Travel

Classics Section

It appeared that morning, Climax might have made his way across the border into Mexico.

In the county jail on the Gila from which he had escaped, Climax was resting on his cot when the local minister appeared. A Chinese had just brought a plate of stewed beef and soggy bread for the prisoner. Climax laboriously chewed on the tough meat as he looked up and saw the preacher.

When the judge ruled that the check was admissible, Climax swallowed, and the evidence disappeared.

"I came to pray with you," the visitor explained.

"Don't pray for me!" exclaimed Climax. "Go back and pray for the sinner who cooked this damned food."

Handing the plate to the Chinese, Climax shouted, "Take it away, and don't bring me any more of that meat or I'll cut your tail off!"

The Chinese had started to go when he leisurely turned and said: "Bimeby you'll like it."

But Climax did not plan to linger in jail long enough to like it.

Then came the trial of Climax for increasing the amount of the check. The matter of selling some stolen cattle was not pressed, for Climax had obliterated the brands.

Grizzled cowmen from the mountains and grim, stern settlers from the Gila valley filed into the jury box. The county attorney plunged into a vociferous recital of the misdeeds of the accused.

"Gentlemen of the jury, the Territory of Arizona will prove to you that this defendant is the most dangerous criminal known from Hardscrabble Creek to the Mexico border. There is not a jail in this part of the Territory that has not housed him, but not for long for he has broken out of every one of them.

"Listen to this from our local newspaper, the Solomonville Bulletin: 'Climax Jim, the notorious jail breaker, is exerting his arts and wiles to the utmost to absent himself from our jail. Confined in the steel cell with Climax were seven other desperate criminals, and the sheriff had them shackled in pairs. A horse thief and Climax were bound together with hand-cuffs and leg-irons. The next morning when jailer Merrill entered the cell the two men were parading up and down, their legs tied with a cotton string. The shackles were hanging on the cell door, and the handcuffs were on the floor. Climax Jim is the most slippery bird in the Southwest. When confined in jail at other times it was impossible to keep him shackled.' them shackled in pairs. A horse thief and Climax were bound together with handcuffs and leg-irons. The next morning when jailer Merrill entered the cell the two men were parading up and down, their legs tied with a cotton string. The shackles were hanging on the cell door, and the handcuffs were on the floor. Climax Jim is the most slippery bird in the Southwest. When confined in jail at other times it was impossible to keep him shackled.' "Now I say, gentlemen of the jury," continued the county attorney, "this defendant is a dangerous man in or out of jail. The place for him is in the Yuma prison where I know you gentlemen will send him when you have heard the evidence in this case.

"Peace officers have not forgotten the cruel treatment this defendant gave a highly respected sheriff some years ago. Taking him over a mountain trail, and when they camped for the night, this defendant, who was handcuffed to the sheriff, slipped the irons off by means known only to himself. When the sheriff awoke in the morning, he found his own hands cuffed and the prisoner gone.

"Aside from his skill in removing handcuffs and leg-irons, this defendant has a way of spiriting witnesses against him out of our reach, and he has never served a term in the Territorial prison.

"And there he sits, gentlemen of the jury, innocent looking, and planning some way to get out of this, but we have got him this time if you do your duty."

The judge ruled that the best evidence of guilt was the check that the Territory alleged was altered and cashed. A witness employed in the bank where the check was cashed was placed on the stand, and thecounty attorney attempted to introduce the check as evidence after it was identified by the witness.

"Object," whispered Climax Jim to the young lawyer who was defending him.

"Spit 'er out till I twist yer tail."

The young lawyer jumped to his feet swinging his arms and shouting his objections. The county attorney cut in and a fiery argument ensued. He placed the check on the table to allow full use of his hands in clinching his argument.

