Golden Roses (32 page)

Cord dismounted and, after shaking Powell’s left hand, grinned and said, “All I said was that I had to try and get a lady out of some trouble. What makes you think there’s romance involved?”

“A man has a different look about him when he’s answering the call of a woman than when he’s answering the call of the wild—though sometimes the two seem the same.” Powell laughed. “Welcome, Hayden. We’re glad to have you with us.”

Major Powell made introductions to the nine other men. Some were hunters, lusty for adventure, and others were old soldiers, but all had been carefully selected.

Powell also introduced Cord to the Chicago-built boats. “This one is ‘Emma Dean,’ named for my wife, and there’s ‘Maid of the Canyon’ and ‘Kitty Clyde’s Sister.’ Inspiration failed me, so the last one is called ‘No Name.’”

Powell told him of their beginning and how everyone in Green River City had turned out to wish them good luck. Pushing the four little boats from shore, they had been immediately caught up in the swift current and carried on down.

“The first afternoon,” Powell said, eyes shining with excitement, “we came to a point where the river sweeps the foot of an overhanging cliff, and we camped there for the night. There were still a few hours of daylight left, so I climbed up onto the cliffs and walked around in those strange carved rocks of the Green River badlands. I found sandstones and shales in all colors, all lying horizontal.” He smiled. “Forgive me. I tend to get carried away.”

“We all will before it’s over,” Cord said quickly. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

“Of course. Now tell me about your lady.”

Cord did, ending with, “I believe she’s safe with the Havasupais.”

“She will be fine,” Powell was quick to assure him. “They’re a friendly people, and she’ll learn almost as much about the canyon from them as you will on this expedition. Can she take the rugged life?”

Cord laughed. “Amber can take anything, Major. She’s a very special lady.”

“Well, thank God you can take her home whenever you want, Hayden. I’m as relieved as you are that you don’t have to run anymore.”

“I never liked running,” Cord said tightly. “I wanted to stay and prove my innocence.”

Powell snorted. “Feelings were running so high back then you’d have wound up dangling on the end of a rope. I’m just glad you had the good sense to lie low till that fool girl told the truth. Now, let’s get going.”

The boats were quickly caught in the swift current. A half mile below, the river curved sharply to the left and entered another canyon carved into the mountain. The boats moved into the narrow passage, and Cord marveled at the way the walls on each side rose rapidly, stretching higher and higher.

They were swept along as the river cut abruptly around a point and to the right. Then the waters suddenly plunged swiftly down among huge rocks.

“I think this is going to be our first experience with the rapids,” Major Powell shouted anxiously above the thundering water. Cautiously, he stood up and cried, “I’ll try to make a way among the rocks.”

In seconds the boats were pulled into the swift current, each man paddling fiercely, a few strokes on one side, then a few on the other, swinging arms and oars left and right as they fought the angry water, nerves taut as bowstrings. They mounted waves taller than they were, foaming, bubbling crests washing over them in powerful slaps. Then they would plunge down into troughs, rudely splashed all over again.

Then, suddenly, the river was calm, and everyone breathed freely again. Major Powell proclaimed happily that they had met and conquered their first rapids.

Late in the day the boats reached a calm, sandy cove, and they camped there for the night. After a supper of jerky, dried beans, and coffee, Cord leaned wearily against a rock, staring at the watermelon sky. There would be a breathtaking sunset over the canyon, but they were too far down to see it.

“Marvelous, isn’t it?” Major Powell said reverently as he sat down nearby.

“I’m amazed,” Cord told him, “at all the greenery growing in the midst of sheer rock.”

Powell nodded. “You’re a true explorer, Hayden. You don’t miss a thing.” He pointed high above. “There’s a Gambel oak, a real curiosity. When you see one up close, notice how its roots spread horizontally, shooting out at intervals to start new trees. You can spot a grove of Gambel oaks and think there are forty or fifty of them, when actually it’s just one big tree, holding roots like holding hands.

