Brighty of the Grand Canyon Read online

  CONTENTS

  Brighty’s World

  A Stranger in the Canyon

  Blue-flecked Rocks

  Good-by, Old Timer!

  The Sheriff Learns a Lesson

  A Free Spirit

  Over the Rimtop

  The Fight in the Cave

  Curious First Aid

  On the Mend

  The Lion Hunt

  Brighty Goes to Work

  Within the Black Tunnel

  Caged over the Colorado

  The Battle Scars o’ Freedom

  The Carrot Cure

  Spider Web of Steel

  Brighty, B.A.

  A Gift for Uncle Jim

  Well Done!

  Battle on the Mesa

  A New World for Brighty

  A Voice from the Past

  On to Utah!

  The Deserted Cabin

  Thief’s Plunder

  In the Kaibab Forest

  The Voice inside the Snowman

  Trapped by the Snow

  Alone with the Night

  Strange Thanksgiving

  Moon-Lily Tea

  No Escape?

  Blazing Guns

  A Score to Settle

  The Way Home

  To

  HAROLD C. BRYANT

  Superintendent Grand Canyon National Park

  and

  ERNIE APPLING

  Uncle Jim’s friend and a cowboy’s cowboy

  FOREWORD

  THIS IS THE STORY of a little lone burro who lived in the Grand Canyon of Arizona.

  An old prospector found him running wild along Bright Angel Creek, that tumbles down the north wall of the canyon into the Colorado River. The prospector roped and gentled him, but then he gave him his freedom! Instead of hobbles or pickets, he held onto him by the invisible cord of friendship—flapjacks shared, and small talk around the campfire, and a warm hand scratching the itchy places on his back.

  In return, the burro carried the prospector’s pick and pan and even packed water for him. The rest of the time was his own. He was free to browse or to splash in the creek, or just to sit, dog-fashion, dozing in the sun.

  After the prospector died, Brighty became a wild spirit again. He migrated like a bird. In winter, all alone, he roamed the warm inner reaches of the canyon where snow never falls. But in summer he hightailed it to the rim, to live in the cool mountain meadows of the Kaibab Forest.

  Soon men began using the trail he made—explorers and rangers, artists and tourists. Brighty greeted them with hearty brays, took potluck with them, and enjoyed their company; that is, until they tried to hobble him. Then he went bounding off, heehawing at their foolishness.

  But in spite of this—or perhaps because of it—men loved him, respected him, and envied him. He became their symbol of a joyous way of life.

  To Brighty, then, my gratefulness for luring me to the Grand Canyon. May his wild, free spirit forever call men to his haunts. And on still summer nights may they hear, as I did, his faraway voice singing to the moon.

  M. H.

  BRIGHTY’S WORLD

  A SHAGGY young burro lay asleep in the gray dust of the canyon trail. Except for the slow heaving of his sides and an occasional flick of an ear, he seemed part of the dust and the ageless limestone that rose in great towering battlements behind him.

  The sun had been shining fiercely on his belly and now began climbing up over his sides, then slowly up the canyon wall. But for a long time the rocks held their heat and the solitary figure dozed on.

  A ground squirrel peered out from a chink in the wall, watching a moment with friendly eyes, then dived back where it came from. A cottontail rabbit played hop, skip, and jump around him. But nothing disturbed the little gray lump, not even a nuthatch hammering away at a juniper tree.

  It was the wind, an uprising current of wind from the depths of the canyon, that finally aroused him. It whirled up his nose and down his ears, tickling him awake.

  With a grunting sigh he began rolling, and with each turn just missed falling off his ledge into Bright Angel Creek, hundreds of feet below. Now he sat up on his haunches, squirming his back against the rough, warm limestone. He gave a luxurious yawn and gazed at the opposite wall as if in search of some creature like himself. But there was only rock, rising sheer and lonely to the sky.

  He stretched his forelegs and then he was up, shaking the dust from his coat. Over the ledge a few spears of bunch grass grew in a crevice. He leaned out into space and cropped them, jaws swinging sideways as he chewed, while his eyes, from under their thatched roof of hair, looked out over his world. It was a world of rock piled up and up, layer on layer to the sky, and down and down to the Colorado River far below.