The eyes of judge and jury were upon the speaker, but not the steel blue eyes of Climax Jim. From the folds of his shirt, he drew a long moist plug of chewing tobacco. He bit into it and laid the plug on the table as he nonchalantly stroked his shaggy moustache. A moment later, he drew the plug of tobacco toward him and slipped it into his shirt where he crumpled the paper that had adhered to it. Stroking his mustache, he placed the crumpled wad in his mouth.

As the argument progressed, Climax sat complacently chewing, and when the judge ruled that the check was admissible, Climax quickly swallowed, and the prima facie evidence supporting the Territory's indictment disappeared down his throat.

Climax then settled down and became a respected citizen. He courted a schoolteacher, taking her for horseback rides into the foothills and pointing out the great expanse of the White Mountains that border Arizona and New Mexico. He would tell her about the bad-men who holed up in those mountains, but he did not tell her for many years that he had been one of their kind. Now he had buried his running iron, and he was being branded by cupid's darts.

He filed on a homestead in the lower land near Morenci where a great mining camp was flourishing. He knew that someday the mining company would want his land, and he waited patiently for years. He finally sold it for $10,000.

With his schoolteacher sweetheart he went to California, where they lived happily ever after.

"He was one rustler who made crime pay for he always got away with it," concluded Joe Pearce.

Now you know why he was my favorite outlaw.

First published in November 1958 Text by Ross Santee The Last Run

The cattle had begun to filter into the hold-up at the mouth of the brushy canyon when the wild horses came out of the dust. They came with the drumming of hoofs, and there was the snap and popping of brush. I don't know how many mares were in the bunch for I saw only the stud. Stark terror had almost given him wings. His red nostrils flared as he fought for his breath which came in a great sobbing sound. His long mane and tail streamed in the wind. His neck, his withers, his flanks were dark with sweat which stained his buckskin hide. A split second and he was gone. To watch wild horses in full flight always gave me a thrill, and the picture of the buckskin still comes back to me after more than 40 years.At that time, the Bar F Bar outfit ran most of its cattle on the San Carlos Apache Indian Reservation. It was estimated there were more wild horses than cattle on the range, and the outfit ran around 5,000 head of cattle. The wild horses belonged to the Apaches, and the range itself was rough, the earth strewn with boulders, rocks, and malpais. There was cat claw, mesquite and buck brush, cholla and prickly pear; manzanita, juniper, and pine covered the higher slopes. Without a brush jacket and leather leggin's (chaps), a cowboy on the drive wouldn't have had enough clothes left on him to wad a scatter gun or pad a homemade crutch when he got into camp at night.

There were wide and rocky mesas that shimmered under the sun. There were dark and brooding canyons. Haunted Canyon was aptly named as was the RS pasture, an abbreviation for rough s.o.b. That pasture stood on end. Except at droughty times, it was a range where both cattle and horses thrived until the wild horses met their tragic and terrifying end.

The wild ones ran in bands, each stud having his own group of mares. It depend-ed on how much of a fighter he was as tohow many mares he held. They were never the beautiful creatures posing on some high point that are so commonly seen in movies and on the TV screen. Unkempt and undersized, a wild one seldom weighed 900 pounds; the old studs were always battlescarred. Yet there was one thing that set them apart: these horses were wild and free.

how many mares he held. They were never the beautiful creatures posing on some high point that are so commonly seen in movies and on the TV screen. Unkempt and undersized, a wild one seldom weighed 900 pounds; the old studs were always battlescarred. Yet there was one thing that set them apart: these horses were wild and free.

Some of these fights for supremacy were deadly affairs. But usually the stud simply quit the band and quit it quick after he was whipped.

Hunting saddle horses on Mescal I witnessed one affair. I had the wind on the bunch; it brought me all the sounds of battle, and through the glasses it was like a ringside seat.

The old stud was a bay with a sizable bunch of mares and colts. The challenger was a buckskin with four mares and two little colts in his band; and the buckskin meant business. Tossing his dark mane and tail, he trumpeted his challenge as he moved up the mesa, and the old bay answered in kind. Leaving his band, he moved out to meet the buckskin and answer the young stud's challenge.