“There are ponderosas here, too,” he continued, “and straggly piñon pines and junipers.”

“Breathtaking,” Cord breathed. “Just breathtaking, all of it.”

Powell chuckled. “We’ve just begun, my good man. I’m afraid we’ve got a long way to go, and it’s not all going to be sightseeing. Those rapids worry me. I wonder which will endure to the end—my boats or my men.”

Cord looked at him sharply. “You’re worried about the men deserting if the going gets rough?”

“I don’t know. Three concern me. I sense their change of feelings since we left, especially after running our first rapids today. But,” he sighed, “all I can do is talk to them and hope they get back their original enthusiasm. I made it quite clear long before we left that we were undertaking a dangerous venture, and I asked that anyone having doubts back out. No one did, so I expect everyone to see it all the way through. But, Hayden, you aren’t an official member of this expedition, so you owe me nothing. Remember that, but as I told you, I’m glad to have you aboard.”

One of the men approached with the last of the coffee, and they both held out their tin cups. When they were alone again, Powell said, “Campfires and coffee call for telling old tales, don’t you think? One I like best is the legend of the golden rose.”

Cord listened thoughtfully. He was still lost in reverie, impressed with the story, as Major Powell bade him good night and left.

A week after Cord joined the group, he stood with Major Powell and the others one rose-kissed morning and stared in wonder at the glassy-smooth water. They were about to enter the Canyon of Lodore, thought to be about twenty miles long. The sound of angry water rushing and crashing could be heard just around the next bend, and the walls above them looked at least a mile high.

Silently they crawled into the four boats, and the boats drifted slowly around the bend. In a split second they were running the rapids, and almost as quickly, they were on calm water again.

The walls were oddly shaped, standing vertically or overhanging in cliffs. Some were terraced; some receded into steep slopes broken by gulches or smaller canyons. Lichens covered the red sandstone, and there were delicate mosses and ferns festooning everything.

The next day they reached a point where they had to get out of their boats and walk among the rocks to examine the channel before attempting to run it. In midafternoon, Powell decided they were going to have to make a portage and carry their boats over the rocks until they reached a place safe enough to sail through. He landed his own boat and signaled to the others to follow, then began walking along the bank, scrutinizing the ground. The other men stayed in their boats.

Suddenly there was a shout, and the boat called No Name shot straight down the center of the falls with its three men.

“She’s going over,” Powell screamed. “Save yourselves!”

Cord and the others swung their oars frantically, and everyone sent up a prayer of gratitude when they turned from the grasping current and reached the shore. Scrambling out, Cord ran along the shore among the rocks to see what had happened to the No Name. The first fall was not too great, perhaps ten or twelve feet. They had survived ones like that before. But below, he realized with an icy shudder, the river tumbled down for forty feet or more, into an angry, narrow channel filled with sharp rocks that broke the waves into whirlpools, beating them into boiling white foam.

Cord and Powell maneuvered themselves around a great crag just in time to see the boat hit a rock, rebounding sharply. Helplessly they watched two of the men lose their oars as the boat swung around and struck another rock. The boat broke in half, and the three men were flung into the river.

“Grab it! Grab it!” Cord yelled above the thundering sound of the water. The larger part of the boat was still floating, and the men struggled to grab it, gasping and choking as they swallowed the water beating their faces.

“They’re being carried down,” Powell roared. “Let’s go!”

They rounded the next bend just in time to see that the remaining part of the boat had been struck again, and this time dashed to pieces. Swiftly, the fragments—and the helplessly flailing men—were washed out of sight.

Powell and Cord scrambled along the shore, eyes searching frantically. One man had made it to the shore. They could see another man’s head above the water, in a large whirlpool beneath an even larger rock.

“That’s Frank Goodman,” Powell cried. “He’s got hold of the rock. Grab him, Howland,” he called to the one on the shore.

