About noon the following day, the horses whinnied, and the mules
roused out of their tardy gait. "They smell water," said Emmett.
And despite the heat, and the sand in my nostrils, I smelled it,
too. The dogs, poor foot-sore fellows, trotted on ahead down the
trail. A few more miles of hot sand and gravel and red stone
brought us around a low mesa to the Little Colorado.

It was a wide stream of swiftly running, reddish-muddy water. In
the channel, cut by floods, little streams trickled and meandered
in all directions. The main part of the river ran in close to the
bank we were on. The dogs lolled in the water; the horses and
mules tried to run in, but were restrained; the men drank, and
bathed their faces. According to my Flagstaff adviser, this was
one of the two drinks I would get on the desert, so I availed
myself heartily of the opportunity. The water was full of sand,
but cold and gratefully thirst-quenching.

The Little Colorado seemed no more to me than a shallow creek; I
heard nothing sullen or menacing in its musical flow.

"Doesn't look bad, eh?" queried Emmett, who read my thought.
"You'd be surprised to learn how many men and Indians, horses,
sheep and wagons are buried under that quicksand."

The secret was out, and I wondered no more. At once the stream
and wet bars of sand took on a different color. I removed my
boots, and waded out to a little bar. The sand seemed quite firm,
but water oozed out around my feet; and when I stepped, the whole
bar shook like jelly. I pushed my foot through the crust, and the
cold, wet sand took hold, and tried to suck me down.