turning a corner came into an unobstructed view. A roar of rushing

waters had prepared Hare, but the river that he saw appalled him. It was
red and swift; it slid onward like an enormousslippery snake; its

constricted head raised a crest of leaping waves, and disappeared in a
dark chasm, whence came a bellow and boom.

"That opening where she jumps off is the head of the Grand Canyon," said
Naab. "It's five hundred feet deep there, and thirty miles below it's

five thousand. Oh, once in, she tears in a hurry! Come, we turn up the
bank here."

Hare could find no speech, and he felt immeasurably small. All that he
had seen in reaching this isolated spot was dwarfed in comparison. This

"Crossing of the Fathers," as Naab called it, was the gateway of the
desert. This roar of turbulent waters was the sinister monotone of the

mighty desert symphony of great depths, great heights, great reaches.
On a sandy strip of bank the Navajos had halted. This was as far as they

could go, for above the wall jutted out into the river. From here the
head of the Canyon was not visible, and the roar of the rapids was

accordingly lessened in volume. But even in this smooth water the river
spoke a warning.

"The Navajos go in here and swim their mustangs across to that sand bar,"
explained Naab. "The current helps when she's high, and there's a

three-foot raise on now."
"I can't believe it possible. What danger they must run--those little

mustangs!" exclaimed Hare.
"Danger? Yes, I suppose so," replied Naab, as if it were a new idea.

"My lad, the Mormons crossed here by the hundreds. Many were drowned.
This trail and crossing were unknown except to Indians before the Mormon

exodus."
The mustangs had to be driven into the water. Scarbreast led, and his

mustang, after many kicks and reluctant steps, went over his depth,
wetting the stalwart chief to the waist. Bare-legged Indians waded in

and urged their pack-ponies. Shouts, shrill cries, blows mingled with
snorts and splashes.

Dave and George Naab in flat boats rowed slowly on the down-stream side
of the Indians. Presently all the mustangs and ponies were in, the

procession widening out in a triangle from Scarbreast, the leader. The
pack - ponies appeared to swim better than the mounted mustangs, or else

the packs of deer-pelts made them more buoyant. When one-third way
across the head of the swimming train met the current, and the line of

progress broke. Mustang after mustang swept down with a rapidity which
showed the power of the current. Yet they swam steadily with flanks

shining, tails sometimes afloat, sometimes under, noses up, and riders
holding weapons aloft. But the pack-ponies labored when the current

struck them, and whirling about, they held back the Indians who were
leading them, and blocked those behind. The orderlyprocession of the

start became a broken line, and then a rout. Here and there a Navajo
slipped into the water and swam, leading his mustang; others pulled on

pack-ponies and beat their mounts; strong-swimming mustangs forged ahead;
weak ones hung back, and all obeyed the downward will of the current.

While Hare feared for the lives of some of the Navajos, and pitied the
laden ponies, he could not but revel in the scene, in its vivid action

and varying color, in the cries and shrill whoops of the Indians, and the
snorts of the frightened mustangs, in Naab's hoarse yells to his sons,

and the ever-present menacing roar from around the bend. The wildness of
it all, the necessity of peril and calm acceptance of it, stirred within

Hare the call, the awakening" target="_blank" title="n.&a.觉醒(中的)">awakening, the spirit of the desert.
August Naab's stentorian voice rolled out over the river. "Ho! Dave--the

yellow pinto--pull him loose--George, back this way--there's a pack
slipping--down now, stream" target="_blank" title="a.&ad.下流的，顺流的">downstream, turn that straggler in--Dave, in that

tangle--quick! There's a boy drowning-- his foot's caught-- he's been
kicked-- Hurry! Hurry!-- pull him in the boat-- There's a pony under--

Too late, George, let that one go-- let him go, I tell you!"
So the crossing of the Navajos proceeded, never an instant free from

danger in that churning current. The mustangs and ponies floundered
somewhat on the sand-bar and then parted the willows and appeared on a

trail skirting the red wall. Dave Naab moored his boat on that side of
the river, and returned with George.

