“The argument over school lands is less important than our other disputes,” Chief Quail said carefully. He spoke good English but his words seemed to be tied together with string. Plainly, he had learned the white man’s language not many years ago. “The real problem—the one that is, how do you say, tying up millions of dollars of lease money—is to have a correct boundary drawn around the Hopi reservation.”
“The chief means,” Hall explained for the boys’ benefit, “that the Navajo reservation forms a large rectangle that completely surrounds a smaller square of land in Arizona where the Hopi Indians live.”
“Not a square, Mr. Hall,” Chief Quail objected. “The Hopis really own only a small triangle. Those primitive, stupid cliff dwellers claim thousands of Navajo acres to which they have no right. If I had my way in our Council, I would....”
“The Navajos and the Hopis are all grandmothers,” Salmon cut in angrily. “Squabbling over money like palefaces! Spending their royalties on things like schools and hospitals! When my tribe, the southern Utes, got its first royalty check, the Council voted to have some fun with the money. We spent it to build a race track for our fast horses!”
“Digger Indian!” The Navajo sneered at Salmon without moving a muscle of his broad face. “Fish eater! Soon you will waste all your easy money. When the oil runs out you will be running about naked again, living on roots and fried caterpillars like you used to!”
“Oh, no, John.” The Ute’s grin was just visible in the gathering darkness. “Maybe we’ll go on the warpath and take what we need from you fat Navajo sheep herders, as we did in the good old days. Or—” he added quickly as the chief lunged to his feet—“we’ll sing you to death. Like this!”
Salmon began a wailing chant that set everyone’s teeth on edge. The Navajo stopped his advance as if he had struck a wall. He clapped his hands over his ears and, after a moment, stalked out into the night.
“You shouldn’t have done that, Ralph,” Hall said coldly. “Some day Chief Quail is going to take you apart if you don’t stop baiting him.”
“Can you actually sing people to death, Mr. Salmon?” Sandy said to break the tension.
“Of course not,” the Ute answered softly. “But the chief thinks I can, and I wouldn’t spoil his belief for anything. We have a set-to like this every time we meet. Some of our medicine men can sing people well, though. They chant awhile and then pull the pain right out of your tooth, ear, or stomach.”