“What is your name?” I asked him.
Of the two evils, he chose the one he thought I knew less about.
“Guy,” he said.
Now did I not want Guy for burglary, although I had not been seeking him? This was too good an opportunity to be missed.
“Well, I have been looking for you, Guy,” I told him. “You will go back to the Agency with us.”
The resistance of an Indian is always negative. He stood up, and started to move off, out of the camp. I therefore of necessity had to move out of the camp with him, for I had him by the shirt-collar. This fellow must have weighed two hundred pounds of well-knit muscle, and he was in perfect fighting trim from roping and handling and riding rough ponies, and generally leading an Indian’s life in the open. At my best Arizona weight, [[332]]aside from determination and official authority, I tipped the beam at one hundred and eighteen pounds. He walked off with me just as a range bull would depart with a sixteen-pound Boston terrier hanging to his muzzle.
The Indian police are always slow to come into action, so Guy had carried me about fifteen yards before the Tewa added his handicap by pinioning the Navajo’s arms from behind. To rid one’s self of an opponent like that, it is necessary to toss him completely over one’s head; and this the Navajo desperately endeavored to do; but the Tewa held to him tenaciously and between us Guy—alias Hoske Nehol Gode—was seriously inconvenienced. He stopped moving out of the camp, and began to plough up dirt in circles, viciously seeking to rid himself of the policeman, who, like an Old Man of the Sea, perched between his shoulder blades. Then the stockman, who had been at the car, arrived to assist; and once they had him well fastened, I drew a pair of handcuffs from my pocket, and slung one of them across Guy’s wrist. It locked down, but he objected to our arranging the other cuff where it belonged. In the meantime, however, he was not standing still. The four of us were slipping, side-stepping, puffing, and straining about. The Tewa did not dare loose his hold of the Navajo’s arms, and his elbow grip prevented us from forcing his wrists together. Officers in a different service would have adopted different methods; but we were of the Indian Service, and had probably followed the wrong course as it was. We should have reasoned with him, and recited a bedtime story.
Now, in this melee, Guy secured a nice twisting grip on my thumb; and I received instant notice that he meant to wrench that thumb off my hand.
“Break his hold, quick!” I called out. [[333]]
Promptly from the stockman’s belt swung a forty-five, and smash, down it came across Guy’s hand. And very promptly too he released his hold.