In a seven days' ride on the desert, I met but three persons. The first two were Bishop Allan Taylor and Bishop Franzen, who were on the "underground," and later on I met a deputy marshal on this wise: There being no one at the ferry, I swam the Colorado, pack-horse and all; and passing through Hanksville in the night, I rode out on to the desert about fifteen miles, hobbled my horses and went to sleep. As soon as it was light in the morning I was moving.
Presently I met two grey horses, hobbled, and evidently running away. Tying the greys to my pack-horse's tail I took them with me about three miles, when I met the owner. He was pleased with what I had done, and became communicative, telling me he was a deputy marshal; then, stopping suddenly, he asked my name.
"Brown," said I.
"What Brown?"
"John."
"Where are you from?"
"Kanab."
"What are you to Guernsey Brown?"
"Cousin."
That reassured him. He told me he had been to Kanab after "cohabs."