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On A Donkey's Hurricane Deck

<h3>CHAPTER XLVIII. Last drop in the canteen</h3> TOC BY PYE POD. <div class="poembox"> <div class="stanzaleft"> <div class="verse5">The lottery of my destiny</div> <div class="verse0">Bars me the right of voluntary choosing.</div> </div><cite class="citefarright">—Shakespeare.</cite></div> Rocky Mountain canaries were singing their lullabys and Bridget (the clock) had just called eleven o'clock when the house of St. Joer loomed in the darkness. A hush was upon it and all the out-buildings. Though nobody greeted me, still I knew where I was by the odd-looking arch over the corral gate. Mr. St. Joer was at the soiree in Tooele, and had made me promise to tarry with him a night before braving the desert; so we camped in the corral. We were awakened early by the genial ranchman, and escorted in to breakfast with him and a guest, a young man from Salt Lake City, who had just ridden horseback from Granite Mountain, where he had been inspecting some lead mines. It was a treat for me to sit again at a meal not cooked by myself; all four of us ate with genuine relish. The stranger was about thirty, of light complexion, tall and slender, and was dressed in a nobby riding-suit, with leather leggings and spurs. "If you take the Granite Mt. trail to Redding Springs," suggested my host, turning to the young engineer for his indorsement—"but no, that's too risky," he corrected. "Save forty miles and more," commented the engineer. "I can give the Professor a diagram of the desert and all the trails to Fedora Spring in Granite Mt.; the trail from there to Redding is not confusing, I understand." I said I would take the risk to save forty miles, a two days' journey. My first intention had been to go south of the desert by Fish Springs, the route generally traveled by emigrant schooners. Three hours later, we were climbing the rocky summit of the range that hid the great desert beyond, and threading the jagged causeway called the Devil's Gate. They rose sheer and craggy high above us—immutable witnesses of that sundering catastrophe of nature when the earth's mighty convulsions of a prehistoric age converted an obstacle into a convenient pass. When out on the western side and I beheld the broad expanse of sun-tanned desert reaching from that sage mottled slope to the parallel-stretch of mesa, some twenty miles away, the intervening Skull Valley lost for me its legendary terrors. But it was a forlorn-looking prospect; only two things made up the perfect picture of a despised Nature—alkali and sage. About noon, when we had proceeded some distance into the Skull Valley desert, we stopped to feed and rest an hour before resuming the march. As we seemed to have abundance of water and provisions, this glaring solitude with such a lugubrious name caused me no dread sensations, for when supplied with the necessities of life, it is difficult for one to realize the dying man's agonies of starvation or thirst. By six we had crossed Skull Valley. The last mile of trail wound up a slight grade to a grassy bench, where stood a low-roofed, log shack; it was the deserted Scribner's Ranch. A few moment's reconnoitering resulted in our finding the spring. Then we unpacked and picketed the animals, excepting Mac A'Rony, who was usually allowed to roam at will; for when tied, he was forever tangling himself in a snarl that required time and patience to unravel. Our tent was pitched a hundred feet from the shack, whose dusky contour, wrapped in the sombre veil of night, on the mesa above us and against the sparkling firmament, looked cold and repelling indeed. Day had advanced two hours when we awoke. The broad desert to the west gleamed at white heat. While I cooked breakfast, Coonskin saddled the animals, to save time; then, the meal over, we quickly packed and started for the scorching sands. The trail was as hot and level as a fire-brick floor. As far as the eye could reach in three directions, the blue, curved dome of heaven and the glistening desert met in a gaseous haze, hiding the horizon, but in time, far to the west, as we proceeded gradually, rose a bluish-gray pyramid, which we know to be Granite Mountain; while, to the rear, the distant hills, where stood the deserted cabin, looked to be mere dust-heaps at the base of Nature's architecture—the towering rocks of the Cedar Mountains through which we trailed the morning before. Every few minutes we had to tap our canteens; the powdered alkali dust rose in our faces and swelled our eyes and tongues; no amount of water would alleviate our pangs of thirst. Besides, the evaporation of the water in our cloth-wrapped canteens and basket-covered demijohn was frightfully great; I feared lest the supply would not last us through to Fedora Spring. I gave Don frequent drinks, yet his eyes were blood-shot and his tongue hung out foaming and swollen. As a precaution against any sudden freak of madness on his part, I held my revolver in readiness to dispatch the