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The Delight Makers

by Adolph Francis Alphonse Bandelier · English · Gutenberg #18310 · 886,432 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Delight Makers

Author: Adolph Francis Alphonse Bandelier


        
Release date: May 4, 2006 [eBook #18310]
                Most recently updated: December 13, 2020

Language: English

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Transcriber's note:

      The symbol [=a] is used to denote the sound of a in "hare,"
      which was originally represented in the text using the
      letter "a" with a macron.

      Other punctuation has been normalized to contemporary standards.





THE DELIGHT MAKERS

by

ADOLF F. BANDELIER

With an Introduction by Charles F. Lummis

Illustrated







[Illustration: Portrait of the Author]




New York Dodd, Mead and Company
Publishers
Copyright, 1890
by Dodd, Mead and Company
Copyright, 1916
by Dodd, Mead and Company, Inc.
Copyright, 1918
by Mrs. Fanny R. Bandelier
Printed In U. S. A.





PREFACE

This story is the result of eight years spent in ethnological and
archæological study among the Pueblo Indians of New Mexico. The first
chapters were written more than six years ago at the Pueblo of Cochiti.
The greater part was composed in 1885, at Santa Fé, after I had bestowed
upon the Tehuas the same interest and attention I had previously paid to
their neighbours the Queres. I was prompted to perform the work by a
conviction that however scientific works may tell the truth about the
Indian, they exercise always a limited influence upon the general
public; and to that public, in our country as well as abroad, the Indian
has remained as good as unknown. By clothing sober facts in the garb of
romance I have hoped to make the "Truth about the Pueblo Indians" more
accessible and perhaps more acceptable to the public in general.

The sober facts which I desire to convey may be divided into three
classes,--geographical, ethnological, and archæological. The
descriptions of the country and of its nature are real. The descriptions
of manners and customs, of creed and rites, are from actual observations
by myself and other ethnologists, from the statements of trustworthy
Indians, and from a great number of Spanish sources of old date, in
which the Pueblo Indian is represented as he lived when still unchanged
by contact with European civilization.

The descriptions of architecture are based upon investigations of ruins
still in existence on the sites where they are placed in the story.

The plot is my own. But most of the scenes described I have witnessed;
and there is a basis for it in a dim tradition preserved by the Queres
of Cochiti that their ancestors dwelt on the Rito de los Frijoles a
number of centuries ago, and in a similar tradition among the Tehuas of
the Pueblo of Santa Clara in regard to the cave-dwellings of the Puye.

A word to the linguist. The dialect spoken by the actors is that of
Cochiti for the Queres, that of San Juan for the Tehuas. In order to
avoid the complicated orthography latterly adopted by scientists for
Indian dialects, I have written Indian words and phrases as they would
be pronounced in continental languages. The letter [=a] is used to
denote the sound of a in "hare."

To those who have so kindly assisted me,--in particular to Rev. E. W.
Meany of Santa Fé, and to Dr. Norton B. Strong, of the United States
Army,--I herewith tender my heartfelt thanks.

                                                     AD. F. BANDELIER

SANTA FÉ, NEW MEXICO.

       *       *       *       *       *


PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION

The aim of our good and lamented friend in writing this book was to
place before the public, in novelistic garb, an account of the life and
activities of the Pueblo Indians before the coming of white men. The
information on which it is based was the result of his personal
observations during many years of study among the sedentary tribes of
New Mexico and in Spanish archives pertaining thereto in connection with
his researches for the Archæological Institute of America. He spent
months in continuous study at the Tehua pueblo of San Juan and the
Queres pueblo of Cochití, and the regard in which he was held by the
simple folk of those and other native villages was sincerely
affectionate. Bandelier's labors in his chosen field were commenced at a
time when a battle with hardship was a part of the daily routine, and
his method of performing the tasks before him was of the kind that
produced important results often at the expense of great suffering,
which on more than one occasion almost shut out his life.

Because not understood, _The Delight Makers_ was not received at first
with enthusiastic favor. It seemed unlike the great student of technical
problems deliberately to write a book the layman might read with
interest and profit; but his object once comprehended, the volume was
received in the spirit in which the venture was initiated and for a long
while search for a copy has often been in vain.

Bandelier has come unto his own. More than one serious student of the
ethno-history of our Southwest has frankly declared that the basis of
future investigation of the kind that Bandelier inaugurated will always
be the writings of that eminent man. Had he been permitted to live and
labor, nothing would have given him greater satisfaction than the
knowledge that the people among whom he spent so many years are of those
who fully appreciate the breadth of his learning and who have been
instrumental in the creation, by proclamation of the President, of the
"Bandelier National Monument," for the purpose of preserving for future
generations some of the archæological remains he was the first to
observe and describe.

                                                           F. W. HODGE.

        SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTION,
             WASHINGTON, D. C.,
           _September 25, 1916._

       *       *       *       *       *


NOTE

A SPECIAL interest attaches to the illustrations, now first included in
this edition. Many of them are from photographs made by Chas. F. Lummis
in 1890, under the supervision of Bandelier, and with special reference
to "The Delight Makers," then being written. These two friends were the
first students to explore the Tyuonyi and its neighborhood. In rain and
shine, afoot, without blankets or overcoats, with no more provision than
a little _atole_ (popcorn meal) and sweet chocolate, they climbed the
cliffs, threaded the cañons, slept in caves or under trees, measured,
mapped and photographed the ruins and landscapes with a 40-pound camera,
and laid the basis-notes for part of Bandelier's monumental "Final
Report" to the Archæological Institute of America.

A few later photographs from the same hand show part of the excavation
done in the Tyuonyi by the School of American Archæology--through whose
loving and grateful efforts this cañon has been set apart as a National
Monument bearing the name of its discoverer and chronicler,

                        ADOLF F. BANDELIER.

Thanks are due also to Hon. Frederick C. Hicks, M.C., for six very
interesting photographs of the Zuñis and their country.

       *       *       *       *       *


IN MEMORY

One day of August, 1888, in the teeth of a particular New Mexico
sand-storm that whipped pebbles the size of a bean straight to your
face, a ruddy, bronzed, middle-aged man, dusty but unweary with his
sixty-mile tramp from Zuñi, walked into my solitary camp at Los
Alamitos. Within the afternoon I knew that here was the most
extraordinary mind I had met. There and then began the uncommon
friendship which lasted till his death, a quarter of a century later;
and a love and admiration which will be of my dearest memories so long
as I shall live. I was at first suspicious of the "pigeon-hole memory"
which could not only tell me some Queres word I was searching for, but
add: "Policárpio explained that to me in Cochití, November 23, 1881."
But I discovered that this classified memory was an integral part of
this extraordinary genius. The acid tests of life-long collaboration
proved not only this but the judicial poise, the marvelous insight and
the intellectual chastity of Bandelier's mind. I cannot conceive of
anything in the world which would have made him trim his sails as a
historian or a student for any advantage here or hereafter.

Aside from keen mutual interests of documentary and ethnologic study, we
came to know one another humanly by the hard proof of the Frontier.
Thousands of miles of wilderness and desert we trudged side by
side--camped, starved, shivered, learned and were Glad together. Our
joint pursuits in comfort at our homes (in Santa Fé and Isleta,
respectively) will always be memorable to me; but never so wonderful as
that companioning in the hardships of what was, in our day, the really
difficult fringe of the Southwest. There was not a decent road. We had
no endowment, no vehicles. Bandelier was once loaned a horse; and after
riding two miles, led it the rest of the thirty. So we went always by
foot; my big camera and glass plates in the knapsack on my back, the
heavy tripod under my arm; his aneroid, surveying instruments, and
satchel of the almost microscopic notes which he kept fully and
precisely every night by the camp-fire (even when I had to crouch over
him and the precious paper with my water-proof focusing cloth) somehow
bestowed about him. Up and down pathless cliffs, through tangled cañons,
fording icy streams and ankle-deep sands, we travailed; no blankets,
overcoats, or other shelter; and the only commissary a few cakes of
sweet chocolate, and a small sack of parched popcorn meal. Our "lodging
was the cold ground." When we could find a cave, a tree, or anything to
temper the wind or keep off part of the rain, all right. If not, the
Open. So I came to love him as well as revere. I had known many
"scientists" and what happened when they really got Outdoors. He was in
no way an athlete--nor even muscular. I was both--and not very long
before had completed my thirty-five-hundred-mile "Tramp Across the
Continent." But I never had to "slow down" for him. Sometimes it was
necessary to use laughing force to detain him at dark where we had water
and a leaning cliff, instead of stumbling on through the trackless night
to an unknown "Somewheres." He has always reminded me of John Muir, the
only other man I have known intimately who was as insatiate a climber
and inspiring a talker. But Bandelier had one advantage. He could find
common ground with _anyone_. I have seen him with Presidents, diplomats,
Irish section-hands, Mexican peons, Indians, authors, scientists and
"society." Within an hour or so he was easily the Center. Not
unconscious of his power, he had an extraordinary and sensitive modesty,
which handicapped him through life among those who had the "gift of
push." He never put himself forward either in person or in his writing.
But something about him fascinated all these far-apart classes of
people, when he spoke. His command of English, French, Spanish, and
German might have been expected; but his facility in acquiring the
"dialects" of railroad men and cowboys, or the language of an Indian
tribe, was almost uncanny. When he first visited me, in Isleta, he knew
just three words of Tigua. In ten days he could make himself understood
by the hour with the Principales in their own unwritten tongue. Of
course, this was one secret of his extraordinary success in learning the
inner heart of the Indians.

I saw it proved again in our contact with the Quíchua and Aymará and
other tribes of Peru and Bolivia.

I have known many scholars and some heroes--but they seldom come in the
same original package. As I remember Bandelier with smallpox alone in
the two-foot snows of the Manzanos; his tens of thousands of miles of
tramping, exploring, measuring, describing, in the Southwest; his year
afoot and alone in Northern Mexico, with no more weapon than a
pen-knife, on the trails of raiding Apaches (where "scientific
expeditions" ten years later, when the Apache was eliminated, needed
armed convoys and pack-trains enough for a punitive expedition, and
wrote pretentious books about what every scholar has known for three
hundred years) I deeply wonder at the dual quality of his intellect.
Among them all, I have never known such student and such explorer lodged
in one tenement.

We were knit not only thus but in the very intimacies of life--sharing
hopes and bereavements. My first son, named for him, should now be
twenty-two. The old home in Santa Fé was as my own. The truly wonderful
little woman he found in Peru for mate--who shared his hardships among
the cannibals of the Amazonas and elsewhere, and so aided and still
carries on his work--I met in her maiden home, and am glad I may still
call her friend.

Naturally, among my dearest memories of our trampings together is that
of the Rito, the Tyuonyi. It had never in any way been pictured before.
We were the first students that ever explored it. He had discovered it,
and was writing "The Delight Makers." What days those were! The weather
was no friend of ours, nor of the camera's. We were wet and half-fed,
and cold by night, even in the ancient tiny caves. But the unforgettable
glory of it all!

To-day thousands of people annually visit the Tyuonyi at ease, and camp
for weeks in comfort. The School of American Archæology has a summer
session there; and its excavations verify Bandelier's surmises. Normal
students and budding archæologists sleep in the very caves (identified)
of the Eagle People, the Turquoise, Snake and other clans. And in that
enchanted valley we remember not only the Ancients, but the man who gave
all this to the world.

During the six years I was Librarian of the Los Angeles Public Library,
far later, no other out-of-print book on the Southwest was so eagerly
sought as "The Delight Makers." We had great trouble in getting our own
copy, which slept in the safe. The many students who wished copies of
their very own were referred to dealers in Americana, who searched for
this already rare volume; and many were proud to get it, at last, at
ten, fifteen and even twenty times its original price. It will always be
a standard--the most photographic story yet printed of the life of the
prehistoric Americans.

                                                     CHARLES F. LUMMIS.

       *       *       *       *       *


ILLUSTRATIONS

Portrait of the Author                          _Frontispiece_
                                                   FACING PAGE
The East End of the Cañon of the Tyuonyi                     8
A Modern Indian Dance                                       18
An Estufa                                                   18
Rito de los Frijoles: Cavate Rooms in Cliff; Ruins
of Talus Pueblo at the Foot of Cliff                        38
A Westerly Cliff of the Habitations of the Tyuonyi,
Showing Second and Third Story Caves, and
Some High Lookout Caves                                     70
A Navajo Hogan                                              88
The Heart of the Tyuonyi: The Excavated Lower
Story of the Great Terraced Communal House                  88
Rito de los Frijoles: A Cliff Estufa of the Snake-Clan     116
The Dance of the Ayash Tyucotz                             140
Indian Pueblo Dances of To-day: Lining Up for the
Dance; The "Clowns"                                        164
Type of Old Indian Woman                                   186
Juanico: A Member of the Modern Village-Council            224
The Hishtanyi Chayan, or Chief Medicine Man                256
Looking Out from One of the Weathered Cave-Rooms
of the Snake-Clan                                          320
Rito de los Frijoles: Looking Out from the Ceremonial
Cave                                                       384
Ruins of an Ancient Pueblo                                 472
A Modern Pueblo                                            486

       *       *       *       *       *




THE DELIGHT MAKERS

CHAPTER I.


The mountain ranges skirting the Rio Grande del Norte on the west,
nearly opposite the town of Santa Fé, in the Territory of New Mexico,
are to-day but little known. The interior of the chain, the Sierra de
los Valles, is as yet imperfectly explored. Still, these bald-crested
mountains, dark and forbidding as they appear from a distance, conceal
and shelter in their deep gorges and clefts many a spot of great natural
beauty, surprisingly picturesque, but difficult of access. From the
river these cañons, as they are called in New Mexico, can be reached
only by dint of toilsome climbing and clambering; for their western
openings are either narrow gaps, or access to them is barred by colossal
walls and pillars of volcanic rocks. The entire formation of the chain,
as far as it faces the Rio Grande, is volcanic, the walls of the gorges
consisting generally of a friable white or yellowish tufa containing
nodules of black, translucent obsidian. The rock is so soft that in many
places it can be scooped out or detached with the most primitive tools,
or even with the fingers alone. Owing to this peculiarity the slopes
exposed to the south and east, whence most of the heavy rains strike
them, are invariably abrupt, and often even perpendicular; whereas the
opposite declivities, though steep, still afford room for scanty
vegetation. The gorges run from west to east,--that is, they descend
from the mountain crests to the Rio Grande, cutting the long and narrow
pedestal on which the high summits are resting.

Through some but not all of these gorges run never-failing streams of
clear water. In a few instances the gorge expands and takes the
proportions of a narrow vale. Then the high timber that usually skirts
the rivulets shrinks to detached groves, and patches of clear land
appear, which, if cultivated, would afford scanty support to one or two
modern families. To the village Indian such tillable spots were of the
greatest value. The deep ravine afforded shelter not only against the
climate but against roving enemies, and the land was sufficient for his
modest crops; since his wants were limited, and game was abundant.

The material of which the walls of these cañons are composed, suggested
in times past to the house-building Indian the idea of using them as a
home. The tufa and pumice-stone are so friable that, as we have said,
the rock can be dug or burrowed with the most primitive implements. It
was easier, in fact, to excavate dwellings than to pile up walls in the
open air.

