The tribe of Cramer dined. In the shack beside the big mesquite tree was heard the clatter of knives and forks--more knives than forks, one might guess--the dull clink of enameled ware, the high, demanding voices of hungry children more Indian than white. Above all the clamor of feeding, the shrill petulance of Aunt Gladys could be heard rising above all other sounds as she expostulated incessantly with her young. The baby was crying monotonously. Some one kicked a dog, which shot out of the open door ki-yi-ing hysterically. In the smaller rock dugout, tinkle of glass and silver plate and china betrayed the fact that the white blood held itself aloof from the red at mealtime. In the larger cabin built for Nevada, Rawley had just finished his supper, eaten with Johnny Buffalo in a punctilious regard for the old man’s feelings, though he had been invited to join Peter and Nevada at table. In the matter of recovery, young bones were healing much faster than the old. Rawley had been promoted to a gauze pad held in place by strips of adhesive over the long gash on his head. His arm had settled down to the dull, grinding ache and intolerable deep itching of knitting bone and healing flesh. Johnny Buffalo, splinted and bandaged, was able to sit propped in cushions in a big chair on the porch. Rawley left him reading deliberately the matchless “Apology” of Socrates, which Peter had lent him that day, and started out for a walk, choosing between his own company and the companionship of Nevada, which seemed always to bring at least half the tribe of Cramer at their heels like the dragging tail of a kite. Rawley reflected disgustedly that as yet he had never had five consecutive minutes alone with Nevada. When her grandmother was not filling the foreground, the offspring of Aunt Gladys formed a snuffling, big-eared background which Nevada sweepingly termed the Little Pitchers. Whether Nevada enjoyed the company of the Little Pitchers on their infrequent strolls to the river bank, or approved the solid chaperonage of the juglike Anita, Rawley had never been able to decide. Nevada’s manner toward her dark-skinned kinsfolk was impartially and imperturbably gracious. Indeed, Rawley sometimes suspected that she deliberately encouraged their tagging along. Four goggling kids and three dogs, he considered, might be recommended as a romance-proof chaperonage.