Waterbury evening Democrat., 1888-07-10
THE DEVILS SLIDE.


 ous rock formations in Echo and Weber canyons, just after the road enters the terri tory of Utah. It would seem that here na- ture had made her play ground, and out of pure sport had fashioned the rocks into all sorts of fantastic and grotesque shapes. But few, if any, are familiar with the legend which throws the glamours of the supernat- ural over the quaintly shaped crags and gives them their sulphurously suggestive names.
 left the train at the little Mormon village of Peterson, just beyond the canyon, and se- curing horses and a guide, 1 prepared to spend few days trying the trout fishing for which the Weber river enjoys a local reputa- tion. Pedro, my guide, was n half breed Mexican, of the Saucho Panza type, full of Indian laziness, Mexican superstition and true Spanish love for the marvellous. He had been brought up in an old monastery, not far from the City of Mexico, and was full of tales of the hardy friarS who braved the ter TOTS of the wilderness, in order to convert the Indians, and who, if the stories be true, used to lasso them when milder persuasion failed.
 We jogged along pleasantly enough until we were well within the canyon and selected a grassy spot on the river bank to pitch our camp for the night. Then Pedro began to show signs of uneasiness.
 'Senor, l like not this place." he said finally, as he fumbled at the cords which bound the luggage on the pack mule. "What Is the matter with the placer" 1 queried as took note of the pools and eddies in the river, and made a mental calculation as to the best place to commence my fishing the next day
 Ut is strange, senor, the rocks are works of witchery, and the story is not pleasant to think of"
 Well" l answered carelessly, as { saw big trout, which looked to be over foot long as it flashed ill the sunlight jump from pool directly in front of me, II guess nobody will hurt you; we will build big fire and it will keep the animals away, and the Indians are all peaceable."
 '1t is not the Indians nor the bears I fear, senor; it is the devil"
 'Pshaw, the devil does not want you yet while" answered, laughingly, and Pedro submissively began to arrange the camp and prepare supper 1 unpacked my trout rods with care, and busted myself selecting flies and rigging my tackle for the sport 1 antici- pated on the morrow. 1 even went so far as to whip the pool out of which had seen the trout jump, but it was too late in the day, or his troutship was sullen, and I had my labor for my pains.
 After we had finished our supper we lay on opposite sides of the camp fire, smoking my pipe and Pedro consuming villanous cigar cites made of black plug tobacco wrapped in the coarsest straw paper, and thinking-at least l was-of how we'll the natural appear ance of the canyon gave color to Pedro'S super stitious notions. The moon was struggling through mass of t1eecy cloud which did not hide it entirely, but which made the light tremble as it shot out bright and clear through the open spaces, then was obscured hU horl oE feet, looked in one moment as bright as quick silver, in the next it was inky black The tremulous moonlight gave fantastic outlines to the strangely shaped crags, and they seemed to move with 0 sort of rhythmic swaying, to advance in the moonlight and bow then recede into the shadow The night wind rustled through tho stunted pines and sage brush and moane1 most uncannily among the mysterious Assures and crevices of the rocks. The river rippled along peace fully enough past our camp, but the dull roar of the cataract, where, half mile below, it dashed through the rock riven Devils Gate, made dull monotone broken by the sharp yelp of the coyote or the cry of a small bird frightened by the prairie owl.
 Pedro drew closer to me, and pointing to two parallel walls of rock about twenty feet apart, rising to e height of about thirty feet and extending from the top to the bottom of the mountain, he whispered in an awe struck voice: "The Devils Slide, senor" Then pointing to huge monolith, shaped like an Indian club, on the opposite hill, he | added:
 | "That is the Devils War Club,n and he | crossed himself so vigorously and muttered | so many strange prayers in mixture of bad | Spanish and worse Latin, that 1 am certain that any reasonable fend would have fled il terror at his incomprehensible patois. His evident terror was beginning to make me nervous from sympathy, and knew that the best way to restore his mental equilibrium was to interest him in some subject not con | nected with our uncanny surroundings l tried in vain to turn the conversation upor 1 hunting and fishing. At last in desperation 1 thinking that the sound of his own voice might reassure him and that in the interest of his story be would forget his position, allowed him to tell me the legend which shorn of some of Pedro's inaccuracies ot l speech, ran as follows:
 In the year 1777, when the people of the eastern part of America were fighting fol independence, the Spaniards had already settled on the Pacific coast and founded sev eral missions. The fathers, with that devo tion and fearlessness which has characterized the priesthood in all ages, had penetrated far inland and made many converts among the savages in the interior as early es 1725. Among the most jealous and successful was Father Pietro del Torra, man of grea, piety, and also as social and genial com panion as one could wish for. In the fall o TIT Father Pietro had crossed the Sierra and was preaching and baptizing among tn, Indians of Nevada and Utah. He haC passed the Alkali plains of the Humbold region and the Great Salt lake, and late on evening was walking in Weber canyon whel he came to a wall of rock which barred hi passage. He determined, however, to pusl on, and after laboriously climbing the hill h pursued his way along the top. Soon he ob served a gentleman dressed as a Spanisl cavalier of the day coming toward him Father Pietro was not little surprised t see white man so far from civilization; an in truth, he was not sorry, for being, as W have said, of social disposition, he felt tn lack of company sorely.
 Therefore, when they met Father Pietr smiled pleasantly and remarked:
 "A lonely walk you are having, my son" '"
 "It is, reverend father, but is it not like
 wise lonely for you, who travel day after da
 unattended2"
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