“I believe that it is,” was the reply. Then turning to Winona she said: “I would like to see that bird. May I?”
“Red Feather has it secured somewhere, I think,” the Indian girl replied. “There he comes now. We will ask him.”
The little Indian boy with a jaunty red feather in the narrow band that bound his shiny black hair close to his head, was racing toward them while a small wolf-like puppy sprang up at him, barking joyfully.
The girls dismounted and Virginia held out her right hand; then turning to the interested Babs, she said: “Barbara, this is Red Feather of whom you have heard. Perhaps he will shake hands with you and Margaret.”
The bright, black eyes were lifted inquiringly toward Winona, and then when she smilingly nodded at him, the little fellow extended one hand, his usually solemn little face twinkling merrily as though he were doing something unusual and amusing. This was evidently not the Papago manner of greeting. Babs wondered if they rubbed noses instead.
Winona spoke rapidly in a language strange to the Easterners and the small boy listened attentively. Then, as though complying with the Indian maiden’s request, he led the ponies away to the fenced-in corral which was in the middle of the bowl-like valley and was surrounded by the scattered adobe huts.
“Red Feather will return directly,” Winona told them, “and then he will show us his pigeon.”
And, indeed, almost before it seemed possible, the Indian boy was racing back, the puppy barking at his heels.
Then with the little fellow in the lead, they walked toward the wall of rock on the north side of the village. There, in a small, high hole in the cliff, Red Feather had the pigeon hidden. A strong cord tied about one leg was securely fastened to a peg which had been pounded into a nearby crevice.
Crushed corn had been scattered about within the bird’s reach.