"So we are," was the reply. "We're just between Glorietta Pass and the
Great Continental Divide. But the steepest of the Rockies are behind
us, and now the slopes are more gradual all the way to California. How
do you like it, dear?"

"Oh, the mountains are grand!" exclaimed Myrtle. "I had never imagined
anything so big and stately and beautiful." The other girls had seen
mountains before, but this was their friend's first experience, and
they took much pleasure in Myrtle's enthusiastic delight over all she
saw.

Adjoining the hotel was a bazaar, in front of which sat squatted upon
the ground two rows of Mojave Indians, mostly squaws, with their
curious wares spread out for sale upon blankets. There must have
been a score of them, and they exhibited odd pottery ornaments of
indistinguishable shapes, strings of glass beads and beadwork bags,
and a few really fine jardinieres and baskets. After the girls had
been to their rooms and established themselves in the hotel they
hurried out to interview the Indians, Myrtle Dean supporting herself
by her crutches while Patsy and Beth walked beside her. The lame girl
seemed to attract the squaws at once, and one gave her a bead necklace
while another pressed upon her a small brown earthenware fowl with
white spots all over it. This latter might have been meant to
represent a goose, an ostrich or a guinea hen; but Myrtle was
delighted with it and thanked the generous squaw, who responded merely
with a grunt, not understanding English. A man in a wide sombrero who
stood lazily by observed the incident and said:

"Don't thank the hag. She's selfish. The Mojaven think it brings luck
to have a gift accepted by a cripple."