when the
Johnson ranch was left behind. We use, in fact, a fictious name, not
caring to visit on them the suspicions we ourselves felt in return.

Another morning passed in repairing the M.P. camera, and another
afternoon's work was necessary to get us out of the walls and the
rapids of Red Canyon. But on the evening of the 20th, we did get out,
and pulled into an open country known as Brown's Park, one week after
entering Flaming Gorge. It had not been very fast travelling; but we
were through, and with no mishap more serious than a split board on
the side of my boat. Under favourable conditions, and in experienced
hands, this distance might have been covered in three days. But
meanwhile, we were gaining a lot of experience.

About the lower end of Red Canyon the river turned directly east,
paralleling the northern boundary of Utah, and continued to flow in
this general direction until it crossed into Colorado.

On emerging from Red Canyon we spied a ranch house or log cabin close
to the river. The doors were open and there were many tracks in the
sand, so we thought some one must be about. On approaching the house,
however, we found the place was deserted, but with furniture, books,
and pictures piled on the floor in the utmost confusion, as if the
occupants had left in a great hurry. This surmise afterward proved to
be correct; for we learned that the rancher had been murdered for his
money, his body having been found in a boat farther down the river.
Suspicion pointed to an old employee who had been seen lurking near
the place. He was traced to the railroad, over a hundred miles to the
north; but made his escape and was never caught.

We found Brown's Park, once known as Brown's Hole, to be a beautiful
valley several miles in width, and thirty-five or forty miles in
length. The upper end of the valley was rugged in places, with rocky
hills two or three hundred feet high. To the south, a few miles away,
were the mountains, a continuation of those we had come through. We
saw many cattle scattered over some of these rocky hills, grazing on
the bunch-grass. At one place our course led us through a little
canyon about two miles long, and scarcely more than two hundred feet
deep. This was Swallow Canyon--a name suggested by the many birds of
that species which had covered the canyon's walls with their little
clay nests. The openings of some of these nests were so small that it
scarcely seemed possible for a bird to en