occasionally remarked apologetically. He shaved every morning and was as
clean as a pin. We got to be downright fond of him, and the three of us
made a happy family.
Ever since we'd brought our herd down to the winter camp, the wild
cattle on the mesa were more in evidence. They came down to the river to
drink oftener, and loitered about, grazing in that low canyon so much
that we began to call it Cow Canyon. They were fine-looking beasts, too.
One could see they had good pasture up there. Henry had a theory that we
ought to be able to entice them over to our side with salt. He wanted to
kill one for beef-steaks. Soon after he joined us we lost two cows.
Without warning they bolted into the mesa, as the foreman had said.
After that we watched the herd closer; but a few days before Christmas,
when Blake was off hunting and I was on duty, four fine young steers
sneaked down to the water's edge through the brush, and before I knew it
they were swimming the river--seemed to do it with no trouble at all.
They frisked out on the other side, ambled up the canyon, and
disappeared. I was furious to have them steal a march on me, and I swore
to myself I'd follow them over and drive them back.
The next morning we took the herd a few miles east, to keep them out of
mischief. I made some excuse to Blake, cut back to the cabin, and asked
Henry to put me up a lunch. I told him my plan, but warned him not to
bear tales. If I wasn't home when Blake came in at night, then he could
tell him where I'd gone.
Henry went down to the river with me to watch me across. It had grown
colder since morning, and looked like snow. The old man was afraid of a
storm; said I might get snowed in. But I'd got my nerve up, and I didn't
want to put off making a try at it. I strapped my blanket and my lunch
on my shoulders, hung my boots around my neck to keep them dry, stuffed
my socks inside my hat, and we waded in. My horse took the water without
any fuss, though he shivered a good deal. He stepped out very carefully,
and when it got too deep for him, he swam without panic. We were carried
down-stream a little by the current, but I didn't have to slide off his
back. He found bottom after a while, and we easily made a landing. I
waved good-bye to Henry on the other side and started up the canyon,
running beside my horse to get warm.
The canyon was wide at the water's edge, and though it corkscrewed back
into the mesa by abrupt turns, it preserved this open, roomy character.
It was, indeed, a very deep valley with gently sloping sides, rugged and
rocky, but well grassed. There was a clear trail. Horses have no sense
about making a trail, but you can trust cattle to find the easiest
possible path and to take the lowest grades. The bluish rock and the
sun-tanned grass, under the unusual purple-grey of the sky, gave the
whole valley a very soft colour, lavender and pale gold, so that the
occasional cedars growing beside the boulders looked black that morning.
It may have been the hint of snow in the air, but it seemed to me that I
had never breathed in anything that tasted so pure as the air in that
valley. It made my mouth and nostrils smart like charged water, seemed
to go to my head a little and produce a kind of exaltation I kept
telling myself that it was very different from the air on the other side
of the river, though that was pure and uncontaminated enough.
When I had gone up this canyon for a mile or so, I came upon another,
opening out to the north--a box canyon, very different in character. No
gentle slope there. The walls were perpendicular, where they weren't
actually overhanging, and they were anywhere from eight hundred to a
thousand feet high, as we afterward found by measurement. The floor of
it was a mass of huge boulders, great pieces of rock that had fallen
from above ages back, and had been worn round and smooth as pebbles by
the long action of water. Many of them were as big as haystacks, yet
they lay piled on one another like a load of gravel. There was no
footing for my horse among those smooth stones, so I hobbled him and
went on alone a little way, just to see what it was like. My eyes were
steadily on the ground--a slip of the foot there might cripple one.
It was such rough scrambling that I was soon in a warm sweat under my
damp clothes. In stopping to take breath, I happened to glance up at the
canyon wall. I wish I could tell you what I saw there, just as I saw it,
on that first morning, through a veil of lightly falling snow. Far up
above me, a thousand feet or so, set in a great cavern in the face of
the cliff, I saw a little city of stone, asleep. It was as still as
sculpture--and something like that. It all hung together, seemed to have
a kind of composition: pale little houses of stone nestling close to one
another, perched on top of each other, with flat roofs, narrow windows,
straight walls, and in the middle of the group, a round tower.
It was beautifully proportioned, that tower, swelling out to a larger
girth a little above the base, then growing slender again. There was
something symmetrical and powerful about the swell of the masonry. The
tower was the fine thing that held all the jumble of houses together and
made them mean something. It was red in colour, even on that grey day.
In sunlight it was the colour of winter oak-leaves. A fringe of cedars
grew along the edge of the cavern, like a garden. They were the only
living things. Such silence and stillness and repose--immortal repose.
That village sat looking down into the canyon with the calmness of
eternity.
The falling snow-flakes, sprinkling the pi�ons, gave it a special kind
of solemnity. I can't describe it. It was more like sculpture than
anything else. I knew at once that I had come upon the city of some
extinct civilization, hidden away in this inaccessible mesa for
centuries, preserved in the dry air and almost perpetual sunlight like a
fly in amber, guarded by the cliffs and the river and the desert.