Therefore the northern sides of these secluded gorges are perforated in
many places by openings similar in appearance to pigeon-holes. These
openings are the points of exit and entrance of artificial caves, dug
out by sedentary aborigines in times long past. They are met with in
clusters of as many as several hundred; more frequently, however, the
groups are small. Sometimes two or more tiers of caves are superimposed.
From the objects scattered about and in the cells, and from the size and
disposition of the latter, it becomes evident that the people who
excavated and inhabited them were on the same level of culture as the
so-called Pueblo Indians of New Mexico.

It is not surprising, therefore, that some traditions and myths are
preserved to-day among the Pueblos concerning these cave-villages. Thus
the Tehua Indians of the pueblo of Santa Clara assert that the
artificial grottos of what they call the Puiye and the Shufinne, west of
their present abodes, were the homes of their ancestors at one time. The
Queres of Cochiti in turn declare that the tribe to which they belong,
occupied, many centuries before the first coming of Europeans to New
Mexico, the cluster of cave-dwellings, visible at this day although
abandoned and in ruins, in that romantic and picturesquely secluded
gorge called in the Queres dialect Tyuonyi, and in Spanish "El Rito de
los Frijoles."

The Rito is a beautiful spot. Situated in a direct line not over twenty
miles west of Santa Fé, it can still be reached only after a long day's
tedious travel. It is a narrow valley, nowhere broader than half a mile;
and from where it begins in the west to where it closes in a dark and
gloomy entrance, scarcely wide enough for two men to pass abreast, in
the east, its length does not exceed six miles. Its southern rim is
formed by the slope of a timbered mesa, and that slope is partly
overgrown by shrubbery. The northern border constitutes a line of
vertical cliffs of yellowish and white pumice, projecting and
re-entering like decorations of a stage,--now perpendicular and smooth
for some distance, now sweeping back in the shape of an arched segment.
These cliffs vary in height, although nowhere are they less than two
hundred feet. Their tops rise in huge pillars, in crags and pinnacles.
Brushwood and pine timber crown the mesa of which these fantastic
projections are but the shaggy border.

Through the vale itself rustles the clear and cool brook to which the
name of Rito de los Frijoles is applied. It meanders on, hugging the
southern slope, partly through open spaces, partly through groves of
timber, and again past tall stately pine-trees standing isolated in the
valley willows, cherry-trees, cottonwoods, and elders form small
thickets along its banks. The Rito is a permanent streamlet
notwithstanding its small size. Its water freezes in winter, but it
never dries up completely during the summer months.

Bunches of tall grass, low shrubbery, and cactus grow in the open spaces
between rocky débris fallen from above. They also cover in part low
mounds of rubbish, and ruins of a large pentagonal building erected
formerly at the foot of a slope leading to the cliffs. In the cliffs
themselves, for a distance of about two miles, numerous caves dug out by
the hand of man are visible. Some of these are yet perfect; others have
wholly crumbled away except the rear wall. From a distance the
port-holes and indentations appear like so many pigeons' nests in the
naked rock. Together with the cavities formed by amygdaloid chambers and
crevices caused by erosion, they give the cliffs the appearance of a
huge, irregular honeycomb.

These ruins, inside as well as outside the northern walls of the cañon
of the Rito, bear testimony to the tradition still current among the
Queres Indians of New Mexico that the Rito, or Tyuonyi, was once
inhabited by people of their kind, nay, even of their own stock. But the
time when those people wooed and wed, lived and died, in that secluded
vale is past long, long ago. Centuries previous to the advent of the
Spaniards, the Rito was already deserted. Nothing remains but the ruins
of former abodes and the memory of their inhabitants among their
descendants. These ancient people of the Rito are the actors in the
story which is now to be told; the stage in the main is the Rito itself.
The language of the actors is the Queres dialect, and the time when the
events occurred is much anterior to the discovery of America, to the
invention of gunpowder and the printing-press in Europe. Still the Rito
must have appeared then much as it appears now,--a quiet, lovely,
picturesque retreat, peaceful when basking in the sunlight, wonderfully
quiet when the stars sparkled over it, or the moon shed its floods of
silver on the cliffs and on the murmuring brook below.

In the lower or western part of its course the Tyuonyi rushes in places
through thickets and small groves, out of which rise tall pine-trees. It
is very still on the banks of the brook when, on a warm June day,
noon-time is just past and no breeze fans the air; not a sound is heard
beyond the rippling of the water; the birds are asleep, and the noise of
human activity does not reach there from the cliffs. Still, on the day
of which we are now speaking, a voice arose from the thicket, calling
aloud,--

"Umo,--'grandfather!'"[1]

"To ima satyumishe,--'come hither, my brother,'" another voice replied
in the same dialect, adding, "See what a big fish I have caught."

It sounded as though this second voice had issued from the very waters
of the streamlet.

Pine boughs rustled, branches bent, and leaves shook. A step scarcely
audible was followed by a noiseless leap. On a boulder around which
flowed streams of limpid water there alighted a young Indian.

He was of medium height and well-proportioned. His hands and feet were
rather small and delicate. He carried his head erect with ease and
freedom. Jet-black hair, slightly waving, streamed loose over temples
and cheeks, and was gathered at the back in a short thick knot. In front
it parted naturally, leaving exposed a narrow strip of the brow. The
features of the face, though not regular, were still attractive, for
large black eyes, almond-shaped, shone bright from underneath heavy
lashes. The complexion was dusky, and the skin had a velvety gloss.
Form, carriage, and face together betokened a youth of about eighteen
years.

His costume was very plain. A garment of unbleached cotton, coarsely
woven, covered the body as low as the knee. This garment, sleeveless and
soiled by wear, was tied over the right shoulder. A reddish-brown scarf
or belt of the same material fastened it around the waist. Feet, arms,
and the left shoulder were bare. Primitive as was this costume, there
was, nevertheless, an attempt here and there at decoration. The belt was
ornamented with black and white stitches; from each ear hung a turquoise
suspended by a cotton thread, and a necklace of coloured pebbles strung
on yucca fibre encircled the neck.

Like a statue of light-coloured bronze decked with scanty drapery, and
adorned with crude trinkets, holding a bow in the right hand, while the
left clenched a few untipped arrows, the youth stood on the boulder
outlined against the shrubbery, immovable above the running brook. His
gaze was fixed on the opposite bank, where a youngster was kneeling.

The latter was a boy of perhaps nine years. A dirty wrap hung loosely
over shoulders and back, and no necklace or ear-pendants decorated his
body. But the childish features were enlivened by a broad grin of
satisfaction, and his eyes sparkled like coals just igniting, while he
pointed to a large mountain trout which he pressed against a stone with
both hands. He looked at the older youth with an expression not merely
of pleasure, but of familiar intimacy also. It was clear that both boys
were children of the same parents.

The younger one spoke first,--

"See here, Okoya," he began, grinning; "while you are older than I, and
bigger and stronger, I am more cunning than you. Ever since the sun came
out you have followed the turkeys, and what have you? Nothing! Your
hands are empty! I have just come down from the field, and look! I
caught this fish in the water. Shall we fry and eat it here, or carry it
home to the mother?"

The older brother did not relish the taunt; his lips curled. He replied
scornfully,--

"Any child may catch a fish, but only men can follow turkeys. The tzina
is shy and wary; it knows how sure my aim is, therefore it hides when I
go out to hunt."

The little one replied to this pompous explanation with a clear mocking
laugh.

"Turkeys care nothing about you," he retorted. "It is nothing to them
whether you go out or not!"

"Shyuote," his brother scolded, "stop prating about things of which you
do not know. It is true I am not one of the order of hunters, Shyayak,
but I may become so soon." He stopped, as if a sudden thought had struck
him, and then exclaimed: "Now I know why luck has failed me this
morning! When I left our houses I should have scattered meal, and placed
a pebble on the heap beside the trail, and offered a plume to our Mother
Above. All this I neglected. Now I am punished for it by the birds
concealing themselves. For had they come out--"

"You would have missed them," tauntingly replied the other. "If you want
to kill turkeys join the Koshare. Then you will catch them with roots
and flowers."

Okoya grew angry.

"Hush! foolish boy," he retorted, "what are the Koshare to me? Don't
speak about such things here. Come, take your fish, and let us go home."

With this Okoya leaped over the brook. Shyuote whispered audibly to him,
"Yes; you are very fond of the Koshare." But the sarcastic remark was
not heeded by the elder lad, who turned to go, Shyuote following him.
Proudly the little boy tossed his fish from one hand to the other.

Beyond the straight and lofty pine trunks a whitish glare soon appeared.
Brilliant sunlight broke through the tree-tops, and played around the
dark needles, turning them into a brighter, lighter, emerald green. A
background of yellow and cream-coloured rocks, visible now through
openings in the shrubbery, showed that the boys were approaching a clear
space.

Here the elder one suddenly stopped, turned to his brother, looked
straight at him, and asked,--

"Shyuote, what have you heard about the Koshare?"

Instead of answering the child looked down, indifferent and silent, as
if he had not heard the query.

"What have you heard, boy?" continued the other.

Shyuote shrugged his shoulders. He had no inclination to reply.

"Why don't you answer?" Okoya persisted.

His brother looked up, cast a furtive glance at the interlocutor, then
stared vacantly, but with head erect, before him. His eyes were glassy
and without any expression.

[Illustration: The east end of the Cañon of the Tyuonyi]

Whenever the Indian does not wish to speak on any subject, whatever it
be, no power on earth can compel him to break silence. Okoya, as an
Indian, felt rather than understood this; and the child's refusal to
answer a very simple question aroused his suspicions. He looked at the
stubborn boy for a moment, undecided whether he would not resort to
force. The child's taunts had mortified his pride in the first place;
now that child's reticence bred misgivings. He nevertheless restrained
both anger and curiosity for the present, not because of indifference
but for policy's sake, and turned to go. Shyuote looked for a moment as
if he wished to confess to his brother all that the latter inquired
about, but soon pouted, shrugged his shoulders, and set out after Okoya
in a lively fox-trot again.

The valley lay before them; they had reached the end of the grove.

Smiling in the warm glow of a June day, with a sky of deepest azure, the
vale of the Rito expanded between the spot which the boys had reached
and the rocky gateways in the west, where that valley seemed to begin.
Fields, small and covered with young, bushy maize-plants, skirted the
brook, whose silvery thread was seen here and there as its meanderings
carried it beneath the shadow of shrubs and trees, or exposed it to the
full light of the dazzling sun. In the plantations human forms appeared,
now erect, now bent down over their work. A ditch of medium size
bordered the fields on the north, carrying water from the brook for
purposes of irrigation. Still north of the ditch, and between it and the
cliffs, arose a tall building, which from a distance looked like a high
clumsy pile of clay or reddish earth.

This pile was irregularly terraced. Human beings stood on the terraces
or moved along them. Now and then one was seen to rise from the interior
of the pile to one of the terraced roofs, or another slowly sank from
sight, as if descending into the interior of the earthy heap. On the
outside, beams leaned against it, and on them people went up and down,
as if climbing ladders. Thin films of smoke quivered in the air from
imperceptible flues.

The cliffs themselves extended north of this building and east and west
as far as the range of view permitted, like a yellowish ribbon of
towering height with innumerable flexures and alternations of light and
shade. Their base was enlivened by the bustle of those who dwelt in
caves all along the foot of the imposing rocky wall. Where to-day only
vacant holes stare at the visitor, at the hour on the day when our story
begins, human eyes peered through. Other doors were closed by deer-hides
or robes. Sometimes a man, a woman, or a child, would creep out of one
of these openings, and climbing upward, disappear in the entrance of an
upper tier of cave-dwellings. Others would descend the slope from the
cliffs to the fields, while still others returned from the banks of the
ditch or of the brook. At the distance from which the boys viewed the
landscape all passed noiselessly; no human voice, no clamour disturbed
the stillness of the scene.

Peaceful as Nature appeared, neither of the youth were in the least
struck by its charms or influenced by the spell which such a tranquil
and cheerful landscape is likely to exercise upon thinking and feeling
man. With both it was indifference; for the Indian views Nature with the
eyes of a materially interested spectator only. But the elder brother
had another reason for not noticing the beauty of the scene. He was not
only troubled, he was seriously embarrassed. The hint thrown out by his
little brother about the Koshare had struck him; for it led to the
inference that the child had knowledge of secret arts and occult
practices of which even he, Okoya, although on the verge of manhood, had
never received any intimation. Far more yet than this knowledge, which
Shyuote might have obtained through mere accident, the hint at
unpleasant relations between Okoya and the Koshare startled the latter.

It was perfectly true that he not only disliked but even hated the
cluster of men to which the name of Koshare was given in the tribe; but
he had concealed his feelings as carefully as possible until now. Only
once, as far as he could remember, had he spoken of his aversion; and
then it was during an absolutely confidential conversation with his own
mother, who seemed to entertain like sentiments.

To his father he had never uttered a word; because his father was
himself a Koshare. Whatever Shyuote knew, he could only have gathered by
overhearing a conversation of the Koshare among themselves, in which it
was mentioned that he, Okoya, harboured ill-feelings toward that
brotherhood. In that case he might be exposed to serious danger, since,
as he believed, those people were in possession of knowledge of a higher
order, and practised arts of an occult nature. Against danger arising
from such a source, Okoya considered himself utterly defenceless.

The more he tried to think over these matters, the more troubled his
mind became. Only one thought appeared logical and probable and that was
that the boy had overheard one or other of the Koshare's intimate
conversations. But how came it that the Koshare knew about Okoya's
aversion toward them? Who could have told them? Only his mother knew the
secret! Had she, perhaps, she--The thought was like a spark which glowed
for a while, grew to a flame, flared and flickered unsteadily within his
heart, then began to shrink. No, no; it was impossible! it could not be!
His mother would never betray her child! The flame died out, the spark
remained fast dying. Suddenly it blazed up again as if some breath had
fanned it.

With renewed insistence, it struck Okoya that even if Shyuote had merely
overheard a conversation and the child's knowledge was derived from that
source, the most extraordinary part of the information could only have
come from one source,--the person in whom he had confided, his mother!
She alone could have told the Koshare that Okoya hated them. The spark
flared up anew; it burst out in a wild flame of suspicion. It singed
the heart and smothered feeling as well as reason. It so completely
absorbed his thoughts, that Okoya forgot everything else. Instead of
walking along at a quiet easy gait, he rushed fast and faster, wrapped
in dismal despair and in wild impotent wrath. Heedless of his little
companion he ran, panting with agitation, until Shyuote, unable to keep
pace and startled at his wild gait, pulled his garment and begged him to
stop.

"Brother," he cried, "why do you go so fast? I cannot follow you!"

Okoya came to a sudden halt, and turned toward the boy like one aroused
from a sinister dream. Shyuote stared at him with surprise akin to
fright. How changed was his appearance! Never before had he seen him
with a countenance so haggard, with eyes hollow and yet burning with a
lurid glow. Loose hair hung down over forehead and cheeks, perspiration
stood on the brow in big drops. The child involuntarily shrunk back, and
Okoya, noticing it, gasped,--

"You are right, the day is long yet and the houses near. We will go
slower."

