The white-haired man gave the boys handshakes that they felt for an hour.
“Chief John Quail, from the Arizona side of the Navajo reservation,” Hall said next. “The chief is here to talk over an oil lease.”
Chief Quail, a dark, heavily muscled Indian, wore a light-gray business suit that showed evidence of the best tailoring. He surprised the boys by giving them the limpest of handshakes.
“And Ralph Salmon, boss of my drill crew,” Hall concluded. “Ralph’s a southern Ute from Colorado. Do exactly as he says this summer if you want to learn oil.”
The lithe, golden-skinned young Indian nodded, but did not shake hands.
“So you’re off to your great adventure in the morning, Kitty,” White said to break the conversational ice. He lighted a pipe and leaned against the patio railing where he could watch the changing evening light as it stole over the desert.
“I’m so excited I won’t be able to sleep,” the girl answered in a rich contralto voice. “It’s all so wonderful. The oil lease money pouring in like this, after long lean years when starvation for the Navajos was just around the corner and it looked as though their reservation might be taken from them. Schools and hospitals being built all over. My wonderful new trailer with books and maps and even a kitchen and a shower for the children. Oh, my Navajos are going places at last.” She gave an embarrassed laugh at her long speech.
“One place your Navajos can go is to Salt Lake City,” Hall growled. “Get the state of Utah to settle that quarrel about who owns the land your schools and hospitals are being built on. Then I can get my hands on some leases up there.”
“I thought the Navajo reservation was in New Mexico and Arizona,” Sandy said.
“A small part of it is in southern Utah,” Hall explained. “That’s the part bounded by the San Juan River.”