for a while in their own language. Then, looking at Coronado, they
grunted, nodded, and sat in silence, waiting for his terms.

"Send that boy away," said the Mexican, pointing to a youth of twelve or
fourteen, better dressed than most Apache urchins, who had joined the
little circle.

"It is my son," replied Manga Colorada. "He is learning to be a chief."

The boy stood upright, facing the group with dignity, a handsomer youth
than is often seen among his people. Coronado, who had something of the
artist in him, was so interested in noting the lad's regular features and
tragic firmness of expression, that for a moment he forgot his projects.
Manga Colorada, mistaking the cause of his silence, encouraged him to
proceed.

"My son does not speak Spanish," he said. "He will not understand."

"You know what money is?" inquired the Mexican.

"Yes, we know," grunted the chief.

"You can buy clothes and arms with it in the villages, and aguardiente."

Another grunt of assent and satisfaction.

"Three hundred piastres," said Coronado.

The chiefs consulted in their own tongue, and then replied, "The way is
long."