A short fat woman came in with a sack under her arm and two children dragging at her skirt. She plumped the burlap down on the counter and tugged at it until she had uncovered a blanket of a rough weave, which she displayed to Bush’s apathetic gaze. He picked up the blanket and looked at it, then put it on the scales and weighed it. After a moment’s figuring he named a price, and by her silence she seemed to assent. Blake, chewing cookies, watched her in fascination. Bush wrote down on a small paper bag, $6.20. Blake read it upside down. The woman looked thoughtfully at the shelves and directed Bush, who put down on the counter a small bag of flour and wrote the price on the bag. After that she went into a deep silence, while the bystanders blinked at the flies and Bush contemplated his toes, chewing gum. She ordered a can of baking-powder and asked how much of the money was left. At the answer she pondered suspiciously, but did not argue. Then she bought ten cents’ worth of candy, asked the reckoning again, and left the store with her sack full of supplies, the children trotting at her heels. Bush wrote the transaction down in a big black book and started to rearrange the stock. Another Navajo rode up on a horse, driving two other horses ahead of him. All three he tied to a post, where they shied at every wandering breeze and kept their noses raised, straining at the ropes. Dusty and cheerful, he strode in and ordered soda-pop and a box of crackers, slamming his money down proudly. He swallowed half the soda at one pull, with his eyes fixed on Blake. “Where you from?” he said. “Santa Fé,” said Blake. “Yo-to. Good roads?” “Awful,” said Blake. “Terrible from here to Shiprock.” The Indian shook his head. “No, good roads. I came over them yesterday.” “Sure they’re good,” said Bush. “They’re all right, kid. You don’t know this country or you wouldn’t be complaining about _those_ roads.” “They have fine roads at Yo-to,” said the Indian. “I was at Yo-to. I was there seven years.” “Where?” Teddy leaned across the counter. “Yo-to. Santa Fé, that is. I was in the penitentiary for seven years.” He seemed very cheerful about it. “What?” Blake said, in a gasp. “Yes. I was pretty mad then, but not any more. It is all right now.” He put down the empty soda bottle and bit into a cracker, chatting with his friends in Navajo. “Why did he go to jail?” Teddy asked Bush. “I dunno. It was before my time. Probably he helped burn a witch; they always get seven years for that. One of you boys can ride over with me to the well, if you want.”