Following the Navajo’s vague gestures, we came at last within sight of the long government buildings of Chin Le. But between them and us an arroyo lay, no longer the puddle we had splashed through on our way to Kayenta, but four feet of red torrent which had already cut down the soft banks into miniature cliffs, and completely barred our crossing. We shuddered when we saw it, and thought how easy it would be for a man to slip over these slippery banks in the dark. Now seriously concerned at the guide’s failure to appear, the two men started off to find if possible a ford they might safely attempt, while we got out the coffee pot, and built a tiny fire of twigs, the only fuel in sight. The matches were wet, the sugar melted, and the can-opener lost. By the time we managed to get the coffee boiling we saw a two horse team crossing the stream, with the trader and the missing guide on the front seat.
QUICKSAND; CANYON DE CHELLEY.
“Where did you spend the night?” we asked, much relieved to see him alive.
“In bed, at Mr. Stagg’s,” he answered. He explained that he had reached Chin Le safely, and had taken a wagon out to find us, but failing to do so, had gone back to bed. He started out in the morning just in time to save Murray and the Golfer from a cold swim.
Leaving the car until the flood should abate, we piled our belongings and ourselves into the wagon, and started across the muddy stream. The water rose to the hubs, then to the horses’ shoulders. One stepped in a hole, almost disappearing, and nearly carrying the wagon with him, but at last we crossed safely, and reached Stagg’s in time for breakfast. We told the adventures of the night, ending with our encounter with the Navajo.
“What does ishklish mean?” we asked.
“You mean slicklish,” corrected the Golfer.
“Ishklish? Slicklish?” said Mr. Stagg. “Oh, you mean ushklush.”
“Well, what does ushklush mean?”