But it is not the Tehua Indian who stands there motionless, with bow half drawn and an arrow in readiness, who gazes over to the corpse to see whether it is really a corpse, or whether it will need a second shaft to despatch it forever.  The man is of middle height, raw-boned and spare.  Shaggy hair bristles from under the strands that surround his head like a turban.  He wears nothing but a kilt of deerskin; from his shoulders hangs a quiver; a flint knife depends from the belt.  This man is no village Indian, notwithstanding that dark paint on his body.  It is one of the hereditary foes of the sedentary aborigines,—­a Navajo!

He is eying the dead body suspiciously.  If it is surely dead the second arrow may be saved.  Those glassy eyes; that sallow face; and the fold, the ghastly fold that runs on both sides of the mouth, of that mouth filled with blood now clotting,—­they show that life is gone.

Still the savage keeps his bow well in hand, as with head and neck extended he steals forward slowly, mistrustfully approaching his victim.  When he is close to the body his eyes sparkle with delight and pride, and his face gleams with the triumph of some hellish spirit.

He touches the corpse.  It is warm, but surely lifeless.  He grasps at the wrap; it is of no value to him, although made of cotton.  Beneath, however, there must be something that attracts his attention, for he quickly tears off the scanty dress and fumbles about the chest of the victim.  A horrible grin of delight distorts his features, already hideously begrimed, for he has found the little bag and takes from it the fetich of the dead man.  That fetich is a prize, for with it the magic power that was subservient to the victim while alive now becomes the victor’s.  He handles the amulet carefully, almost tenderly, breathes on it, and puts it back into the bag.  Then he detaches his stone knife, grasps it with the right hand, and with the left clutches the gray hair of the dead man and with a sudden jerk pulls the head up.  Then he begins to cut the scalp with his shaggy knife-blade of flint.

A faint whistling sound, as of some one hissing near him, is heard; and ere he looks up a male voice by his side has said,—­

“That is good, very good!” The words are spoken in the Dinne language.

The murderer looks up, staying his work of mutilation.  By his side there stands another Navajo, dressed, painted, and armed like himself.

A short time after he had risen from his hiding-place and was stealing over toward the body of his victim, this other Navajo had appeared in sight.  He watched from the distance his companion’s proceedings, and as he recognized that he was busying himself with some dead body, approached rapidly, though without the least noise.  He discovered the dead, stood still, fastened a piercing glance on the prostrate form, and heaved a great sigh of relief.  Notwithstanding the paint on his face it was easy to see how delighted he was at the sight.  He again advanced, not unlike a cat which is afraid to go too near another that is playing with a mouse, for fear of being scratched or bitten by her.  But when unobserved he had reached the Navajo, he could not withhold a joyful exclamation that startled and interrupted the murderer.  He asked,—­