SNAKE GULCH

Not far from the scene of our adventure with the White Streak as we facetious and appreciatively named the mustang, deep, flat cave indented the canyon wall.  By reason of its sandy floor and close proximity to Frank’s trickling spring, we decided to camp in it.  About dawn Lawson and Stewart straggled in on spent horse and found awaiting them 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 our experience, 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 out of his tail with my lasso; it missed his left hind hoof about six inches.”

There were six of the hairs, pure, glistening white, and over three feet long.  Stewart examined then in expressive silence, then passed them 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, suggestive of hidden vermin, gave me a creepy feeling; and although not over-sensitive on the subject of crawling, creeping things, I voiced my disgust.

“Say, I don’t like the idea of sleeping in this hole.  I’ll bet it’s full of spiders, snakes and centipedes and other poisonous things.”

Whatever there was in my inoffensive declaration to rouse the usually slumbering humor of the Arizonians, and the thinly veiled ridicule of Colonel Jones, and a mixture of both in my once loyal California friend, I am not prepared to state.  Maybe it was the dry, sweet, cool air of Nail Canyon; maybe my suggestion awoke ticklish associations that worked themselves off thus; maybe it was the first instance of my committing myself to a breach of camp etiquette.  Be that as it may, my innocently expressed sentiment gave rise to bewildering dissertations on entomology, and most remarkable and startling tales from first-hand experience.

“Like as not,” began Frank in matter-of-fact tone.  “Them’s tarantuler holes all right.  An’ scorpions, centipedes an’ rattlers always rustle with tarantulers.  But we never mind them ­not us fellers!  We’re used to sleepin’ with them.  Why, I often wake up in the night to see a big tarantuler 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 Colonel Jones, complacently.  “Once I was sitting in camp with a hunter, who suddenly hissed out:  ’Jones, for God’s sake don’t budge!  There’s a centipede on your arm!’ He pulled his Colt, and shot the blamed centipede off as clean as a whistle.  But the bullet hit a steer in the leg; and would you believe it, the bullet carried so much poison that in less than two hours the steer died of blood poisoning.  Centipedes are so poisonous they leave a blue trail on flesh just by crawling over it.  Look there!”

He bared his arm, and there on the brown-corded flesh was a blue trail of 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 of smoke and gazing round the cave walls with the eye of a connoisseur.  “My archaeological pursuits have given me great experience with centipedes, as you may imagine, considering how many old tombs, caves and cliff-dwellings I have explored.  This Algonkian rock is about the right stratum for centipedes to dig in.  They dig somewhat after the manner of the fluviatile long-tailed decapod crustaceans, of the genera Thoracostraca, the common crawfish, you know.  From that, of course, you can 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 fall from his lips.  Frank looked queer around the gills, so to speak, but the gaunt Stewart never batted an eye.

“I camped here two years ago,” he said, “An’ the cave was alive with rock-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-horse wrangler well could be.  “An’ as fer me, now I allus lays perfickly still when the centipedes an’ tarantulers begin to drop from their holes in the roof, same as them holes up there.  An’ when they light on me, I never move, nor even breathe fer about five minutes.  Then they take a notion I’m dead an’ crawl off.  But sure, if I’d breathed I’d been a goner!”

All of this was playfully intended for the extinction of an unoffending and impressionable tenderfoot.

With an admiring glance at my tormentors, I rolled out my sleeping-bag and 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 floor of our cave lay bathed in white, clear moonlight.  A dense, gloomy black shadow veiled the opposite canyon wall.  High up the pinnacles and turrets pointed toward a resplendent moon.  It was a weird, wonderful scene of beauty entrancing, of breathless, dreaming silence that seemed not of life.  Then a hoot-owl lamented dismally, his call fitting the scene and the dead stillness; the echoes resounded from cliff to cliff, strangely mocking and hollow, at last reverberating low and mournful in the distance.

How long I lay there enraptured with the beauty of light and mystery of shade, thrilling at the lonesome lament of the owl, I have no means to tell; but I was awakened from my trance by the touch of something crawling over me.  Promptly I raised my head.  The cave was as light as day.  There, sitting sociably on my sleeping-bag was a great black tarantula, 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 if ever I was cold, the time was then.  My companions snored in blissful ignorance of my plight.  Slight rustling sounds attracted my wary gaze from the old black sentinel on my knee.  I saw other black spiders running to and fro on the silver, sandy floor.  A giant, as large as a soft-shell crab, seemed to be meditating an assault upon Jones’s ear.  Another, grizzled and shiny with age or moonbeams I could not tell which ­pushed long, tentative feelers into Wallace’s cap.  I saw black spots darting over the roof.  It was not a dream; the cave was alive with tarantulas!

Not improbably my strong impression that the spider on my knee deliberately winked at me was the result of memory, enlivening imagination.  But it sufficed to bring to mind, in one rapid, consoling flash, the irrevocable law of destiny ­that the deeds of the wicked return unto them again.

