by Zane Grey
CHAPTER 8.
SNAKE GULCH
Not far from the scene of our adventure with the White Streak as wefacetious and appreciatively named the mustang, deep, flat caveindented the canyon wall. By reason of its sandy floor and closeproximity to Frank's trickling spring, we decided to camp in it. Aboutdawn Lawson and Stewart straggled in on spent horse and found awaitingthem a bright fire, a hot supper and cheery comrades.
"Did yu fellars git to see him?" was the ranger's first question.
"Did we get to see him?" echoed five lusty voice as one. "We did!"
It was after Frank, in his plain, blunt speech had told of ourexperience, that the long Arizonian gazed fixedly at Jones.
"Did yu acktully tech the hair of thet mustang with a rope?"
In all his days Jones never had a greater complement. By way of reply,he moved his big hand to button of his coat, and, fumbling over it,unwound a string of long, white hairs, then said: "I pulled these outof his tail with my lasso; it missed his left hind hoof about sixinches."
There were six of the hairs, pure, glistening white, and over threefeet long. Stewart examined then in expressive silence, then passedthem along; and when they reached me, they stayed.
The cave, lighted up by a blazing fire, appeared to me a forbidding,uncanny place. Small, peculiar round holes, and dark cracks, suggestiveof hidden vermin, gave me a creepy feeling; and although notover-sensitive on the subject of crawling, creeping things, I voiced mydisgust.
"Say, I don't like the idea of sleeping in this hole. I'll bet it'sfull of spiders, snakes and centipedes and other poisonous things."
Whatever there was in my inoffensive declaration to rouse the usuallyslumbering humor of the Arizonians, and the thinly veiled ridicule ofColonel Jones, and a mixture of both in my once loyal Californiafriend, I am not prepared to state. Maybe it was the dry, sweet, coolair of Nail Canyon; maybe my suggestion awoke ticklish associationsthat worked themselves off thus; maybe it was the first instance of mycommitting myself to a breach of camp etiquette. Be that as it may, myinnocently expressed sentiment gave rise to bewildering dissertationson entomology, and most remarkable and startling tales from first-handexperience.
"Like as not," began Frank in matter-of-fact tone. "Them's tarantulerholes all right. An' scorpions, centipedes an' rattlers always rustlewith tarantulers. But we never mind them--not us fellers! We're used tosleepin' with them. Why, I often wake up in the night to see a bigtarantuler on my chest, an' see him wink. Ain't thet so, Jim?"
"Shore as hell," drawled faithful, slow Jim.
"Reminds me how fatal the bite of a centipede is," took up ColonelJones, complacently. "Once I was sitting in camp with a hunter, whosuddenly hissed out: 'Jones, for God's sake don't budge! There's acentipede on your arm!' He pulled his Colt, and shot the blamedcentipede off as clean as a whistle. But the bullet hit a steer in theleg; and would you believe it, the bullet carried so much poison thatin less than two hours the steer died of blood poisoning. Centipedesare so poisonous they leave a blue trail on flesh just by crawling overit. Look there!"
He bared his arm, and there on the brown-corded flesh was a blue trailof something, that was certain. It might have been made by a centipede.
"This is a likely place for them," put in Wallace, emitting a volume ofsmoke and gazing round the cave walls with the eye of a connoisseur."My archaeological pursuits have given me great experience withcentipedes, as you may imagine, considering how many old tombs, cavesand cliff-dwellings I have explored. This Algonkian rock is about theright stratum for centipedes to dig in. They dig somewhat after themanner of the fluviatile long-tailed decapod crustaceans, of the generaThoracostraca, the common crawfish, you know. From that, of course, youcan imagine, if a centipede can bite rock, what a biter he is."
I began to grow weak, and did not wonder to see Jim's long pipe fallfrom his lips. Frank looked queer around the gills, so to speak, butthe gaunt Stewart never batted an eye.
