see how we of the kivas keep knowledge of places: none of us have ever been to that creek, nor our fathers nor grandfathers, yet we know it as well as though we had been along it many times!” he said.
He pointed to a large, shining lake midway between us and Conaro Lake. “But I do not understand about that water,” he went on. “Our description of this Rain God garden makes no mention of it. It can’t be that it is the gathering of last night’s rain.”
“It isn’t,” I told him. “White men who live away down the river built a dam there, and so made the lake. When they need water for their plantings they let the water run down into the river, and from it into their ditches.”
“Ah! That explains it!” he exclaimed, clapping hands together with a loud smack. And then, sadly:
“Our people once had ditches; water in plenty for their large gardens!”
We planned our route to Conaro Lake: Down the long ridge running from the mountain almost to the big prairie in which is the reservoir; past its south side and again into the timber and straight on to our destination. Our young friend said that I must kill a duck for him at the reservoir, so that he could have some feathering for his arrows.
The end of the mountain was so abrupt that we did not dare try to go down it; we turned down the west slope almost to the timber, and then went on around to the ridge. It was bare for nearly a half-mile, and the soft ground was all cut up with deer tracks, nearly washed out by the rain. As soon as we entered the timber we had hard going; windfalls that were breast-high tangles of logs and branches, one after another for all of two miles, down to the lower edge of the spruce belt. We then had fine footing down through the open pine and fir timber to the prairie, which we struck at noon. We went straight out across it to the reservoir, and found it covered with ducks of all kinds, old and young. I shot a drake mallard, and our young friend waded out for it, and, stripping some of the larger wing feathers, began work on his arrows. The old men opened their sacks, produced some roasted meat, and we had lunch. Our young friend finished feathering his arrows, and, gathering and tightly binding a wad of grass about a foot in diameter, set it on top of a bush and fired three arrows at it from a distance of about thirty yards: all three of them plunked into it. We thought that wonderful shooting, and said so.
“If we find those bear-hide stealers, watch what I do to them!” he grimly answered.
We were about to go on when we saw five riders come into the north edge of the prairie, pause for a moment, and then start ’loping straight toward us; and even at that distance, by the way they sat their horses, and quirted them, we knew them for what they were, Apaches.
‘‘We must not show that we are afraid of them. We will not fear them!” our young friend exclaimed, and turned about to sit facing their approach, as did Hannah and I, she taking her automatic from its holster and concealing and holding it in a fold of her dress. Our young friend re-strung his bow, and held it and several arrows across his lap, as I did my rifle. As the riders neared us we made out that four of them wore the blue uniform of the reservation police, the other, khaki trousers and a red calico shirt, and that they were armed with Government carbines and revolvers. They rode close up in front of us, brought their horses to a quick stand and stared down at us, and we returned their stare, and outstared them. Even in the excitement of the moment I noticed how different they were from our kindly and intelligent featured friends. Their faces were coarse and cruel; their bodies short and heavy upon spindly bow legs; and what mean, shifty little eyes they had, sunk deep in the edge of low, retreating foreheads!
Said one of them in broken English, when, as it seemed, he could no longer endure our steady stare: ‘‘What you doin’?”
“You see what we are doing: resting,” I answered.
“Where you come from?”
“From our place.”
“Where you goin’?”
“Wherever we choose to go,” I answered.
“White boy, you think you smart! What you doin’ with old Hopi men — old prairie dogs?”
“Here, you, don’t you call us that again!” our young friend cried, springing up and facing him menacingly.
The other did not answer. He looked shiftily at me, at Hannah, and talked with his companions. And how their language grated in our ears; how different it was from the soft, pleasant-sounding Hopi tongue. It was natural, I thought, that cruel, bloodthirsty people should have a harsh, cruel-sounding language.
Presently the Indian again turned to me: “We huntin’ hims set fires in timber. I guess you hims. You come ’long! I ’rest you all!”
“I guess you won’t!” I told him, and pulled from my pocket my Forest Service badge. ‘‘Do you see that? I am a fireguard! That is my station, up there on that big mountain. Just you go on wherever you are going. If you want those fire-setters, I am sure that you know where to find them!
At sight of my badge all five of the party were noticeably surprised. Again they talked together, and suddenly put quirt to their horses and started past us. The last in line was he of the khaki overalls, and as he rode past us he spit at the old Hopi men and hissed hard words. They pretended not to notice his insult.
Without once looking back at us, the Apaches went on south toward their reservation, and disappeared in the timber, but we felt quite sure that they would stop in the edge of it and watch our movements. So, instead of going on northwest, we changed our course to northeast, as though we were heading for home, for Greer. And after we had crossed the big prairie, we stopped a long time in the timber and watched for the Apaches to come back upon our trail. They did not appear, and at two o’clock we circled on through the timber and then turned straight toward Conaro Lake, often pausing and watching to learn if we were being trailed. We made sure that we were free from that, but the old men were very uneasy.
Said old White Deer: “Those blue coats will tell that they have seen us, and some of their brother sneaking-killers will soon be coming after our heads!”
“Oh, I don’t believe they will dare do that,” I said.
“But you don’t understand,” he replied. “The whites are so powerful that the Apaches fear to kill one of them. They know that they can kill the poor Hopis as they do deer, and with no more fear of punishment.”
It was five o’clock when we looked out upon Conaro Lake from the timber. It was black with quacking ducks; seven big turkey gobblers were chasing grasshoppers along its near, grassy shore; and at its far end a doe with two fawns was drinking. We watched them for a few minutes and then I led on, across the hundred yards or so of level tim-berland, and down the steep slope on the right of the creek canyon, and finally, at sundown, we crept to the edge of the timber and looked out upon the three ledges over which the creek was tumbling, a hundred yards away. Straight across from us was the big brush patch at the foot of the center ledge, it, too, about a hundred yards from the stream. The old men smiled and nodded and whispered to one another when they saw it.
And now, as we had planned to do, we lay perfectly quiet, watching the brush patch: if the outlaws were in the cave that it concealed, we felt sure that they would be coming out at dusk for a supply of wood and water. Hannah lay close to me on my right; close on my left was our young friend; and beyond him the old men all in a row, each with a little gathering of rocks in front of him. For a time, sister and I were tremendously excited; we expected every moment to see some of the bad men or all of them come out into the open. But as the day faded and none appeared, we became quiet enough; then