Both studs trotted in half circles, arching their necks and tossing their manes, squealing and trumpeting as the distance narrowed between them. Then the old bay struck and the buckskin went to his knees, but he was on his feet in a flash. They feint-ed and blocked like boxers as they snapped at each other's throat, then wheeled away and planted well-placed kicks. There was no excitement among the mares. They seemed bored with the affair. Yet when a little colt became curious, a mare put him in his place. As the battle wore on, the studs no longer trumpeted; there were only squeals of rage. As they snapped and struck for each other's throat, their pop-ping teeth cracked like pistol shots. While the old bay knew every trick, it was obvious that he was tiring as the buckskin, the younger and stronger stud, kept pressing the attack. Then suddenly it was over. The old bay stud broke and ran. While the buckskin did not follow, he trumpeted long and loud, then rounding up both bands, he headed them toward the water, nip-ping the flank of any mare he Thought was a trifle too slow. to be driven, At intervals he wheeled and and they were tossed his head, wild enough and the wind brought me his when we hazed challenge. them into the big corral.

At Soda Canyon two little colts came in with the remuda one morning. A mockey (wild mare) will seldom go back after a colt that has been left behind in their wild flight. The colts had found our saddle horses in the night, and Rat, the cook's horse, had already taken over. He fought every horse in the remuda that came near the colts until old Slocum became conscious of their presence. Only then did Rat quit his charges, for old Slocum was not only the leader of the remuda he was always boss as well. The colts were too small to graze; they could only lap at water. Martin Woods was

Classics Section

A cowboy on that work. “If we could only get 'em to my place, my kids would raise them little fellers.” But Martin lived at El Capitan, many rough miles from our camp. Martin knew there was no way of getting the colts to his place, and they were shot. It was far more merciful than to let the little fellows starve or be pulled down by the coyotes.

These little colts left behind were not an unusual thing on the range. Many cowboy chores were unpleasant, but killing a colt was one of the sorriest I recall. For a colt is nothing but a horse in miniature. Trusting, he'd look at a horse and rider with shining eyes as if he had found a friend. As horse wrangler, I had much time to mess around on my own. It was customary for most wranglers to carry a greasy deck of cards and play solitaire. While the wrangler's duties were from sun to sun, I was never bored. I ran the wild ones at every opportunity and to less purpose than most Apaches. I had acquired a pair of German field glasses in a poker game at Camp Bowie, Texas. The glasses saved a lot of horseflesh when I was hunting lost ponies, and they brought me closeups of many things I might otherwise have missed.

I've said that a wild mare seldom went back after a colt that had been left behind in the wild flight, and I know of only one instance. In the big brown stud's band of picked mares that ran in the RS pasture, none of the mares had ever been touched by human hand since the day they had been branded. While they had been hazed at times, they were too wild to be driven, and they were wild enough when we hazed them across the big mesa into the corral where the colts were branded out. The mountain lions had already taken their toll; out of about 30 mares, there were only a dozen colts. With the idea of keeping a lion away from a colt, all of the colts were belled as they were branded. Most of the colts were terrified, but one little fellow fought. When Milo Van Winkle went down the line to take him off, this colt not only charged Milo, with his teeth he tore a sizable piece right out of the cowboy's brush jacket. And the cowboy paid him tribute. “Look at that little ol' thing,” said Milo. “Won't he make some cowboy ride when he gets a few years on him!” The branding finished, we made a holdup just outside the corral with the idea of letting a mare get together with her colt before we turned them loose. We tried to ease them through the big gate, a couple of mares and colts at a time. When horses or cattle jammed a gate, it was easy for an animal to get a hip knocked down or otherwise be hurt. The mares and colts got through the gate all right, then they broke through the holdup leaving a little colt behind. Bewildered, he moved from one saddle horse to another as he searched for the one he wanted.

