a terrace of the rocky mesa, and we saw the sparks fly as the ironwork of the wagon struck and restruck the rocks. The noise and roar and clatter were terrific. Great rocks were started to rolling, and the echoes were enough to awaken the dead. Suddenly there was a louder crash than ever, and then all was silent. We felt our hearts thumping against our ribs, and the only sounds we could hear were their fierce beatings and our own hard breathing. Fortunately, we had landed on a narrow shelf some seven feet down, covered deep with sand, so neither of us was seriously hurt except in our feelings; but imagine the dismay that swept aside all thoughts of thankfulness for our narrow escape when that crash and dread silence came. No doubt horses and buckboard were precipitated over one of the cliffs and had all gone to "eternal smash." My conscience made me feel especially culpable, for had I not detained the Major we should have left the mesa long before it was so dark. I had caused the disaster! It was nothing that I had been "spilt out," that doubtless my cameras were smashed, and the plates I had exposed with so much care and in spite of the opposition of the Hopis were in tiny pieces--for I had clearly heard that peculiar "smash" that spoke of broken glass as I myself landed on the top of my head. Think of that span of fine horses, and the Major's new buckboard! The thought about completed the work of mental and physical paralysis the shock of falling had begun. I was suddenly awakened, not by the Major's voice, for neither of us had yet spoken a word,--and indeed, I didn't know but that he was dead,--but by the scratching of a match. Then he was alive! That was cause for thankfulness. Setting fire to a dried cactus, the Major, after thoroughly picking himself up and shaking himself together, proceeded to gather up the photographic débris. Silently I aided him. Still silently we piled it all together, as much under the shelter of the rocks as possible, and then, still without a word, we climbed back upon the road and started to walk to the house of Mr. Voth, the missionary, where we were stopping. For half a mile or more we trudged on wearily through the deep and yielding sand. Still never a word. We both breathed heavily, for the sand was dreadfully soft. I was wondering what I could say. My conscience so overpowered me that I dared not speak. I was humbling myself, inwardly, into the very dust for having been the unconscious and innocent, yet nevertheless actual cause of this disaster. I simply couldn't break the silence. To offer to pay for the horses and buckboard was easy (though that would be a serious matter to my slender purse) compared with appeasing the sturdy Major for the shock to his mental and physical system. Then, too, how he must feel! At the very thought the cold sweat started on my brow and I could feel it trickling down my chest and back. [Illustration: AN ORAIBI BASKET WEAVER.] [Illustration: AN ADMIRING HOPI MOTHER.]