The questions arose from a pact made in Santa Fé. Now few are free from the vanity of wishing to do some feat nobody has yet accomplished. Without it, Columbus would not have discovered America, Cook and Peary would not have raced to the North Pole, Blondin crossed Niagara on a tight-rope nor Wilson invented the League of Nations. Ours was a simpler ambition than any of these, having its origin in the Golfer’s passion for improving his drive at all times and places. We had hoped, at Santa Fé, to be the first white women to visit the Bridge, having heard a rumor that none had yet done so, but our guide disillusioned us; several women had forestalled us. “I wish we might be the first to do something,” said Toby, who in fancy had seen herself in a Joan of Arc attitude planting the blue and white flag of Massachusetts on the pinnacle of the Bridge. “We might put a golf ball over it,” I suggested, watching the Golfer polish his brassie. “I don’t believe that’s been done.” “Guess it hasn’t,” laughed the guide. “Wait till you see the Bridge.” “Won’t do any harm to try,” said the Golfer. Then Murray and the Golfer and the guide began discussing whether a golf ball could or couldn’t be driven over the arch. The guide bet it couldn’t, and to make things interesting, we took him up. The Golfer modestly deprecated his skill, but thenceforth he was observed practising his drive on every occasion. We were to drive to Kayenta, and take horses from that point to the Bridge, a hundred miles further on. While the guide packed the car, we took in the sights of Gallup. Thriving though unlovely, facing the dust of the desert, it has a stronger flavor of the old West than most railroad towns, for roads from remote regions converge into its Main Street. Old settlers from all four states rattle in over the dusty trails, no longer on horses, but in the row-boat of the desert, a Ford. They gather at the Harvey lunch-room, and see the latest movies. The Santa Fé thunders by with its load of eastern tourists. Gentle-eyed Zunis wander in from their reservation to the south. Occasionally cowboys in blue shirts and stitched boots ride in, or a soldier in khaki from the Fort. The shops are hung with the silver every Navajo knows how to fashion from Mexican dollars. We saw a group of fat chiefs decked in their best, their henna faces etched with canny lines, fingering and appraising the chunks of solid turquoise and wampum chains on each other’s necks as a group of dowagers would compare their diamonds.