“Oh, oh,” said a cow-boy who sat his horse beside me. “Here's one colt that I won't have to put to sleep; my pistol's in my bed.” Even as he spoke, we saw the mare returning for her colt, and she was coming at speed. She raced to the group of riders; it was only when she saw her colt that she finally braked to a stop. For an instant she nuzzled him. He got her smell. I can't describe the low sound she made, but it was something he understood; wheeling with the colt at her side they raced away together.

to put to sleep; my pistol's in my bed.” Even as he spoke, we saw the mare returning for her colt, and she was coming at speed. She raced to the group of riders; it was only when she saw her colt that she finally braked to a stop. For an instant she nuzzled him. He got her smell. I can't describe the low sound she made, but it was something he understood; wheeling with the colt at her side they raced away together.

We had orders not to catch the wild ones, but for the most part that was ignored. Knowing the country, a rider on a good horse had every advantage. He'd simply wait along one of the long ridges while another rider jumped the wild ones out and ran the horses past him. On a good horse, a good roper usually got a throw at the one he wanted. For excitement it was tops.

Any Apache who owned a brand on the reservation could give a bill of sale, and the procedure was simple. First catch the horse and then contact an Indian. The cowboy would describe the horse he wanted. Of course he didn't know whether he could catch him or not, but he'd take a chance if the bill of sale were reasonable. Often a bill of sale was as low as two dollars and never over 10. But one thing was certain, the cowboy always had the horse in hand before any money crossed the Apache's palm.

Ed Hill, a wise old cowboy, said that running wild horses had much the same effect on a cowboy as locoweed on a horse. And running wild horses often became an obsession. There was one cowboy in the outfit, we'll call him Steve, who would quit the drive at any time to hang it on a wild one.

Steve never bothered with a bill of sale; as a matter of fact, Steve caught and led out so many wild ones, he was banned from the reservation for a time. But fortunately for Steve, in those days Indian agents came and went. History tells us that Cortes brought the first horses to this continent in 1519. There were 11 stallions and five mares of Arabian strain. When DeSoto was shipwrecked off the coast of Florida, he had horses aboard, and Columbus brought horses on his second voyage. Many others were to follow. Cuba, San Domingo, and the other islands were a great breeding ground not only for horses but other livestock as well. As early as 1700, the Southwestern plains were teeming with wild horses.

History tells us that Cortes brought the first horses to this continent in 1519. There were 11 stallions and five mares of Arabian strain. When DeSoto was shipwrecked off the coast of Florida, he had horses aboard, and Columbus brought horses on his second voyage. Many others were to follow. Cuba, San Domingo, and the other islands were a great breeding ground not only for horses but other livestock as well. As early as 1700, the Southwestern plains were teeming with wild horses.

I have only tried to put down what I saw and learned firsthand. To the stockmen, the wild horses were always a problem. With the best blood of the range cut out, most of the wild horses had no commercial value except as fertilizer, dog and chicken feed. Every excuse was made to get rid of them. Stockmen said the wild horses ate too much grass, drank too much water.

On the reservation, dourine, a horse disease was the excuse and they were exterminated. Over 10,000 wild horses were shot and killed on the reservation in the early '30s. A tragic and terrifying end. Old saddle horses and pack mules from the white outfits, gone to the wild bunch, were exterminated too. The government paid so much a head for each branded animal killed. The coyotes and carrion birds never fared so well.

A friend, a horse lover, saw the last of the wild ones killed. It was at Ash Flat. For days, weeks, and months the killing had gone on. There were less than a dozen in the bunch, and they were thirsting for water and half-starved; that they could even track was amazing. But when the hunters jumped them out that morning, they came running down across the big flats. Then one after another they were shot down. Underfed, undersized; in many instances their hoofs were gone. But there was nothing wrong with their hearts. Some had made their last run on bloody, spongy stumps.To me the wild horses were as much a part of that rough and rugged land as the Apaches. Many old cowboy friends who have long since made their crossing were a part of that range, too. Its wide and rocky mesas still shimmer under the sun. Nor have its dark and brooding canyons changed, yet something has gone from the land. Nor will it ever be the same again to anyone who knew that range when the wild horses were a part of it, and they were wild and free.

