When the two riders appeared a pack of wolf-dogs made a mad rush at the stranger, barking furiously. However at a word of command from the small Indian boy, they slunk away, to Tom’s secret relief. The lad had evidently assured them that the intruder was a friend and not a foe. The Indian boy knew little English, but he led Tom to the most imposing of the adobe huts. There he paused and uttered a cry like that of some wild bird. Tom gazed curiously at the open door which was festooned with dried red peppers. He wondered who would appear. He hoped and believed that it would be Winona, the Indian maiden, who was Virginia’s friend, but instead a shriveled old Indian woman wrapped in a bright-colored blanket shuffled to the door and evidently asked the lad what he wished at the home of the chief. Tom understood only one word in the lad’s reply and that was “Winona.” For answer the old woman silently pointed toward the nearest cliff. Tom, looking in that direction, saw a graceful Indian girl approaching and on her head she was balancing a very large red pottery jar which was almost brimming full of sparkling water from a mountain spring. Whirling his pony, the little Indian had galloped toward the dusky maiden, who paused to listen to what he had to say with an eager interest. Then, placing her water jar upon a large, flat rock, she approached the newcomer who had dismounted, having first assured himself that the pack of wolf-like dogs was not in evidence. To his surprise the Indian maiden spoke in the English language and, without the least embarrassment held out her slim, dark hand as she said, “Welcome, Virginia’s friend. You have traveled far and are hungry. I am Winona and I will give you breakfast.” Tom thanked her and, as she was about to lift the jar again to her head, he said with his frank, friendly smile, “I ought to offer to carry that, but I fear I could not manage it as skillfully as you do. Since it is without handles, it must be a difficult feat.” Winona smiled up at him as they walked side by side; the Indian lad, whose name was Red Feather, having taken Tom’s horse to the corral. “Perhaps,” she replied, “but we learn early and do not forget. Look yonder.” Tom’s glance followed that of Winona and he saw a group of little Indian girls, the oldest not more than 10. They were coming from a mountain spring and each was balancing a water jar upon her head. The small girls gathered about gazing half shyly and half curiously at the newcomer, until Winona spoke a few words in a tone of gentle rebuke, then the little, wild, coyote-like creatures scattered and soon disappeared in different mud huts. “What did you say to them, Winona?” Tom asked curiously.