who have mills.”
“Sure. A uranium strike these days is just like money in a safe for which you have lost the combination.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Hall,” Stack interrupted, “but doesn’t Midray own an interest in a uranium mill?”
“Oh, yes.” Hall smiled grimly at the surveyor. “Midray owns an interest in most everything. It will be delighted to help me develop the lode—in exchange for three-fourths of the profits.
“That’s better than nothing, though.” He straightened his shoulders. “A uranium strike will shorten the odds enough so I can take a chance on drilling a well here. Why, what am I grousing about? This could be a real stroke of luck. How did you happen to find it?”
When he had heard the story, Hall slapped Sandy on the back.
“That’s what’s called serendipity,” he said, chuckling. “You remember the three Princes of Serendip in the fairy story: on their travels they always found things they weren’t looking for. Congratulations, Sandy. You have the makings of a real wildcatter.”
But, as the boy went off to take care of his sick calf, he knew that his employer had been putting on an act. Serendipity or no, John Hall was still running a poor-boy outfit.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Cavanaugh Makes a Mistake
Hall had completely recovered his good spirits by the time that Ralph brought Kitty to camp at dawn. Just as the sun rose the little party set out for Window Rock in a holiday mood. Hall made one stop for a brief conference with Donovan. Then he drove on to his base camp, arriving in time for breakfast.
Sandy could hardly recognize the place where he had worked such a short time before. Number Two well had been opened and connected to the feeder pipeline through a Christmas tree, while its derrick had been moved to a new location. Three big new Midray rigs were being erected at other spots on the property. Still more derricks were going up on surrounding leases. This was rapidly becoming an important field.
Hall had a short talk with the Midray superintendent, a big man who reminded Sandy of Cavanaugh and who acted as if he owned the place. Then they were on their way again.
“The lease looks like Times Square,” Hall grunted as he headed the jeep toward Shiprock. “Makes me uncomfortable. I like to work where there’s plenty of room to swing a wildcat.”
“I bet you still prefer to use a burro when you go prospecting, you old sourdough,” Kitty teased him.
“Well, a burro never runs out of gas or breaks a spring, and it has a better horn than a jeep,” Hall said, grinning. “When a burro brays, even the mountains have to listen. That’s why he’s called a Rocky Mountain canary, I suppose.” They reached Route 666 in good time, turned south between Shiprock Peak and Hogback Mountain, and sailed down through the picturesque Chuskas past road signs that beckoned toward far-off, mysterious places like Toadlena, Beautiful Mountain, Coyote Wash, Nakaibito, Pueblo Bonito (Lovely Village) and Ojo Caliente (Hot Eye).
Kitty made the time pass quickly by singing the praises of the desert, pointing out spots of historic interest, and telling them Navajo legends.
“The Wind People, who ride the lightning, own all of these box canyons and hilltops,” she said half seriously. “No Navajo will build his hogan near such places, or where lightning has struck. If he did, he thinks the Wind People would give him bad headaches.”
“It gives me a bad headache trying to understand why your Navajos love a godforsaken place like this,” Ralph said.
“Your Utes live here too!” Kitty’s eyes flashed.
“Only because white men drove us off our good land farther north,” Ralph snapped. “We put up a good fight before they expelled us, too. My grandfather was one of Chief Douglas’ warriors, back in 1879, when the Utes surrounded and almost destroyed an entire U.S. Army detachment that invaded our White River reservation.”
“The Navajos got their reservation back,” Kitty pointed out.
“Don’t squabble, children,” Hall said and added, to break the tension, “I heard a rumor that you’re going to the Squaw Dance together next week. Is that right?”
Kitty blushed and Ralph nodded.
“That’s the same as becoming engaged, isn’t it?”
“If our uncles approve,” Kitty admitted.
“Well, here’s a tip from an old bachelor: Don’t bicker about things that happened long ago, and don’t hold grudges. We’re all Americans today, no matter how our skins are colored.”
“I’ll be good,” Kitty promised. “And that reminds me. Will you all be good and come to dinner with Mother and me tonight?”
When they pulled up to the motel at Window Rock, an Indian wearing a Hopi hairband rose from where he had been squatting near the entrance and handed Ralph a message. The driller read it and turned to the others with a frown.
“It’s from Chief Ponytooth,” he explained. “He says the Hopis and Navajos are having a session at the Council Hall tonight and he wants me there as a representative of the Utes. Looks as if I’ll have to eat and run.”
“Dinner will be early,” Kitty promised.
“Wait here till I make a quick visit to the Indian Agency,” Hall said. “Then we’ll walk over to your house. I’m tired of riding.”
Sandy had expected that Kitty might live in an eight-sided wooden hogan such as he had seen in other parts of the reservation. Instead, she took them to a neat white cottage surrounded by paloverde trees.
Mrs. Gonzales was an attractive widow who might have passed for Kitty’s older sister, except that she was somewhat heavier and her skin was much darker. She greeted the two older men as if they were members of the family and made Sandy feel at home immediately. First, she showed them around the tiny forge and workshop where she apparently earned a good living by making lovely silver buckles and heavy medallions called conchas which she sold to tourists. Then, after learning that Ralph had to leave soon, she rushed dinner to the table. It featured several highly spiced Mexican and Indian dishes and was delicious.
After coffee, they stood under the stars for a few minutes on a patio looking toward the great black hole in Window Rock.
“What is the light that twinkles on the cliff these days?” Mrs. Gonzales asked as she pointed upward with pursed lips.
“Bad man!” she sniffed after Hall explained that it was Cavanaugh’s light beam.
“What do you know about him, Mother?” Ralph asked.
“Nothing good.” She crossed her arms in the wide sleeves of her embroidered blouse to keep the evening chill away. “He came here in the early ’50s, looking for uranium. Pablo, my poor husband, was a prospector too in those days, and knew every foot of this reservation. Cavanaugh went into partnership with him, but somehow, he never got round to signing a contract.
“They made a strike too—one of the biggest. Cavanaugh sold the claim for much money, just before the government stopped buying ore. He forgot all his
