and Canyon of Arizona is over two hundred miles long, thirteen
wide, and a mile and a half deep; a titanic gorge in which mountains,
tablelands, chasms and cliffs lie half veiled in purple haze. It is
wild and sublime, a thing of wonder, of mystery; beyond all else a
place to grip the heart of a man, to unleash his daring spirit.

On April 20th, 1908, after days on the hot desert, my weary party and
pack train reached the summit of Powell's Plateau, the most isolated,
inaccessible and remarkable mesa of any size in all the canyon
country. Cut off from the mainland it appeared insurmountable;
standing aloof from the towers and escarpments, rugged and bold in
outline, its forest covering like a strip of black velvet, its giant
granite walls gold in the sun, it seemed apart from the world,
haunting with its beauty, isolation and wild promise.

The members of my party harmoniously fitted the scene. Buffalo Jones,
burly-shouldered, bronze-faced, and grim, proved in his appearance
what a lifetime on the plains could make of a man. Emett was a Mormon,
a massively built grey-bearded son of the desert; he had lived his
life on it; he had conquered it and in his falcon eyes shone all its
fire and freedom. Ranger Jim Owens had the wiry, supple body and
careless, tidy garb of the cowboy, and the watchful gaze, quiet face
and locked lips of the frontiersman. The fourth member was a Navajo
Indian, a copper-skinned, raven-haired, beady-eyed desert savage.

I had told Emett to hire some one who could put the horses on grass in
the evening and then find them the next morning. In northern Arizona
this required more than genius. Emett secured the best trailer of the
desert Navajos. Jones hated an Indian; and Jim, who carried an ounce
of lead somewhere in his person, associated this painful addition to
his weight with an unfriendly Apache, and swore all Indians should
be dead. So between the two, Emett and I had trouble in keeping our
Navajo from illustrating the plainsman idea of a really good Indian--a
dead one.

While we were pitching camp among magnificent pine trees, and above a
hollow where a heavy bank of snow still lay, a sodden pounding in the
turf attracted our attention.

"Hold the horses!" yelled Emett.

As we all made a dive among our snorting and plunging horses the sound
seemed to be coming right into camp. In a moment I saw a string of
wild horses thundering by. A noble black stallion led them, and as he
ran with bea