“I know that language,” confided Stacy to Tad.  “It’s Hog Latin.”

“Magi back-a-tai-a?” asked the chief.

“Higgety-piggety,” muttered Chunky.

“He means, ‘have we come from the place of the roaring sound?’” translated Nance.

“You bet we have.  Several of them,” spoke up Ned.

“Doesn’t he speak English?” asked Walter.

“Yes, he will soon.  He likes a confidential chat with me in his own language first.  By ‘the place of the roaring sound’ he means the big Canyon.  How is Jennie, Tom?”

“Chi-i-wa him good.”

“That’s fine.  We’ll be moving along now.  We are tired and want to rest and make peace with Chick-a-pan-gi and his people,” said Nance.

The Kohot bowed, waved a hand to his followers, who turned, marching stolidly back toward the village, followed by the chief, then by Nance and his party.

“This sounds to me as if it were going to be a chow-chow party,” grinned Stacy.

“For goodness’ sake, behave yourself.  Don’t stir those Indians up.  They are friendly enough, but Indians are sensitive,” advised Tad.

“So am I,” replied Chunky.

“You may be sorry that you are if you are not careful.  I shall be uneasy all the time for fear you’ll put your foot in it,” said Tad.

“Just keep your own house in order.  Mine will take care of itself.  There’s the village.”

“Surely enough,” answered Tad, gazing inquiringly toward the scattered shacks or ha-was, as the native houses were called.  These consisted of posts set up with a slight slant toward the center, over which was laid in several layers the long grass of the canyon.  Ordinarily a bright, hued Indian blanket covered the opening.  A tall man could not stand upright in a Havasupai ha-wa.  They were merely hovels, but they were all sufficient for these people, who lived most of their lives out in the open.

The street was full of gaunt, fierce-looking dogs that the boys first mistook for coyotes.  The dogs, ill-fed, were surly, making friends with no one, making threatening movements toward the newcomers in several instances.  One of them seized the leg of Chunky’s trousers.

“Call your dog off, Chief Chickadee!” yelled the fat boy.

The Indian merely grunted, whereupon the fat boy laid a hand on the butt of his revolver.  A hand gripped his arm at the same time.  The hand was Tad Butler’s.

“You little idiot, take your hand away from there or I’ll put a head on you right here!  The dog won’t hurt you.”  Tad was angry.

“No, you’ve scared him off, now.  Of course he won’t bite me, but he would have done so if he hadn’t caught sight of you.”

“I must be good dog medicine then,” replied Tad grimly.  “But, never mind,” he added, with a smile, “just try to behave yourself for a change.”

About that time Chief Tom was leading out his squaw by an ear.