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Presently all the mustangs and ponies were in, the procession widening out in a triangle from Scarbreast, the leader. The pack-ponies appeared to swim better than the mounted mustangs, or else the packs of deer-pelts made them more buoyant. When one-third way across the head of the swimming train met the current, and the line of progress broke.
"Jack," said August Naab, "our friends the Navajo chiefs, Scarbreast and Eschtah, are coming to visit us. Take no notice of them at first. They've great dignity, and if you entered their hogans they'd sit for some moments before appearing to see you. Scarbreast is a war-chief. Eschtah is the wise old chief of all the Navajos on the Painted Desert.
Hare bowed to each and felt himself searched by burning eyes, which were doubtful, yet not unfriendly. "Shake," finally said Eschtah, offering his hand. "Ugh!" exclaimed Scarbreast, extending a bare silver-braceleted arm. This sign of friendship pleased Naab. He wished to enlist the sympathies of the Navajo chieftains in the young man's behalf.
Naab called him to supper, and when Hare set to with a will on the bacon and eggs, and hot biscuits, he nodded approvingly. "That's what I want to see," he said approvingly. "You must eat. Piute will get deer, or you may shoot them yourself; eat all the venison you can. Remember what Scarbreast said. Then rest. That's the secret. If you eat and rest you will gain strength."
The mustangs had to be driven into the water. Scarbreast led, and his mustang, after many kicks and reluctant steps, went over his depth, wetting the stalwart chief to the waist. Bare-legged Indians waded in and urged their pack-ponies. Shouts, shrill cries, blows mingled with snorts and splashes. Dave and George Naab in flat boats rowed slowly on the down-stream side of the Indians.
Next to the chieftain rode Scarbreast, the grim war-lord of the Navajos. His followers trailed into the grove. Their sinewy bronze bodies, almost naked, glistened wet from the river. Full a hundred strong were they, a silent, lean-limbed desert troop. "The White Prophet's fires burned bright," said the chieftain. "Eschtah is here." "The Navajo is a friend," replied Naab.
In his ensuing speech, which was plentifully emphasized with gestures, he lapsed often into English, saying "weak no strong" when he placed his hand on Hare's legs, and "bad" when he touched the young man's chest, concluding with the words "sick sick." Scarbreast regarded Hare with great earnestness, and when Naab had finished he said: "Chineago ping!" and rubbed his hand over his stomach.
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