  Slowly, as if balancing the weight of his great ears, the little fellow swung his head around to follow the winding river. His eyes suddenly fixed on a tiny white spot, and at sight of it he opened wide his jaws, swelled out his nostrils, and began braying: “Yeeee-aw—yee-aw! Yee-a-a-aw!”

  Instantly the canyon took up the cry. South wall to north and back again it banged and bounced the bray until there was nothing left of it.

  The burro waited, listening. His ears probed the white spot as if to pull something out of it. There it was! An answering sound! A bellowing halloa, almost as big and brassy as his own. It set the little burro into action.

  Down the trail he plunged, zigzagging from ledge to ledge, ears flopping, tail swinging, hoofs toe-dancing the narrow path. Once on his way, a kind of momentum took hold of him and he fairly flew, rounding one cliff only to face another.

  Time and again he crossed Bright Angel Creek, a foaming mountain stream that tumbled downward to the river. For yards and yards he walked in its bed, picking his way around the glossy boulders. But he neither drank nor played in the water.

  Only once did he stop to study his goal. The white spot had grown to a tent, and nearby, campfire smoke was curling upward. Satisfied, he plunged on again, always traveling within sight and sound of the busy creek.

  The afternoon was late and purple shadows were spilling down the canyon walls when he came at last upon the source of the smoke. An old, old prospector with flowing white hair was piling driftwood on a fire. And beside the fire stood an iron skillet and a bowl of yellow batter.

  A STRANGER IN THE CANYON

  STEPPING SOFTLY in the sand, the burro sneaked behind the prospector and playfully butted him up from his crouching position. The old man spun around, his face lighting with joy.

  “Brighty!” he shouted happily. “You li’l ole pussyfooter! You eenamost upset the batter, to say nothing of me, myself.” He let the burro nuzzle his grizzly beard. “ ’Tain’t hay!” he howled with laughter.

  He laid more driftwood on the fire, then turned and began scratching Brighty, starting with the scruff of mane and kneading down the dark stripe along his back.

  “Feller!” he thundered above the river’s roar. “You sure got an alarum clock in your head! Tan my hide if you don’t arrive ’zactly at suppertime. It’s flapjacks tonight, see? Got the batter all done. Ain’t it nice and bubbly?”

  The burro began nosing the batter.

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” The old man pushed the burro’s face out of the bowl. “You just wait till I flap ’em. Me and you’s goin’ to celebrate tonight.”

  He spooned lard into the skillet, and while it was melting pulled some blue-flecked stones from his pocket and held them under Brighty’s nose.

  “Sniff ’em!” he urged. “Sniff ’em good. Where they come from, they’s more—a hull bluish-green vein o’ the stuff. And if I could just find somebody to help dig it up, then me and you could pack it out.”

  The burro’s ear
s swung back and forth, asking for more talk.

  “Yup, Bright Angel, you and me’s struck it rich. We’ve found us enough copper ore to last till kingdom come, and mebbe after!”

  He took off his black hat and let the wind comb his hair. “We’ll call our diggings the ‘Little Mimi’ for my sister’s gal. It’s like this, Brighty,” he explained as he stooped to pick up a fallen blue jay’s feather. “My kid sister had only the one gal, Mimi, and she’s crippled in the legs.”

  He stuck the feather in his hatband and smoothed it out. “Mimi’s purty as an angel—eyes blue as lupine and curls the color o’ wood shavings. Now, Brighty,” he said, his face shining with plans, “with the money from the ore, we’ll buy her a wheel chair so she can go scootin’ through life like a butterfly.”

  He paused to add more lard to the skillet. “As fer ye, young feller, when the money rolls in, I’ll buy ye all kinds o’ doodads—a tinkly bell for your neck and a shade-hat with holes for yer ears, and some flea-shoo powder, and . . .”

  Brighty wheeled around, looking, smelling, listening.

  “Hey! Hark to me instead o’ the night noises. It’s just the river sawin’ away at the rocks, or some old coyote tunin’ up.”

  But the burro’s ears were prying into the night and his breath snorting in his nose.

  “Humph, don’t hear a thing myself.” The old man poured two mounds of batter into the skillet. “Could be our ring-tail cat sharpenin’ her toenails on a piece of drift,” he said.