Bowing his head again he went on at a slower gait.

Shyuote followed in silence. Although surprised at the change in his
brother's looks, he did not for a moment entertain the thought or desire
of inquiring into the cause of it. He was fully satisfied that as long
as Okoya did not see fit to speak of the matter, he had no right to ask
about it: in short, that it was none of his business.

Meanwhile dark and dismal thoughts were chasing each other within the
elder brother's soul. Doubt and suspicion became more and more crushing.
He was tempted to break the spell and interrogate Shyuote once more,
even to wrench from him, if needs be, a full explanation. The boy was
old enough to enjoy that great and often disagreeable quality of the
American Indian, reticence. Furthermore, he might have been forbidden to
speak.

If the Indian is not an ideal being, he is still less a stolid mentally
squalid brute. He is not reticent out of imbecility or mental weakness.
He fails properly to understand much of what takes place around him,
especially what happens within the circle of our modern civilization,
but withal he is far from indifferent toward his surroundings. He
observes, compares, thinks, reasons, upon whatever he sees or hears, and
forms opinions from the basis of his own peculiar culture. His senses
are very acute for natural phenomena; his memory is excellent, as often
as he sees fit to make use of it. There is no difference between him and
the Caucasian in original faculties, and the reticence peculiar to him
under certain circumstances is not due to lack of mental aptitude.

He does not practise that reticence alike toward all. A great number of
examples seems to establish the fact that the Indian has developed a
system of casuistry, based upon a remarkably thorough knowledge of human
nature. Certain matters are kept concealed from some people, whereas
they are freely discussed with others, and _vice versa_. The Indian
hardly ever keeps a secret to himself alone; it is nearly always shared
by others whom the matter directly concerns. It may be said of the red
man that he keeps secrets in the same manner that he lives,--namely, in
groups or clusters. The reason is that with him individualism, or the
mental and moral independence of the individual, has not attained the
high degree of development which prevails among white races.

When Europeans began to colonize America in the fifteenth and sixteenth
centuries, the social organization of its inhabitants presented a
picture such as had disappeared long before on the continent of Europe.
Everywhere there prevailed linguistic segregation,--divisions into
autonomous groups called tribes or stocks, and within each of these,
equally autonomous clusters, whose mutual alliance for purposes of
sustenance and defence constituted the basis of tribal society. The
latter clusters were the clans, and they originated during the
beginnings of the human family. Every clan formed a group of supposed
blood-relatives, looking back to a mythical or traditional common
ancestor. Descent from the mother being always plain, the clan claimed
descent in the female line even if every recollection of the female
ancestor were lost, and theoretically all the members of one clan were
so many brothers and sisters. This organization still exists in the
majority of tribes; the members of one clan cannot intermarry, and, if
all the women of a clan die, that clan dies out also, since there is
nobody left to perpetuate it. The tribe is in reality but a league; the
clan is the unit. At the time we speak of, the affairs of each tribe
were administered by an assembly of delegates from all its clans who at
the same time arbitrated inevitable disputes between the several
blood-relations.

Each clan managed its own affairs, of which no one outside of its
members needed to know anything. Since the husbands always belonged to a
different consanguine group from their wives, and the children followed
their mother's line of descent, the family was permanently divided.
There was really no family in our sense of the word. The Indian has an
individual name only. He is, in addition, distinguished by the name of
his clan, which in turn has its proper cognomen. The affairs of the
father's clan did not concern his wife or his children, whereas a
neighbour might be his confidant on such matters. The mother, son, and
daughter spoke among themselves of matters of which the father was not
entitled to know, and about which he scarcely ever felt enough curiosity
to inquire. Consequently there grew a habit of not caring about other
people's affairs unless they affected one's own, and of confiding
secrets to those only whom they could concern, and who were entitled to
know them. In the course of time the habit became a rule of education.
Reticence, secrecy, discretion, are therefore no virtues with the
Indian; they are simply the result of training.

Okoya too had been under the influence of such training, and he knew
that Shyuote, young as he was, had already similar seeds planted within
him. But uncertainty was insufferable; it weighed too heavily upon him,
he could no longer bear it.

"Umo," he burst out, turning abruptly and looking at the boy in an
almost threatening manner, "how do you know that I dislike the Koshare?"

Shyuote cast his eyes to the ground, and remained silent. His brother
repeated the query; the little fellow only shrugged his shoulders. With
greater insistence the elder proceeded,--

"Shyuote Tihua, who told you that the Delight Makers are not precious to
me, nor I to them?"

Shyuote shook his head, pouted, and stared vacantly to one side. He
manifestly refused to answer.

Cold perspiration stood on the brow of the elder brother; his body
quivered in anguish; he realized the truth of his suspicions. Unable any
longer to control himself he cried,--

"It is my mother who told them!"

Trembling, with clenched hands and gnashing teeth, he gazed at the child
unconsciously. Shyuote, frightened at his wild and menacing attitude,
and ignorant of the real cause of his brother's excitement, raised his
hand to his forehead and began to sob.

A shout coming from the immediate vicinity aroused and startled Okoya. A
voice called out to him,--

"Umo!"

He looked around in surprise. They were standing close to the cultivated
plots, and a man loomed up from between the maize-plants. He it was who
called, and as soon as Okoya turned toward him he beckoned the youth to
come nearer. Okoya's face darkened; he reluctantly complied, leaped over
the ditch, walked up to the interlocutor, and stood still before him in
the attitude of quiet expectancy with downcast eyes. Shyuote had dropped
to the ground; the call did not interfere with his sobs; he pouted
rather than grieved.

Okoya's interlocutor was a man of strong build, apparently in the
forties. His features, although somewhat flat and broad, created a
favourable impression at first; upon closer scrutiny, however, the eyes
modified that impression. They were small, and their look piercing
rather than bright. His costume was limited to a tattered breech-clout of
buckskin. A collar of small white shells encircled the neck, and from
this necklace dangled a triangular piece of alabaster, flat, and with a
carving on it suggesting the shape of a dragon-fly. His hair streamed
loose over the left ear, where there was fastened to the black coarse
strands a tuft of grayish down.

This individual eyed Okoya in silence for a moment, as if inspecting his
person; then he inquired,--

"Where do you come from?"

The young fellow looked up and replied,--

"From below," pointing to the lower end of the gorge.

"What did you hunt?" the other continued, glancing at the bow and arrows
of the boy.

"Tzina;" and with perceptible embarrassment Okoya added, "but I killed
nothing."

The man seemed not to heed the humiliation which this confession
entailed, and asked,--

"Have you seen tracks of the mountain-sheep down yonder?"

"Not one; but I saw at a distance on the slope two bears very large and
strong."

The other shook his head.

"Then there are no mountain sheep toward that end of the Tyuonyi," he
said, waving his left hand toward the southeast, "thank you, boy," at
the same time extending his right to the youth. Okoya grasped it, and
breathed on the outside of the hand. Then he said, "hoa umo," and turned
and sauntered back to where his little brother was still squatting and
pouting, morose and silent.

The man had also turned around, bent down, and gone on weeding the corn.
Withal he did not lose sight of the boys; on the contrary, an occasional
stealthy glance from his half-closed eyes shot over where they met.

Shyuote rose from the ground. His eyes were dry, but he glanced at his
brother with misgivings as well as with curiosity. The latter felt a
sudden pang upon beholding the childish features. The short
interruption, though annoying at first, had diverted him from gloomy
thoughts. Now, everything came back to his mind with renewed force,--the
same anguish, the feeling of utter helplessness in case of impending
danger, indignation at what he believed to have been base treason on the
part of his mother,--all this rushed upon him with fearful force, and he
stood again motionless, a picture of wild perplexity. His face betokened
the state of his mind. Shyuote did not dare to inquire of him further
than to ask a very insignificant question,--namely, who the man was that
had called.

Okoya answered readily, for this query was almost a relief,--a diversion
which enabled him to subdue his agitation. "Tyope Tihua," he said
hastily, "wanted to know if I had seen any mountain sheep. I told him
that I had only seen bear-tracks. Let him follow those," he growled.
"Come on, satyumishe, it is getting late."

While this conversation had been carried on, the boys, now hurrying and
now slackening their pace, had arrived within a short distance of the
tall clay-pile, which was seen to be a high polygonal building,
apparently closed on all sides. Between them and this edifice there was
still another lower one, not unlike an irregular honeycomb. About forty
cells, separated from each other by walls of earth, carried up from the
ground to a few inches above the terraced roof, constituted a
ground-floor on which rested a group of not more than a dozen similar
cells. The walls of this structure were of stones, irregularly broken
and clumsily piled, but they were covered by a thick coating of clay so
that nothing of the rough core remained visible. Instead of doors or
entrances, air-holes, round or oval, perforated these walls.

The house appeared empty. No smoke flitted over the flat roof; the
coating was so recent that many places were hardly dry.

[Illustration: (Upper picture) A modern Indian Dance]

[Illustration: (Lower picture) An estufa]

North of this building, a circular structure thirty feet in diameter
rose a few feet only above the soil, like the upper part of a sunken
cylinder. Its top was flat, and large flags of stone formed a rough
staircase leading to its roof. In the centre, a square opening appeared,
out of which a tall beam, notched at regular intervals like a primitive
ladder, protruded, and down which also the beam disappeared as if
extended into the bowels of the earth. This edifice, half underground,
half above the soil, was what to-day is called in New Mexico an
_estufa_.[2] This Spanish word has become a technical term, and we shall
hereafter use it in the course of the story as well as the designations
_tshikia_ and _kaaptsh_ of the Queres Indians.

The estufas were more numerous in a single pueblo formerly than they are
now. Nor are they always sunken. At the Rito there were at least ten,
five of which were circular chambers in the rock of the cliffs. These
chambers or halls were, in the times we speak of, gathering places for
men exclusively. No woman was permitted to enter, unless for the purpose
of carrying food to the inmates. Each clan had its own estufa, and the
young men slept in it under the surveillance of one or more of the aged
principals, until they married, and frequently even afterward.

There the young men became acquainted with the affairs of their
individual connections, and little by little also with the business of
the tribe. There, during the long evenings of winter, old men taught
them the songs and prayers embodying traditions and myths, first of
their own clan, then of the tribe.[3] The estufa was school, club-house,
nay, armory to a certain extent. It was more. Many of the prominent
religious exercises took place in it. The estufa on special occasions
became transformed into a temple for the clan who had reared it.

From the depths of this structure there came a series of
dull sounds like beats of a drum. The youngsters stopped short, and
looked at each other in surprise.

"The new house," whispered Okoya, "which the Corn clan have built here
is empty, yet there is somebody in its estufa. What may this mean?"

"Let us look into it," eagerly suggested Shyuote.

"Go you alone!" directed the elder brother. "I will walk on, and you can
overtake me by-and-by."

That suited Shyuote. He crept stealthily toward the round building.
There was an air-hole in the rim which rose above the ground. Crouching
like a cat, the boy cautiously peered through this opening, but quickly
withdrew with an expression of disappointment. The underground chamber
was not even finished; its walls were dark and raw, the floor rough, and
on this floor a half-dozen young fellows in every stage of dress or
undress were lounging. One of them mechanically touched a small drum
with a stick, while two or three of the others were humming a monotonous
tune to the rhythm of his rappings. Shyuote stole away in evident
discontent; his curiosity was satisfied, but at the expense of his
expectations.

Loud laughter, screams, and animated talking diverted his attention, and
caused him to run in the direction of the new house of the Corn clan. He
heard the voice of his brother, but at the same time women's voices
also, and as soon as he turned the farther corner of the building, he
saw what was plainly a playful encounter between Okoya and a pair of
young girls.

The former had his bow in hand ready to shoot, and he pointed the arrow
at the maidens alternately; they, utterly unconcerned about his weapon,
were pressing him with weapons of their own, which he was much more
anxious to avoid than they his missiles. These were two pairs of very
dirty hands filled and covered with liquid mud with which the damsels
attempted to decorate his person. Okoya was clearly on the defensive,
and the advantage so far seemed on the side of his aggressors. Shyuote
flew to his assistance. Rushing to a large vessel of burnt clay,
standing alongside the wall and filled with water, he plunged both hands
into it, and began to bespatter the assailants with the not very clean
liquid. Forthwith one of the girls turned against the new enemy. She was
older and taller than Shyuote. Seizing his raven locks she pulled him to
the ground on his face, knelt on the prostrate form, and then and there
gave the boy a series of energetic cuffs against which the youngster
struggled and wriggled in the most desperate but absolutely ineffectual
manner. The fair sex held the balance of power and wielded it. At every
attempt of Shyuote to rise or to roll over, she pushed his face back
into the moist ground, she pulled his hair, thumped his shoulders, and
boxed his ears. She was in earnest, and Shyuote was powerless in her
firm grasp. He could not even scream, for a thick coating of soil had
fastened itself to his features, had penetrated into eye, mouth, and
nostrils. His fate was as melancholy as it was ludicrous; it brought
about a truce between Okoya and the other maiden. They dropped, he the
weapon, she her muddy arms, and looked at the other set of combatants
with surprise and with immoderate laughter. The Indian is not
tender-hearted on such occasions. When the victorious beauty at last
arose, suffering her victim to turn over again, the merriment became
uproarious, for Shyuote presented the appearance of a blowing, spitting,
coughing, statue of dirt. His looks were in no manner improved by his
frenzy after the boy had rubbed his eyes, and recovered his breath.
Tears of rage rolled down his cheeks over patches of sand and mud, and
when he noticed the mirth of the others Shyuote's fury knew no bounds.
He rushed madly at the triumphant lass, who did not shrink from the
hostile approach. The contest was threatening to assume serious
proportions, when another person appeared upon the scene, at the sight
of whom even Shyuote temporarily stayed all demonstrations, while Okoya
seemed both startled and embarrassed. The new-comer was a young girl
too; she carried on her head a vessel of burnt clay similar to a flat
urn, decorated with black and red designs on cream-coloured ground, and
filled with water.

To understand this scene we must know that the two girls had been
engaged in putting on the last coat of plaster to the walls of the abode
of the Corn people, when Okoya suddenly came upon them. At a glance they
saw that he had been on a hunt, and also that he had hunted in vain.
Here was a welcome opportunity for jeering and mockery. They interrupted
their plastic labour, and turned against him with such merciless
allusions to his ill-success, that unable any longer to reply to their
sarcasm Okoya threatened them, in jest of course, with his bow. Instead
of desisting, the girls at once moved upon him with muddy hands. The one
who last appeared upon the scene, although assistant to the others,
inasmuch as she carried the water needed in the preparation of the mud
for plastering, had not seen the engagement just fought. She looked at
the group in blank surprise, stood still without lifting the bowl from
her head, and presented thus the appearance of a handsome statue, dusky
and graceful, whose lustrous black eyes alone moved, glancing from one
of the members of the group to the other. Those large expressive eyes
plainly asked, "What does all this mean?"

