is a land
of strong contrasts and constant surprises,
where unusual
conditions prevail and the unexpected frequently
happens.
From the high
Colorado plateau of northern Arizona the land
slopes toward the
southwest to the Gulf of California.
Across
this long slope of
several hundred miles in width, numerous
mountain ranges
stretch from the northwest to the southeast.
Through the middle
of the Territory from east to west, flows the
Gila river to its
confluence with the Colorado. This
stream
marks the dividing
line between the mountains which descend from
the north and those
that extend south, which increase in altitude
and extent until
they culminate in the grand Sierra Madres of
Mexico.
The traveler in
passing through the country never gets entirely
out of the sight of
mountains. They rise up all about him
and
bound the horizon
near and far in every direction. In
riding
along he always
seems to be approaching some distant mountain
barrier that ever
recedes before him as he advances. He is
never
clear of the
encircling mountains for, as often as he passes out
of one enclosure
through a gap in the mountains, he finds himself
hemmed in again by
a new one. The peculiarity of always
being in
the midst of mountains
and yet never completely surrounded, is
due to an
arrangement of dovetailing or overlapping in their
formation. His winding way leads him across barren
wastes,
through fertile
valleys, among rolling hills and into sheltered
parks, which
combine an endless variety of attractive scenery.
An Arizona
landscape, though mostly of a desert type, is yet full
of interest to the
lover of nature. It presents a strangely
fascinating view,
that once seen, will never be forgotten.
It
stirs a rapture in
the soul that only nature can inspire.
Looking out from
some commanding eminence, a wide spreading and
diversified
landscape is presented to view. Though
hard and
rugged, the
picture, as seen at a distance, looks soft and smooth
and its details of
form and color make an absorbing study.
The eye is quick to
note the different hues that appear in the
field of vision and
readily selects five predominating colors,
namely, gray,
green, brown, purple and blue, which mingle
harmoniously in
various combinations with almost every other
color that is
known. The most brilliant lights, sombre
shadows,
exquisite tints and
delicate tones are seen which, if put on
canvas and judged
by the ordinary, would be pronounced
exaggerated and
impossible by those unfamiliar with the original.
The prevailing
color is gray, made by the dry grass and sandy
soil, and extends
in every direction to the limit of vision.
The
gramma grass of the
and region grows quickly and turns gray
instead of brown,
as grasses usually do when they mature.
It
gives to the
landscape a subdued and quiet color, which is
pleasing to the eye
and makes the ideal background in a picture.
Into this warp of
gray is woven a woof of green, spreading in
irregular patches
in all directions. It is made by the
chaparral, which is
composed of a variety of desert plants that
are native to the
soil and can live on very little water.
It
consists of live
oak, pinion, mesquite, desert willow,
greasewood, sage
brush, palmilla, maguey, yucca and cacti and is
mostly evergreen.
The admixture of
gray and green prevails throughout the year
except during the
summer rainy season, when, if the rains are
abundant, the gray
disappears almost entirely, and the young
grass springs up as
by magic, covering the whole country with a
carpet of living
green. In the midst of the billowy
grass
myriads of wild
flowers bloom, and stand single or shoulder to
shoulder in masses
of solid color by the acre.
Upon the far
mountains is seen the sombre brown in the bare
rocks. The whole region was at one time violently
disturbed by
seismic force and
the glow of its quenched fires has even yet
scarcely faded
away. Large masses of igneous rocks and
broad
streams of
vitrified lava bear mute testimony of the change,
when, by some
mighty subterranean force, the tumultuous sea was
rolled back from
its pristine bed and, in its stead, lofty
mountains lifted
their bald beads above the surrounding
desolation, and
stand to-day as they have stood in massive
grandeur ever since
the ancient days of their upheaval.
Rugged
and bleak they
tower high, or take the form of pillar, spire and
dome, in some
seemingly well-constructed edifice erected by the
hand of man. But the mountains are not all barren. Vast areas
of fertile soil
flank the bare rocks where vegetation has taken
root, and large
fields of forage and extensive forests of oak
and pine add value
and beauty to the land.
The atmosphere is a
striking feature of the country that is as
pleasing to the eye
as it is invigorating to the body. Over
all the landscape
hangs a veil of soft, purple haze that is
bewitching. It gives to the scene a mysterious, subtle
something that is
exquisite and holds the senses in a magic spell
of enchantment.
Distance also is deceptive
and cannot be estimated as under other
skies. The far-off mountains are brought near and
made to glow
in a halo of mellow
light. Manifold ocular illusions appear
in
the mirage and
deceive the uninitiated. An indefinable
dreamy
something steals over
the senses and enthralls the soul.
Arching heaven's
high dome is a sky of intense blue that looks so
wonderfully clear
and deep that even far-famed Italy cannot
surpass it. The nights are invariably clear and the moon
and
stars appear
unusually bright. The air is so pure
that the stars
seem to be advanced
in magnitude and can be seen quite low down
upon the horizon.
The changing lights
that flash in the sky transform both the
sunrise and sunset
into marvels of beauty. In the mellow
afterglow of the
sunset, on the western sky, stream long banners
of light, and
fleecy clouds of gold melt away and fade in the
twilight.
At midday in the
hazy distance, moving slowly down the valley,
can be seen spiral
columns of dust that resemble pillars of
smoke. They ascend perpendicularly, incline like
Pisa's leaning
tower, or are beat
at various angles, but always retaining the
columnar form. They rise to great heights and vanish in
space.
These spectral
forms are caused by small local whirlwinds when
the air is
otherwise calm, and are, apparently, without purpose,
unless they are
intended merely to amuse the casual observer.
A cloudy day is
rare and does not necessarily signify rain.
Usually the clouds
are of the cumulus variety and roll leisurely
by in billowy
masses. Being in a droughty land the
clouds always
attract attention
viewed either from an artistic or utilitarian
standpoint. When out on parade they float lazily across
the sky,
casting their
moving shadows below. The figures
resemble a
mammoth pattern of
crazy patchwork in a state of evolution spread
out for inspection.
The impression that
is made while looking out upon such a scene
is that of deep
silence. Everything is hushed and still;
but, by
listening
attentively, the number of faint sounds that reach the
ear in an undertone
is surprising. The soft soughing of the
wind
in the trees; the
gentle rustle of the grass as it is swayed by
the passing breeze;
the musical ripple of water as it gurgles
from the spring;
the piping of the quail as it calls to its mate;
the twitter of
little birds flitting from bush to bough; the
chirp of the
cricket and drone of the beetle are among the sounds
that are heard and
fall soothingly upon the ear.
The trees growing
upon the hillside bear a striking resemblance
to an old orchard
and are a reminder of home where in childhood
the hand delighted
to pluck luscious fruit from drooping boughs.
A walk among the
trees makes it easy to imagine that you are in
some such familiar
but neglected haunt, and instinctively you
look about
expecting to see the old house that was once called
home and hear the
welcome voice and footfall of cherished memory.
It is no little
disappointment to be roused from such a reverie
to find the
resemblance only a delusion and the spot deserted.
Forsaken as it has
been for many years by the native savage
Indians and
prowling wild beasts, the land waits in silence and
patience the coming
of the husbandman.
CHAPTER II
MY FIRST TRIP TO
ARIZONA
I recall with vivid
distinctness my first trip to Arizona and
introduction to
ranch life in the spring of 1884. The
experience
made a deep
impression and has led me to repeat the visit many
times since then,
with increased interest and pleasure.
During the previous
year my brother located a cattle ranch for us
in Railroad Pass in
southeastern Arizona. The gap is one of
a
series of natural
depressions in a succession of mountain chains
on the
thirty-second parallel route, all the way from New Orleans
to San Francisco
over a distance of nearly twenty-five hundred
miles. The Southern Pacific Railroad is built upon
this route
and has the easiest
grade of any transcontinental line.
Railroad Pass is a
wide break between two mountain ranges and is
a fine grazing
section. It is handsomely bounded and
presents a
magnificent
view. To the north are the Pinaleno
mountains, with
towering Mt. Graham
in their midst, that are nearly eleven
thousand feet high
and lie dark in the shadows of their dense
pine forests. Far to the south rise the rugged Chiricahuas,
and
nearby stands bald
Dos Cabezas, whose giant double head of
granite can be seen
as a conspicuous landmark over a wide scope
of country. The distance across the Pass as the crow
flies is,
perhaps, fifty miles. Beyond these peaks other mountains rise in
majestic grandeur
and bound the horizon in every direction.
At the time that
the ranch was located the Pass country was
considered
uninhabitable because of the scarcity of water and the
presence of hostile
Indians. No permanent spring nor stream
of
water was known to
exist in that whole region, but fine gramma
grass grew
everywhere. Its suitability as a cattle
range was
recognized and
caused it to be thoroughly prospected for water,
which resulted in
the discovery of several hidden springs.
All
of the springs
found, but one, were insignificant and either soon
went dry or
fluctuated with the seasons; but the big spring,
known as Pinaleno,
was worth finding, and flows a constant stream
of pure, soft water
that fills a four-inch iron pipe.
When the spring was
discovered not a drop of water was visible
upon the surface,
and a patch of willows was the only indication
of concealed
moisture. By sinking a shallow well only
a few feet
deep among the
willows, water was struck as it flowed through
coarse gravel over
a buried ledge of rock that forced the water
up nearly to the
surface only to sink again in the sand without
being seen. A ditch was dug to the well from below and an
iron
pipe laid in the
trench, through which the water is conducted
into a reservoir
that supplies the water troughs.
Again, when the
ranch was opened the Indians were bad in the
vicinity and had
been actively hostile for some time. The
ranch
is on a part of the
old Chiricahua reservation that was once the
home and hunting
grounds of the tribe of Chiricahua Apaches, the
most bold and
warlike of all the southwest Indians.
Cochise was
their greatest
warrior, but he was only one among many able
Apache
chieftains. He was at one time the
friend of the white
man, but treachery
aroused his hatred and caused him to seek
revenge on every
white man that crossed his path.
His favorite haunt
was Apache Pass, a convenient spot that was
favorable for
concealment, where he lay in wait for weary
travelers who
passed that way in search of water and a pleasant
camp ground. If attacked by a superior force, as sometimes
happened, he
invariably retreated across the Sulphur Spring
valley into his
stronghold in the Dragoon mountains.
Because of the many
atrocities that were committed by the
Indians, white men
were afraid to go into that country to settle.
Even as late as in
the early eighties when that prince of
rascals, the wily
Geronimo, made his bloody raids through
southern Arizona,
the men who did venture in and located ranch
and mining claims,
lived in daily peril of their lives which, in
not a few
instances, were paid as a forfeit to their daring.
The Butterfield
stage and all other overland travel to California
by the southern
route before the railroads were built, went
through Apache
Pass. Although it was the worst Indian
infested
section in the
southwest, travelers chose that dangerous route in
preference to any
other for the sake of the water that they knew
could always be
found there.
The reputation of
Apache Pass, finally became so notoriously
bad because of the
many murders committed that the Government,
late in the
sixties, built and garrisoned Ft. Bowie for the
protection of
travelers and settlers. The troops
stationed at
the post endured
much hardship and fought many bloody battles
before the Indians
were conquered. Many soldiers were
killed and
buried in a little
graveyard near the fort. When the fort
was
abandoned a few
years ago, their bodies were disinterred and
removed to the
National cemetery at Washington.
Railroad Pass is
naturally a better wagon road than Apache Pass,
but is without
water. It was named by Lieut. J. G.
Parke in 1855
while engaged in
surveying for the Pacific Railroad, because of
its easy grade and
facility for railroad construction.
I timed my visit to
correspond with the arrival at Bowie station
on the Southern
Pacific Railroad, of a consignment of ranch goods
that had been
shipped from St. Louis. I was met at the
depot by
the ranch force,
who immediately proceeded to initiate me as a
tenderfoot. I inquired of one of the cowboys how far it
was to a
near-by
mountain. He gave a quien sabe shrug of
the shoulder and
answered me in
Yankee fashion by asking how far I thought it was.
Estimating the
distance as in a prairie country I replied, "Oh,
about a
mile." He laughed and said that the
mountain was fully
five miles distant
by actual measurement. I had unwittingly
taken my first
lesson in plainscraft and prudently refrained
thereafter from
making another sure guess.
The deception was
due to the rarefied atmosphere, which is
peculiar to the
arid region. It not only deceives the
eye as to
distance, but also
as to motion. If the eye is steadily
fixed
upon some distant
inanimate object, it seems to move in the
tremulous light as
if possessed of life, and it is not always
easy to be
convinced to the contrary. However, by
putting the
object under
inspection in line with some further object, it can
readily be
determined whether the object is animate or still by
its remaining on or
moving off the line.
Another peculiarity
of the country is that objects do not always
seem to stand
square with the world. In approaching a
mountain
and moving on an up
grade the plane of incline is suddenly
reversed and gives
the appearance and sensation of going
downhill. In some inexplicable manner sense and reason
seem to
conflict and the
discovery of the disturbed relation of things is
startling. You know very well that the mountain ahead is
above
you, but it has the
appearance of standing below you in a hollow;
and the water in
the brook at your feet, which runs down the
mountain into the
valley, seems to be running uphill. By
turning
squarely about and
looking backwards, the misplaced objects
become righted, and
produces much the same sensation that a man
feels who is lost
and suddenly finds himself again.
We immediately
prepared to drive out to the ranch, which was ten
miles distant and
reached by a road that skirted the Dos Cabezas
mountains. The new wagon was set up and put in running
order and
lightly loaded with
supplies. All of the preliminaries being
completed, the
horses were harnessed and hooked to the wagon.
The driver mounted
his seat, drew rein and cracked his whip, but
we didn't go. The horses were only accustomed to the saddle
and
knew nothing about
pulling in harness. Sam was a condemned
cavalry horse and
Box was a native bronco, and being hitched to a
wagon was a new
experience to both. The start was
unpropitious,
but, acting on the
old adage that "necessity is the mother of
invention,"
which truth is nowhere better exemplified than on the
frontier where
conveniences are few and the most must be made of
everything, after
some delay and considerable maneuvering we
finally got started.
The road for some
distance out was level and smooth and our
progress
satisfactory. As we drove leisurely
along I improved
the opportunity to
look about and see the sights. It was a
perfect day in
April and there never was a brighter sky nor
balmier air than
beamed and breathed upon us. The air was
soft
and tremulous with
a magical light that produced startling
phantasmagoric
effects.
It was my first
sight of a mirage and it naturally excited my
curiosity. It seemed as if a forest had suddenly sprung
up
in the San Simon
valley where just before had appeared only bare
ground. With every change in the angle of vision as
we journeyed
on, there occurred
a corresponding change in the scene before us
that produced a
charming kaleidoscopic effect. The rough
mountain was
transformed into a symmetrical city and the dry
valley into a lake
of sparkling water,--all seeming to be the
work of magic in
some fairyland of enchantment.
In a ledge of
granite rock by the wayside were cut a number of
round holes which
the Indians had made and used as mills for
grinding their corn
and seeds into meal. Nearby also, were
some
mescal pits used
for baking the agave, a native plant that is in
great demand as
food by the Indians. The spot was
evidently an
old rendezvous
where the marauding Apaches were accustomed to
meet in council to
plan their bloody raids, and to feast on
mescal and pinole
in honor of some successful foray or victory
over an enemy.
We next crossed
several well-worn Indian trails which the Apaches
had made by many
years of travel to and fro between their
rancherias in the
Mogollon mountains and Mexico. The sight
of
these trails
brought us back to real life and a conscious sense
of danger, for were
we not in an enemy's country and in the midst
of hostile
Indians? Nearly every mile of road
traveled had been
at some time in the
past the scene of a bloody tragedy enacted by
a savage foe. Even at that very time the Apaches were out
on the
warpath murdering
people, but fortunately we did not meet them
and escaped
unmolested.
The road now
crossed a low hill, which was the signal for more
trouble. The team started bravely up the incline, but
soon
stopped and then
balked and all urging with whip and voice failed
to make any
impression. After several ineffectual
attempts to
proceed it was
decided not to waste any more time in futile
efforts. The horses were unhitched and the wagon
partly
unloaded, when all
hands by a united pull and push succeeded in
getting the wagon
up the hill. After reloading no
difficulty was
experienced in
making a fresh start on a down grade, but a little
farther on a second
and larger hill was encountered, when the
failure to scale
its summit was even greater than the first.
No
amount of coaxing
or urging budged the horses an inch.
They
simply were
stubborn and would not pull.
Night was
approaching and camp was yet some distance ahead. The
driver suggested
that the best thing to do under the
circumstances was
for the rest of us to take the led horses and
ride on to camp,
while he would remain with the wagon and, if
necessary, camp out
all night. We reluctantly took his
advice,
mounted our horses
and finished our journey in the twilight.
Aaron, who was
housekeeper at the ranch, gave us a hearty welcome
and invited us to
sit down to a bountiful supper which he had
prepared in
anticipation of our coming. Feeling
weary after our
ride we retired
early and were soon sound asleep. The
only
thing that
disturbed our slumbers during the night was a coyote
concert which, as a
"concord of sweet sounds was a dismal
failure" but
as a medley of discordant sounds was a decided
success. The bark of the coyote is particularly shrill
and sharp
and a single coyote
when in full cry sounds like a chorus of
howling curs.
We were all up and
out early the next morning to witness the
birth of a new
day. The sunrise was glorious, and
bright
colors in many hues
flashed across the sky. The valley echoed
with the cheerful
notes of the mocking bird and the soft air was
filled with the
fragrance of wild flowers. The scene was
grandly
inspiring and sent
a thrill of pleasure through every nerve.
While thus absorbed
by the beauties of nature we heard an halloo,
and looking down
the road in the direction of the driver's
bivouac we saw him
coming swinging his hat in the air and driving
at a rapid pace
that soon brought him to the ranch house.
In
answer to our
inquiries as to how he had spent the night he
reported that the
horses stood quietly in their tracks all night
long, while he
slept comfortably in the wagon. In the
morning
the horses started
without undue urging as if tired of
inaction
and glad to go in
the direction of provender. They were
completely broken
by their fast and after that gave no further
trouble.
After a stay of
four weeks, learning something of the ways of
ranch life and
experiencing not a few exciting adventures,
I returned home
feeling well pleased with my first trip to the
ranch.
CHAPTER III
THE OPEN RANGE
Arizona is in the
arid belt and well adapted to the range cattle
industry. Its mild climate and limited water supply
make it the
ideal range
country. Indeed, to the single factor of
its limited
water supply,
perhaps, more than anything else is its value due
as an open
range. If water was abundant there could
be no open
range as then the
land would all be farmed and fenced.
Arizona is
sometimes spoken of as belonging to the plains, but it
is not a prairie
country. Mountains are everywhere, but
are
separated in many
places by wide valleys. The mountains
not only
make fine scenery,
but are natural boundaries for the ranches and
give shade and
shelter to the cattle.
There are no severe
storms nor blizzard swept plains where cattle
drift and perish
from cold. The weather is never
extremely cold,
the mercury seldom
falling to more than a few degrees below
freezing, except
upon the high plateaus and mountains of northern
Arizona. If it freezes during the night the frost
usually
disappears the next
day; and, if snow flies, it lies only on the
mountains, but
melts as fast as it falls in the valleys.
There
are but few cloudy
or stormy days in the year and bright, warm
sunshine generally
prevails. There has never been any loss
of
cattle from cold,
but many have died from drought as a result of
overstocking the
range.
The pastures
consist of valley, mesa and mountain lands which, in
a normal season,
are covered by a variety of nutritious grasses.
Of all the native
forage plants the gramma grass is the most
abundant and
best. It grows only in the summer rainy
season
when, if the rains
are copious, the gray desert is converted into
a vast green
meadow.
The annual rainfall
is comparatively light and insufficient to
grow and mature
with certainty any of the cereal crops.
When the
summer rains begin
to fall the rancher is "jubilant" and the "old
cow
smiles." Rain means even more to
the ranchman than it does
to the farmer. In an agricultural country it is expected
that
rain or snow will
fall during every month of the year, but on the
range rain is
expected only in certain months and, if it fails to
fall then, it means
failure, in a measure, for the entire year.
Rain is very
uncertain in Arizona. July and August
are the rain
months during which
time the gramma grass grows. Unless the
rain
falls daily after
it begins it does but little good, as frequent
showers are
required to keep the grass growing after it once
starts. A settled rain of one or more days' duration
is of rare
occurrence. During the rainy season and, in fact, at all
times,
the mornings are
usually clear. In the forenoon the
clouds begin
to gather and pile
up in dark billowy masses that end in showers
during the
afternoon and evening. But not every
rain cloud
brings rain. Clouds of this character often look very
threatening, but
all their display of thunder and lightning is
only bluff and
bluster and ends in a fizzle with no rain.
After
such a
demonstration the clouds either bring wind and a
disagreeable dust
storm, or, if a little rain starts to fall, the
air is so dry that
it evaporates in mid air, and none of it ever
reaches the
earth. In this fashion the clouds often
threaten to
do great things,
only to break their promise; and the anxious
rancher stands and
gazes at the sky with longing eyes, only to be
disappointed again
and again.
As a rule water is
scarce. A long procession of cloudless
days
merge into weeks of
dry weather; and the weeks glide into months
during which time
the brazen sky refuses to yield one drop of
moisture either of
dew or rain to the parched and thirsty earth.
Even the rainy
season is not altogether reliable, but varies
considerably one
year with another in the time of its appearance
and continuance.
