BY RON DUNGAN
Leonard Sloan stood at the canyon’s edge and prayed. He spoke in Navajo and English, facing east, hat in hand, words floating into the abyss. He had left his house in Cedar Ridge in the dark as a rooster crowed, driving dirt roads on the western Navajo Reservation as the sun came up, passing cattle and horses, sheep camps and corrals, until he arrived at the confluence of the Little Colorado and Colorado rivers...