Virginia, until that moment had quite forgotten the pack of wolf-like Indian dogs that guarded the inner entrance of the narrow canyon. Perhaps it would be unwise for them to ride further unless they were accompanied by someone who could assure the dogs that they were friends. But at that very moment the problem was solved for, silhouetted against the light at the far end of the canyon, there appeared a slender Indian girl riding on a graceful, wiry pony. “Good!” exclaimed Virg, “There’s Winona, so now we may ride forward without fear.” Babs was so excited at the mere thought of meeting an Indian girl in an Indian village that the real object of their visit was somewhat lost to her thought. What would Winona look like she was wondering as they rode along single file. How queer that such a fine girl as Virginia Davis should have an Indian maiden as an intimate friend, and yet, it was true for she herself had heard Virg say how greatly she admired Winona. A few moments later, when they had reached the inner entrance to the fertile bowl-like valley, Babs understood the charm of the Indian girl who so simply and sincerely had welcomed them to her home. Later, as Barbara and Margaret were riding side by side following the other two the impulsive Babs exclaimed, “Oh, Megsy, isn’t she truly beautiful? How her dark eyes glow and do see those thick shiny black braids that hang far below her waist. I just know that I am going to love her, too.” “She is beautiful,” Margaret agreed, “but I think it is because there is something truly noble about her face. Virginia has told me that Winona longed to go away to school but she relinquished her desire that she might remain here and teach the little Papago children and help her own people.” “I wonder what school she would attend. I suppose the girls in Vine Haven would deem themselves too good to associate with her.” Margaret laughed gaily. “Too good to associate with a princess?” she inquired. “For that is what Winona really is; an Indian princess; the daughter of Chief Grey Hawk.” “Is she really?” Bab’s eyes were wide and glowing. Then she added, as she glanced about at the small scattered adobe houses over the doors of which red peppers were festooned to dry in the sun, “Margaret, where do you suppose we are going to sleep? In one of those little huts? They look sort of skeery to me, but maybe that’s because they are so different from houses with which I am familiar. I love this place, though. It’s so wild and picturesque; exactly what one would wish an Indian village to be. Shouldn’t you think so, Megsy?” Margaret smiled at her impulsive chattery friend and nodded, “I’m ever so interested in it too,” she replied. “See yonder, in the shade of that big thorny cactus, two Indian women are squatted on the ground weaving baskets. I wish I might buy one. I always adored the Indian things Betsy Clossen had in our room at school”