The antagonists of Okoya and Shyuote were buxom lasses, rather short,
thick-waisted, full-chested, with flat faces, prominent cheek-bones, and
bright eyes. The third maiden was taller and much more graceful: her
features were less coarse, less prominently distinctive. The nose was
well-proportioned, the mouth also, although the lips were rather heavy.
The eyes were large and beaming, soft yet not without an intelligent
expression. All three girls were dressed nearly alike. A dark-blue
cotton garment descended as far as the knees; it was tied over the left
shoulder, and the right was exposed. A red-tinged scarf served as belt
around the waist. Arms and feet were bare. The long black hair streamed
loosely. Two of them wore heavy necklaces of green stones, red pebbles,
and shell beads. The last comer carried only a single string of shell
beads with an iridescent conch fastened to it in front. Ear-pendants of
turquoises hung from the ears of all three.

The attention of the girl with the urn on her head soon rested on
Shyuote, and she was the first to break the silence by a hearty peal of
laughter. This started her companions again, and the one nearest to
Okoya exclaimed,--

"Mitsha help us throw the water in your urn over the head of the boy.
Okoya began it all, give it to him, too. You are strong enough."

At the mention of Okoya's name the maiden addressed as Mitsha started.
She threw a quick glance like a flash at him. Her face quivered and
coloured slightly. Turning away, she deposited the water-urn at the foot
of the wall, and remained standing, her eyes directed to the cliffs, her
lithe fingers carelessly playing with the beads of her necklace. She was
disinclined to take any part in the fray, and her behaviour acted as a
damper on the buoyancy of the others. Okoya hastily gathered up his
arrows, and called Shyuote to his side. But the boy did not care to
obey. Thirst for revenge held him to the spot of his defeat; he shook
his fists at the girls, clenched his teeth, and began to threaten
vengeance, and to shower uncomplimentary expressions upon them. As soon,
however, as the one who had so effectually routed him showed again a
decided movement toward his raven locks, he beat a hasty retreat to his
elder brother. This change of base excited new hilarity, and under a
shower of jokes and sarcasms the two boys departed. Okoya walked along
at a steady gait; but Shyuote, as soon as he considered the distance
safe enough, turned around, making grimaces at the belligerent damsels,
vowing vengeance, and uttering opprobrious epithets of the choicest
kind. He noticed that the two returned his compliments without reserve,
whereas Mitsha stood in silence leaning against the house-wall. One
single look, one earnest almost sad glance, she sent after the
disappearing form of Shyuote's elder brother.

The main building was now close at hand. It was an irregular pentagon,
and at places two, at others three stories high. With one single
exception these stories formed terraces, retreating successively from
the ground to the top like so many steps of a staircase. Nowhere did
there appear any entrance. Notched beams led up to trapdoors in the
roofs, similar beams penetrated into the interior below. Absolute
stillness reigned about the edifice. Some women scoured scanty clothing
in the ditch running past the structure; on the terraces not a soul
appeared. The lads directed their course toward that side where the
three stories presented a perpendicular wall, and as they neared it an
entrance, or doorway, high enough for a man and wide enough for four
abreast appeared in the vertical front. It led them through a dark
passage into an interior court which was fairly clean and contained
three estufas. Its diameter did not exceed one hundred and fifty feet.

Toward this court, or yard, the stories of the building descended in
terraces also; but though everywhere beams leaned up as ladders, access
to the ground-floor was also afforded by narrow doorways closed with
hides or mats. It was hot and quiet in this yard; the sun shed glaring
light into it and over the roofs. Naked urchins played and squirmed
below, whereas above, an old woman or some aged man would cower
motionless, shading their blear eyes with one hand and warming their
cold frames in the heat. Okoya went directly to one of the ground-floor
openings, lifted the deerskin that hung over it, and called out the
usual greeting,--

"Guatzena!"

"Opona,--'come in,'" responded a woman's voice. Both lads obeyed the
summons. At first the room seemed dark on account of the sudden contrast
with the glare outside, but as soon as this first impression was
overcome, it appeared moderately lighted. It was a chamber about
fourteen feet long and ten feet wide, and its walls were whitewashed
with burnt gypsum. Deer-hides and a mat plaited of yucca-leaves lay
rolled up in one corner. A niche contained a small earthen bowl, painted
white with black symbolic figures. A doorway to the right led into
another compartment which seemed darker than the first. As soon as the
boys entered the room, a woman appeared in this side doorway. She was
small, slender, and apparently thirty-five years of age. Her features,
notwithstanding the high cheek-bones, were attractive though wan and
thin. An air of physical suffering lay over them like a thin cloudy
veil. At the sight of this woman, Okoya's heart began to throb again;
for she it was whom he so direly suspected, nay, accused of treachery
and deceit. This woman was his mother.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: The word "umo" properly signifies "grandfather;" but it is
used indiscriminately for all ages and sexes in calling. An old man, for
instance, will call his grandchild "umo;" so will a wife her husband, a
brother his sister, etc.]

[Footnote 2: _Estufa_ properly means a stove, and the name was applied
to those semi-subterranean places by the Spaniards on account of their
comfortable temperature in winter. They recalled to them the
_temaz-calli_, or sweat-houses, of Mexico.]

[Footnote 3: The preservation of traditions is much systematized among
the Pueblo Indians. Certain societies know hardly any other but the
folk-tales relating to their own particular origin. To obtain correct
tradition it is necessary to gain the confidence of men high in degree.
That is mostly very difficult.]




CHAPTER II.


The homes of the Pueblo Indians of New Mexico, especially as regards the
size and disposition of the rooms, are to-day slightly modified from
what they were in former times. An advance has been made, inasmuch as
the buildings are not any longer the vast and ill-ventilated honeycombs
composed of hundreds of dingy shells, which they were centuries ago. The
houses, while large and many-storied, are comparatively less extensive,
and the apartments less roomy than at the time when the Queres lived in
the Rito de los Frijoles.

The two rooms where we left the lads and their mother at the close of
the preceding chapter formed such a home. In the front one the family
slept at night, with the exception of Okoya who was obliged to join the
other youths in the estufa of his clan. The husband was not always at
home after sunset. But the mother, Shyuote, and a little girl four years
old invariably took their nightly rest there. To the little girl we have
not yet been introduced. When the boys returned she was in the
court-yard at play, and in the usual state of complete undress which is
the regular condition of Indian children of her age.

The inner cell was kitchen and storeroom, and there the family partook
of their meals.

Among the Pueblos the house was in charge of the women exclusively,
everything within the walls of the house, the men's clothing and weapons
excepted, belonging to the housekeeper. Even the crops if once housed
were controlled by her. As long as they were in the field, the husband
or masculine head of the family could dispose of them. Afterward he must
consult the woman, and he could not sell an ear of corn without her
consent. It is still so to-day in many villages. Formerly all the
field-products were gathered and stored in the granaries of the several
clans whence each household drew its supplies. Even the proceeds of
communal hunts and fisheries were treated in this manner. Only where the
husband, son, or brother killed game while out alone, could he do with
it as he pleased.

Not many centuries ago the members of each clan, or rather the women,
their offspring, and aged people who were taken care of by their
children, lived together. They occupied a certain section of the great
hive which the communal dwelling represented, and such a section was not
unappropriately called in Spanish a _quartel_ or quarter. The husband
also stayed with his wife and the younger children, but he had no rights
as owner, or proprietor, to his abode. Since it was the custom for women
to raise the walls of buildings, and to finish the house inside and
outside, they owned it also. The man was only tolerated. His home was
properly with his clan, whither he must return in case his spouse
departed this life before him.

It was different in regard to the fields. Each clan had its particular
holding, and since the field-work devolved upon the men, the cultivated
plots belonged to them alone. Within each allotment every member who was
of age, or so situated as to have to support himself or a family, owned
and tilled a certain plot which was his by common consent, although in
no manner determined by metes or bounds. The condition of ownership was
regular improvement of the plot, and if that condition was not complied
with, any other member of the same clan could step in and work it for
his own benefit. In case of death the field reverted to the maternal
relative of its owner, whereas the widow and children fell back for
support upon the resources of their own clan. Hence the singular feature
that each household got its livelihood from two distinct groups of
blood-relatives. The home which we have entered belonged to the quarters
of the Gourd people, or clan Tanyi hanutsh, from which the mother
descended; and Okoya had slept at night in the estufa of that cluster
ever since his thirteenth year. But the cultivated patch which the
father tilled pertained to the fields of his clan, that of Water, Tzitz
hanutsh. Though the Water people were his relatives, the crop raised by
him found its way into the storeroom of Tanyi for the support of the
family which he claimed as his own.

Okoya's mother scanned her boys with a sober glance, and turned back
into the kitchen without uttering a word.

Soon a grating sound issued from that apartment, indicating that toasted
corn was being ground on the flat slab called in Queres, _yakkat_, and
now usually termed _metate_ in New Mexico. The boys meanwhile had
approached a niche in the wall. Each one took a pinch of yellow cornmeal
from the painted bowl, and scattered it successively to the north, west,
south, east; then threw a little of it up in the air and to the ground
before him. During this performance their lips moved as if in prayer.
Then they separated, for the spirits had been appealed to, and their
entrance into their home was under the special protection of Those
Above. Shyuote, whose trout had been ruined during the combat with the
girls, threw himself on the roll in the corner, there to mourn over his
defeat. Okoya went out into the court-yard. Both expected an early meal,
for the fire crackled in the dark kitchen, and a clapping of hands gave
evidence that corn-cakes were being moulded to appease their hungry
stomachs.

The court-yard had become very quiet. Even the children had gone to rest
in a shady place, where they slept in a promiscuous heap, a conglomerate
of human bodies, heads, and limbs, intermingled. The form of an old man
rose out of a hatchway in the ground-floor, and a tall figure, slightly
stooping, clad in a garment, and with a head of iron gray hair, stood on
the flat roof. He walked toward a beam leading down into the court,
seized its upper end and descended with his face toward the wall, but
without faltering. A few steps along the house brought him in front of
Okoya, who had squatted near the doorway of his mother's dwelling. The
youth was so absorbed in gloomy thoughts that the man's appearance was
unexpected. Starting in surprise and hastily rising, Okoya called into
the house,--

"Yaya, sa umo,--'Mother, my grandfather!'"

The old man gave a friendly nod to his grandchild, and crossed the
threshold, stooping low. Still lower the tall form had to bend while
entering the kitchen door. He announced his coming to the inmate in a
husky voice and the common formula,--

"Guatzena!"

"Raua,--'good,'" the woman replied.

Her father squatted close to the fire and fixed his gaze on his
daughter. She knelt on the floor busy spreading dough or thick batter on
a heated slab over the fire. She was baking corn-cakes,--the well-known
_tortillas_ as they are called to-day.

After a short pause the old man quietly inquired,--

"My child, where is your husband?"

"Zashue Tihua," the woman answered, without looking up or interrupting
her work, "is in the fields."

"When will he come?"

The woman raised her right hand, and pointed to the hole in the wall,
whence light came in from the outside. The wall faced the west, and the
height of the loophole corresponded to that of the sun about one hour
before sunset.

"Give food to the children," directed the old man. "When they have eaten
and are gone I shall speak to you."

The fire crackled and blazed, and ruddy flashes shot across the features
of the woman. Was it a mere reflection of the fire, or had her features
quivered and coloured? The old man scanned those features with a cold,
steady look.

She removed from the fire the sooty pot of clay in which venison cut in
small pieces was stewing together with corn, dark beans, and a few roots
and herbs as seasoning. Then she called out,--

"Shyuote, come and eat! Where is Okoya?"

The latter alone heard the invitation, for Shyuote had gone to sleep on
the hides. The elder brother shook him, and went into the kitchen. He
was followed by the child who staggered from drowsiness. The mother
meanwhile had placed on the floor a pile of corn-cakes. Beside it, in an
earthen bowl decorated inside and out with geometrical lines, steamed
the stew. Dinner was ready; the table spread.

To enjoy this meal both lads squatted, but Shyuote, still half asleep,
lost his balance and tumbled over. Angry at the merriment which this
created, the boy hastily grabbed the food, but his mother interfered.

"Don't be so greedy, uak,--'urchin.' Remember Those Above," she said;
and Shyuote, imitating the example of Okoya, crossly muttered a prayer,
and scattered crumbs before him. Then only, both fell to eating.

This was done by simply folding a slice of the cake to form a primitive
ladle, and dipping the contents of the stew out with it. Thus they
swallowed meat, broth, and finally the ladle also. Okoya arose first,
uttering a plainly audible hoa. Shyuote ate longer; at last he wiped his
mouth with the seam of his wrap, grumbled something intended for
thanksgiving, and strolled back to his resting place in the front room.
Okoya went out into the court-yard to be alone with his forebodings. The
sight of his mother seemed oppressive to him.

After the boys had gone the woman emptied the remainder of the stew back
into the pot, filled the painted bowl with water, and put both vessels
in a corner. Then she sat down, leaning against the wall, looking
directly toward her father. Her face was thin and wan, her cheeks were
hollow, and her eyes had a suppressed look of uneasiness.

The old man remained quietly indifferent as long as the meal lasted;
then he rose, peeped cautiously into the outer apartment, resumed his
seat, and spoke in a low tone,--

"Is it true that you have listened to kamonyitza,--'black corn'?"

The woman started. "Who says so?" she answered with sudden haste.

"The Koshare," replied the old man, looking at her with a cold steady
gaze.

"What do I care for them," exclaimed his daughter. Her lips curled with
an air of disdain.

"It may be," spoke her father, in measured tones, "that you do not wish
to hear from them; but I know that they care for your doings."

"Let them do as they please."

"Woman," he warned, "speak not thus. Their disposition toward you is not
a matter for indifference."

"What reason have they to follow my path? I am a woman like many others
in the tribe, nothing more or less. I stay with my husband," she went on
with greater animation. "I do my duty. What have the Delight Makers to
say that might not be for my good?"

"And yet, you are not precious to them--"

"Neither are they precious to me," she cried. Her eyes sparkled.

Her father heaved a deep sigh. He shook his head and said in a husky
tone,--

"Woman, your ways are wrong. I know it, and the Koshare know it also.
They may know more, much more than I could wish," he added, and looked
into her eyes with a searching sorrowful glance. An awful suspicion lay
in this penetrating look. Her face flushed, she bent her head to avoid
his gaze.

To the gloomy talk succeeded a still more gloomy silence. Then the woman
lifted her head, and began entreatingly,--

"My father, I do not ask you to tell me how you come to know all this;
but tell me, umo, what are these Delight Makers, the Koshare? At every
dance they appear and always make merry. The people feel glad when they
see them. They must be very wise. They know of everything going on, and
drag it before the people to excite their mirth at the expense of
others. How is it that they know so much? I am but a woman, and the ways
of the men are not mine," she raised her face and her eyes flamed; "but
since I hear that the Delight Makers wish me no good, I want to know at
least what those enemies of mine are."

The old man lowered his glance and sighed.

