There is this proverb among the Utes: "Do not murmur when you suffer in doing what the spirits have commanded, for a cup of water is provided"; and another: "What matters it who kills the game, when we can all eat of it?" It is long after midnight when the performance is ended. The story itself is interesting, though I had heard it many times before; but never, perhaps, under circumstances more effective. Stretched beneath tall, somber pines; a great camp fire; by the fire, men, old, wrinkled, and ugly; deformed, blear-eyed, wry-faced women; lithe, stately young men; pretty but simpering maidens, naked children, all intently listening, or laughing and talking by turns, their strange faces and dusky forms lit up with the glare of the pine-knot fire. All the circumstances conspired to make it a scene strange and weird. One old man, the sorcerer or medicine man of the tribe, peculiarly impressed me. Now and then he would interrupt the play for the purpose of correcting the speakers or impressing the moral of the story with a strange dignity and impressiveness that seemed to pass to the very border of the ludicrous; yet at no time did it make me smile. The story is finished, but there is yet time for an hour or two of sleep. I take Chuar'ruumpeak to one side for a talk. The three men who left us in the canyon last year found their way up the lateral gorge, by which 312 CANYONS OF THE COLORADO. they went into the Shi'wits Mountains, lying west of us, where they met with the Indians and camped with them one or two nights and were finally killed. I am anxious to learn the circumstances, and as the people of the tribe who committed the deed live but a little way from these people and are intimate with them, I ask Chuar'ruumpeak to make inquiry for me. Then we go to bed. September 17.--Early this morning the Indians come up to our camp. powell-canyons-194.jpg A POULTRY HOUSE OF SICHUMOVI RESEMBLING AN OVEN. They have concluded to send out a young man after the Shi'vwits. The runner fixes his moccasins, puts some food in a sack and water in a little wickerwork jug, straps them on his back, and starts at a good round pace. We have concluded to go down the canyon, hoping to meet the Shi'vwits on our return. Soon we are ready to start, leaving the camp and pack animals in charge of the two Indians who came with us. As we move out our new guide comes up, a blear-eyed, weazen-faced, quiet old man, with his bow and arrows in one hand and a small cane in the other. These Indians all carry canes with a crooked handle, they say to kill rattlesnakes and to pull rabbits from their holes. The valley is high up in the mountain and we descend from it by a rocky, precipitous trail, down, down, down for two long, weary hours, leading our ponies and stumbling over the rocks. At last we are at the foot of the mountain, standing on a little knoll, from which we can look into a canyon below. THE RIO VIRGEN AND THE UINKARET MOUNTAINS. 313