"I camped here two years ago," he said, "An' the cave was alive withrock-rats, mice, snakes, horned-toads, lizards an' a big Gila monster,besides bugs, scorpions' rattlers, an' as fer tarantulers an'centipedes--say! I couldn't sleep fer the noise they made fightin'."
"I seen the same," concluded Lawson, as nonchalant as a wild-horsewrangler well could be. "An' as fer me, now I allus lays perficklystill when the centipedes an' tarantulers begin to drop from theirholes in the roof, same as them holes up there. An' when they light onme, I never move, nor even breathe fer about five minutes. Then theytake a notion I'm dead an' crawl off. But sure, if I'd breathed I'dbeen a goner!"
All of this was playfully intended for the extinction of an unoffendingand impressionable tenderfoot.
With an admiring glance at my tormentors, I rolled out my sleeping-bagand crawled into it, vowing I would remain there even if devil-fish,armed with pikes, invaded our cave.
Late in the night I awoke. The bottom of the canyon and the outer floorof our cave lay bathed in white, clear moonlight. A dense, gloomy blackshadow veiled the opposite canyon wall. High up the pinnacles andturrets pointed toward a resplendent moon. It was a weird, wonderfulscene of beauty entrancing, of breathless, dreaming silence that seemednot of life. Then a hoot-owl lamented dismally, his call fitting thescene and the dead stillness; the echoes resounded from cliff to cliff,strangely mocking and hollow, at last reverberating low and mournful inthe distance.
How long I lay there enraptured with the beauty of light and mystery ofshade, thrilling at the lonesome lament of the owl, I have no means totell; but I was awakened from my trance by the touch of somethingcrawling over me. Promptly I raised my head. The cave was as light asday. There, sitting sociably on my sleeping-bag was a great blacktarantula, as large as my hand.
For one still moment, notwithstanding my contempt for Lawson's advice,I certainly acted upon it to the letter. If ever I was quiet, and ifever I was cold, the time was then. My companions snored in blissfulignorance of my plight. Slight rustling sounds attracted my wary gazefrom the old black sentinel on my knee. I saw other black spidersrunning to and fro on the silver, sandy floor. A giant, as large as asoft-shell crab, seemed to be meditating an assault upon Jones's ear.Another, grizzled and shiny with age or moonbeams I could not tellwhich--pushed long, tentative feelers into Wallace's cap. I saw blackspots darting over the roof. It was not a dream; the cave was alivewith tarantulas!
Not improbably my strong impression that the spider on my kneedeliberately winked at me was the result of memory, enliveningimagination. But it sufficed to bring to mind, in one rapid, consolingflash, the irrevocable law of destiny--that the deeds of the wickedreturn unto them again.
I slipped back into my sleeping-bag, with a keen consciousness of itsnature, and carefully pulled the flap in place, which almosthermetically sealed me up.
"Hey! Jones! Wallace! Frank! Jim!" I yelled, from the depths of my saferefuge.
Wondering cries gave me glad assurance that they had awakened fromtheir dreams.
"The cave's alive with tarantulas!" I cried, trying to hide my unholyglee.
"I'll be durned if it ain't!" ejaculated Frank.
"Shore it beats hell!" added Jim, with a shake of his blanket.
"Look out, Jones, there's one on your pillow!" shouted Wallace.
Whack! A sharp blow proclaimed the opening of hostilities.
Memory stamped indelibly every word of that incident; but innatedelicacy prevents the repetition of all save the old warrior'sconcluding remarks: "! ! ! place I was ever in! Tarantulas by themillion--centipedes, scorpions, bats! Rattlesnakes, too, I'll swear.Look out, Wallace! there, under your blanket!"
