Their dresses were getting worn off pretty nearly to their knees, and showed the contact with the ground that sometimes could not be avoided.

They were in a sad condition so far as toilet and raiment were concerned.

Life was in the balance, however, and instead of talking over sad things, we talked of the time when we would reach the little babbling brook where Rogers and I took such long draughts of clear, sweet water and the waiter at our dinner gave us the choice of _Crow_, _Hawk_ or _Quail_, and where we took a little of all three.
[Illustation: Pulling the Oxen Down the Precipice.] In the morning we were off again down the canon, limping some as we trod its coarse gravelly bed with our tender feet and stiffened joints, but getting limbered up a little after a bit, and enduring it pretty well.
We set out to try to reach the bunch of willows out on the level plain, where the cattle could get some water and grass, but night overtook us at the mouth of the canon, and we were forced to go into camp.

This canon is now called Red Canon.

This was on an elevated plain, with a lake near by, but as we had been so often deceived by going to the lake for water, and finding them salt in every instance, or poison on account of strong alkali, we did not take the trouble to go and try this one.
Near us was some coarse grass and wet ground where we found water enough for our moderate use, and the oxen, by perseverance, could get something to eat and drink.