"My child," he began softly, "when I was young and a boy like your son
Okoya, I cared little about the Koshare. Now I have learned more." He
leaned his head against the wall, pressed his lips firmly together, and
continued, "The holders of the paths of our lives, those who can close
them when the time comes for us to go to Shipapu, where there is neither
sorrow nor pain, have many agents among us. P[=a]yatyama our Father, and
Sanashtyaya our Mother saw that the world existed ere there was light,
and so the tribe lived in the dark. Four are the wombs in which people
grew up and lived, ere Maseua and Oyoy[=a]u[=a] his brother led them to
where we are now, and this world which is round like a shield is the
fourth womb."

The woman listened with childlike eagerness. Her parted lips and
sparkling eyes testified that everything was new to her.

"Father," she interrupted, "I knew nothing of this. You are very wise.
But why are women never told such things?"

"Don't cut off my speech," he said. "Because women are so forward, that
is why many things are concealed from them."

"But," she continued, heedless of his rebuke, "where are the other three
worlds?"

"This question I shall answer," he said, "for it is wise in you to speak
so. Haatze the earth is round and flat, but it is also thick like a
cake. The other three wombs are down below inside, one beneath the
other. At Shipapu the people came out upon this world which is the
fourth womb, but it was cold and dark. Then the great sun rose in the
heavens above. In it P[=a]yatyama dwells, and on it he rides around the
world in one day and one night to see everything which happens. It is
day and light, night and dark. We have also summer and heat, winter and
cold. For this reason there are summer-people and winter-people, some
who like to live when it is cold and others who enjoy the heat. Every
tribe, every clan, has some of both kinds. Thus they came out of the
third world, and thus they have remained until this day. It was cold at
Shipapu when the people came out on the surface, and Those Above saw
that they felt weak. Toward the south it was warm and bright, so Maseua
and his brother said to their children, the men of our tribe, 'Go you
where there is more light;' and the summer people they directed to go
along the Rio Grande; the winter people they sent south also but far
around by the east over the plains where the great buffalo is roaming,
where the wind blows and it is cold and dry. To both kinds of men they
said, besides, 'Come together in the mountains and live there in peace,
each one getting food for himself and others as you are wont to do.'
But, lest the people might get weary on their long journey, Maseua and
his brother commanded that from Shipapu there should come forth a man
whose body was painted white and black, and who carried on his head
dried corn-leaves instead of feathers. This man began at once to dance,
to jump, and to tumble, so that the people laughed and their hearts
became glad. This man led the summer-men southward, and as often as they
grew tired he danced again and made jests; and the tribe followed him
until they came to where we are now, and all met again. The
summer-people never suffered hunger in all their wanderings, for their
leader was precious, and wherever they went he caused the fruits to be
ripe. That man was the Koshare.[4] Since that time there have been
Koshare in every tribe. Their task it is to keep the people happy and
merry; but they must also fast, mortify themselves, and pray to Those
Above that every kind of fruit may ripen in its time, even the fruit in
woman's womb. To them is given the yellow flower from the fertile
bottoms which makes the hearts of men glad. Now you know what the
Koshare are and," he added emphatically, "why you should not laugh and
make merry when you are not precious to them."

The woman had listened with breathless attention. At the close, however,
she hung her head and sighed. The old man gazed at her in silence. In
the outer room the regular breathings of the sleeping boy were heard,
otherwise all was as still as a grave.

At last she lifted her face again.

"Father," she asked, "are those who are precious to the holders of our
paths, are they always good?"

"I need not tell you about this," he replied, fixing upon her a
penetrating glance.

"I know of nothing evil," she stammered, "unless it be bad men."

"And yet you have used owl's feathers!"

Her face grew pale. She asked hoarsely,--

"Where should I keep them?"

"The Koshare know it," was the equally husky reply.

She started, her eyes gleamed like living coals.

"Have the Koshare sent you here, father?"

"No," was the gloomy answer; "but if the old men come to me and say,
'kill the witch,' I must do it. For you know I am Maseua,
head-war-chief, and whatever the principals command I must do, even if
it takes the life of my only child!"

The woman rose to her feet; her attitude was one of defiance.

"Let the Koshare speak, and do you as you are commanded. The time must
come when I shall have to die. The sooner it comes, the sooner shall I
find rest and peace with our mother at Shipapu."

Her father also had risen, he clutched his cotton garment as if a sudden
chill went through his body. Without a word he turned and went off
dejected, stooping, with a heavy sigh.

The woman dropped to the floor beside the hearth with a plaintive moan.
She drew her hair over her face, weep she could not. The embers on the
hearth glowed again, casting a dull light over the chamber.

Say Koitza, as this wretched woman was called, was the only child of him
with whom she had just had this dismal interview. His name was
Topanashka Tihua, and he was maseua, or head-war-chief, of the tribe. In
times of peace the maseua is subordinate to the tapop, or civil
governor, and as often as the latter communicates to him any decision of
the tribal council he is bound to execute it. Otherwise the maseua is
really a superior functionary, for he stands in direct relation to the
religious powers of which we shall hereafter speak, and these in reality
guide and command through oracles and prophetic utterances. In war the
maseua has supreme command, and the civil chief and the diviners, or
medicine-men, must obey him implicitly as soon as any campaign is
started.

Topanashka was a man of great physical vigour notwithstanding his age.
He was highly respected for his skill and bravery, and for his stern
rectitude and obedience to strict duty. He feared nothing except the
supernatural powers of evil. There is nothing the Indian fears, nay
hates, so much as sorcery. Topanashka could scarcely believe that his
daughter had tampered with magic by causing the dark-coloured corn to
speak, and keeping owl's feathers in her possession. Still, if such were
really the case, he knew of no other course to pursue but to execute the
penalty which according to Indian ideas she deserved, and which the
leading men of the tribe composing its council would undoubtedly mete
out to her,--death; a cruel, terrible death. But she was his only child,
and ere he placed faith in the suspicion communicated to him in secret
by one of the shamans in the tribe, he wanted to satisfy himself from
her own behaviour whether it was true or not. To his deepest sorrow Say
Koitza's behaviour seemed to prove that she was not falsely accused. It
was a terrible blow to the old man, who for the first time in his life
rose from a task bewildered and hopeless. Duty was to him paramount, and
yet he could not utterly stifle the longing to save his only child from
a cruel and ignominious fate.

His daughter too felt utterly wretched, and despondent in the highest
degree. For the accusation against her was true. She had practised the
dread art; and yet, strange to say, while conscious of guilt, in the
bottom of her heart she felt herself innocent. Let us recall the past
life of the unhappy being to see whether there is in it anything to
explain this apparent anomaly.

When Say Koitza was fourteen years of age her husband Zashue Tihua began
to pay her his first attentions. He called at her mother's home oftener
than any other youth of her tribe, and one afternoon, when she was
returning from the brook with a jar filled with water on her head, he
stopped her, dipped some water out of the urn, drank it, and whispered
something to which she gave no reply, hurrying home as rapidly as
possible. She could not speak to her mother about this, for her mother
was hopelessly deaf, and it would not have been proper to consult her
father, since the father belonged of course to another clan. A whole
night and one full day Say pondered over the case; at last her mind was
made up. The girl took a dish filled with corn-cakes and rolls of sweet
paste of the yucca-fruit, and placed it on her head. With this load she
climbed up the rugged slope leading to the dwellings of the Water clan,
to which Zashue belonged. The lad was sitting in the cave inhabited by
his family, busying himself with straightening arrow shafts over the
fire, when the girl, pushing before her the loaded tray, crept through
the port-hole. Silently she placed the food before him, and went out
again without a word. This was her affirmative reply to his wooing.
Thereafter, Zashue visited the quarters of the Gourd people at the big
house every night. Along the foot of the cliffs, in soft ground, and in
a lonely sheltered spot, he meanwhile planted four stakes connected by
cross-poles. From end to end cotton threads were drawn lengthwise, and
here Zashue wove a cotton wrap day after day. The girl would steal out
to this place also, carrying food to the young artisan. She would
cleanse his hair while they chatted quietly, shyly at first, about the
present and the future. When the mantle was done and it looked white and
firm, Zashue brought it to Say Koitza's mother, who forthwith understood
the intention of his gift, and felt gratified at the prospect of
securing a son-in-law who possessed cotton. The plant was not cultivated
near the upper Rio Grande at that time, and had to be obtained from the
far south by barter. Many journeys distant, Pueblo Indians lived also,
and thither the Queres went at long intervals to trade and to hunt the
buffalo on the southwestern plains.

Topanashka also was pleased with the suitor. In due course of time
Zashue Tihua and Say Koitza, therefore, became man and wife.

[Illustration: Rito de los Frijoles

A cliff estufa of the Snake-Clan]

Zashue proved to be a good husband, according to Indian ideas. He worked
and hunted dutifully, providing the storerooms of Tanyi Hanutsh with
supplies of which his wife, and through her he also, enjoyed the
benefit. He spun cotton and wove it into wraps, scarfs, and sashes.
Furthermore, he was always good-natured and merry. He did not spend too
many nights out of his wife's home, either. They had three children,
Okoya, Shyuote, and a little girl. Of these Shyuote became the father's
favourite, for when the child was yet small it happened that his father
made a vow to make a Koshare of him. Zashue was a Delight Maker
himself, and one of the merriest of that singular crew. Among them he
was perhaps the most popular; for while good-looking, his strength and
agility enabled him to perform in a conspicuous manner, and his ready
wit and quick conception of everything ludicrous caused him to shine as
a great light among that society of official jesters.

So the two lived in quiet and sober content. Zashue was pleased with his
spouse. She kept her looks well with advancing years, and while there is
never among Indians that complete intimacy between man and wife which
engenders fidelity under all circumstances, while a certain freedom of
action is always permitted to the man toward the other sex, Say had
natural tact enough to never pry into such matters. She, in turn, did
her duty. Always at home, she faithfully fulfilled her obligations as
head of the house, and naturally shrank from all society but that of her
own sex and such men as were allied to her by near ties of relationship.
When she told her father in that sad interview that she was faithful to
her husband, Say had told the truth. And yet there was something that
caused her to plead guilty.

The family had lived contentedly, and no cloud appeared to hang over
them until, a few years previous to the date of our story, Say Koitza
fell ill from want of proper care. Mountain fever is not infrequently
fatal, and it was mountain fever that had seized upon the delicate frame
of the little woman. This fever is often tenacious and intermittent;
sometimes it is congestive. Indian medicine may cure a slight attack,
and prevent too frequent returns of more violent ones; but if the case
is a serious one, Indian remedies are of no avail. Say suffered from a
slight attack at first, and recovered from it. A primitive cold-water
treatment was effective for the time being; but in the year ensuing
fever set in again, and no sudorific was of any use. She tried a
decoction of willow bark, but it did her no good. She took the root of
the yucca, or soapweed, and drank the froth produced by whipping water
with it, but gained no relief. The poor woman did not know that these
remedies are not employed by the Indians in a case like hers, but only
for toothache and, in the case of soapweed, for consumption.

Thus it went on for three years. During the dry seasons there were no
signs of the illness; but as soon as, in July or August, thunderstorms
shed their moisture over the mountains, and chilly nights alternated
with warm sunshine, the fever made its appearance. Two years before the
rainy season had lasted unusually long, and it was followed immediately
by snow-falls. The attacks from the disease were therefore unusually
violent, and by November Say Koitza thought herself dying from weakness
and exhaustion. Her condition was such that her husband felt alarmed,
and every effort was made to relieve her by the aid of such arts as the
Indian believes in. The chief medicine-man, or great shaman, of the
tribe had to come and see the patient, pray by her side, and then go
home to fast and mortify himself for four consecutive days. His efforts
had no effect whatever. Every indigenous medicine that was thought of
had been already used, and none had been of any avail.

At last the shaman, encouraged by the many blue and green stones, cotton
wraps, and quantities of corn meal which Zashue Tihua contributed in
reward of his juggleries, resolved to make a final trial by submitting
himself and his associates to the dangerous ordeal of fire-eating for
the invalid's sake. This ceremony was always performed by a certain
group of medicine-men, called therefore Hakanyi Chayani, or Fire
Shamans. The Hishtanyi Chayan was their official head, and he, with the
four others belonging to the fire-eating crew, fasted rigorously for
four days and nights. Then they went to the house of Say Koitza, and in
her presence sang the powerful song, while each one of them in turn
waved a burning bunch of long dry grass to the six sacred regions, and
each time bit off a piece of the burning weed and chewed it. When all
had gone through the performances, and their mouths were well filled
with ashes, each one gravely stepped up to the invalid, and spat the
contents of his mouth in her face. Then they departed as quietly as they
had come, and went home to await the results of the wonderful remedy.[5]
It was a last, a supreme effort.

The condition of Say could not fail to arouse the sympathies of her own
sex, even outside of her clan. Many were the calls from compassionate
women. They would drop in, squat down, tender their services, suggest
remedies, and gossip. Only one woman made herself directly useful, and
that was Shotaye, a member of the Water clan. Shotaye was a strange
woman. Nobody liked her, and yet many applied to her for relief in
secret; for Shotaye possessed great knowledge of plants and other
remedies, and she had a keen practical sense. But people dreaded her;
she lived alone in her cave among the abodes of the Water people, and
nobody knew but she might know more than the official medicine-men
themselves. In short, the majority of the tribe believed that Shotaye
was a witch; but the woman was so wary that nobody could prove her to be
one.

Shotaye was not an old woman. Her appearance was not in the least
repulsive, on the contrary. The men knew that the woman showed no
objections to occasional attentions, even to intimacy. For this reason,
also, she was not popular among her own sex.

Shotaye had had a husband once; but he had left her and was living with
another woman. That husband was called Tyope, badger, a man of strong
physique and one averse to monotony in conjugal life. Tyope was a
scheming man, cunning and unscrupulous in the highest degree; Shotaye an
energetic woman, endowed with a powerful will of her own. Had there not
been the little cloud of marital inconstancy on both sides, the pair
would have been well-assorted for good as well as for evil. Tyope was a
Koshare rather than an agriculturist, he spent his time mostly in other
people's homes and in the estufa of the Delight Makers, leaving his wife
to provide for herself and for him also, whenever he chose to remain at
her house. In short there were flaws on both sides, and Shotaye being
the house-mistress held the main power. One fine evening when Tyope
presented himself in the grotto occupied by his wife, she refused to
recognize him any longer. He protested, he stormed, he menaced her; it
was of no avail. Shotaye told him to go, and he left. Henceforth the two
were mortal enemies. The woman said little; but he was bent upon her
destruction by every possible means. She kept on the defensive, avoided
all conflicts, and was very careful not to give any cause for a direct
accusation of sorcery. She cured people incidentally, never asking any
compensation for it. She lived alone, and thus earned enough to be
independent of her own clan if need be.

This woman called on Say occasionally, but only between the periods of
the attacks of fever. On such visits she would assist the patient, do
the housework, and arrange the hides or covers for her. Say harboured a
wish to consult her about her disease; but Shotaye studiously avoided
any opportunity for confidential talk. One day, however, when the two
were alone in the kitchen, and the invalid felt somewhat relieved, she
opened her heart to her visitor. Shotaye listened very attentively, and
when Say had concluded, instead of asking for further details, she
abruptly asked whether Say had no suspicion of being bewitched.

