At last, on the 8th of September, we arrived at Camp Mojave, on the right bank of the river; a low, square enclosure, on the low level of the flat land near the river. It seemed an age since we had left Yuma and twice an age since we had left the mouth of the river. But it was only eighteen days in all, and Captain Mellon remarked: "A quick trip!" and congratulated us on the good luck we had had in not being detained on the sandbars. "Great Heavens," I thought, "if that is what they call a quick trip!" But I do not know just what I thought, for those eighteen days on the Great Colorado in midsummer, had burned themselves into my memory, and I made an inward vow that nothing would ever force me into such a situation again. I did not stop to really think; I only felt, and my only feeling was a desire to get cool and to get out of the Territory in some other way and at some cooler season. How futile a wish, and how futile a vow! Dellenbaugh, who was with Powell in 1869 in his second expedition down the river in small boats, has given to the world a most interesting account of this wonderful river and the canons through which it cuts its tempestuous way to the Gulf of California, in two volumes entitled "The Romance of the Great Colorado" and "A Canon Voyage". We bade good-bye to our gallant river captain and watched the great stern-wheeler as she swung out into the stream, and, heading up river, disappeared around a bend; for even at that time this venturesome pilot had pushed his boat farther up than any other steam-craft had ever gone, and we heard that there were terrific rapids and falls and unknown mysteries above. The superstition of centuries hovered over the "great cut," and but few civilized beings had looked down into its awful depths. Brave, dashing, handsome Jack Mellon! What would I give and what would we all give, to see thee once more, thou Wizard of the Great Colorado! We turned our faces towards the Mojave desert, and I wondered, what next? The Post Surgeon kindly took care of us for two days and nights, and we slept upon the broad piazzas of his quarters. We heard no more the crackling and fizzing of the stern-wheeler's high-pressure engines at daylight, and our eyes, tired with gazing at the red whirlpools of the river, found relief in looking out upon the grey-white flat expanse which surrounded Fort Mojave, and merged itself into the desert beyond. CHAPTER VII. THE MOJAVE DESERT Thou white and dried-up sea! so old! So strewn with wealth, so sown with gold! Yes, thou art old and hoary white With time and ruin of all things, And on thy lonesome borders Night Sits brooding o'er with drooping wings.--JOAQUIN MILLER. The country had grown steadily more unfriendly ever since leaving Fort Yuma, and the surroundings of Camp Mojave were dreary enough.