The men dismounted, sat down by the stream and smoked their pipes, while the women and children scurried about, gathering fire wood and starting a blaze.
In a few minutes they had settled down to life for a few days, the life that the Indians loved, carefree, indolent and happy.
The professor was greatly elated. Here was a chance to watch the modern Indian at least and see how he lived. He would have something to tell his class.
"That's Old Mapia," confided Kit. "He's supposed to be about a hundred years old. You're in luck if you can get him to talk. Some of the young ones will translate for him if he gets stuck. I'll send Old Mary over, if he won't talk to you. She can make him tell stories."
Before the afternoon was over, the professor had invited the old Indian to have a smoke with him, then offered him cookies and other delicacies, and while he accepted without a sign of appreciation, the ice was broken and when the professor began to ask questions the old Indian answered as well as he could, and Young Wolf supplied the missing words that his grandfather had forgotten.
"Yes, once a very long time ago there were many Indians here, a city!" droned the old fellow and the professor edged closer to hear him, fascinated by the wrinkled face.
"My father—my grandfather, yes, he know. Up yonder somewhere a large village, where the Indians make baskets and rugs and silver and pottery, long ago. There were good times then. Indians plenty rich. No white men. My grandfather tell me heaps."
"Where was the village?" asked Professor Gillette.
"No find any more,—gone!" The Indian shook his head and with a wave of his hand indicated every hill surrounding the canyon.
"I think he knows," the professor confided to the girls that afternoon when he went up to see Dad Patten. "But it's probably a secret."