The sun shone warmly, the sky gleamed bright azure through
the openings of the great trees, a dry west breeze murmured through
the forest. I was lying on my bed musing idly and watching a yellow
woodpecker when suddenly I felt a severe bite on my shoulder. I
imagined an ant had bitten me through my shirt. In a moment or so
afterward I received, this time on my breast, another bite that left
no room for imagination. There was some kind of an animal inside my
shirt, and one that made a mosquito, black-fly, or flea seem tame.
Suddenly a thought swept on the heels of my indolent and rather
annoying realization. Could I have gotten from the Navajo what Jim and
Jones so characteristically called "'em"? I turned cold all over. And
on the very instant I received another bite that burned like fire.
The return of my companions prevented any open demonstration of my
fears and condition of mind, but I certainly swore inwardly. During
the dinner hour I felt all the time as if I had on a horsehair shirt
with the ends protruding toward my skin, and, in the exaggerated
sensitiveness of the moment, made sure "'em" were chasing up and down
my back.
After dinner I sneaked off into the woods. I remembered that Emett
had said there was only one way to get rid of "'em," and that was to
disrobe and make a microscopical search of garments and person.
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