sand that lay in the opening, up to a white and black Navajo rug on
which was lying a quiet figure over which had been thrown a bright
coloured Mexican serape.

An old Indian was sitting outside the hogan close by the entrance, and
within an arm's length just inside sat a white man gravely watching the
recumbent figure on the rug.

Across the figure on the rug, opposite the white man, sat a young woman,
also quietly and gravely watching.

Outside, the 'dobe flats stretched brown and bare until they melted into
the confused and fantastic rock piles of twisted and pictured desert
stone. In the other direction an irregular streak of light green trailed
along, marking the winding of the river bound by twisted cottonwoods and
vivid patches of corn fields. Through the shimmer of the heat far off,
fifty miles distant, were flung up against a turquoise sky the peaks of
the San Francisco mountains, across the front of which a trailing cloud
had begun to form. On a slightly rising ledge of rock stood the mission
buildings, and through the clear still air, children's voices came
floating down to the hogan, where the white man and the young woman were
silently watching. A group of Navajos was gathered at the trader's
store, some little distance away, their faces turned in the direction of
the hogan, their ponies standing near by or tethered to the cottonwood,
by the river.

Suddenly the figure on the rug stirred, its right arm rose slowly and
the hand made an effort to touch the fringe of the serape.

The white man stooped forward, gently took the hand and held it a moment
in his own. As he laid it down, he smiled at the other watcher and said:

"I believe he's coming on all right. The Father is good to him."

The young woman put her hands over her face and her fingers were
trembling. A tear was on her cheek when she took her hands away and
clasped them over her knees. Then she rose and went out of the eastern
doorway, when she stood a moment, her clear gaze resting on the old
Indian sitting there with his back against the hogan. He raised his head
and asked her a question.

"Yes, the Father is good. He will live, Mr. Clifford says."

She went back into the hogan and to her surprise the figure on the rug
was sitting up. It was Bauer, and he was saying in his slow, deliberate
fashion:

"I'm not certain, I seem to be confused, but this is Tolchaco, isn't it?
When did I arrive? I don't seem to remember well."

"You arriv