The soil is sandy
and porous and readily absorbs water, except
where the earth is
tramped and packed hard by the cattle. One
peculiarity of the
country as found marked upon the maps, and
that exists in
fact, is the diminution and often complete
disappearance of a
stream after it leaves the mountains. If
not
wholly lost upon
entering the valley the water soon sinks out of
sight in the sand
and disappears and reappears at irregular
intervals, until it
loses itself entirely in some underground
channel and is seen
no more.
Many a pleasant
valley in the range country is made desolate by
being destitute of
any surface spring or running brook, or water
that can be found
at any depth. Occasionally a hidden
fountain
is struck by
digging, but it is only by the merest chance.
Wells
have been dug to
great depths in perfectly dry ground in an eager
search for water
without finding it, and such an experience is
usually equivalent
to a failure and the making of a useless bill
of expense.
A never-failing
spring of good water in sufficient quantity to
supply the needs of
a ranch in the range country is of rare
occurrence,
considering the large territory to be supplied.
Only
here and there at
long intervals is such a spring found, and it
is always a
desirable and valuable property. It
makes an oasis
in the desert that
is an agreeable change from the surrounding
barrenness, and
furnishes its owner, if properly utilized, a
comfortable
subsistence for himself and herds. His
fields
produce without
fail and the increase of his flocks and herds is
sure.
The isolated
rancher who is well located is independent.
He is
in no danger of
being crowded by his neighbors nor his range
becoming over
stocked with stray cattle. His water right
gives
him undisputed
control of the adjacent range, even though he does
not own all the
land, which is an unwritten law of the range and
respected by all
cattlemen.
Because of the
scarcity of water the range country is sparsely
settled and always
will be until more water is provided by
artificial means
for irrigation. Even then a large
portion of
the land will be
worthless for any other purpose than grazing,
and stock-growing
on the open range in Arizona will continue to
be a staple
industry in the future as it has been in the past.
The range is
practically all occupied and, in many places, is
already over
stocked. Where more cattle are run on a
range than
its grass and water
can support there is bound to be some loss.
In stocking a range
an estimate should be made of its carrying
capacity in a bad
year rather than in a good one, as no range can
safely carry more
cattle than it can support in the poorest year;
like a chain, it is
no stronger than its weakest link.
A good range is
sometimes destroyed by the prairie dog.
Wherever
he establishes a
colony the grass soon disappears. He
burrows in
the ground and a
group of such holes is called a dog town.
Like
the jack-rabbit he
can live without water and is thus able to
keep his hold on
the desert. The only way to get rid of
him is
to kill him, which
is usually done by the wholesale with poison.
His flesh is fine
eating, which the Navajo knows if the white man
does not. The Navajo considers him a dainty morsel
which is
particularly
relished by the sick. If a patient can
afford the
price, he can
usually procure a prairie dog in exchange for two
sheep.
The Navajo is an
adept at capturing this little animal.
The
hunter places a
small looking-glass near the hole and, in
concealment near
by, he patiently awaits developments.
When the prairie
dog comes out of his hole to take an airing
he immediately sees
his reflection in the glass and takes it
for an intruder. In
an instant he is ready for a fight and
pounces upon his
supposed enemy to kill or drive him away.
While the prairie
dog is thus engaged wrestling with his
shadow or
reflection the hunter shoots him at close range with
his bow and
arrow--never with a gun, for if wounded by a
bullet he is sure
to drop into his hole and is lost, but the
arrow transfixes
his body and prevents him from getting away.
He has been hunted
so much in the Navajo country that he has
become very
scarce.[1]
[1] This statement
is made on the authority of Mr. F. W. Volz,
who lives at Canon
Diablo, and is familiar with the customs of
the Navajos.
Much of the ranch
country in southern Arizona is destitute of
trees, and shade,
therefore, is scarce. Upon the high
mountains
and plateaus of
northern Arizona there are great forests of pine
and plenty of
shade. But few cattle range there in
comparison to
the large numbers
that graze on the lower levels further south.
What little tree
growth there is on the desert is stunted and
supplies but scant
shade. In the canons some large cottonwood,
sycamore and walnut
trees can be found; upon the foot hills the
live oak and still
higher up the mountain the pine. Cattle
always seek the
shade and if there are no trees they will lie
down in the shade
of a bush or anything that casts a shadow.
The
cattle are so eager
for shade that if they can find nothing
better they will
crowd into the narrow ribbon of shade that is
cast by a columnar
cactus or telegraph pole and seem to be
satisfied with ever
so little if only shade is touched.
Twenty years ago
before there were many cattle on the
southwestern range,
the gramma grass stood knee high everywhere
all over that
country and seemed to be an inexhaustible supply of
feed for an
unlimited number of cattle during an indefinite term
of years. It was not many years, however, after the
large herds
were turned loose
on the range until the grass was all gone and
the ground, except
in a few favored spots, left nearly as bare of
grass as the
traveled road. At the present time
whatever grass
there is must grow
each year which, even in a favorable year, is
never heavy. If the summer rains fail, no grass whatever
can
grow and the cattle
are without feed. The grass about the
springs and water
holes is first to disappear and then the cattle
must go farther and
farther from water to find any grass.
When
cattle are
compelled to travel over long distances in going from
grass to water,
they naturally grow thin from insufficient food
and are worn out by
the repeated long journeys. A cow that
is
thin and weak will
postpone making the trip as long as possible--
two, three and even
four days in the hottest weather she will
wait before
attempting the trip. At last, when the
poor creature
reaches water, she
is so famished from thirst that she drinks too
much. In her feeble condition she is unable to
carry the
enormous load of
water which she drinks and lies down by the side
of the friendly
water trough to die from exhaustion.
If cattle are
turned loose upon a new range they act strange and
are inclined to scatter. Until they become accustomed to the
change they should
be close herded, but after they are once
located they are
not liable to stray very far.
As they are only
worked by men on horseback they are not
frightened at the
sight of a horse and rider; but let a stranger
approach them on
foot, in a moment after he is sighted every head
is raised in
surprise and alarm and the pedestrian is, indeed,
fortunate if the
herd turns tail and scampers off instead of
running him down
and tramping him under foot in a wild stampede.
Nowhere else can be
found a finer sight than is witnessed in the
range country. In every direction broad meadows stretch away
to
the horizon where
numberless cattle roam and are the embodiment
of bovine happiness
and contentment. Scattered about in
irregular groups
they are seen at ease lying down or feeding, and
frisking about in
an overflow of exuberant life. Cow paths
or
trails converge
from every point of the compass, that lead to
springs and water
holes, on which the cattle travel.
It is an
interesting sight to watch the cattle maneuver as they
form in line,
single file, ready for the march. They
move
forward in an easy,
deliberate walk one behind the other and may
be seen coming and going
in every direction. They make their
trips with great
regularity back and forth from grass to water,
and vice versa,
going to water in the morning and back to the
feeding grounds at
night.
Cows have a curious
fashion, sometimes, of hiding out their
calves. When a cow with a young calf starts for water
she
invariably hides
her calf in a bunch of grass or clump of bushes
in some secluded
spot, where it lies down and remains perfectly
quiet until the
mother returns. I have many times while
riding
the range found
calves thus secreted that could scarcely be
aroused or
frightened away, which behavior was so different from
their usual habit
of being shy and running off at the slightest
provocation. The calf under such circumstances seems to
understand that it
is "not at home," and cannot be seen.
At another time a
lot of calves are left in charge of a young cow
or heifer that
seems to understand her responsibility and guards
her charge
carefully. The young calves are too weak
to make the
long trip to water
and thus, through the maternal instinct of the
mother cow, she
provides for the care of her offspring almost as
if she were human.
After viewing such
a large pasture as the open range presents,
which is limitless
in extent, the small fenced field or pasture
lot of a few acres
on the old home farm back east, that looked so
large to boyish
eyes in years gone by, dwindles by comparison
into insignificance
and can never again be restored to its former
greatness.
CHAPTER IV
RANCH LIFE
Ranch life on the
open range may be somewhat wild and lonely, but
it is as free and
independent to the rancher as it is to his
unfettered cattle
that roam at will over a thousand hills.
As a
place of residence
for a family of women and children it is
undesirable because
of its isolation and lack of social and
educational
privileges; but for a man who cares to
"rough it" it
has a rare
fascination. Its freedom may mean
lonesomeness and
its independence
monotony, yet it is very enjoyable for a season.
Like anything else
it may become wearing and wearisome if
continued too long
without a change, but its novelty has a charm
that is
irresistible.
Ranch life is
untrammeled by social conventionalities and is not
burdened by
business cares, but is an easy, natural life that is
free from all kinds
of pressure. It relieves the tension of
an
artificial
existence, and worry and vexation are forgotten. Time
loses its rapid
flight and once more jogs on at an easy pace; and
its complete
isolation and quiet gives nature a chance to rest
and recuperate
"Away from the dwellings of
careworn men."
The environment of
ranch life is highly conducive to good health.
The scenery is
delightful, the air pure and bracing, the food
wholesome and
nutritious, the couch comfortable and the sleep
refreshing. Walking and riding furnish the necessary
exercise
that nature
demands. Indeed, there is no better
exercise to be
found than riding
horseback to stimulate sluggish organs, or
excite to healthy
action the bodily functions. It stirs
the
liver, causes deep
breathing, strengthens the heart and
circulation, tones
the nerves and makes an appetite that waits on
good
digestion. An outdoor life is often
better than medicine
and is a panacea
for the "ills that human flesh is heir to."
The ranchman, if he
is in tune with his surroundings, finds a
never-failing
spring of pleasure. If he is company for
himself
he is well
entertained and if he is a lover of nature he finds
interesting
subjects for study upon every hand. His
wants are
few and simple and
the free life that he lives develops in him a
strong and sturdy
manhood. He is the picture of health and
is
happy and contented
as the day is long.
However, such a
life does not suit everyone, as individual tastes
differ. Prejudice also exerts an influence and is apt
to
estimate all
western life as crude and undesirable, being in a
transition state of
change from savagery to civilization. Be
it
even so; for, if
the savage had never existed to furnish the
ancestry that
civilized man boasts, civilization would not have
been possible. It is only natural that this should be so as,
in
the order of
nature, evolution begins at the bottom and works up.
There is perhaps no
condition in life that can be called perfect,
yet of the two
extremes we choose to believe that civilization is
preferable to
barbarism; but an intermediate state has the
advantage over both
extremes by avoiding native crudeness upon
the one hand and
excessive refinement upon the other, both being
equally
undesirable.
Happiness, which we
all profess to seek, exists in some degree
everywhere but we
are always striving to acquire something more.
In our constant
struggle for improvement, progress undoubtedly is
made in the right
direction. With refinement comes
increased
sensibility and an
enlarged capacity for enjoyment. But,
such a
state in itself is
not one of unalloyed bliss, as might be
supposed, since it
is marred by its antithesis, an increased
amount of sickness
and suffering, which is the inevitable penalty
of
civilization. In such a progression the
pleasures of life
become more, but
the acuteness of suffering is also increased.
The mistake lies in
the fact that in our eager pursuit after the
artificial we
forget nature and not until we acquire a surfeit of
that which is
artificial and grow weary of the shams and deceits
of the world do we
stop and think or turn again to nature to find
the truth.
In the early days
the frontier was the rendezvous for rough and
lawless characters
of every description. That time has gone
by
never to return in
the history of the nation, as the rustlers
have either
reformed and become good citizens or long ago left
the country by the
lead or hemp routes. The change in the times
has been such that
never again will it be possible to return to
the conditions that
existed in the early settlement of the west
which gave to
desperadoes a safe hiding place.
The people now
living on what is left of the frontier will, as a
class, compare
favorably with those of any other community.
There may be small
surface polish, as the world goes, but there
is much genuine
gold of true character that needs only a little
rubbing to make it
shine.
The population
being sparse there is comparatively little
opportunity or
inclination for wrongdoing. Whatever
anybody does
is noticed at once
and everything that happens is immediately
found out. The favorite haunt of vice and crime is not
in a
sparsely settled
community, public opinion to the contrary
notwithstanding,
but in the centers of population, in, our large
cities where
temptation to do evil is strong and dark deeds find
ready concealment
in the mingling and confusion of the throng.
The ranchman
deserves to be correctly judged by his true
character and not
by any false standard that is artfully designed
to misrepresent him
or to unjustly bring him into contempt.
He
may have a rough
exterior, not intending to pose in a model
fashion plate, but
in real life where he is tried there is found
under his coarse
garb a heart that is honest and true which
responds with
sympathy and kindness for anyone in distress; and
his generosity and
hospitality are proverbial and stand without a
rival. Men from every position in life, including
college
graduates and
professional men, are engaged in ranching and
whoever takes them
to be a lot of toughs and ignoramuses is
egregiously
mistaken.
The strength,
virtue and intelligence of the nation is found in
its large middle
class of laboring people that is largely
composed of farmers
and mechanics, men who work with their hands
and live natural
lives and are so busy in some useful occupation
that they have no
time to think of mischief. In this
favored
land of freedom all
of our great men have been of the common
people and
struggled up from some humble position.
A life of
toil may seem to be
hard, but it conforms to nature and natural
laws and favors the
development of the best that is in man; and
he who shirks toil
misses his opportunity. Whatever tends
to
wean men from work
only weakens them. Luxury and indolence
travel on the
downward road of degeneracy. They may
make
pleasant temporary
indulgence, but are fatal to ultimate success.
Locomotion on a
ranch consists almost entirely of horseback
riding as walking
is too slow and tiresome and wheeled conveyance
is often
inconvenient or impossible for cross-country driving.
When the ranchman
mounts his horse in the morning to make his
daily rounds he has
a clear field before him. He is
"monarch of
all he
surveys" and practically owns the earth, since his
neighbors live many
miles away and his road leads in any
direction clear to
the horizon.
The average ranch
is not intended to furnish luxuries, but to
serve the best
interests of the business in hand, that of growing
cattle. It is usually a "stag camp"
composed entirely of men who
occupy a rude cabin
near some convenient spring or stream of
water, where they
keep house in ranch style and live after a
fashion. No money is ever expended in unnecessary
improvements,
but every dollar
spent in repairs is put where it will do the
most good. The house furnishings are all of the plainest
kind
and intended to
meet only present necessities. The
larder is not
supplied with
luxuries nor is the cuisine prolific of dainties,
but there is always
on hand a supply of the necessaries of life.
Every man has his
particular work to perform, but unless it be on
some large ranch
where the force of men employed is sufficiently
large to require
the services of a chef, he is also expected to
assist in keeping
house. It is an unwritten law of the
ranch
that everybody on
the place must share in this work and if anyone
shirks his duty he
must either promptly mend his ways or else
quit his job. It is seldom, however, that this rule has to
be
enforced, as the
necessities of the case require that every man
shall be able to
prepare a meal as he is liable to be left alone
for days or weeks
at a time when he must either cook or starve.
The equipment of
the cowboy is his horse and reata. They
are his
constant companions
and serve his every purpose. His work
includes much hard
riding, which he greatly enjoys if no accident
befalls him. But dashing on in heedless speed while
rounding up
cattle he is ever
liable to mishaps, as his horse, although sure
footed, may at any
time step into a prairie dogs' hole or stumble
on a loose rock
that is liable to throw both horse and rider to
the ground in a
heap. He is, indeed, fortunate if he
escapes
unhurt, or only
receives a few bruises and not a fractured bone
or broken neck.
His work consists
in riding over the range and marking the
condition of the
cattle; line riding to prevent the stock from
straying; looking
after the springs and water holes and keeping
them clean;
branding calves, gathering steers for market and
assisting in the
general work of the round-up. Every day
has its
duty and every
season its particular work, yet there are times of
considerable
leisure during the year. After his day's
work is
done he repairs to
the ranch house, or to some outlying camp,
whichever happens
to be nearest when night overtakes him, for
every large ranch
has one or more such camps posted at some
convenient point
that furnishes temporary shelter and
refreshment, where
he rests and eats his frugal meal with a
relish that only
health and rough riding can give.
If he is at the
home ranch in winter he spends the long evenings
before an open
hearth fire of blazing logs and by the light of
the fire and the
doubtful aid of a tallow dip lounges the hours
away in reading and
cogitation; or, if in the company of
congenial
companions, engages in conversation and pleasantry or
any amusement that
the party may select. At an early hour
he
turns in for the
night and after a sound and refreshing sleep is
up and out with the
dawn. After breakfast he mounts his
horse
and in his striking
and characteristic costume of broad sombrero,
blue flannel shirt,
fringed chaperejos and jingling spurs he
rides forth to his
work a perfect type of the gallant caballero.
CHAPTER V
THE ROUND-UP
In the range cattle
business it is important for every owner of
live stock to have
some mark by which he can tell his own cattle.
It is impossible
for any man to remember and recognize by natural
marks every animal
in a large herd. On the open range there
are
no fenced pastures
to hold the cattle, but all are permitted to
run free and mix
promiscuously. To distinguish the cattle
of
different owners a
system of earmarks and brands has been devised
by which each
ranchman can identify and claim his own stock.
The branding is
usually done during a round-up when every calf
found is caught and
branded in the brand of its mother. If a
calf remains
unbranded until after it is weaned and quits its
mother, it becomes
a maverick and is liable to be lost to its
owner. A calf, if left to itself, will follow its
mother for
several months and
then leave her to seek its own living.
Occasionally a calf
does not become weaned when it should be, but
continues the baby
habit indefinitely. If a yearling is
found
unweaned it is
caught and "blabbed" which is done by fitting a
peculiarly shaped
piece of wood into its nose that prevents it
from sucking but
does not interfere with feeding.
If a calf loses its
mother while very young it is called a
"leppy." Such an orphan calf is, indeed, a forlorn and
forsaken
little
creature. Having no one to care for it,
it has a hard
time to make a
living. If it is smart enough to share
the lacteal
ration of some more
fortunate calf it does very well, but if it
cannot do so and
has to depend entirely on grazing for a living
its life becomes
precarious and is apt to be sacrificed in the
"struggle for
the survival of the fittest."
If it survives the
ordeal and lives it bears the same relation to
the herd as the
maverick and has no lawful owner until it is
branded. If an unbranded calf has left or lost its mother
it has
lost its identity
as well and finds it again only after being
branded, although
it may have swapped owners in the process.
Theoretically, a
maverick belongs to the owner of the range on
which it runs, but,
practically, it becomes the property of the
man who first finds
and brands it.
Although the
branding is supposed to be done only during a
round-up there is
nevertheless some branding done in every month
of the year. The ranchman is compelled to do so to save
his
calves from being
stolen. Therefore early branding is
generally
practiced as it has
been found to be the best safeguard against
theft. Either the spring or fall is considered a
good time to
brand, but the only
best time to brand a calf is when you find
it.
Dishonest men are
found in the cattle business the same as in
other occupations
and every year a large number of cattle are
misappropriated and
stolen from the range. Cattle have been
stolen by the
wholesale and large herds run off and illegally
sold before the
owner discovered his loss. Calf
stealing,
however, happens
more frequently than the stealing of grown
cattle and many
ingenious devices have been invented to make such
stealing a
success. A common practice is to "sleeper"
a calf by
a partial earmark
and a shallow brand that only singes the hair
but does not burn
deep enough to leave a permanent scar.
If the
calf is not
discovered as an imperfect or irregular brand and
becomes a maverick,
it is kept under surveillance by the thief
until he considers
it safe to finish the job when he catches it
again and brands it
with his own iron.
Different methods
are employed to win a calf and fit it for
unlawful
branding. Sometimes the calf is caught
and staked out
in some secluded
spot where it is not liable to be found and away
from its mother
until it is nearly starved when it is branded by
the thief and
turned loose; or, the calf's tongue is split so
that it cannot suck
and by the time that the wounded tongue has
healed the calf has
lost its mother, and the thief brands it for
himself. Again, the mother cow is shot and killed,
when the
orphan calf is
branded in perfect safety as "the dead tell no
tales."
The owner of cattle
on the open range must be constantly on his
guard against
losses by theft. Usually the thief is a
dishonest
neighbor or one of
his own cowboys who becomes thrifty at his
employer's
expense. Many a herd of cattle was begun
without a
single cow, but was
started by branding surreptitiously other
people's
property. It is not an easy matter to
detect such a
thief or to convict
on evidence when he is arrested and brought
to trial. A cattle thief seldom works alone, but
associates
himself with others
of his kind who will perjure themselves to
swear each other
clear.
The cow ponies that
are used in range work are small but active
and possessed of
great power of endurance. They are the
descendants of the
horses that were brought into Mexico by the
Spaniards, some of
which escaped into the wilderness and their
increase became the
wild horses of the plains. They are
known by
the various names
of mustang, bronco and cayuse according to the
local vernacular of
the country in which they roam. They are
wild and hard to
conquer and are sometimes never fully broken
even under the
severest treatment. Bucking and pitching
are
their peculiar
tricks for throwing a rider and such an experience
invariably ends in
discomfort if not discomfiture, for if the
rider is not
unhorsed he at least receives a severe shaking up
in the saddle.
The native cattle,
like the horses, are small and wild, but are
hardy and make good
rustlers. The native stock has been
greatly
improved in recent
years by cross breeding with thoroughbred
Durham and Hereford
bulls. Grade cattle are better suited
for
the open range than
are pure bred animals, which are more tender
and fare better in
fenced pastures. By cross breeding the
quality of range
cattle has steadily improved until the scrub
element has been
almost bred out.
As a breeding
ground Arizona is unsurpassed, but for maturing
beef cattle the
northern country is preferable.
