eemed to be the committee of
welcome. Big Jim was clad in a full-dress suit and silk hat donated to
him by Albert, King of the Belgians, and with that monarch's medal of
honor pinned to his front, Jim was, speaking conservatively, a startling
vision. Captain Burros wore the white shirt of ceremony which he dons
only for special occasions, with none of the whiteness dimmed by being
tucked into his trousers.

Big Jim welcomed us gravely, asking the Chief: "Did you bring my
_fermit_?" This permit, a paper granting Big Jim a camping location on
Park grounds, having been duly delivered, Jim invited us to share his
hewa, but after one look at the surroundings we voted unanimously to
camp farther up the stream among the cottonwoods. We chose a level spot
near the ruins of an old hewa.

While supper was being prepared an aged squaw tottered into camp and sat
down. She wailed and beat her breast and finally was persuaded to tell
her troubles. It seemed that she and her husband had lived in this hewa
until his death a year or two before. Then the hewa was thrown open to
the sky and abandoned, as is their custom. She disliked to mention his
name because he might hear it in the spirit world and come back to see
what was being said about him.

"Don't you want him to come back?" I asked idly, thinking to tease her.
Her look of utter terror was answer enough and shamed me for my
thoughtlessness. These Indians have a most exaggerated fear of death.
When one dies he and his personal belongings are taken to a wild spot
and there either cremated or covered with stones. No white man has ever
been permitted to enter this place of the dead. Any hour of the day or
night that a white man approaches, an Indian rises apparently from out
of the earth and silently waves him away. Until a few years ago the best
horse of the dead Indian was strangled and sent into the Happy Hunting
Ground with its owner, but with the passing of the older generation this
custom has been abandoned.

From a powerful and prosperous tribe of thousands this nation has
dwindled down to less than two hundred wretched weaklings. Driven to
this canyon fastness from their former dwelling-place by more warlike
tribes, they have no coherent account of their wanderings or their
ancestors. About all they can tell is that they once lived in cliff
dwellings; that other Indians drove them away; and that then Spaniards
and grasping whites pushed them nearer and nearer the Canyon u