The Arizona Desert 



hundred miles across the shifting sands, and baked 

 clay, and ragged rocks. Always in the rear rose the 

 San Francisco peaks, cold and pure, startlingly clear 

 and close in the rare atmosphere. 



We camped near another water hole, located in a 

 deep, yellow-colored gorge, crumbling to pieces, a 

 ruin of rock, and silent as the grave. In the bottom 

 of the canon was a pool of water, covered with green 

 scum. My thirst was effectually quenched by the 

 mere sight of it. I slept poorly, and lay for hours 

 watching the great stars. The silence was painfully 

 oppressive. If Jones had not begun to give a respect 

 able imitation of the exhaust pipe on a steamboat, I 

 should have been compelled to shout aloud, or get 

 up; but his snoring would have dispelled anything. 

 The morning came gray and cheerless. I got up 

 stiff and sore, with a tongue like a rope. 



All day long we ran the gauntlet of the hot, flying 

 sand. Night came again, a cold, windy night. I 

 slept well until a mule stepped on my bed, which was 

 conducive to restlessness. At dawn, cold, gray clouds 

 tried to blot out the rosy east. I could hardly get 

 up. My lips were cracked; my tongue swollen to 

 twice its natural size; my eyes smarted and burned. 

 The barrels and kegs of water were exhausted. 

 Holes that had been dug in the dry sand of a dry 

 stream-bed the night before in the morning yielded 



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