had been badly hurt; but he did not relax his speed a particle, but kept up with his comrade in a headlong dash down the precipice, and escaped into the scrub-oak on the lower flanks although the evening air resounded with the noise of carbines reverberating from peak to peak. It was so hard to believe that any human beings could escape down such a terrible place, that every one was rather in expectation of seeing the Apaches dashed to pieces, and for that reason no one could do his best shooting.
At this time we had neither the detachment of scouts with which we had left Tucson—they had been discharged at Camp Apache the moment that General Crook received word that the authorities in Washington were about to make the trial of sending commissioners to treat with the Apaches—nor the small party of five Apaches who had conducted us out from Camp Apache until we had reached the centre of the Mogollon; and, as the country was unmapped and unknown, we had to depend upon ourselves for reaching Camp Verde, which no one in the party had ever visited.
We had reached the eastern extremity of the plateau, and could see the Bradshaw and other ranges to the west and south, and the sky-piercing cone of the San Francisco to the northwest, but were afraid to trust ourselves in the dark and forbidding mass of brakes and cañons of great depth which filled the country immediately in our front. It was the vicinity of the Fossil Creek cañon, some fifteen hundred to two thousand feet deep, which we deemed it best to avoid, although had we known it we might have crossed in safety by an excellent, although precipitous, trail. Our only guide was Archie Macintosh, who belonged up in the Hudson's Bay Company's territory, and was totally unacquainted with Arizona, but a wonderful man in any country. He and General Crook and Tom Moore conferred together, and concluded it was best to strike due north and head all the cañons spoken of. This we did, but the result was no improvement, as we got into the Clear Creek cañon, which is one of the deepest and most beautiful to look upon in all the Southwest, but one very hard upon all who must descend and ascend. When we descended we found plenty of cold, clear water, and the banks of the stream lined with the wild hop, which loaded the atmosphere with a heavy perfume of lupulin.
Still heading due north, we struck the cañon of Beaver Creek,
