After Coronado had recovered from his concussion and his men had sated their hunger on Háwikuh’s corn, beans, and turkeys (which the Indians raised for feathers rather than food), he began assessing his situation. Couriers brought in delegations from the neighboring towns, and he put what he learned from them into a long letter he wrote Mendoza and dated August 3, 1540. It is a prized ethnographical document now because of its generally accurate descriptions of the Pueblos. Mendoza must have found it discouraging. No gold. But Coronado was determined, he wrote, to keep pressing the search. To strengthen his forces he sent orders, via the letter-bearers, for the bulk of the main army to advance to Háwikuh. The remainder were to establish a halfway station beside the long trail. This station was entrusted to Melchior Díaz. As soon as Díaz had put things in shape there, he was to ride to the Gulf in search of Alarcón’s supply ships. Fray Marcos, ill, disgraced, and fearing for his safety, went home with the messengers.
On Cíbola: “Although [the Seven Cities] are not decorated with turquoises, nor made of lime or good bricks, nevertheless they are very good houses, three, four, and five storeys high, and they have very ... good rooms with corridors, and some quite good apartments underground and paved, which are built for winter and are something like hot-houses [kivas].... In [Háwikuh] are perhaps 200 houses, all surrounded by a wall.... The people of these towns are fairly large and seem to me to be quite intelligent ... most of them are entirely naked except for the covering required for decency ... they wear the hair on their heads like the Mexicans, and are well formed and comely ... the food they eat in this country consists of maize, of which they have a great abundance, beans, and game.... They make the best tortillas I have ever seen anywhere, and this is what everybody ordinarily eats.”
—Coronado to Mendoza, 3 August 1540
Meanwhile exploring parties had gone northwest from Háwikuh to lay claim to the “kingdom of Tusayan,” or, as we would say, the Hopi villages. Nothing the Spaniards wanted was there, either—except for ill-understood talk about a big river farther to the west. It could be crucial. It must flow into the sea and might furnish a route inland for Alarcón. Promptly Coronado ordered Garcia López de Cárdenas to investigate.
The result was the first sighting, by Europeans, of the Grand Canyon at a point generally believed to have been Desert View. Awed by the chasm, the party explored along the rim until thirst turned them back. Clearly such a stream could not serve as a supply route.
A few weeks later and many hundreds of miles farther downstream Melchior Díaz at last unearthed (literally) the first clues about Hernando de Alarcón’s whereabouts. After straightening out affairs at the halfway station named San Gerónimo, he led 25 cavalrymen and some Indians west to the Gulf’s torrid coast, driving a herd of sheep along for food. A swing north along the desolate beaches brought him to the banks of a river. He continued along it for perhaps 90 miles, until encountering Indians who showed him where another bearded man like himself had hidden some letters. The documents he dug up have since disappeared, but from other sources it is possible to guess what they said.
Alarcón had reached the river mouth about August 25, 1540. He had been preceded there by Cortés’s man, Francisco de Ulloa, who a year earlier had been trying to find an inlet that would enable his commander to beat Mendoza to the Seven Cities. Because Ulloa believed that Baja California was an island, he had been surprised to find himself pinched into the head of a gulf. A most disconcerting place—shoals, seemingly bottomless mudbanks, and a terrifying tidal bore, raging tumults of water caused when the inflowing tide rushed in a great wave upriver against the current.
The sight had turned Ulloa back, but Alarcón was more persistent. He worked a tortuous way through the shoals and, with waves dashing over the deck of his flagship, rode the bore into the channel on August 26. Unable to sail upward against the current, he anchored his three vessels behind a protecting point. Lowering two ship’s launches, he ticked off 20 men, some to work the oars, the others to walk along the bank, pulling two ropes. Eventually Cócopa Indians appeared, highly excited. None of them understood the lingua franca of his interpreter, but by signs and a passing out of trinkets, Alarcón in time prevailed on them to bring food and to help with the cordelling.
On September 6, two months after the battle at Háwikuh, the slow-moving boats reached, it is believed, a point near the junction of the Colorado and Gila rivers, the site of today’s Yuma, Arizona. Nearby, Alarcón’s interpreter found Indians with whom he could converse. Their news was startling. Far inland, white men were causing trouble among the native inhabitants. Coronado’s army, surely, which Alarcón had been directed to supply. But how?
When none of his own men and none of the Indians would agree to carry a message to Háwikuh, Alarcón decided to return to the ships, take on fresh supplies, and go to Cíbola himself. During the attempt he advanced one day’s journey farther upstream than he had gone before, but then physical difficulties and the growing hostility of the Indians forced him to halt. After burying the letter Díaz found, he returned to Mendoza with valuable information about the new land—but, again, no gold.