Massacre Avenged

The following is a true account of Gen. George Crook's settlement of the Wickenburg Massacre, committed in 1871, near the city of Wickenburg.

The story was told to the author by John Mahoney. Now a resident of Prescott, Arizona, Mahoney witnessed the settlement of the murder of five stagecoach passengers.

The settlement and punishment of the murderers show the sincere friendship that existed between the frontiersman and the Indians, especially the Indian leaders.

Near the spot where the Wickenburg Massacre took place, a stone monument has been erected. This can be seen on the left-hand side of U.S. Route 60, just before arriving in Wickenburg.

General Crook drew his revolver and shot the Indian through the head.

Massacre cruel and suddenlay ahead of a rickety stagecoach one mild November morning in 1871, as seven happy passengers jogged over the twisting La Paz trail, about nine miles west of Wickenburg.

As the stagecoach rocked down the tortuous trail through a steep-walled canyon, the driver lolled back in his seat, cheerful and unsuspecting. Suddenly from the rocks above, a volley of lead and arrows riddled the stagecoach. The lead horses stumbled and piled clumsily into the dirt. A horde of paint-smeared Indians swooped down upon the passengers. Scalps were taken; the passengers quickly robbed of their belongings. As suddenly, the savage band scuttled back into the bleak hills, leaving five dead, two wounded. The gory Wickenburg Massacre was completed.

The two wounded passengers managed to stumble a few miles along the trail into Culling's Well Station, and there related the bloody story. Immediately a posse was formed; a band of 40 revenge-bent cowmen and miners followed eight distinct trails left by the murderous Indians.

After two days of weary trail work, the posse staggered back into Wickenburg with only one tangible sign: all the trails led toward Date Creek Indian Reservation.

As news of the massacre spread throughout northwest Arizona, General Crook, in command of the United States Army detachment in this territory, took the problem of capturing and punishing the killers into his hands.

General Crook knew Eritaba, chief of the Indians at Date Creek reservation, and rode up from Wickenburg to see him, accompanied by a small group of soldiers. Eritaba heard of General Crook's coming, and in two days more than 600 Indians from all of Arizona were encamped at Date Creek.

Under a canopy of dried hides and grass, General Crook and his soldiers sat at a wooden table across from Eritaba. Slowly, Eritaba cut a black plug of tobacco into eight pieces. He looked fixedly up at General Crook.

Eritaba picked up the pieces of tobaccothen slowly dropped them, one by one, into his other hand, still looking at General Crook. He then stood up.

Eritaba walked through the large encampment from one Indian hogan to another. Eight times he stopped and handed one of the Indians a piece of the divided tobacco plug. General Crook's detachment moved closer to the hogans.

The Indian chief put the last piece of tobacco into the hand of a garishly painted Indian. General Crook, who was following Eritaba, suddenly drew his revolver and shot the painted Indian through the head. General Crook's shot was immediately echoed by several others from his detachment. Each Indian who received part of the tobacco plug dropped dead near his hogan. Eritaba walked slowly back to the table. General Crook grasped the chief's hand firmly. "The Great White Father and I thank you." The Wickenburg Massacre was avenged.

