That was Virginia Breckenridge's way of keeping in touch with her neighbors. On learning of Professor Gillette's business in the mountains, she had sent to New York for books on Indian legends, Indian ruins and anything that might give the professor a clue to what he wanted to find. And much to her surprise, a book on Indian legends was written by Anton Gillette.

"Our professor is a modest man," laughed Enid. "Imagine him not telling us that he had written a book. He's got his typewriter with him, I wonder if he is planning another book."

"Let's go and ask him," announced Bet, jumping up and starting toward the door.

"It's ten o'clock! He'll be sound asleep," said Shirley. "Don't you think you can wait until morning?"

Bet had waited and then asked the old man, but she got little satisfaction. The professor was shy about his work.

But that was exactly what he was planning to do. If he could make some discoveries, get some practical knowledge and then write about it, he would save his job and increase his income so that his daughter might get the treatment to restore her health.

A sum of money had been offered to the old man for research work, and he had accepted it gladly. He knew from the history of Arizona that a large Indian village must have been situated in the region of Lost Canyon, and it was here that he hoped to find the burial place of the wealthy chief.

The younger teachers heard of his plan and smiled with condescension.

They did not imagine for a minute that the old man could stand the strenuous trip to the southwest and find the Indian village. It was a stunt that they would have hesitated to undertake.

But Anton Gillette was made of different stuff. Here was his chance, he must win out. As he looked into the pale face of his daughter, Alicia, her eyes glowing with hope both for her father and her own future, he had vowed that no hardships would be too great for him to overcome.

And here he was in the mountains, camping in Lost Canyon within, he believed, arm's length of the ruins. But so far he had not found them.

Luck was with him, that he knew. Everywhere from the time he had left home, he had found friends to help him. They gladly gave him advice, and in the case of The Merriweather Girls, they would have been happy to serve him in every way. They were quite indignant when the old man pitched his tent far from the ranch where they could not see him so often.

"It will never do," thought the professor. "I'll get soft if they wait on me and give me the idea that I can't do things for myself."

But the invitation from Virginia Breckenridge was another thing. These visits he loved. They were always helpful. The Judge was as interested in the finding of the ruins now as the old man himself. It was his only way to help the independent professor, who refused all financial aid, and the two men were often seen riding the hills together, speculating on the prospect of an ancient village there.

But still they had not found it, after a week of search.

Someone else was anxious to accompany the old man on his trips. It was Kie Wicks.

And while Professor Gillette enjoyed the daily visits of the girls and the occasional calls from Judge Breckenridge or Dad Patten, he found the storekeeper very trying. Kie arrived at the tent early and stayed late.

"That man acts as if he were spying on me. I wonder what he's afraid of. There is nothing here to steal that I can see."

This continued for a week and then ended abruptly. After that Kie Wicks came only once in a long time. This had been Maude's doing.

"You ain't getting no where at all, Kie. You keep that old book-worm from hunting or doing whatever he wants to do. Now if I were you, I'd let old Booky do his searching, then cook up a plan to do him out of whatever he finds."

"Maude, you're a wonder! Why didn't I think of that myself? I couldn't have found a better wife anywhere than you."

So Kie did not appear the next morning.

But it was not until noon that the professor knew that he had been deserted. His patience was at an end so he had risen before dawn and left the tent, striking off over the hills where Mrs. Patten had indicated. He returned at noon with arrowheads and a stone axe but there was no sign of ruins.

But the old man was not discouraged. These signs of Indians merely gave him the necessary urge to investigate.

Before he had finished lunch the girls arrived.

"Where's your bosom friend today?" they asked mockingly. "You and Kie Wicks are almost inseparable. It's quite touching to see such devotion," laughed Bet, who knew of the old man's impatience.

Bet laughed and the contagion of her merriment started the other girls and their voices echoed back to them from the canyon wall opposite.

While they stood there, a strange procession appeared around the bend in the trail. A band of horses one after the other, filed by.

"Poor horses!" exclaimed Bet in sympathy.

"Horses!" sneered Kit. "Those are not horses, they are just racks of bones, that's all. And that's the way most of the Indian ponies look."

The professor was speechless. He watched the procession with interest.

Fat squaws rode huddled over their nags, each carrying a baby strapped to her back. Small boys ran beside the horses or clung on behind the mother. The men usually rode free and on one of the animals, the professor saw an old Indian.

"I wish I could talk to him," he whispered to Kit, who was standing near him.

"You'll have your chance before the day is over. They usually camp right here where you are. I'm surprised that Indian Joe suggested this spot. They are not apt to go far away from here."

As Kit spoke the squaw heading the procession stopped, and it looked as if she rolled off her horse as she dismounted. She had evidently found a suitable place to camp. The professor was delighted that it was on the opposite side of the stream where he could watch them. A tepee was made almost before the squaws were all out of their saddles. A large piece of sacking was thrown over small bushes which were tied together at the top to form an arch. This was the only shelter put up by the Indians when on the march.

The men dismounted, sat down by the stream and smoked their pipes, while the women and children scurried about, gathering fire wood and starting a blaze.

In a few minutes they had settled down to life for a few days, the life that the Indians loved, carefree, indolent and happy.

The professor was greatly elated. Here was a chance to watch the modern Indian at least and see how he lived. He would have something to tell his cla.s.s.

"That's Old Mapia," confided Kit. "He's supposed to be about a hundred years old. You're in luck if you can get him to talk. Some of the young ones will translate for him if he gets stuck. I'll send Old Mary over, if he won't talk to you. She can make him tell stories."

Before the afternoon was over, the professor had invited the old Indian to have a smoke with him, then offered him cookies and other delicacies, and while he accepted without a sign of appreciation, the ice was broken and when the professor began to ask questions the old Indian answered as well as he could, and Young Wolf supplied the missing words that his grandfather had forgotten.

"Yes, once a very long time ago there were many Indians here, a city!"

droned the old fellow and the professor edged closer to hear him, fascinated by the wrinkled face.

"My father--my grandfather, yes, he know. Up yonder somewhere a large village, where the Indians make baskets and rugs and silver and pottery, long ago. There were good times then. Indians plenty rich.

No white men. My grandfather tell me heaps."

"Where was the village?" asked Professor Gillette.

"No find any more,--gone!" The Indian shook his head and with a wave of his hand indicated every hill surrounding the canyon.

"I think he knows," the professor confided to the girls that afternoon when he went up to see Dad Patten. "But it's probably a secret."

"No, it's on account of the curse," said Kit.

"But what has the curse to do with it?" the professor asked.

"Plenty. The daughter of the old chief still walks at times, and she cursed that village, and the Indians try to forget that there ever was such a place. None of them will go near it."

"What does the ghost look like, Kit?" asked Bet.

"She always wears a costume of deerskin and feathers. And at night she just appears out of nothing in Lost Canyon. One minute she isn't there and the next she is. And when she appears she is supposed to curse those who see her. They run for their lives."