is that?" I asked Wattahomigie (which by the way means "Good Watchful
Indian"). "Him pony," was the stolid reply. "But--?" "Buck and fall over
trail," explained my Indian brave. I fled to the Chief for comfort and
change of air. He investigated and found that when Wattahomigie had
brought the ponies up from the village one had become unruly and pitched
over the Rim, landing squarely across the trail a hundred feet below. It
was the only trail, but it never occurred to the Noble Red Man to remove
the dead horse. No indeed! If it proved impossible to get around the
obstacle, why, stay off the trail until Providence cleared the way. In
other words let Nature take its course. The Chief procured a few pounds
of TNT from the Government warehouse located there, and with the aid of
that soon cleared the trail.

"That good way to clear trail," approved Wattahomigie. "No pull, no dig,
no nothin'." I hoped no TNT would be left roaming at large for
promiscuous experiments by Wattahomigie while we were natives of his
village.

We camped there at Hilltop that night, and after a supper of fried
sage-rabbit, corn cakes, and coffee, I rolled into the blankets and fell
asleep without worrying about the morrow. Something awakened me. I
certainly _had_ heard something. Inch by inch I silently lifted myself
from the blankets and peered into the shadows. Standing there like a
graven image was a beautiful doe with twin fawns playing around her.
Curiosity had conquered caution and she was investigating our camp. Just
then a coyote's wild cry sounded from the distance. She lifted her
sensitive nose and sniffed the air, then wheeled and glided into the
deep shadows. Other coyote voices swelled the chorus. Hundreds it seemed
were howling and shrieking like mad, when I dropped to sleep to dream I
was listening to grand opera at the Metropolitan.