Part 16 (2/2)

While they stood there, a strange procession appeared around the bend in the trail. A band of horses one after the other, filed by.

”Poor horses!” exclaimed Bet in sympathy.

”Horses!” sneered Kit. ”Those are not horses, they are just racks of bones, that's all. And that's the way most of the Indian ponies look.”

The professor was speechless. He watched the procession with interest.

Fat squaws rode huddled over their nags, each carrying a baby strapped to her back. Small boys ran beside the horses or clung on behind the mother. The men usually rode free and on one of the animals, the professor saw an old Indian.

”I wish I could talk to him,” he whispered to Kit, who was standing near him.

”You'll have your chance before the day is over. They usually camp right here where you are. I'm surprised that Indian Joe suggested this spot. They are not apt to go far away from here.”

As Kit spoke the squaw heading the procession stopped, and it looked as if she rolled off her horse as she dismounted. She had evidently found a suitable place to camp. The professor was delighted that it was on the opposite side of the stream where he could watch them. A tepee was made almost before the squaws were all out of their saddles. A large piece of sacking was thrown over small bushes which were tied together at the top to form an arch. This was the only shelter put up by the Indians when on the march.

The men dismounted, sat down by the stream and smoked their pipes, while the women and children scurried about, gathering fire wood and starting a blaze.

In a few minutes they had settled down to life for a few days, the life that the Indians loved, carefree, indolent and happy.

The professor was greatly elated. Here was a chance to watch the modern Indian at least and see how he lived. He would have something to tell his cla.s.s.

”That's Old Mapia,” confided Kit. ”He's supposed to be about a hundred years old. You're in luck if you can get him to talk. Some of the young ones will translate for him if he gets stuck. I'll send Old Mary over, if he won't talk to you. She can make him tell stories.”

Before the afternoon was over, the professor had invited the old Indian to have a smoke with him, then offered him cookies and other delicacies, and while he accepted without a sign of appreciation, the ice was broken and when the professor began to ask questions the old Indian answered as well as he could, and Young Wolf supplied the missing words that his grandfather had forgotten.

”Yes, once a very long time ago there were many Indians here, a city!”

droned the old fellow and the professor edged closer to hear him, fascinated by the wrinkled face.

”My father--my grandfather, yes, he know. Up yonder somewhere a large village, where the Indians make baskets and rugs and silver and pottery, long ago. There were good times then. Indians plenty rich.

No white men. My grandfather tell me heaps.”

”Where was the village?” asked Professor Gillette.

”No find any more,--gone!” The Indian shook his head and with a wave of his hand indicated every hill surrounding the canyon.

”I think he knows,” the professor confided to the girls that afternoon when he went up to see Dad Patten. ”But it's probably a secret.”

”No, it's on account of the curse,” said Kit.

”But what has the curse to do with it?” the professor asked.

”Plenty. The daughter of the old chief still walks at times, and she cursed that village, and the Indians try to forget that there ever was such a place. None of them will go near it.”

”What does the ghost look like, Kit?” asked Bet.

”She always wears a costume of deerskin and feathers. And at night she just appears out of nothing in Lost Canyon. One minute she isn't there and the next she is. And when she appears she is supposed to curse those who see her. They run for their lives.”

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