Thousands of
young cattle are
shipped out annually to stock the ranges of
Wyoming and Montana
and to fill the feed lots of Kansas, Missouri
and other feeding
states. A dash of native blood in range
cattle
is desirable as it
enables them to endure hardships without
injury and find
subsistence in seasons of drought and scant
forage.
The general
round-up occurs in the fall, just after the summer
rains, when there
is plenty of grass and the horses and cattle
are in good
condition. The ranchmen of a
neighborhood meet at an
appointed time and
place and organize for systematic work.
A
captain is chosen
who is in command of the round-up and must be
obeyed. Each cowboy has his own string of horses, but
all of the
horses of the
round-up not in use are turned out to graze and
herd together. A mess wagon and team of horses in charge of
a
driver, who is also
the cook, hauls the outfit of pots,
provisions and
bedding.
The round-up moves from ranch to ranch
rounding up and marking
the cattle as it
goes and is out from four to six weeks,
according to the
number of ranches that are included in the
circuit.
When camp is made
and everything ready for work the cowboys ride
out in different
directions and drive in all the cattle they can
find. After the cattle are all gathered the calves
are branded
and the cattle of
the several owners are cut into separate herds
and held until the
round-up is finished when they are driven
home.
Every unbranded
calf is caught and branded in its mother's brand.
In a mix-up of
cattle as occurs at a round-up, a calf sometimes
gets separated from
its mother so that when caught its identity
is uncertain. To avoid making a mistake the calf is only
slightly marked,
just enough to hurt it a little, and is then
turned loose. A calf when it is hurt is very much like a
child,
in that it cries
and wants its mamma. As quick as it is
let go
it immediately
hunts its mother and never fails to find her.
When cow and calf
have come together the calf is again caught and
the branding
finished.
The pain produced
by the hot branding iron makes the calf bawl
lustily and
struggle to free itself. The mother cow
sometimes
resents the
punishment of her offspring by charging and chasing
the men who are
doing the branding; or, if she is of a less fiery
disposition, shows
her displeasure by a look of reproach as much
as to say,
"You bad men, what have you done to hurt my little
darling?"
A peculiarity of
brands is that they do not all grow alike.
Sometimes a brand,
after it is healed, remains unchanged during
the life of the
animal. At other times it enlarges to several
times its original
size. Various reasons are assigned to
account
for this
difference. Some claim that the brand
only grows with
the calf; others
assert that it is due to deep branding; and,
again, it is
ascribed to lunar influence. But, as to
the real
cause of the
difference, no explanation has been given that
really explains the
phenomenon.
The cowboy's work
is nearly all done in the saddle and calls for
much hard
riding. He rides like a Centaur, but is
clumsy on his
feet. Being so much in the saddle his walking
muscles become
weakened, and his
legs pressing against the body of his horse, in
time, makes him
bowlegged. In addition he wears
high-heeled
Mexican boots which
throw him on his toes when he walks and makes
his already
shambling gait even more awkward.
A cowboy's life has
little in it to inspire him with high ideals
or arouse his
ambition to achieve greatness. He leads
a hard
life among rough
men and receives only coarse fare and rougher
treatment. His life is narrow and he works in a rut
that
prevents him from
taking a broad view of life. All that he
has
is his monthly
wages, and, possibly, a hope that at some future
day he may have a
herd of cattle of his own.
Managing a herd of
range cattle successfully is an art that can
only be acquired by
long practice, and it is surprising how
expert men can
become at that business. All the work
done among
cattle is on
horseback, which includes herding, driving, cutting
and roping. The trained cow pony seemingly knows as much
about a
round-up as his
master, and the two, together, form a combination
that is invincible
in a herd of wild cattle. The cow or
steer
that is selected to
be roped or cut out rarely escapes.
While
the horse is in hot
pursuit the rider dexterously whirls his
reata above his
head until, at a favorable moment, it leaves his
hand, uncoiling as
it flies through the air, and, if the throw is
successful, the
noose falls over the animal's head.
Suddenly the
horse comes to a
full stop and braces himself for the shock.
When the animal
caught reaches the end of the rope it is brought
to an abrupt halt
and tumbled in a heap on the ground. The
horse
stands braced
pulling on the rope which has been made fast to the
horn of the saddle
by a few skillful turns. The cowboy is
out of
the saddle and on
his feet in a jiffy. He grasps the
prostrate
animal by the tail
and a hind leg, throws it on its side, and
ties its four feet
together, so that it is helpless and ready for
branding or
inspection. The cowboys have tying
contests in which
a steer is
sometimes caught and tied in less time than a minute.
It is a comical
sight to see an unhorsed cowboy chase his runaway
horse on foot as he
is almost sure to do if caught in such a
predicament. He ought to know that he cannot outrun his
fleet
steed in such a
race, but seems to be impelled by some strange
impulse to make the
attempt. After he has run himself out of
breath he is liable
to realize the folly of his zeal and adopt a
more sensible method
for capturing his horse.
The cowboy who
works on the southwestern range has good cause to
fear the malodorous
hydrophobia skunk. At a round-up all of
the
cowboys sleep on
the ground. During the night, while they
are
asleep, the little
black and white cat-like animal forages
through the camp
for something to eat. Without
provocation the
skunk will attack
the sleeper and fasten its sharp teeth in some
exposed portion of
his anatomy, either the nose or a finger or
toe and will not
let go until it is killed or forcibly removed.
The wound thus made
usually heals quickly and the incident is,
perhaps, soon
forgotten; but after several weeks or months
hydrophobia
suddenly develops and proves fatal in a short time.
The only known cure
for the bite of the skunk is the Pasteur
treatment and,
since its discovery, as soon as anyone is bitten,
he is immediately
sent to the Pasteur Institute in Chicago for
treatment.
CHAPTER VI
RANCH HAPPENINGS
Ranch life is often
full of thrilling incidents and adventures.
The cowboy in his
travels about the country looking after cattle,
hunting wild game
or, in turn, being hunted by yet wilder
Indians, finds
plenty of novelty and excitement to break any
fancied monotony
which might be considered as belonging to ranch
life. In a number of visits to the range country
during the past
twenty years, the
writer has had an opportunity to observe life
on a ranch, and
experience some of its exciting adventures.
One day in the
summer of 1891, Dave Drew, our foreman, Tedrow,
one of the cowboys,
and myself, made a trip into East Canon in
the Dos Cabezas
mountains, in search of some large unbranded
calves which had
been seen running there. We rode
leisurely
along for some time
and passed several small bunches of cattle
without finding what
we were looking for. As we neared a bend
in
the canon, Dave,
who rode in advance, saw some cattle lying in
the shade of a
grove of live oak trees. Instantly he
spurred his
horse into a run
and chased after the cattle at full speed, at
the same time looking
back and shouting that he saw two mavericks
and for us to hurry
up and help catch them. It was a bad
piece
of ground to cover
and we found it difficult to make progress or
to even keep each
other in sight. Tedrow hurried up as
fast as
he could while I
brought up the rear.
In trying to get
through in the direction that Dave had gone, we
tried to make a
short cut in order to gain time, but soon found
our way completely
blocked by immense boulders and dense thickets
of cat-claw bushes,
which is a variety of mesquite covered with
strong, sharp,
curved thorns. We turned back to find a
better
road and after some
time spent in hunting an opening we
discovered a dim
trail which soon led us into a natural park of
level ground hidden
among the foothills. Here we found Dave
who
alone had caught
and tied down both the calves and was preparing
to start a fire to
heat the branding irons. What he had
done
seemed like magic
and was entirely incomprehensible to an
inexperienced
tenderfoot.
Dave explained
afterwards that to be successful in such a race
much depended on
taking the cattle by surprise, and then by a
quick, bold dash
start them running up the mountain, when it was
possible to
overtake and rope them; but if once started to
running down hill
it was not only unsafe to follow on horseback
but in any event
the cattle were certain to escape.
Taking them
by surprise seemed
to bewilder them and before they could collect
their scattered
senses, so to speak, and scamper off, the work of
capture was done.
Another adventure,
which did not end so fortunately for met
happened in the
fall of I 887 when the country was yet
comparatively new
to the cattle business. I rode out one
day in
company with a
cowboy to look after strays and, incidentally, to
watch for any game
that might chance to cross our path. We
rode
through seemingly
endless meadows of fine gramma grass and saw
the sleek cattle
feeding on plenty and enjoying perfect
contentment. Game, also, seemed to be abundant but very
shy and
as we were not
particularly hunting that kind of stock, we
forebore giving
chase or firing at long range.
After riding about
among the hills back of the Pinaleno ranch and
not finding
anything we concluded to return home. On
starting
back we separated
and took different routes, going by two
parallel ravines in
order to cover more ground in our search.
I
had not gone far
until I found the cattle we were looking for
going to water on
the home trail. Jogging on slowly after
them
and enjoying the
beauty of the landscape, I unexpectedly caught a
glimpse of a deer
lying down under a mesquite tree on the brow of
a distant
hill. I was in plain sight of the deer,
which was
either asleep or
heedless of danger as it paid no attention
whatever to my
presence.
Deer and antelope
soon become accustomed to horses and cattle and
often mix and feed
familiarly with the stock grazing on the open
range. The deer did not change its position as I
quietly rode by
and out of sight
behind the hill. There I dismounted and
stalked
the quarry on foot,
cautiously making my way up the side of the
hill to a point
where I would be within easy shooting distance.
As I stood up to
locate the deer it jumped to its feet and was
ready to make off,
but before it could start a shot from my
Winchester put a
bullet through its head, and it scarcely moved
after it fell. The deer was in good condition and
replenished
our depleted ranch
larder with some choice venison steaks.
The
head, also, was a
fine one the horns being just out of velvet and
each antler five
pointed, was saved and mounted.
The shot and my
lusty halloo soon brought my cowboy friend to the
spot. Together we eviscerated the animal and
prepared to pack it
to camp on my
horse. As we were lifting it upon his
back the
bronco gave a
vicious kick which hit me in the left knee and
knocked me
down. The blow, though severe, glanced
off so that no
bone was
broken. What made the horse kick was a
mystery as he
was considered safe
and had carried deer on other occasions.
But
a bronco, like a
mule, is never altogether reliable, particularly
as to the action of
its heels. With some delay in getting
started and in
somewhat of a demoralized condition we mounted and
rode home.
Soon after the
accident I had a chill which was followed by a
fever and there was
much pain and swelling in the knee that was
hit. A ranch house, if it happens to be a
"stag camp" as ours
was, is a cheerless
place in which to be sick, but everything
considered, I was fortunate
in that it was not worse. By the
liberal use of hot
water and such other simples as the place
afforded I was soon
better; but not until after several months'
treatment at home
did the injured knee fully recover its normal
condition.
The excitement of
running cattle or hunting game on the open
range in those days
was mild in comparison to the panicky feeling
which prevailed
during every Indian outbreak. The
experience of
many years had
taught the people of Arizona what to expect at
such a time and the
utter diabolical wickedness of the Apaches
when out on the
warpath. During the early eighties many
such
raids occurred
which were accompanied by all the usual horrors of
brutality and
outrage of which the Apaches are capable.
When it became
known in the fall of 1885 that Geronimo was again
off the reservation
and out on another one of his bloody raids
the people became
panic-stricken. Some left the Territory
until
such time when the
Indian question would be settled and the
Government could
guarantee freedom from Indian depredations.
Those who remained
either fled to some near town or fort for
protection, or
prepared to defend themselves in their own homes
as best they could.
What else could the
settlers in a new country do? They had
everything invested
in either mines or cattle and could not
afford to leave
their property without making some effort to save
it even if it had
to be done at the risk of their own lives.
They had no means
of knowing when or where the stealthy Apaches
would strike and
could only wait for the time in uncertainty and
suspense. Many who were in this uncomfortable
predicament
managed to escape
any harm, but others fell victims to savage
hatred whose death
knell was sounded in the crack of the deadly
rifle.
Some personal
experiences may help to illustrate this feeling of
panic, as I
happened to be at the ranch during the time and know
how it was myself.
One day in the
month of October, 1885, while Geronimo was making
his raid through
southern Arizona, my brother and I rode through
Railroad Pass from
Pinaleno ranch to the Lorentz Place, a
distance of fifteen
miles. It was about four o'clock in the
afternoon that we
ascended to the top of a hill to take
observations and
see if anything was happening out of the
ordinary. We saw nothing unusual until we were about to
leave
when we noticed
somewhat of a commotion on the old Willcox and
Bowie wagon road
which parallels the Southern Pacific track.
The
distance was too
great to see distinctly with the naked eye, but
looking through our
field glasses, which we always carried when
out riding, we
could plainly see three loaded wagons standing in
the road. The drivers had evidently unhitched their
teams and,
mounted upon the
horses' backs, were riding furiously in a cloud
of dust down the
road towards Bowie.
I asked the judge,
who was a resident and supposed to be familiar
with the customs of
the country while I was only a tenderfoot,
what their actions
meant. He admitted that he did not
understand
their conduct
unless it was that they had concluded that they
could not make
Willcox on that day and were returning to some
favorable camp
ground which they had passed on their way up, to
spend the night;
but the manner of their going was certainly
peculiar. After watching them disappear down the road
we rode on
and reached our
destination in safety.
The incident was
forgotten until a few days later when we were in
Willcox a friend
inquired what had become of the Indians which
had lately been
seen on our range. We replied that we
had not
seen any Indians
nor known of any that had been there. He
then
related to us how
only a few days before three freighters had
seen two Indians
ride upon a hill and halt. The sight of
Indians
was enough and
their only care after that was to get
away from
them. They quickly unhitched their horses from the
wagons and
rode ten miles to
Bowie where they gave the alarm and spent the
night. The next morning, having heard nothing more
from the
Indians during the
night, they took fresh courage and ventured to
return to their
wagons, which they found as they had left them
unmolested, when
they continued their journey.
When the freighters were asked why they did
not stand off the
Indians they said
that they only had one gun and not knowing how
many more redskins
there might be decided that to retreat was the
better part of
valor. It was my brother and I whom they
had seen
and mistaken for
Indians.
A few days after
this event I had a similar scare of my own and
after it was over I
could sympathize with the poor, frightened
freighters. I was alone at the ranch house packing up and
preparing to leave
for home. While thus occupied I chanced
to go
to the open door
and looking out, to my dismay, I saw Indians.
"My heart
jumped into my mouth" and for a moment I felt that my
time had surely
come. Two men were seen riding horseback
over
the foot hills
followed by a pack animal. As I stood
watching
them and took time
to think, it occurred to me that I might be
mistaken, and that
the men were not Indians after all. As
they
drew nearer I saw
that they were dressed like white men and,
therefore, could
not be Indians; but my scare while it lasted was
painfully
real. The men proved to be two
neighboring ranchmen
who were out
looking for lost cattle.
In this raid, the
Apaches, after leaving their reservation in the
White mountains,
traveled south along the Arizona and New Mexico
line, killing
people as they went, until they reached Stein's
Pass. From there they turned west, crossed the San
Simon valley
and disappeared in
the Chiricahua mountains. When next seen
they
had crossed over
the mountains and attacked Riggs' ranch in
Pinery canon, where
they wounded a woman, but were driven off.
The next place that
they visited was the Sulphur Spring ranch of
the Chiricahua
Cattle Company, where they stole a bunch of
horses. The cowboys at the ranch had received warning
that there
were Indians about
and had brought in the horse herd from the
range and locked
them in the corral. The Apaches came in
the
night and with
their usual adroitness and cunning stole the
corral empty. The first intimation which the inmates had
that
the ranch had been
robbed was when the cowboys went in the
morning to get
their horses they found them gone.
From the Sulphur
Spring ranch they crossed the Sulphur Spring
valley in the
direction of Cochise's stronghold in the Dragoon
mountains. Before reaching the mountains they passed
Mike
Noonan's ranch
where they shot its owner, who was a lone rancher
and had lived alone
in the valley many years. He was found
dead
in his door yard
with a bullet hole in the back of his head.
He
evidently did not
know that the Indians were near and was
seemingly
unconscious of any danger when he was killed.
The Indians were
not seen again after entering the stronghold
until they crossed
the line into Mexico, where they were pursued
by United States
soldiers. After a long, stern chase
Geronimo
surrendered himself
and followers to General Miles, who brought
them back to
Arizona. As prisoners they were all
loaded into
cars at Bowie and
taken to Florida. The general in command
thought it best to
take them clear out of the country in order to
put an effectual
stop to their marauding. Later they were
removed to the
Indian Territory where they now live.
The rest of the
Apaches remain in Arizona and live on the San
Carlos reservation
on the Gila river where they are being
inducted into
civilization. Since the disturbing
element among
them has been
removed there has been no more trouble.
They seem
to have settled
down with a sincere purpose to learn the white
man's way and are
quiet and peaceable. They are laborers,
farmers and
stockmen and are making rapid progress in their new
life.
CHAPTER VII
A MODEL RANCH
Any one who has
been in Arizona and failed to visit the Sierra
Bonita ranch missed
seeing a model ranch. Henry C. Hooker,
the
owner of this
splendid property, was born in New England and is a
typical Yankee, who
early emigrated west and has spent most of
his life on the
frontier.
He went to Arizona
at the close of the Civil War and engaged in
contracting for the
Government and furnishing supplies to the
army. It was before the days of railroads when all
merchandise
was hauled overland
in wagons and cattle were driven through on
foot. He outfitted at points in Texas and on the
Rio Grande and
drove his cattle
and wagons over hundreds of miles of desert
road through a
country that was infested by hostile Indians.
Such a wild life
was naturally full of adventures and involved
much hardship and
danger. The venture, however, prospered
and
proved a financial
success, notwithstanding some losses in men
killed, wagons
pillaged and cattle driven off and lost by bands
of marauding
Apaches.
In his travels he
saw the advantages that Arizona offered as a
grazing country,
which decided him to locate a ranch and engage
in the range cattle
business.
The ranch derives
its name from the Graham or Pinaleno mountains
which the Indians
called the Sierra Bonita because of the many
beautiful wild
flowers that grow there. It is twenty
miles north
of Willcox, a thriving
village on the Southern Pacific Railroad,
and ten miles south
of Ft. Grant, that nestles in a grove of
cotton trees at the
foot of Mt. Graham, the noblest mountain in
southern Arizona.
The Sierra Bonita
ranch is situated in the famous Sulphur Spring
valley in Cochise
County, Arizona, which is, perhaps, the only
all grass valley in
the Territory. The valley is about
twenty
miles wide and more
than one hundred miles long and extends into
Mexico. Its waters drain in opposite directions, part
flowing
south into the
Yaqui river, and part running north through the
Aravaipa Canon into
the Gila and Colorado rivers, all to meet and
mingle again in the
Gulf of California.
Fine gramma grass
covers the entire valley and an underground
river furnishes an
inexhaustible supply of good water. In
the
early days of
overland travel before the country was protected or
any of its
resources were known, immigrants, who were bound for
California by the
Southern route and ignorant of the near
presence of water,
nearly perished from thirst while crossing the
valley.
The water rises to
within a few feet of the surface and, since
its discovery,
numerous wells have been dug and windmills and
ranch houses dot
the landscape in all directions; while thousands
of cattle feed and
fatten on the nutritious gramma grass.
Its
altitude is about
four thousand feet above the sea and the
climate is
exceptionally fine.
The Sierra Bonita
ranch is located on a natural cienega of moist
land that has been
considerably enlarged by artificial means.
In
an average year the
natural water supply of the ranch is
sufficient for all
purposes but, to guard against any possible
shortage in a dry
year, water is brought from the mountains in
ditches that have
been constructed at great labor and expense and
is stored in
reservoirs, to be used as needed for watering the
cattle and
irrigating the fields. The effect of
water upon the
desert soil is
almost magical and even though the rains fail and
the earth be
parched, on the moist land of the cienega the fields
of waving grass and
grain are perennially green.
The owner has
acquired by location and purchase, title to several
thousand acres of
land, that is all fenced and much of it highly
cultivated. It consists of a strip of land one mile wide
and ten
miles long, which
is doubly valuable because of its
productiveness and
as the key that controls a fine open range.
The original herd
of cattle that pastured on the Sierra Bonita
ranch thirty years
ago was composed of native scrub stock from
Texas and
Sonora. This undesirable stock was sold
at the first
opportunity, and
the range re-stocked by an improved grade of
Durham cattle. The change was a long stride in the direction
of
improvement, but,
later on, another change was made to Herefords,
and during recent
years only whitefaces have been bred upon the
ranch.
Col. Hooker has a
strong personality, holds decided opinions and
believes in
progress and improvement. He has spent
much time and
money in experimental
work, and his success has demonstrated the
wisdom of his
course. Just such men are needed in
every new
country to develop
its resources and prove its worth.
He saw that the
primitive methods of ranching then in vogue must
be improved, and
began to prepare for the change which was
coming. What he predicted came to pass, and the days
of large
herds on the open
range are numbered.
Many of them have
already been sold or divided up, and it is a
question Of only a
short time when the rest will meet the same
fate.
When this is done
there may be no fewer cattle than there are now
but they will be
bunched in smaller herds and better cared for.
Scrubs of any kind
are always undesirable, since it has been
proved that quality
is more profitable than quantity. A
small
herd is more easily
handled, and there is less danger of loss
from straying or
stealing.
The common method
of running cattle on the open range is reckless
and wasteful in the
extreme and entirely inexcusable. The
cattle
are simply turned
loose to rustle for themselves. No
provision
whatever is made
for their welfare, except that they are given
the freedom of the
range to find water, if they can, and grass
that often affords
them only scant picking.