  And then all at once the prospector caught movement. The tall figure of a man loomed in the dark. He stalked slowly toward the fire, a dead beaver dangling from one hand.

  “Reckon I skeered you,” the man grunted. His voice sounded rusty, as if it had not been used for a long time.

  The prospector stroked the burro’s neck, trying to quiet him. “Brighty here told me you was comin’, but I wouldn’t believe him.”

  Motionless except for his fingers twirling the beaver, the stranger sized up the prospector. Then his eyes looked past him to the tent, where a pick and a pan stood outlined against the white canvas.

  The sweet smell of hot cakes filled the air and the old man dropped a third spoonful of batter on the skillet. “In the shock o’ seein’ a human being,” he said, “I mighty near forgot to cook for three mouths ’stead o’ two. Would you believe it, stranger, I ain’t seen a livin’ soul ’cept Uncle Jimmy Owen and Brighty here for upwards o’ six month? I’m mighty glad to meet you.”

  He waited for a “Glad to meet you, too.” When none came, he went on, his hand still quieting Brighty. “My name’s Hezekiah Appleyard, but don’t nobody call me by that handle. What’s yours?”

  The stranger moved in closer. The firelight made his small black eyes and black beard gleam, and it picked out the red kerchief around his neck and splashed red on his face.

  “Name’s Irons,” he said. “Jake Irons, beaver trapper.”

  “Now that’s what I calls a good, short, sensible handle,” the old man replied. “Folks calls me Old Timer. When I first heerd it, I looks around quick to see if some old guy’s behind me. When I seen they’s referrin’ to me, my hackles riz up.” He faced around to the fire and turned the hissing flapjacks. “I’m used to the label now. Fact is, I sorta like it. Makes me feel I’m a sure-’nough canyon man.”

  The hard black eyes were on the cakes.

  “Ye needn’t just stand there gawpin’, Irons. Come! Share our chuck. It’ll be kinda nice to listen to man-talk fer a change, though Brighty here’s got a mighty sweet song fer a burro.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” The stranger smiled, but only with his lips. His black beard parted briefly, flashing two gold teeth, very shiny.

  The old man could not help admiring them. “I come down here to the canyon seekin’ gold,” he said, “but I guess gold ain’t the onliest way to get rich.”

  The pin eyes gave the prospector a sly glance. Then, going over to a flat rock, Irons slapped down the beaver and took out his hunting knife.

  “Go ahead, skin out yer beaver,” Old Timer said, “but don’t ye flaunt the smell in front o’ Brighty. He don’t like hot meat, nor meat of any kind, fer that matter.”

  Jake Irons knelt in the sand and with nimble fingers skinned the beaver, setting aside the choice bits of meat. Before anyone could say scat, a ring-tailed cat leaped up on the rock and made off with the liver.

  “Ain’t she quick, though!” The old man slapped his thigh in admiration. “Her name’s Wait-a-minute, ’cause she never does. Oh, well, ye still got the pelt, and that’s what ye’re after.”

  Muttering to himself, Jake Irons stretched the beaver skin, using stones to hold it in place. As he turned around he almost bumped into Brighty, who stood with hindquarters hunched, threatening to let his heels fly.

  “Reckon he’s just a mite jealous about sharin’ his supper,” the old man laughed. “Leastawise, that’s what I hope.”

  BLUE-FLECKED ROCKS

  WHEN THE cakes were richly browned, the old man stacked a plate for Jake Irons and handed him a jug of honey. Then he fanned a single cake in the air to cool and sprinkled it generously with sugar. He smiled sheepishly. “Brighty likes sugar better’n honey,” he explained. “ ’Tain’t so slobbery.”

  As the trapper watched, Brighty took the rolled pancake from the old man’s hand and began chewing rhythmically, thoughtfully.

  “You two always dine on cakes and honey?” Irons asked.

  The note of scorn in his voice was lost to Old Timer. “Only when we’re celebratin’, stranger. And now how about samplin’ a cup o’ my coffee? Uncle Jim says it’s black as a thief’s heart.”

  Jake Irons glanced up sharply, trying to read the old man’s thoughts, but Hezekiah Appleyard was not even looking his way. Irons flashed an ugly grin. “I like my coffee black as that.” he retorted.

