The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  Suddenly Hiram roared out. “Hyar, you Carnal redskin! stop thet!”

  We rushed up to find Navvy sitting astride Hal and pommeling him at a great rate. It was only the work of a moment to rescue poor Hal, after which he roared as loudly as Hiram, but our roaring was laughter.

  We had not thought that Navvy would suspect Hal, and that had made our little trick thrice successful.

  “How—much—does—it take—to scare—you—Hal?” choked Ken.

  Hiram added his say: “Hal—I was jest—wonderin’—what your pa—would hey thought—if he hed seen you.”

  We did not see any more of Hal till next day. As that was to be a day of rest, particularly for the hounds, we lounged in the shade. Hiram, however, who was seldom idle, spent his time in making buckskin moccasins for the hounds. More or less we all bantered Hal with our several opinions of what it took to scare him. Like a waiting volcano with a cold exterior, Hal endured our sallies in silence. Indeed he did not appear to hold resentment—Hal was not that sort of a boy—but all the same his brain was busy. And we all shivered in our boots. Whatever Hal’s feelings were toward us he did not reveal, but he watched the Indian steadily and thoughtfully. By that we knew Hal had designs on Navvy, and we awaited developments with some relief and much interest.

  Toward sunset we were interrupted by yells from the Navajo, off in the woods. The brushing of branches and pounding of hoofs preceded his appearance. In some remarkable manner he had got a bridle on Marc, and from the way the big stallion hurled his huge bulk over logs and through thickets, it appeared evident he meant to usurp Jim’s ambition and kill the Navajo. Hearing Hiram yell, the Indian turned Marc toward camp. The horse slowed down when he neared the glade and tried to buck. But Navvy kept his head up. With that Marc seemed to give way to ungovernable rage and plunged right through camp; he knocked over the dog-shelter, and thundered down the ridge.

  Now, the Navajo, with a bridle in his hands, was thoroughly at home; he was getting his revenge on Marc, and he would have kept his seat on a wild mustang. But Marc swerved suddenly under a low branch of pine, sweeping the Indian off.

  When Navvy did not rise we began to fear he had been seriously hurt, perhaps killed, and we ran to where he lay.

  Face downward, hands outstretched, with no movement of body or muscle, he certainly appeared dead.

  “Badly hurt,” said Hiram, “probably back broken. I’ve seen it afore from jest sich accidents.”

  “Oh no!” I cried. And I felt so deeply I could not speak. Jim, who always wanted Navvy to be a dead Indian, looked profoundly sorry.

  “He’s a dead Injun, all right,” replied Hiram.

  We rose from our stooping postures and stood around, uncertain and deeply grieved, till a mournful groan from Navvy afforded us much relief.

  “Thet’s your dead Indian!” exclaimed Jim. Hiram stooped and felt the Indian’s back, and got in reward another mournful groan.

  “It’s his back,” said Hiram, and true to his ruling passion, forever to minister to the needs of horses and men and things, he began to rub the Indian and called for the liniment.

  Hal went to fetch it, while I, who still believed Navvy to be dangerously hurt, knelt by him, and pulled up his shirt, exposing the hollow of his brown back.

  “Here you are,” said Hal, returning on the run with a bottle.

  “Pour some on,” replied Hiram. Hal removed the cork and soused the liniment all over the Indian’s back.

  “Don’t waste it,” remonstrated Hiram, starting to rub Navvy.

  Then occurred a most extraordinary thing. A convulsion seemed to quiver through the Indian’s body; he rose at a single leap, and uttering a wild, piercing yell, broke into a run. I never saw an Indian or anybody else run so fleetly. Yell after yell pealed back at us.

  Absolutely dumfounded, we all gazed at each other.

  “Thet’s your dead Indian!” ejaculated Jim. “Dog-gone me!” exclaimed Hiram.

  “Look here,” I cried, picking up the bottle. “See! Don’t you smell it?”

  Jim fell face downward and began to shake.

  “What?” shouted Hiram. “Turpentine! You idiots! Turpentine! Hal brought the wrong bottle!”

  CHAPTER XIII

  THE CANYON AND ITS DISCOVERERS

  Hal, however, was not always making trouble. Like Ken, he had a thoughtful turn of mind, and when in this mood he was not slow to seek information.

  “What made this Canyon?” he asked.

