"Stop your kidding, Jo," commanded Jim, "you and Tom can do your scrapping in camp."
"Beware of the Boss, he bites," I said, warningly.
Jim grinned, his only response.
"Look out, Tom, he's showing his teeth."
But we forgot our little controversy as we drew near to the great mesa. It was as impregnable as a powerful battleship of these later days. There was nothing to detract from its impressiveness as it rose in clear cut symmetry and sheer walls from the level plain. We gazed up at it in admiration.
"How high are those walls, do you suppose, Jim?" I asked.
"All of five hundred feet," he answered, "but I don't see how we are going to get up."
"Get up!" I exclaimed, "what for, we haven't got any relatives up there that we want to meet."
"Why Jo," expostulated Jim, "don't you want to meet and converse with our red brothers and have a great powwow. You know they are the original Americans?"
"All Americans are original," I retorted. "I thought you were in a hurry to see the river."