wearing high laced boots, with a very self-conscious air. Once
outside, in the glory of the westering sun, Frank took a deep breath.

"Great air, boy! Get all you can of it into those flabby bellows of
yours. Before we go to the hogan, come over to the corral. My Tom
horse has got a saddle sore. A fool tourist rode him all day with a
fold in the blanket as big as your fist."

"Is he a bronco?" asked Nucky, with sudden animation.

"He was a bronco. You easterners have the wrong idea. A bronco is a
plains pony before he's broken. After he's busted he's a horse. See?"

"Aw, you're dead wrong, Frank!" drawled a voice.

Nucky looked up in astonishment to see a tall man, whose skin was a
rich bronze, offering a cigarette to the guide.

"Dry up, Mike!" returned Frank with a grin. "What does a Navaho know
about horses! Enoch, this is a sure enough Indian. Mike, let me
introduce Mr. Enoch Huntingdon of New York City."

The Navaho nodded and smiled. "You look as if a little Canyon climbing
would do you good," said he. "I was looking at Tom horse, Frank. He's
in bad shape. How much did that tender-foot weigh that rode him?"

"I don't know. I wasn't here the day they hired him out. I know the
cuss would have weighed a good deal less if I'd been here when that
saddle was taken off! Going down to-morrow with Miss Planer?"