“It’s not that I like Hopis any better than I do Utes,” he said shamefacedly. “It’s just that I want Ponytooth’s leg to get well quick so we can settle the boundary dispute.”
“Well, here, I’ll chuck something on your silly pile, too.” Ralph twisted a ring off his finger and tossed it onto the big mound of stones. “Me Boy Scout. Always do good turn.” But he turned away so the others couldn’t see his face.
They got a few hours’ sleep at Thunderbird, but a much-relayed telegram dragged them out of bed before sunup. It was from Jack Boyd, the diesel engine man at the well, and it read:
SHE’S ACTING UP STOP HAVE HER STUFFED FULL OF MUD STOP HURRY
More dead than alive, they pulled onto Hall’s property to find that things had calmed down. Drilling was proceeding as usual, in fact, and Boyd was covered with embarrassment.
As Ralph and Sandy stood outside the bunk trailer, almost too tired to go in and take their clothes off, the driller said lazily, “See that big mountain there to the north? What does it remind you of?”
Sandy blinked the sleep out of his eyes and stared. The mountain in question had a big round cliff at one end, a long high ridge in its center, two branching ridges farther along, and sharply pointed cliffs at its other end.
“Why,” he said at last, “it looks like a man lying on his back.”
“Good boy. That’s what it is.” Ralph grinned. “That mountain is called the Sleeping Ute. It’s supposed to be a great warrior who will awake some day, to unite all the Indians.... And do you know what?”
“What?” Sandy yawned mightily.