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Show EXPLORING IN THE CANYON OF DEATH 293 Photograph by Earl H. Morris A VIEW DOWN CANON DEL MUERTO FROM PICTOGRAPH CAVE On an autumn afternoon black shadows creep across the valley floor, the streamlet lies like a silver ribbon flowing in the trail of a snake, green cactus patches alternate with yellow fields of corn, the northern cliffs tower flaming red beneath their crown of black-green forest, and the rocks in the foreground, full struck by the waning sun, blaze with ruddy gold. charred beyond recognition-a taunting mass of ruin. But again the frown of Fortune ended in a smile. The blackened knees of another body were beside the skull of the first. As we worked downward along the thighs, the burned area became smaller and smaller, and finally ended where the fire had smothered out, just as it reached the trunk. The body was that of an old man, surely once a priest or chief. Beside the usual offerings of beads, baskets, and sandals, there lay above his buckskin wrappings a flute, one end beneath the chin, the other between the thighs. By the left shoulder was a basket containing an enormous stone pipe and many thick hanks of human hair, each wrapped and tied at the center with a cord. Along the left side was a mass of wooden objects, all readily perishable, hence extremely rare in perfect condition. Conspicuous among them were bone-tipped flint flakers with which knives and projectile points were made, several spears, four handsomely wrought spear throwers, and three more flutes. I picked up one of the flutes, shook the dust and mouse dung out of it, and placed it to my lips. The rich, quavering tones which rewarded even my unskilled touch seemed to electrify the atmosphere. In the distance Navajo workmen paused with shovels poised, seeking the source of the sound. A horse raised its head and neighed from an adjacent hillside and two crows flapped out from a crevice overhead. Our little group was motionless for a dozen heartbeats, which seemed as many minutes. In the weird silence it was as if time had been halted in its flight-nay, turned back-for in swift array there crowded through my consciousness the scenes of grief and mourning, of savage pomp and ceremonial, amid which the tones of that instrument had last echoed from the selfsame cliff that now glistened under the rays of the setting sun, which |
