The Awakening of the Desert

by Julius Charles Birge

During those days I was assisting on horse-back in various ways, and at times conducting the long train round the sharp curves in the canyons. Six or eight yokes of oxen drawing two large wagons coupled together is a long thing in itself, stretching out perhaps 150 feet. It may run beautifully on a straight road, but in rounding a short bend in a narrow roadway, where the inside of the bend is on the edge of a precipice, the tendency is to bring the wagons dangerously near the brink.

On the third of October, our train was winding along the narrow roadway among the cliffs of Silver Creek Canyon. Looking across a deep ravine before us we observed the last wagon in the train that was crawling along in advance of ours, to be encroaching on the edge of a precipice, and in a moment a wheel slipped over the bank. The great prairie schooner capsized, breaking the tongue, detaching the wagon from the teams, and turned upside down. Down, down it rolled, repeatedly bounding over rocks and through bushes, until it found a resting place quite out of sight near the bottom of the canyon. As we approached the scene of the catastrophe an odor, recognized by experienced drivers as of whiskey, came from the wreck of the wagon. We passed on as soon as the way could be opened. A number of men from the delayed train seemed inspired with a benevolent impulse that led them to assist in saving something from the wreck, and were soon clambering down the rocks toward the spot from which the fragrance came the strongest.

We learned nothing of the final results of the work of this salvage corps. Their voices, which came up from the hidden depths, indicated that they had found something, and the odors were evidence that enough fire water had been spilled to have made a whole tribe of the solemnest Indians hilarious.

On the afternoon of the same day, in going down a steep descent in the same canyon, the failure to fasten the brake on one of our wagons caused the two that were coupled together to gain so much headway that they pressed the ox teams into a frightened mass. The breaking of the wagon tongue turned the wagons down a long steep slope leaving the road more than five hundred feet above. We now had our own troubles. After taking a survey of our wreck, which consisted of a load of miscellaneous merchandise and a wagon in trail, on which was a heavy boiler, I rode back to the little settlement of Wanship for articles needed in repairs.

In the meantime the train was corralled further down the canyon, and the stock wandered up the mountain valleys.

In the morning many oxen were missing which it was my pleasure to assist in finding, for I loved the hills. Mounting a horse, I ascended a ravine and crossed two or three mountain spurs where it was hoped a glimpse of the strays or their tracks might be obtained.

Looking from a concealed position across a deep valley, I observed on the opposite slope an animal which I became satisfied was a mountain sheep, the Big Horn. I had seen many specimens of the various animals and birds indigenous to the West, but never a mountain sheep, except in captivity. They are wary animals, and like the chamois of the Alps are at home on the rocky cliffs. I must be cautious. My horse was fastened behind me, out of view, down the mountain slope. My Henry rifle was in good condition. Lying on my face while carefully sighting through the underbrush, I felt myself to be absolutely safe from discovery. Calculating the distance as accurately as possible, a careful aim was taken, but the bullet fell far short of the mark, striking the rocks away beneath. The animal was evidently unconscious of my death-dealing purpose, and nestled quietly half-concealed in a growth of underbrush. Another shot was fired, when it became evident that my Henry was not of sufficiently long range to reach the game. The opportunity before me was too rare to be sacrificed without effort. Therefore, after tying a silk handkerchief to a limb to mark the trail to my horse, I skirted the spur of the mountain, on foot, slowly descended into the ravine, and laboriously clambered up the other side.

The time and effort expended in accomplishing the ascent to the other side made it clear that I had been greatly deceived in the distance, but I was happy to make any physical effort to secure a mountain sheep. The last quarter of a mile must be made with exceeding caution, because the quick ear of the Big Horn would catch any unusual sound. After more than an hour of vigorous but cautious climbing, an eligible point was reached, toward which my course had been directed, and with rifle ready to fire on the first sight of the game, my head was slowly raised above a projecting rock in confidence that the game had not ascended the mountain. There it was in full view, not more than a hundred yards distant. It certainly had horns, but the sight of half a dozen ordinary sheep huddled together in the background revealed to my obtuse consciousness the fact that my game was a ram, which was guarding a little flock of domestic sheep similar to those with which we are all familiar.

Shall victory be wrested from defeat? Our boys needed meat, and I could tumble a sheep's carcass down the mountain side. Conflicting emotions throbbed within my breast, until approaching the sheep I was confronted by a tough-looking mountaineer, after which I cared less for mutton.

"What are ye doin' up here?" was his interrogatory.