That seemed to settle all question of action. We repacked ourselves and I made myself more comfortable by removing a suitcase from my left foot, and Toby’s specimens from the back of my neck, and soon we were asleep again. It seemed heartless, not knowing the guide’s fate, but I suppose we reasoned we could face tragedy better if we had our sleep out. So quiet followed. We awoke through the night only to complain of a paralyzed foot or arm, and demand our share of the car and covers. A strange informality prevailed, as must when five people, each aggressively bent on obtaining his proper amount of rest, occupy one touring car all night.
At four, a hideous noise awoke us. Murray had fallen on the horn, and had brought forth sound. It took us a moment to realize this meant the return of our power. We were free to go ahead. But with north, south, east and west completely disguised as an inland sea, we thought it discreet to wait till sunrise. We no longer hoped for the guide’s return, and gloomily looked for a sad ending to our trip.
ENTRANCE TO THE CANYON DE CHELLEY.
The sunrise, when it came, was worth waiting for. Fresh-washed and glowing, the holiday colors of the hills came out from the mediocre buffs and grays of the desert, and the primrose sky slowly became gilded with glory. As nothing exceeds the weariness of the desert at noon, so nothing compares with its freshness, its revelation of beauty, at dawn. Each mesa was outlined in gold. Waves of color, each melting into the next, flushed the prairie and sky. We forgot the tedium of the night in this splendor of morning.
We motored slowly through all this glory,—our car having started on the first trial,—through seven miles of mud, but Chin Le had apparently been swallowed up by the deluge. The mesas took on an unfamiliar aspect, and we concluded that hidden by some gully, we had gone beyond our destination. A red-banded Navajo on a pinto rode up curiously when we called him. He was the only soul on the vast horizon, and he understood no English, and appeared slow in comprehending our Navajo. Waving his hand vaguely in the direction from which we came, he repeated one word.
“Ishklish!”
“If we only knew what ishklish meant we should be all right,” said Toby hopefully.
“Not ishklish,—slicklish,” corrected the Golfer who had made quite a specialty of Navajo, and who could pronounce, “De-jiss-je” better than any of us. “Slicklish! I know I’ve heard that word before.”
“Ishklish! Slicklish,” we repeated with bent brows, in Gilbertian chorus. “We’ve heard that word before. We’re sure we’ve heard that word before.”