If such a question were put to us, we should doubt the sanity of the
questioner. Not so the Indian. Say felt like one from whose eyes thick
scales are suddenly removed. Indeed, she thought this was the cause of
her evil, this alone could explain the tenacity of the disease, its
mysterious intermittence. She told her interlocutor that she must be
right, or else why these regular returns and always during the season of
rain? Shotaye listened and listened; every word she heard was in
confirmation of her own thoughts. Say must be under the influence of
some evil charm, and unless counteracted by magic, it was clear to her
that the poor woman must succumb to its workings.

Whatever there is in nature which the Indian cannot grasp at once, he
attributes to mysterious supernatural agencies. He believes that nature
is pervaded by spiritual essence individualized into an infinite number
of distinct powers. Everything in nature has a soul according to him,
and it is that soul which causes it to move or to act upon its
surroundings in general. Thus the medical properties of animals, of
plants, or minerals, are due to spiritual manifestations. His medical
art therefore does not consist merely in eliminating the physical cause
of disease. As soon as any disease is stubborn there must be at the
bottom of it some spiritual source, and this source can be discovered
and removed only by magic.

Incantations therefore form an important part of Indian medicine. The
formulas therefor are the special property of the medicine-men, whom we
shall hereafter designate with the much more appropriate name of
Shamans. The shaman is wizard and physician at the same time. He is
also a prophet, augur, and oracle. His duty it is not only to protect
from evil, but to counteract it. He has charms and incantations which he
offers for the production of beneficial natural phenomena.

Magic for such purposes is regarded by the Indian as essential to the
existence of man. Magic, however, as a black art is the most heinous
crime which he can conceive. The difference between the two consists
mainly in their purpose; the manipulations are substantially the same,
so are the objects. To know those details is one of the attributes of
the shamans.

The latter constitute a circle of their own,--a cluster of adepts,
nominally in the arts of healing, but really in the arts of magic. That
circle is wide, and whoever stands outside of it has no right to
infringe upon the duties of its members by attempting to follow their
example. It is an institution, and its origin dates from untold
centuries. It is subdivided into groups, each of which practises charms,
incantations, or magic, relating to certain human interests. The Shyayak
are in possession of the spell which charms game, in other words they
are the shamans of the hunt. The Uakanyi practise magic in warfare, they
are the shamans of war. The Chayani are physicians who combine with the
knowledge of medicine proper, the knowledge of magic curative powers.
They are the shamans of medicine. Lastly the Yaya combine a knowledge of
all these different branches in their essence. They are the prophets and
priests. These groups may be described as, in a certain sense, guilds.
But they are secret societies also, inasmuch as the arts and practices
of each are special property which is kept secret from the others, and
from the uninitiated members in the tribe. In order to become a member
of a society of that kind secrecy is required and long apprenticeship.
The novice rises slowly from one degree of knowledge to another, and
only few attain the higher positions.

The members of these secret societies are therefore magicians or
wizards, and when any one dreads danger from evil sorcery it is his duty
to consult the proper shaman for relief, unless he should be sure of the
person of the sorcerer, in which case he may kill him outright without
even mentioning the deed. In the present instance Say could not resort
to such a summary expedient. It was therefore the duty of Shotaye, who
was better informed on institutions and customs, to direct her sick
friend to a shaman. But Shotaye was not on good terms with the official
wizards, particularly the Chayani, those who cured, and still less with
the highest religious powers, the Yaya. It suited her pride to attempt
the experiment at her own risk, conscious all the while that it was
dangerous,--dangerous for herself, as well as for her patient. For it
entailed performances which only the shaman can undertake, and should
they be detected, the very crime of sorcery, against which their
experiments were directed, would be charged against them.

Shotaye had still another reason for not encouraging her friend to speak
to the higher chayani. The fever coincided with the rainy season. As
soon as this was over it subsided. Natural as this was, both women
attributed it to a mysterious cause; and Shotaye, suspicious and
vindictive even, thought she had discovered a clew to the guilty party.

The rainy season in New Mexico is of course essential to the growth of
the chief staple of the Indian,--maize or Indian corn. When, therefore,
in July daily showers should occur, the principal shamans of each tribe
and the yaya must pray, fast, and mortify themselves, in order that
Those Above may send the needed rain. The hishtanyi chayan scatters the
powder of the white flower to the winds, meanwhile murmuring
incantations. At night he imitates thunder, by whirling a flint knife
attached to the end of a long string, and draws brilliant flashes
from pebbles which he strikes together in a peculiar manner. For the
Indian reasons that since rain is preceded in summer by lightning
and thunder, man by imitating those heralds is calling the desired
precipitation,--beckoning it to come.

This is the time of the year when the Koshare perform their chief work.
Four days and four nights, sometimes longer, they must fast and pray in
order that the crops may obtain the moisture indispensable for ripening.
The people look upon the Delight Makers with a degree of respect akin to
fear at all times, for they are regarded as powerful intermediaries in
matters of life and death to the tribe; but during that particular time
they are considered as specially precious to the higher powers. Shotaye
hated the Koshare. They in turn disliked the woman, and gave vent to
their dislike by turning her into ridicule at public dances as often as
possible. This she resented greatly; but she was powerless to retaliate,
since the Delight Makers enjoy special privileges on festive days. The
medicine-woman's hatred was still increased by the fact that her former
husband, Tyope, was a leading Koshare. To his influence she attributed
the insults which the jesters offered her, and she saw in the whole
group but a crowd of willing tools handled by her personal enemy.

Since Say's illness coincided with the beginning of the rainy season,
the principal activity of the Koshare immediately preceded the outbreak
of the fever. Urged by hate and desire for revenge, Shotaye combined the
two facts in her mind, and drew the conclusion that the disease was due
to the magic power of the Koshare, directed against Say for some unknown
reason and purpose.

If the Koshare were guilty, it was not only useless, it was dangerous
even, to call upon any chayan for relief. The Delight Makers were the
chief assistants of the shamans in any public ceremony, and
indispensable to them in many ways. Beside, Say Koitza could not have
applied to a chayan without her husband's knowledge, and that husband
was a Koshare.

So after explaining to the invalid her suspicions and inferences, she
suggested direct inquiry about the principals in the supposed evil
actions against her. That inquiry could be conducted only through
sorcery itself, and Say at first trembled. She feared, and not without
good cause, an appeal to evil powers. Still Shotaye spoke so plausibly;
she assured so strongly her friend of her own discretion and fidelity,
and was so insistent upon her constant success in everything she had
undertaken as yet,--that the woman yielded at last against her own
convictions. Something within her seemed to speak and say, "Do not tread
forbidden paths, speak to your husband first." But the arguments on the
other side were too strong, her own physical condition too weak; she
grasped the expected relief regardless of the warnings of her
conscience.

Among the objects connected with evil magic, a certain kind of maize had
the power of speech attributed to it. It is the dark-coloured variety,
called in the Queres language _ka monyi tza_. Ears of this corn
belonging to a witch are said to speak in the absence of their owner,
and to tell of her whereabouts and doings. Shotaye knew this, and
herself but indifferently versed in the black art, concluded that the
black corn would also reveal, if properly handled, the agent whose
manipulations caused Say Koitza's sufferings. She hoped also that by
combining the dreaded grain with another more powerful implement of
sorcery, owl's plumage, she would succeed in eliciting from the former
all the information desired. The woman was quite ignorant of the evil
ways in which she was about to wander; but she was bold and daring, and
the hope of injuring her enemies was a greater inducement than the
desire to relieve her friend. The proposed manipulation was directed in
fact much more against her former husband than against the disease.

But how to obtain the necessary objects! How to secure black corn, and
how and where to get the feathers of an owl! Both were so well known and
so generally tabooed that inquiry after them would forthwith arouse
suspicion. Black maize might be procured on the sly; but the other could
be found by chance only,--by meeting with the body of a dead owl on the
heights surrounding the Tyuonyi.

Shotaye was in the habit of strolling alone all around the Rito, over
the timbered mesa as well as through the gorges which descend from the
mountains. On such excursions the woman observed the most minute
precautions, for there was danger,--danger from roaming Indians of the
Navajo or Dinne tribe, and danger from spies of her own tribe.
Frequently people had followed stealthily in the hope of surprising her
at some illicit practice, but she had been lucky enough to notice them
in time. Of what is called to-day the mesa del Rito, the high table-land
bordering the Tyuonyi on the south, Shotaye knew every inch of ground,
every tree and shrub.

On a clear, cool November day she strolled again in that direction,
climbing the heights and penetrating into the scrubby timber,
interspersed with tall pines, which covers the plateau for miles. To her
delight she discovered the remains of an owl at no great distance from
the declivity of the Rito beneath a rotten pine. Instead of picking up
the carcass she kicked it aside disdainfully, but took good care to
notice whither so as to remember the place. It landed on a juniper-bush
and remained suspended from its branches. Shotaye went onward
carelessly. She looked for herbs and plants, picking up a handful here,
pulling out a root there, until she had made a long circuit, which
however brought her back to the place where the dead owl was. Here she
stopped, listening, all the while looking out for plants. As if by
accident she neared the bush on which the carcass was still hanging, and
after assuring herself that the body had not been disturbed, she brushed
past so as to cause it to drop to the ground. She hastily plucked a few
feathers, put them with the herbs and roots already gathered, and turned
homeward. Everything was quiet and still around her, only at a short
distance two crows flew up croaking.

Say Koitza was not strong enough to walk up to the cliffs; therefore
Shotaye, when she came to announce to her friend that the necessary
material was at last secured, suggested that the incantation be
performed at the home of the invalid. A certain evening when Zashue was
sure to be absent, owing to a gathering of the Koshare, was appointed
for the purpose. On that evening the two women sat alone in the kitchen.
Okoya was away in the estufa of Tanyi hanutsh. The two younger children
were fast asleep in the outer room. It was a cold night, but the fire on
the hearth had almost completely subsided, only a few embers remaining.
Through the loophole in the wall an occasional draught of chilly air
entered. Say Koitza clung to her friend's shoulder, shivering and
trembling from fear as well as from cold.

In the centre of the dark room Shotaye had placed a few ears of black
corn, and on them two bundles of owl's feathers, each tied to a chip of
obsidian. She had also brought along some bark of the red willow; this
she pulverized in the hand, and made into two cigarettes with corn
husks. At that time tobacco was unknown to the Pueblos, and red
willow-bark was the only thing used for smoking, while smoking itself
was not a relish but exclusively a sacrifice.

Handing one of the cigarettes to her friend, Shotaye directed her to
light it and then puff the smoke successively to the six mythical
regions. After this she was to cast the glowing stub on the pile of corn
and feathers. With a shudder Say Koitza obeyed these instructions; her
teeth chattered while the cave-woman recited an invocation. Then both
huddled together to listen. Even Shotaye felt afraid of the
consequences. For a long time everything was silent; the cold draught
from the outside had stopped; the women sat in breathless silence; they
listened and listened. Nothing moved. Not a sound was heard.

Shotaye overcame her first anxiety and repeated the dread formula. All
was silent. Suddenly a cold blast pervaded the room again. It fanned the
embers to renewed life; they shed a faint glimmer over the chamber. The
women started; there was a crackling heard; the feathers moved; the ears
of corn seemed to change position. One of the feather bunches rolled on
the floor. They nearly screamed in terror, for their excited imagination
caused them to hear ghostly sounds,--disconnected, uncomprehended words.
It was clear that the black corn had spoken. What it said neither could
tell; but the fact of having heard the noise was sufficient to convince
them that Say was under the influence of an evil charm, and Shotaye took
care to add that that charm was exercised by the Koshare or by some one
belonging to their society.

So powerful was the effect of this incantation scene upon Say that she
fainted. After a while she recovered and Shotaye led her back to the
outer room, where, after some time, she began to slumber from sheer
exhaustion. Then the medicine-woman returned to the caves, taking with
her every vestige of the conjuration.

It was wise on her part, for as soon as Say awoke from feverish and
anxious dreams, her first thought was about the dismal objects.
Everything was quiet. Zashue had returned, and was quietly asleep by her
side. She arose and glided into the kitchen, noiselessly, stealthily.
The floor was clean. She felt around; not a trace of the objectionable
pile could be noticed. Unspeakable was the feeling of relief with which
she returned to her husband's side and extended herself on the hides
again; sound sleep came to her, and when she awoke it was daylight. She
felt stronger, brighter. Yet thereafter, as often as Zashue approached
her in his harmless, bantering manner, she experienced a strange, sudden
pang. She was reminded of having done wrong in not having been open with
him. The Indian's conscience is hemmed in by bonds arising from his
social and religious organization; why, for instance, should she have
told her spouse? He was neither of her clan nor of her party. He
belonged to the summer people, she to those of winter. She stood outside
of all secret associations, whereas he was a Koshare.

The winter following proved to be mild and dry. Say recovered slowly.
Shotaye kept aloof after the conjuration, for a long time at least. All
of a sudden she made her appearance at the home of her convalescent
friend. It was in order to remind her that the first step was only a
preliminary, and that it could not effect a radical cure. All that had
been achieved was to prove that an evil charm existed, and that the
Koshare were the wrongdoers. It remained now to remove the spell by
breaking the charm. This, she represented, had to be attempted when the
Koshare were in their greatest power, and could only be effected by
means of the owl's feathers. By burying these feathers near the place
where the Delight Makers used to assemble, Shotaye asserted that not
only would the disease be eliminated forever, but the guilty one be
punished according to the measure of his crime.

Say would not listen to any such proposals. She saw no necessity for
going any further in forbidden tracks. Now that her health was restored,
why should she attempt to harm a cluster of men to which her husband
belonged, and thus perhaps imperil his life? Shotaye met this objection
with the assurance that the remedy was directed against the guilty ones
only, and that she herself did not for a moment think that Zashue had
participated in the evil manipulations against his wife; that
consequently he was in no manner exposed to danger. Say finally told her
visitor that she would wait and see, and then decide.

Winter went and spring came. Warm summer followed with a dark-blue sky
and sporadic thunderclouds. All the crops were planted, irrigated, and
scantily weeded. Now they awaited the rains in order to complete growth
and prepare for maturity. The great chayani had gone through their
official fasts, they had made their sacrificial offerings in the sacred
bowls dedicated to rain-medicine. Every day clouds loomed up in the
west, distant thunder rumbled, but not a drop of rain fell in the Rito
and the people began to look gloomy. The Koshare were therefore required
to go to work earlier than usual. They were to fast four consecutive
days between two full moons.

The estufa in which the Delight Makers used to assemble is situated at
the eastern end of the cliffs, and its access is difficult to-day. It is
a circular chamber in the rock twenty feet in diameter. At present the
outer wall has fallen in, but a crease in the floor indicates the place
where a little port-hole led into the cave. The cave lies high, so that
from it a view of the whole valley presents itself, and at its feet
opens a narrow chasm of considerable depth. This is a mere fissure, so
narrow that cross-beams were fastened into its sides like the rounds of
a step-ladder; and on these the people ascended to a narrow trail
leading up to the entrance. Other cave-dwellings were scattered along
this trail and farther below. They were inhabited by the people of the
Turquoise clan.

