climbed up in her lap.

“Not so good. My mother is still sick, but she is getting better. Did you bring many people today?”

“One full load, that’s all.”

“We have been busy. Yesterday there were so many. Two buses and other people coming by themselves, all day.”

Outside the door a bulky shadow fell. It was the lady from Chicago, reconnoitering on her own. Gin wondered if she had been walking into any of the houses without knocking; it sometimes had an oddly infuriating effect on the Indians.

“Oh, there’s Miss Arnold right at home in the middle of them. Come here, Eddie, here’s the cutest thing. I want you to take a picture of it. Look, here’s an Indian making a pot right in her own house. Isn’t that darling? Would you think that you were in the States?”

“Come in,” said Rufina. They stepped over the threshold and she sat back on her heels, smiling blankly.

“Oh, look,” said the lady loudly. “A baby too, right in Miss Arnold’s lap. Perfectly adorable. Miss Arnold,” she asked, whispering in a small shout, “aren’t you afraid of catching things? Her hair....”

Gin said that it was time to go back to the bus. She held open the door, waved good-bye to Rufina hastily, and went back to the marketplace. Eight of the dudes were back in the car, and Blake was waiting for her with a new purchase to show her, a turquoise ring.

“Let’s see it,” she said, and he took it off and handed it over.

“Why, it’s quite nice,” she said. “Did you buy it here?”

“Yes, that man over there was wearing it and I asked him if he wanted to sell. Is it really good? I liked the colour of the stone.”

“The green stones always look nice, I think,” she said. “Nice and old. They’re not the best, of course,” she added in low tones. “You probably paid more than he expected, but it’s good-looking, I think.”

It was not ethical to tell any dude that he had paid too much, but he didn’t seem to care. He liked the ring, that was all. Summer people always collected jewelry in a serious way—they liked to have heavy bracelets sitting around on the tables or shelves in a careless, opulent manner. The old timers scorned it.

Now the other ten were sitting in the bus, and on Mr. Butts’ face was a look that meant, “Must we wait all day while that hussy flirts?”

She took her own seat, thinking that she would get Mr. Butts yet.

They were growing a little impatient about lunch, she thought. The long drive up to Puye, around a hairpin turn that made the Chicago lady squeal for three minutes, distracted them a little from the idea of food. But not much. On top of the plateau while they were exclaiming over the view she thought of something that might get the wedge into Mr. Butts.

“In November,” she said as they entered the forest, “there are wild turkeys here. Lots of the boys in town shoot a couple during the season.” He grunted, but turned to look again at the neat wooded lawns. “He’s slipping,” she thought hopefully.

The cliffs of Puye were nearer: pale yellow in the pale brightness of the air. Higher and higher they went, round big curves that pulled them closer to the caves with every sweep. She showed them the caves——

“See those dark spots? Those are the cliff-dwellings we came out to see. Yes, we’ll see them much closer than this, Mrs. Jennings. We’re going to climb right up; right up there.” Mrs. Jennings squealed a little. She had them already, Gin reflected; she had all of them but Mr. Butts. How long would he take?

They swarmed over the rest-house when the bus came to a halt.

“Lunch!” she cried gaily. Mr. Butts seemed unimpressed. The hostess called her into the kitchen and whispered, “I’m at my wits’ ends. Will you please put it into your report again tonight? I simply cannot manage without another maid. I’m sorry, Gin, but I don’t think you’ll have much time for your own lunch today. Would you mind eating it afterwards?”

Gin carried plates and glasses back and forth from the kitchen to the living-room. Mrs. Jennings offered to help in a very sportsmanslike Western manner, but she was refused. Gin was horrified at the idea of a dude stepping into the kitchen. The hostess worked furiously unpacking the lunch that had come on the back of the bus; jellied soup and salad and apricot pie.

“Gosh, I get sick of this soup,” said Gin disconsolately in the kitchen, talking to the cook. “It’s worse when I have three trips to the same place in succession. Some day I’ll start bringing my own lunch.” She walked over to the window and watched the dudes disporting on the porch, fully fed and happy, teasing the rest-house puppy. Mr. Butts looked dour, however. He hadn’t been able to eat the apricot pie or the sandwiches because he was on a diet. “That fat one,” she told the cook, “is pretty bad.”

The cook looked over her shoulder and agreed heartily. “They all travel, that kind. Nobody will keep them at home. Have some more coffee?”

“No thanks. We’ll have to be starting. Well....” With a gesture of tightening her belt, she walked out to the porch. “Well, people, are we ready to go?”

“Where to?” asked Mr. Butts.

“Right up there.” She pointed to the stone-stepped hill behind the house, with the caves at the top of a long climb. Mr. Butts seemed to hesitate. “Curly’s going,” Gin added, nodding to the driver. “Aren’t you, Curly?”

“Sure thing. I’ll take care of you.”

Mrs. Jennings was the first to step forward. “All right; if Curly can make it, I can.”

Mr. Butts’ masculinity conquered, and he set out without further discussion. Blake had evidently gone on ahead; they could see him at the top with his hands in his pockets, looking around in a very pleased fashion all by himself.

There is a steep ladder at the top of the hill which leads from the slope to the flat summit. It sometimes causes a lot of trouble to people who have not caught their breath while they study the caves. Two of the ladies in Gin’s party looked at it fearfully and refused to climb it at all. They proposed to go down again to the rest-house, and said that they were satisfied with what they had seen. This feminine timidity spurred Mr. Butts to a genial teasing attitude. He laughed at the ladies; he taunted them; he essayed the ladder and found it easily conquered. From the top he persuaded them to be brave and come along. With pushing, pulling, lifting and pleading, they all managed to get there, and they gathered in a triumphant panting group about Gin, talking of mountain climbing in Switzerland and taking pictures of the ladder. She gathered her flock about her on the wind-swept summit and lectured on the glory that was Puye, waving to the piles of debris that once were houses and pointing out the dry water-hole. They walked the length of the village and peered into the excavations. They looked down upon the distant top of the rest-house. They stood up straight and breathed hard and gazed for miles over the tree-tops to the distant mountains, which did not look so high as they had before. Blake sauntered away and looked for bits of pottery. And Gin kept a wary eye on the red face of Mr. Butts.

“Yes, he’s slipping,” she told herself.

Afterwards they started home, a long silent ride that was uninterrupted except for a short visit to Tesuque. They were too tired to take much interest in Tesuque, which after all was just another Indian village. Of course, there was old Teofilo. Teofilo was a great help with his professional attitude of glad-hander; he greeted all couriers with the same glad surprise, although he saw at least one a day, and he was more than willing to show his scarred head, which had once been scalped. He loved to have his picture taken.

Then, the rest of the way was quiet. The dudes arranged their cameras in their laps, peered around at the bigger pots stored in the back of the bus, and