“I can’t say that we do,” replied Zeke.  “Was there anything special that you wanted o’ them?”

The Navajo glanced quickly at his companion, who plainly understood the question and then said, “Yes, we want very much to see them.”

“Well, I’m afraid then that you’ll have to go where they are.”

“Did they go down the river or did they go up the cliffs?”

“The last we saw of them they were headed for the sky,” said Zeke glumly.

“Did they have ponies?”

“We didn’t see any.  They may have left them up yonder, but they didn’t bring any into the camp.”

The Navajo again turned to his companion and carried on a conversation in a low voice, apparently ignoring the presence of the others.

“If there was any message you wanted left,” suggested Zeke, “we might take it and tell them that two Navajoes are waiting for them.”

“No,” replied the Indian abruptly.  “Say nothing.  Do you know whether they are coming back to your camp or not?”

“I hope not,” said Zeke.

“Have you any reason to think they were bad men?”

“I don’t know nothin’ about them, just as I told you,” responded Zeke gruffly.  “As I said, the only way you can find that out is to go where they are.”

“And do you know whether they started toward Thorn’s Gulch?”

“Where?” demanded Fred quickly.

“Thorn’s Gulch.”

“What makes you think they were headed for Thorn’s Gulch?” demanded Zeke.

“I didn’t say we knew,” said the Indian solemnly.  “I asked you if you knew.”

“Well, we don’t,” said Zeke.  “What is there about Thorn’s Gulch that makes you think they might want to go there?”

Instead of replying to the question the Navajo again turned to his companion and carried on another conversation with him in still lower tones than before.  Then abruptly rising, the Indian, who had been acting as chief spokesman, said, “I don’t think we need to trouble you any more.”

“Hold on a minute,” said Fred.  “What’s your hurry?”

Both Indians had turned as if they were about to retrace their way along the steep incline by which they had approached the camp.  Halting abruptly at the question, before either could speak Fred continued, “You talk a good deal like a man who has not been trained as most of the Indians I have seen around here have been.”

“Yes,” said the Indian, a broad smile appearing on his face as he spoke, “My name is Thomas Jefferson, in the white man’s language.”

“Thomas Jefferson?” demanded Grant.  “Where in the world did you get that name?”

“When I went to the white man’s school they gave me a white man’s name.”

“Where were you in school?”

“Pennsylvania.”

“Is that so?” exclaimed Grant, who was especially interested in such matters.

“Yes,” explained the Indian, “I was sent east by some missionaries to be educated.  As I told you they gave me a white man’s name and I was there three years in the school.”