before us, and we looked ahead. Towards night we made camp at
Cooley's ranch, and slept inside, on the floor. Cooley was
interpreter and scout, and although he was a white man, he had
married a young Indian girl, the daughter of one of the chiefs
and was known as a squaw man. There seemed to be two Indian girls
at his ranch; they were both tidy and good-looking, and they
prepared us a most appetizing supper.

The ranch had spaces for windows, covered with thin unbleached
muslin (or manta, as it is always called out there), glass
windows being then too great a luxury in that remote place.
There were some partitions inside the ranch, but no doors; and,
of course, no floors except adobe. Several half-breed children,
nearly naked, stood and gazed at us as we prepared for rest. This
was interesting and picturesque from many standpoints perhaps,
but it did not tend to make me sleepy. I lay gazing into the fire
which was smouldering in the corner, and finally I said, in a
whisper, "Jack, which girl do you think is Cooley's wife?"

"I don't know," answered this cross and tired man; and then
added, "both of 'em, I guess."

Now this was too awful, but I knew he did not intend for me to
ask any more questions. I had a difficult time, in those days,
reconciling what I saw with what I had been taught was right, and
I had to sort over my ideas and deep-rooted prejudices a good
many times.

The two pretty squaws prepared a nice breakfast for us, and we
set out, quite refreshed, to travel over the malapais (as the