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Updated: June 25, 2025
My way lay over a mountainous part of what is now Santa Cruz county, a district which at that time, on account of the excellent fodder and water, abounded with hostile Indians. On one occasion that I well remember I had reached the waterhole over which is now the first railroad bridge north of Patagonia, about a half mile from the present town, and had stopped there to water my horse.
And then, turning to leave him, 'An' will ye say a mass if the luck is against me? But the priest smiled, thrust his moccasined feet to the fore, and went out upon the white breast of the silent river. A packed trail, the width of a sixteen-inch sled, led out to the waterhole. On either side lay the deep, soft snow.
The Debil-debil Waterhole was a long way off, and through a terrible country quartz plains, ragged scrub, and little or no water all the way. Then, had they taken plenty of food with them? So far as we could see, they had taken some, but we could not tell how much.
"We must prepare to stay right here on High Mesa until they do finish!" declared Isobel. "It will be impossible to go back to the ranch tomorrow if they are still in that frightful place! Kid will have to take the hawsses down to the waterhole. He shall go on home, and tomorrow morning fetch us cream and eggs and everything you need.
I'd like to know what you are doing up here afoot?" "Wouldn't tell you for a dollar," he replied, smiling. "My horse is over there near the timber. The rest of the band are at the waterhole." "Oh, but you will tell me!" she said. "And before we get back to the cañon." "I wasn't headed that way " he began; but she interrupted quickly. "Of course. I'm not, either."
Our destination was Collingwood, more widely known as the Conn Waterhole, where the Government Surveyor had laid out a township situated about 40 miles west of Winton.
The day being excessively hot, the journey very rough and stony, and many of them lame from want of shoes, also it being near sundown, and there being a little green grass about, I have camped. Wind variable. Tuesday, 18th November, The Gums, Bagot Range. Started at 5.40 a.m. to the large waterhole in the Hamilton; in about a mile found some rain water, which I allowed the horses to drink.
In his own driving passion to take his secret into the limitless abode of silence and desolation, where he could be alone with it, he had forgotten that life dealt shocks to other men. Somehow this silent comrade reminded him. One afternoon late, after they had toiled up a white, winding wash of sand and gravel, they came upon a dry waterhole. Cameron dug deep into the sand, but without avail.
The shadow of twilight fell upon Dry Fork and the waterhole. The man shivered and, as if afraid that the darkness would rush upon him, hastily opened his clenched hand and smoothed out the crumpled letter. To his bloodshot eyes, the accusing words seemed to glare up at him in letters of fire: Sir: We have been instructed by our client, Mr.
We left each friendly waterhole in the greatest uncertainty whether we should ever drink again, and it may be imagined with what interest, under such circumstances, I watched the progress of a cloudy sky. It was not uncommon for the heavens to be overcast, but the clouds seemed to consist more of smoke than moist vapour.
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