CHAPTER XVI 



A LAND OF TRAGIC MEMORIES 



ALL night rain fell steadily and it did not 

 cease until mid-forenoon on the day fol- 

 lowing my arrival at Booth's Ferry. 

 Then the sun broke through the clouds to look 

 upon a drenched world. Booth and Rogers 

 warned me that it would be foolhardy to ven- 

 ture into the canon with the treacherous "Blue 

 Trail" wet and slippery, as it necessarily was 

 so soon after the storm, and hearkening to their 

 advice I spent the day with them. 



Rogers was an old prospector who had fol- 

 lowed elusive fortune all his life as the donkey 

 followed the wisp of hay held before its nose. 

 Booth was a typical Rocky Mountain prospec- 

 tor, miner, hunter, and trapper. Fifteen years 

 before my visit he had established his ferry 

 and built his cabin at the lower end of the 



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