Part 4 (1/2)
We went up the river as far as Beaver Creek, where we turned off and camped. This was eighteen miles from our morning camp and it had been a very interesting day indeed for us, although hard on the horses. The Virgin River water is poor, but this Beaver Creek water is fine, so we fill our barrels to-night, as we are told by the rancher here that it is forty miles over the mountains to St. George and twenty-five miles to water.
As each man drinks a gallon and a half of water, and each horse from seven to eight pails a day, and besides that there are our needs for cooking, we get to thinking nothing else but water, and carry it sometimes unnecessarily; but we never take a chance and whenever we come to any good water we fill up.
We made a good start at five-thirty the next morning for St. George, which lay over on the other side of Beaver Dam Mountains, down on Clara Creek. We had a stiff pull to get up on the mesa and then a continual climb up over the rim. It grew cooler as we climbed, and after about fourteen miles we stopped for noon. From here we had a splendid view of the basin, saw where the Virgin River breaks through the mountains and where the Beaver Dam and Virgin wash come together.
Then we drove on up and at 3 P. M. topped the crest and started down into Clara Creek Valley. Our brake worked well and the horses were glad of a chance to let out without pulling, and we made the first three miles in fifteen minutes, probably. Then we ran into a wash and slowed up, but soon got a good road again, although it was red clay.
While getting some beautiful views we dropped so fast that at 5:30 P. M. we reached the bottom, literally covered with red dust and filled with excitement. We came to the creek at Shem, an Indian settlement, eight miles from Clara and thirteen miles from St. George.
We saw quite a few Tepee Indians; we were not sure what tribe they belonged to, but concluded they must be Utes as this is Utah. Night before last we camped on the Virgin River, Nevada, and last night on Beaver Dam Creek, Arizona, and to-night on Clara Creek, Utah. ”I guess that is going some,” as the little boy said.
Coming down the canyon this afternoon we saw painted on a rock ”Isaac Sprague 1908.” We were sorry he did not put down his address so we could have looked him up, but a.s.sumed he was a Mormon and not a Yankee.
We made about twenty-seven miles to-day, eighteen up and nine down hill, which was quite a day's work for the horses, as it was pretty much up all day, and the down was pretty much down. We will hope for an easier trail to-morrow.
[Ill.u.s.tration: A SAMPLE OF MORMON ARCHITECTURE]
We camped here on Clara Creek, which is the beginning of what is called the ”Dixie Country.” Most folks go ”'way down South” to Dixie, but we have come up from the bottom, so to speak, climbed over the lower range of mountains, and are coming up north into Dixie. Why this southern Utah country containing a few Mormon settlements is called the ”Dixie Country,” I never asked, but I simply a.s.sumed that it was the Mormon's ”'way down South.”
The next morning, being in Dixie land, we get the habit immediately, start late (eight-thirty), meet some prospectors going up to Bull Creek, and stop to interview them. They tell us all sorts of stories of ore and want us to help them to get some of it out, but we decline to work and have no money to invest, so move leisurely on. We cross the creek a dozen times. Tuck and the horses enjoy this and the scenery is worth while stopping to admire.
Reaching Clara we take a few pictures of Mormon houses. It reminded me of Switzerland, the way these people get little patches of green out of the desert, much as the Swiss get a green patch on the mountains where all else is rock. This country seems pretty much mountain and also abounds in distances, but what it sadly lacks is the snow.
We went on to St. George, which we reached in time for dinner at the hotel, quite a diversion. Here we met a young lady canva.s.sing for a magazine. I won't mention her name or her paper, or her story, but she took a subscription from everybody in the hotel, I guess, except myself. The cowmen must have subscribed for all their uncles and aunts by the number of subscriptions she said she had. I think we sized each other up at the start and so could laugh at each other and forget the magazine story. I never checked up to see, but, if I am not mistaken, others did, but she had the money.
St. George is quite a city for these parts, probably eighteen hundred people, a telephone system, several stores, and a big Mormon church and school. We did some trading here and got some pointers regarding the trail. We met one old fellow who had come to California in 1850.