dear fellow should it become necessary. On the other hand, my donkeys strode along quietly, without complaint or seeming discomfort, as if in their native element. Not a living thing could we see beyond our caravan. No jack-rabbits ventured into the desert; no more would a water-spaniel breast a scalding sea. The only living thing we met with in that gigantic kiln was a horned toad, which was existing as a hermit and was apparently content. We captured it, and Coonskin named it Job, because the horns which covered it looked like the extinct craters of once boiling boils. Our water was vanishing so rapidly by noon that I decided not to tarry for lunch and rest, but to hasten to the spring; but at five, when the sun was nearer the horizon and evaporation less, I ordered a dry camp, and the donkeys were unpacked and grained with the last of the barley generously presented by St. Joer. We men lunched on cold meat and crackers and canned fruit, and sparing draughts of warm water; after which we reclined and smoked until the sun set. Then we repacked before darkness set in to confuse us. How the donkeys did enjoy rolling in the alkali! When they had finished their dry ablutions they looked like negroes who had been hit with a bag of flour. Just before resuming the march, we men poured a few drops of citric acid into our two quart canteens, whose tepid water was only an aggravation of our thirst; the acid made it palatable. Soon afterward I discovered our great error. The acid so worked on the tin that the water became, in time, unfit to drink; fearing lest it would poison us, we both had to throw the precious liquid away. About mid-way that afternoon I saw my first mirage. It was simply magnificent, wonderful! A snow-crowned mountain rose out of the desert, and on top of it, turned bottom-side up, rested its counterpart, both phantom peaks remaining a while immovable; then they appeared to crush into each other and dissolve. The spectacle was bewildering. Like mammoth icebergs in a glistening sea, they seemed to melt and leave on the arid waste a great lake of crystal water. At sundown they reappeared with still grander effect. The sun threw a crimson, fiery mantle over the under mountain, which produced the effect of flowing lava down its snow-white slope to a flame-red lake on the desert, while above, on the upper mountain, reflected and danced shadows of rose-color and pink, as if reflected from flames within the crater of a volcano underneath. Then, as the sun sank below the horizon, the upper mountain gradually rose toward the zenith and opened wider, like a great fan, tinted with all the colors of a rainbow, until it faded into radiating webs of gossamer, and disappeared. One other time we saw plainly the skeletons of a man and a horse glistening several hundred feet from the trail, but I was too incredulous to put faith in the old proverb, "Seeing is believing," and passed on. Just before dark the huge Granite Mountain looked to be only a couple of miles away. Still we traveled till midnight before we passed the edge of the dusky pile, so deceiving are distances in that rarified air. The evening in that cooling oven of baked sand and alkali was oppressively long, dull and wearisome. Every trail branching toward Granite Mountain had to be checked off my diagram, for we had seen no sign-board. True, the heavens lent a little cheer with their sparkling lights, but the temperature fell from far above the 100 degree mark to 70 degrees by eight o'clock, and to 48 degrees before we pitched camp. We had passed three trails not on the diagram, and I began nervously to speculate whether the sign-board had been taken by some overland voyager for fuel and we had passed the trail to Fedora Spring. The clock pointed to one. A few moments later a well-beaten trail curved southward toward the towering pyramid of rock. I called a halt to reason with my man on the advisability of following it. "We'll chance it," I said; and we trailed toward the mountain. Narrower, rockier and steeper grew the trail for two miles, before I discerned the sloping sides of the canyon we were in, when I ordered camp. The donkeys were securely picketed to the roots of giant sage with our longest ropes, to enable them to find sleeping places among the rocks; I knew they must be very thirsty, and would try to break away in search of water. Then we made our bed in the trail, and with lantern went to find the spring; but we searched in vain and returned to our camp-fire discouraged. Evidently we had taken a wood-trail into a dry canyon. Only half a two-quart canteen of water was left us. We ate a cold lunch, and drank sparingly; after which I took charge of the canteen for the night. Coonskin remonstrated at once, saying he was thirsty. I said I was, too, and that when I should drink, he could, but not otherwise. We were in desperate circumstances, and I must exercise my authority. So we crawled into our blankets, on the hard and narrow trail under the glittering canopy of heaven, and were soon