ount. This was an Indian
racing horse, and the pride of Wattahomigie's heart, but he cheerfully
surrendered him to me whenever I had a bad trail to ride. He was high
from the ground, long-legged, long-necked and almost gaunt, but gentle
and sure-footed.

We left El Tovar before anybody was stirring and while the depths of the
Canyon were still lost in darkness. At the head of the trail I
involuntarily pulled up short. "Leave hope behind all ye who enter
here," flashed through my brain. Dante could have written a much more
realistic _Inferno_ had he spent a few days in the Grand Canyon
absorbing local color. Far below, the trail wound and crawled, losing
itself in purple shadows that melted before the sun as we descended. The
world still slept, with the exception of a few saucy jays who flew about
us loudly claiming the heavens, the earth, and the waters beneath,
should there be any. Two hours of steady descent brought us to the base
of the red-wall limestone. In that two hours we had passed from the belt
of pine and shrub to the one of sagebrush and cactus. Half an hour
farther, and we arrived at Indian Gardens, a clump of willows and
cottonwoods shading a stream of cold bubbling water from a never-failing
spring. This little stream is full of delicious watercress, and more
than once on festive occasions a ranger had gone down and brought back a
supply to garnish the turkey. Not until I made the ride myself could I
appreciate his service. At one time this spot was cultivated by the
Havasupai Indians; hence the name. Every dude that has followed a Fred
Harvey guide down the trail remembers this God-given oasis with
gratitude. Water and shade and a perfectly good excuse for falling out
of the saddle! No flopping mule ears; no toothache in both knees; no
yawning void reaching up for one. Ten whole minutes in Paradise, and
there's always a sporting chance that Gabriel may blow his horn, or an
apoplectic stroke rescue one, before the heartless guide yells: "All
aboard."

We filled our canteens from the spring, for this is really the last good
water until the bridge is crossed, and rode across the Tonto Trail along
the plateau for five miles, through sagebrush, cactus, and yucca. Here
and there a chuckwalla darted across the trail or a rock squirrel sat on
his haunches and scolded as we passed. Nothing broke the monotony of the
ride. At one point on the ride the trail hangs over the edge of Pipe
Creek, a mere little chasm t