Once out of Piute Canyon, we camped at the Tanks, a series of waterholes worn in a dry river bed of solid rock. A group of piñons sheltered our camp, but before the tents were fairly up a downpour of rain drove us wet and uncomfortable to huddle together in one tent. The horses slanted into the driving storm with drooping heads and limp haunches. Saddles and provisions were hastily covered with Navajo rugs. Through it all Hostein Chee in overalls and drenched sack coat moved about his business with neither joy nor sorrow. He showed no animation until over the great roaring fire our supper was cooked, and he could once more, with bland and innocent smile shake the bag of sugar into his coffee, murmuring “Sooga.” The sheep killed by the Navajos had not died in vain. Again it formed the staple of our meal. With each appearance it seemed to lose some of its resiliency. Mutton, most unimaginative of meats, with the rain drizzling on it was less inviting than ever. Nor was it improved by being set down on the ground, where a shower of sand was unwittingly shaken into it by each person who went to the fire to fill his tin plate. Still we chewed on, and in the end besides the exercise, got a little nourishment. We did not care; we wanted to eat, and get back to our tents out of the downpour. It was one of those days all campers know and enjoy--afterward. I woke toward morning and peered through the tent window to see dawn banding the windy sky. Against its dramatic light, stood Hostein Chee, the Red Man, beside a campfire blazing shoulder high. His body slanting back, his face frozen to exalted calm, he gazed fixedly at the glory of the sky. His inscrutable nature seemed touched and wakened. I called softly to Toby. “Look--he is saying a prayer to the dawn!” We looked reverently. The white men were sleeping, but the Indian kept his vigil. He raised both arms above his head, removed his hat,--and scratched vigorously. This done, he repeated the process wherever he felt the need. Toby’s awed interest turned to mirth, mainly at my expense. Yet even engaged in so primitive a gesture as scratching, Wah-Wah invested it with the stately grace we noticed in his every move. Though I knew I should not, I watched him make his toilet, fascinated. He removed the trousers he slept in, and in which we daily saw him accoutred, revealing (I had turned away in the interim) an under pair, similarly tailored, of a large black and red checked flannel. He scratched thoroughly, took off his vest, scratched, and then dressed. Then he blew his nose as Adam and Eve must have, and shouted “De-jiss-je!”