“Them’s the grub wagons,” said Gulliver, “Shall we drive round and see them get dinner?” To which proposal we readily assented. The two cooks had some difficulty in getting a fire started on account of the wind, which had increased to a veritable gale, driving the sand in stinging gusts. One of the cooks dipped a bucket of water from the pool and poured a quantity of the murky liquid into a dishpan of flour which he vigorously stirred with his hands. He soon had some biscuits which looked quite good and his compeer was busy frying steak in huge pans. Canned vegetables and fruits were produced from the wagons and a very passable meal was soon ready for serving on wooden picnic plates. True, everything was liberally sprinkled with the sand which constantly filled the air, but it was clear from the husky boys flocking in to the repast that Arizona sand isn’t deleterious to the constitution. We were invited to join in the repast, but the ladies decided it was time to return to the hotel and we departed with profuse thanks to our would-be hosts.
We did not fare any too well at the hotel—the help had gone almost en masse to the round-up, leaving most of the work to be done by the proprietor and his wife.
“A round-up means a holiday to almost everyone in Adamana,” explained Mr. Campbell. “It’s no easy matter to keep help at the very best, and when anything occurs to break the monotony of our life, we have to let our people make the most of it.”
We agreed that a chance to see the round-up ourselves more than compensated for any inconvenience we experienced on account of it, and everybody took it good-naturedly.
Gulliver, however, expressed contempt for the round-up; it was hopelessly tame and civilized compared with those of old days, in which he had participated, when every man wore a big gun and cartridge belt and shootings were delightfully common. He was ready after lunch with his Ford to pilot us to the forests lying south of Adamana. Had not our time been limited, we should have demurred; the wind had risen to a perfect gale, clouds of sand obstructed our view, and gave a faint yellow tinge to the sky. Crossing the river wash, the Ford stalled in a fresh sand drift and Gulliver requested us to dismount and “give her a lift.” A little sagebrush thrown under the wheels, an energetic push by the passengers, some vigorous growling, and more or less snorting and scrambling on part of the car brought it out of the drift and we went on our way rejoicing. A wide waste of sand-blown desert stretched before us; not a tree was visible save a few small cottonwoods along the Rio Puerco, which, being interpreted, means “river of mud”—though sand would be more appropriate just now. In the rainy season it often becomes a raging torrent, cutting off access for the time to the southern forests, but Mr. Campbell hoped to have a bridge before long. For six miles we followed the desert trail, often nearly obliterated by the drifting sand. No human habitations were in sight, only rocks and sagebrush-studded sand with fragments of a pre-historic Indian village or two.
The first forest is not of great extent, but is interesting for its famous natural log bridge, sixty feet long, spanning a deep, tree-fringed chasm. The great trunk is four or five feet in diameter and despite earnest protests from the female contingent I walked across it in face of the gale, which was, of course, the only element of danger.
The second forest is larger, comprising about two thousand acres. It has many huge trunks almost intact, including the “Twin Sisters,” the most distinguishing feature of this forest. Gulliver assured us, however, that the third forest, six or seven miles farther, was the one most deserving of our attention and if, when we had done this, we still hankered for petrified forests, we could stop again at the first two on our return. He took occasion to regale us with additional chapters from his personal experiences—some of which might indeed have fitted very appropriately in the career of his namesake. I suggested that he ought to wear goggles to protect his eyes from the sand—one of them was badly blood-shot.
“The sand hain’t got nothing to do with that eye,” he said. “One time when I was on the range I got into a little dispute with another cow-puncher and he shoved his gun in my face. I knocked it to one side but the bullet grazed my cheek, and I got a bad powder burn in the eye.”
“Well, I suppose you didn’t do a thing to that fellow,” I ventured.
“Just took his gun away from him and told him to be more keerful next time—but here’s the third forest. We’ll just leave the Ford and take a little round on foot.”