Under the new
regime the cattle are carefully fed and watered, if
need be in a fenced
enclosure, that not only gives the cattle
humane treatment
but also makes money for the owner. The
men are
instructed to bring
in every sick or weak animal found on the
range and put it
into a corral or pasture, where it is nursed
back to life. If an orphan calf is found that is in danger
of
starving it is
picked up, carried home and fed. On the
average
ranch foundlings
and weaklings get no attention whatever, but are
left in their
misery to pine away and perish from neglect.
The
profit of caring
for the weak and sick animals on the Sierra
Bonita ranch
amounts to a large sum every year, which the owner
thinks is worth
saving.
Another peculiarity
of ranch life is that where there are
hundreds or,
perhaps, thousands of cows in a herd, not a single
cow is milked, nor
is a cup of milk or pound of butter ever seen
upon the ranch
table. It is altogether different on
Hooker's
ranch. There is a separate herd of milch cows in
charge of a man
whose duty it is to
keep the table supplied with plenty of fresh
milk and
butter. No milk ever goes to waste. If there is a
surplus it is fed
to the calves, pigs and poultry.
During the branding
season the work of the round-up is all done
in corrals instead
of, as formerly, out upon the open range.
Each calf after it
is branded, if it is old and strong enough to
wean, is taken from
the cow and turned into a separate pasture.
It prevents the
weak mother cow from being dragged to death by a
strong sucking calf
and saves the pampered calf from dying of
blackleg by a
timely change of diet.
Instead of classing
the cattle out on the open range as is the
usual custom, by an
original system of corrals, gates and chutes
the cattle are much
more easily and quickly classified without
any cruelty or
injury inflicted upon either man or beast.
Classing cattle at
a round-up by the old method is a hard and
often cruel
process, that requires a small army of both men and
horses and is
always rough and severe on the men, horses and
cattle.
Besides the herds
of sleek cattle, there are also horses galore,
enough to do all of
the work on the ranch as well as for pleasure
riding and
driving. There is likewise a kennel of
fine
greyhounds that are
the Colonel's special pride. His cattle,
horses and dogs are
all of the best, as he believes in
thoroughbreds and
has no use whatever for scrubs of either the
human or brute
kind.
The dogs are fond
of their master and lavish their caresses on
him with almost
human affection. In the morning when
they meet
him at the door
Ketchum pokes his nose into one of his master's
half open hands and
Killum performs the same act with the other
hand. Blackie nips him playfully on the leg while
Dash and the
rest of the pack
race about like mad, trying to express the
exuberance of their
joy.
In the bunch is
little Bob, the fox terrier, who tries hard but
is not always able
to keep up with the hounds in a race. He
is
active and gets
over the ground lively for a small dog, but in a
long chase is
completely distanced and outclassed to his apparent
disgust. Aside from the fine sport that the dogs
afford, they
are useful in
keeping the place clear of all kinds of "varmints"
such as coyotes,
skunks and wild cats.
How much Col.
Hooker appreciates his dogs is best illustrated by
an incident. One morning after greeting the dogs at the
door, he
was heard to remark
sotto voce.
"Well, if
everybody on the ranch is cross, my dogs always greet
me with a
smile."
There appears to be
much in the dog as well as in the horse that
is human, and the
trio are capable of forming attachments for
each other that
only death can part.
The ranch house is
a one-story adobe structure built in the
Spanish style of a
rectangle, with all the doors opening upon a
central court. It is large and commodious, is elegantly
furnished and
supplied with every modern convenience.
It affords
every needed
comfort for a family and is in striking contrast
with the common
ranch house of the range that is minus every
luxury and often
barely furnishes the necessaries of life.
CHAPTER VIII
SOME DESERT PLANTS
Much of the
vegetation that is indigenous to the southwest is
unique and can only
be seen at its best in the Gila valley in
southern
Arizona. The locality indicated is in
the arid zone and
is extremely hot
and dry. Under such conditions it is but
natural to suppose
that all plant life must necessarily be scant
and dwarfed, but
such is not the fact. Upon the contrary
many of
the plants that are
native to the soil and adapted to the climate
grow luxuriantly,
are remarkably succulent and perennially green.
How they manage to
acquire so much sap amidst the surrounding
siccity is
inexplicable, unless it is that they possess the
function of
absorbing and condensing moisture by an unusual and
unknown
method. It is, however, a beneficent
provision of nature
as a protection
against famine in a droughty land by furnishing
in an acceptable
form, refreshing juice and nutritious pulp to
supply the pressing
wants of hungry and thirsty man and beast in
time of need.
Another peculiarity
of these plants is that they are acanaceous;
covered all over
with sharp thorns and needles. Spikes of
all
sorts and sizes
bristle everywhere and admonish the tenderfoot to
beware. Guarded by an impenetrable armor of prickly
mail they
defy encroachment
and successfully repel all attempts at undue
familiarity. To be torn by a cat-claw thorn or impaled on
a
stout dagger leaf
of one of these plants would not only mean
painful laceration
but, perhaps, serious or even fatal injury.
Notwithstanding
their formidable and forbidding appearance they
are nevertheless
attractive and possess some value either
medicinal,
commercial or ornamental.
The maguey, or
American aloe, is the most abundant and widely
distributed of the
native plants. It is commonly known as
mescal, but is also
called the century plant from a mistaken
notion that it
blossoms only once in a hundred years.
Its
average life, under
normal conditions, is about ten years and it
dies immediately
after blossoming.
It attains its
greatest perfection in the interior of Mexico
where it is
extensively cultivated. It yields a
large quantity
of sap which is, by
a simple process of fermentation, converted
into a liquor
called pulque that tastes best while it is new and
is consumed in
large quantities by the populace. Pulque
trains
are run daily from
the mescal plantations, where the pulque is
made, into the
large cities to supply the bibulous inhabitants
with their
customary beverage. In strength and
effect it
resembles lager
beer, and is the popular drink with all classes
throughout Mexico
where it has been in vogue for centuries and is
esteemed as
"the only drink fit for thirsty angels and men."
The agave is
capable of being applied to many domestic uses.
Under the old
dispensation of Indian supremacy it supplied the
natives their
principal means of support. Its sap was
variously
prepared and served
as milk, honey, vinegar, beer and brandy.
From its tough
fiber were made thread, rope, cloth, shoes and
paper. The strong flower stalk was used in building
houses and
the broad leaves
for covering them.
The heart of the
maguey is saccharine and rich in nutriment.
It
is prepared by
roasting it in a mescal pit and, when done, tastes
much like baked
squash. It is highly prized by the
Indians, who
use it as their
daily bread. Before the Apaches were
conquered
and herded on
reservations a mescal bake was an important event
with them. It meant the gathering of the clans and was
made the
occasion of much
feasting and festivity. Old mescal pits
can yet
be found in some of
the secluded corners of the Apache country
that were once the
scenes of noisy activity, but have been
forsaken and silent
for many years.
The fiery mescal, a
distilled liquor that is known to the trade
as aguardiente, or
Mexican brandy, is much stronger than pulque,
but less used. Both liquors are said to be medicinal, and
are
reputed to possess
diuretic, tonic and stimulant properties.
Next in importance
to the mescal comes the yucca. There are
several varieties,
but the palm yucca is the most common, and
under favorable
conditions attains to the proportions of a tree.
Fine specimens of
yucca grow on the Mojave desert in California
that are large and
numerous enough to form a straggling forest.
The tree consists
of a light, spongy wood that grows as a single
stem or divides
into two or more branches. Each branch
is
crowned by a tuft
of long, pointed leaves that grow in concentric
circles. As the new leaves unfold on top the old
leaves are
crowded down and
hang in loose folds about the stem like a
flounced
skirt. When dry the leaves burn readily,
and are
sometimes used for
light and heat by lost or belated travelers.
White threads of a
finer fiber are detached from the margins of
the leaves that are
blown by the wind into a fluffy fleece, in
which the little
birds love to nest.
A grove of yucca
trees presents a grotesque appearance.
If
indistinctly viewed
in the hazy distance they are easily mistaken
for the plumed
topknots of a band of prowling Apaches,
particularly if the
imagination is active with the fear of an
Indian outbreak.
The wood of the
yucca tree has a commercial value. It is
cut
into thin sheets by
machinery which are used for surgeon's
splints, hygienic
insoles, tree protectors and calendars.
As a
splint it answers
an admirable purpose, being both light and
strong and capable
of being molded into any shape desired after
it has been
immersed in hot water. Its pulp, also,
makes an
excellent paper.
Another variety of
yucca is the amole, or soap plant. Owing
to
the peculiar shape
of its leaves it is also called Spanish
bayonet. Its root is saponaceous, and is pounded into
a pulp and
used instead of
soap by the natives. It grows a bunch of
large
white flowers, and
matures an edible fruit that resembles the
banana. The Indians call it oosa, and eat it, either
raw or
roasted in hot
ashes.
A species of yucca
called sotal, or saw-grass, grows plentifully
in places, and is
sometimes used as food for cattle when grass is
scarce. In its natural state it is inaccessible to
cattle
because of its hard
and thorny exterior. To make it
available it
is cut down and
quartered with a hoe, when the hungry cattle eat
it with
avidity. Where the plant grows thickly
one man can cut
enough in one day
to feed several hundred head of cattle.
There are several
other varieties of yucca that possess no
particular value,
but all are handsome bloomers, and the mass of
white flowers which
unfold during the season of efflorescence
adds much to the
beauty of the landscape.
The prickly pear
cactus, or Indian fig, of the genus Opuntia is a
common as well as a
numerous family. The soil and climate of
the
southwest from
Texas to California seem to be just to its liking.
It grows rank and
often forms dense thickets. The root is
a
tough wood from
which, it is said, the best Mexican saddletrees
are made.
The plant consists
of an aggregation of thick, flat, oval leaves,
which are joined
together by narrow bands of woody fiber and
covered with
bundles of fine, sharp needles. Its pulp
is
nutritious and
cattle like the young leaves, but will not eat
them after they
become old and hard unless driven to do so by the
pangs of
hunger. In Texas the plant is gathered
in large
quantities and
ground into a fine pulp by machinery which is then
mixed with
cotton-seed meal and fed to cattle. The
mixture makes
a valuable
fattening ration and is used for finishing beef steers
for the market.
The cholla, or cane
cactus, is also a species of Opuntia, but its
stem or leaf is
long and round instead of short and flat. It is
thickly covered
with long, fine, silvery-white needles that
glisten in the
sun. Its stem is hollow and filled with
a white
pith like the
elder. After the prickly bark is
stripped off the
punk can be picked
out through the fenestra with a penknife,
which occupation
affords pleasant pastime for a leisure hour.
When thus furbished
up the unsightly club becomes an elegant
walking stick.
The cholla is not a
pleasant companion as all persons know who
have had any
experience with it. Its needles are not
only very
sharp, but also
finely barbed, and they penetrate and cling fast
like a burr the
moment that they are touched. Cowboys
profess to
believe that the
plant has some kind of sense as they say that it
jumps and takes
hold of its victim before it is touched.
This
action, however, is
only true in the seeming, as its long
transparent
needles, being invisible, are touched before they are
seen. When they catch hold of a moving object, be
it horse or
cowboy, an impulse
is imparted to the plant that makes it seem to
jump. It is an uncanny movement and is something
more than an
ocular illusion, as
the victim is ready to testify.
These desert plants
do not ordinarily furnish forage for live
stock, but in a
season of drought when other feed is scarce and
cattle are starving
they will risk having their mouths pricked by
thorns in order to
get something to eat and will browse on
mescal, yucca and
cactus and find some nourishment in the unusual
diet, enough, at
least, to keep them from dying. The
plants
mentioned are not
nearly as plentiful now as they once were.
Because of the
prolonged droughts that prevail in the range
country and the
overstocking of the range these plants are in
danger of being
exterminated and, if the conditions do not soon
change, of becoming
extinct.
The saguaro, or
giant cactus, is one of nature's rare and curious
productions. It is a large, round, fluted column that is
from
one to two feet
thick and sometimes sixty feet high. The
trunk
is nearly of an
even thickness from top to bottom but, if there
is any difference,
it is a trifle thicker in the middle. It
usually stands
alone as a single perpendicular column, but is
also found bunched
in groups. If it has any branches they
are
apt to start at
right angles from about the middle of the tree
and curve upward,
paralleling the trunk, which form gives it the
appearance of a
mammoth candelabrum.
The single saguaro
pillar bears a striking resemblance to a
Corinthian
column. As everything in art is an
attempt to imitate
something in
nature, is it possible that Grecian architecture
borrowed its
notable pattern from the Gila valley?
Southern Arizona is
the natural home and exclusive habitat of
this most singular
and interesting plant and is, perhaps, the
only thing growing
anywhere that could have suggested the design.
Wherever it grows,
it is a conspicuous object on the landscape
and has been
appropriately named "The Sentinel of the Desert."
Its mammoth body is
supported by a skeleton of wooden ribs, which
are held in
position by a mesh of tough fibers that is filled
with a green
pulp. Rows of thorns extend its entire
length which
are resinous and,
if ignited, burn with a bright flame.
They are
sometimes set on
fire and have been used by the Apaches for
making
signals. The cactus tree, like the
eastern forest tree,
is often found
bored full of round, holes that are made by the
Gila
woodpecker. When the tree dies its pulp
dries up and blows
away and there
remains standing only a spectral figure composed
of white slats and
fiber that looks ghostly in the distance.
Its fruit is
delicious and has the flavor of the fig and
strawberry
combined. It is dislodged by the greedy
birds which
feed on it and by
arrows shot from bows in the hands of the
Indians. The natives esteem the fruit as a great
delicacy, and
use it both fresh
and dried and in the form of a treacle or
preserve.
The ocotillo, or
mountain cactus, is a handsome shrub that grows
in rocky soil upon
the foothills and consists of a cluster of
nearly straight
poles of brittle wood covered with thorns and
leaves. It blossoms during the early summer and each
branch
bears on its crest
a bunch of bright crimson flowers.
If set in a row the
plant makes an ornamental hedge and effective
fence for turning
stock. The seemingly dry sticks are
thrust
into yet drier
ground where they take root and grow without
water. Its bark is resinous and a fagot of dry
sticks makes a
torch that is equal
to a pineknot.
The echinocactus,
or bisnaga, is also called "The Well of the
Desert." It has a large barrel-shaped body which is
covered with
long spikes that
are curved like fishhooks. It is full of
sap
that is sometimes
used to quench thirst. By cutting off
the top
and scooping out a
hollow, the cup-shaped hole soon fills with a
sap that is not
exactly nectar but can be drunk in an emergency.
Men who have been
in danger of perishing from thirst on the
desert have
sometimes been saved by this unique method of well
digging.
Greasewood, or
creasote bush as it is sometimes called on account
of its pungent
odor, grows freely on the desert, but has little
or no value and
cattle will not touch it. Like many
other desert
plants it is
resinous and if thrown into the fire, the green
leaves spit and
sputter while they burn like hot grease in a
frying pan.
The mesquite tree
is peculiarly adapted to the desert and is the
most valuable tree
that grows in the southwest. As found
growing
on the dry mesas of
Arizona, it is only a small bush, but on the
moist land of a
river bottom it becomes a large forest tree.
A
mesquite forest
stands in the Santa Cruz valley south of Tucson
that is a fair
sample of its growth under favorable conditions.
Its wood is hard
and fine grained and polishes beautifully.
It
is very durable and
is valuable for lumber, fence posts and
firewood. On the dry mesas it seems to go mostly to
root that is
out of all
proportion to the size of the tree. The
amount of
firewood that is
sometimes obtained by digging up the root of a
small mesquite bush
is astonishing.
It makes a handsome
and ornamental shade tree, having graceful
branches, feathery
leaves and fragrant flowers, and could be
cultivated to
advantage for yard and park purposes.
Its principal
value, however, lies in its seed pods, which grow
in clusters and
look like string beans. The mesquite
bean
furnishes a
superior article of food and feeds about everything
that either walks
or flies on the desert. The Indians make
meal
of the seed and
bake it into bread. Cattle that feed on
the open
range will leave
good grass to browse on a mesquite bush.
Even
as carnivorous a
creature as the coyote will make a full meal on
a mess of mesquite
beans and seem to be satisfied. The tree
exudes a gum that
is equal to the gum arabic of commerce.
The palo verde is a
tree without leaves and is a true child of
the desert. No matter how hot and dry the weather the
palo verde
is always green and
flourishing. At a distance it resembles
a
weeping willow tree
stripped of its leaves. Its numerous
long,
slender, drooping
branches gracefully criss-cross and interlace
in an intricate
figure of filigree work. It has no
commercial
value, but if it
could be successfully transplanted and
transported it
would make a desirable addition to green-house
collections in the
higher latitudes.
The romantic
mistletoe that is world renowned for its magic
influence in love
affairs, grows to perfection in southern
Arizona. There are several varieties of this parasitic
plant
that are very
unlike in appearance. Each kind partakes
more or
less of the
characteristics of the tree upon which it grows, but
all have the glossy
leaf and waxen berry.
CHAPTER IX
HOOKER'S HOT
SPRINGS
Arizona has several
hot springs within her borders but, perhaps,
none are more
valuable nor picturesquely located than Hooker's
hot springs. These springs are located in the foothills on
the
western slope of
the Galiura mountains in southeastern Arizona,
thirty-five miles
west of Willcox on the Southern Pacific
Railroad. The spot is beautifully situated, commanding
an
extended view of
valley and mountain scenery.
There are a dozen
springs, big and little, in the group and
are scattered over
several acres of hillside. The
temperature
of the water is 130
degrees Fahrenheit and too hot to drink but,
if sipped slowly,
it makes an admirable hot-water draught.
The
springs evidently
have their source deep down in the earth and
the flow of water
never varies. When the water from the
different springs
is all united it forms a good sized brook.
The
water is conducted
through pipes into the bath house, where it
supplies a row of
bath-tubs with water of any desired
temperature. The surplus water flows into a large earthern
tank
or artificial lake
and is used for irrigating a small farm that
produces grain,
fruits and vegetables.
The water from
these springs is in great demand and is not only
sought by the human
biped, but is also in favor with the equine
quadruped. Every morning after the stable doors are
thrown open
and the horses
turned loose they invariably, of their own accord,
proceed to the
lake, wade out into shallow water and take a bath.
They lie down and
splash the water about like a lot of schoolboys
taking a swim.
The water from all
the springs is perfectly soft and pure.
It
cannot be called a
mineral water, as an analysis shows that it
contains only a
trace of any kind of mineral matter.
This
peculiarity of the
water is no damage to the springs, since
purity is the best
recommendation that any water can have.
Water
that is heavily
mineralized may be medicinal, but is not
necessarily
remedial, or even wholesome, notwithstanding the
popular belief to
the contrary. Water that is charged with
much
mineral is spoiled
for drinking. Moderately hard water need
not
be injurious to
anybody, but is especially beneficial to
children. The assimilative function in the child
appropriates
mineral water
tardily and sometimes absorbs it altogether too
slowly for the
child's good. Its absence in the system
causes a
disease called
rickets, in which, from all lack of lime, the
bones of the child
become soft and yielding. The bones of a
rickety child will
bend rather than break. It is slow to
walk
and inclines to
become bow-legged.
It is entirely
different in old age. As the years
multiply the
system absorbs an
abnormal and ever increasing amount of
calcareous
matter. The bones become unduly hard and
brittle and
are easily broken. Bony matter is liable to be deposited in and
about the joints,
when they become stiff and painful. It
also
lodges in the
various soft tissues of the body, and ossification
of the valves of
the heart and walls of the arteries sometimes
happens. It weakens the blood vessels so that they
easily
rupture, which
causes apoplexy, paralysis and death.
Calcareous
concretions in the
kidneys and bladder, also, come from the same
cause, and are
called gravel. Such deposits are not
only
annoying and
painful to the patient, but in time may prove fatal
if not removed by
surgery.
Middle-aged and
elderly people should never drink anything but
soft water. If a natural supply of soft water cannot be
obtained
distilled water
should be substituted. If neither
natural soft
water nor distilled
water are available, and there is doubt as to
the purity of the
water that is being used, it should be boiled
and then let stand
to cool and settle. Boiling not only
destroys
and renders
harmless any organic germs that may be present, but
also precipitates
and eliminates much of its inorganic salts.
A few drops of a
weak solution of nitrate of silver added to a
glass of water will
quickly determine its quality. If the
water
that is being
tested is free from mineral matter no change is
produced, but if it
contains mineral it turns the water opaque or
milky.
The value of
mineral water as a healthful or necessary drink has
been greatly
exaggerated. While it may do good in
some
instances, it is
not nearly as beneficial as is commonly
supposed. Instead of it always doing good the contrary
is often
true.
If a mineral water
is desired there is no necessity of visiting a
mineral spring to
obtain it, as it can be made artificially at
home or at the
nearest pharmacy in any quantity or of any quality
desired, with the
additional advantage of having it contain
exactly the
ingredients wanted. There are nearly as
many mineral
waters on the
market as there are patent medicines, and both are
about equally
misrepresented and deceiving. All
classes of
people would
undoubtedly be greatly benefited in health, strength
and longevity if
more attention was given to the quality of our
domestic water
supply. Any one who needs a change,
other things
being equal, should
seek a resort that furnishes pure, soft water
rather than choose
a spring that only boasts of its mineral
properties. Not all of the benefit that is derived from a
course
at watering place
is due to the virtues of the water, be it ever
so potent. The change of environment, climate, diet,
bathing,
etc., are each
factors that contribute something towards a cure.
