and holding out their
native wares to sell.

From the first instant my eyes rested upon a Navajo rug, I was
fascinated by the gaudy thing. The more I saw, the more they appealed to
the gypsy streak in my makeup. Each Navajo buck that came to my door
peddling his rugs and silver ornaments was led into the house and
questioned. Precious little information I was able to abstract at first
from my saturnine visitors. As we became better acquainted, and they
learned to expect liberal draughts of coffee sweetened into a syrup,
sometimes their tongues loosened; but still I couldn't get all the
information I craved regarding those marvelous rugs and how they were
made.

Finally the Chief decided to spend his vacation by taking me on a trip
out into the Painted Desert, the home of this nomadic tribe. We chose
the early days of summer after the spring rains had brought relief to
the parched earth and replenished the water holes where we expected to
camp each night. Another reason was that a great number of the tribal
dances would be in full swing at this time. Old "Smolley," an antique
"navvy," had just disposed of a supply of rugs and was wending his way
homeward at the same time. Not choosing to travel in solitude, he firmly
fastened himself to our caravan. I would have preferred his absence, for
he was a vile, smelly old creature with bleary eyes and coarse uncombed
gray hair tied into a club and with a red band around his head. His
clothes were mostly a pair of cast-off overalls, which had not been
discarded by the original owner until he was in danger of arrest for
indecent exposure. Incessant wear night and day by Smolley had not
improved their looks. But Smolley knew that I never could see him hungry
while we ate; consequently he stuck closer than a brother. Our
hospitality was well repaid later, for he took care that we saw the
things we wanted to see in Navajo Land.

The first day we rode through magnificent groves of stately yellow pines
which extended from Grand Canyon out past Grand View and the picturesque
old stage tavern there which is the property of Mr. W. R. Hearst. Quite
a distance beyond there we stopped for lunch on a little knoll covered
with prehistoric ruins. I asked Smolley what had become of the people
who had built the homes lying at our feet. He grunted a few times and
said that they were driven out on a big rock by their enemies and then
the god caused the rock to fly away with them somewhere else.