and harmonious. I
wondered what the literal meaning of his words could have been. The
significance needed no translation. To the black shadows fading away,
to the brightening of the gray light, to the glow of the east, to the
morning sun, to the Giver of Life--to these the Indian chanted his
prayer.

Could there have been a better prayer? Pagan or not, the Navajo with
his forefathers felt the spiritual power of the trees, the rocks, the
light and sun, and he prayed to that which was divinely helpful to him
in all the mystery of his unintelligible life.

We did not crawl out that morning as early as usual, for it was to be
a day of rest. When we did, a mooted question arose--whether we or the
hounds were the more crippled. Ranger did not show himself; Don could
just walk and that was all; Moze was either too full or too tired to
move; Sounder nursed a foot and Jude favored her lame leg.

After lunch we brightened up somewhat and set ourselves different
tasks. Jones had misplaced or lost his wire and began to turn the camp
topsy-turvy in his impatient efforts to locate it. The wire, however,
was not to be found. This was a calamity, for, as we asked each other,
how could we muzzle lions without wire? Moreover, a half dozen heavy
leather straps which I had bought in Kanab for use as lion collars had
disappeared. We had only one collar left, the one that Jones had put
on the red lioness.

Whereupon we began to blame each other, to argue, to grow heated and
naturally from that to become angry. It seems a fatality of campers
along a wild trail, like explorers in an unknown land, to be prone to
fight. If there is an explanation of this singular fact, it must be
that men at such time lose their poise and veneer of civilization; in
brief, they go back. At all events we had it hot and heavy, with the
center of attack gradually focusing on Jones, and as he was always
losing something, naturally we united in force against him.

Fortunately, we were interrupted by yells from the Navajo off in the
woods. The brushing of branches and pounding of hoofs preceded his
appearance. In some remarkable manner he had gotten a bridle on Marc,
and from the way the big stallion hurled his huge bulk over logs and
through thickets, it appeared evident he meant to usurp Jim's ambition
and kill the Navajo. Hearing Emett yell, the Indian turned Marc toward
camp. The horse slowed down when he neared the glade and tried to
buck. But Navvy kept hi