All the Koshare had retired to this secluded spot, and the first day of
fasting was nearly over when Shotaye called once more at the home of
Say. The latter guessed the object of her coming and felt afraid.
Without preamble, in a sober, matter-of-fact way, the cave-woman stated
that the time had come for a decisive step; and with this she placed
three bunches of owl's feathers on the floor. In vain Say Koitza
protested, affirming that her health was fully restored. Shotaye would
not listen to refusal or excuse. Now or never, she commanded. She
repeated her former assertion that the charm could not hurt Zashue as
long as he was not guilty. For a long while the women sat arguing the
matter; at last Say Koitza yielded, and promised to comply.

Night came, and the people of the Rito went to rest. The moon rose
behind the lava-ridge of the Tetilla; the rocky battlements of the
cliffs shone brightly above the gorge, whose depths rested in dark
shadow. A tiny figure crept out of the big building and hurried down the
vale along the fields. When she reached the grove where we met Okoya and
his little brother for the first time, she crouched beneath a tree,
covered her head, and sobbed aloud. It was a dire task for Say Koitza,
this errand out of which harm might arise to the whole cluster to which
her husband belonged. If the charm which she clutched with trembling
fingers should work against him, then he was the guilty party. So
Shotaye had insinuated, and the word had stung her like the bite of a
serpent. It came back to her mind as she hurried to perform the deed,
and caused her to start. She rose hastily and turned toward the cliffs.

The uppermost rocks glistened fairly in the light of the moon; and where
the sharp line of the shadows commenced, the ruddy glow of a fire burst
from an oblong aperture. There was the estufa of the Koshare. From it
issued the sound of hollow drumming intermingled with the cadence of a
chorus of hoarse voices. A thrill went through Say, she stopped again
and listened. Was not her husband's voice among them? Certainly he was
there, doing his duty with the rest. And if he was as guilty toward her
as the others? That monstrous thought rose again, it pushed her onward.
She crawled ahead slowly, scarcely conscious of the danger attending her
mission. Large blocks of débris, tent-shaped erosive hillocks, impeded
her progress; they crowded along the foot of the cliffs like protecting
bulwarks, and the trail wound around them on a higher plane. But this
trail she dared not follow, there was not enough darkness on it. She
crept along the base, the sense of danger coming to her with the
increasing obscurity, until suddenly she stood before a cleft of almost
inky hue. Here she remembered was the ascent to the estufa, here she had
to perform the work, and here overpowered by emotion and excitement she
dropped behind an angular block of stone unconscious.

When she recovered, the chorus sounded directly above her, and the chant
seemed to soar away like voices from an upper world. She glanced up the
dark fissure as through a flume. The cross-beams were faintly visible.
Over the cleft rested a moonlit sky, but to the rocks clung the figure
of a man. That man stood there a moment only, then shouting a few words
as if calling to somebody within, he disappeared. The song was hushed.
Say recognized the speaker; it was Tyope, Shotaye's former husband, and
the one whom the woman suspected of having done her harm. Resolutely she
went at her task.

Taking a bundle of owl's feathers from her wrap, she presented it
successively to the six regions, and then buried it carefully in the
sand, below where the first cross-beam traversed the fissure. Again she
listened and spied, and creeping forward concealed the second bunch in
another place near by. Then she whispered the sinister prayer which was
to give to the feathers the power to do harm. At the close the drum
rumbled again within the cliffs above her, and the chant rose strong and
rude. Covering her head, shaking and shivering with sudden fear, Say
Koitza rushed from the spot. Ere day broke she had reached home again,
and extended her weary frame by the side of her sleeping children.

Say slept for the remainder of the night a long sleep of exhaustion. The
next morning her first task was to bury the last bunch of owl's feathers
in the kitchen, close to the fireplace, where it was to protect her from
the inroads of enemies. She felt weak but rather comfortable. Her only
anxiety was now the return of her husband.

Zashue came home at last, good-humoured as ever, but with a lively
appetite akin to hunger. His wife received him in a subdued manner
bordering on obsequiousness; she was more than ever bent on anticipating
any desire on his part. All the while afraid of detection, every kind
word spoken to her caused remorse, every joke pained her in secret. It
recalled what she had done to his companions, perhaps to him also.

The incantations of the chayani and the fasts of the Koshare seemed to
have no effect whatever upon the course of the rain-clouds. The heavens
clouded regularly every day; they shed their moisture all around the
Tyuonyi, but not a drop fell in the valley-gorge. Now the three chief
penitents of the tribe, the Hotshanyi, the shaykatze, and the uishtyaka,
were called upon to use their means of intercession with Those Above.
They fasted, prayed, and made sacrifices alternately for an entire moon;
still it rained not. In New Mexico local droughts are sometimes very
pertinacious. Plants withered, the corn and beans suffered, languished,
and died. The tribe looked forward to a winter without vegetable food.
But Say Koitza was secretly glad, for drought killed her disease. She
felt stronger every day, and worked zealously, anxious to please her
husband and to remove every suspicion. Shotaye called on her frequently;
she, too, felt proud of the success of her cure, sure of the revenge she
had taken upon her enemies.

When a few rains swept at last down upon the vale, it was too late for
the crops. Only the few stores kept in reserve and the proceeds of the
hunt could save the tribe from a famine. Women and children put on red
wristbands to comfort their hearts in the prospective distress, for a
winter without vegetable supplies was until then an unknown disaster.
Say Koitza also placed strips of red buckskin around her arms.
Ostensibly she mourned for her tribe; in reality it was to relieve her
heart from the reproaches of her own conscience.

But when winter set in and the fever had not put in its appearance, her
mind gradually changed. She lost all fear of discovery, and finally felt
proud of what she had done. Had she not preserved herself for her own
husband, for her children? Instead of performing a crime, it was a
meritorious act. Shotaye encouraged her in such thoughts. To her it was
less the recovery of her friend than the blow dealt the Koshare,
particularly her former husband, that excited her satisfaction and
tickled her pride.

Say thus felt happy and at rest, but that fatal interview with her
father suddenly dispelled all her fond dreams. The old man's revelations
annihilated everything at one fell blow. No hope was left; her life was
gone, her doom sealed. As if lightning had struck her she lay down by
the hearth, motionless, for a long while. She heard nothing; she stared
vacantly; her thoughts came and went like nebulous phantoms. At last
somebody entered the outer room, but the woman noticed him not. Three
times the new-comer called her name; she gave no reply. At the fourth
call, "Koitza!" she started at last, and faintly answered,--

"Opona."

Zashue, her husband, entered the kitchen and good-naturedly inquired,--

"Are you ill?"

She raised herself hastily and replied,--

"No; but I was asleep."

"The sun is resting on the western mountains," said Zashue; "give me
something to eat, I am tired."

She stirred the fire, and when dry brush flamed over the hearth she
placed the stew-pot on it. The remainder of the cornmeal she stirred
with water, and began to mix cakes in the usual way. Her husband watched
her pleasantly.

Zashue was indeed a good-looking Indian. Lithe and of a fair height,
with black hair and large bright eyes, he appeared the picture of vigour
and mirth. He chatted with the utmost nonchalance, telling his wife
about the insignificant happenings of the day, the prospects of the
crops, what such and such a one had said to him, and what he had told
the other in return. It was innocent gossip, intimate chat, such as a
contented husband may tell a wife in whom he places entire confidence.
How happy she felt at the harmless chatter, and yet how intensely
miserable. His inquiry, "Are you ill?" rang in her ears with a sickening
clang, like some overwhelming reproach. Why, oh why, had she not spoken
to him in time? He was so good to her. Now it was too late; and beside,
why anticipate the fatal hour when he must know all? Why not improve the
few moments of respite granted ere death came?

Say Koitza suffered him to continue, and listened with increasing
interest to the talk of her husband. It might be the last time. Little
by little, as he went on, with harmless, sometimes very clumsy, jokes
and jests, she became oblivious of her wretched prospects, and her soul
rested in the present. She began to smile shyly at first, then she even
laughed. As Zashue ate he praised her cooking; and that gratified her,
although it filled her with remorse and anguish. The children came also
and squatted around the hearth, Okoya alone keeping at a distance and
eyeing his mother suspiciously. Could she in his presence really feel as
merry as she acted? Was it not evidence of the basest deception on her
part? So the boy reasoned from his own standpoint, and went out into the
court-yard in disgust.

The sun set, and a calm, still night sank down on the Rito de los
Frijoles. As the sky darkened, evidences of life and mirth began to show
themselves at the bottom of the gorge as well as along the cliffs.
Monotonous singing sounded from the roofs of the big house, from caves,
and from slopes leading up to them. Noisy talking, clear, ringing
laughter, rose into the night. Old as well as young seemed to enjoy the
balmy evening. Few remained indoors. Among these were Zashue and his
wife. The woman leaned against him, and often looked up to his face with
a smile. She felt happy by the side of her husband, and however
harrowing the thought of her future seemed to be, the present was
blissful to her.

After a while Zashue rose, and his spouse followed him anxiously to the
door, trembling lest he should leave her alone for the night. She
grasped his hand, and he stood for a while in the outer doorway gazing
at the sky. Every sound was hushed except the rushing of the brook. The
canopy of heaven sparkled in wonderful splendour. Its stars blazed,
shedding peace upon earth and good-will to man. The woman's hand
quivered in that of her spouse. He turned and retired with her to the
interior of the dwelling.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 4: This tradition was told me by Tehua Indians, and some
friends among the Queres subsequently confirmed it.]

[Footnote 5: This fire-cure was still practised by the Queres not very
long ago.]




CHAPTER III.


We must now return to the fields of the Rito, and to the spot where, in
the first chapter of our story, Okoya had been hailed by a man whom he
afterward designated as Tyope Tihua. That individual was, as we have
since found, the former husband of Shotaye, Say's ill-chosen friend.
After the boys had left, Tyope had continued to weed his corn, not with
any pretence of activity or haste, but in the slow, persistent way
peculiar to the sedentary Indian, which makes of him a steady though not
a very profitable worker. Tyope's only implement was a piece of basalt
resembling a knife, and he weeded on without interruption until the
shadows of the plants extended from row to row. Then he straightened
himself and scanned quietly the whole valley as far as visible, like one
who is tired and is taking a last survey of the scene of his daily toil.

The fields were deserted. Everybody had left them except himself. Tyope
pushed aside the stone implement and turned to go. After leaving the
corn he turned to the right, and gradually stooping went toward a grove
of low pines. Into that grove he penetrated slowly, cautiously, avoiding
the least noise. It was clearly his intention to conceal himself. Once
inside of the thicket of pine boughs he cowered, and after listening
again and satisfying himself that nobody was around, he plunged his
right arm beneath the branches that drooped down to the surface. When he
withdrew it his hand grasped a bow. He placed this bow near his feet and
dived a second time under the branches, pulling out another object,
which proved to be a quiver made of panther-skin filled with arrows. He
examined each of these arrows carefully, trying their heads of flint and
obsidian, and replaced them in such a manner that the feathered ends
projected from the quiver. A third time he ransacked the hiding-place,
and produced from beneath the boughs a short wooden war-club. His last
essay brought to light a cap of buffalo-hide thick enough to repel an
arrow fired at short range, and so fashioned as to protect the forehead
to the eyebrows, while behind, it descended low upon the neck. This cap,
or helmet, he forthwith placed upon his head. Then he slung the quiver
across his shoulders, wound the thong of the club around his right
wrist, grasped the bow with the left hand, and rose to his feet.

Daylight was gone. Only a flat golden segment blazed above the western
peaks. The peaks themselves, with the mountains, formed a huge mass of
dark purple. Over the valley night hovered already, but a streak of mist
trailing here and there like a thin veil marked the course of the little
brook. It was so dark that Tyope could move without any fear of being
seen. He nevertheless maintained a stooping position as long as he was
on open ground. Once in the corn he followed its rows instead of
traversing them, as if afraid of injuring the plants. He also examined
carefully the edge of the brook before crossing it to the south side.
Once on the declivity leading up to the mesa, he climbed nimbly and with
greater unconcern, for there the shadow was so dense that nobody could
notice him from below.

From the brink of the table-land Tyope looked back upon the Rito. He
stopped not so much in order to see, for it was too dark, but in order
to listen. Everything was quiet. A bear snarled far away, but this did
not concern the listener. He strolled on through the scrubby timber of
the mesa until he arrived at a place where tall pines towered up into
the starry sky, when he stopped again and remained for quite a while
looking up at the heavens. The great bear--the seven stars, as the
Pueblos term it--sparkled near the northern horizon, and Tyope seemed to
watch that constellation with unusual interest. Now a hoarse dismal
yelping struck his ear, the barking of the coyote, or prairie wolf.
Twice, three times, the howl was repeated in the distance; then Tyope
replied to it, imitating its cry. All was still again.

Suddenly the barking sounded much nearer, and Tyope moved toward the
place whence the sound issued, brushing past the shrubs. Reaching a
clear space, he saw before him the form of a big wolf. The animal was
standing immovable, his tail drooping, his head horizontal.

"Are you alone?" Tyope whispered. The apparition or beast, whatever it
might be, seemed not to excite the least apprehension. The wolf bent its
head in reply without uttering a sound.

"Where are the Dinne?" Tyope continued.

A hollow chuckle seemed to proceed from the skull of the animal; it
turned and disappeared in the darkness, but a rustling of boughs and
creaking of branches made known the direction. Tyope followed.

The wolf moved swiftly. From time to time its husky barkings were heard;
and the Indian from the Rito, guided by these signals, followed as
rapidly as possible. At last he saw the outlines of a juniper-bush
against a faint glow. Behind it sounded the crackling of freshly ignited
brushwood, and soon a light spread over the surrounding neighbourhood.
Stepping into the illuminated circle Tyope stood before a man squatting
by the fire.

The man was heaping wood on the fire which he had just started. By his
side lay the skin of a large wolf. He seemed not to notice Tyope,
although his face was directed toward him, for his eyes disappeared
below projecting brows, so projecting that only now and then a sudden
flash, quick as lightning, broke out from beneath their shadow. His form
indicated strength and endurance; he was of stronger build than the man
from the Tyuonyi. A kilt of deer-hide was his only dress. His hair was
wound around his skull like a turban. As ornaments the stranger wore a
necklace of panther claws. A bow and some arrows were lying on the
wolf's skin beside him.[6]

Without a word Tyope squatted down near the fire, facing the other
Indian. It had turned cold, and both men held their hands up to the
flame. The former glanced at the latter furtively from time to time, but
neither uttered a word. The fire was beginning to decline; its light
grew faint. At last the other Indian said,--

"When will the Koshare go into the round house?"

"As soon as the moon gives light," Tyope carelessly replied.

"How many are there of you?"

"Why do you want to know this?" inquired the man from the Rito, in a
husky voice.

His companion chuckled again and said nothing. He had put an imprudent
question. He turned away carelessly, placed more wood on the fire, and
poked the embers. Tyope looked up at the sky, and thus the vivid,
scornful glance the other threw on his figure escaped him.

So far the conversation had been carried on in the Queres language; now
the stranger suddenly spoke in another dialect and in a more imperious
tone.

"Art thou afraid of the Dinne?"

