SKIRTING THE GORGE. 179 
calls and shouts from the cafion. Exhausted, out of breath, 
_ and wet with perspiration, boots. nearly torn off, and hands 
cut and bleeding, I sat down on the summit and looked 
around. Across the narrow chasm I saw the other scaling 
_ party. Hverything was as quiet as death, the Indians had 
j disappeared—melting away as suddenly and mysteriously as 
_ they had at first appeared. They had gone to their hidden 
_lairs, cowed by our determined approach. 
It had been hurriedly arranged before we ascended, that 
_ the scaling parties should move on down stream at the brink 
of the cafion, covering the pack-train and animals which 
would march along the bed. Accordingly we moved on 
towards the Rio Verde; but, in consequence of side cafions, 
were compelled to keep back at least half-a-mile nearer to 
the foot of the mountain than the course of the cafion. 
| Six miles farther, while skirting a ridge which projected 
from the mountain, the Indians from the top began yelling 
again like demons, and firing at us, but the range was too 
long to do any harm. They were too cowardly to attack 
even our small party, and now that we were no longer 
engulfed in a cafion, we laughed at their whoops. They 
followed us, however, hoping to catch us in a ravine, but we 
always sent three men across first to cover the rest and be 
covered by them in turn. 
Just as the sun was setting we recognised from a high 
point the mouth of the Sycamore and the valley of the Rio 
Verde. We had not been able, from the roughness of the 
country, to approach the side of the cafion in which we 
, supposed the rest of the party were moving, and could not, 
; therefore, ascertain their whereabouts.. But at last, towards 
_ dark, we descended a second time, by a deep side gorge, into 
the cafion, dropping down fully 2,000 feet in the space of 
nN 2 
