He turned his face toward the Pueblo, on the topmost terrace of which the lone drummer could be seen.
“I have seen the great stone cities of the white men,” he said. “The home of my people is but a shadow beside the monster buildings that tower into the air. The white men do many wonderful things. They have the railroad, the telegraph, the telephone, and soon all the secrets of electricity will be theirs. What can my people do? Nothing! It is fate! God willed it so, and we cannot change it.”
His heart was heavy as he moved toward the Pueblo.
In the meantime Frank had left Inza at the tent of the rancher, while he had gone to see what arrangement could be made about getting a chance to take part in the Indian sports and games that day. He hoped he and his friends would be permitted to compete in some of the contests.
Frank was gone more than half an hour.
When he returned he found Inza standing near the tent, chatting to Swiftwing, who was listening with quiet dignity.
Merry scowled a bit.
“I must caution her,” he said. “She should be careful.”
He came up and offered his hand to the young Indian.
“Good-morning, Swiftwing,” he said, heartily in his pleasant manner. “I am glad to see you.”