176 SADDLE AND CAMP 



"That's some trip. You're traveling right. 

 Pack outfit's th' only way." 



At Springville I met George (Beefsteak) 

 Harrison, one of the few remaining trail blaz- 

 ers of the desert, an early California pioneer, 

 who for sixty years has been a character of the 

 country. He has a little caravansary where I 

 dined. When he learned I had watered at 

 Coyote Holes, he left "Mr." off my name and 

 sang me some local songs; one, I recall, to the 

 tune of "Where is my Wandering Boy To- 

 night," ran like this: 



"Where is Blackhawk and Chief Sanpitch? 

 They're having a big pow-pow; 

 They've gone to smoke the pipe of peace — 

 The Indians are ticaboo now. 



"Blackhawk stole cattle from Scipio; 

 Was known as a wicked Ute. 

 He laid down his gun and his bow 

 When he could no longer shoot." 



Utah Valley was in the midst of its fruit har- 

 vest and the air was redolent with the perfume 

 of ripe apples and peaches. Utah Lake shim- 

 mered at my left. An autumnal haze lay over 

 the valley, the mountains rose somber and grim 

 on either side, and the quiet, dreamy beauty of 

 it all was of the character that breeds in one an 

 indescribable longing — a desire for something 