Next to using pure
water as a beverage it is important to know
how to bathe
properly, such knowledge being simple and plain
enough if only
common sense is used. Usually the more
simply a
bath is
administered the better are the results.
Some people
seem to think that
in order to derive any benefit from a bath it
is necessary to
employ some unusual or complicated process.
Nothing is further
from the truth. The plain, tepid bath is
the
best for general
use. It thoroughly cleanses the body and
produces no
unpleasant shock. A hot bath is rarely
needed but,
if it is used,
enough time should be given after it to rest and
cool off before
going out into the open air in order to avoid
taking cold. The good or harm of a bath must be judged by
its
effects.
A bath is only
beneficial when it is followed by a healthy
reaction, which is
indicated by an agreeable feeling of warmth
and comfort, and is
injurious if the subject feels cold, weak or
depressed. A bath does not affect all people alike; what
will do
one person good may
injure another. It is never wise to
prescribe a stereotyped
treatment for every patient. The
disease,
temperament and constitution of each individual must be
taken into account
and the temperature and frequency of the bath
must be determined
and regulated by the necessity and
idiosyncrasies of
each case. The amount of bathing that a
strong,
full-blooded person could endure would mop out the life
of a thin,
bloodless weakling.
Locally, these
springs have become famous because of the
remarkable cures
they have effected, and are sought by many sick
people who have
failed to find relief by other means.
Before the
white man came the
Indians used the water for curing their sick.
The water is
curative in rheumatism, neuralgia, dyspepsia, blood
and skin disorders
and kidney complaint. The water cure is all
right even if it
does not always fulfill every expectation.
Hooker's hot
springs is a pleasant place to visit for people who
are not
invalids. It is off the beaten path of
travel and is an
ideal spot for the
tired man who needs a rest. It has not
yet
been overrun by the
crowd, but retains all of the natural charm
of freshness which
the old resorts have lost. Here nature
riots
in all of her wild
beauty and has not yet been perceptibly marred
by the despoiling
hand of man.
Aside from the
luxury of the baths which the place affords the
visitor can find a
great deal to please him. The climate is
healthful and the
weather pleasant during most of the year.
In
the near vicinity
much can be found in nature that is
interesting. Never-failing mountain streams, deep canons
and
dark forests wait
to be visited and explored, while curiosities
in animal and
vegetable life abound. Not far off is a
place here
perfect geodes of
chalcedony are found.
Mining and ranching
are the leading industries of the country and
a visit to some
neighboring mine or cattle ranch is not without
interest to the
novice. But, if he starts out on such a
trip he
must decide to make
a day of it, as the country is sparsely
settled and the
distances long between camps. If the
accommodations
where he stops are not always luxurious the
welcome is cordial
and the entertainment comfortable. The
new
experience is also
delightfully romantic.
CHAPTER X
CANON ECHOES
The Colorado
Plateau, in northern Arizona, is the union of the
Rocky and Sierra
Nevada mountains in their southward trend, and
forms the southern
rim of the Great Basin. This depression
was
once a vast inland
sea, of which nothing remains but the Salt
Lake of Utah, and
is drained by the Colorado river. The
entire
plateau region is
remarkable for its grand scenery--abysmal
chasms, sculptured
buttes and towering cliffs, which are
"brightly
colored as if painted by artist Gods, not stained and
daubed by
inharmonious hues but beautiful as flowers and gorgeous
as the clouds." The plateau is an immense woodland of pines
known as the
Coconino Forest.
The San Francisco
mountains, nearly thirteen thousand feet high,
stand in the middle
of the plateau which is, also, the center of
an extensive
extinct volcanic field. The whole
country is
covered with
cinders which were thrown from active volcanoes
centuries ago. The track of the Santa Fe Pacific railroad,
clear
across Arizona, is
ballasted with cinders instead of gravel that
were dug from pits
on its own right of way.
Near the southern
base of the San Francisco mountains is the town
of Flagstaff built
in a natural forest of pine trees. It is
sometimes called
the Skylight City because of its high altitude,
rarefied atmosphere
and brilliant sky. It is said to have
been
named by a company
of soldiers who camped on the spot while out
hunting Indians,
when the country was new. It happened to
be on
the Fourth of July
and they celebrated the day by unfurling Old
Glory from the top
of a pine tree, which was stripped of its
branches and
converted into a flagstaff. Here is
located the
Lowell Observatory,
which has made many valuable discoveries in
astronomy. It is a delightful spot and offers many
attractions
to the scientist,
tourist and health seeker.
One of the many
interesting objects of this locality is the Ice
Cave situated eight
miles southwest of the town. It not only
attracts the
curious, but its congealed stores are also drawn on
by the people who
live in the vicinity when the domestic ice
supply runs
short. The cave is entered from the side
of a ravine
and its opening is
arched by lava rock. How the ice ever
got
there is a mystery
unless it is, as Mr. Volz claims, glacial ice
that was covered
and preserved by a thick coat of cinders which
fell when the San
Francisco Peaks were in active eruption.
As
far as observed the
ice never becomes more nor ever gets less,
except what is
removed by mining.
The region is
unusually attractive to the naturalist.
It is the
best field for the
study of entomology that is known. But
all
nature riots
here. Dr. C. Hart Merriam, in his report
of a
biological survey
of the San Francisco mountains and Painted
Desert, states that
there are seven distinct life zones in a
radius of
twenty-five miles running the entire gamut from the
Arctic to the
Tropic.[2] The variety of life which he found and
describes cannot be
duplicated in the same space anywhere else
upon the globe.
[2] Results of a
Biological Survey of the San Francisco Mountain
Region and Painted
Desert of the Little Colorado, Arizona. 1890.
But the greatest
natural wonder of this region and, it is claimed
by competent judges
of the whole world, is the Grand Canon of
Arizona, which is
seventy-two miles north of Flagstaff.
Thurber's stage
line, when it was running, carried passengers
through in one day,
but after the railroad was built from
Williams to Bright
Angel the stage was abandoned. However
it is
an interesting trip
and many people make it every summer by
private conveyance
who go for an outing and can travel leisurely.
It is a good
natural road and runs nearly the entire distance
through an open
pine forest.
Two roads leave
Flagstaff for the Canon called respectively the
summer and winter
roads. The former goes west of the San
Francisco mountains
and intersects with the winter road that runs
east of the peaks
at Cedar Ranch, which was the midway station of
the old stage
line. The summer road is the one usually
travelled, as the
winter road is almost destitute of water.
The road ascends
rapidly from an elevation of seven thousand feet
at Flagstaff to
eleven thousand feet at the summit, and descends
more gradually to
Cedar Ranch, where the elevation is less than
five thousand feet
and in distance is about halfway to the Canon.
Here cedar and
pinon trees take the place of the taller pines.
Cedar Ranch is on
an arm of the Painted Desert, which stretches
away towards the
east over a wide level plain to the horizon.
From this point the
road ascends again on an easy grade until it
reaches an
elevation of eight thousand feet at the Canon.
During the long
drive through the pine woods the appearance of
the country gives
no hint of a desert, but beautiful scenery
greets the eye on
every hand. The air is filled with the
fragrance of pine
and ozone that is as exhilarating as wine.
No
signs of severe
windstorms are seen in broken branches and fallen
trees. If an occasional tree is found lying
prostrate it was
felled either by
the woodman's ax or one of nature's destructive
forces, fire or
decay, or both. But the large number of
shattered trees
which are encountered during the day give
evidence that the
lightning is frequently very destructive in its
work. The bark of the pine trees is of a reddish
gray color,
which contrasts
brightly with the green foliage.
The winter road
furnishes even more attractions than the summer
road on which line
a railroad should be built through to the
Canon. Soon after leaving town a side road leads to
the cliff
dwellings in Walnut
Canon. Along the wayside a signboard
points
the direction to
the Bottomless Pit, which is a deep hole in the
ground that is only
one of many such fissures in the earth found
on the Colorado
Plateau. Four miles east of Canon Diablo
a
narrow fissure from
a few inches to several feet wide and
hundreds of feet
deep has been traced in a continuous line over
one hundred miles.
Further on a group
of cave dwellings can be seen among the rocks
upon a distant
bill. A turn in the road next brings the
Sunset
Mountain into
view. Its crest glows with the colors of
sunset,
which unusual
effect is produced by colored rocks that are of
volcanic
origin. Black cinders cover its steep
sides and its
brow is the rim of
a deep crater. Between Sunset Peak and
O'Leary Peak is the
Black Crater from which flowed at one time
thick streams of
black lava that hardened into rock and are known
as the lava
beds. Scores of crater cones and miles
of black
cinders can be seen
from Sunset Mountain, and lava and cinders of
this region look as
fresh as if an eruption had occurred but
yesterday.
A peculiarity of
the pine trees which grow in the cinders is that
their roots do not
go down but spread out upon the surface.
Some
of the roots are
entirely bare while others are half buried in
cinders. They are from an inch to a foot thick and from
ten to
fifty feet long,
according to the size of the tree which they
support. The cause of the queer root formation is not
apparent.
The whole plateau
country is scarce of water. The Grand
Canon
drains the ground
dry to an unusual depth. The nearest
spring of
water to the Canon
at Grand View is Cedar Spring, forty miles
distant. Until recently all the water used at the
canon was
either packed upon
burros from springs down in the canon or
caught in ponds or
reservoirs from rains or melted snow.
Since
the completion of
the railroad the water is hauled in on cars
constructed for
that purpose.
The watershed of
the canon slopes away from the rim and instead
of the storm water
running directly into the river it flows in
the opposite
direction. Only after a long detour of
many miles
does it finally
reach the river by the Little Colorado or
Cataract Creek.
Now that the Grand
Canon is made accessible by rail over a branch
road of the Santa
Fe from Williams on the main line, it is
reached in
comparative ease and comfort. But to
stop at the
Bright Angel Hotel
and look over the guard rail on the cliff down
into the canon
gives merely a glimpse of what there is to see.
A
brief stay of one
day is better than not stopping at all, but to
get even an inkling
of its greatness and grandeur days and weeks
must be spent in
making trips up and down and into the canon.
After having seen
the canon at Bright Angel the next move should
be to go to Grand
View fourteen miles up the canon. An all
day's
stage ride from
Flagstaff to the canon was tiresome, but the two
hours' drive
through the pine woods from Bright Angel to Grand
View is only
pleasant recreation.
Seeing the Grand
Canon for the first time does not necessarily
produce the
startling and lachrymose effects that have been
described by some
emotional writers, but the first sight never
disappoints and
always leaves a deep and lasting impression.
As immense as is
the great chasm it is formed in such harmonious
proportions that it
does not shock the senses. But as
everything
about the canon is
built on such a grand scale and the eyes not
being accustomed to
such sights it is impossible to comprehend
it--to measure its
dimensions correctly or note every detail of
form and color at
the first glance. As the guide remarked,
"God
made it so d-- big
that you can't lie about it."
To comprehend it at
all requires time to re-educate the senses
and make them
accustomed to the new order of things.
But even a
cursory view will
always remain in the memory as the event of a
lifetime in the
experience of the average mortal.
Distance in the
canon cannot be measured by the usual standards.
There are sheer
walls of rocks that are thousands of feet high
and as many more
feet deep, but where the bottom seems to be is
only the beginning
of other chasms which lie in the dark shadows
and descend into
yet deeper depths below. The canon is
not a
single empty chasm,
which is the universal conception of a canon,
but consists of a
complex system of sub and side canons that is
bewildering. Out of its depths rise an infinite number and
variety of
castellated cliffs and sculptured buttes that
represent every
conceivable variety of architecture.
They have
the appearance of a
resurrected city of great size and beauty
which might have
been built by an army of Titans then buried and
forgotten.
A trip into the
canon down one of the trails makes its magnitude
even more
impressive than a rim view. The distance
across the
chasm is also much
greater than what it seems to be, which is
demonstrated by the
blue haze that fills the canon. The
nearby
buttes are
perfectly distinct, but as the distance increases
across the great
gorge the haze gradually thickens until the
opposite wall is
almost obscured by the mist.
The myriads of
horizontal lines which mark the different strata
of rocks have the
appearance of a maze of telegraph wires strung
through the canon.
A ride leisurely on
horseback along the rim trail from Thurber's
old camp to
Bissell's Point, seven miles up the canon, and back
is easily made in a
day. It presents a panorama of
magnificent
views all along the
rim, but Bissell's is conceded to be the best
view point on the
canon. From this point about thirty
miles of
river can be seen
as it winds in and out deep down among the
rocks. The Colorado river is a large stream, but as
seen here a
mile below and
several miles out, it dwindles into insignificance
and appears no
larger than a meadow brook. The river
looks
placid in the
distance, but is a raging, turbulent torrent in
which an ordinary
boat cannot live and the roar of its wild
waters can be
distinctly heard as of the rushing of a distant
train of cars.
A second day spent
in riding down the canon to Grand View Point
and back is equally
delightful. Looking across a bend in the
canon from Grand
View Point to Bissell's Point the distance seems
to be scarcely more
than a stone's throw, yet it is fully half
the distance of the
circuitous route by the rim trail.
There are three
trails leading into the canon and down to the
river, the Bright
Angel, Grand View and Hance trails, which are
at intervals of
eight and twelve miles apart. They are
equally
interesting and
comparatively safe if the trip is made on the
back of a trained
pony or burro with a competent guide.
The Hance trail is
a loop and is twenty miles long. It is
seven
miles down to the
river, six miles up the stream and seven miles
back to the rim. It was built single handed by Captain John
Hance, who has
lived many years in the canon. The trail
is free
to pedestrians, but
yields the captain a snug income from horse
hire and his own
services as guide for tourists who go over the
trail.
Captain Hance is an
entertaining raconteur and he spins many
interesting yarns
for the amusement, if not the edification, of
his guests. The serious manner in which he relates his
stories
makes it sometimes
hard to tell whether he is in jest or earnest.
His acknowledged
skill in mountaineering, and felicity in
romancing has won
for him more than a local reputation and the
distinguished title
of Grand Canon Guide and Prevaricator.
He relates how
"once upon a time" he pursued a band of mountain
sheep on the rim of
the canon. Just as he was about to
secure
his quarry the
sheep suddenly turned a short corner and
disappeared behind
some rocks. Before he realized his
danger he
found himself on
the brink of a yawning abyss and under such a
momentum that he
could not turn aside or stop his horse.
Together they went
over the cliff in an awful leap. He
expected
to meet instant
death on the rocks below and braced himself for
the shock. As the fall was greater than usual, being
over a mile
deep in a perpendicular
line, it required several seconds for the
descending bodies
to traverse the intervening space, which gave
him a few moments
to think and plan some way of escape. At
the
critical moment a
happy inspiration seized and saved him.
On the
instant that his
horse struck the rock and was dashed to pieces,
the captain sprang
nimbly from the saddle to his feet unharmed.
To prove the truth
of his statement he never misses an
opportunity to
point out to the tourist the spot where his horse
fell, and shows the
white bones of his defunct steed bleaching in
the sun.
At Moran's Point
there is a narrow cleft in the rocks which he
calls the Fat
Woman's Misery. It received its name
several years
ago from a
circumstance that happened while he was conducting a
party of tourists
along the rim trail. To obtain a better
view
the party essayed
to squeeze through the opening, in which
attempt all
succeeded except one fat women who stuck fast.
After
vainly trying to
extricate her from her uncomfortable position he
finally told her
that there was but one of two things to do,
either remain where
she was and starve to death or take one
chance in a
thousand of being blown out alive by dynamite.
After
thinking a moment
she decided to try the "one chance in a
thousand"
experiment.
A charge of
dynamite was procured and the fuse lighted.
After
the explosion he
returned to the spot and found the result
satisfactory. The blast had released the woman, who was
alive
and sitting upon a
rock. He approached her cheerfully and
said:
"Madam, how do
you feel?" She looked up shocked,
but evidently
very much relieved,
and replied "Why, sir, I feel first rate, but
the jolt gave me a
little toothache."
He tells another
story of how he once took a drink from the
Colorado river. The water is never very clear in the muddy
stream but at that
particular time it was unusually murky.
He
had nothing with
which to dip the water and lay down on the bank
to take a
drink. Being very thirsty he paid no
attention to the
quality of the
water, but only knew that it tasted wet.
The
water, however,
grew thicker as he drank until it became balled
up in his mouth,
and stuck fast in his throat and threatened to
choke him. He tried to bite it off but failed because
his teeth
were poor. At last becoming desperate, he pulled his
hunting
knife from his belt
and cut himself loose from his drink.
Different theories
have been advanced to account for the origin
of the Grand Canon,
but it is a question whether it is altogether
due to any one cause. Scientists say that it is the work of
water erosion, but
to the layman it seems impossible. If an
ocean of water
should flow over rocks during eons of ages it does
not seem possible
that it could cut such a channel.
Water sometimes
does queer things, but it has never been known to
reverse
nature. By a fundamental law of
hydrostatics water
always seeks its
level and flows in the direction of least
resistance. If water ever made the Grand Canon it had to
climb a
hill and cut its
way through the backbone of the Buckskin
mountains, which
are not a range of peaks but a broad plateau of
solid rock. Into this rock the canon is sunk more than a
mile
deep, from six to
eighteen miles wide and over two hundred miles
long.
In order to make
the theory of water erosion tenable it is
assumed that the
Colorado river started in its incipiency like
any other
river. After a time the river bed began
to rise and
was gradually
pushed up more and more by some unknown
subterranean force
as the water cut deeper and deeper into the
rock until the
Grand Canon was formed.
Captain Hance has a
theory that the canon originated in an
underground stream
which tunneled until it cut its way through to
the surface. As improbable as is this theory it is as
plausible
as the erosion
theory, but both theories appear to be equally
absurd.
At some remote
period of time the entire southwest was rent and
torn by an awful
cataclysm which caused numerous fissures and
seams to appear all
over the country. The force that did the
work had its origin
in the earth and acted by producing lateral
displacement rather
than direct upheaval. Whenever that
event
occurred the
fracture which marks the course of the Grand Canon
was made and,
breaking through the enclosing wall of the Great
Basin, set free the
waters of an inland sea. What the
seismic
force began the
flood of liberated water helped to finish, and
there was born the
greatest natural wonder of the known world.
There are canons
all over Arizona and the southwest that resemble
the Grand Canon,
except that they were made on a smaller scale.
Many of them are
perfectly dry and apparently never contained any
running water. They are all so much alike that they were
evidently made at
the same time and by the same cause.
Walnut
Canon and Canon
Diablo are familiar examples of canon formation.
The rocks in the
canons do not stand on end, but lie in
horizontal strata
and show but little dip anywhere.
Indeed, the
rocks lie so plumb
in many places that they resemble the most
perfect masonry.
The rim rock of the
Mogollon Mesa is of the same character as the
walls of the Grand
Canon and is an important part of the canon
system. It is almost a perpendicular cliff from one
to three
thousand feet high
which extends from east to west across central
Arizona and divides
the great northern plateau from the southern
valleys. It is one side of an immense vault or canon
wall whose
mate has been lost
or dropped completely out of sight.
In many of the
canons where water flows continuously, effects are
produced that are
exactly the opposite of those ascribed to water
erosion. Instead of the running water cutting deeper
into the
earth it has partly
filled the canon with alluvium, thereby
demonstrating
nature's universal leveling process.
Even the
floods of water
which pour through them during every rainy season
with an almost
irresistible force carry in more soil than they
wash out and every
freshet only adds new soil to the old
deposits. If these canons were all originally made by
water
erosion as is
claimed, why does not the water continue to act in
the same manner now
but, instead, completely reverses itself as
above stated? There can be but one of two conclusions,
either
that nature has
changed or that scientists are mistaken.
The Aravaipa in
southern Arizona is an interesting canon and is
typical of its
kind. Its upper half is shallow and
bounded by
low rolling
foothills, but in the middle it suddenly deepens and
narrows into a box
canon, which has high perpendicular walls of
solid rock like the
Grand Canon. It is a long, narrow valley
sunk deep into the
earth and has great fertility and much wild
beauty. It measures from a few feet to a mile in
width and
drains a large
scope of rough country. The surface
water which
filters through
from above reappears in numerous springs of clear
cold water in the
bottom of the canon. In the moist earth
and
under the shade of
forest trees grow a variety of rare flowers,
ferns and mosses.
Where the canon
begins to box a large spring of pure cold water
issues from the
sand in the bottom of a wash which is the source
of the Aravaipa
creek. It flows through many miles of
rich
alluvial land and
empties into the San Predo river. The
valley
was settled many
years ago by men who were attracted to the spot
by its rare beauty,
fertility of soil and an abundance of wood
and water.
The land is moist
and covered by a heavy growth of forest trees,
which will average
over one hundred feet high. The trees
are as
large and the
foliage as dense as in any eastern forest.
Being
sunk deep in the
earth the narrow valley at the bottom of the
canon can only be
seen from above. When viewed from some
favorable point it
has the appearance of a long green ribbon
stretched loosely
over a brown landscape. The sight of it
is a
pleasant surprise
to the weary wayfarer who, after traveling over
many miles of
dreary desert road, finds himself suddenly ushered
into such pleasant
scenes.
The canons of
Arizona are unrivaled for grandeur, sublimity and
beauty, and will
attract an ever increasing number of admirers.
