Navaho Woman on Horseback.
The Winner of the "Gallo" Race at Tohatchi.
In school the boys and girls are slow but sure in their learning. They read, write, spell, and figure with accuracy and speed, and compare favorably with white children in the rapidity of their progress. Most of the schoolgirls are heavily built and coarse,—indeed, all but two children, the daughters of Bi-cha (commonly called Beecher), who are slim and slight.
In another chapter I have explained the charge that Wallapai parents were unkind, even cruel to their children. That charge can no longer be maintained. They are kindness itself, as a rule, and from babyhood up the children receive all the care of which the parents deem them needful. Some of their babes are as chubby and pretty and sweet-tempered as any I have ever seen, and much fun have I had in photographing those who were especially attractive to me. One mother enjoyed my appreciation of her offspring and was most good-natured in yielding to my desire to often photograph her. The little one would coo and laugh and kick her little feet and legs in merriment, or go to sleep in my or her mother's arms, or even when standing up in her wicker cradle. When I hung her up upon the wall she soberly looked at me, but made no demonstration of fear. Her mother, however, looked to see what I was doing. I bade her gaze upon her child, and the merry laugh she gave would have been an astonishment to those who regard the Indian as dull, stolid, expressionless.
Indeed one of the most laughing merry sprites it has ever been my good fortune to know is a Wallapai maiden of some eighteen years. Seldom is she seen any other way than smiling or cheerily laughing. She is a perfect witch for mischief and practical jokes, and is never so happy as when she can perpetrate one upon a white man whom she can trust. In that word "trust" lies the whole key to the demeanor of an Indian, either man, woman, or child, towards a white person. If you are trusted the whole inner life is left open as a clear page; if not, the book is closed, locked, sealed, and the key thrown away.
I had long wished to photograph the Wallapais, but they had always objected. When I arrived at Kingman I sent Pu-chil-ow-a, the interpreter and policeman, to call a powwow. I sent an express invitation to the chiefs, Serum, Leve-leve, Sus-quat-i-mi, and Qua-su-la. Serum was away at Mineral Park with a band of Wallapais whose services he farms out to the mine owners, Leve-leve was sick and not expected to live, but Sus-quat-i-mi and Quasula would come.
We were permitted to use the schoolhouse, and just about sunset I was busily engaged when there came a loud rap at the door. I hastened to open it, and there stood a dignified, well-built, slightly bearded, neatly dressed man, who smiled and bowed with dignity and courtesy. He wore a cap, and at first sight looked more like a retired sea-captain than anything, so I responded to his bow with the question as to what did I owe the honor of his visit.
"Why, you sent for me!" he replied.