But we were delayed. One cannot make an average twenty miles per hour through that country, and it was close to six o’clock when we reached the Indian Wells trading-post, just across the reservation line. All through that district the Navajo are settled upon alternate sections of land governed by the Leupp Indian Agency, and it is not “reservation” of a solid block. The intervening sections are “railroad lands,” bonus grants for building what is now the Santa Fe system. In this fashion the Government gave the first railway a very large part of the Southwest, a seemingly unimportant and nonproductive country at that time, and one could find Santa Fe titles forty miles either side of its tracks. The Indians knew nothing of these paper records, and roamed indiscriminately with their camps and sheep, wrangling about water with range cattlemen who had leased from the railroad, viewing with suspicion those few men who bought outright; and Washington found it—still finds it—“a very perplexing question.” The trading-post was closed, its owner at supper. But sitting on the stone doorstep was a dejected Navajo who appeared to have had a desperate and losing battle. His head, face, and shirt were covered with blood, some of which had dried; and some of the fresh he was still trying to staunch. Just then the trader appeared. “Glad you arrived,” he said, seeming relieved. “I was wondering what to do about this. I saw the whole affair. This man fought with two Navajo off there in the flat. They were through here several days ago, going to the railroad for liquor. Seems that they got back with it all right, and wouldn’t give this chap his share. Anyway, they fought it out, beating him over the head with their forty-fives. I’ve been washing his scalp this last half-hour.” He could give the names of the two, and the location of their home camp. “Just back in the hills,” he said, waving. “Not more than two miles at most. They ought to be cinched.” “It’s not my jurisdiction,” I said. “Their Agent is fifty miles away, and one hundred miles roundabout the railroad.” “Time he gets here,” said the trader, “booze and all will be gone, and may be another scrap or two; like as not, murder done.” “Have they been gathering for a sing?” I asked. “No, nothing scheduled like that. They’re running north into your country, peddling a little along the way.” Now it looked as if someone should do something without waiting for telegrams and a handful of printed tracts. I had One-eyed Dan already in hand, and three “special deputies” to assist in the capture of those who had trimmed the fellow on the doorstep. The injured man agreed to identify and to appear against them. We would bag the whole outfit, and stand four in court next day. The trail was warm, and the Leupp Agent could not hope to arrive before the next afternoon. And it was only two miles over the hill. “We’ll have some supper, and then get those fellows, if you” (meaning the trader) “will show the road.”