He used to own part of the old Stewart Ranch at Las Vegas, but now lives about eighteen miles from here at Leeds. Here we heard a funny railroad story. It was so far from a railroad that n.o.body could see the point, but any one accustomed to seeing Mexicans working on the railroad,--who slowly get out of the way of a train when the fireman rings the bell,--may appreciate it. This is the story the foreman tells:
[Ill.u.s.tration: MORMON HOUSE AND IRRIGATION DITCH]
He said that he found one of his men standing at a switch close to a rattlesnake that was just coiling up to strike him. He called to him hurriedly, ”Get off the track there, you d.a.m.ned fool! Quick, don't you see that rattler?” The Mexican moved very reluctantly and the foreman, thinking the man didn't sense the snake, said, ”Don't you know enough to jump off the track when you see a rattler?” The Mexican only shrugged his shoulders and said, ”He no ringa da bell!”
Well, we thought often we had heard the ”bell” of the rattler, but never did see one, and the bell we heard we put down to a species of locust.
About 4 P. M. we moved on, planning to go to Cedar City before resting the team, and from there to Marysvale. We drove through Was.h.i.+ngton, the roads here being fairly well travelled, and on to a water hole, where we camped for the night. This water hole was down in a small canyon and we had hard work getting at it and digging a basin from which we could dip up a pail of water at a time, but finally we got what we needed.
The next morning, Wednesday, June 8, Bob woke us up and said, ”Tuck is sick.” I was up immediately and wanted to know where he was. ”He has gone,” said Bob, ”just wandered off sick.”
”But a sick dog does not wander off,” I said. ”Tell us if you know anything; he surely isn't here.”
Then he told us that he had wakened up early and not seeing Tuck curled up at my feet as usual, had thought something was wrong with the camp, and jumped up and dressed. It was just getting light, and looking around he saw all the horses and no sign of trouble, but no dog. Then he thought the dog might have gone for a drink and so now that he was up he would go and see. Looking down into the draw he saw Tuck lying by the pool of water covered with mud which had dried in his hair, and apparently asleep. He managed to coax him out and up to him, but said the dog didn't seem to know him, acted afraid, and looked sick. He coaxed him along over to the wagon and then it occurred to him that the dog might have had a fight with some animal at the water hole, and so he went back and climbed down and looked the ground over, but found no sign of anything except the dog. When he came back to the wagon, the dog had disappeared. He found his tracks where he had wandered off down the trail, but could not overtake him or catch sight of him, and so he came back and awoke us. ”He is scared and sick, and hardly knew me,” he repeated, ”and now he has wandered off. He must be crazy.”
The doctor said ”rabies,” and I threw the saddle on Kate, put my gun in my belt and started down the trail. I soon found Tuck and as he didn't know me and looked so miserable, I pulled out my gun and left him there. No one asked any questions when I returned, and we ate breakfast in silence. Starting on, Bob went ahead, and the next time I saw him I envied him his tears. I knew I should have felt better if I could have cried. We were quite a solemn party for several days.
We had a very hard road to-day; it was hilly, rocky, and sandy, and we made only fourteen miles. We drove through Leeds and camped about four miles south of Belleville, in a gravel wash by the side of Ash Creek.
We met a couple of fellows who lived at Torqueville, going by our camp on their way to Cedar City, about four miles from where we were camped. They had a horse and mule hitched together and were leading a black bronco colt which, when it saw me, promptly broke the rope, but on a second look allowed me to catch him. They expected to go to Belleville before dark.
Doc and I then concluded we would try Ash Creek for a bath, but the water and night were so cold we made short work of it. Later it got colder and the wind blew quite hard, and we needed all our bedding to keep warm, and a few hitches to keep it from blowing away.
The next day the road grew worse,--it really was the poorest excuse for a public road I ever saw, and I have seen some. The four miles to Belleville was all up grade and full of rocks that had to be literally climbed over.
Before reaching town we met a young man freighting. He had a fine big team, and thirty-eight hundred pounds, he said, on the wagon. His off mare had pounded her leg up so on the pole that he had changed her to the nigh side. We fixed up her leg as best we could for him, while he used all the words in the English language to describe the road and what he thought of it. This helped us some and we started on, feeling we were probably justified in some of the remarks we had been making.