We had forgotten the warning given us at Chin Le to wear skirts, so as not to outrage the Navajo sense of modesty. This in a land where suffrage never needed an Anthony amendment,--where the son, from antiquity, has taken his mother’s name, where the man does the indoor task of weaving while the woman devotes herself to the larger business of tending flocks, and property becomes the woman’s at marriage, so that when she divorces her husband, as she may for any or no reason at a moment’s warning, he is obliged to walk out of his--I mean her--hogan, wearing only what he had on his wedding morn. So far as I could learn, the man has only one privilege,--that after marriage, he must never see his mother-in-law. “Nas-ja!” they cry (“Become an owl;” i. e., look blind) when the two are in danger of meeting. Yet this old crone, who had so many privileges, gave us and our outrageous costumes such a look as Queen Victoria might have given Salome at the close of her dance of the seven veils. Wearing the breeks in spirit, she could make a point of forswearing them in the flesh. The handsome Navajo lads who slouched over the huge bags of wool before the trading store were more tolerant. The boldest let us photograph them, giggling as they posed, and were pleased when we admired the exquisite turquoise and silver bracelets on their brown arms. They were lithe and full of sinewy strength and steely grace, lounging in their gay velvet jackets and chaparrals. And all through the day, regardless of the burning-glass heat of the sun, Murray and the Golfer, to the delight and amusement of the whole post, red and white, patiently improved their drive by lofting over the windmill which Roosevelt had instituted for the Navajos. Three brown children on horseback acted as caddies. Mr. Wetherell quizzically watched a shot go wild over the seventy foot windmill. “Think you’re going to put a ball over the Bridge?” “I’m going to try to,” said the Golfer modestly. He chuckled. “Wait till you see it, young fellow.” In answer, the Golfer sent up a ball that clove the heavens in twain. And then the entire population of Kayenta spent the rest of the day on their knees, hunting in the sage-brush. CHAPTER XX RAINBOW BRIDGE