asleep. But, before lying down, with a realizing sense that we were lost and without the water to keep us alive half the distance either to Skull Valley or to Redding Springs, I knelt in fervent prayer to God to guide us out of that awful wilderness to water in time to save us from the death that seemed to be in store for us on the morrow. The beaming planets, also voyagers on a limitless sea of mystery and doubt, looked down, cold and unsympathetic. Coonskin was first asleep; when I was sure, by his breathing, I quietly rose and gave my faithful dog a few drops of water in the wash basin. He was grateful indeed, and tried to be content; he seemed to realize the situation, and licking my cheek, lay down close to my side. The sun shone over the walls of the canyon and awoke us frightfully late. We stretched and yawned. Now, I thought, if I had only taken Mac's suggestion to lay in a store of carrots and turnips, the water in the vegetables would have sufficed in emergency, and the donkeys had feed. As my hopeful outfit tramped and slipped and tumbled down to the shining plain, I almost felt I could see my finish on that sun-scorched lime-hued gridiron which faded away into a gaseous nothingness in three directions. When we came to the main desert trail, I halted my caravan to debate with my despondent valet as to what would be the wisest move. Should we go east or west? "Flip a penny," said Coonskin, "Heads, west; tails, east!" and he at once threw the coin whirling in the air, and caught it, tails up. "West we have been traveling, and west we shall continue to go," I said positively; and gave the command to move on, adding: "If we fail to discover the sign-board after passing beyond the mountain, then we'll come back and search to the east." We had proceeded a mile and a half when Coonskin went crazy, or had a fit, and I emptied the canteen in his mouth. This revived him. He had partially undressed and was trying his best to frighten me and the dog. The sun beat down furiously; the sky wasn't the only thing that looked blue. I raised the canteen to my lips and drained it of the last and only drop. My tongue hung out swollen, and my palate and throat burned. Another half mile, and I should have despaired, when, suddenly, a small white board, nailed to a short stake, loomed up ahead of us. I knew intuitively it marked the branch trail to the coveted spring. No two happier mortals ever lived than Coonskin and I. We threw our hats in the air; we shouted, and hurrahed, and sang; and turned handsprings and somersaults on the white, dusty floor of the desert. An hour later my little caravan had climbed the canyon to its fountain, and there we men fell on our stomachs with my dog, under the heels of the five donkeys which crowded about the cool, delicious waters, and drank until seized by the collar and dragged away from the spring by a man and boy. Near by stood prairie schooners, and some yards beyond were their horses, nibbling on the tops of sage brush. The party was bound east, and did us a kindness by preventing our drinking to excess in our condition. The man was kind enough to caution me before departing to mark well the sky and the wind, for should we be caught in a rain in that dreaded Red Desert, whose soil is so tenacious, we would "pass in our chips" without doubt. At one o'clock we struck out. The afternoon's march was just as tedious, and uncomfortably hot, and thirst-provoking as that of the previous day. But, with the exception of a fright we received late in the day when a few drops of rain fell from a passing cloud, there was nothing to mar the serenity of the journey to Redding Springs. The long-traveled trail was worn to a depth of twenty inches and more for many miles. We men, especially I, had to sit our animals Turkish-fashion to avoid being drawn out of the saddles by our dragging feet. The march after sunset to two in the morning was the most wearisome. Finally, when we were still three or four miles to Redding, I heard a dog bark ahead in the darkness, and thought we were almost there. Yet we traveled an hour and a half before the buildings of the ranch loomed in the darkness. Soon we had supped, and were wrapped in slumber. Redding Springs is a great oasis in the Salt Lake Desert. Three springs, varying from fifty to one hundred and fifty feet in diameter, overflow the reeded banks and irrigate a wide area of what otherwise might be an arid spot. An Italian owns this cattle-ranch and grows most of the necessities of life; he seemingly is content, though far removed from the cheerful and busy world. He believed that two of the springs were bottomless, and had some subterranean outlet. A steer once attempted to swim across one pond, and was drawn under by the suction and never seen again. To prove the Italian's theory, these two ponds, or springs, contained fish whose blindness indicates they must have lived in underground channels where eyesight was not required, soon losing their optics altogether. Mac A'Rony observed, when I had related