CHAPTER XI
THE METEORITE
MOUNTAIN
Ten miles southeast
of Canon Diablo station on the Santa Fe
Pacific Railroad,
stands the Meteorite Mountain of Arizona, on a
wide, open plain of
the Colorado Plateau. It is two hundred
feet
high and, as seen
at a distance, has the appearance of a low,
flat mountain. Its top forms the rim of an immense, round,
bowl-shaped hole in
the ground that has almost perpendicular
sides, is one mile
wide and over six hundred feet deep. The
hole, originally,
was evidently very much deeper than it is at
the present time,
but it has gradually become filled with debris
to its present
depth. The bottom of the hole has a
floor of
about forty acres
of level ground which merges into a talus.
This formation is
sometimes called the Crater, because of its
shape, but there is
no evidence of volcanic action. Locally
it
is known as Coon
Butte, which is a misnomer; but Meteorite
Mountain is a name
with a meaning.
It is not known
positively just how or when the mountain was
formed, but the
weight of evidence seems to favor the meteorite
theory, which is
that at some remote period of time a monster
meteorite fell from
the sky and buried itself in the earth.
Mr. F. W. Volz, who
has lived in the country twenty years and is
an intelligent
observer of natural phenomena, has made a careful
study of the
mountain, and it is his opinion that such an event
actually occurred
and that a falling star made the mountain.
When the descending
meteorite, with its great weight and terrific
momentum, hit the
earth something had to happen. It buried
itself deep beneath
the surface and caused the earth to heave up
on all sides. The effect produced is aptly illustrated, on
a
small scale, by
throwing a rock into thick mud.
The impact of the
meteorite upon the earth not only caused an
upheaval of the
surface, but it also crushed and displaced the
rocks beneath. As the stellar body penetrated deeper into
the
earth its force
became more concentrated and either compressed
the rocks into a
denser mass or ground them to powder.
The plain on which
the mountain stands is covered by a layer of
red sandstone of
variable thickness, as it is much worn in places
by weather
erosion. Below the top covering of red
sandstone lie
three hundred feet
of limestone and beneath the limestone five
hundred feet more
of white sandstone. This arrangement of
the
rocks is plainly
seen in the walls of Canon Diablo.
The displaced strata
of rocks in the hole are tilted and stand
outwards and great
boulders of red sandstone and limestone lie
scattered all
about. If the hole had been made by an
explosion
from below large
pieces of rock from each one of the different
rock strata would
have been thrown out; but, while as just
stated, there are
plenty of huge blocks of red sandstone and
limestone, there
are no large pieces of white sandstone.
After
the superficial
layers of rock had been broken up and expelled en
masse, the deeper
rock of white sandstone, being more confined,
could not reach the
surface in the shape of boulders, but had
first to be broken
up and ground to powder before it could
escape. Then the white sandstones in the form of fine
sand was
blown skywards by
the collision and afterwards settled down upon
the mountain. The mountain is covered with this white sand,
which could only
have come out of the big hole as there is no
other white sand or
sandstone found anywhere else upon the entire
plain.
In the vicinity of
the mountain about ten tons of meteorites have
been found, varying
in size from the fraction of an ounce to one
thousand pounds or
more. Most of the meteorites were found
by
Mr. Volz, who
searched diligently every foot of ground for miles
around. The smaller pieces were picked up on or near
the rim,
and they increased
in size in proportion as they were distant
from the mountain
until, on a circle eight miles out, the largest
piece was
found. Meteorites were found upon all
sides of the
mountain but they
seemed to be thickest on the east side.
The writer first
visited the mountain in the summer of 1901 and
it was the greatest
surprise of his six weeks' trip sightseeing
in northern Arizona
where are found many natural wonders. He
was
fortunate enough to
find a three pound meteorite within five
minutes after
arriving on the rim, which Mr. Volz said was the
first specimen
found by anyone in over four years.
Professor G. K.
Gilbert of the United States Geological Survey
visited the
mountain several years ago to investigate the
phenomenon and, if
possible, to determine its origin by
scientific
test. He gave the results of his
researches in a very
able and
comprehensive address,[3] delivered before the
Geological Society
of Washington, D.C. The existing
conditions
did not seem to fit
his theories, and he concluded his work
without arriving at
any definite conclusion.
[3] The Origin of
Hypotheses. 1895.
After disposing of
several hypotheses as being incompetent to
prove the origin of
the mountain he decided to try the magnetic
test. He assumed that if such a meteorite was
buried there the
large mass of
metallic iron must indicate its presence by
magnetic
attraction. By means of the latest
scientific apparatus
he conducted an
elaborate magnetic experiment which gave only
negative results.
He discussed at
length the various hypotheses which might explain
the origin of the
crater and concluded his notable address as
follows:
"Still another
contribution to the subject, while it does not
increase the number
of hypotheses, is nevertheless important in
that it tends to
diminish the weight of the magnetic evidence and
thus to reopen the
question which Mr. Baker and I supposed we had
settled. Our fellow-member, Mr. Edwin E. Howell,
through whose
hands much of the
meteoric iron had passed, points out that each
of the iron masses,
great and small, is in itself a complete
individual. They have none of the characters that would
be found
if they had been
broken one from another, and yet, as they are
all of one type and
all reached the earth within a small
district, it must
be supposed that they were originally connected
in some way.
"Reasoning by
analogy from the characters of other meteoric
bodies, he infers
that the irons were all included in a large
mass of some
different material, either crystalline rock, such as
constitutes the
class of meteorites called 'stony,' or else a
compound of iron
and sulphur, similar to certain nodules
discovered inside
the iron masses when sawn in two.
Neither of
these materials is
so enduring as iron, and the fact that they
are not now found
on the plain does not prove their original
absence. Moreover, the plain is strewn in the vicinity
of the
crater with bits of
limonite, a mineral frequently produced by
the action of air
and water on iron sulphides, and this material
is much more
abundant than the iron. If it be true
that the iron
masses were thus
imbedded, like plums in an astral pudding, the
hypothetic buried
star might have great size and yet only small
power to attract
the magnetic needle. Mr. Howell also
proposes a
qualification of
the test by volumes, suggesting that some of the
rocks beneath the
buried star might have been condensed by the
shock so as to
occupy less space.
"These
considerations are eminently pertinent to the study of the
crater and will
find appropriate place in any comprehensive
discussion of its
origin; but the fact which is peculiarly worthy
of note at the
present time is their ability to unsettle a
conclusion that was
beginning to feel itself secure. This
illustrates the
tentative nature not only of the hypotheses of
science, but of
what science calls its results.
"The method of
hypotheses, and that method is the method of
science, founds its
explanations of nature wholly on observed
facts, and its
results are ever subject to the limitations
imposed by
imperfect observation. However grand,
however widely
accepted, however
useful its conclusions, none is so sure that it
cannot be called
into question by a newly discovered fact.
In
the domain of the
world's knowledge there is no infallibility."
After Prof. Gilbert
had finished his experiments, Mr. Volz tried
some of his own
along the same line. He found upon trial
that
the meteorites in
his possession were non-magnetic, or,
practically
so. If these, being pieces of the larger
meteorite
which was buried in
the hole, were non-magnetic, all of it must
be non-magnetic,
which would account for the failure of the
needle to act or
manifest any magnetic attraction in the greater
test.
Mr. Volz also made
another interesting discovery in this same
connection. All over the meteorite zone are scattered
about
small pieces of
iron which he calls "iron shale."
It is
analogous to the
true meteorite, but is "burnt" or "dead." He
regards these bits
of iron as dead sparks from a celestial forge,
which fell from the
meteorite as it blazed through the heavens.
In experimenting
with the stuff he found that it was not only
highly magnetic,
but also possessed polarity in a marked degree;
and was entirely
different from the true meteorite. Here
was a
curiosity, indeed;
a small, insignificant and unattractive stone
possessed of strong
magnetic polarity, a property of electricity
that is as mysterious
and incomprehensible as is electricity
itself.
Another peculiarity
of Canon Diablo meteorite is that it contains
diamonds. When the meteorite was first discovered by a
Mexican
sheep herder he
supposed that he had found a large piece of
silver, because of
its great weight and luster, but he was soon
informed of his
mistake. Not long afterwards a white
prospector
who heard of the
discovery undertook to use it to his own
advantage, by
claiming that he had found a mine of pure iron,
which he offered
for sale. In an attempt to dispose of
the
property samples of
the ore were sent east for investigation.
Some of the stone
fell into the hands of Dr. Foote, who
pronounced it to be
meteorite and of celestial origin.
Sir William Crookes
in discussing the theory of the meteoric
origin of
diamonds[4] says "the most striking confirmation of the
meteoric theory
comes from Arizona. Here, on a broad
open plain,
over an area about
five miles in diameter, were scattered from
one to two thousand
masses of metallic iron, the fragments
varying in weight
from half a ton to a fraction of an ounce.
There is little
doubt that these masses formed part of a
meteorite shower,
although no record exists as to when the fall
took place. Curiously enough, near the center, where most
of the
meteoritics have
been found, is a crater with raised edges three
quarters of a mile
in diameter and about six hundred feet deep,
bearing exactly the
appearance which would be produced had a
mighty mass of iron
or falling star struck the ground, scattering
in all directions,
and buried itself deep under the surface.
Altogether ten tons
of this iron have been collected, and
specimens of Canyon
Diablo Meteorite are in most collectors'
cabinets.
[4] Diamonds. Wm. Crookes, F.R.S. Smithsonian Report. 1897.
"An ardent
mineralogist, the late Dr. Foote, in cutting a section
of this meteorite,
found the tools were injured by something
vastly harder than
metallic iron, and an emery wheel used in
grinding the iron
had been ruined. He examined the
specimen
chemically, and
soon after announced to the scientific world that
the Canyon Diablo
Meteorite contained black and transparent
diamonds. This startling discovery was afterwards
verified by
Professors Friedel
and Moissan, who found that the Canyon Diablo
Meteorite contained
the three varieties of carbon--diamond
(transparent and
black), graphite and amorphous carbon.
Since
this revelation the
search for diamonds in meteorites has
occupied the
attention of chemists all over the world.
"Here, then,
we have absolute proof of the truth of the meteoric
theory. Under atmospheric influences the iron would
rapidly
oxidize and rust
away, coloring the adjacent soil with red oxide
of iron. The meteoric diamonds would be unaffected and
left on
the surface to be
found by explorers when oxidation had removed
the last proof of
their celestial origin. That there are
still
lumps of iron left
in Arizona is merely due to the extreme
dryness of the
climate and the comparatively short time that the
iron has been on
our planet. We are here witnesses to the
course
of an event which
may have happened in geologic times anywhere on
the earth's
surface.
About a year ago
several mineral claims were located in the
crater by a company
of scientific and moneyed men. The
required
assessment work was
done and a patent for the land obtained from
the
government. The object of the enterprise
is for a double
purpose, if
possible to solve the mystery of the mountain, and if
successful in
finding the "hypothetic buried star" to excavate
and appropriate it
for its valuable iron.
A shaft has been
sunk one hundred and ninety-five feet deep,
where a strong flow
of water was encountered in a bed of white
sand which
temporarily stopped the work. A gasoline
engine and
drill were procured
and put in operation and the drill was driven
down forty feet
further when it stuck fast in white quicksand.
It is the intention
of the company to continue the work and carry
it on to a
successful finish.
Nothing of value
was found in the hole dug, but some of the
workmen in their
leisure hours found on the surface two large
meteorites weighing
one hundred and one hundred and fifty pounds
respectively,
besides a number of smaller fragments.
The Meteorite
Mountain is in a class by itself and is, in a
way, as great a
curiosity as is the Grand Canon. It is
little
known and has not
received the attention that it deserves.
It is, indeed,
marvelous and only needs to be seen to be
appreciated.
CHAPTER XII
THE CLIFF DWELLERS
In the canons of
the Colorado river and its tributaries are found
the ruins of an
ancient race of cliff dwellers. These
ruins are
numerous and are
scattered over a wide scope of country, which
includes Arizona
and portions of Utah, Colorado and New Mexico.
Many of them are
yet in a good state of preservation, but all
show the marks of
age and decay. They are not less than
four
hundred years old
and are, in all probability, much older.
Their
preservation is
largely due to their sheltered position among the
rocks and an
exceptionally dry climate.
The houses are
invariably built upon high cliffs on shelving
rocks in places
that are almost inaccessible. In some
instances
they can only be
reached by steps cut into the solid rock, which
are so old and worn
that they are almost obliterated. Their
walls so nearly
resemble the stratified rocks upon which they
stand, that they
are not easily distinguished from their
surroundings.
The cliffs are
often sloping, sometimes overhanging, but more
frequently
perpendicular. The weather erosion of
many centuries
has caused the
softer strata of exposed rocks in the cliffs to
disintegrate and
fall away, which left numberless caverns wherein
this ancient and
mysterious people chose to build their eyrie
homes to live with
the eagles. The houses are built of all
shapes and sizes
and, apparently, were planned to fit the
irregular and
limited space of their environment.
Circular watch
towers look down
from commanding heights which, from their shape
and position, were
evidently intended to serve the double purpose
of observation and
defense.
In the search for
evidence of their antiquity it is believed that
data has been found
which denotes great age. In the
construction
of some of their
houses, notably those in the Mancos Canon, is
displayed a
technical knowledge of architecture and a
mathematical
accuracy which savages do not possess; and the fine
masonry of dressed
stone and superior cement seem to prove that
Indians were not
the builders. On the contrary, to quote
a
recent writer,
"The evidence goes to show that the work was done
by skilled workmen
who were white masons and who built for white
people in a
prehistoric age." In this
connection it is singular,
if not significant,
that the natives when first discovered
believed in a
bearded white man whom they deified as the Fair God
of whose existence
they had obtained knowledge from some source
and in whose honor
they kept their sacred altar fires burning
unquenched.
The relics that
have been found in the ruins are principally
implements of the
stone age, but are of sufficient variety to
indicate a
succession of races that were both primitive and
cultured and as
widely separated in time as in knowledge.
The cliff dwellings
were not only the abodes of their original
builders, but were
occupied and deserted successively by the
chipped stone
implement maker, the polisher of hard stone, the
basket maker and
the weaver.
Among the relics
that have been found in the ruins are some very
fine specimens of
pottery which are as symmetrical and well
finished as if they
had been turned on a potter's wheel, and
covered with an
opaque enamel of stanniferous glaze composed of
lead and tin that
originated with the Phoenicians, and is as old
as history. Can it be possible that the cliff dwellers
are a
lost fragment of
Egyptian civilization?
The cliff ruins in
Arizona are not only found in the canons of
the Colorado river,
but also in many other places. The
finest of
them are
Montezuma's Castle on Beaver creek, and the Casa Blanca
in Canon de
Chelly. Numerous other ruins are found
on the Rio
Verde, Gila river,
Walnut Canon and elsewhere.
The largest and
finest group of cliff dwellings are those on the
Mesa Verde in
Colorado. They are fully described in
the great
work[5] of
Nordenskiold, who spent much time among them.
The
different houses
are named after some peculiarity of appearance
or construction,
like the Cliff Palace, which contains more than
one hundred rooms,
Long House, Balcony House, Spruce Tree House,
etc.
[5] The Cliff
Dwellers of the Mesa Verde, by F. Nordenskiold,
Stockholm. 1893.
He obtained a large
quantity of relics, which are also fully
described, consisting
of stone implements, pottery, cotton and
feather cloth,
osier and palmillo mats, yucca sandals, weaving
sticks, bone awls,
corn and beans.
Many well-preserved
mummies were found buried in graves that were
carefully closed
and sealed. The bodies were wrapped in a
fine
cotton cloth of
drawn work, which was covered by a coarser cloth
resembling burlap,
and all inclosed in a wrapping of palmillo
matting tied with a
cord made of the fiber of cedar bark.
The
hair is fine and of
a brown color, and not coarse and black like
the hair of the
wild Indians. Mummies have been exhumed
that
have red or light
colored hair such as usually goes with a fair
skin. This fact has led some to believe that the
cliff dwellers
belonged to the
white race, but not necessarily so, as this
quality of hair
also belongs to albinos, who doubtless lived
among the cliff
dwellers as they do among the Moquis and Zunis at
the present day,
and explains the peculiarity of hair just
mentioned.
These remains may
be very modern, as some choose to believe, but,
in all probability,
they are more ancient than modern.
Mummies
encased in wood and
cloth have been taken from the tombs of Egypt
in an almost
perfect state of preservation which cannot be less
than two thousand
years old, and are, perhaps, more than double
that age. As there is no positive knowledge as to when
the cliff
dwellers
flourished, one man's guess on the subject is as good as
another's.
An important
discovery was recently made near Mancos, Colorado,
where a party of
explorers found in some old cliff dwellings
graves beneath
graves that were entirely different from anything
yet
discovered. They were egg-shaped, built
of stone and
plastered smoothly
with clay. They contained mummies,
cloth,
sandals, beads and
various other trinkets. There was no
pottery,
but many well-made
baskets, and their owners have been called the
basket makers. There was also a difference in the skulls
found.
The cliff dwellers'
skull is short and flattened behind, while
the skulls that
were found in these old graves were long, narrow
and round on the
back.[6]
[6] An Elder
Brother of the Cliff Dwellers, by T. M. Prudden,
M.D. Harper's Magazine, June, 1897.
Rev. H. M. Baum,
who has traveled all over the southwest and
visited every large
ruin in the country, considers that Canon de
Chelly and its
branch, del Muerto, is the most interesting
prehistoric
locality in the United States. The
Navajos, who now
live in the canon,
have a tradition that the people who occupied
the old cliff
houses were all destroyed in one day by a wind of
fire.[7] The
occurrence, evidently, was similar to what happened
recently on the
island of Martinique, when all the inhabitants of
the village of St.
Pierre perished in an hour by the eruption of
Mont Pelee.
[7] Pueblo and
Cliff Dwellers of the Southwest. Records
of the
Past, December,
1902.
Contemporaneous
with the cliff dwellers there seems to have lived
a race of people in
the adjoining valleys who built cities and
tilled the soil.
Judged by their works they must have been an
industrious,
intelligent and numerous people. All
over the
ground are strewn
broken pieces of pottery that are painted in
bright colors and
artistic designs which, after ages of exposure
to the weather,
look as fresh as if newly made, The relics that
have been taken
from the ruins are similar to those found in the
cliff houses, and
consist mostly of stone implements and pottery.
In the Gila valley,
near the town of Florence, stands the now
famous Casa Grande
ruin, which is the best preserved of all these
ancient
cities. It was a ruin when the Spaniards
first
discovered it, and
is a type of the ancient communal house.
Its
thick walls are
composed of a concrete adobe that is as hard as
rock, and its base
lines conform to the cardinal points of, the
compass. It is an interesting relic of a past age and
an
extinct race and,
if it cannot yield up its secrets to science,
it at least appeals
to the spirit of romance and mystery.
Irrigating ditches
which were fed from reservoirs supplied their
fields and houses
with water. Portions of these old canals
are
yet in existence
and furnish proof of the diligence and skill of
their
builders. The ditches were located on
levels that could
not be improved
upon for utilizing the land and water to the best
advantage. Modern engineers have not been able to better
them
and in many places
the old levels are used in new ditches at the
present time.
Whatever may have
been the fate of this ancient people their
destruction must be
sought in natural causes rather than by human
warfare. An adverse fate probably cut off their water
supply and
laid waste their
productive fields. With their crops a
failure
and all supplies
gone what else could the people do but either
starve or move, but
as to the nature of the exodus history is
silent.
Just how ancient
these works are might be difficult to prove, but
they are certainly
not modern. The evidence denotes that
they
have existed a long
time. Where the water in a canal flowed
over
solid rock the rock
has been much worn. Portions of the old
ditches are filled
with lava and houses lie buried in the
vitreous
flood. It is certain that the country
was inhabited
prior to the last
lava flow whether that event occurred hundreds
or thousands of
years ago.
It is claimed that
the Pueblo Indians and cliff dwellers are
identical and that
the latter were driven from their peaceful
valley homes by a
hostile foe to find temporary shelter among the
rocks, but such a
conclusion seems to be erroneous in view of
certain facts.
The cliff dwellings
were not temporary camps, as such a migration
would imply, but
places of permanent abode. The houses
are too
numerous and well
constructed to be accounted for on any other
hypothesis. A people fleeing periodically to the cliffs
to
escape from an
enemy could not have built such houses.
Indeed,
they are simply
marvelous when considered as to location and
construction. The time that must necessarily have been
consumed
in doing the work
and the amount of danger and labor involved--
labor in preparing
and getting the material into place and danger
in scaling the
dizzy heights over an almost impassible trail, it
seems the boldest
assumption to assert that the work was done by
a fleeing and
demoralized mob.
Again, it would be
a physical impossibility for a people who were
only accustomed to
agricultural pursuits to suddenly and
completely change
their habits of life such as living among the
rocks would
necessitate. Only by native instinct and
daily
practice from
childhood would it be possible for any people to
follow the narrow
and difficult paths which were habitually
traveled by the
cliff dwellers. It requires a clear head
and
steady nerves to
perform the daring feat in safety--to the truth
of which statement
modern explorers can testify who have made the
attempt in recent
years at the peril of life and limb while
engaged in
searching for archaeological treasures.
Judged by the
everyday life that is familiar to us it seems
incredible that
houses should ever have been built or homes
established in such
hazardous places, or that any people should
have ever lived
there. But that they did is an
established fact
as there stand the
houses which were built and occupied by human
beings in the midst
of surroundings that might appall the
stoutest
heart. Children played and men and women
wrought on the
brink of frightful
precipices in a space so limited and dangerous
that a single
misstep made it fatal.
