when there was a fire in the cave.
When we got down to the cabin that evening, we found the bear hide stretched and laced with shreds of rope into a frame of four stout poles leaning against the north side of the cabin — extending up to the very peak of it. Every bit of meat and fat had been removed, leaving the flesh side evenly dark-colored and as smooth as a piece of polished wood. We stood admiring it for some time. I thought of the coyote, and wolf, and wild-cat skins I had stretched upon the side of our barn to dry: all askew, and heavy with meat and fat, and was ashamed of my crude work.
“Just the other day,” said Hannah, ‘‘I read about an annual fur sale in St. Louis. I did n’t read it carefully, but, as I remember, grizzly bear skins sold for two hundred dollars. I believe we can get that much for ours.”
We might, if we only knew where to send it.”
“We must know. When we go home we’ll look in the papers for the addresses of fur-buyers,” she said.
And from that moment the possibility of getting that big sum for the hide was always in our minds. When the Hopi came down to us, at sunset, we told him about it, and I said that two hundred dollars seemed to be a lot of money for a bear hide, and he laughed:
‘‘You have never been to Grand Canyon?” he asked. “No.” Well, I have, several times. There is always a crowd of rich people at that place, people who spend money as carelessly as I would take up a handful of sand and cast it to the winds. I once saw ten hundred dollars paid there for a little painting, just a little painting of the cliff of Oraibi, and an old Hopi man sitting on it and looking off at the desert. I saw there a large painting of the Canyon that was sold for twenty thousand dollars. If I had the bear hide there, I believe that I could sell it at once for twice two hundred dollars!’’
I ’ll bet that Hannah and I gasped when he told us that! For he looked at us and laughed, and went on: “In the big hotel at the Canyon, one can have meals and a small room for about ten dollars a day, and better rooms with a bathroom, for twenty-five dollars a day. The better rooms are always taken: that shows you how much many white people care for money.”
‘‘You take the bear hide there and sell it, and send us our share of the money,” I told him.
‘‘I"ll do it, just as soon as I get my old men safely home,” he answered.
We had waited supper for him, and now, while we ate, our Indian friend told us a lot about his school life in the East, and the big cities he had seen, Chicago, New York, Philadelphia, and Washington. He kept us so interested that we hardly knew what we were putting into our mouths, and once I mistook the salt cup for my tea cup and sure got a surprise.
Later on, after we had washed the dishes, we asked how his old men were getting on in the cave, and how they managed to endure a fire in it ?
‘‘Oh, they are doing fine, and are very happy,” he answered. “There is a narrow crack in the rock, running from the roof of the kiva into the hole going down to the Under World, and that carries off the smoke. They are very comfortable in there. They have said many of their prayers, and sung the songs that go with them, and last night White Deer had a revealing dream: he dreamed that he was in a great rainstorm out upon the desert; that he saw heavy rain falling upon our plantings at the foot of the cliffs of Oraibi. That is a pretty sure sign the Rain God is taking pity upon us, that he will soon give us what water we need.”
‘‘If he does, he will also be doing us a good turn: he will put out our terrible forest fires,” said Hannah, with a laughing toss of her head.
‘‘Oh, please don’t laugh at us! ” our friend cried. “We do not laugh at your beliefs; we are very willing that you shall have your gods and believe in them, so do that much for us! ”
“Oh, you misunderstand me!” she told him. “I was n’t laughing at your beliefs. I was thinking how a big rain would put an end to the awful work of the fire-setters.”
“That, also, my priests are praying Rain God to do,” he solemnly answered.
As I had had some sleep during the day, I took the first watch that night, while our friend slept on the porch, wrapped in his blanket. At midnight I called him, as agreed upon, and he stood watch for the remainder of the night. Nothing happened. Day came, we had an early breakfast, and then went up on top, Hannah and I to the lookout, the Hopi to his old men. We had no sooner climbed to the top of the little butte than we saw that the firebugs had again been busy during the night: a thick column of black smoke was rising from a point about two miles south of the big fires, and there was still another fire started to the west of Green’s Peak. And this morning there was again a brisk wind! We felt blue enough as we looked down upon the mean work of the I.W.W. firebugs. How bold they were, and how cunning, setting the fires right where many men were constantly searching for them, and managing day after day to keep themselves safely hidden. The telephone called me, and the Supervisor said: Hurry up to the lookout, George, and chart some new fires that are burning.”
“We are on top. In the lookout! Wait, I’ll give you the readings,” I answered.
Hannah was already at the chart stand. She made the sightings, told me the degrees, and I repeated them.
And then the Supervisor said, more to himself than to me, I thought: don’t know what to do! I can’t get more men, oh, this is sure terrible!”
I wanted to ask him if there were any traces of the firebugs, but he rang off. Later on, we learned by listening in that the sheriff’s men could not find even a footprint of them. We went outside and sat for hours looking down upon the forest and trying to think just where the fire-setters might be hiding. As they were afoot, we believed that they were cached somewhere within five miles of the sawmill. But where — just where ?
The wind that we dreaded proved to be only an early morning breeze; it died completely out before ten o’clock and the day turned warm even up where we were. By noon the great desert to the north was lost in the heat waves rising from it. We had brought a lunch this day, and asked the young Hopi to share it with us. When he came, a little after twelve, he was very silent and anxious, we thought, and finally Hannah asked what was troubling him.
He pointed to the northwest: ‘‘Our poor plantings are drying up, out there! If Rain God does not soon answer our prayers, we shall starve!’’ he answered.
“Yes. And we shall lose our forest, and starve along with our cattle,” I told him.
“To-morrow is to be our great day. To-morrow my priests make their offerings, and sing and dance to Rain God, and you shall see them do it,” he said.
Chapter IX.
The Bear Skin is Stolen
When Hannah and I returned to the cabin that evening, we found everything as we had left it, and thought that the deserter had made up his mind to make no more raids upon our little stock of provisions. After I had started a fire in the stove, we went out and admired our great bear skin, now almost dry — so thoroughly had it been fleshed and stretched. I struck it with my hand and it boomed like a drum.
“Sister, our friend can’t be right: it is n’t possible that any one will pay four hundred dollars for that hide, big though it is!” I exclaimed.
“I
