“I’m going to try to,” said the Golfer modestly.
He chuckled. “Wait till you see it, young fellow.”
In answer, the Golfer sent up a ball that clove the heavens in twain. And then the entire population of Kayenta spent the rest of the day on their knees, hunting in the sage-brush.
CHAPTER XX
RAINBOW BRIDGE
IT was as exciting as a well-fought football game to watch the horses, when at last they straggled down from Oljeto, to be cajoled and subsequently roped. Having spent the winter away from humans, they had forgotten our self-willed ways, and developed wills of their own. Though bony from a hard winter, they had plenty of fight left in their mud-caked hides. We all sat on the corral fence and joyfully watched a Navajo herder tobogganned over rocks and cactus, at the end of a taut rope, while an old white horse, pink from a bath in the creek, looked over his shoulder and laughed, as he kept the rope humming. The Navajo must have thanked fate for his leather chaps, which smoked with the friction. The horses were a gamble. Our unexpected arrival left no time for them to be fed and hardened for the trip. We had to take them as they were. From the fence we made bids for our choice. Our amateur judgments were received with respectful attention. Toby wanted a little horse with flat sides and an easy trot. I asked for the biggest horse they had, knowing from former experience that on a long, hard trip a big horse is less likely to tire, and a long trot is easier on the rider. Martha wanted a pony with a lope, but, speechless with disgust, was given a little white mule called Annie. She broke off a branch of yucca blossom for a whip, and with this held upright and her demure look, she reminded us of the popular picture of the Holy Child riding to Jerusalem.
At about four in the afternoon,—an outrageous hour,—we started across a long draw and over flat lands, not especially interesting, except for the wealth of wild flowers beneath us. Our party was imposing, with our two guides and two helpers. Our five pack horses ambled discontentedly along as pack animals will do, as if they had a grudge against somebody and meant when the opportunity came to release it. Our Navajo who looked after the horses was named Hostein Chee, which is to say, Red Man. He was not so named for his race, but because, for some mysterious reason that may or may not have involved Mrs. Hostein Chee in malicious gossip, like Sally in the cowboy ballad he “had a baby, and the baby had red hair.”
Hostein Chee rode his horse like a centaur. His riding costume was moccasins, overalls, an old sack coat, and a mangy fur cap with a band of quarters and dimes, his most cherished possession. He wore an armlet of turquoise and mellow carved silver. The Navajos of former days used these ornaments on their left wrist to steady their arrows as they aimed them at Utes or Apaches, but those they make today with raised designs and encrusted gems are only for display.
Once we passed a small camp of Navajos, and at a word from Mr. Wetherell, Hostein Chee rode off, and a quarter of an hour later rejoined us with a dressed sheep hanging to his saddle horn. A sharp knife is slung from the belt of all Navajo shepherdesses, and their dexterity in handling it is marvellous.
Ahead of us the pack horses jogged reluctantly, as if they knew they were in for it. The trail we were to make has the reputation of being difficult if not dangerous in its rough footing, widely separated camps and lack of water. Yet the beginning was uneventful enough. For a dozen miles we wound through Marsh Pass, with the typical desert scenery of hot, burnt plains, rolling hills and low cliffs, and dry river beds. Then we turned at right angles into Segi, or Lake Canyon, winding east to west between bright pink sandstone bluffs, outlined in whimsical shapes against a clear gold sky. The green, grassy valley abounded in the sweet flowers of the desert, a strange contrast to the bare, stark and forbidding rocks hemming it in.