"Sorry to be late," he said, "but my gasoline's given out and I had to cook breakfast by hand, as it were, over some chips. Whew, it's going to be one hot day." "I don't care how hot it is," replied Charley, recklessly. "I feel as I were being taken to the county fair, and I was almost too excited to sleep. Come along! I know the trail well." It was a well beaten trail. The Indians had used it for countless generations in their search for pottery clay. It lifted zig-zag over the Coyote Range, giving at the crest this morning a superb view of distant peaks and of gold melting into blue infinities. It dropped zig-zag into canyons that were parched and cracked with late summer heat and lifted again to cross a peak whose top and sides had been blasted and left purple and gashed by an ancient volcano. Then once more it dropped gradually and gracefully into the canyon where the little spring mirrored the blue of the Arizona sky. There were half a dozen Indian sun shelters near the spring, each a mere cat's claw and yucca thatch, supported on cedar posts. To Roger's surprise and gratification the Indians were at home. It was still early and they were at breakfast. With Peter trailing like a dog, Charley and Roger stopped a short distance from the camp. Old Rabbit Tail, in his breech clout, squatted near a pot of simmering stew, now dipping in a long handled spoon and eating from it meditatively, now puffing at a yellow cigarette. Several squaws in dirty calico dresses, squatted near by awaiting their turn. Each shelter held a similar group, every one of which paused in breathless interest as the two whites approached. Roger strode directly up to the old chief. "Good morning, Rabbit Tail!" he said. Rabbit Tail grunted. "I came up to have a talk with you," Roger went on, pulling out his pipe. "Sit down, Charley, this is going to be a regular pow-wow." A tall Indian in the next shelter rose slowly and started quietly toward the back trail. "Hey! Qui-tha!" called Roger, sternly, "Come back here! I've something to say to you. The sheriff ought to have you. Call him, Rabbit Tail." Rabbit Tail spoke in Hualapai and Qui-tha came slowly up to the old chief's shelter and dropping down beside him, lighted a cigarette. Charley, sitting on a rock at a little distance, chin in hand, arm on knee, shivered slightly in the broiling sun. Roger, who had learned much about Indians from Qui-tha, jerked his thumb at Charley. "You know that white woman, Rabbit Tail?" "Four years!" replied the chief. "What kind of a woman is she--eh?" "Good woman. My squaw have papoose one time in her 'dobe. Charley take care her all same she her sister. Heap good white squaw, Charley." The squaw in question nodded and smiled at Charley, who smiled in return, a little sadly. Roger turned to Qui-tha. "How about her brother, Dick Preble? You like him?"