From the shuffling sounds which wafted sweetly into my bed, I gatheredthat my long friend from California must have gone through motionscreditable to a contortionist. An ensuing explosion from Jonesproclaimed to the listening world that Wallace had thrown a tarantulaupon him. Further fearful language suggested the thought that ColonelJones had passed on the inquisitive spider to Frank. The r
eceptionaccorded the unfortunate tarantula, no doubt scared out of its wits,began with a wild yell from Frank and ended in pandemonium.
While the confusion kept up, with whacks and blows and threshing about,with language such as never before had disgraced a group of oldcampers, I choked with rapture, and reveled in the sweetness of revenge.
When quiet reigned once more in the black and white canyon, only onesleeper lay on the moon-silvered sand of the cave.
At dawn, when I opened sleepy eyes, Frank, Slim, Stewart and Lawson haddeparted, as pre-arranged, with the outfit, leaving the horsesbelonging to us and rations for the day. Wallace and I wanted to climbthe divide at the break, and go home by way of Snake Gulch, and theColonel acquiesced with the remark that his sixty-three years hadtaught him there was much to see in the world. Coming to undertake it,we found the climb--except for a slide of weathered rock--no greattask, and we accomplished it in half an hour, with breath to spare andno mishap to horses.
But descending into Snake Gulch, which was only a mile across thesparsely cedared ridge, proved to be tedious labor. By virtue ofSatan's patience and skill, I forged ahead; which advantage, however,meant more risk for me because of the stones set in motion above. Theyrolled and bumped and cut into me, and I sustained many a bruise tryingto protect the sinewy slender legs of my horse. The descent endedwithout serious mishap.
Snake Gulch had a character and sublimity which cast Nail Canyon intothe obscurity of forgetfulness. The great contrast lay in the diversityof structure. The rock was bright red, with parapet of yellow, thatleaned, heaved, bulged outward. These emblazoned cliff walls, twothousand feet high, were cracked from turret to base; they bowled outat such an angle that we were afraid to ride under them. Mountains ofyellow rock hung balanced, ready to tumble down at the first angrybreath of the gods. We rode among carved stones, pillars, obelisks andsculptured ruined walls of a fallen Babylon. Slides reaching all theway across and far up the canyon wall obstructed our passage. On everystone silent green lizards sunned themselves, gliding swiftly as wecame near to their marble homes.
We came into a region of wind-worn caves, of all sizes and shapes, highand low on the cliffs; but strange to say, only on the north side ofthe canyon they appeared with dark mouths open and uninviting. One,vast and deep, though far off, menaced us as might the cave of atawny-maned king of beasts; yet it impelled, fascinated and drew us on.
"It's a long, hard climb," said Wallace to the Colonel, as wedismounted.
"Boys, I'm with you," came the reply. And he was with us all the way,as we clambered over the immense blocks and threaded a passage betweenthem and pulled weary legs up, one after the other. So steep lay thejumble of cliff fragments that we lost sight of the cave long before wegot near it. Suddenly we rounded a stone, to halt and gasp at the thinglooming before us.
The dark portal of death or hell might have yawned there. A gloomyhole, large enough to admit a church, had been hollowed in the cliff byages of nature's chiseling.
"Vast sepulcher of Time's past, give up thy dead!" cried Wallace,solemnly.
"Oh! dark Stygian cave forlorn!" quoted I, as feelingly as my friend.
Jones hauled us down from the clouds.
"Now, I wonder what kind of a prehistoric animal holed in here?" saidhe.
Forever the one absorbing interest! If he realized the sublimity ofthis place, he did not show it.
The floor of the cave ascended from the very threshold. Stony ridgescircled from wall to wall. We climbed till we were two hundred feetfrom the opening, yet we were not half-way to the dome.
Our horses, browsing in the sage far below, looked like ants. So steepdid the ascent become that we desisted; for if one of us had slipped onthe smooth incline, the result would have been terrible. Our voicesrang clear and hollow from the walls. We were so high that the sky wasblotted out by the overhanging square, cornice-like top of the door;and the light was weird, dim, shadowy, opaque. It was a gray tomb.
