It was late, as I expected, when he returned and we got the whole story while eating supper. It seems the old fellow lived about eight miles down the Muddy River, had been to Moapa with a load of stuff and had stayed too long, so that he was a little the worse for whiskey. It was dark when he started for home and he had a mean team, which, when his brake guard came off and he fell on them, promptly kicked him into insensibility and ran off, leaving him to come to during the night, unable to see or tell where he was. He had wandered about until he came to the ranch fence and was found about daylight by one of the boys of this ranch, who took him in, and when they found out who he was they sent for his son-in-law, the man we saw fanning him, and the doctor who lived at Logan. They had come up and taken him in charge, but the doctor evidently had come unprepared or else, as Doc said, never was prepared, and he had done poorly by him and left, promising to be back as soon as he could get some necessary medicine and bandages. Doc said if we hadn’t just happened along the man would have died of blood poisoning, sure. Doc had cleaned him up, dressed his wounds, and left him asleep.
We filled our water barrels just half full that night and the next morning were off up the mountain, driving spike team for Bunkerville, thirty miles away, and twenty-seven miles to water. Before leaving Doc made a call on his patient; refused any compensation for his services, as usual, and tried to satisfy the son-in-law by telling him it was against the rules of the profession for a doctor to collect from another doctor’s patient. He would collect from the doctor himself. I couldn’t hear exactly what the man said in reply and did not ask Doc, but thought he said something like this: “Well, you fellows are a queer bunch, but I sure am thankful and wish you luck.”
It was Saturday morning, June fourth, when we left the ranch camp on the Muddy River, and we had a three-mile pull nearly straight up before reaching the mesa. From here we had a grand view, which reminded me somewhat of the view at the Grand Canyon in miniature. The valley of the Muddy lay beneath us and had widened out in green spots here and there, where the ranchers were raising alfalfa, but the spots were so far below they didn’t look bigger than flower beds. Behind us stretched the dry, hard mesa, over which our road led to Bunkerville, a Mormon settlement on the Virgin River.
There was nothing of interest in going over this stretch of about twenty-five miles except the stage which we met, carrying the mail to Moapa. We could see the dust raised by the horses a long way off and finally hailed the driver as he passed. Not that we had anything to say to him, but as the Irishman would say, “just for conversation.” He drove two horses and led one; had a two-seated, canopy-topped wagon, no merchandise or passengers, just a mail bag and a bundle of alfalfa hay. He said he came over one day and went back the next. Told us to make the ford before dark and to make it quick, and then he drove on. This was quite an event for us as it was the first vehicle we had met on the desert highway, so I made a note of it.
After that nothing happened until we came to the edge of the mesa and started down again. This took some careful driving to get down safely with so heavy a wagon, but our brake, of which up to date we had had little use, worked admirably, although I concluded I could adjust it a little better, and did so later on.
We had sighted Bunkerville from the mesa, and Virgin Valley lay before us, but it was green only in spots, very small spots, and it was nearly dark when we reached the river. Here I remembered the stage driver’s advice to get across quick, so we put Dixie on ahead and started. Much to my surprise Dixie seemed to get frightened and refused to pull and backed into the team, and we came very near getting “set” right there; but between a few stones thrown at her by Doc and a cussing from me she started up quickly enough and we got across. This was her first real river-crossing and not being near where I could reach her with the whip, she came near making a mess of it, but after that first time she never refused to take a ford again. We did not drive any farther that day, but camped on a grassy spot and after feeding the horses grain turned them loose.
The next morning we drove through Bunkerville, a Mormon town, or settlement, they would call it, of sixty families. We bought feed of one man and groceries at the store. Miss Bunker waited on us, and when Doc found out her grandmother was sick he went right over and paid a professional call, and cheered the old lady up.
The houses are built mostly of adobe or clay bricks. The people raise alfalfa and vegetables, small grains by irrigation, and some stock. The store is a community affair and the houses are built fairly close together, the real farming being done outside in small tracts, under ditches taken from the Virgin River higher up. We stayed about an hour and a half in this place and then moved on, our next objective point being St. George, Utah.
We are still in Nevada. To-night we will be in the northwest corner of Arizona and the next day in Utah. That sounds as if we are moving fast.
Driving up the river we have some fine views, but very hard going, up steep and rocky hills, fording the river half a dozen times, through quicksand and long stretches of sand. We are appreciating our horses more than ever; they are game to the core and never refuse to pull. Dixie especially is a tough little beast, Bess a steady plodder, and Kate a good wheel horse and saddler, but she hates to leave the other horses.