Beth Norvell

A wide out-jutting wall of rock, uneven and precipitous, completely

shut off all view toward the broader valley of the Vila, as well as of

the town of San Juan, scarcely three miles distant. Beyond its stern

guardianship Echo Canyon stretched grim and desolate, running far back

into the very heart of the gold-ribbed mountains. The canyon, a mere

shapeless gash in the side of the great hills, was deep, long,

undulating, ever twisting about like some immense serpent, its sides

darkened by clinging cedars and bunches of chaparral, and rising in

irregular terraces of partially exposed rock toward a narrow strip of

blue sky. It was a fragment of primitive nature, as wild, gloomy,

desolate, and silent as though never yet explored by man.

A small clear stream danced and sang over scattered stones at the

bottom of this grim chasm, constantly twisting and curving from wall to

wall, generally half concealed from view by the dense growth of

overhanging bushes shadowing its banks. High up along the brown rock

wall the gleam of the afternoon sun rested warm and golden, but deeper

down within those dismal, forbidding depths there lingered merely a

purple twilight, while patches of white snow yet clung desperately to

the steep surrounding hills, or showered in powdery clouds from off the

laden cedars whenever the disturbing wind came soughing up the gorge.

Early birds were beginning to flit from tree to tree, singing their

welcome to belated Springtime; a fleecy cloud lazily floating far

overhead gave deeper background to the slender strip of over-arching

blue. It all combined to form a nature picture of primeval peace,

rendered peculiarly solemn by those vast ranges of overshadowing

mountains, and more deeply impressive by the grim silence and

loneliness, the seemingly total absence of human life.

Yet in this the scene was most deceptive. Neither peace nor loneliness

lurked amid those sombre rock shadows; over all was the dominance of

men--primitive, fighting men, rendered almost wholly animal by the

continued hardships of existence, the ceaseless struggle after gold.

The vagrant trail, worn deep between rocks by the constant passage of

men and mules, lay close beside the singing water, while here and there

almost imperceptible branches struck off to left or right, running as

directly as possible up the terraced benches until the final dim traces

were completely lost amid the low-growing cedars. Each one of these

led as straight as nature would permit to some specific spot where men

toiled incessantly for the golden dross, guarding their claims with

loaded rifles, while delving deeper and deeper beneath the mysterious

rocks, ever seeking to make their own the secret hoards of the world's

great storehouse. Countless centuries were being rudely unlocked

through the ceaseless toil of pick and shovel, the green hillsides torn

asunder and disfigured by ever-increasing piles of debris, while

eager-eyed men struggled frantically to obtain the hidden riches of the

rocks. Here and there a rudely constructed log hut, perched with

apparent recklessness upon the brink of the precipice, told the silent

story of a claim, while in other places the smouldering remains of a

camp-fire alone bespoke primitive living. Yet every where along that

upper terrace, where in places the seductive gold streak lay half

uncovered to the sun, were those same yawning holes leading far down

beneath the surface; about them grouped the puny figures of men

performing the labors of Hercules under the galling spur of hope.