e. It's quite touching to see such
devotion," laughed Bet, who knew of the old man's impatience.

Bet laughed and the contagion of her merriment started the other girls
and their voices echoed back to them from the canyon wall opposite.

While they stood there, a strange procession appeared around the bend
in the trail. A band of horses one after the other, filed by.

"Poor horses!" exclaimed Bet in sympathy.

"Horses!" sneered Kit. "Those are not horses, they are just racks of
bones, that's all. And that's the way most of the Indian ponies look."

The professor was speechless. He watched the procession with interest.
Fat squaws rode huddled over their nags, each carrying a baby strapped
to her back. Small boys ran beside the horses or clung on behind the
mother. The men usually rode free and on one of the animals, the
professor saw an old Indian.

"I wish I could talk to him," he whispered to Kit, who was standing
near him.

"You'll have your chance before the day is over. They usually camp
right here where you are. I'm surprised that Indian Joe suggested this
spot. They are not apt to go far away from here."

As Kit spoke the squaw heading the procession stopped, and it looked as
if she rolled off her horse as she dismounted. She had evidently found
a suitable place to camp. The professor was delighted that it was on
the opposite side of the stream where he could watch them. A tepee was
made almost before the squaws were all out of their saddles. A large
piece of sacking was thrown over small bushes which were tied together
at the top to form an arch. This was the only shelter put up by the
Indians when on the march.

The men dismounted, sat down by the stream and smoked their pipes,
while the women and children scurried about, gathering fire wood and
starting a blaze.

In a few minutes they had settled down to life for a few days, the life
that the Indians loved, carefree, indolent and happy.

The professor was greatly elated. Here was a chance to watch the
modern Indian at least and see how he lived. He would have something
to tell his class.

"That's Old Mapia," confided Kit. "He's supposed to be about a hundred
years old. You're in luck if you can get him to talk. Some of the
young ones will translate for him if he gets stuck. I'll send Old Mary
over, if he won't talk to you. She can make him tell stories."

Before the afternoon was over, the professor had invited the old India