driver went into low and made it more difficult. She sat as near the edge of her seat as she could without falling off when the bus turned a corner and rocked a bit. Eleven heads turned obediently towards Camel Rock.

“See it?” she screamed. “See the hump, and the head in front?” Her voice almost cracked.

They all saw it at last. Those who couldn’t at first were helped by the others, standing up to look back at it while the bus went on. Gin sat back in the seat again and relaxed, swallowing hard. There would be nothing more to show them until Santa Clara; perhaps she could be quiet until then. She looked around to see if anyone was nursing a grievance. Would they expect her to keep talking in between the points of interest? Sometimes people wanted her to, other times they preferred to sleep. There was a fat man in the third seat who showed signs of being difficult; the kind of tourist who wrote letters to the company after the trip, commending and criticizing. Every courier lived in terror of such a letter.

“While I have nothing but praise for the courtesy and attention of your driver, I am sorry to say that none of us were satisfied with Miss Arnold’s behaviour. She seemed distracted; she did not attend to her duties. She seemed to lose no opportunity for disappearing from us; whenever the occasion offered itself for her to wander off, she was nowhere to be found. I am unwilling to complain about anything connected with your excellent tours, but I must say that when I have paid an extra fare of forty-seven dollars and fifty cents....”

Gin took a deep breath and leaned forward to the fat man.

“Do you like this road, Mr. Butts?” she asked tenderly. “It’s quite famous. The guests always like it. I do think that this is one of the nicest trips we have, even if it is included in the regular Detour. The first and third days may be more educational, but today I think you’ll have a lovely time besides.”

Mr. Butts merely grunted, but there was a satisfactory reaction from the old lady who sat in front of him. She turned and smiled nervously.

“Isn’t this road dangerous for the speed we’re going?” she quavered. “Of course it’s perfectly beautiful. Mr. Butts, do look at that, right behind you!”

Mr. Butts turned his head resignedly and looked. The bus had come to a place that gave a short glimpse of Santa Fé behind them, tiny and white and scattered. It was immediately hidden by the dark turbulent waves of hill around it as they drove on.

“Pretty,” said Mr. Butts in his brief way.

Gin gave it up for the moment and settled back, fanning herself with her hat. The bus was hot and stuffy, although all the glass windows were open. She yawned and drifted off, thankful that she wasn’t feeling particularly nauseated today by the constant motion. Some of the girls could never get used to it, but she seemed to be adjusted. She looked around apathetically at the dudes and wondered if they were all as stupid as they appeared or if it was because she needed sleep. Some days, it was true, everyone was perfectly charming. Those were the days that followed good healthy nights of sleep. There weren’t many of them, she thought ruefully. She often thought ruefully of her habits, but never to the extent of changing them. No one did in Santa Fé when they had lived there as long as she had.

One of the crowd today wasn’t so bad, she thought. She had noticed him at the hotel office when he signed on at the last minute for the trip. As skilful as the clerk in sizing up the tourists, she had put him immediately in the pigeon-hole reserved for summer visitors who stayed the season. He was no train-tripper. He probably lived in one of the big houses outside of town, with a swimming-pool and a stable. A nice-looking kid, just a baby, probably sixteen. Since she had not seen him before, he must be new. Since he was wearing summer clothes of an extreme carelessness—blue shirt and white trousers and no hat—he was not a resident; residents of Santa Fé never admitted that it was a summer resort; they tried to dress as if Santa Fé were New York. Well, he’d be around now, riding around the Plaza, playing tennis with Teddy Madden, looking scornfully at the newcomers after he had been there a week, and talking learnedly of Indian customs. He was new, though: she could tell it by the fact that he was taking a trip with her and looking at everything with an ingenuous pleasure. She liked the way he looked out of the window. He was taking it hard.

It made her pensive and reminiscent: his youthful rapt gaze. She thought of the first time she had driven out here, with the couriers’ training school. It had been raining; up on Baldy there was a light snow and there was mist around Jemez. She had felt terribly excited. All the other girls told her it was the altitude. Whatever it was, she liked it. And then the bus had come near Española and the valley.... They were almost there now; she watched the boy like a cat, to see what would happen to him when he saw it.

Yes, he got it. She knew it by the way his thin little shoulders jerked and his head leaned back, closer to the window. She could just see the back of his head, but she knew. When she had first seen it, she had cried. Probably the effect of the altitude, but why not? There was nothing like it anywhere else. The valley was absolutely naked; bare rock shaped in lumps on the bare sand, drowning in mists of vague lavender and dark blue and thin brown and yellow, transparent colors. The rock was shaped in pillars and blocks and squat cylinders, cut off flat at the tops. It was all dead and ghostly. Nothing lived here. The few scraggy clumps of juniper were not alive, for they were as ancient and dusty as the rocks, and as motionless.

It was only for a few miles. Beyond, the land lived again, flushed to foliage by the lazy sandy river. Back of all of it were the real mountains, with pine forests and trout streams, but now while Gin and the boy looked at them they were too far off to be green; they were dead dark blue.

“My, that’s gloomy,” said the cheerful lady from Chicago. “Miss Arnold, is that land good for anything? Does the government own it, or what?”

They crossed the wide white bridge to Española and followed the road through a rocky country, bearing down on the ugly round buildings that housed the Government schools. Approaching Santa Clara, the driver honked his horn loudly to warn the pottery-venders. By the time he came to a stop before the church, in the dry yellow plaza surrounded by square adobe huts, the women were filing out to the clear space in the centre, carrying their pottery on their heads and swinging baskets of smaller stuff—modelled animals, black-painted, and bead belts and necklaces. They walked serene and fat, surrounded by children and yellow dogs. They sat down in a neat half-circle before the bus and spread their wares out, impassive or smiling in their cotton shawls and long smocks. Eleven potential customers climbed out of the leather chairs and looked curiously at the big black bowls and the brown faces.

The men of the party were already saying, “That would be fine for Cousin Sally,” and the women were saying, “Now, John, be careful. We’ve just packed the trunk as it is; we can’t buy everything we see,” when Gin slipped away. She hurried around the corner of a house and walked down one of the many back paths, trying to get away before someone asked her to argue with an Indian about the price of the bowls. She stopped at one of the screen doors and peeped in. Her friend was at home, making a bowl in the middle of the whitewashed clay floor.

“Oh, come in, Ginny,” said Rufina, pushing a chair with her feet. “I heard you coming. How are you? I haven’t seen you here for a week. Been sick?”

“No, they sent me to the Canyon all of a sudden, and I just got back yesterday. How’s all the family?” A sticky little girl, pursued by flies,