Story of the Grand Canyon Suite

Here are things in this world that we love passingly, or long, or always, and that applies particularly to persons and places. It is to such a place that I dedicate this article with all the love and gratitude in my heart. The place I mean is large, very large, but I think I know most of it, as well as the best of it (to me there is no worst), and it has become an abiding part of my fondest memories. I treasure my recollections of the place I am writing about; recollections sentimental, pictorial, romantic; recollections of grandiose Nature, of vast areas of eloquent solitudes, towering heights, silent deserts, rushing rivers, wild animal life; of health-giving ozone, magic dawns and resplendent sunsets, silvery moonshine, iridescent colorings of skies and rocks; and before all else, of a stock of men and women who breathe deeply and freely, live bravely and picturesquely, speak their minds in simplicity and truth, and altogether represent as typical and fine a human flowering as this land of ours has inherited from its great pioneer days. If you have read this far, and not guessed the name of the place I am eulogizing, let me relieve your mind. I mean Arizona. I first went to Arizona in 1917, when the war urge sent me to volunteer for the cavalry band in Douglas. I played the baritone, and my practice hours were spent on the desert, much to the relief of my neighbors in the city. Then came the (World War I) draft, and I had to return to Los Angeles to report. Before that, however, exciting adventure stalked me in Douglas when I temporarily exchanged the baritone for the gun, went on a hunting trip, and unknowingly strayed into Mexico at Slaughter's Ranch. A troop of Mexicans seized me and took me to Agua Prieta. On the way, I tried to put on a bold front but felt none too good when I remembered that I had no passport, and not even a hunting license. Duly I was arraigned at Mexican headquarters in an open square, and from the voluble palaver and glowering looks of my captors, I gathered that things were going none too well for me. Visions of a firing squad filled my mind, and I was wondering to whom to bequeath my scanty belongings when a big Packard car rolled up, and out stepped a brilliantly uniformed Mexican general. To my intense happiness, I recognized him as an occasional visitor to the Douglas cafe where I had been doing some professional piano-playing. I remembered that the general applauded my performances and had sent me requests to do some of the operatic melodies he liked. I pushed my guard aside, rushed over to the general, and pantomined an imitation of piano-playing, saying "Rigoletto," "Lucia," "Faust," "Traviata." Suddenly he smiled, nodded affirmatively, and appeared to ask the nature of the charges against me. Satisfied that I was not a spy or in any way endangering the safety of Mexico, the general gave some curt orders, wrote a release, had my confiscated gun returned to me, and appointed an escort to take me back to the United States line. We separated with mutual bows, and if I had been a Mexican, I would have kissed him on both cheeks. After the war, I lived in Arizona at different periods in 1918, '19, '20, '21 and '23. I was familiar with the Prescott rodeos, made frequent visits to the Grand Canyon, camped everywhere from the border to Mohave County, felt at home in Flagstaff and Tombstone, the State ranches, mining camps. I hobnobbed with Indians, did some gold prospecting with an old friend, who at one time controlled an interest in the famous Ivanpaw Mine in the Hualapai Mountains; often heard the Indian drums beating all night during their powwows; had some ownership in the New Jersey Mining Company at Chloride; formed partnership In several hundred head of livestock with a cattleman and got to know the packing houses and their methods of slaughter and dressing; fished the Colorado River above Needles; experienced marvelous floods; spent wonderful nights on the desert; and rode all over the state in a cut-down Ford roadster. I had by that time considered myself almost a native The Grand Canyon had always stimulated my imagination. I saw color, but I "heard" it, too. Arizonan. Recalling the desert, I remember when I broke down there in my Ford, and had to make my own re-pairs, no small matter for an unmechanical musician. And, by the way, in those days one traveled Arizona with a so-called "strip-map," which meant that the only guides were landmarks like a certain farm, tree, fork of some stream, watermill, giant cactus, or ranch house. There were few signposts, and the roads were of the dirt and unim-proved variety. To follow the strip-map correctly, it was necessary only to set the speedometer at so many miles, and then at given points to look for the indicated landmarks I have just described. Old-timers will smile reminiscently with me, now that we know the modern touring facilities of Arizona, with its exact maps and perfected great highways. However, as the saying has it, "them was the days," and there are many of us for whom they linger affectionately in memory. My last extended visit to Arizona was in 1926, and on that occasion came to me the irresistible impulse to put into music what I felt about the state and its wonders of Nature. To me they were epitomized, before all else, in the awe-inspiring magnificence and towering mystery of the Grand Canyon, which had always stimulated my imagination to form tonal impressions. I saw color, but I "heard" it, too.

