“How many live there?”
“Two families.”
And from the next rise we could see the light of a fire.
“It looks like a larger camp than that,” I told him. “Are you sure there is no sing going on?”
“Not a sign of it these last several days. That fire’s in the corral, just beyond their hogans.”
“Then run all three cars fairly close to the gate of it. Keep these prisoners in the last one, back in the shadow, and don’t make a show of guns. I’ll go in and investigate. If you fellows hear a row, you can then come up.”
The light of the fire grew brighter as we crept on, driving the cars as noiselessly as possible, and one learns to do that in the Desert. The corral was a large one, the logs set on end, and the firelight streamed through the crevices. One could not see inside until very close. About twenty yards from the gate or entrance we lined the cars, throwing the headlights on that opening. It is trying to face a brilliant auto-lamp, and those behind it have an advantage. I jumped from the step and went quickly forward, carrying a quirt.
In a strange country and among strange Indians, a gun may prove a dangerous weapon; but that does not prevent one from carrying a quirt having a loaded grip. [[306]]
If anyone had caught the boy’s cries or had heard our approach, there was no sign of it. Apparently there was no one to hear. The place seemed deserted. Outside the corral, one could see only a silent camp, untenanted, noiseless, painted by a great wave of brilliant light. No dogs started up. It was very strange, and decidedly unlike most Navajo camps.
At a brisk walk I went through the corral gate—to face fifty or more husky Navajo Indians, all males, crowded together, waiting. And each one of them eyed me as if to ask my business. They knew that I was not their Nahtahni.