The Camp at Night. When night came, we ate our frugal meal, our horses standing by waiting to be hobbled and turned loose. For beds, we had the nearest layer of sand we could find, with our saddles for pillows.

Suffering from Thirst. Early in the morning we started again, winding and curving with the course of the Canyon. For nearly two days we had been without fresh water, and the little we had brought in our wicker-woven, pinion-gum-covered esuwas had to suffice for our needs. Suddenly we entered a vast amphitheatre, with a rude arch at the end. It was flower-covered, with occasional trees, and here, hidden from any but the view of an Indian, was found a tiny spring of coolest, purest water. How we enjoyed it!

A Dangerous Slope. On the third day, we came to the place where the soldiers descended from the plateau above into the depths of the Canyon. There was no well-defined trail, and the slope was steep enough to make one's flesh creep. The site was marked with disaster. Here a pack mule had slipped, fallen, and been dashed to pieces; there a man had fallen and been killed. It was a difficult descent, but nerve and pluck had accomplished it. Beyond was the Pack-a-tha-true-ye-ba Spring, and after seeing its water I determined that we must return.