Just here let me digress to set forth briefly my previous musical background, as it may help to explain my approach to the mighty subject I had ambitiously chosen for transference into orchestral expression. Born in New York, I was only a few months old when I was taken to California by my parents, and so from early childhood my sympathies were Western in spite of my Eastern derivation. My later destiny shaped itself through the heritage coming from maternal grandfather Bernard Beilich, who occupied the first cello desk at the Metropolitan Opera House together with Victor Herbert. Subsequently my ancestor became solo cellist of the Los Angeles Orchestra, where my uncle, Julius, functioned as concertmaster. My mother, too, played the cello, had been a pupil of the great Klengel at the Leipsic Conservatory, and gave me my primary musical education. Dad was right in the spirit, with previous activity as a singer, serving in the famous light-opera organization, The Bostonians, which premiered such works as "Robin Hood," "The Serenade," "The Fortune Teller," and other hits of their day.

Well it was decided by my elders that the family had enough professional musicians, and so my first real jobs were those of bank clerk, printer, and bookbinder. But nothing of that kind worked. If some domestic animals are subject to the call of the wild, I could not escape the call of music. It got me and got me good. Soon I was a traveling pianist, doing itinerant playing in various California communities, including one in which necessity forced me to tickle the keyboard in the saloon of a mining camp. Nostalgia had overcome me, and to get the price of a ticket for home, I gave a "recital" — in the saloon! It was a lengthy affair during which the primary business of the establishment was forgotten. When the last bibulous "music lover" left, at 5 A.M., he presented me with two silver dollars, Exactly two hours and 13 minutes later, I was on a train, bound for Los Angeles. There I occasionally played the viola in the local symphony orchestra but often traveled to other localities and appeared with instrumental groups performing in hotels, theaters, and dance halls. In 1919, after one of my Arizona sojourns, I joined John Tait's orchestra in a famous San Francisco resort, and dissatisfied with the thin arrangments he used, I first tried my hand at improving them with characteristic changes of my own.

A year later, I was a member of Paul Whiteman's first orchestra in Los Angeles. Like myself he had enjoyed symphony training, but we both were interested in applying our knowledge to a better sort of orchestration for popular music. Paul encouraged me to experiment along that line and to try my hand at various kinds of innovations. I worked out new ideas, and to meet them, Paul gradually changed the instrumentation of his band to the type that later became the real jazz combination. We abandoned the huddle system of everybody playing together all the time, featured solos, and took the saxophone into our orchestral family. Our new offerings were piquant and dancy and made an instantaneous hit. I have since been called "the father of jazz instrumentation," and I suppose that I really represent that more or less illegitimate parenthood.

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In the strictly jazz idiom, I imagine that my best-known child is the scoring of the late lamented George Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue, which he first brought to me in the form of a pencil manuscript for piano solo. It was at that time the longest jazz composition that had been orchestrated, and my dominant purpose was to fill it with uncommon instrumental variety and coloring. In 1924 I retired from the Whiteman band as pianist and arranger and devoted my time to some conducting of my own but chiefly to scoring, arrang-ing, transcribing, and composing. In the last-named field my record includes the "Mississippi Suite," "Metropolis," "Southern Rhapsody," "Hollywood Suite," and "Grand Canyon."

I have related the foregoing in order to give you an idea of the preliminaries to the genesis of music, which, once the idea to compose had me in its grip, seemed to call for a tonal language not that of Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, or even symphonic moderns, but for a truly American idiom, falling easily on the average ear and completely understandable by ordinary Mr. and Mrs. John Citizen and even their adolescent offspring. Whether I have succeeded, I leave it to others to judge.

