"Have any trouble with Tar Baby?"
"No, oh, no. None whatever. Ready to go?"
Every morning as soon as I was in the saddle we had the same argument. Would
he go where and as fast as I desired, or would he run as fast and as far as he pleased? Sore wrists and a strained disposition were the price I paid for winning the battle. He just went wild if he could race with another horse. Of course White Mountain put his foot down on such racing, and since the rangers were such good sports their Chief never learned that racing was part of the daily program!
One day, when some of the Washington officials were there, the Chief borrowed
Tar Baby to ride. He said it took him half a day to get him to stay on the ground with the other horses. He came home fully determined that I must trade my Christmas gift for a more sensible horse. Tears and coaxing availed nothing, but
I did win his consent to one more ride before I gave him up.
Ranger West was going to ride the drift fence and I started out with him. Tar Baby was a handful that day, and I was having all I could do to control him. We
passed a bunch of tourists having lunch out of paper sacks, and one of the men
had a wonderful idea. He said something to the others, and while they giggled he blew one of the bags full of air and exploded it right under my horse. Of course Tar Baby bolted, and even as he ran away I admired his ability to keep ahead of
Ranger West, who was running full tilt after us. It was five minutes before I could get the bit out of his teeth and bring the spade device into play. I had to choke him into submission.
Ranger West and Ranger Fisk conducted those tourists out of the Park, and they
had to leave without seeing the Canyon.
"Ve drove here from New York to see this Canyon," one complained, and made wide gestures with both hands.
"It wouldn't do you any good to see it," Ranger West told him grimly. "You'd probably push somebody over the edge to have a little fun."
I was sure the Chief would take Tar Baby away after that. But I guess he thought if the horse hadn't killed me with such a good chance as he had, I was safe. He
never said another word about selling him.
Several Indians were camped around in the woods near the Park, and we visited
them quite often. An Indian has as many angles in his makeup as a centipede has
legs. Just about the time you think you have one characteristically placed, you put your finger down and he isn't there. Charge one with dishonesty, and the next week he will ride a hundred miles to deliver a bracelet you paid for months before. Decide he is cruel and inhuman, and he will spend the night in heart-breaking labor, carrying an injured white man to safety.
I suggested hiring a certain Navajo to cut some wood, and was told that he was
too lazy to eat what he wanted. In a few days this same brave came to Headquarters with the pelt of a cougar. He had followed the animal sixty miles,
tracking it in the snow on foot without a dog to help him. We knew where he took the trail and where it ended. He killed the big cat, skinned it, and carried the pelt back to the Canyon. You won't find many white men with that much grit! A
tourist from New York saw the pelt and coveted it. He offered twenty-five dollars. Neewah wanted fifty. The tourist tried to beat him down. There wasn't
any argument about it. The whole conversation was a monologue. The Indian saw that the tourist wanted the skin badly, so he just sat and stared into space while the tourist elaborated on how much twenty-five dollars would buy and how little the pelt had cost the Indian! The buck simply sat there until it was about time for the train to pull out, then he picked up the hide and stalked away.
Mr. Tourist hastened after him and shelled out fifty pesos. I expect he told the home folks how he shot that panther in self-defense.
Ranger West did shoot a big cougar soon afterward. Not in self-defense but in revenge.
Not many deer lived on the South Rim then. That was before the fawns were brought by airplane across the Canyon! The few that were there were cherished
and protected in every possible way. A salt pen was built so high the cattle couldn't get in, and it was a wonderful sight to see the graceful deer spring over that high fence with seemingly no effort at all. Ranger West came in one morning with blood in his eye—one of his pets had been dragged down under the Rim and half devoured by a giant cougar. A hunt was staged at once. I was
told to stay at home, but that didn't stop me from going. Ranger Fisk always saddled Tar Baby for me when everybody else thought it best to leave me behind. So I wasn't far away when the big cat was treed by the dogs. He sat close to the trunk of the dead tree, defying the dogs and spitting at them until they were almost upon him. Then he sprang up the tree and lay stretched out on a limb snarling until a rifle ball brought him down. He hit the ground fighting, and ripped the nose of an impetuous puppy wide open. Another shot stretched him out. He measured eight feet from tip to tip. His skin was tanned by an Indian and adorns a bench in the Ranger Office.
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Chapter VIII: THE DAY'S WORK
The snow had been tumbling down every day for weeks, until several feet lay on
the ground. After each storm the rangers took snow plows and cleared the roads
along the Rim, but the rest of our little world lay among big snow drifts. As we walked around among the houses, only our heads and shoulders showed above the snow. It was like living in Alaska. The gloomy days were getting
monotonous, and when the Chief announced he was going to make an inspection trip over Tonto Trail, I elected myself, unanimously, to go along.
"But it's cold riding down there, even if there is no snow," protested White Mountain. "And, besides, your horse is lame."
"Well, it isn't exactly hot up here, and I'll borrow Dixie. I'm going!"
Ranger West obligingly lent Dixie to me and I went. The thermometer registered
well below zero when we started down Bright Angel Trail. On account of the icy