"We'll look over my farm," said August, as they retraced their steps. He
led Hare through fields of alfalfa, in all stages of growth, explaining

that it yielded six crops a year. Into one ten-acre lot pigs and cows
had been turned to feed at will. Everywhere the ground was soggy; little

streams of water trickled down ditches. Next to the fields was an
orchard, where cherries were ripe, apricots already large, plum-trees

shedding their blossoms, and apple-trees just opening into bloom. Naab
explained that the products of his oasis were abnormal; the ground was

exceedingly rich and could be kept always wet; the reflection of the sun
from the walls robbed even winter of any rigor, and the spring, summer,

and autumn were tropical. He pointed to grape-vines as large as a man's
thigh and told of bunches of grapes four feet long; he showed sprouting

plants on which watermelons and pumpkins would grow so large that one man
could not lift them; he told of one pumpkin that held a record of taking

two men to roll it.
"I can raise any kind of fruit in such abundance that it can't be used.

My garden is prodigal. But we get little benefit, except for our own
use, for we cannot transport things across the desert."

The water which was the prime factor in all this richness came from a
small stream which Naab, by making a dam and tunnelling a corner of

cliff, had diverted from its natural course into his oasis.
Between the fence and the red wall there was a wide bare plain which

stretched to the house. At its farthest end was a green enclosure, which
Hare recognized as the cemetery mentioned by Snap. Hare counted thirty

graves, a few with crude monuments of stone, the others marked by wooden
head-pieces.

"I've the reputation of doctoring the women, and letting the men die,"
said Naab, with a smile." I hardly think it's fair. But the fact is no

women are buried here. Some graves are of men I fished out of the river;
others of those who drifted here, and who were killed or died keeping

their secrets. I've numbered those unknown graves and have kept a
description of the men, so, if the chance ever comes, I may tell some one

where a father or brother lies buried. Five sons of mine, not one of
whom died a natural death, found graves here--God rest them! Here's the

grave of Mescal's father, a Spaniard. He was an adventurer. I helped
him over in Nevada when he was ill; he came here with me, got well, and

lived nine years, and he died without speaking one word of himself or
telling his name."

"What strange ends men come to!" mused Hare. Well, a grave was a grave,
wherever it lay. He wondered if he would come to rest in that quiet

nook, with its steady light, its simple dignity of bare plain graves
fitting the brevity of life, the littleness of man.

"We break wild mustangs along this stretch," said Naab, drawing Hare
away. "It's a fine run. Wait till you see Mescal on Black Bolly tearing

up the dust! She's a Navajo for riding."
Three huge corrals filled a wide curved space in the wall. In one corral

were the teams that had hauled the wagons from White Sage; in another
upward of thirty burros, drooping, lazy little fellows half asleep; in

the third a dozen or more mustangs and some horses which delighted Hare.
Snap Naab's cream pinto, a bay, and a giant horse of mottled white

attracted him most.
"Our best stock is out on the range," said Naab. "The white is Charger,

my saddle-horse. When he was a yearling he got away and ran wild for
three years. But we caught him. He's a weight-carrier and he can run

some. You're fond of a horse--I can see that."
"Yes," returned Hare, "but I--I'll never ride again." He said it

brightly, smiling the while; still the look in his eyes belied the
cheerful resignation.

"I've not the gift of revelation, yet I seem to see you on a big gray
horse with a shining mane." Naab appeared to be gazing far away.

The cottonwood grove, at the western curve of the oasis, shaded the five
log huts where August's grown sons lived with their wives, and his own

cabin, which was of considerable dimensions. It had a covered porch on
one side, an open one on the other, a shingle roof, and was a roomy and

comfortable habitation.
Naab was pointing out the school-house when he was interrupted by

childish laughter, shrieks of glee, and the rush of little feet.
"It's recess-time," he said.