“Which I sure entitle a gratifyin’ operation,” said Mike.

“I’m in no ways proud of the job,” I told him.  “I feel like I’d salted a mine.”

Well, me and Mike lived in them dental parlors for a couple of weeks, decoyin’ occasional natives into it, pullin’, spilin’, fillin’, and filin’ more teeth than a few, but bimeby the sport got tame.

One day Mike was fakin’ variations on his guitar, and I was washin’ dishes, when I said:  “This line is about as excitin’ as a game of jack-straws.  D’you know it’s foot-racin’ time with the Injuns?”

“What?”

“Sure.  They’re gettin’ together at old Port Lewis to run races this week.  One tribe or the other goes broke and walks home every year.  If we could meet up with the winnin’ crowd, down on the La Plata—­”

I didn’t have to say no more, for I had a hackamore on Mike’s attention right there, and he quit climbin’ the “G” string and put up his box.

The next day we traded out of the tooth business and rode south down the old Navajo trail.  We picked a good campin’ spot—­a little “flat” in a bend of the river where the grazin’ was good—­and we turned the ponies out.

We didn’t have to wait long.  A few evenings later, as we et supper we heard a big noise around the bend and knew our visitors was comin’.  They must of had three hundred head of horses, besides a big outfit of blankets, buckskin, baskets, and all the plunder that an Injun outfit travels with.  At sight of us in their campin’-place they halted, and the squaws and the children rode up to get a look at us.

I stepped out in front of our tent and throwed my hand to my forehead, shading my eyes—­that’s the Injun sign of friendship.  An old chief and a couple of warriors rode forrad, Winchester to pommel, but, seein’ we was alone, they sheathed their guns, and we invited ’em to eat.

It didn’t take much urgin’.  While we fed hot biscuits to the head men the squaws pitched camp.

They was plumb elated at their winnin’ up at Fort Lewis, and the gamblin’ fever was on ’em strong, so right after supper they invited us to join ’em in a game of Mexican monte.  I let Mike do the card-playin’ for our side, because he’s got a pass which is the despair of many a “tin-horn.”  He can take a clean Methodist-Episcopal deck, deal three hands, and have every face card so it’ll answer to its Christian name.  No, he didn’t need no lookout, so I got myself into a game of “bounce the stick,” which same, as you prob’ly know, is purely a redskin recreation.  You take a handful of twigs in your hand, then throw ’em on to a flat rock endways, bettin’ whether an odd or an even number will fall outside of a ring drawed in the dirt.  After a couple of hours Mike strolled up and tipped me the wink that he’d dusted his victims.

“Say,” he began, “there’s the niftiest chicken down here that I ever see.”

“Don’t start any didos with the domestic relations of this tribe,” I told him, “or they’ll spread us out, and spread us thin.  Remember, you’re here on business bent, and if you bend back and forrads, from business to pleasure, and versy visa, you’ll bust.  These people has scrooplous ideas regardin’ their wives and I respect ’em.”