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.