Nor does their curiosity decay. I recall a party that came upon us one evening, just at twilight. They erected tents, and stretched around them the fetish of a hair-rope, though no snake would have ventured near that camp for many gophers. Their cook banged his pan, and they came and “got it.” The mail-stage pulled in late that season, and my miscellaneous collection of letters, newspapers, and books from everywhere would be dumped in the trader’s private office, a combined place of business, art gallery, and Agent’s rest. By the open fire I would dissect this mail, and reduce its bulk to ashes. But this night “dudes” filled the room and wrangled over a pile of Navajo blankets. An old man of the party pestered me with searching questions. “Is this a good blanket—worth forty dollars?” he asked. “Quite good. You may depend on Mr. Hubbell’s prices.” “I would rather deal directly with the natives.” “May I advise you not to? The trader is regulated, the Indian is not. Many persons have lost their eyeteeth in a rug-deal with the Navajo. Besides, you have no guaranty from them. That blanket is guaranteed.” “And by whom?” “By me, as Agent.” “But the Hopi,—or is it Moqui?—they are different. One of them offered to sell me a ceremonial altar at Oraibi.” “Sorry, sir; but you could not purchase it.” “Who would object?” “I would, as Agent.” “And this prehistoric pottery I have seen—” “It is recovered from graves, by Indians. It may not be sold or transported from the State.” “Who issued that order?” “When the Office forgot it, I did, for this Reservation.” “Ah, yes—you are the Agent here. Now what are your authorities?” “Well, one might say, the supervision of everything.” “Is that your mail—your official mail?” “Yes, sir.” “You have many duties?” “Quite a few.” “What is your salary?” I dropped the letter of the Department that I had been trying to decipher between questions, arose calmly, and led the old gentleman aside. “That,” I said in a whisper, “is a State secret. There is an agreement between the War Department and the Interior Department, entered into just after the Navajo Treaty of 1868, and concurred in by every President since Andrew Johnson, that no Indian Agent of the Navajo country shall ever divulge the exact size of his reward. He may, with discretion, reduce the sum in speaking of it; but he may not under liability of extreme penalty, give out the true figures. It might encourage the native to revolt. You see my position?” “Naturally,” he said. He wiped his brow. He was simply overpowered. And he bothered me no more. But Messrs. Weber and Fields’ famous answer would have been more appropriate. “I’m ashamed to tell you.” And in early August come letters to the Agency. The queries are many and various. “Please furnish the date of the Snake Dance.” “Will you send me a permit to Oskaloosa, Michigan?”