THE NAUTILUS. 125 



traverse. Now, these same Indians are found to be very 

 faithful road workers. Their villages are pitched near by 

 and the braves are helping their white brothers build the 

 roads. But no, they are not quite willing to fraternize with 

 us. For in conversation with the big, young fellows, unusual 

 specimens of the physical man who have been educated at 

 the government schools, we learn that: "The teachers don't 

 know anything," and "All the white men are dishonest." 

 Our efforts to argue this away were unavailing, for these men 

 spoke from experience. Later facts, to our shame be it said, 

 showed that they spoke the truth. 



Soon we sight Salt Eiver and learn that it is dammed at 

 Roosevelt. We skip along over knolls and mesas, skirting the 

 south shore of the lake for twenty miles or more and detour 

 one mile to cliff dwellings. A stop here and a tramp up the 

 fine trail to the former abode of an ancient people, leads us 

 to our next Sonorella. A new one, Mr. Ferriss said, and right 

 in Chief Montezuma's dooryard. We camped here, found 

 the accompanying spring of the people of long ago, drank, 

 bathed, loved the tropical grove of walnuts, cottonwoods, 

 willows, but found no more snails. 



We lingered long on the Roosevelt Dam boulevard, the 

 most impressive work of man our eyes ever beheld. We ate 

 a fine dinner at that "shadow of a rock in a weary land," 

 Apache Lodge, replenished our gas, air, water, and then on 

 to Mills Canyon, where we easily found a large colony of 

 Sonorellas. On the top of a hill overlooking the water we 

 made our camp. The lake is nearly fifty feet lower than 

 usual. And now we are to see so many signs of suffering 

 man and beast when no rain falls in a dry climate and the 

 water-holes fail. One woman had a dozen young calves she 

 was trying to raise whose mothers had perished of thirst. 

 Whitening bones, some covered with dried hides, some naked, 

 were frequent sights. 



Now we are in the Mogollon Mountains, Tonto Basin re- 

 gion, Zane Grey's country. We did not see him this time and 

 forebore to visit his hunting lodge, sixteen miles by trail 

 from Payson. But we heard much about him and his Pleas- 



