“Now, at last,” remarks Dr. Parry, “we have a perfectly authentic account, from an intelligent source, from a man who actually traversed its formidable depths, and who, fortunately for science, still lives to detail his trustworthy observations of this remarkable voyage.”  The doctor was too confiding.  Had I the space I would give here the whole of White’s story, for it is one of the best bits of fiction I have ever read.  He had obtained somehow a general smattering of the character of the river, but as there were trappers still living, Kit Carson, for example, who possessed a great deal of information about it, this was not a difficult matter.  But that he had no exact knowledge of any part of the river above the lower end of the Grand Canyon, is apparent to one who is familiar with the ground, and the many discrepancies brand the whole story as a fabrication.  In the language of the frontier, he “pitched a yarn,” and it took beautifully.  Hardy, whom I met in Arizona a good many years ago, told me he believed the man told the truth, but his belief was apparently based only on the condition White was in when rescued.  That he was nearly dead is true, but that is about all of his yarn that is.  White was thirty-two years old, and from Kenosha, Wisconsin.  He said that, with two others, he was prospecting in Southwestern Colorado in the summer of that year, 1867, when, on Grand River, they were attacked by the Utes.  Baker, the leader, fell mortally wounded.  Of course, White and the other man, Strole, stood by their leader, in the teeth of the enemy’s fire, till he expired.  What would the story have been without this example of devotion and fortitude?  Then, holding the pursuers in check, they slowly retreated down the side canyon they were in to the main gorge, where they discovered an abundance of driftwood, and decided to make a raft with which to escape.  This raft consisted of three sticks of cottonwood about ten feet long and eight inches diameter, tied together with lariats.  They had abandoned their horses above, bringing only their arms, ammunition, and some food.  Waiting for midnight to come so that their pursuers might not discover their intention, they seized their poles and, under the waning moon, cast off, and were soon on the tempestuous tide, rushing through the yawning chasm.  “Through the long night they clung to the raft as it dashed against half-concealed rocks, or whirled about like a plaything in some eddy.”  When daylight came they landed; as they had a smoother current and less rugged banks, though the canyon walls appeared to have increased in height.  They strengthened their raft and went on.  In the afternoon, after having floated about thirty miles from the starting point they reached the junction of the Grand and Green.  So far all is well, but here he makes his first break, as he had no conception of the actual character of the rivers at the junction.  He says the canyon now far surpassed that of either of the forming streams,