Ranger had to be taken into a wagon; and then, one by one, all of the other dogs except Moze.

He refused to ride, and trotted along with his head down.
Far to the front the pink cliffs, the ragged mesas, the dark, volcanic spurs of the Big Colorado stood up and beckoned us onward.

But they were a far hundred miles across the shifting sands, and baked day, and ragged rocks.

Always in the rear rose the San Francisco peaks, cold and pure, startlingly clear and close in the rare atmosphere.
We camped near another water hole, located in a deep, yellow-colored gorge, crumbling to pieces, a ruin of rock, and silent as the grave.

In the bottom of the canyon was a pool of water, covered with green scum.
My thirst was effectually quenched by the mere sight of it.