Leading his blind brother by the hand, the lame boy led off into the empty country. Far, far away, rising blue and beautiful through blue air, one of the four sacred mountains of the Indian people lifted its snow-capped head. The twins were in a strange desert country many days journey from their canyon home. After wandering thirstily about for a whole day, they came to a little river, and upon its bank they rested for the night. The next morning, when the rosy desert dawn began to blossom in the sky, and the long dawn shadows of the cactuses and the desert shrubs lay gray and cool upon the lifeless ground, the twins stood up, and said the old Indian prayer to the sun and the new-born day. Then down the stream they hobbled forlorn towards reddish desert mountains at the far edge of earth and sky. The river, as it approached the mountains, grew larger, and presently plunged into a canyon much narrower and deeper than the canyon in which the boys were born. Now following along a little bank, now climbing over great boulders in the river bed, the boys struggled on into the gorge. Suddenly the river turned a sharp corner, and following it, the twins found themselves in a wild and magnificent valley whose slopes were green with trees. From the eastern wall of this valley, a huge cliff with a broad flat top thrust itself forth like the prow of a giant ship built to sail through the stars. Fires were burning on its summit, and columns of pale smoke wavered and scurried away in the wind on the heights. At the foot of the cliff, the river churned in a great foaming pool, and this pool was full of huge logs washed down the hillsides by cloud-bursts and the floods of spring. This rock was Tse-intyel, “The Broad Rock of the Gods,” and the pool was “The Place of the Whirling Logs.” The Gods dwelt there. Just before the twilight deepened and died, the lame boy managed to kindle a tiny fire. The blind twin sat beside it, listening to the deep thunder of the churning pool. Every now and then some log would strike some other log a dull, booming blow. Suddenly the blind lad heard the faintest sound of distant footsteps, and caught his lame twin by the arm. Looking up startled, the lame boy saw a tall man coming towards them, his face grave and sorrowful. The visitor was Hah-Tse-Yalti, the Talking God. An eagle had told him of the plight of his twin sons. So that night the Talking God consoled his unhappy children, and told them what they must do to be healed. “You must visit the four sacred mountains,” said the Talking God. “First you must go to the Mountain of the North, then to the Mountain of the East, then to the Mountain of the South, and lastly to the Mountain of the West. The tribes of the Sacred Mountains will receive you in friendship, and at the Mountain of the West, the Chief of the People will teach you the Healing Song.”