I slipped back into my sleeping-bag, with a keen consciousness of its nature, and carefully pulled the flap in place, which almost hermetically sealed me up.

“Hey!  Jones!  Wallace!  Frank!  Jim!” I yelled, from the depths of my safe refuge.

Wondering cries gave me glad assurance that they had awakened from their dreams.

“The cave’s alive with tarantulas!” I cried, trying to hide my unholy glee.

“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 innate delicacy prevents the repetition of all save the old warrior’s concluding remarks:  “! ! ! place I was ever in!  Tarantulas by the million ­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 gathered that my long friend from California must have gone through motions creditable to a contortionist.  An ensuing explosion from Jones proclaimed to the listening world that Wallace had thrown a tarantula upon him.  Further fearful language suggested the thought that Colonel Jones had passed on the inquisitive spider to Frank.  The reception accorded 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 old campers, I choked with rapture, and reveled in the sweetness of revenge.

When quiet reigned once more in the black and white canyon, only one sleeper lay on the moon-silvered sand of the cave.

At dawn, when I opened sleepy eyes, Frank, Slim, Stewart and Lawson had departed, as pre-arranged, with the outfit, leaving the horses belonging to us and rations for the day.  Wallace and I wanted to climb the divide at the break, and go home by way of Snake Gulch, and the Colonel acquiesced with the remark that his sixty-three years had taught 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 great task, and we accomplished it in half an hour, with breath to spare and no mishap to horses.

But descending into Snake Gulch, which was only a mile across the sparsely cedared ridge, proved to be tedious labor.  By virtue of Satan’s patience and skill, I forged ahead; which advantage, however, meant more risk for me because of the stones set in motion above.  They rolled and bumped and cut into me, and I sustained many a bruise trying to protect the sinewy slender legs of my horse.  The descent ended without serious mishap.

Snake Gulch had a character and sublimity which cast Nail Canyon into the obscurity of forgetfulness.  The great contrast lay in the diversity of structure.  The rock was bright red, with parapet of yellow, that leaned, heaved, bulged outward.  These emblazoned cliff walls, two thousand feet high, were cracked from turret to base; they bowled out at such an angle that we were afraid to ride under them.  Mountains of yellow rock hung balanced, ready to tumble down at the first angry breath of the gods.  We rode among carved stones, pillars, obelisks and sculptured ruined walls of a fallen Babylon.  Slides reaching all the way across and far up the canyon wall obstructed our passage.  On every stone silent green lizards sunned themselves, gliding swiftly as we came near to their marble homes.

We came into a region of wind-worn caves, of all sizes and shapes, high and low on the cliffs; but strange to say, only on the north side of the canyon they appeared with dark mouths open and uninviting.  One, vast and deep, though far off, menaced us as might the cave of a tawny-maned king of beasts; yet it impelled, fascinated and drew us on.

“It’s a long, hard climb,” said Wallace to the Colonel, as we dismounted.

“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 between them and pulled weary legs up, one after the other.  So steep lay the jumble of cliff fragments that we lost sight of the cave long before we got near it.  Suddenly we rounded a stone, to halt and gasp at the thing looming before us.

The dark portal of death or hell might have yawned there.  A gloomy hole, large enough to admit a church, had been hollowed in the cliff by ages 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?” said he.

Forever the one absorbing interest!  If he realized the sublimity of this place, he did not show it.

The floor of the cave ascended from the very threshold.  Stony ridges circled from wall to wall.  We climbed till we were two hundred feet from the opening, yet we were not half-way to the dome.

Our horses, browsing in the sage far below, looked like ants.  So steep did the ascent become that we desisted; for if one of us had slipped on the smooth incline, the result would have been terrible.  Our voices rang clear and hollow from the walls.  We were so high that the sky was blotted 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 the cave, and the walls, taking them up, hurled them on again in fiendish concatenation.

We did not again break the silence of that tomb, where the spirits of ages lay in dusty shrouds; and we crawled down as if we had invaded a sanctuary and invoked the wrath of the gods.

We all proposed names:  Montezuma’s Amphitheater being the only rival of Jones’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 game of spying for sights, with the honors about even.  It was a question if Snake 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 old ruins roused in him much the same spirit that digging in old books roused in me.  Before we reached him, he had a big bowie-knife buried deep in the red, sandy floor of the tomb.

This one-time sealed house of the dead had been constructed of small stones, held together by a cement, the nature of which, Wallace explained, had never become clear to civilization.  It was red in color and hard as flint, harder than the rocks it glued together.  The tomb was half-round in shape, and its floor was a projecting shelf of cliff rock.  Wallace unearthed bits of pottery, bone and finely braided rope, all of which, to our great disappointment, crumbled to dust in our fingers.  In the case of the rope, Wallace assured us, this was a sign of remarkable antiquity.

