[Illustration: NONNEZOSHE]

Then we plodded on again. Wetherill worked around to circle the huge
amphitheater. The way was a steep slant, rough and loose and dragging.
The rocks were as hard and jagged as lava, and cactus hindered
progress. Soon the rosy and golden lights had faded. All the walls
turned pale and steely and the bridge loomed dark.

We were to camp all night under the bridge. Just before we reached it
Nas ta Bega halted with one of his singular motions. He was saying his
prayer to this great stone god. Then he began to climb straight up the
steep slope. Wetherill told me the Indian would not pass under the
arch.

When we got to the bridge and unsaddled and unpacked the lame mustangs
twilight had fallen. The horses were turned loose to fare for what
scant grass grew on bench and slope. Firewood was even harder to
find than grass. When our simple meal had been eaten there was gloom
gathering in the canyon and stars had begun to blink in the pale strip
of blue above the lofty walls. The place was oppressive and we were
mostly silent.

Presently I moved away into the strange dark shadow cast by the
bridge. It was a weird black belt, where I imagined I was invisible,
but out of which I could see. There was a slab of rock upon which I
composed myself, to watch, to feel.

A stiffening of my neck made me aware that I had been continually
looking up at the looming arch. I found that it never seemed the same
any two moments. Near at hand it was too vast a thing for immediate