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“You should make a song about yourself,’ they told him, ‘and teach the burros to sing it.’

“Have you had any rain up by T’o Tlakai?’

“No, it is just like last year. It is the devil. The grass is all dried up and the sheep are dying.’

‘They had a cloudburst over by T’isya Lani. It washed out the dam.’

“It washed out the missionary’s house, they say. His wife ran out in something thin and got wet, they say.’

‘Ei-yei!’

Tall Hunter and his wife drove past in a brand-new buckboard behind two fast-trotting, grey mules. He owned over five hundred head of horses, and his wife had thick strings of turquoise and coral around her neck.

‘His brother is in jail for stealing cattle, they say.’

‘What is jail?’ asked Laughing Boy.

Slender Hair explained: ‘It is something the American Chief does to you. He puts you in a room of stone, like a Moqui house, only it is dark and you can’t get out. People die there, they say. They haven’t any room; they can’t see anything, they say. I do not like to talk about it.’

Laughing Boy thought, I should rather die. He wanted to ask more, but was ashamed to show his ignorance before these southern Navajos,