It is almost
impossible to conceive of any condition in life, or
combination of
circumstances in the affairs of men, that should
drive any people to
the rash act of living in the houses of the
cliff
dwellers. Men will sometimes do from
choice what they
cannot be made to
do by compulsion. It is easier to
believe that
the cliff dwellers,
being free people, chose of their own accord
the site of their
habitation rather than that from any cause they
were compelled to
make the choice. Their preference was to
live
upon the cliffs, as
they were fitted by nature for such an
environment.
For no other
reason, apparently, do the Moquis live upon their
rocky and barren
mesas away from everything which the civilized
white man deems
desirable, yet, in seeming contentment.
The
Supais, likewise,
choose to live alone at the bottom of Cataract
Canon where they
are completely shut in by high cliffs.
Their
only road out is by
a narrow and dangerous trail up the side of
the canon, which is
little traveled as they seldom leave home and
are rarely visited.
To affirm that the
cliff dwellers were driven from their
strongholds and
dispersed by force is pure fiction, nor is there
any evidence to
support such a theory. That they had
enemies no
one doubts, but,
being in possession of an impregnable position
where one man could
successfully withstand a thousand, to
surrender would
have been base cowardice, and weakness was not a
characteristic of
the cliff dwellers.
The question of
their subsistence is likewise a puzzle.
They
evidently
cultivated the soil where it was practicable to do so
as fragments of
farm products have been found in their dwellings,
but in the vicinity
of some of the houses there is no tillable
land and the
inhabitants must have depended upon other means for
support. The wild game which was, doubtless, abundant
furnished
them with meat and
edible seeds, fruits and roots from native
plants like the
pinon pine and mesquite which together with the
saguaro and mescal,
supplied them with a variety of food
sufficient for
their subsistence as they do, in a measure, the
wild Indian tribes
of that region at the present day.
CHAPTER XII
THE MOQUI INDIANS
The Indians of
Arizona are, perhaps, the most interesting of any
of the American
aborigines. They are as unique and
picturesque
as is the land
which they inhabit; and the dead are no less so
than the living.
The Pueblo Indians,
with which the Moquis are classed, number
altogether about
ten thousand and are scattered in twenty-six
villages over
Arizona and New Mexico. They resemble
each other
in many respects,
but do not all speak the same language.
They
represent several
wholly disconnected stems and are classified
linguistically by
Brinton as belonging to the Uto-Aztecan, Kera,
Tehua and Zuni
stocks. He believes that the Pueblo
civilization
is not due to any
one unusually gifted lineage, but is altogether
a local product,
developed in independent tribes by their
peculiar
environment, which is favorable to agriculture and
sedentary
pursuits.[8]
[8] The American
Race, by D. G. Brinton, 1891.
The houses are
constructed of stone and adobe, are several
stories high and
contain many apartments. None of the
existing
pueblos are as
large as some that are in ruins which, judging by
the quantity of
debris, must have been huge affairs.
Since the
advent of the
Spaniard the style of building has changed somewhat
to conform to
modern ideas, so that now some families live in
separate one-story
houses having doors and windows, instead, as
formerly, only in
large communal houses that were built and
conducted on the
communal plan.
Their manners and
customs are peculiar to themselves and make an
interesting
study. Their civilization is entirely
original,
though modified to
some extent by centuries of contact with the
whites. They understand the Spanish language, but
have not
forgotten their
mother tongue. They hold tenaciously to
their
old customs and
have not changed materially during the past four
hundred years.
During that time
the Catholic missionaries endeavored to convert
them to
Christianity, but with only partial success.
While they
appeared to
acquiesce, by giving formal obedience to the
requirements of the
new religion, they yet held sacred their old
beliefs and in the
privacy of the estufa practiced in secret the
rites and
ceremonies of their ancient faith.
The Spaniards
undertook to conquer a free and independent people
by teaching them
dependence and submission, but signally failed.
After a struggle of
two hundred and eighty years Spanish
civilization
withdrew and left the Pueblo civilization
victorious.
Under successive
Spanish, Mexican and American rule the Pueblo
has preserved
itself intact which fact stamps the Pueblo people
as being eminently
valiant, self-reliant and persevering.
They
are peaceable,
industrious and hospitable and are said to be the
best governed
people in the world. As nearly as can be
ascertained they
are free from every gross vice and crime and Mr.
C. F. Lummis, who
knows them well, believes them to be a
crimeless people.
The Moquis of
Arizona are the most primitive of the Pueblo
Indians and are
worthy representatives of their race.
They are
of the Aztecan
branch of the Shoshonean family and probably the
lineal descendents
of the cliff dwellers. Their home is on
the
Painted Desert in
northeastern Arizona where they have lived for
many
centuries. It is a barren and desolate
spot and has been
likened to Hades
with its fires extinguished.
Nevertheless it is
an exceedingly
interesting region and furnishes many attractions.
The landscape is
highly picturesque and the phantasmagoric
effects of the
rarified atmosphere are bewitching.
In the early Spanish
days Moqui land was designated as the
Province of Tusayan
and was shrouded in mystery. The seven
Moqui
towns were at one
time regarded as the seven Cities of Cibola,
but later it was
decided that Zuni and not Moqui was the true
Cibola.
When Coronado, at
the head of his intrepid army, marched through
the land in the
year 1540, he procured native guides to aid him
in exploring the
country, hoping to find fabulous wealth which
failed to
materialize. He heard of a race of
giants whom he
wished to meet, but
instead of finding them discovered a river
with banks so high
that they "seemed to be raised three or four
leagues into the
air." What he saw was the Colorado
River with
its gigantic canon
walls and wealth of architectural grandeur and
beauty. The bewildering sight naturally astonished
him as it
does every
beholder. Think of a fissure in the
earth over a mile
deep! But the Grand Canon of Arizona is more that a
simple
fissure in the
earth. It is composed of many canons
which form a
seemingly endless
labyrinth of winding aisles and majestic
avenues--fit
promenades for the Gods.
The land of the
Moquinos is full of surprises and, although they
are not all as
startling as the Grand Canon, they are
sufficiently
striking to make Arizona a wonderland that is second
to none on the
continent.
The Moquis live in
seven towns or pueblos which are built upon
three rocky mesas
that are many miles apart. The mesas are
about
seven thousand feet
above sea level and from six to eight hundred
feet higher than
the surrounding plain. Upon the first or
eastern mesa are
located the three towns of Te-wa, Si-chom-ovi
and Wal-pi. Tewa is the newest of the three towns and was
built
by the Tehuan
allies who came as refugees from the Rio Grande
after the great
rebellion of 1680. They were granted
permission
to build on the
spot by agreeing to defend the Gap, where the
trail leaves the
mesa, against all intruders.
Upon the second or
middle mesa are the towns of Mi-shong-novi,
Shi-pauli-ovi and Shong-o-pavi;
and on the third mesa is
O-rai-bi, which is
the largest of the Moqui villages, and equal
to the other six in
size and population. The entire
population
of the seven Moqui
towns numbers about two thousand souls.
In 1583 Espejo
estimated that the Moquis numbered fifty thousand,
which, doubtless,
was an over estimate, as he has been accused of
exaggeration. However, since their discovery their numbers
have
greatly diminished
and steadily continue to decrease, as if it
were also to be
their fate to become extinct like the ancient
cliff dwellers.
The Moqui Pueblos
are well protected by natural barriers upon all
sides except
towards the south. Perched upon their
high mesas
the people have
been safe from every attack of an enemy, but
their fields and
flocks in the valley below were defenseless.
The top of the
several mesas can only be reached by ascending
steep and difficult
trails which are hard to climb but easy to
defend. The paths on the mesas have been cut deep
into the hard
rock, which were worn
by the soft tread of moccasined feet during
centuries of
travel, numbering, perhaps, several times the four
hundred years that
are known to history.
The houses are
built of stone and mortar, and rise in terraces
from one to five
stories high, back from a street or court to a
sheer wall. Some of the remodeled and newly built houses
have
modern doors and
windows. The upper stories are reached
from the
outside by ladders
and stone stairways built into the walls.
The
rooms are smoothly
plastered and whitewashed and the houses are
kept tidy and
clean, but the streets are dirty and unsanitary.
In these sky cities
the Moquis live a retired life that is well
suited to their
quiet dispositions, love of home life and
tireless
industry. The men are kind, the women
virtuous and the
children
obedient. Indeed, the children are
unusually well
behaved. They seldom quarrel or cry, and a spoiled
child cannot
be found among
them. The Moquis love peace, and never
fight
among themselves. If a dispute occurs it is submitted to a
peace
council of old men,
whose decision is final and obeyed without a
murmur.
They are shy and
suspicious of strangers, but if addressed by the
magic word lolomi,
their reserve is instantly gone. It is
the
open sesame to
their hearts and homes, and after that the house
contains nothing
too good to bestow upon the welcome guest.
They
are true children
of nature, and have not yet become corrupted by
the vices of white
civilization. The worst thing they do is
that
the men smoke
tobacco.
Their industries
are few, but afford sufficient income to provide
for their modest
needs. They are primarily tillers of the
soil,
and as
agriculturists succeed under circumstances that would
wholly baffle and
discourage an eastern farmer. Several
years
ago a man was sent
out from Washington to teach the Moquis
agriculture, but
before a year had passed the teacher had to buy
corn from the
Indians. They make baskets and pottery,
weave
cloth and dress
skins for their own use and to barter in trade
with their
neighbors. They like silver and have
skilled workmen
who make the white
metal into beads and buttons and various
trinkets for
personal adornment. They care nothing
for gold, and
silver is their
only money. Chalchihuitl is their
favorite gem
and to own a
turquoise stone is regarded as an omen
of good
fortune to the
happy possessor.
Just how the
Spaniards got the notion that the Moquis loved gold
and possessed vast
stores of that precious metal is not apparent
unless it be, as
Bandelier suggests, that it originated in the
myth of the El
Dorado, or Gilded Man.[9] The story started at
Lake Guatanita in
Bogota, and traveled north to Quivera, but the
wealth that the
Spaniards sought they never found. Their
journey
led them over
deserts that gave them but little food and only a
meager supply of
water, and ended in disaster.
[9] The Gilded Man,
by A. F. Bandelier, 1893.
The mesas are all
rock and utterly barren, and their supplies are
all brought from a
distance over difficult trails. The
water is
carried in ollas by
the women from springs at the foot of the
mesa; wood is
packed on burros from distant forests; and corn,
melons and peaches
are brought home by the men when they return
from their work in
the fields. A less active and
industrious
people, under
similar circumstances, would soon starve to death,
but the Moquis are
self-supporting and have never asked nor
received any help
from Uncle Sam.
In the early
morning the public crier proclaims in stentorian
tones from the
housetop the program for the day, which sends
everyone to his
daily task. They are inured to labor and
do not
count work as a
hardship. It is only by incessant toil
that they
succeed at all in
earning a living with the scanty resources at
their command, and
the only surprise is that they succeed so
well. There is scarcely an hour during the day or
night that men
and women are not
either coming or going on some errand to
provision the home.
The men travel many
miles every day going to and from their work
in the fields. If a man owns a burro he sometimes rides, but
usually prefers to
walk. What the burro does not pack, the
man
carries on his
back. He often sings at his work, just
as the
white man does in
any farming community, and his song sounds
good.
The burro is the
common carrier and, because of his sterling
qualities, is a
prime favorite in all of the pueblos. If
he has
any faults they are
all condoned except one, that of theft.
If
he is caught eating
in a corn field he is punished as a thief by
having one of his
ears cut off; and if the offense is repeated he
loses his other ear
in the same manner.
The area of
tillable land is limited and is found only in small
patches, which
cause the farms to be widely scattered.
The soil
is mostly sand
which the wind drifts into dunes that sometimes
cover and destroy
the growing crops. The peach trees are
often
buried in sand or
only their top branches remain visible.
There
are no running
streams of water and rains are infrequent.
Corn is the
principal crop and support of the Moquis.
If there
is a good crop the
surplus is stored away and kept to be used in
the future should a
crop fail. The corn is planted in
irregular
hills and
cultivated with a hoe. It is dropped
into deep holes
made with a stick
and covered up. There is always enough
moisture in the
sand to sprout the seed which, aided by an
occasional shower,
causes it to grow and mature a crop. The
corn
is of a hardy,
native variety that needs but little water to make
it grow. The grain is small and hard like popcorn and
ripens in
several colors.
It is carried home
from the field by the men, and ground into
meal by the
women. The sound of the grinding is
heard in the
street and is
usually accompanied by a song that sounds weird but
musical. The meal is ground into different grades of
fineness
and when used for
bread is mixed with water to form a thin batter
which is spread by
the hand upon a hot, flat stone. It is
quickly baked and
makes a thin wafer that is no thicker than
paper. When done it is removed from the stone by the
naked hand
and is rolled or
folded into loaves which makes their prized pici
bread. It is said to be only one of fifty different
methods
which the Moquis
have of preparing corn for the table, or about
twice the number of
styles known to any modern chef.
The Moqui woman is
favored above many of her sex who live in
foreign lands. As a child she receives much attention and
toys
galore, as the
parents are very fond of their children and devote
much time to their
amusement. They make dolls of their
Katcinas
which are given to
the children to play with. A Katcina is
the
emblem of a deity
that is represented either in the form of a
doll carved out of
wood, woven into a plaque or basket, or
painted on tiles
and pottery. There are between three and
four
hundred Katcina
dolls each one representing a different divinity.
When a doll is
given to a child it is taught what it means, thus
combining
instruction with amusement. The method
is a perfect
system of
kindergarten teaching, which the Moquis invented and
used centuries
before the idea occurred to Froebel.
When the girl is
ten years old her education properly begins and
she is systematically
inducted into the mysteries of
housekeeping. At fifteen she has completed her curriculum
and
can cook, bake,
sew, dye, spin and weave and is, indeed,
graduated in all
the accomplishments of the finished Moqui
maiden. She now does up her hair in two large coils
or whorls,
one on each side of
the head, which is meant to resemble a
full-blown squash
blossom and signifies that the wearer is of
marriageable age
and in the matrimonial market. It gives
her a
striking yet not
unbecoming appearance, and, if her style of
coiffure were
adopted by modern fashion it would be something
unusually
attractive. As represented by Donaldson
in the
eleventh census
report the handsome face of Pootitcie, a maiden
of the pueblo of
Sichomovi, makes a pretty picture that even her
white sisters must
admire. After marriage the hair is let
down
and done up in two
hard twists that fall over the shoulders.
This form
represents a ripe, dried squash blossom and means
fruitfulness.
Her dress is not
Spanish nor yet altogether Indian, but is
simple, comfortable
and becoming, which is more than can be said
of some civilized
costumes. She chooses her own husband,
inherits her
mother's name and property and owns the house in
which she lives. Instead of the man owning and bossing
everything, as he
so dearly loves to do in our own civilization,
the property and
labor of the Moqui husband and wife are equally
divided, the former
owning and tending the fields and flocks and
the latter possessing
and governing the house.
The Moquis are
famous for their games, dances and festivals,
which have been
fully described by Dr. J. Walter Fewkes in
various reports to
the Smithsonian Institution. They have
many
secret orders,
worship the supernatural, and believe in
witchcraft. Their great fete day is the Snake Dance,
which is
held in alternate
years at Walpi and Oraibi, at the former place
in the odd year and
at the latter place in the even year, some
time during the
month of August. It is purely a religious
ceremony, an
elaborate supplication for rain, and is designed to
propitiate the
water god or snake deity.
Preliminary
ceremonies are conducted in the secret Kiva several
days preceding the
public dance. The Kiva is an underground
chamber that is cut
out of the solid rock, and is entered by a
ladder. It has but a single opening on top on a level
with the
street, which
serves as door, window and chimney. The
room is
only used by the
men, and is, in fact, a lodge room, where the
members of the
several secret orders meet and engage in their
solemn
ceremonials. It is a sacred place, a
holy of holies,
which none but
members of a lodge may enter, and is carefully
guarded.
The snakes used in
the dance are all wild, and captured out on
the open
plain. Four days prior to the dance the
snake men,
dressed in scanty
attire and equipped with their snake-capturing
paraphernalia,
march out in squads and scour the surrounding
country in search
of snakes. One day each is spent in
searching
the ground towards
the four points of the compass, in the order
of north, west,
south and east, returning at the close of each
day with their
catch to the Kiva, where the snakes are kept and
prepared for the
dance. The snakes caught are of several
varieties, but much
the largest number are rattlesnakes.
Respect is shown
for serpents of every variety and none are ever
intentionally
harmed, but the rattlesnake is considered the most
sacred and is
proportionately esteemed. Its forked
tongue
represents lightning,
its rattle thunder and its spots
rain-clouds. The number of snakes they find is surprising,
as
they catch from one
to two hundred during the four days' hunt on
ground that might
be carefully searched by white men for months
without finding a
single reptile.
The snake men are
very expert in catching and handling serpents,
and are seldom
bitten. If one is bitten it is nothing
serious,
as they have a
secret medicine which they use that is both
prophylactic and
curative, and makes them immune to the poison so
that no harm ever
results from a bite. The medicine is
taken
internally and also
applied locally. Efforts have been made
to
discover its
composition but without success. If a
snake is
located which shows
fight by the act of coiling it is tickled
with a snake-whip
made of eagle's feathers, which soon soothes
its anger and
causes it to uncoil and try to run away.
It is
then quickly and
safely caught up and dropped from the hand into
a bag carried for
that purpose.
Visitors who attend
the dance are under no restrictions, but are
free to come and go
as they please, either sightseeing or in
search of
curios. If the visitor has a supply of
candy, matches
and smoking-tobacco
to give away he finds frequent opportunities
to bestow his
gifts. The children ask for
"canty," the women
want
"matchi," and the men are pleased with a "smoke."
On the morning of
the dance both the men and women give their
hair an extra
washing by using a mixture of water and crushed
soap-root. The white fibers of the soap-root get mixed
with the
hair, which gives
it a tinge of iron gray. The children
also get
a bath which,
because of the great scarcity of water, is not of
daily occurrence.
To the Moquis the
snake dance is a serious and solemn affair, but
to the visitors it
is apt to be an occasion for fun and frolic.
Owing to a
misunderstanding of its true meaning, and because of
misconduct in the
past on similar occasions, notice is posted on
the Kiva asking
visitors to abstain from loud laughing and
talking. In other words it is a polite request made by
the rude
red man of his
polished (?) white brother to please behave
himself.
The dance begins
late in the afternoon and lasts less than one
hour, but while it
is in progress the action is intense.
The
snakes are carried
in a bag or jar from the Kiva to the Kisa,
built of
cotton-wood boughs on one side of the plaza, where the
snakes are banded
out to the dancers. After much marching
and
countermarching
about the plaza, chanting weird songs and shaking
rattles, the column
of snake priests, dressed in a fantastic garb
of paint, fur and
feathers, halts in front of the Kisa and breaks
up into groups of
three.
The carrier takes a
snake from the Kisa puts it in his mouth, and
carries it there
while dancing. Some of the more
ambitious young
men will carry two
or more of the smaller snakes at the same
time. The hugger throws his left arm over the
shoulder of the
carrier and with
his right hand fans the snake with his feather
whip. The gatherer follows after and picks up the
snakes as they
fall to the ground.
After the snakes
have all been danced they are thrown into a heap
and sprinkled with
sacred corn meal by the young women. The
scattering of the
meal is accompanied by a shower of spittle from
the spectators, who
are stationed on, convenient roofs and
ladders viewing the
ceremony. Fleet runners now catch up the
snakes in handfuls
and dash off in an exciting race over the mesa
and down rocky
trails to the plains below where the snakes are
returned unharmed
to their native haunts.
While the men are
away disposing of the reptiles the women carry
out large ollas, or
jars, filled with a black liquid, which is
the snake medicine
that is used in the final act of purification
by washing. When the men return to the mesa they remove
their
regalias and
proceed to drink of the snake medicine which acts as
an emetic. With the remainder of the concoction, and
assisted by
the women, they wash
their bodies free from paint. After the
men
are all washed and
puked they re-enter the Kiva, where the long
fast is broken by a
feast and the formal ceremonies of the snake
dance are ended.
The snake dance is
annually witnessed by many visitors who gather
from different
sections of the country and even foreign lands.
As there are no
hotels to entertain guests every visitor must
provide his own
outfit for conveyance, eating and sleeping.
Even
water is
scarce. Local springs barely furnish
enough water to
supply the native
population; and when the number of people to be
supplied is
increased from one to two hundred by the visitors who
attend the dance,
the water question becomes a serious problem.
On the lower
portion of the road which leads up from the spring
to the gap at Walpi
on the first mesa, the trail is over drifted
sand which makes
difficult walking. To remedy this defect
in the
trail, a path has
been made of flat stones laid in the sand,
which shows that
the Moquis are quick to recognize and utilize an
advantage that
contributes to their convenience and comfort.
The Santa Fe
Pacific is the nearest railroad, which runs about
one hundred miles
south of the Moqui villages. The tourist
can
secure
transportation at reasonable rates of local liverymen
either from
Holbrook, Winslow, Canon Diablo or Flagstaff.
The
trip makes an
enjoyable outing that is full of interest and
instruction from
start to finish.
