Youkeoma came wrathfully into the council-room. His anger was like that of a trapped animal; his eyes gleamed with hatred, and he fairly quivered with rage. All morning he had fumed, realizing that he had wasted ten days of perfectly good oratory and traditions. He squatted on the floor. “This is your Agent,” said Colonel Scott. “He wants to shake hands with you.” I held out my hand to him. Youkeoma looked me over carefully, and drew his blanket around his shoulders as if he had been insulted. “I am done with white men,” he said. “I will not shake hands with you or any other white man.” “Here is a telegram from Washington. It must be read to you.” The interpreter explained. “I do not care to hear anything from Washington.” “But I must read it to you.” And I straightway began. The interpreter translated the first sentence, the second—when the old fellow stood up. He waved his arm toward the soldiers outside, and cried angrily:— “You have your men here; why not go ahead and do what you want? You can cut off my head. Why don’t you do it? I will have nothing more to say to you. I am through with white people.” He stalked from the council-room, the maddest man in Arizona; and that was the last of him for many months. “Now, Colonel, if you please, I will search the pueblo. Will you lend me your flashlight?” “What do you want with that? It’s broad day.” “I shall have to crawl into every corn-crib and cellar in the place, and none of them have windows.” He directed that soldiers accompany me through the village, but at the first house I asked them not to come inside. They remained in the street. This was followed throughout the search. The two employees who had some knowledge of this population entered with me. “There should be three children in this house,” one would say. There were never any children in sight. The long, narrow, principal room would seem to have no doors leading from it. Racks of corn, carefully piled, and blankets and folded skins lined the walls. The employees, having assisted in such matters before, began lifting down these blankets and piled furnishings, to reveal usually a small door, and beyond this door would loom the blackness of a corn-cellar. The flashlight showed more corn racked up, melons in piles, and filled sacks; but no children. I would scramble through the little trap to make a closer investigation, recalling how Judge Hooker had walled up his brood, years before, when the Hopi of the First Mesa protested against education.