As I stood looking up at it, I wondered whether I ought to tell even
Blake about it; whether I ought not to go back across the river and keep
that secret as the mesa had kept it. When I at last turned away, I saw
still another canyon branching out of this one, and in its was still
another arch, with another group of buildings. The notion struck me like
a rifle ball that this mesa had once been like a bee-hive; it was full
of little cliff-hung villages, it had been the home of a powerful tribe,
a particular civilization.
That night when I got home Blake was on the river-bank waiting for me. I
told him I'd rather not talk about my trip until after supper,--that I
was beat out. I think he'd meant to upbraid me for sneaking off, but he
didn't. He seemed to realize from the first that this was a serious
matter to me, and he accepted it in that way.
After supper, when we had lit our pipes, I told Blake and Henry as
clearly as I could what it was like over there, and we talked it over.
The town in the cliffs explained the irrigation ditches. Like all pueblo
Indians, these people had had their farms away from their dwellings. For
a stronghold they needed rock, and for farming, soft earth and a water
main.
"And this proves," said Roddy, "that there must have been a trail into
the mesa at the north end, and that they carried their harvest over by
the ford. If this Cow Canyon was the only entrance, they could never
have farmed down here." We agreed that he should go over on the first
warm day, and try to find a trail up to the Cliff City, as we already
called it.
We talked and speculated until after midnight. It was Christmas eve, and
Henry said it was but right we should do something out of the ordinary.
But after we went to bed, tired as I was, I was unable to sleep. I got
up and dressed and put on my overcoat and slipped outside to get sight
of the mesa. The wind had come up and was blowing the squall clouds
across the sky. The moon was almost full, hanging directly over the
mesa, which had never looked so solemn and silent to me before. I
wondered how many Christmases had come and gone since that round tower
was built. I had been to Acoma and the Hopi villages, but I'd never seen
a tower like that one. It seemed to me to mark a difference. I felt that
only a strong and aspiring people would have built it, and a people with
a feeling for design. That cluster of buildings, in its arch, with the
dizzy drop into empty air from its doorways and the wall of cliff above,
was as clear in my mind as a picture. By closing my eyes I could see it
against the dark, like a magic-lantern slide.
Blake got over the river before New Year's day, but he didn't find any
way of getting from the bottom of the box canyon up into the Cliff City.
He felt sure that the inhabitants of that sky village had reached it by
a trail from the top of the mesa down, not from the bottom of the canyon
up. He explored the branch canyons a little, and found four other
villages, smaller than the first, placed in similar arches.
These arches we had often seen in other canyons. You can find them in
the Grand Canyon, and all along the Rio Grande. Whenever the surface
crack and crumble with weather just at the line where it meets the hard
rim rock. It goes on crumbling and falling away, and in time this
wash-out grows to be a spacious cavern. The Cliff City sat in an
unusually large cavern. We afterward found that it was three hundred and
sixty feet long, and seventy feet high in the centre. The red tower was
fifty feet in height.
Blake and I began to make plans. Our engagement with the Sitwell Company
terminated in May. When we turned our cattle over to the foreman, we
would go into the mesa with what food and tools we could carry, and try
to find a trail down the north end, where we were sure there must once
have been one. If we could find an easier way to get in and out of the
mesa, we would devote the summer, and our winter's wages, to exploring
it. From Tarpin, the nearest railroad, we could get supplies and tools,
and help if we needed it. We thought we could manage to do the work
ourselves if old Henry would stay with us. We didn't want to make our
discovery any more public than necessary. We were reluctant to expose
those silent and beautiful places to vulgar curiosity. Finally we
outlined our plan to Henry, telling him we couldn't promise him regular
wages.
"We won't mention it," he said, waving his hand. "I'd ask nothing better
than to share your fortunes. In me youth it was me ambition to go to
Egypt and see the tombs of the Pharaohs."
"You may get a bad cold going over the river, Henry," Blake warned him.
"It's a bad crossing--makes you dizzy when you take to swimming. You
have to keep your head."
"I was never seasick in me life," he declared, "and at that, I've helped
in the cook's galley on the Anchor Line when she was fair standing on
her head. You'll find me strong and active when I'm once broke into the
work. I come of an enduring family, though, to be sure, I've abused me
constitution somewhat."
Henry liked to talk about his family, and the work they'd done, and the
great age to which they lived, and the brandy puddings his mother made.
"Eighteen we was in all, when we sat down at table," he would often say
with his thin, apologetic smile. "Mother and father, and ten living, and
four dead, and two still-born." Roddy and I used to strain our
imagination trying to visualize such a family dinner party.
Everything worked out well for us. The foreman showed so much interest
in our plans that we told him everything. He insisted that we should
stay on at the winter camp as long as we needed a home base, and use up
whatever supplies were left. When he paid us off, he sold us our two
horses at a very reasonable figure.