Howland found a long stick and held it out to Goodman, clinging to the rock. Goodman lunged for it, and Howland pulled him to shore.

“Seneca, here!” Captain Howland cried, making his way toward the remaining crew member, who also happened to be his brother. Seneca was slowly making his way to shore after being caught among the rocks, and in a moment the three survivors stood on shore together.

A week later, they made camp in a small clearing on the river’s shore, with cedars on one side and a dense mass of box elders and dead willows on the other. Powell went off alone to explore, and Cord helped the men build a campfire.

Suddenly, a whirlwind roared down from a canyon above, and before anyone understood what was happening, the campfire flames were caught in the wind, igniting the dead willows and dried wood along the shore.

Cord yelled, “Get to the boats. We’re going to be burned alive. The wind is whipping a wall of fire.” But even as he cried out, he felt his clothing starting to burn. The very air was on fire.

Scrambling into the boats, Cord realized that they were going to have to turn them loose. The overhanging willow limbs were burning only a few feet away. He looked down the river in the glow of the violet sunset and saw a rock-filled rapids awaiting them. Damn, he swore, where was Powell?

Captain Howland ordered, “Row out as far as you can without getting caught in the current, then stab your oar into the river as hard as you can and try to anchor and not move. The flames seem to be dying down.”

They obeyed, and as quickly as the devil wind had arrived, it departed, and with it, the shooting, fanning flames died. The fire crackled slowly, and they dared to make their way back to shore just as Major Powell came running from the rocky embankment above.

A survey was taken. A few tin cups, basins, a camp kettle—that was all that was left of their cooking utensils, and there was some clothing and bedding in the boats. Everything else was gone.

A few weeks later, one of the men, physically and mentally exhausted, sought refuge at an Indian agency near the river. Powell had bade him farewell with no hard feelings, but Cord knew he was fearing that others would leave also.

Chapter Thirty-Three

It was August 9 when Major Powell recorded in the journal he religiously kept that the most spectacular scenery of all had been discovered. The canyon walls were of beautiful marble of many colors, perhaps twenty-five hundred feet high. Toward the bottom, washed by the waves, the marble was polished and fretted with breathtaking patterns. At one point, the sun struggled to shine through a cleft in the wall, giving an iridescent luster to the gleaming stone. No one was surprised when Powell named the site Marble Canyon.

Three days later, they reached their lowest point. Perhaps, Cord mused, the deepest descent had begun with the rattlesnakes. Powell had killed two as he walked along a stream, and one of the men had killed one in camp. It had been particularly unnerving to find the rattlesnake in camp—for it was pink. No one had ever heard of a pink rattlesnake. So far, they had stayed clear of the numerous lizards, some as long as eighteen inches, and the many scorpions, some of which were deadly.

Spirits were down. Rations were scarce, and no one was getting nearly enough to eat. It had rained every day for a week.

Seneca Howland, speaking to no one in particular, said in a somber voice, “Me and my brother and William Dunn have decided we don’t want to go no further in the boats We’ve spent the afternoon climbing around in the crags and pinnacles, and we’ve scanned the river. The streams have boulders washed into them, forming dams, and there are falls of maybe eighteen feet. Then there’s a rapid, filled with rocks, for maybe three hundred yards. Somewhere below, there’s another waterfall, and we can’t tell how big it is.” He looked in turn at each pair of eyes watching him, some in silent accusation. “We’re going out on our own. We’ll climb out of the canyon and find our way. We hope you understand.”

No one spoke. The next morning, after a tense breakfast, Powell ordered that two rifles and a shotgun be given to the three who were leaving. He also asked them to help themselves to the remaining rations. They refused, saying they would hunt animals along the way.

Powell wrote a letter to his wife, which he entrusted to Captain Howland. Sumner gave Howland his watch and asked that he send it to his sister if the rest of them did not make it out of the canyon. Powell turned over some notes from his journal of the expedition.