Tom Outland's Story
ment with the Sitwell Company terminated in May.
When we turned our cattle over to the foreman, we
would go into the mesa with what food and tools
we could carry, and try to find a trail down the
north end, where we were sure there must once have
been one. If we could find an easier way to get in
and out of the mesa, we would devote the summer,
and our winter’s wages, to exploring it. From Tarpin, the nearest railroad, we could get supplies and tools, and help if we needed it. We thought we could manage to do the work ourselves if old Henry would stay with us. We didn’t want to make our discovery any more public than necessary. We were reluctant to expose those silent and beautiful places to vulgar curiosity. Finally we outlined our plan to Henry, telling him we couldn’t promise him regular wages.
“We won’t mention it,” he said, waving his hand. “I’d ask nothing better than to share your fortunes. In me youth it was me ambition to go to Egypt and see the tombs of the Pharaohs.”
“You may get a bad cold going over the river, Henry,” Blake warned him. “It’s bad crossing—makes you dizzy when you take to swimming. You have to keep your head.”
“I was never seasick in me life,” he declared, “and at that, I’ve helped in the cook’s galley on the Anchor Line when she was fair standing on her head. You’ll find me strong and active when I’m
—205—
