pneumonia and sore throat and maybe rheumatism. In fact I began to feel
twinges of rheumatics, but the Chief scoffed. He said I should have had
a twelve-inch saddle instead of a fourteen and if I wasn't so dead set
on a McClellan instead of a Western Stock I would be more comfortable.
He draped a mackinaw around me and left me to my fate. I wasn't scared
by the storm, but Mescal was positively unnerved. He trembled and
cringed at every crash. I had always enjoyed electrical storms, but I
never experienced one quite so personal before. Cartwheels and
skyrockets exploded under my very nose and blue flame wrapped all around
us. The Chief had gone on in search of the pack mule, and I was alone
with Smolley. Through a lull in the storm I caught a glimpse of him. He
slouched stolidly in the saddle as unconcernedly as he had slouched in
the broiling heat. In fact I think he was still dozing.

As suddenly as the storm had come it was gone, and we could see it ahead
of us beating and lashing the hot sands. Clouds of earthy steam rose
enveloping us, but as these cleared away the air was as cool and pure
and sweet as in a New England orchard in May. On a bush by the trail a
tiny wren appeared and burst into song like a vivacious firecracker.
Rock squirrels darted here and there, and tiny cactus flowers opened
their sleepy eyes and poured out fragrance. And then, by and by, it was
evening and we were truly in Navajo Land.

We made our camp by a water hole replenished by the recent rain. While
the Chief hobbled the horses I drank my fill of the warm, brackish water
and lay back on the saddles to rest. The Chief came into camp and put a
can of water on the fire to boil. When it boiled he said, "Do you want a
drink of this hot water or can you wait until it cools?"

"Oh, I had a good drink while you were gone," I answered drowsily.