“They were at it all last night at the store,” he said. “They had the boy there and, whether or no, they were for killing him. I told them they would have to reckon with you first, and next with Washington, and not to start anything they maybe couldn’t finish. How’s the other boy?” “The doctor gave him an hour to live, and half of that is gone.” “Make a deal then, before they savvy it,” advised Ed. “The squaw will let out a yowl when he dies.” That was what I had feared. With my back to that little shelter, I had lived in dread of the Navajo mother’s wild wail. “But, Citcili,” said Billa Chezzi, for the thirteenth time, “what will this poor woman do without her son? She will have no boy at home. The sheep will go untended, and—” And for the fourteenth time I told him that matters of this kind must be settled at Washington, that far-away indefinite place where so few things are ever settled. Washington, to the Indian, has the force of a legend. It is one of the four Corner-Posts, the city of the Dalai Lama. The soldiers came from there when the Navajo were herded to the Bosque Redondo in ’63, and Billa Chezzi could remember that, if his cohort of sons and neighbors could not. “Well then, she must keep the Hopi boy,” he decided. “He cannot go back to his people any more. She must have a son.” When I glanced at the car I noted that four or five husky Indians would be leaning against it, talking with the stockman. He had taken the Hopi boy between his knees. I was afraid something foolish might occur, and went back. “They have been over here four times now,” he said; “But they haven’t quite got up the nerve to start anything.” At least fifty Hopi Indians had gathered; they stood apart, watching and waiting. “Have you men any money with you, cash?” I asked them. The Hopi can always be counted on to have something for a rainy day, and it was very likely to storm. “I’ve got five dollars,” said one. “Get what you can from the others. One hundred will not be too much.” And then to others who were stockmen: “Have you fellows any cattle in this wash?” “Our cattle are off there,” pointing. “It’s this way,” I explained. “We can’t fight that gang. The boy will die soon. I’ll have to buy them off. How many steers can I have from your several bunches?” This was quite in line with the Hopi method of dealing with the aggressive Navajo, who had oppressed them so long. They held a rapid discussion and came to quick decision. “What you need for it,” said the spokesman. “Understand: I don’t think Washington will approve of our being held up, and I will have you repaid, if that is possible.” He nodded. “Take some of the boys and round up those cattle. I may likely require seven or eight two-year-olds.” By this time too they had collected a wad of bills. I went back to the Navajo and began talking again.