Interesting, if true. I decided that my guess was as good as his, so let
the subject drop. It must have been a long time ago, for there were
juniper trees growing from the middle of these ruins that the Chief said
were almost three thousand years old. (He had sawed one down not much
larger than these, polished the trunk and counted the annual rings with
a magnifying-glass, and found it to be well over that age.) Among the
rocks and débris, we found fragments of pottery painted not unlike the
present Zuñi ware, and other pieces of the typical basket pottery
showing the marks of woven vessels inside of which they had been
plastered thousands of years ago. I fell to dreaming of those vanished
people, the hands that had shaped this clay long since turned to dust
themselves. What had their owner thought of, hoped, or planned while
fashioning this bowl, fragments of which I turned over in my palms aeons
later? But the lunch-stop ended, and we moved on.

That night we camped at Desert View and with the first streak of dawn we
prepared to leave the beaten path and follow a trail few tourists
attempt. When we reached the Little Colorado, we followed Smolley
implicitly as we forded the stream. "Chollo," our pack mule, became
temperamental halfway across and bucked the rest of the way. I held my
breath, expecting to see our cargo fly to the four winds; but the Chief
had not packed notional mules for years in vain. A few pans rattled, and
later I discovered that my hair brush was well smeared with jam. No
other damage was done.

All day long we rode through the blazing sun. I kept my eyes shut as
much as possible, for the sun was so glaring that it sent sharp pains
through my head. In front the Chief rode placidly on. Outside of turning
him into a beautiful brick red, the sun seemingly did not affect him.
Smolley was dozing. But I was in agony with thirst and heat and