  The two men and the burro finished their supper in silence while a handful of stars pricked holes in the sky.

  After a while the old prospector took a gold watch from his pocket and began winding it with a little gold key. “ ’Tain’t but seven,” he said, winding. “I’ll pile more wood on the fire, and how about us chinnin’ some before beddin’ down?”

  “Much obliged, Old Timer, but soon as the moon shines over the brink, I’m crossing the river and heading up to the South Rim. By the way,” he asked, making his voice sound casual, “what you celebrating?”

  The old man held his tongue, thinking. He picked up a sharp-edged stone and began cleaning Brighty’s hoofs as though he could clear his thoughts at the same time. He failed to see that the stone he was using for a hoofpick was veined with blue.

  But Irons’ quick eyes caught the tell-tale color or copper ore. His mind began racing. “Now, don’t you bother spilling your secrets to me, Old Timer,” he wheedled. “It’s just like I said. I’m topping out of this black pit and I don’t figure to come back. Not ever. I’m tired trapping. Ain’t enough beaver in these waters to keep me in grub.”

  The old man was only half listening. He was eyeing the lean hard body, noticing the sleeve stretched tight over the bulge of muscle, the big broad-fingered hands with their broken fingernails, the solid legs encased in their puttees.

  “You mean ye’re done trappin’? And outa work?” he asked.

  “That’s exactly what I mean. I ain’t one to complain, but tonight’s the first square meal I’ve had in weeks. And when I saw your cozy camp with the critter and all, right away I says to myself, here’s a man I can trust.”

  Old Timer looked all around as if to make certain they were alone. “‘If ye’re really done trappin’,” he cried, “mebbe you could work fer me! I need a young muscly feller, ’cause . . .” His voice pitched high as a boy’s. “ ’Cause me and Brighty’s found a extry-ordinary vein o’ ore.”

  Jake Irons smiled to himself at how neatly his flattery had worked.

  “Yup!” the white head nodded. “With you and me to dig, and Brighty to pack the stu
ff out, us three can get rich quick. Y’see, I got a sister with a crippled youngster, and sick folks needs lots o’ money.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Irons said sarcastically. “You’re just the kind to give the stuff away.”

  Mistaking the mockery for approval, the old man sat down, leaning happily against Brighty. “Ye’ll do, Jake Irons!” His eyes were far away and joyous. “Ye’ll do as a partner in the Little Mimi Mine.”

  For a long moment the muffled roar of the river filled in the silence, and somewhere down the canyon a coyote howled.

  “Even by starlight ye’ll see how rich the stuff is.” Hoisting himself up, the old man moved nearer and spilled the blue-flecked rocks into greedy, outstretched hands. “Here! Study on ’em, feller!”

  Over and over Irons turned the nuggets in his hand. Then he made a wide circuit around Brighty and fed the fire the better to see. “Where’d you find these?” he asked, trying to hide the eagerness in his voice.

  “Well, friend, me and Brighty was dawdlin’ along, loafin’ and pokin’ along down close to the Colorado, when we spied us one o’ them horny toads.”

  “And then?”

  “Then Brighty flips this toad over with his li’l ole mealy nose and underneath, guess what?”

  Without waiting for Irons to guess, the old man went on. “There, underneath, was one o’ them blue-green rocks. ’Twas only a broken-off lump, but I figgered where there’s one, there’s more.”

  “Yeah. Like mice.”

  “ ’Zackly. And I looks up overhead and I sees some more o’ this color in an overhang of rock. And me and Brighty fergits the horny toad and I begins a-diggin’ and a-diggin’. Got so feverish I hardly stopped fer meals. If it hadn’t been fer Brighty bellerin’ at sundown, I’d like to starved to death.”

  Jake Irons returned the nuggets and flopped down in the sand on the other side of the fire. “Lots of veins look good to begin with,” he said, “but they pinch off to nothing.”

  “Ye’re right. Most of ’em does. But not this one. No, siree! It got bigger and bigger the further I dug. Only jest today was I certain sure. Come mornin’, I’ll take ye in the tunnel and show ye.” He pointed north. “ ’Tain’t far. Jest over there a piece. Wait’ll you see the tree-ladder I built up to the tunnel. She swings out a bit over the river, but she’s stout enough.”