Morning dawned clear and crisp. "Will it rain today?" I asked an Indian.
"No rain; three sleeps, then rain," he told me; and this proved correct.

Wattahomigie had provided a long-legged race horse for me to ride. "Will
he carry her all right?" the Chief asked him. Wattahomigie looked me
over carefully and one could almost see him comparing me mentally with a
vision of his fat squaw, Dottie. His white teeth flashed a smile: "Sure,
my squaw him all time ride that pony." That settled the matter. "Him
squaw" weighs a good two hundred pounds and is so enveloped in
voluminous skirts that the poor horse must feel completely submerged.

This trail does not gradually grow steeper--it starts that way. I had
been told that all other trails we had traveled were boulevards compared
to this one, and it was well that I had been warned beforehand. My place
was near the center of the caravan, and I was divided between the fear
that I should slide down on top of the unwary Indian riding ahead and
the one that the Chief's horse directly behind would bump me off the
trail. It was a cheerful situation. The Canyon walls closed in upon us,
and the trail grew worse, if that could be possible. The firm rock gave
way to shale that slipped and slid under the feet of the horses. It was
so narrow that one slip of a hoof would send the horse crashing on the
rocks hundreds of feet beneath. Still this is the only path it has been
possible to make down to the Indian retreat. It was carved out by a past
generation when they crept down into the valley far below to make their
last futile stand.

We rounded a point and came out near a sparkling pool of clear, inviting
water fed by a stream bursting out of what appeared to be solid rock. I
knelt to drink, but was jerked to my feet sharply by a watchful Indian.