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Shefford's surprise equaled his relief, for he believed that the violent
descent of Nonnezoshe Boco had been passed. Any turn now, he imagined, might
bring the party out upon the river. When he caught up with them he imparted
this conviction, which was received with cheer. The hopes of all, except the
Indian, seemed mounting; and if he ever hoped or despaired it was never
manifest.
Shefford's anticipation, however, was not soon realized. The fugitives
traveled miles farther down Nonnezoshe Boco, and the only changes were that
the walls of the lower gorge heightened and merged into those above and that
these upper ones towered ever loftier. Shefford had to throw his head straight
back to look up at the rims, and the narrow strip of sky was now indeed a
flowing stream of blue.
Difficult steps were met, too, yet nothing compared to those of the upper
canyon. Shefford calculated that this day's travel had advanced several hours;
and more than ever now he was anticipating the mouth of Nonnezoshe Boco. Still
another hour went by. And then came striking changes. The canyon narrowed till
the walls were scarcely twenty paces apart; the color of stone grew dark red
above and black down low; the light of day became shadowed, and the floor was
a level, gravelly, winding lane, with the stream meandering slowly and
silently.
Suddenly the Indian halted. He turned his ear down the canyon lane. He had
heard something. The others grouped round him, but did not hear a sound except
the soft flow of water and the heave of the mustangs. Then the Indian went on.
Presently he halted again. And again he listened. This time he threw up his
head and upon his dark face shone a light which might have been pride.
"Tse ko-n-tsa-igi," he said.
The others could not understand, but they were impressed.
"Shore he means somethin' big," drawled Lassiter.
"Oh, what did he say?" queried Fay in eagerness.
"Nas Ta Bega, tell us," said Shefford. "We are full of hope."
"Grand Canyon," replied the Indian.
"How do you know?" asked Shefford.
"I hear the roar of the river."
But Shefford, listen as he might, could not hear it. They traveled on,
winding down the wonderful lane. Every once in a while Shefford lagged behind,
let the others pass out of hearing, and then he listened. At last he was
rewarded. Low and deep, dull and strange, with some quality to incite dread,
came a roar. Thereafter, at intervals, usually at turns in the canyon, and
when a faint stir of warm air fanned his cheeks, he heard the sound, growing
clearer and louder.
He rounded an abrupt corner to have the roar suddenly fill his ears, to see
the lane extend straight to a ragged vent, and beyond that, at some distance,
a dark, ragged, bulging wall, like iron. As he hurried forward he was
surprised to find that the noise did not increase. Here it kept a strange
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uniformity of tone and volume. The others of the party passed out of the mouth
of Nonnezoshe Boco in advance of Shefford, and when he reached it they were
grouped upon a bank of sand. A dark-red canyon yawned before them, and through
it slid the strangest river Shefford had ever seen. At first glance he
imagined the strangeness consisted of the dark-red color of the water, but at
the second he was not so sure. All the others, except Nas Ta Bega, eyed the
river blankly, as if they did not know what to think. The roar came from round
a huge bulging wall downstream. Up the canyon, half a mile, at another turn,
there was a leaping rapid of dirty red- white waves and the sound of this,
probably, was drowned in the unseen but nearer rapid.
"This is the Grand Canyon of the Colorado," said Shefford. "We've come out at
the mouth of Nonnezoshe Boco. . . . And now to wait for Joe Lake!"
They made camp on a dry, level sand-bar under a shelving wall. Nas Ta Bega
collected a pile of driftwood to be used for fire, and then he took the
mustangs back up the side canyon to find grass for them. Lassiter appeared
unusually quiet, and soon passed from weary rest on the sand to deep slumber.
Fay and Jane succumbed to an exhaustion that manifested itself the moment
relaxation set in, and they, too, fell asleep. Shefford patrolled the long
strip of sand under the wall, and watched up the river for Joe Lake. The
Indian returned and went along the river, climbed over the jutting, sharp
slopes that reached into the water, and passed out of sight up-stream toward
the rapid.
Shefford had a sense that the river and the canyon were too magnificent to be
compared with others. Still, all his emotions and sensations had been so
wrought upon, he seemed not to have any left by which he might judge of what
constituted the difference. He would wait. He had a grim conviction that
before he was safely out of this earth- riven crack he would know. One thing,
however, struck him, and it was that up the canyon, high over the lower walls,
hazy and blue, stood other walls, and beyond and above them, dim in purple
distance, upreared still other walls. The haze and the blue and the purple
meant great distance, and, likewise, the height seemed incomparable.
The red river attracted him most. Since this was the medium by which he must
escape with his party, it was natural that it absorbed him, to the neglect of
the gigantic cliffs. And the more he watched the river, studied it, listened
to it, imagined its nature, its power, its restlessness, the more he dreaded
it. As the hours of the afternoon wore away, and he strolled along and rested
on the banks, his first impressions, and what he realized might be his truest
ones, were gradually lost. He could not bring them back. The river was
changing, deceitful. It worked upon his mind. The low, hollow roar filled his
ears and seemed to mock him. Then he endeavored to stop thinking about it, to
confine his attention to the gap up- stream where sooner or later he prayed
that Joe Lake and his boat would appear. But, though he controlled his gaze,
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