The third canyon is also a short one, the three aggregating less than ten miles.  Because of the many kingfishers flying about it was called Kingfisher Canyon, and a point where they were especially numerous was named Bee-hive.  At the foot of this third short canyon the rocks ran together in a forbidding manner, and out of the depths beyond came a roar, just as one outside of the jungle might hear the lion’s note within.  On a bright Friday morning we were ready to try our fortune, and with all made snug, pulled in between the cliffs where in a moment we beheld a wild sea of descending foam.  Rapid quickly followed rapid and immediately we had some exciting work.  Our boat was swept so near the right-hand cliff that one of the after rowlocks was torn off, and at about the same time the Nellie Powell, following but signalled to keep to the left, was seen to strike rocks near the opposite side and capsize.  The next instant we were borne out of sight.  Hillers, with only one rowlock, could not use his oars, so the work devolved entirely on me.  The boat was heavy for one pair of oars, and we were being carried down stream at a terrific pace.  On the left was a little beach where we might land, and I pulled for this with all my power.  At length to my great relief I felt the keel touch bottom.  We were still about fifteen feet from the beach, but the water was not any deeper than the grating of the keel indicated, so we were overboard in a moment and pulled her to the bank.  At the same instant the Canonita ran in, dashing up like a horse finishing a race.  The crew reported the other boat upside down, but they were unable to stop to help her.  They thought the crew were safe, and we hoped with all our hearts they were.  There was nothing we could do but wait for some sign from above, and in about three quarters of an hour the boat came rushing down with all hands safe and exceedingly happy over claiming the distinction of the first capsize.  Now many rapids fell to our lot, and we were kept busy every moment.  On the 4th of June we passed the wrecks of some boats half-buried in the sand, and on landing we discovered a grave on a little knoll some distance back from the water, with a pine board stuck up at its head bearing the name of Hook.  The rapid that had apparently caused the disaster told by these objects we easily ran.  The unfortunates had attempted the descent in flat-bottomed boats, that shipped much water and toppled over with the slightest provocation.  They had followed Powell on his former trip, declaring that if he could go down the river so could they, but they learned their mistake and paid dearly for the experience.  The leader, whose bones lie in these splendid depths of Red Canyon, was said to have been the first mayor of Cheyenne.  Many more rapids we ran with a current of from six to twelve or fifteen miles per hour, and we made many “let-downs,” which means working a boat along the edge of a rapid by the aid of lines, without removing the cargo.  We called this process, when we removed the cargo, a “line portage,” as distinguished from a complete portage where the boats were taken out of the water.