rods to Ribbon Falls. We had intended to spend the
night there, and I supposed we were to sleep standing up; but there was
Chollo, our prodigal pack mule, who had found a luscious patch of grass
near the Falls and decided to make it her first stopping-place. In that
manner we recovered the bedding roll. White Mountain murmured a few
sweet nothings into her innocent ear and anchored her firmly to a stake.
That didn't please her at all. She complained loudly to her wild
brethren, and they sympathized in heart-comforting brays from all points
near at hand. Our horses were given grain and turned into the grassy
cove, and supper was prepared. And while the coffee boiled we had a
refreshing swim in Nature's bathtub at the bottom of the Falls. High
above, the crystal stream bursts forth from the red cliff and falls in a
sparkling cascade seventy feet, to strike against a big rock upholstered
in softest green. Here it forms a morning-glory pool of almost icy
coolness. Hot coffee and bacon with some of White Mountain's famous
biscuits baked in a reflector tasted like a feed at Sherry's. I watched
the Chief mix his biscuits while I lay resting against the piled-up
saddles. I wondered how he intended to cook them, but managed to keep
still and find out for myself. He took a folded piece of tin from his
pack and with a few magic passes turned it into a roof-shaped structure
resting on its side on two short steel legs. Another twist of the wrist
lifted a little tin shelf into place. This contraption was set about a
yard from the glowing fire and the pan of biscuits was placed on the
shelf. As I stared at the open-work baker the biscuits puffed into
lightness and slowly turned a rich tempting brown. After we had eaten
the last one and the camp was put in order, we sat watching a fat moon
wallow lazily up from behind the Rim. Strange forms crept into sight
with the moon-rise--ruined Irish castles, fortresses hiding their dread
secrets, sculptured groups, and weird goblins. By and by a few stars
blossomed--great soft golden splashes, scattered about in an inverted
turquoise bowl. The heavens seemed almost at our fingertips from the
bottom of this deep southern gorge.

While Bright Angel Creek murmured a soft accompaniment, the Chief told
me how it received its name. An old legend says: Among the first Spanish
explorers a small party attempted to cross the Colorado Canyon. They
wandered down on to the plateau north of the river, and the