bunch-grass and dotted with solitary cypress and infrequent clumps of pine.  He paused to inspect a small mound of rock which was partially surrounded by a wall of neatly laid stone.  Within the semicircular wall was a hole in the ground—­the entrance to a cave.  Farther along he came upon the ruins of a walled square, unmistakably of human construction.  He became interested, and, tying his horse to a scrub-cedar, began to dig among the loose stones covering the interior of the square.  He discovered a fragment of painted pottery—­the segment of an olla, smooth, dark red, and decorated with a design in black.  He rubbed the earth from the fragment and polished it on his overalls.  He unearthed a larger fragment and found that it matched the other piece.  He was happy.  He forgot his surroundings, and scratched and dug in the ruin until he accumulated quite a little pile of shards, oddly marked and colored.  Eventually he gathered up his spoils and tied them in his handkerchief.

Leaving his horse, he meandered down the valley until he came to another and larger cave.  “Wonder what’s down there?” he soliloquized.  “Mebby one of them Injuns.  Been there a thousand years waitin’ for somethin’ to turn up.  ‘Nough to make a fella tired, waitin’ that long.”  He wanted to explore the cave, but he was afraid.  Moreover, the interior was dark.  He pondered.  Finally his natural fondness for mild adventure overcame his fear.  “Got some matches!” he exclaimed, joyfully.  “Wonder if it’s deep?  Guess I could put me legs in first, and if nothin’ bites me legs, why, I could follow ’em down to bottom.”  He put his head in the hole.  “Hey!” he hallooed, “are you in there?” He rose to his feet.  “Nothin’ doin’.  Well, here goes.  I sure want to see what’s down there.”

In his excitement he overlooked the possibility of disturbing a torpid rattler.  He slid feet first into the cave, found that he could all but stand upright, and struck a match.

The ancient Hopis buried their dead in a sitting posture on a woven grass mat, with an olla, and frequently a bone dagger, beside them.  In the clean, dry air of the uplands of Arizona the process of decay is slow.  Sundown, unaware of this, hardly anticipated that which confronted him as the match flamed blue and flared up, lighting the interior of the cave with instant brilliance.  About six feet from where he crouched was the dried and shriveled figure of a Hopi chief, propped against the wall of the cave.  Beside the figure stood the painted olla untarnished by age.  The dead Indian’s head was bowed upon his breast, and his skeleton arms, parchment-skinned and rigid, were crossed upon his knees.