The Grand Canyon Suite has five movements: "Sunrise," "Painted Desert," "On the Trail," "Sunset," "Cloudburst." Strange as it may seem, I did not write the movements in that order, except that I started with "Sunrise,"

For which I made the first sketches at Santa Monica, California, in 1929, and finished it later at my home in Teaneck, New Jersey. I next (also in 1929) did "Sunset" at the Saddle River Country Club, near Hackensack, New Jersey. Now followed "On the Trail," which became the "best-seller" of the series, and engaged my leisure when I was a member of the Whiteman band in Chicago during 1931. The theme of the burros, which struck the popular fancy so strongly, came to me while wheel-ing my son along Sheridan Road. Five pile-drivers were thumping in some building operation, and their peculiar broken rhythm at once suggested its adaptability for musical use, a recollection of the metrical hoof-tap that I had heard so often from the little beasts of burden in Arizona. For "Painted Desert" (1931, Chicago) I went again to memories and envisioned a scene at Holbrook, where I had been on the rim of the desert at early morn and gazed in rapt amazement at the changing colors and shadows. The fifth movement of "Cloudburst" had me guessing for a while, in order to find the impressive dynamic effects I desired for Nature at its utmost fury, even though I had in mind a vivid mental record of a terrific electrical storm I encountered in Arizona. Then providence aided, for a similar watery deluge, with thunder and lightning, raged before my eyes during a visit to the Chippewa Indian Reservation. Immediately, "Cloudburst" took shape and soon was transferred to paper, as the conclusion of the Grand Canyon Suite.

Its world premiere took place November 22, 1931, in Chicago, with Paul Whiteman conducting, and I trust that I shall not be considered as lacking in modesty if I add that the composition scored impressive success, and since then has been performed all over the world. Of course the usual critics arose here and there to put me in my place, and I remember especially one who objected to the fact that I did not orchestrate the work in the accepted fashion set by European composers! He said that the new type of American orchestration "did violence to the grandeur of the Grand Canyon," and that it is a fitting subject only for "the greatest of symphony writers." The greatest of symphony writers were Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven, and Brahms, and as none of them ever was in Arizona, I do not quite see how they could have done musical justice to the Grand Canyon. The same critic contradicted himself, however, when he went on: "The Grand Canyon is a place of a thousand cathedrals, suggesting graphically the stupendous scope and majesty and beauty of this natural wonder. But we do not doubt that Grofé could write and Whiteman could play a description even of St. Peter's in 'symphonic jazz' that would meet with great acclaim."

On the other hand, I like to recall the opinion of the Chicago critic who wrote, "That Donkey Motif of Grofé's is the most intriguing bit of music these old ears have heard in 20 years." And then there was the generous letter of my fellow composer, the late Raymond Hubbell: "Irvin Cobb looked over the edge of the Grand Canyon and said, 'God made it, but he didn't make any words to describe it.' May I rephrase that and remark, God made it and now he has given Ferde Grofé music to describe it. This is the greatest job done by any modern composer, and it sent the cold chills up and down my spine."

An outstanding New York critic also made me happy when my opus was first played there, with his praise of my "coloring, melody, imagination, and instrumentation of evocative atmosphere. Grofé actually gives you the spirit of the Grand Canyon, its gorgeous beauty, its vastness, its part in the Indian history of the Southwest."

Every composer's output generally includes one number that is most dear to his heart, perhaps because he considers it his best, or maybe because of the cherished associations in the music. In my case, that favored example is the Grand Canyon Suite, and for both of the reasons I have mentioned.

It is my fervent hope that I may be able to do something to rank with it. But where is there another such subject to move me similarly? Do you wonder that my heart is filled with enduring love and lasting gratitude for Arizona and its grandest glory?

Believe me when I say that I am looking forward to the time when I shall have a small ranch of my own, not far from Flagstaff and my beloved Grand Canyon country, where I may relive my younger days in the great open spaces and find a finale of peace that passeth understanding. So let the day arrive soon when I may sing, "Arizona, here I come!"