“I am done with white men,” he said. “I will not shake hands with you or any other white man.”
“Here is a telegram from Washington. It must be read to you.”
The interpreter explained.
“I do not care to hear anything from Washington.” [[171]]
“But I must read it to you.” And I straightway began. The interpreter translated the first sentence, the second—when the old fellow stood up. He waved his arm toward the soldiers outside, and cried angrily:—
“You have your men here; why not go ahead and do what you want? You can cut off my head. Why don’t you do it? I will have nothing more to say to you. I am through with white people.”
He stalked from the council-room, the maddest man in Arizona; and that was the last of him for many months.
“Now, Colonel, if you please, I will search the pueblo. Will you lend me your flashlight?”
“What do you want with that? It’s broad day.”
“I shall have to crawl into every corn-crib and cellar in the place, and none of them have windows.”