The first two miles of the Bright Angel Trail was a sort of Jacob’s ladder, zigzagging at an unrelenting pitch.  Most of the way the boys had to dig their knees into the sides of their mounts to prevent slipping over the animals’ necks.

“This is mountain climbing backwards,” jeered Stacy.

“I don’t know, but I guess I like it the other way,” decided Walter, looking down a dizzy slope.

“I hope my pony doesn’t stumble,” answered Ned.

“You won’t know much about it if he does,” called Tad over his shoulder.

“Never mind.  We’ll borrow an Indian basket to bring you home,” laughed Stacy in a comforting voice.

The trail was the roughest and the most perilous they had ever essayed.  The ponies were obliged to pick their way over rocks, around sharp, narrow corners, where the slightest misstep would send horse and rider crashing to the rocks hundreds of feet below.  But to the credit of the Pony Rider Boys it may be said that not one of them lost his head for an instant.

“How did this trail ever get such a name?” asked Tad of the guide.

“Yes, I don’t see any signs of angels hereabouts,” agreed Chunky.

“You never will unless you mend your ways,” flung back Nance.

“Oh, I don’t know.  There are others.”

“On the government maps this is called Cameron Trail, but it is best known by its original name, Bright Angel, named after Bright Angel creek which flows down the Canyon.”

“Where is Bright Angel Canyon?” asked Tad.

“That’s where the wild red men are hanging out,” said Stacy.

“That’s some distance from here.  We shan’t see it until some days later,” replied the guide.  “This, in days long ago, was a Havasupai Indian trail.  You see those things that look like ditches?”

“Yes.”

“Those were their irrigating canals.  They knew how to irrigate a long time before we understood its advantages.  Their canals conveyed large volumes of water from springs to the Indian Gardens beyond here.  Yonder is what is known as the Battleship Iowa,” said the guide, pointing to the left to a majestic pile of red sandstone that capped the red wall of the Canyon.

“Don’t shoot,” cried Stacy, ducking.

“You’ll be shooting down into the Colorado,” warned Nance.  “You’d better watch out.”

The rock indicated did very much resemble a battleship.  The boys marveled at it.  Then a little further on they came upon a sandstone plateau from which they could look down into the Indian Garden, another plateau rich with foliage, green grass and a riot of flowers.  It was like looking into a bit of the tropics.

“Here is the worst piece of trail we have yet found,” called Nance.  “Go carefully,” he directed when they reached the “blue lime.”  For the next few minutes, until they had passed over this most dangerous portion, little was said.  The riders were too busy watching out for their own safety, the Professor, examining the different strata of rocks that so appeal to the geologist.  He was entranced with what he beheld about him.  Professor Zepplin had no time in which to enjoy being nervous.