sing you to death. Like this!”

Salmon began a wailing chant that set everyone’s teeth on edge. The Navajo stopped his advance as if he had struck a wall. He clapped his hands over his ears and, after a moment, stalked out into the night.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Ralph,” Hall said coldly. “Some day Chief Quail is going to take you apart if you don’t stop baiting him.”

“Can you actually sing people to death, Mr. Salmon?” Sandy said to break the tension.

“Of course not,” the Ute answered softly. “But the chief thinks I can, and I wouldn’t spoil his belief for anything. We have a set-to like this every time we meet. Some of our medicine men can sing people well, though. They chant awhile and then pull the pain right out of your tooth, ear, or stomach.”

“What does a pain look like?” Quiz asked, half convinced.

“Looks just like a fingernail about two inches long,” the Ute answered. “It’s bright red. If you strike it, it goes tinnnggg, like the reed of a saxophone.”

“Stop your nonsense, Ralph,” White commanded, “while I go out and smooth Quail’s ruffled feathers.” He followed the chief and brought him back five minutes later to receive an oily apology from his ancestral enemy.

“You Indians will be broke again, one of these days, if you keep quarreling among yourselves,” Hall said then. “Crooked white men are hanging around the Four Corners. They’re just waiting for something like that so they can trick you out of your oil and uranium rights, or even your reservations.”

Everyone had to agree that this was true, so the little party settled down in reasonable harmony to watch the giant stars come out. Salmon produced a guitar after a while. Then he and Kitty sang Indian and Mexican songs together. Sandy particularly liked one that went:

“That’s a Navajo song,” the Ute said, grinning. “We sing it in honor of Chief Quail. Here’s one by a white man that I like:

“Guess that’s a hint we’d better take our siestas,” Hall said to the boys. “Big day ahead mañana.”

“This country sort of grows on one,” Sandy said to Kitty as they shook hands. “I’m beginning to feel at home already.”

“Oh, you haven’t really seen anything yet,” the girl answered. “If you and Mr. Taylor get up in the neighborhood of my school, look me up. I’ll show you some of the wildest and most beautiful country on earth.”

“Mother said I’d fall in love with the place.” Sandy took a last look across the sleeping desert. “She was born not far from here. Met my father when he was working for the U.S. Geological Survey.”

“How interesting,” cried the girl. “Maybe my folks know her. What was her maiden name?”

“It was Ruth Carson.”

“Oh!” Kitty snatched her hand out of his. “She’s related to Kit Carson, isn’t she?”

“The general was my great-uncle,” Sandy said proudly. “That’s why I’m so interested in this part of—”

He stopped because Kitty had backed away from him until her back pressed against the motel wall. As he stared, she spat into the dust of the patio in a most unladylike fashion before turning and running toward her room.

“What did I do to her?” Sandy gasped, openmouthed.

“Kitty’s mother is a Navajo,” Chief Quail answered. “Back in Civil War days, Kit Carson rounded up the Navajos to take us away from our reservation. We went on the warpath and retreated into the mountains. Carson followed. His soldiers shot several dozen of us, and slaughtered all our sheep so we would either have to surrender or starve. Even today, many of us would rather eat fish as the Utes do than touch one of Kit Carson’s descendants!” He turned his back and marched off.

“Ouch!” Sandy groaned. “I certainly put my foot into it that time.”

“Don’t worry too much about it,” said White. “Fact of the matter is that Kit Carson made a mighty good Indian Agent later on, and most Navajos admit it. He was the man who insisted that they all be returned to the reservation after the rebellion was over. He eventually died from overwork in behalf of ‘his Indians.’ Except for a few diehards, the Navajos won’t hold your mother’s name against you.”

“I certainly hope you’re right,” Sandy sighed as he and Quiz said good night to the others and headed for their room.

“What a mess,” his friend said. “Navajos squabbling with Utes, Hopis and the state of Utah. Crooks waiting to take advantage of them all. Pains like fingernails! Cavalry heroes who turn into villains. I suppose that’s why the biggest oil field in the Four Corners is called the Paradox Basin!”

CHAPTER THREE
A “Poor Boy” Outfit

Hall routed Ralph Salmon and the boys out of bed before dawn the next day. They ate a huge pancakes-and-sausage breakfast cooked by the sleepy-eyed but cheerfully clucking Misses Emery and climbed into the company jeep just as the sun was gilding the peaks of the mountains. Soon their teeth were chattering in the morning cold as Salmon roared off in a northwesterly direction toward the San Juan River lease.

“I wouldn’t have come down to Farmington at all this week,” Hall shouted above the wind which made the jeep top pop and crack, “except that I promised to pick up you boys, and Ralph had to get our core drill repaired. That’s the drill you hear thumping under the seat. We’re down a thousand feet with our second well and I should be riding herd on it every minute.”

“You’re a worrywart, boss,” chuckled the Indian. “You know that Harry Donovan’s on the job up there. He can handle things just as well as you can.”

“You’re right,” Hall answered. “But somehow it doesn’t seem right to have a geologist bossing the drill crew. That’s a hang-over from my days with a big spit-and-polish producing company, I guess.

“Ours is what they call a ‘poor boy’ outfit here in the oil country,” he explained to Sandy and Quiz. “We make do with secondhand drill rigs and other equipment. Sometimes we dig our engines and cables out of junk yards.”

“Now, now, boss, don’t cry,” said their driver. “It’s not quite that bad.”

“It will be if this well doesn’t come in.” Hall grinned. “But we do have to make every penny count, kids. We all pitch in on anything that needs doing. What kind of jobs have you cooked up for our new roustabouts, Ralph?”

“There’s a new batch of mud to be mixed,” the Indian answered. “How about that for a starter?”

“Mud!” Quiz exploded. “What’s mud got to do with drilling an oil well?”

“Plenty, my friend. Plenty,” Ralph answered. “Mud is forced down into a well to cool the drill bit and to wash rock cuttings to the surface. You use mud if you have water, that is. In parts of this country, water’s so short, or so expensive to haul, that producers use compressed air for those purposes. We’re lucky. We can pipe plenty of water from the river.”