Some years ago the
government, through its agents, began to
civilize and
Christianize these Indians and established a school
at Keam's Canon,
nine miles east of the first mesa, for that
purpose. When the school was opened the requisition
for a
specified number of
children from each pueblo was not filled
until secured by
force. As free citizens of the United
States,
being such by the
treaty made with Mexico in 1848 and, indeed,
already so under a
system of self-government superior to our own
and established
long before Columbus discovered America, they
naturally resented
any interference in their affairs but, being
in the minority and
overpowered, had to submit.
When the object of
the school was explained to them, they
consented to
receive secular instructions but objected to any
religious teaching. They asked to have schools opened in the
pueblos on the plan
of our public schools where the children
could attend during
the day and return home at night, and their
home life be not
broken up, but their prayer was denied.
The reservation
school was opened for the purpose of instructing
the Moqui children
in civilization, but the results obtained have
not been entirely
satisfactory. The methods employed for
enforcing
discipline have been unnecessarily severe and have
given
dissatisfaction. As recently as the year
1903 the children
of this inoffensive
and harmless people were forcibly taken from
their homes and put
into the schools. The time selected for
doing the dastardly
deed was during the night in midwinter when
the weather was
cold and the ground covered with snow.
Under the
orders of the
superintendent the reservation police made the raid
without warning or
warrant of any kind. While the people
slept,
the police entered
their houses, dragged the little children from
their comfortable
beds and drove them naked out into the snow and
cold, where they
were rounded up and herded like cattle.
The indignity and
outrage of this and other similar acts have
embittered the
Moquis until they have lost what little respect
they ever had for
Christianity and civilization. The
policy of
the government is
to make them do whatever they do not want to
do, to break up the
family and scatter its members. The
treatment has
created two factions among the Moquis known as the
"hostiles"
who are only hostile in opposing oppression and any
change in their
religious faith and customs; and the "friendlies"
who are willing to
obey the boss placed over them and comply with
his demands.
Religion is the
dearest treasure of mankind, and when assailed
always finds ready
defenders. Possessed by this innate
feeling
of right and
rankling with the injustice of the past, is it
surprising that
they should spurn any proffered help?
They
remember what they
have suffered in the past and do not care to
repeat the
experiment. To this day the Moquis hold
the mission
epoch in contempt
and nothing could induce them to accept
voluntarily any
proposition that savored ought of the old regime.
Every vestige of
that period has been obliterated from the
pueblos that
nothing tangible should remain to remind them of
their undeserved
humiliation.
They are a highly
religious people worshiping after their own
creed, and are
sincere and conscientious in their devotions.
Almost everything
they do has some religious significance and
every day its
religious observance. Their religion
satisfies
them and harms no
one, then why not leave them in peace?
We
believe that we can
benefit them, which is doubtless true, but
might they not also
teach us some useful lessons? It would
sometimes be more
to our credit if we were less anxious to teach
others, and more
willing to learn ourselves.
Next to their
religion they love their homes most. The
rocks
upon which they
live, are they not dear from associations?
Is it
not the land of
their birth and the home of their fathers during
many
generations? They cling with stubborn
tenacity to their
barren mesas and
nothing thus far has succeeded in driving them
away; neither war,
pestilence nor famine. Repeated attempts
have
been made to induce
them to leave, but without success.
Tom Polaki, the
principal man of Tewa, was the first man to
respond to the call
to come down. He left the mesa several
years
ago, and went to
the plain below to live. Having captured
the
bell wether it was
presumed that the balance of the flock would
soon follow, but
the contrary proved to be true. At the
foot of
the bluff near a
spring on the road that leads up to the gap Tom
built a modern
house and tried to imitate the white man.
But the
change did not suit
him, and after living in his modern house for
a number of years,
he finally sold it and returned to his old
home on the
mesa. A few others at different times
have tried the
same experiment
with no better success. The man would
stay for a
short time in the
house provided for him, but never made it a
permanent home for
his family.
That the Moquis are
changing is best illustrated by reference to
one of their
marriage customs. It is the custom when
a youth
contemplates
matrimony to make a marriage blanket. He
grows the
cotton, spins the
yarn and weaves the cloth, which requires a
year or more of
time to finish. Since the children have
gone to
school it is not
deemed necessary for a young man to go to so
much trouble and
expense as to make a marriage blanket, but
instead, he borrows
one from a friend in the village, and after
the ceremony is
over returns it to the owner. Even now
it is not
easy to find such a
blanket, and very soon they will be priceless
as no more such
garments will be made.
The only reasonable
explanation why any people should select a
location like that
of the Moquis is on the hypothesis of choice.
There is much of
the animal in human nature that is influenced by
instinct, and man,
like the brute, often unconsciously selects
what is most
congenial to his nature. Thus instinct
teaches the
eagle to nest on
the highest crag and the mountain sheep to
browse in pastures
which only the hardiest hunter dare approach.
For no better
reason, apparently, do the Moquis occupy their
barren mesas; they
simply prefer to live there above any other
place.
Safety has been
urged as a motive for their conduct but it alone
is not a sufficient
reason for solving the problem. Their
position is safe
enough from attack but in the event of a siege
their safety would
only be temporary. With their scant
water
supply at a
distance and unprotected they could not hold out long
in a siege, but
would soon be compelled either to fight, fly or
famish.
Again, if safety
was their only reason for staying, they could
have left long ago
and had nothing to fear, as they have been for
many years at peace
with their ancient enemy the predatory
Navajo. But rather than go they have chosen to remain
in their
old home where they
have always lived, and will continue to live
so long as they are
left free to choose.
The modern
iconoclast in his unreasonable devotion to realism
has, perhaps,
stripped them of much old time romance, but even
with all of that gone,
enough of fact remains to make them a
remarkable
people. Instead of seeking to change
them this last
bit of harmless
aboriginal life should be spared and preserved,
if possible, in all
of its native purity and simplicity.
CHAPTER XIV
A FINE CLIMATE
The climate of
Arizona as described in the local vernacular is
"sure
fine." The combination of elements
which make the climate
is unusual and
cannot be duplicated elsewhere upon the American
continent. The air is remarkably pure and dry. Siccity, indeed,
is its
distinguishing feature. That the climate
is due to
geographical and
meteorological conditions cannot be doubted, but
the effects are
unexplainable by any ordinary rules.
The region involved
not only embraces Arizona, but also includes
portions of
California and Mexico and is commonly known as the
Colorado
Desert. Yuma, at the junction of the
Gila and Colorado
rivers, is
approximately its geographical center.
The general
aspect of the
country is low and flat and in the Salton sink the
dry land dips
several hundred feet below the level of the ocean.
Only by extreme
siccity is such land possible when more water
rises in
evaporation than falls by precipitation.
There are but
few such places in
the world, the deepest one being the Dead Sea,
which is about
thirteen hundred feet lower than the ocean.
The Colorado Basin
is the dry bed of an ancient sea whose shore
line is yet visible
in many places upon the sides of the
mountains which
surround it. Its floor is composed of
clay with
deposits of sand
and salt. Strong winds sometimes sweep
over it
that shift and pile
up the sand in great dunes. The entire
region is utterly
bare and desolate, yet by the use of water
diverted from the
Colorado river it is being reclaimed to
agriculture.
The rainfall is
very scant the average annual precipitation at
Yuma being less
than three inches. The climate is not
dry from
any lack of surface
water, as it has the Gila and Colorado
rivers, the Gulf of
California and the broad Pacific Ocean to
draw from. But the singular fact remains that the
country is
extremely dry and
that it does not rain as in other lands.
Neither is the
rainfall deficient from any lack of evaporation.
Upon the contrary
the evaporation is excessive and according to
the estimate of
Major Powell amounts fully to one hundred inches
of water per
annum. If the vapors arising from this
enormous
evaporation should
all be condensed into clouds and converted
into rain it would
create a rainy season that would last
throughout the
year.
The humidity caused
by an abundant rainfall in any low, hot
country is usually
enough to unfit it for human habitation.
The
combined effect of
heat and moisture upon a fertile soil causes
an excess of both
growing and decaying vegetation that fills the
atmosphere with
noxious vapors and disease producing germs.
The
sultry air is so
oppressive that it is more than physical
endurance can
bear. The particles of vapor which float
in the
atmosphere absorb
and hold the heat until it becomes like a
steaming hot blanket
that is death to unacclimated life. All
of
this is changed
where siccity prevails. The rapid
evaporation
quickly dispels the
vapors and the dry heat desiccates the
disease creating
germs and makes them innocuous.
The effect of heat
upon the body is measured by the difference in
the actual and
sensible temperatures, as recorded by the dry and
wet bulb
thermometers. When both stand nearly
together as they
are apt to do in a
humid atmosphere, the heat becomes
insufferable. In the dry climate of Arizona such a
condition
cannot occur. The difference in the two instruments is
always
great, often as
much as forty degrees. For this reason,
a
temperature of 118
degrees F. at Yuma is less oppressive than 98
degrees F. is in
New York. A low relative humidity gives
comfort
and freedom from
sunstroke even when the thermometer registers
the shade
temperature in three figures.
A dry, warm climate
is a stimulant to the cutaneous function.
The skin is an
important excreting organ that is furnished with a
large number of
sweat glands which are for the dual purpose of
furnishing moisture
for cooling the body by evaporation and the
elimination of worn
out and waste material from the organism.
As
an organ it is not
easily injured by over work, but readily lends
its function in an
emergency in any effort to relieve other tired
or diseased organs
of the body. By vicarious action the
skin is
capable of
performing much extra labor without injury to itself
and can be
harnessed temporarily for the relief of some vital
part which has
become crippled until its function can be
restored.
A diseased kidney
depends particularly upon the skin for succor
more than any other
organ. When the kidneys from any cause
fail
to act the skin
comes to their rescue and throws off impurities
which nature
intended should go by the renal route.
For this
reason diabetes and
albuminuria, the most stubborn of all kidney
diseases, are
usually benefited by a dry, warm climate.
The
benefit derived is
due to an increase of the insensible
transpiration
rather than to profuse perspiration. The
air of
Arizona is so dry
and evaporation so rapid that an increase in
perspiration is
scarcely noticeable except when it is confined by
impervious
clothing. The disagreeable feeling of
wet clothes
which accompanies
profuse perspiration in a damp climate is
changed to an
agreeable sensation of coolness in a dry one.
The atmosphere of
Arizona is not only dry but also very
electrical, so much
so, indeed, that at times it becomes almost
painful. Whenever the experiment is tried, sparks can
be
produced by
friction or the handling of metal, hair or wool. It
affects animals as
well as man, and literally causes "the hair to
stand on
end." The writer has on various
occasions seen a string
of horses standing
close together at a watering-trough, drinking,
so full of
electricity that their manes and tails were spread out
and floated in the
air, and the long hairs drawn by magnetic
attraction from one
animal to the other all down the line in a
spontaneous effort
to complete a circuit. There are times
when
the free
electricity in the air is so abundant that every object
becomes charged
with the fluid, and it cannot escape fast enough
or find "a way
out" by any adequate conductor. The
effects of
such an excess of
electricity is decidedly unpleasant on the
nerves, and causes
annoying irritability and nervousness.
The hot sun
sometimes blisters the skin and burns the complexion
to a rich,
nut-brown color, but the air always feels soft and
balmy, and usually
blows only in gentle zephyrs. The air
has a
pungent fragrance
which is peculiar to the desert, that is the
mingled product of
a variety of resinous plants. The
weather is
uniformly pleasant,
and the elements are rarely violently
disturbed.
In the older
settled sections of our country, whenever there is
any sudden or
extreme change in the weather of either heat or
cold, wet or dry,
it is always followed by an increase of
sickness and
death. The aged and invalid, who are
sensitive and
weak, suffer
mostly, as they feel every change in the weather.
There is, perhaps,
no place on earth that can boast of a perfect
climate, but the
country that can show the fewest and mildest
extremes approaches
nearest to the ideal. The southwest is
exceptionally
favored in its climatic conditions, and is
beneficial to the
majority of chronic invalids.
Atmospheric
pressure is greatest near the earth's surface, and
exerts a
controlling influence over the vital functions.
Atmospheric
pressure is to the body what the governor is to
the steam engine,
or the pendulum to the clock. It
regulates
vital action,
insures safety and lessens the wear and tear of
machinery. Under its soothing influence the number of
respirations per
minute are diminished, the heart beats decreased
in frequency, and
the tired brain and nerves rested. It is
often
better than
medicine, and will sometimes give relief when all
other means fail.
Arizona has a
diversity of altitudes, and therefore furnishes a
variety of
climates. The elevations range from
about sea level
at Yuma to nearly
thirteen thousand feet upon the San Francisco
mountains. By making suitable changes in altitude to fit
the
season it is
possible to enjoy perpetual spring.
Because Arizona is
far south geographically it is only natural to
suppose that it is
all very hot, which is a mistake. In the
low
valleys of southern
Arizona the summers are hot, but it is a dry
heat which is not
oppressive, and the winters are delightfully
pleasant. In northern Arizona the winters are cold and
the
summers cool. There is no finer summer climate in the world
than
is found on the
high plateaus and pine-topped mountains of
northern Arizona. Prescott, Williams and Flagstaff have a
charming summer
climate, while at Yuma, Phoenix and Tucson the
winter weather is
simply perfect.
A mountain
residence is not desirable for thin, nervous people or
such as are
afflicted with any organic disease. A high
altitude
is too stimulating
for this class of patients and tends to
increase
nervousness and aggravates organic disease.
Such
persons should seek
a coast climate and a low altitude, which is
sedative, rather
than risk the high and dry interior. Any
coast
climate is better
than the mountains for nervous people, but the
Pacific Coast is
preferable to any other because of its freedom
from electrical
storms and every other form of disagreeable
meteorological
disturbance that tries the nerves. The
nervousness that is
produced by a high altitude does not, as a
rule, develop
suddenly, but grows gradually upon the patient.
Those of a
sensitive nature feel it most and women more than men.
After making a
change from a low to a high altitude sleep may be
sound for a time,
but it soon becomes fitful and unrefreshing.
It has been
discovered that altitude increases the amount of
hemoglobulin and
thus enriches the blood and is particularly
beneficial to pale,
thin people. It also sharpens the
appetite
and promotes
digestion and assimilation.
Persons suffering
from rheumatism, neuralgia, advanced pulmonary
consumption,
organic heart disease and all disorders of the brain
and nerves should
avoid a high altitude. Patients that are
afflicted with any
of the above-mentioned diseases are more
comfortable in a
low altitude and should choose between the coast
of California and
the low, dry lands of the lower Gila and
Colorado rivers,
according to the season of the year and the
quality of climate
desired.
The diseases which
are especially benefited by the climate of
Arizona are
consumption, bronchitis, catarrh and hay fever.
Anyone going in
search of health who has improved by the change
should remain where
the improvement took place lest by returning
home and being again
subjected to the former climatic conditions
which caused the
disease the improvement be lost and the old
disease
re-established with increased severity.
Most sick people
who are in need of a change live in a humid
atmosphere where
the winters are extremely cold and the summers
uncomfortably hot,
and to be benefited by a change must seek a
climate in which
the opposite conditions prevail. The
climate of
the southwest
furnishes just what such invalids require.
The
sick who need cold
or damp weather, if there be any such, can be
accommodated almost
anywhere, but those who want a warm, dry
climate must go
where it can be found. Not every invalid
who
goes in search of
health finds a cure, as many who start on such
a journey are
already past help when they leave home.
When a
case is hopeless
the patient should not undertake such a trip,
but remain quietly
at home and die in peace among friends.
As already
intimated the climate of the Colorado basin is ideal
in winter, but
becomes very hot in summer. Its low
altitude,
rainless days,
cloudless skies and balmy air form a combination
that is unsurpassed
and is enjoyed by all either sick or well.
The heat of summer
does not create sickness, but becomes
monotonous and
tiresome from its steady and long continuance.
Many residents of
the Territory who tire of the heat and can
afford the trip
take a vacation during the summer months and
either go north to
the Grand Canon and the mountains or to the
Pacific Coast. Every summer witnesses a hegira of sun baked
people fleeing from
the hot desert to the mountains or ocean
shore in search of
coolness and comfort.
Life in the
tropics, perhaps, inclines to indolence and languor,
particularly if the
atmosphere is humid, but in a dry climate
like that of
Arizona the heat, although sometimes great, is never
oppressive or
debilitating. It has its lazy people
like any
other country and
for the same reason that there are always some
who were born tired
and never outgrow the tired feeling, but
Arizona climate is
more bracing than enervating.
The adobe house of
the Mexican is a peculiar institution of the
southwest. It may be interesting on account of its past
history,
but it is certainly
not pretty. It is nothing more than a
box
of dried mud with
its roof, walls and floor all made of dirt.
It
is never free from
a disagreeable earthy smell which, if mingled
with the added
odors of stale smoke and filth, as is often the
case, makes the air
simply vile. The house can never be kept
tidy because of the
dirt which falls from the adobe, unless the
walls and ceilings
are plastered and whitewashed, which is
sometimes done in
the better class of houses. If the house
is
well built it is
comfortable enough in pleasant weather, but as
often as it rains
the dirt roof springs a leak and splashes water
and mud over
everything. If by chance the house
stands on low
ground and is
surrounded by water, as sometimes happens, after a
heavy rain the
walls become soaked and dissolved into mud when
the house
collapses. The adobe house may have been
suited to the
wants of a
primitive people, but in the present age of
improvement, it is
scarcely worth saving except it be as a relic
of a vanishing
race.
In order to escape
in a measure the discomforts of the midday
heat the natives
either seek the shade in the open air where the
breeze blows, or,
what is more common, close up tight the adobe
house in the
morning and remain indoors until the intense heat
from the scorching
sun penetrates the thick walls, which causes
the inmates to move
out. In the cool of the evening they
visit
and transact
business and when the hour comes for retiring go to
bed on cots made up
out of doors where they sleep until morning,
while the house is
left open to cool off during the night.
This
process is repeated
every day during the hot summer months and is
endured without
complaint.
The natives, also,
take advantage of the dry air to operate a
novel method of
refrigeration. The cloth covered army
canteen
soaked in water and
the handy water jug of the eastern harvest
field wrapped in a
wet blanket are familiar examples of an
ineffectual attempt
at refrigeration by evaporation. But
natural
refrigeration find
its best illustration in the arid regions of
the southwest by
the use of an olla, which is a vessel made of
porous pottery, a
stout canvas bag or a closely woven Indian
basket. A suitable vessel is selected, filled with
water and
suspended somewhere
in midair in the shade. If it is hung in
a
current of air it
is all the better, as any movement of the
atmosphere
facilitates evaporation. A slow seepage
of water
filters through the
open pores of the vessel which immediately
evaporates in the
dry air and lowers the temperature. The
water
in the olla soon
becomes cold and if properly protected will
remain cool during
the entire day.
The dry air also
acts as a valuable preservative. During
the
winter, when the
weather is cool but not freezing, if fresh meat
is hung out in the
open air, it will keep sweet a long time.
A
dry crust soon
forms upon its surface which hermetically seals
the meat from the
air and keeps it perfectly sweet. In the
summer it is
necessary to dry the meat more quickly to keep it
from spoiling. It is then made into "jerky" by
cutting it into
long, thin strips
and hanging them up in the sun to dry.
After
it is thoroughly
dried, it is tied up in bags and used as needed,
either by eating it
dry from the pocket when out on a tramp, or,
if in camp, serving
it in a hot stew.
Even the carcass of
a dead animal that is left exposed upon the
ground to decompose
does not moulder away by the usual process of
decay, but what is
left of the body after the hungry buzzards and
coyotes have
finished their feast, dries up into a mummy that
lasts for years.
Climate everywhere
unquestionably influences life in its
evolution, but it
is not always easy to determine all of its
effects in
detail. In Arizona, which is but a
comparatively
small corner of our
country, live several races of men that are
as different from
each other as nature could make them, yet all
live in the same
climate.
The Pueblo Indian
is in a manner civilized, peaceable and
industrious. He is brave in self-defense, but never seeks
war
nor bloodshed. Quite different is his near neighbor, the
bloodthirsty
Apache, who seems to delight only in robbing and
killing
people. Cunning and revenge are
pronounced traits of his
character and the
Government has found him difficult to conquer
or control. The Mexican leads a shiftless, thriftless
life and
seems satisfied
merely to exist. He has, unfortunately,
inherited more of
the baser than the better qualities of his
ancestors, and, to
all appearance, is destined to further
degenerate. The American is the last comer and has
already
pushed civilization
and commerce into the remotest corners and,
as usual, dominates
the land.
As diverse as are
these several races in many respects, each one
of them furnishes
splendid specimens of physical manhood.
The
Indian has always
been noted for his fine physique, and is large
bodied, well
muscled and full chested. One advantage
which the
southwest has over
other countries is that the climate is mild
and favorable to an
outdoor life, which is conducive to health
and physical
development.
No single race of
men flourish equally well everywhere, but each
one is affected by
its own surroundings; and, what is true of a
race, is also true
of an individual. The pioneer in any
country
is always an
interesting character, but he differs in
peculiarities
according to his environment of mountain, plain or
forest. Occupation also exerts an influence and in
time develops
distinct types like
the trapper, miner, soldier and cowboy, that
only the graphic
pencil of a Remington can accurately portray.
The eccentricities
of character which are sometimes met in men
who dwell on the
frontier are not always due alone to
disposition, but
are largely the product of the wild life which
they live, that
inclines them to be restless, reckless and even
desperate.
There is no better
field for observing and studying the effects
of environment upon
human life than is furnished by the arid
region of the
southwest.