CHAPTER I 



THE ARIZONA DESERT 



ONE afternoon, far out on the sun-baked waste 

 of sage, we made camp near a clump of 

 withered pinon 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 sun 

 down. We huddled round the campfire, a tired and 

 silent little group. When out of the lonely, melan 

 choly 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. 



&quot; How,&quot; said he, in a deep chest voice. 



&quot;Hello, Noddlecoddy,&quot; greeted Jim Emmett, the 

 Mormon guide. 



&quot; Ugh! &quot; answered the Indian. 



&quot; Big paleface Buffalo Jones big chief buffalo 

 man,&quot; introduced Emmett, indicating Jones. 



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