  And I undertook to tell him.

  “Well, Hal, I don’t see how anyone could look at this Canyon without wondering how it was made,” I said. “It seems to me the forces of nature were no more wonderful here than elsewhere. But here you can see so much of what’s been done, and that makes you curious.

  “Ages ago, you know, the whole face of the earth was covered by water. And as the crust began to cool, and shrink, and crumple up, the first land began to rise above the water. In this part of the country the Rockies were the first points of land to appear. As the earth’s crust kept on crumpling these mountains kept rising above the water. As they rose they began to weather, and dust, sand, silt, and rock washed back into the ocean, and formed layers on the bottom. This went on for thousands and thousands of years.

  “All this time the earth was lifting itself out of the sea, and finally a continent was formed. But it wasn’t much like the continent of today. Florida and the Southern States were still under water. There was a great inland sea north of this plateau region, and as the uplift continued this inland sea began to flow out, cutting a river into the plateau. This river was the Colorado.

  “Probably it rained much harder and longer in those early days, and the river, with its tributaries, had greater power, and there was a greater erosion. The Colorado cut its way through to the Gulf of California. As time went on, and the uplift of land continued, the river cut deeper and deeper, and erosion by rain and wind and frost widened the channel into a canyon. The different layers of rock raised up were of different degrees of hardness and softness.

  “Some readily wore away; others were durable. These layers were the deposit of silt into the ocean bed, where they had been burned or cemented into rock strata. There have been fifteen thousand feet—three miles—of strata washed off from the earth here, where we sit now.

  “Then the uplift increased, or there was a second and quicker uplift of the plateau. It was greater here, where we are, than southward. That’s why the north rim is so much higher. The whole plateau has a tilt to the north. This second uplift gave the river a greater impetus toward the sea, and that, of course, gave it greater cutting power. The narrow inner canyon was thus formed. This drained the inland sea. The river is small now to what it was then. But the same washing, grinding of sand on rock is going on down there And up above the same eroding and weathering of rims.”

  “Gee whiz!” exclaimed Hal. “It’s easy to understand the way you put it. Then these different-colored cliffs, the yellow, and red, and white—they’re made out of the sand and silt once washed into the sea, and petrified into the layers—the strata, you called it—and then uplifted, to be washed away again. It takes my breath!”

  “Yes, and from these layers we can determine when life first appeared in the sea. For we find shells and bones of a low order of life imbedded in this rock.”

  “Who discovered the Canyon, anyhow?” asked Hal. “If the fellow rode out of the cedars right upon the rim, without being prepared, I’ll bet he thought he’d come to the jumping-off place.”

  “Ken can tell you that better than I,” I replied.

  “It’s worth knowing, Hal,” said Ken. “Look here, who were the first white people in America, anyway?”

  “The Jamestown, Virginia, colony in 1607,” Hal answered, triumphantly, “and the Plymouth colony in 1620.”

  Ken laughed.

  “Well,” said Hal, rather sulkily, “of course, there are all the stories of Norsemen dropping in any old time all the way from Ne
wfoundland to Long Island Sound, but they certain didn’t amount to much as settlers.”

  “No, we won’t count the Norsemen,” said Ken. “But, Hal, just think of this. The Grand Canyon, away out here in this wilderness, was discovered in 1540, sixty-seven years before the Jamestown colony landed, and eighty years before the Mayflower dropped anchor at Plymouth.”

  Hal whistled.

  “That makes Plymouth Rock look young,” he said. “Who found the Canyon?”

  “It was discovered by a Spaniard. His name was Don Lopez de Cardenas. He was a lieutenant of the great Spanish explorer Coronado, who sent him out from his camp near the so-called Seven Cities of Cibola, usually identified as the Pueblos of Zuni. Cardenas with a handful of men traveled into northern Arizona, and finally reached the gorge now known as the Grand Canyon. He must have traversed the southerly edge of the Colorado plateau and passed through the Coconina forests.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Hal. “These were Spanish warriors in helmets and breasts plates like the men with Cortez in Mexico and Pizarro in South America. What brought them to such an out-of-the-way place as this?”

  “It’s a romance,” replied Ken, earnestly; “but it’s a true one, and it goes back to the search for a way to the treasures of the Far East, which led to Columbus’ discovery of Cat or San Salvador Island in the West Indies, and then to the Spanish occupancy of Cuba, and to the gold-hunts of De Soto in our South and Pizarro in South America.”

