interest in that scene. I was ready to retreat. We watched the medicine
men thump and bang the invalids with bunches of herbs and prayer sticks
a few minutes longer; then with Smolley as our guide we wandered over to
the Squaw Dance beside another bonfire, located at a decorous distance
from the improvised hospital hogan.

The leading squaw, with a big bunch of feathers fastened to a stick,
advanced to the fire and made a few impressive gestures. She was garbed
in the wide, gathered calico skirt, the velvet basque trimmed with
silver buttons, and the high brown moccasins so dear to feminine
Navajos. The orchestra was vocal, the bucks again furnishing the music.
After circling around the spectators a few times the squaw decided on
the man she wanted and with one hand took a firm grasp of his shirt just
above the belt. Then she galloped backward around him while he was
dragged helplessly about with her, looking as sheepish as the mutton
simmering in the kettle. Other squaws picked partners and soon there
were numerous couples doing the silly prance. Silly it looked to us, but
I thought of a few of our civilized dances and immediately reversed my
opinion.

The squaws occasionally prowled around among the spectators, keeping in
the shadows and seeking white men for partners. These, mostly cowboys
and trading-post managers, were wary, and only one was caught napping.
It cost him all the loose silver he had in his pocket to get rid of the
tiny fat squaw that had captured him.

We were told that dances and races would continue for several days, and
so, firmly bidding good night to Smolley, we went back to camp and fell
asleep with the faint hubbub coming to us now and then.