Chapter 4
Blake and I got over to the mesa together for the first time early in
May. We carried with us all the food we could, and an ax and spade. It
took us several days to find a trail leading from the bottom of the box
canyon up to the Cliff City. There were gaps in it; it was broken by
ledges too steep for a man to climb. Lying beside one of these, we found
an old dried cedar trunk, with toe-notches cut in it. That was a plain
suggestion. We felled some trees and threw them up over the gaps in the
path. Toward the end of the week, when our provisions were getting low,
we made the last lap in our climb, and stepped upon the ledge that was
the floor of the Cliff City.
In front of the cluster of buildings, there was an open space, like a
court-yard. Along the outer edge of this yard ran a low stone wall. In
some places the wall had fallen away from the weather, but the buildings
themselves sat so far back under the rim rock that the rain had never
beat on them. In thunder-storms I've seen the water come down in sheets
over the face of that cavern without a drop touching the village.
The court-yard was not choked by vegetation, for there was no soil. It
was bare rock, with a few old, flat-topped cedars growing out of the
cracks, and a little pale grass. But everything seemed open and clean,
and the stones, I remember, were warm to the touch, smooth and pleasant
to feel.
The outer walls of the houses were intact, except where sometimes an
outjutting corner had crumbled. They were made of dressed stones,
plastered inside and out with 'dobe, and were tinted in light colours,
pink and pale yellow and tan. Here and there a cedar log in the ceiling
except for that, there was little rubbish or disorder. As Blake
remarked, wind and sun are good housekeepers.
This village had never been sacked by an enemy, certainly. Inside the
little rooms water jars and bowls stood about unbroken, and yucca-fibre
mats were on the floors.
We could give only a hurried look over the place, as our food was
exhausted, and we had to get back over the river before dark. We went
about softly, tried not to disturb anything--even the silence. Besides
the tower, there seemed to be about thirty little separate dwellings.
Behind the cluster of houses was a kind of back court-yard, running from
end to end of the cavern; a long, low, twilit space that got gradually
lower toward the back until the rim rock met the floor of the cavern,
exactly like the sloping roof of an attic. There was perpetual twilight
back there, cool, shadowy, very grateful after the blazing sun in the
front court-yard. When we entered it we heard a soft trickling sound,
and we came upon a spring that welled out of the rock into a stone basin
and then ran off through a cobble-lined gutter and dripped down the
cliffs. I've never anywhere tasted water like it; as cold as ice, and so
pure. Long afterward Father Duchene came out to spend a week with us on
the mesa; he always carried a small drinking-glass with him, and he used
to fill it at the spring and take it out into the sunlight. The water
looked like liquid crystal, absolutely colourless, without the slight
brownish or greenish tint that water nearly always has. It threw off the
sunlight like a diamond.
Beside this spring stood some of the most beautifully shaped water jars
we ever found--I gave Mrs. St. Peter one of them--standing there just as
if they'd been left yesterday. In the back court we found a great many
things besides jars and bowls: a row of grinding stones, and several
clay ovens, very much like those the Mexicans use to-day. There were
charred bones and charcoal, and the roof was thick with soot all the way
along. It was evidently a kind of common kitchen, where they roasted and
baked and probably gossiped. There were corncobs everywhere, and ears of
corn with the kernels still on them--little, like popcorn. We found
dried beans, too, and strings of pumpkin seeds, and plum seeds, and a
cupboard full of little implements made of turkey bones.
Late that afternoon Roddy and I crossed the river and got back to our
cabin to rest for a few days.
The second time we went over, we found a long winding trail leading from
the Cliff City up to the top of the mesa--a narrow path worn deep into
the stone ledges that overhung the village, then running back into the
wood of stunted pi�ons on the summit. Following this to the north end of
the mesa, we found what was left of an old road down to the plain. But
making this road passable was a matter of weeks, and we had to get
workmen and tools from Tarpin. It was a narrow foot-path, barely wide
enough for a sure-footed mule, and it wound down through Black Canyon,
dropping in loops along the face of terrifying cliffs. About a hundred
feet above the river, it ended--broke right off into the air. A wall of
rock had fallen away there, probably from a landslide. That last piece
of road cost us three weeks' hard work, and most of our winter's wages.
We kept the workmen on long enough to build us a tight log cabin on the
mesa top, a little way back from the ledge that hung over the Cliff
City.
While we were engaged in road-building, we made a short cut from our
cabin down to the Cliff City and Cow Canyon. Just over the Cliff City,
there was a crack in the ledge, a sort of manhole, and in this we hung a
ladder of pine-trunks spliced together with light chains, leaving the
branch forks for foot-holds. By climbing down this ladder we saved
about two miles of winding trails, and dropped almost directly into Cow
Canyon, where we meant always to leave one of the horses grazing. Taking
this route, we could at any time make a quick exit from the mesa--we
were used to swimming the river now, and in summer our wet clothes dried
very quickly.
Bill Hook, the liveryman at Tarpin, who'd sheltered old Henry when he
was down and out, proved a good friend to us. He got our workmen back
and forth for us, brought our supplies up on to the mesa on his