  “I don’t see the connection,” grumbled Hal.

  “You will in a minute. You see when the Spaniards were settled in Cuba in the early sixteenth century they kept on looking for two things—gold and a water route to Cathay or China and the Spice Islands of the East. Now, in 1528 a Spanish expedition under Narvaez came to grief in Florida. A few survivors made their way across the Gulf of Mexico, and finally four who were left were captured by the Indians a little west of the mouth of the Mississippi. For years they were captives among the Indians of eastern Texas and western Louisiana. They made many long journeys, and their leader, Alvar Nunez Cabeza de Vaca, gained some favors by acting as medicine man. But at last they escaped. They traveled across Texas and northern Mexico, and in 1536 succeeded in reaching the northern outpost of Spain in Mexico, at Culiacan, in Sinaloa.”

  “That must have been the first time a white man crossed this continent,” broke in Hal.

  “Yes, Alvar Nuñez Cabeza de Vaca was the first to cross the continent. He was the first white man to see the buffalo, and another thing he did was to bring hack stories of wonderful towns filled with riches of which the Indians had told him. Stories like this had reached the Spaniards before. Within three years a priest, Fray Marcos de Niza, taking one of Alvar Nunez Cabeza de Vaca’s followers, started north to find the Seven Cities of Cibola. He probably did find the Pueblos of Zuni, but he brought back exaggerated stories. Such stories, especially one of Quivira, an Indian treasure city, led Mendoza, the Viceroy of Mexico, to organize a search expedition which was commanded by Coronado, the Governor of New Galicia. He started north in 1540 with over three hundred soldiers and over a thousand Indian allies and Indian and negro servants. He captured Zuni, although he didn’t find any gold. He wintered there and sent out exploring parties, and one of them, to come back to my starting-point, found the Grand Canyon.”

  “Did the Spaniards get down into the Grand Canyon?” asked Hal.

  “They tried to. Some of the men with Cardenas climbed down a long way with Indian guides. They said that some rocks on the sides of the cliffs which seemed the size of a man from above proved to be larger than the great tower at Seville when they reached them. But they could not go on to the bottom. They estimated the width of the Canyon at the top at three or four leagues.”

  “But,” said Hal, “didn’t the Spaniards ever reach the river itself?”

  “I should say they did,” replied Ken. “Listen. In 1539 some ships commanded by Don Francisco de Ulloa evidently reached the mouth of the river. When Coronado started the next year, the Viceroy sent out another fleet commanded by Don Fernando de Alarcon. This fleet was to go north along the Mexican coast, and as they knew nothing of the geography of the region they thought Coronado and Alarcon would not be far apart and could keep in touch. Alarcon not only reached the mouth of the Colorado, but he ascended the river in boats for eighty-five leagues and called it the Rio de Buena Guia. Also Melchior Diaz, who led an exploring party sent out by Coronado, went across Arizona to the Gulf of California, crossing the Colorado River.”

  “Where did you get all this?” asked Dick, abruptly, and then, as Ken held up a small book, “Oh! you’ve been reading up. But my histories never told me this. What is that?”

  “That,” said Ken, “is Castañeda’s ’Relations,’ or Journal, and Castañeda was an educated private soldier with Coronado who was the historian of the journey, in order that there might be a full report for the Viceroy of Mexico and the Emperor-King of Spain. It has been translated and explained by Mr. G. P. Winship, and other scholars, like Bandelier, have helped to make the Spanish explorations known. Cabeza de Vaca wrote a full account of his wanderings, like many other adventurous Spaniards.”

  “Oh! What became of Coronado finally?” asked Hal.

  “His expedition journeyed from Zuni eastward, entered Kansas, and probably reached the northeasterly part of the State.”

  “How about the golden Quivira?” asked Hal.

  “The only Quivira they found was a wretched little village, probably of the Wichita Indians, in Kansas. But here is a dramatic thing. While Coronado was up there in Kansas with his fine expedition, poor De Soto, who had fought his way from Florida to the Mississippi, had crossed the river, and was distant only a journey of a few days for an Indian runner—in fact, it is related that Coronado heard of some white men there in the heart of this strange country and sent a messenger to find them, who failed. Now here’s the thing that strikes me. At that early day, in the summer of 1541, two Spanish expeditions, one starting from Florida, and one from Mexico, practically traversed the breadth of our continent, and nearly met in eastern Kansas. We always hear of the Jamestown colony and the Pilgrims; but think of the Spaniards crossing the continent twice in the first half of the century before Jamestown.”