to him the dago's story that in all probability the steer had undertaken an underground voyage to join a herd of sea-cows in the Pacific. Our much-needed day of rest was a delightful one. It was a twenty-eight mile journey to Deep Creek. My outfit was in readiness to start at 7 a. m. next day. The nine miles across the sage-covered plain to the mountains was accomplished in a little over three hours; then my animals began slowly to climb the ascent over a rough but well-beaten trail. By carrying out the directions given me by the Italian, at ten that night my fatigued caravan was straggling along the western slope of the broad-shouldered Deep Creek range. The sky was clouded, the air heavy with mist; a shower was imminent. I strained my eyes to ferret out a habitation of some sort from among the distant and faintly twinkling lights, but when I had selected one for our objective point and gone a hundred yards or so, it suddenly went out, and I had to single out another one. Again we were disappointed. Evidently it was the bed-time hour; soon all the lights would be extinguished. Presently rain began to fall. I took it as a timely warning, and ordered camp. We pitched our tent in the trail, the only place in which we could spread our bed, and crawled under cover just as the rain poured down with a vengeance. We had not more than closed our eyes than Don uttered a growl of warning, and I heard the sound of galloping hoofs approaching. I sat up. Then I heard the trampling of sage to one side of the trail, and looking out, saw a man on horseback. "Hello there! Who be you? Travelin' er goin' somewhere?" called a voice. I liked the tone; the words were genial, even cheery. When I answered, he gave us an urgent invitation to pack up and go on with him to his cabin a half mile distant, as his guests until the storm abated. "I thought you were drunken Injuns at first," said he. "Not common for white men to camp in the trail. My horse was so frightened he nearly spilt me, shying into the chaparral." I laughed good-naturedly, and promised to arrive at his house in time for breakfast, explaining that it would not be worth our while to dress and pack in the rain, since we were perfectly comfortable. Soon a hush fell upon the scene, and the beating rain on the canvas lulled us sweetly to sleep. When we arose in the morning, everything was dripping and a furious gale blowing. The rain appeared to be over, but no sooner had we packed up than down again it came. We hustled our animals up the muddy incline, and soon rode into the door-yard of the only cabin on the trail, and commenced unpacking. Soon our midnight acquaintance, Murray, and his chum, an old man who went by the cognomen of Uncle Tom, came out and welcomed us; both our hosts were effusive in their hospitality. One stabled and fed the donkeys, and the other ushered us into the cabin where we were provided with dry raiment and a hot breakfast. The fire in the stove roared in triumph and scorn at the scudding rain and wind without, while I smiled in gratitude. The men brought us books and tobacco, and couldn't do enough for us. The storm soon assumed the character of a hurricane; and I tried to fancy my little party struggling in the throes of those merciless elements to make headway across the valley and up the western mesa. The gale waged all day and night, but on the following morning the sky was clear and the wind had died considerably. It was a relief to get out of the stuffy house into the free and open air. I took the axe and exercised myself with chopping wood for an hour, which display of energy greatly pleased Uncle Tom, who, I assumed, provided the fuel for the camp. Murray was to start at eight on a round-up; so I resumed my pilgrimage at the same time. Before good-byes were said he presented me with a fine hair rope, braided with his own hands, as a souvenir of the happy occasion. The place to find large hearts is out on the western plains! Nine o'clock saw us trampling sage in a short cut down the slope toward a small group of log houses, designated as Deep Creek. The frontier store was kept by an Irishman, but bossed by his wife, who tried to impress me with her importance. Adjoining it stood another old shack, and projecting from its front eves was a small signboard on which was the following startling announcement: 1st. class dentestry All kinds dun cheap. Horses a specilty. Wimen prefured. TERMS  CASH  or  credit. I was amused at the novelty of this dentist's shingle; so was Mac A'Rony. "Poor Damfino!" he ejaculated presently, as I rubbed his nose. "Can't you help her out of her suffering? The poor girl has had a toothache for two days." "Most assuredly I will," I said. "Why didn't you inform me before?" And forthwith I ferreted out the frontier tooth-doctor. He, resurrected from his prolonged lethargy, hunted up a dust-covered tool-chest, and followed me impetuously to his asinine patient. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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