17. CONCLUSION




CHAPTER 1. THE ARIZONA DESERT

One afternoon, far out on the sun-baked waste of sage, we made
camp near a clump of withered pinyon trees. The cold desert wind
came down upon us with the sudden darkness. Even the Mormons, who
were finding the trail for us across the drifting sands, forgot
to sing and pray at sundown. We huddled round the campfire, a
tired and silent little group. When out of the lonely, melancholy
night some wandering Navajos stole like shadows to our fire, we
hailed their advent with delight. They were good-natured Indians,
willing to barter a blanket or bracelet; and one of them, a tall,
gaunt fellow, with the bearing of a chief, could speak a little
English.

"How," said he, in a deep chest voice.

"Hello, Noddlecoddy," greeted Jim Emmett, the Mormon guide.

"Ugh!" answered the Indian.

"Big paleface--Buffalo Jones---big chief--buffalo man,"
introduced Emmett, indicating Jones.

"How." The Navajo spoke with dignity, and extended a friendly
hand.