  “It’s a great story,” said Hal. “I hope Coronado got some reward.”

  “Not much,” Ken snapped out. “First, he fell from his horse and was badly hurt. Secondly, he had found no gold. That was the important thing. So he reached the City of Mexico in the spring of 1542, ‘very sad and very weary, completely worn out and shamefaced.’”

  “Didn’t he get any credit for his discoveries?”

  “Not a particle. Yet he had made known to Europeans a vast territory extending from the mouth of the Colorado River to the Grand Canyon, and stretching east nearly to the Mississippi and north to Nebraska.”

  “What became of him?”

  “He was so coldly received by the Viceroy,” answered Ken, “that he resigned as Governor of New Galicia and retired to his estate in Spain, where he died.”

  “It’s a wonderful story,” said Hal.

  “There’s nothing better in the exploration of this country,” Ken agreed. “But, Hal, I’ve talked myself out and it’s time to do something else.”

  CHAPTER XIV

  HIRAM BENT’S STORY

  How old Hiram Bent was no one knew, and he probably did not know himself. But his life of Western adventure had included Indian-fighting and buffalo-hunting in the early days, and once in a while he could be persuaded to talk of wild life on the plains. Something that he said made us demand a story, and at last he began:

  “Youngsters, this narrer escape I had happened way down in the northwest corner of Texas. Jim must know jest about whar it was.

  “I was tryin’ to overhaul a shifty herd of buffalo, an’ had rid mebbe forty or fifty mile thet day. As I was climbin’ a slope I saw columns of dust risin’ beyond the ridge, an’ they told me the dire
ction the herd was takin’. When I got on top I made out far ahead a lone sentinel of the herd standin’ out sharp an’ black against the sky line.

  “When the wary old buffalo disappeared I hed cause to grumble. For there wasn’t much chance of me overhaulin’ the herd. Still I kept spurrin’ my hoss. He plunged down the ridge with a weakenin’ stride, an’ I knew he was most done. But he was game an’ kept on. Presently I saw the flyin’ buffalo, a black movin’ mass half hid by clouds of whitish dust. They were a mile or more ahead an’ I thought if I could git out of the rough ground I might head them. Jest below me were piles of yellow rock an’ clumps of dwarf trees, an’ green thet I reckoned was cottonwoods. My hoss ran down into a low hollow, an’ afore I knowed what was up all about me was movin’ objects, red an’ brown an’ black. I pulled up my snortin’ hoss right in the midst of a band of Comanches.

  “One glance showed me half-naked redskins slippin’ from tree to tree, springin’ up all around with half-leveled rifles. I felt the blood rush to my heart an’ leave my body all cold an’ heavy. There wasn’t much chance them days of escapin’ from Comanches. But my mind worked fast. I hed one chance, mebbe half a chance, but it was so hopeless thet even as I thought of it I hed a gloomy feelin’ clamp down on me. I leaped off my hoss, threw the bridle over my arm, an’ with bearin’ as natural as if my comin’ was intended I went toward the Injuns.

  “The half-leveled rifles dropped, an’ the strung bows slowly straightened, an’ deep grunts told of the surprise of the Comanches.

  “‘Me talk big chief,’ I said, wavin’ my hand as if I was not one to talk to braves.

  “One redskin pointed with a long arm. Then the line opened an’ let me through with my hoss. It was a large camp of huntin’ Comanches. Buffalo meat and robes were dryin’ in the sun. Swarms of buzzin’ flies showed the fresh kill. Covered fires gave vent to thin wisps of smoke; worn rifles gleamed in the sun, an’ bows smooth an’ oily from use littered the grass. But there were no wigwams or squaws.

  “I went forward watched by many cunnin’ eyes, an’ made straight for a cottonwood-tree, whar a long trailin’ head-dress of black-barred eagle feathers hung from a branch. The chief was there restin’. I was expectin’ an’ dreadin’ to see a short square Injun, an old chief I knew an’ who had reason to know me. But instead I saw a splendid young redskin, tall an’ muscular, an’ of sullen look.