"Waa-hoo!" yelled Jones with all the power of his wide, leather lungs.
Thousands of devilish voices rushed at us, seemingly on puffs of wind.Mocking, deep echoes bellowed from the ebon shades at the back of thecave, and the walls, taking them up, hurled them on again in fiendishconcatenation.
We did not again break the silence of that tomb, where the spirits ofages lay in dusty shrouds; and we crawled down as if we had invaded asanctuary and invoked the wrath of the gods.
We all proposed names: Montezuma's Amphitheater being the only rival ofJones's selection, Echo cave, which we finally chose.
Mounting our horses again, we made twenty miles of Snake Gulch by noon,when we rested for lunch. All the way up we had played the boy's gameof spying for sights, with the honors about even. It was a question ifSnake Gulch ever before had such a raking over. Despite its name,however, we discovered no snakes.
From the sandy niche of a cliff where we lunched Wallace espied a tomb,and heralded his discovery with a victorious whoop. Digging in oldruins roused in him much the same spirit that digging in old booksroused in me. Before we reached him, he had a big bowie-knife burieddeep in the red, sandy floor of the tomb.
This one-time sealed house of the dead had been constructed of smallstones, held together by a cement, the nature of which, Wallaceexplained, had never become clear to civilization. It was red in colorand hard as flint, harder than the rocks it glued together. The tombwas half-round in shape, and its floor was a projecting shelf of cliffrock. Wallace unearthed bits of pottery, bone and finely braided rope,all of which, to our great disappointment, crumbled to dust in ourfingers. In the case of the rope, Wallace assured us, this was a signof remarkable antiquity.
In the next mile we traversed, we found dozens of these old cells, alldemolished except a few feet of the walls, all despoiled of theirone-time possessions. Wallace thought these depredations were due toIndians of our own time. Suddenly we came upon Jones, standing under acliff, with his neck craned to a desperate angle.
"Now, what's that?" demanded he, pointing upward.
High on the cliff wall appeared a small, round protuberance. It was ofthe unmistakably red color of the other tombs; and Wallace, moreexcited than he had been in the cougar chase, said it was a sepulcher,and he believed it had never been opened.
From an elevated point of rock, as high up as I could well climb, Idecided both questions with my glass. The tomb resembled nothing somuch as a mud-wasp's nest, high on a barn wall. The fact that it hadnever been broken open quite carried Wallace away with enthusiasm.
"This is no mean discovery, let me tell you that," he declared. "I amfamiliar with the Aztec, Toltec and Pueblo ruins, and here I find nosimilarity. Besides, we are out of their latitude. An ancient race ofpeople--very ancient indeed lived in this canyon. How long ago, it isimpossible to tell."
"They must have been birds," said the practical Jones. "Now, how'd thattomb ever get there? Look at it, will you?"
As near as we could ascertain, it was three hundred feet from theground below, five hundred from the rim wall above, and could notpossibly have been approached from the top. Moreover, the cliff wallwas as smooth as a wall of human make.
"There's another one," called out Jones.
"Yes, and I see another; no doubt there are many of them," repliedWallace. "In my mind, only one thing possible accounts for theirposition. You observe they appear to be about level with each other.Well, once the Canyon floor ran along that line, and in the ages goneby it has lowered, washed away by the rains."
This conception staggered us, but it was the only one conceivable. Nodoubt we all thought at the same time of the little rainfall in thatarid section of Arizona.
"How many years?" queried Jones.
"Years! What are years?" said Wallace. "Thousands of years, ages havepassed since the race who built these tombs lived."
Some persuasion was necessary to drag our scientific friend from thespot, where obviously helpless to do anything else, he stood and gazedlongingly at the isolated tombs. The
canyon widened as we proceeded;and hundreds of points that invited inspection, such as overhangingshelves of rock, dark fissures, caverns and ruins had to be passed by,for lack of time.
