The Frontier Boys in the Grand Canyon Part 33

Tom made a plunge forward for his rifle.

"Hold on," cried Jim, "don't exert yourself, Tom. Jo didn't see any Indians. It was just his diverting method of breaking up our little discussion."

Tom was so disgusted that he turned his back on us and became absorbed in the view down the river.

In a little while we heard Commodore Jim's voice.

"To the oars, my bonnie lads. We are coming to another dancing, prancing rapid."

Tom regarded the commodore askance.

"What's the matter with Jim?" he soliloquized. "He must consider himself a blooming poet. I guess it's because he hasn't had his hair cut for a year."

But all further repartee was cut off by the necessity of attending to business. In a short time we ran out of the rapids.

After pa.s.sing a great wide canyon we came to a very remarkable place. At this point the wall was set back well from the river.

"Make a landing, Jim," I cried, "there's a tremendous cave ahead there in the wall."

"All right," replied Jim.

So we swung our boat over into a quiet cave that was sheltered by gently bending branches of some flowering bushes.

Making our craft perfectly secure we took the trail to this new wonder that was carved in the great cliff.

"Well, this is immense," exclaimed Jim.

That expressed it. It was.

"It looks just like the entrance to some great and ancient temple."

"Whatever made it?" asked Tom, in amazement.

"Water," said Jim, "by a process popularly known as erosion."

"You got that out of the physical geography," said Tom.

"I didn't say that I invented it," remarked Jim, blandly.

"How long did this job take?" I inquired.

"A few hundred thousands of years, I suppose," said Jim.

"How do you know?" grunted Tom, "you are just giving Jo a filler."

"Well, putting it another way,", said Jim, "it took about as long as it would for you to acquire a knowledge of spelling."

This was Tom's weak point, but all further controversy was cut off by our nearer approach to this temple. There was a broad arch of one hundred feet in the smooth, red sandstone through which we entered.

Before this arch and almost in the entrance was a screen of cottonwood trees.

We stood within, silent, wondering at the majesty of the interior. It was like being under the dome of some great cathedral, though this had the added grace of being natural.

The temple was five hundred feet in width, and two hundred in height, with an opening far above in the roof, through which the blue sky was faintly visible.

It was not dark, for the light came from the entrance and dusky slants of sunshine came through the opening above. Our eyes were soon accustomed to the twilight of the place.

"Isn't it grand?" said Jim. "I never imagined such a place as this."

The floor was mostly of bare rock, smooth but not level, as it was worn concave or with rounding ridges. We crossed over to the opposite side facing the entrance, and sat down on a narrow ledge with a comfortable back of sandstone.

"Let's sing," said Jim.

"Tune up," cried Tom.

The sound was not echoed, but the dome gave it a deep, sonorous quality that was really impressive. As we sang we forgot all the hardships of the past, the uncertainty of the present and the dangers of the near future. We were back in civilization again and among our home surroundings and folks once more. The warmth of the sentiment softened us and did us good.

"Way down upon the Suwanee River, Far, far away, That's where my heart is turning ever, That's where the old folks stay."

"All the world am sad and dreary Everywhere I roam.

Oh, darkies, how my heart grows weary Longing for the old folks at home."

There was something of pathos in our tones as we sang the last line. Jim had a good baritone, and Tom's voice was really a fine tenor, while mine was of a nondescript variety.

We spent hours in this cavern in singing and exploring around.

"I'll tell you what let's do," exclaimed Tom. "Let's carve our names in here."

"Good idea," I agreed.

So we went to work and in a couple of hours we had finished our task.

The sandstone was soft, that is, comparatively so, and we enjoyed working in it. There was a peculiar pleasure in our quiet industry in that sheltered place away from the turmoil of the river and the lone, weird desert land through which we were traveling.

I finished my name first.

"Jo Darlington." If you ever visit that cavern, which is most improbable, you will see it there. If some future explorer, several thousand years from now chances to drop in, he will also see my name there, as durable as the stone itself.

I left the other artists at work and went out to take a look at our boat. I just stepped outside of the entrance, and at my first glance through the screen of cottonwoods I saw something that froze me in my tracks.

I made out an Indian making his way along a trail towards our boat. Who would reach it first? His purpose was evident. To reach the boat and cut it loose and drift with it into the river. Then where would we be?

Stranded high and dry, with neither supplies nor guns, nor boat.

I gave one yell to the boys in the interior of the cave, and sprang forward with unleashed energy. The Indian started at the same time towards the boat. He had a clearer trail than I did, and leaped forward with the swiftness of a deer.

Never had I run for such a stake, neither brush nor logs could stop me.

I tore through the bushes with tremendous speed and down the slope towards the boat I hurled myself.

But the Indian was ahead by fifty feet, and sprang on "The Captain."

Then he turned towards me, throwing one hand up, exclaiming: