“Jack, come round here,” said Naab at length. “I've been telling them about you. These Indians do not like the whites, except my own family. I hope you'll make friends with them.” “How do?” said the chief whom Naab had called Eschtah, a stately, keen- eyed warrior, despite his age. The next Navajo greeted him with a guttural word. This was a warrior whose name might well have been Scarface, for the signs of conflict were there. It was a face like a bronze mask, cast in the one expression of untamed desert fierceness. Hare bowed to each and felt himself searched by burning eyes, which were doubtful, yet not unfriendly. “Shake,” finally said Eschtah, offering his hand. “Ugh!” exclaimed Scarbreast, extending a bare silver-braceleted arm. This sign of friendship pleased Naab. He wished to enlist the sympathies of the Navajo chieftains in the young man's behalf. In his ensuing speech, which was plentifully emphasized with gestures, he lapsed often into English, saying “weak--no strong” when he placed his hand on Hare's legs, and “bad” when he touched the young man's chest, concluding with the words “sick--sick.” Scarbreast regarded Hare with great earnestness, and when Naab had finished he said: “Chineago--ping!” and rubbed his hand over his stomach. “He says you need meat--lots of deer-meat,” translated Naab. “Sick,” repeated Eschtah, whose English was intelligible. He appeared to be casting about in his mind for additional words to express his knowledge of the white man's tongue, and, failing, continued in Navajo: “Tohodena--moocha--malocha.” Hare was nonplussed at the roar of laughter from the Mormons. August shook like a mountain in an earthquake. “Eschtah says, 'you hurry, get many squaws--many wives.'”