During this time we went into the mountains again, following a northward trending valley. The mountains were a much lower range than the Rocky Mountains of Colorado and New Mexico.
One day, about noon, as we were riding along this valley, Jim disappeared around a turn in the trail and we heard him give a yell.
I was frightened, thinking that he had been hurt, and putting the spurs into Coyote, I dashed after him. Rounding the corner I saw what had drawn the yell.
Below us in a transverse valley we caught sight of a glittering section of the river. At last! We took off our hats in a silent salute. Then pressed on to cover the intervening miles as fast as we could.
"That isn't the Colorado yet, Jim?" questioned Tom.
"No, that is the Green River," he replied. "We will come to the Colorado after the Grand and Green meet, that form it."
After a while we reached the level mouth of the valley, where it joined the valley of the Green. We galloped rapidly to see who would be the first to reach the river. Jim and I reached the edge simultaneously.
We threw ourselves from our ponies, but Jim was a little the quickest and he plunged down the bank and into the river.
But our first experience showed us that it was not to be trifled with, for a swift current in shore carried Jim down and if he had not caught an overhanging bush, he would have been taken out into the river and drowned.
"It certainly is a river," exclaimed Tom, "but why do they call it Green when it is brown?"