ding in
one of those cliff caves, trying to read up the whole life history of
the queer people who dug their homes out of the solid rock, tier after
tier, away up the face of the cliffs."

"True for you, Bob, and I'm glad to see how you take it. I had hoped the
Moqui might make our job easier, as he could do, all right, if only he
wanted to tell us a few things. But we're no worse off than we were
before, in all things, and some better in a few."

"I wish I could talk Moqui," declared Bob; "and perhaps then I'd be able
to make the old fellow understand. Perhaps, Frank, if you gave him a
little note to Uncle Felix, he might promise to take it to him later
on!"

"Hello! that's a good idea, I declare," exclaimed Frank; "and I'll just
do that same while I think of it."

He immediately drew out a pad of paper, and a fountain pen which he
often carried for business purposes, since there were times when he had
to sign documents as a witness for his father.

The old Moqui watched him closely. Evidently the spider-like handwriting
was a deep mystery to him, and he must always feel a certain amount of
respect for any white person who could communicate with another by means
of the "talking paper."

"There," said Frank, presently, "that ought to do the business, I
reckon."

"What did you say?" asked his comrade, who was busy at the fire just
then, drawing some of the partly-burned wood aside, so that their supply
might hold out in the morning.

"Oh!" Frank went on, "I told him dad had his note, sent in that bottle.
Then I mentioned the important fact that the mine paper he carried had
increased in value thousands of dollars. And I wound up by telling him
how much we wanted to see and talk with him. I signed my name, and
yours, to the note."

"And now to see whether the Moqui will promise to carry it to your
great-uncle."

Frank held the note up.

"You will not tell us where we can find the little man without any hair
on his head, Havasupai," he said. "But surely you will not say no when I
ask you to carry this talking paper to him. It will please him very
much. He will shake your hand, and many times thank you. How?"

The cautious old Moqui seemed to be weighing chances in his suspicious
mind.

"Three to one he thinks we mean to spy on him, and find it all out that
way," was Bob's quick opinion.

"Just what was in my mind; I could read it in his sly old face. But all
the same he's going to consent, Bob."

The