Still, a more interesting and important discovery was to come, and thepleasure and honor of it fell to me. My eyes were sharp and peculiarlyfarsighted--the Indian sight, Jones assured me; and I kept themsearching the walls in such places as my companions overlooked.Presently, under a large, bulging bluff, I saw a dark spot, which tookthe shape of a figure. This figure, I recollected, had been presentedto my sight more than once, and now it stopped me. The hard climb upthe slippery stones was fatiguing, but I did not hesitate, for I wasdetermined to know. Once upon the ledge, I let out a yell that quicklyset my companions in my direction. The figure I had seen was a dark,red devil, a painted image, rude, unspeakably wild, crudely executed,but painted by the hand of man. The whole surface of the cliff wallbore figures of all shapes--men, mammals, birds and strange devices,some in red paint, mostly in yellow. Some showed the wear of time;others were clear and sharp.
Wallace puffed up to me, but he had wind enough left for another whoop.Jones puffed up also, and seeing the first thing a rude sketch of whatmight have been a deer or a buffalo, he commented thus: "Darn me if Iever saw an animal like that? Boys, this is a find, sure as you'reborn. Because not even the Piutes ever spoke of these figures. I doubtif they know they're here. And the cowboys and wranglers, what few everget by here in a hundred years, never saw these things. Beats anythingI ever saw on the Mackenzie, or anywhere else."
The meaning of some devices was as mystical as that of others wasclear. Two blood-red figures of men, the larger dragging the smaller bythe hair, while he waved aloft a blood-red hatchet or club, left littleto conjecture. Here was the old battle of men, as old as life. Anothergroup, two figures of which resembled the foregoing in form and action,battling over a prostrate form rudely feminine in outline, attested toan age when men were as susceptible as they are in modern times, butmore forceful and original. An odd yellow Indian waved aloft a redhand, which striking picture suggested the idea that he was an ancientMacbeth, listening to the knocking at the gate. There was a characterrepresenting a great chief, before whom many figures lay prostrate,evidently slain or subjugated. Large red paintings, in the shape ofbats, occupied prominent positions, and must have represented gods ordevils. Armies of marching men told of that blight of nations old oryoung--war. These, and birds unnamable, and beasts unclassable, withdots and marks and hieroglyphics, recorded the history of a bygonepeople. Symbols they were of an era that had gone into the dim past,leaving only these marks, {Symbols recording the history of a bygonepeople.} forever unintelligible; yet while they stood, century aftercentury, ineffaceable, reminders of the glory, the mystery, the sadnessof life.
"How could paint of any kind last so long? asked Jones, shaking hishead doubtfully.
"That is the unsolvable mystery," returned Wallace. "But the recordsare there. I am absolutely sure the paintings are at least a thousandyears old. I have never seen any tombs or paintings similar to them.Snake Gulch is a find, and I shall some day study its wonders."
Sundown caught us within sight of Oak Spring, and we soon trotted intocamp to the welcoming chorus of the hounds. Frank and the others hadreached the cabin some hours before. Supper was steaming on the hotcoals with a delicious fragrance.
Then came the pleasantest time of the day, after a long chase orjaunt--the silent moments, watching the glowing embers of the fire; thespeaking moments when a red-blooded story rang clear and true; thetwilight moments, when the wood-smoke smelled sweet.
Jones seemed unusually thoughtful. I had learned that thispreoccupation in him meant the stirring of old associations, and Iwaited silently. By and by Lawson snored mildly in a corner; Jim andFrank crawled into their blankets, and all was still. Wallace smokedhis Indian pipe and hunted in firelit dreams.
"Boys," said our leader finally, "somehow the echoes dying away in thatcave reminded me of the mourn of the big white wolves in the BarrenLands."
Wallace puffed huge clouds of white smoke, and I waited, knowing that Iwas to hear at last the story of the Colonel's great adventure in theNorthland.
