"I love this valley," repeated the cacique; "just down there is where, with one companion, I killed seven Navajos." He pointed with the hand that held the cigarette to the lower end of the park.
"You killed seven Navajos!" said Stephens, looking at him with surprise. "When was that? How did you manage it?"
"It was in the time of the war," answered the other proudly. "The Navajos used to hide here in the mountains all the time, and fall upon our people when we were at work in our lands. We could not stir outside the pueblo then without arms for fear of being waylaid by the rascals. And our scouts used to come up here in the mountains, too, and watch along the trails to see if any of the Navajos were prowling about, and give the alarm. Once I came up here on scout with another man of Santiago; and we hid and lay all night in that hill," he pointed to a rocky summit shaggy with pines that rose hard by. "And we struck the tracks of seven Navajos who were prowling about here to wait for their chance to make a descent upon our people in their fields. And for days we lay up there and watched them, and they never knew it, for we kept very still. And the third day we saw them making a sweat-house, and we knew they were going to have a bath. They built their house down there in the brush by the creek, and they covered it with willow twigs and sods to keep in the steam, and they made a fire and heated the stones red-hot, and carried them into the house and poured on water. And six of them left their arms outside with their clothes, and went into the bath, and the seventh covered the door with a blanket to keep in the hot steam. And my comrade and I crawled up on them through the brush very quickly, and making no noise, while the seventh Indian held the blanket over the door. And there I shot him with my gun,"--he threw up his rifle to his shoulder, and took aim at an imaginary Navajo as he spoke, his face glowing with pride and excitement over the recollection,--"and there he fell down dead. And we leaped forward, for we had stolen up very close behind his back, and the six Navajos inside came scrambling out of the sweat-house one after another, and we cracked their skulls, so, with our tomahawks, crack, crack, crack,"--he made an expressive pantomime of dealing heavy blows on a stooping foe,--"and we killed them all, every one. There was no chance for them; they could not escape. And we took their scalps and the plunder, and brought them home. It was a great triumph. Yes, I do love this valley."