The Professor's House

by Willa Cather

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

  rock is much harder than the rock beneath it, the softer stone begins to

  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

  had given way and let the second-story chamber down into the first;

  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
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  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