IN THE VALLEY OF THE PUERCO 



By D. W. JOHNSON 



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T was one of those hot, 

 dusty afternoons, by no 

 means wholly unknown 

 on the plateau region of 

 New Mexico. The glare 

 of the sunlight on the 

 broad, sandy stretches of 

 the Rio Puerco valley was 

 exceedinkly trying to eyes 

 unused to the strain, and 

 one or two of the party 

 loudly deplored the fact 

 that we had failed to provide our- 

 selves with dark-colored glasses. Hav- 

 ing spent several years in the Terri- 

 tory, I was more accustomed to the 

 bright reflection from sandy soil, but 

 my two companions, Oliver and Ed- 

 wards, were just from Eastern cities, 

 and suffered accordingly. The three 

 of us had been camping in the San 

 Mateo Mountains, about twenty miles 

 south west of the little mining town 

 of Magdalena, and were now on 

 our way to Albuquerque. The river 

 roads being in poor condition, we had 

 taken the more roundabout route west 

 of the Bear Mountains,- and were now 

 within a long day's drive of our des- 

 tination. 



While this near home, and with the 

 peaks of the Sandias easily visible on 

 the horizon, our trouble had com- 

 menced. A friendly Mexican had vol- 

 unteered the information that a much 

 nearer route to Albuquerque could be 

 found by driving up the Puerco valley 

 a few miles and then turning eastward 

 over the mesa. Following his directions, 

 as we supposed, we continued up the 

 valley some miles, but found our road 

 gradually bearing off to the west, with 

 no branch to the east. In our uncer- 

 tainty we were relieved to see another 

 Mexican coming slowly towards us, rid- 

 ing a skepy-looking burro. Replying 



to our questions he told us that he knew 

 of no short route to the city, but that 

 he had a camp a mile or two further 

 west 'from which a wagon-trail led to 

 San Ignacio. I knew the road from 

 San Ignacio to Albuquerque, and since 

 we had come so far along the wrong 

 way we decided it would be better to 

 follow the trail than to turn back. We 

 found the Mexican's camp without dif- 

 ficulty, and from it a fairly-good, wag- 

 on-trail leading away to the north. And 

 so it happened that on this hot after- 

 noon, late in June, we were driving 

 along the dusty trail with the hot sun 

 above us and the hot sands below. 



The valley of the Rio Puerco, at the 

 point of interest to us now, is several 

 miles broad and as level as a floor. A 

 scattered growth of sage relieves the 

 monotony of the sand, while the wind- 

 ings of the river itself are marked by a 

 much-broken line of green — clumps of 

 cottonwood trees growing only along 

 the river's brink. The "river" is a nar- 

 row gorge, some forty or fifty feet in 

 depth, whose sandy bed is usually dry, 

 save during the rainy season, or just 

 after occasional showers. Were it not 

 for the cottonwood trees no one at a 

 distance would suspect the presence of 

 the river, for the walls of the gorge are 

 vertical, as a rule, and it is but rarely 

 that one can find a point where the 

 sides are sloping. 



As the afternoon wore away we no- 

 ticed that the trail we were following 

 was also 1 bearing off to the west,, and 

 soon it left the river valley for the ups 

 and downs of the foothills. This was 

 unfortunate enough, but, to increase 

 our annoyance, the trail grew fainter 

 and rougher, gradually disappearing in 

 that mysterious way peculiar to western 

 trails. At last nothing remained but a 

 double-wagon trail, and, after careful 



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