Leaving his horse, he meandered down the valley until he came to
another and larger cave. "Wonder what's down there?" he soliloquized.
"Mebby one of them Injuns. Been there a thousand years waitin' for
somethin' to turn up. 'Nough to make a fella tired, waitin' that
long." He wanted to explore the cave, but he was afraid. Moreover,
the interior was dark. He pondered. Finally his natural fondness for
mild adventure overcame his fear. "Got some matches!" he exclaimed,
joyfully. "Wonder if it's deep? Guess I could put me legs in first,
and if nothin' bites me legs, why, I could follow 'em down to bottom."
He put his head in the hole. "Hey!" he hallooed, "are you in there?"
He rose to his feet. "Nothin' doin'. Well, here goes. I sure want to
see what's down there."

In his excitement he overlooked the possibility of disturbing a torpid
rattler. He slid feet first into the cave, found that he could all but
stand upright, and struck a match.


The ancient Hopis buried their dead in a sitting posture on a woven
grass mat, with an olla, and frequently a bone dagger, beside them. In
the clean, dry air of the uplands of Arizona the process of decay is
slow. Sundown, unaware of this, hardly anticipated that which
confronted him as the match flamed blue and flared up, lighting the
interior of the cave with instant brilliance. About six feet from
where he crouched was the dried and shriveled figure of a Hopi chief,
propped against the wall of the cave. Beside the figure stood the
painted olla untarnished by age. The dead Indian's head was bowed upon
his breast, and his skeleton arms, parchment-skinned and rigid, were
crossed upon his knees.