In the next mile we traversed, we found dozens of these old cells, all demolished except a few feet of the walls, all despoiled of their one-time possessions.  Wallace thought these depredations were due to Indians of our own time.  Suddenly we came upon Jones, standing under a cliff, 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 of the unmistakably red color of the other tombs; and Wallace, more excited 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, I decided both questions with my glass.  The tomb resembled nothing so much as a mud-wasp’s nest, high on a barn wall.  The fact that it had never been broken open quite carried Wallace away with enthusiasm.

“This is no mean discovery, let me tell you that,” he declared.  “I am familiar with the Aztec, Toltec and Pueblo ruins, and here I find no similarity.  Besides, we are out of their latitude.  An ancient race of people ­very ancient indeed lived in this canyon.  How long ago, it is impossible to tell.”

“They must have been birds,” said the practical Jones.  “Now, how’d that tomb ever get there?  Look at it, will you?”

As near as we could ascertain, it was three hundred feet from the ground below, five hundred from the rim wall above, and could not possibly have been approached from the top.  Moreover, the cliff wall was 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,” replied Wallace.  “In my mind, only one thing possible accounts for their position.  You observe they appear to be about level with each other.  Well, once the Canyon floor ran along that line, and in the ages gone by it has lowered, washed away by the rains.”

This conception staggered us, but it was the only one conceivable.  No doubt we all thought at the same time of the little rainfall in that arid section of Arizona.

“How many years?” queried Jones.

“Years!  What are years?” said Wallace.  “Thousands of years, ages have passed since the race who built these tombs lived.”

Some persuasion was necessary to drag our scientific friend from the spot, where obviously helpless to do anything else, he stood and gazed longingly at the isolated tombs.  The canyon widened as we proceeded; and hundreds of points that invited inspection, such as overhanging shelves 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 the pleasure and honor of it fell to me.  My eyes were sharp and peculiarly farsighted ­the Indian sight, Jones assured me; and I kept them searching the walls in such places as my companions overlooked.  Presently, under a large, bulging bluff, I saw a dark spot, which took the shape of a figure.  This figure, I recollected, had been presented to my sight more than once, and now it stopped me.  The hard climb up the slippery stones was fatiguing, but I did not hesitate, for I was determined to know.  Once upon the ledge, I let out a yell that quickly set 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 wall bore 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 what might have been a deer or a buffalo, he commented thus:  “Darn me if I ever saw an animal like that?  Boys, this is a find, sure as you’re born.  Because not even the Piutes ever spoke of these figures.  I doubt if they know they’re here.  And the cowboys and wranglers, what few ever get by here in a hundred years, never saw these things.  Beats anything I ever saw on the Mackenzie, or anywhere else.”

The meaning of some devices was as mystical as that of others was clear.  Two blood-red figures of men, the larger dragging the smaller by the hair, while he waved aloft a blood-red hatchet or club, left little to conjecture.  Here was the old battle of men, as old as life.  Another group, two figures of which resembled the foregoing in form and action, battling over a prostrate form rudely feminine in outline, attested to an age when men were as susceptible as they are in modern times, but more forceful and original.  An odd yellow Indian waved aloft a red hand, which striking picture suggested the idea that he was an ancient Macbeth, listening to the knocking at the gate.  There was a character representing a great chief, before whom many figures lay prostrate, evidently slain or subjugated.  Large red paintings, in the shape of bats, occupied prominent positions, and must have represented gods or devils.  Armies of marching men told of that blight of nations old or young ­war.  These, and birds unnamable, and beasts unclassable, with dots and marks and hieroglyphics, recorded the history of a bygone people.  Symbols they were of an era that had gone into the dim past, leaving only these marks, {Symbols recording the history of a bygone people.} forever unintelligible; yet while they stood, century after century, ineffaceable, reminders of the glory, the mystery, the sadness of life.

“How could paint of any kind last so long? asked Jones, shaking his head doubtfully.

“That is the unsolvable mystery,” returned Wallace.  “But the records are there.  I am absolutely sure the paintings are at least a thousand years 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 into camp to the welcoming chorus of the hounds.  Frank and the others had reached the cabin some hours before.  Supper was steaming on the hot coals with a delicious fragrance.

Then came the pleasantest time of the day, after a long chase or jaunt ­the silent moments, watching the glowing embers of the fire; the speaking moments when a red-blooded story rang clear and true; the twilight moments, when the wood-smoke smelled sweet.

Jones seemed unusually thoughtful.  I had learned that this preoccupation in him meant the stirring of old associations, and I waited silently.  By and by Lawson snored mildly in a corner; Jim and Frank crawled into their blankets, and all was still.  Wallace smoked his Indian pipe and hunted in firelit dreams.

“Boys,” said our leader finally, “somehow the echoes dying away in that cave reminded me of the mourn of the big white wolves in the Barren Lands.”

Wallace puffed huge clouds of white smoke, and I waited, knowing that I was to hear at last the story of the Colonel’s great adventure in the Northland.