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Updated: June 23, 2025
Several years before I had in the town of Cubero, at the request of Mexican friends, shot a target match with the most renowned marksman of the Navajo tribe, my pistol being pitted against the Navajo's rifle, and had beaten him with a wonderful shot to the discomfiture and distress of a trading band of Indians, who bet on their champion's prowess and lost their goods to the knowing Mexicans.
I was dropping off again when a strange, low sound caused my eyes to open wide. The black night had faded to the gray of dawn. The sound I recognized at once to be the Navajo's morning chant. I lay there and listened. Soft and monotonous, wild and swelling, but always low and strange, the savage song to the break of day was exquisitely beautiful and harmonious.
Speechless, he bent down and folded her round, putting his hands on the hair that had been always his delight. Presently he whispered: "You have beat me; how can I fight this?" She answered nothing. The Navajo's scarlet and black folds fell over both. Not with words, not even with meeting eyes, did the two plight their troth in this first new hour.
"No kill cougar," continued Jones, as the Indian's bold features hardened. "Run cougar horseback run long way dogs chase cougar long time chase cougar up tree! Me big chief me climb tree climb high up lasso cougar rope cougar tie cougar all tight." The Navajo's solemn face relaxed "White man heap fun. No." "Yes," cried Jones, extending his great arms.
When I said a word to him about his knack with things, his reply was illuminating: "I'm fifty-eight, and four out of every five nights of my life I have slept away from home on the ground." "Chineago!" called Jim, who had begun with all of us to assimilate a little of the Navajo's language. Whereupon we fell to eating with appetite unknown to any save hunters.
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