We fastened
the oxen and the mule to keep them from wandering, and slept as best we
could. The women and children looked worse than for some time, and could
not help complaining. One of the women held up her foot and the sole was
bare and blistered. She said they ached like toothache. The women had
left their combs in the wagons, and their hair was getting seriously
tangled. Their dresses were getting worn off pretty nearly to their
knees, and showed the contact with the ground that sometimes could not
be avoided. They were in a sad condition so far as toilet and raiment
were concerned. Life was in the balance, however, and instead of talking
over sad things, we talked of the time when we would reach the little
babbling brook where Rogers and I took such long draughts of clear,
sweet water and the waiter at our dinner gave us the choice of _Crow_,
_Hawk_ or _Quail_, and where we took a little of all three.
[Illustation: Pulling the Oxen Down the Precipice.]
In the morning we were off again down the canon, limping some as we trod
its coarse gravelly bed with our tender feet and stiffened joints, but
getting limbered up a little after a bit, and enduring it pretty well.
We set out to try to reach the bunch of willows out on the level plain,
where the cattle could get some water and grass, but night overtook us
at the mouth of the canon, and we were forced to go into camp. This
canon is now called Red Canon. This was on an elevated plain, with a
lake near by, but as we had been so often deceived by going to the lake
for water, and finding them salt in every instance, or poison on account
of strong alkali, we did not take the trouble to go and try this one.
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