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FORDING THE LITTLE COLORADO.
At a bend in the road the Mexican guide galloped up near the ambulance, and pointing off to the westward with a graceful gesture, said: "Colorado Chiquito! Colorado Chiquito!" And, sure enough, there in the afternoon sun lay the narrow winding river, its surface as smooth as glass, and its banks as if covered with snow.
We drove straight for the ford, known as Sunset Crossing.

The guide was sure he knew the place.

But the river was high, and I could not see how anybody could cross it without a boat.

The Mexican rode his pony in once or twice; shook his head, and said in Spanish, "there was much quicksand.