well. They are accepted. But this other bid—for a thousand acres in the bed of the San Juan River. You must have made an error. It is submitted directly to the United States government, instead of to the Navajo Council. Do you wish to correct it?”
“I do not,” snapped Cavanaugh.
“But it cannot be accepted, since the stream is not navigable.”
“I challenge that statement, Mr. White. Under the law it cannot be rejected until the stream is proved not to be navigable. If you won’t accept it, let it stand as a prior claim. Is there anything else?”
“Nothing else whatsoever,” White answered mildly, but between stiff lips.
“That suits me fine.” Cavanaugh lit a long black cigar in defiance of a no smoking sign, and strutted out. All heads turned to watch him go and a buzz of conversation started.
“Wheeuw!” Ralph said in Sandy’s ear. “That Pinta Dome area had a big helium strike some years back. Wells in that region are all closed in now, and the government is very hush-hush about the whole thing. What’s Cavanaugh up to?”
White picked up another bunch of bids and called Hall to the table.
“You know, John, that bids on land in the disputed Navajo-Hopi area can’t be accepted. I’ve told you so again and again. So has Chairman Paul Jones of the Navajo Council. Why do you keep submitting them?”
“Because I’m a stubborn man, Ken.” Hall grinned, tilting his gray head as he always did when he was being stubborn. “And because I think there’s oil under those lands. And because I also think the tribes will get together soon. You just let my bids stand and tell me where I can locate Jones.”
“Hosteen Sandez, do you know where Mr. Jones is today?” White asked a lean old Indian who sat next to him.
“Gone to Chinle,” was the reply. “Two families there having dispute—with shotguns—about irrigation water. He trying to settle it before Navajo police come.”
“Thank you,” said Hall. “I think we’ll just mosey on up Chinle way.”
* * * *
The jeep followed a good paved road as far west as Ganado, but when it turned north toward Chinle it got back once more on a trail made of stones from which none of the corners had been removed. They were driving through a wild country of mesas, washes and canyons which made conversation almost impossible.
“What do you expect to gain by talking to Jones, John?” Donovan asked once when the road became smoother for a few miles.
“I’ve been reading so much about summit conferences,” Hall answered, “that it just occurred to me we might set one up out here. I want to suggest to Jones that we get some of the more important chiefs of the two tribes to meet out here in the desert somewhere, where there are no reporters or members of the Land Resources Association hanging around. I’ll bet we could accomplish something.”
“Good idea,” Donovan agreed. “If the tribes weren’t continually stirred up by white men with axes to grind they’d soon be able to agree on that boundary line.”
“Don’t mind me, palefaces,” said Ralph as he spun the wheel to avoid a particularly hard-looking stone. “But I doubt it. I know both tribes, and…”
Crash! The jeep bucked like a pinto pony and the motor roared.
“There goes the second muffler in three months,” Ralph shouted, pointing backward to a heap of junk on the trail.
After that, all conversation was impossible until they pulled into the little town of Chinle—and learned at the trading post that Jones had already departed for Tuba City!
“Say, John,” Ralph said, as they were standing around waiting for a “shade tree mechanic” to dig a muffler that would fit out of a rusty pile of spare parts that leaned against his hogan, “we can’t possibly drive back to the well tonight. Why don’t we put up at the Canyon de Chelly camp so I can show Sandy where his great-uncle fit the Navajos?”
“Good idea,” said his employer. “You’ll have time to show Sandy the cliff dwellings tomorrow, too. Chief Quail lives over in the Canyon de Chelly neighborhood. I want to sound him out on my idea for a summit conference.”
The sun was sinking in golden glory behind thousand-foot-high red sandstone buttes when they drove up to the Thunderbird guest ranch at the entrance of the Canyon de Chelly National Monument area. There they obtained two pleasant double rooms furnished after the rugged style of the Old West. When they had showered most of the dust off themselves, they gathered for a fine meal in the timbered mess hall. Then, in the cool of the mountain evening, they went over to a big campfire where a National Park Service Ranger was lecturing to a group of tourists.
“These canyons housed one of the great centers of the Anasazi, or Basket Maker, civilization,” the Ranger was explaining. “During the first several centuries of what we call the Christian era, Basket Makers occupied the whole drainage basin of the San Juan River. In addition to baskets, they made fine pottery and woven sandals, but they used dart throwers instead of the later bows and arrows. They built peculiar circular homes with floors sunk a foot or more into the ground. You’ll see one of those tomorrow when you visit Mummy Cave.
“When the Basket Makers vanished early in the eighth century, Pueblo Indians occupied the canyons. They built many-storied cliff dwellings over the old caves. They were farmers, but they also made beautiful pottery, cloth, stone tools, and ornaments of copper and gold.
“Coronado, the Spanish Conquistador, may have been looking for this place when he came up from Mexico in 1540 to search for the fabulous riches of El Dorado and the Seven Cities of Cibola. He never found anything but thirst and death.”
“Were the Pueblos and Basket Makers related?” someone asked.
“Yes, they were both Shoshones, like the modern Hopis,” answered the Ranger as he threw more wood on the fire.
“More distinguished ancestors for us Utes,” Ralph whispered to Sandy.
“Seven or eight centuries ago,” the Ranger went on, “the Pueblos grouped their cliff dwellings into large ‘apartment houses’ situated on sites that could easily be defended. Tomorrow you’ll visit White House, Antelope House, and Standing Cow, which are their finest structures. Let me warn you, though, that only people accustomed to conditions in the canyons should drive cars into them. The spring rains are late this year. There is very grave danger from flash floods and quicksand. In past years, many covered wagons and other vehicles drove into the canyons, got caught in a sudden storm, and were never found. I suggest you rent a car and guide from the Thunderbird Ranch operator.”
“What became of the Pueblos?” a tourist asked in an awed voice.
“Nobody knows. Some people think a great drought hit this part of the country and they had to move to an area where there was more rainfall. Others believe that an enemy—possibly the fierce Aztecs—came up from Mexico and killed all the inhabitants. Terrible battles were fought here, we know, before the end. Sometimes Pueblo mummies with weapons still in their hands are found when a new cliff dwelling is explored. The Navajos say the whole place was deserted when they moved in, more than 200 years ago. Now, I want to tell you about the troubles that they had with the Spaniards
