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Show myths, ways to survive in the desert. In his way he was an educated man, richer in facts and survival skills than Father. So I respected both his sadness at his lacks in "civilized" learning and his massive dignity. He was the descendant of a long line of chiefs. I could sense that even then. Latter Father confirmed my feeling. The man was chief of the Paiutes who lived in a little reservation on Indian Peak, a 10,000-foot pyramid that dominated the Needle Range west of White Sage Valley. Some of his letters that Father wrote were personal notes but the longest one was official, telling an absent white Indian agent about needs of the clan at the Peak. That was summer. In November we had another visit from Indian Peak Paiutes. Half a dozen rattletrap wagons drawn by rangy mustangs pulled up outside the store. Two dozen or more men, women and children scrambled out to swarm into our place. The men and older lads wore black sombreros and jeans, the squaws long black dresses with touches of beaded finery. Some of the youngest children frolicked about in shirts hardly below their waists. They were in a holiday mood. Our store was their first stop after a 30 mile trip from their village on a rough trail across White Sage Valley and through the hills south of the Wah Wah Range. They were headed for Milford, Minersville and Beaver to sell buckskin gloves and pinenuts and to celebrate the end of a long, dull summer. Perhaps they felt an unaccustomed freedom and confidence. They outnumbered us ten to one, they were far from white law and white crowds. They invaded the store, they bustled behind the counters where our white customers did not venture, they dove into storerooms and closets, they peered into jars and firkins of candy. Father gave each of the youngsters an all-day sucker. Although he was relaxed I felt alarmed. My reading of dime novels and pulp western magazines made me fear the worst. With my .22 rifle I stationed myself in |