We had promised the
party that we would run this rapid that afternoon, so we spent little
time in packing systematically, but hurriedly threw the stuff in and
embarked. Less than an hour later we had made the two-mile run and the
dash through the short rapid, to the entire satisfaction of all
concerned.
We camped a short distance below the rapid, just opposite a grave of a
man whose skeleton had been found halfway up the granite, five years
before. Judging by his clothes and hob-nailed shoes he was a
prospector. He was lying in a natural position, with his head resting
on a rock. An overcoat was buttoned tightly about him. No large bones
were broken, but he might have had a fall and been injured internally.
More likely he became sick and died. The small bones of the hands and
feet had been taken away by field-mice, and no doubt the
turkey-buzzards had stripped the flesh. His pockets contained Los
Angeles newspapers of 1900; he was found in 1906. The pockets also
contained a pipe and a pocket-knife, but nothing by which he could be
identified. The coroner's jury--of which my brother was a
member--buried him where he was found, covering the body with rocks,
for there was no earth.
Such finds are not unusual in this rugged country. These prospectors
seldom say where they are going, no track is kept of their movements,
and unless something about their clothes tells who they are, their
identity is seldom established.
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