The fat boy placed one hand in the region of his heart. “Really and truly I’m glad right now,” he went on, “and I’ll be a dozen times more so before long, I’m thinking. All the things you mention belong to past history; and what’s the use crying over spilt milk?” “Hurrah for you, Billie!” cried Adrian. “Remember what we used to write in our copybooks at school when we were kids,” the fat boy went on, seriously; “mebbe I ain’t got the words just right, but the sentiment is the same: ‘The wheel of the mill ain’t ever agoing to run again, with the water that is past.’ Them’s my sentiments every time, boys.” “Bully for Willie Winkle!” laughed Donald; “he’s better to have along than any school teacher that ever lived. But here we are, boys; and now look your fill, both of you, because you’ll see sights such as few people ever get a chance to set eyes on, let me tell you.” And they did. They had now turned a bend in the trail, so that the whole Zuni village was before them. It was a bustling scene, too, for there were scores of persons moving all about on the ground, among the rocks, and in the central plaza, where doubtless the ceremonial dances were wont to take place from time to time, according to the customs of these strange people. The Zunis are very clannish, and never marry outside of their own people. They believe themselves to be far and above the common herd, and can look back to a past that antedates the history of all other tribes. Some of those wise men who have tried to study out their traditions associate them with the Aztecs or sun worshippers of Mexico; but they claim to go back centuries beyond the time of those really modern people. Their dress is as picturesque as their mode of living, so vastly different from that of any Indian tribe in America. They are accustomed to meeting whites, and in reality shrewdly welcome strangers to visit their village, because they love to shine in the lime-light; and most of them are natural-born actors. Besides, they make a great deal of money in various ways, such as posing for pictures, selling quaintly woven baskets, pottery made after their tribal custom, and all sorts of souvenirs such as tourists with fat pocketbooks love to pick up, to prove that they have journeyed to the land of the “original people,” known as the Zunis. “Why, we ain’t the only strangers here, after all!” ejaculated Billie, shortly, as he and his two chums came closer to the scene. “There’s a bunch of palefaces over yonder atalking to that old squaw, who looks like she might be a gypsy queen, or some sort of fortune-teller.” “Perhaps she is,” laughed Adrian, “because these people have gotten so used to having the whites visit them, especially at this time of year, that they’re on to all sorts of schemes to coax the nimble dollar out of the pockets of the pilgrims. Am I right there, Pard Donald?”