"Why should I be afraid of them?" responded Tyope in his native tongue.

"Speak the tongue of the Dinne," the other sternly commanded, and a
flash burst from beneath his eyebrows, almost as savage as that of a
wolf. "Thou hast courted the people of my tribe. They have not sought
after thee. Thou knowest their language. Speak it, therefore, and then
we shall see." He straightened himself, displaying a youthful figure
full of strength and elasticity.

Tyope took this change of manner very composedly. He answered quietly in
the same dialect,--

"If thou wilt, Nacaytzusle, I can speak like thy people also. It is true
I came for them, but what I wanted"--he emphasized the word--"was as
much for their benefit as my own. Thou, first of all, wast to gain by my
scheme." His eyes closed, and the glance became as sharp as that of a
rattlesnake.

Nacaytzusle poked the embers with a dry stick as if thinking over the
speech of the other. Then he asked,--

"Thou sayest thou hast wanted. Wantest thou no more?"

"Not so much as hitherto," Tyope stated positively.

"What shall it be now?" inquired the Dinne.

"I will speak to thee so as to be understood," explained the man from
the Rito, "but thou shalt tell thy people only so much of it as I shall
allow thee to say. Thou art Dinne, it is true, and their tongue is thy
language, but many a time hast thou seen the sun set and rise while the
houses wherein we dwell on the brook were thy home. When they brought
thee to us after the day on which Topanashka slaughtered thy people
beyond the mountains, thou didst not remain with us long. The moon has
not been bright often since thou left us to join thy people. Is it not
so, Nacaytzusle? Answer me."

The Navajo shrugged his shoulders.

"It is true," he said, "but I have nothing in common with the House
people."

"It may be so now, but if thou dost not care for the men, the women are
not without interest to thee. Is it not thus?"

"The tzane on the brook," replied the Navajo, disdainfully, "amount to
nothing."

"In that case"--Tyope flared up and grasped his club, speaking in the
Queres language and with a vibrating tone--"why don't you look for a
companion in your own tribe? Mitsha Koitza does not care for a husband
who sneaks around in the timber like a wolf, and whose only feat
consists in frightening the old women of the Tyuonyi!"

The Navajo stared before him with apparent stolidity. Tyope continued,--

"You pretend to despise us now, yet enough has remained within your
heart, from the time when you lived at the Tyuonyi and slept in the
estufa of Shyuamo hanutsh, to make my daughter appear in your eyes
better, more handsome, and more useful, than the girls of the Dinne!"

The features of the Dinne did not move; he kept silent. But his right
hand played with the string of the bow that lay on the wolf's skin.

"Nacaytzusle," the other began again, "I promised to assist you to
obtain the girl against her will. Mind! Mitsha, my daughter, will never
go to a home of the Dinne of her own accord, but I would have stolen her
for your sake. Now I say to you that I have promised you this child of
mine, and I have promised your people all the green stones of my tribe.
The first promise I shall fulfil if you wish. The other, you may tell
your tribe, I will not hold to longer."

The Navajo looked at him in a strange, doubtful way and replied,--

"You have asked me to be around the Tyuonyi day after day, night after
night, to watch every tree, every shrub, merely in order to find out
what your former wife, Shotaye, was doing, and to kill her if I could.
You have demanded," he continued, raising his voice, while he bent
forward and darted at the Indian from the Rito a look of suppressed
rage, "that the Dinne should come down upon the Tyuonyi at the time when
the Koshare should fast and pray, and should kill Topanashka, the great
warrior, so that you might become maseua in his place! Now I tell you
that I shall not do either!"

The eyes of the young savage flamed like living coals.

"Then you shall not have my child!" exclaimed Tyope.

"I will get her. You may help me or not!"

"I dare you to do it," Tyope hissed.

Nacaytzusle looked straight at him.

"Do you believe," he hissed in turn, "that if I were to go down to the
brook and tell the tapop what you have urged me and my people to do
against your kin that he would not reward me?"

Tyope Tihua became very quiet; his features lost the threatening tension
which they had displayed, his eyes opened, and he said in a softer
tone,--

"That is just what I want you to do. But I want this from you alone. Go
and see the tapop. Tell him not the small talk about this and that, but
what you have seen with your own eyes about Shotaye, that witch, that
snake,--of her dark ways, how she sneaked through the brush on the mesa,
and how she found and gathered the plumage of the accursed owl. Tell him
all, and I will carry Mitsha to your lodges, tied and gagged if needs
be."

"Why don't you send the girl out alone? I will wait for her wherever you
say."

"Do you think that I would be so silly?" the Pueblo retorted with a
scornful laugh. "Do you really believe I would do such a thing? No,
Dinne, you and your people may be much more cunning than mine in many
ways, but we are not so stupid as that. If I were to do that, you would
rob me of my handsome maiden and that would be the last of it. No,
Dinne, I do not need you to such an extent, I am not obliged to have
you. But if you go to the Tyuonyi and accuse the witch, then you shall
go out free, and Mitsha must follow you to the hogans of your people,
whether she will or not. Do what I tell you, and I will do as I promise.
If you will not neither will I, for mind, I do not need you any longer."

Tyope glanced at the stars with an air of the utmost indifference.
Nacaytzusle had listened quietly. Now he said without raising his
eyes,--

"Tyope, you ask me to do all this, and do not even give me a pledge. You
are wise, Tyope, much wiser than we people of the hogans. Give me some
token that you also will do what you have said when I have performed my
part. Give me"--he pointed to the alabaster tablet hanging on Tyope's
necklace--"that okpanyi on your neck."

It was so dark that Nacaytzusle in extending his arm involuntarily
touched the other's chest. Tyope drew back at the touch and replied,
rather excitedly,--

"No, I will not give you any pledge!"

"Nothing at all?" asked the Navajo. A slight rustling noise was heard at
the same time.

"Nothing!" Tyope exclaimed hoarsely.

The savage thrust his arm out at the Pueblo with the rapidity of
lightning. A dull thud followed, his arm dropped, and something fell to
the ground. It was an arrow, whose head of flint falling on the ashes
caused the embers to glow for an instant. Both men sprang in opposite
directions, like snakes darting through the grass. Each one concealed
himself behind a bush. The branches rustled and cracked for a short
space. The place around the fire was vacant; nothing remained but a dim
streak of ruddy light.

Tyope, after repelling the assault upon him, had taken refuge behind a
low juniper-bush. When the Navajo thrust a pointed arrow at his chest he
had numbed the arm of the savage by a blow from his club, and then both
men, like true Indians, hurriedly placed themselves under cover, whence
each listened eagerly to discover the movements of his foe. Tyope could
have killed the Navajo while close to him, for he had the advantage in
weapons; but, although he really had no further use for the young man,
he was not so angry as to take his life.

Still, under the circumstances, the greater the caution displayed the
better. Intimately acquainted with the character of the Dinne Indians,
and that of Nacaytzusle in particular, Tyope had gone on this errand
well armed. Open hostility had resulted from the interview; it was
useless to make any attempt at conciliation. Speedy return to the Rito
was the only thing left. This return might become not only difficult,
but dangerous, with the young Navajo concealed on the mesa. Tyope had
known Nacaytzusle thoroughly from childhood.

Twenty years before, the Dinne had killed an old woman from the Tyuonyi.
The murder took place near the gorge, on the mesa north of it, whither
she had gone to collect the edible fruit of the piñon tree. When the
corpse was discovered the scalp had been taken; and this, rather than
the killing, demanded speedy revenge. A number of able-bodied men of the
clan to which the grandmother belonged gathered in order to fast and
make the usual sacrifices preliminary to the formation of a war party.
On the last night of their fast a delegate from the hishtanyi chayani
appeared in their midst, and performed the customary incantations. He
painted their bodies with the black lustrous powder of iron and
manganese ore which is believed to strike terror into the hearts of
enemies. He selected their leader, invested him with the office, and
blessed the war-fetiches. To the leader he gave a little bag of buckskin
filled with the powder of the yerba del manso, which still further
produces dismay among the foe. That leader was Topanashka Tihua, then in
the full vigour of manhood.

On the following morning Topanashka left before daybreak with five
picked men in the hideous garb of Indian braves. They penetrated
cautiously the mountain labyrinth west of the Rito, concealing
themselves during the day and travelling at night. On the morning of the
fifth day they discovered a few huts of the Navajo. Whether or no their
inmates had participated in the murder of the old woman they did not
stop to inquire, but pounced upon the people who were still asleep. The
results of the surprise were nine scalps and one captive. This captive
was a little boy, and that boy was Nacaytzusle.

Although barely three years old, he was dragged to the Rito and had to
take part in the solemn dance, during which the scalps of his parents
were triumphantly waved by those who had killed them. Afterward he was
adopted into the Turquoise clan, for the people of the Eagle clan
refused to receive him, the privilege of so doing being theirs.
Topanashka disliked the appearance of the child, and his counsels
weighed heavily. Thus Nacaytzusle became an adopted son of the Queres,
but it did not change his nature. His physique at once indicated foreign
origin; he grew up to be taller, more raw-boned, than the youth of the
House people, and his dark, wolfish look and the angular cut of his
features betrayed his Dinne blood.

Like all the other youth, he received the rude education which was
imparted at the estufas. He showed considerable aptitude for mastering
songs and prayers, after once acquiring the language of his captors. He
also watched the wizards as often as opportunity was afforded, and
learned many a trick of jugglery. Tyope was struck by the youth's
aptitude for such arts and practices. It revealed natural tendencies,
and confirmed Tyope in the belief that the Navajos were born wizards,
that their juggleries and performances, some of which are indeed
startling, revealed the possession of higher powers. The Pueblos hold
the Navajos in quite superstitious respect. Tyope therefore looked upon
the young fellow as one who in course of time might become an invaluable
assistant. He observed the boy's ways, and became intimately acquainted
with all his traits, bad and good.

[Illustration: A westerly cliff of the habitations of the Tyuonyi,
showing second and third story caves, and some high lookout caves]

Nacaytzusle was a successful hunter; he was very nimble, quick, and
exceedingly persevering, in everything he undertook. But he was also a
natural lounger and idler, whenever he was not busy with preparations
for the hunt or repairing his own scanty clothing. Work in the fields he
avoided. He even showed marked contempt for the people of the Rito,
because the men performed toil which he regarded as degrading. Keeping
aloof from the men's society to a certain extent, he was more attracted
by the women. It was especially Mitsha Koitza, Tyope's good-looking
daughter, who attracted him; and he began to pay attentions to her in a
manner in keeping with his wild temperament. Tyope, strange to say, was
pleased to notice this. He would have been happy to have given his child
to the savage, but he had no right to interfere in the matter of
marriage, for this belonged to the girl's own clan to arrange. The clan
was that of the Eagle, and Topanashka was its most influential member,
its leading spirit. Mitsha avoided the Navajo; and when Nacaytzusle
attempted to press his suit, the girl repelled his addresses in a
manner that showed her aversion to him beyond any possible question.

Had Mitsha been less positive in her behaviour, it is quite likely that
the character of the young captive might have changed,--that he might
have softened little by little, entering into the path traced by the
customs of sedentary Indians. As it was, his hatred to them increased,
and with it the desire to recover his independence by returning to his
kindred.

About a year before, then, Nacaytzusle disappeared from the Tyuonyi.
Shortly afterward Tyope was suddenly accosted by him while hunting on
the mesa, and a secret intercourse began, which led to the negotiations
of which we have just heard the main purport. These negotiations were
now broken, and in a manner that made a return to the Rito rather
dangerous. The very qualities which had fascinated Tyope--the wariness,
agility, and persistency of the Navajo, his physical strength, and above
all his supposed natural faculties for magic, coupled with his thorough
knowledge of the country--caused Tyope to ponder upon his means of
escape.

The blow which he dealt the savage was sufficient to teach him that a
hand-to-hand encounter would not result favourably to him. At the same
time this slight injury could not fail to exasperate the Navajo, and
Tyope knew that the savage would lie in wait for him at some point which
he had to pass on his return. For the present, Nacaytzusle was very
likely concealed in the vicinity, in the same manner and for the same
reasons as the Pueblo Indian himself; but he was sure to leave his
hiding-place and make some movement toward preparing either an ambush or
a sudden surprise. Tyope remained motionless for a while. He glanced
across the space where the fire had been burning; but every spark was
gone, and it was too dark to discern anything. He finally rose to his
knees slowly and cautiously, and turned his eyes in the opposite
direction. There also was an open space, and the dim starlight enabled
him to discover that between his station and the nearest tree something
similar to a rock or ledge protruded. He peered and listened, then
turned around on his knees and flattening his body on the ground began
to creep toward the tree. As soon as he reached its foot he rose to full
height, leaned against the trunk, and glanced at the stars. They
indicated that it was past midnight, and Tyope felt uneasy. In case he
should be delayed, and reach the Rito after daylight, it might excite
suspicions. Yet his only safety lay in making a wide circuit.

The dismal yelping of a prairie wolf struck his ear, and to his alarm
there was at once a reply near where the interview had taken place, but
slightly to the east and more toward the deep gorge in which the Rio
Grande flows. He concluded that Nacaytzusle had shifted his position, by
placing himself on Tyope's supposed line of retreat. But it was also
manifest that the boy had not come to the meeting alone,--that at least
one more Navajo lurked in the vicinity. At least one, perhaps more.

Another wolf now howled in the direction of the south. A fourth one was
heard farther off, and both voices united in a plaintive wail. Any one
unacquainted with the remarkable perfection with which the Navajos
imitate the nocturnal chant of the so-called coyote, would have been
deceived, and have taken the sounds for the voices of the animals
themselves; but Tyope recognized them as signals through which four
Navajo Indians prowling around him informed each other of their
positions and movements. This made his own situation exceedingly
critical. The only mitigating circumstance was that the four were
dispersed, and only one of them could as yet have an idea of his
whereabouts.

The Indian from the Rito braced himself against the tree, and taking off
his helmet laid it carefully beside him on the ground. Then he took off
the quiver, emptied it, and tied the strap to which it was fastened
around his waist. To this belt he tied both the quiver and the helmet,
distributing them in such a manner that in the prevailing darkness they
appeared like one of the ragged kilts of deerskin which formed the main
part of a Navajo's costume. Next Tyope untied the knot which held his
hair on the back of the head, divided the long strands into switches,
and began to wind those around his skull. Necklace, fetich, and the
plume that adorned his sidelock, he put in the quiver. He was now so far
transformed that any one, Nacaytzusle excepted, might have taken him in
the night for a Navajo warrior. This metamorphosis was performed
rapidly, but without anxious haste or confusion. The howls had meanwhile
been repeated. They sounded nearer than before from the east, the south,
and the southeast. Nacaytzusle alone, to judge from the signals which he
gave, remained stationary.

Tyope, abandoning his position at the foot of the tree, glided to the
nearest shrub. Thence he struck northward in the direction of the Rito.
He walked erect, but scrupulously avoided everything that might create
noise. When near the fireplace he stood still and listened. A wolf
yelped to the right of where the Dinne of whom Tyope was most afraid
seemed to be listening, about two hundred steps from him, on the
swelling of the mesa. He manifestly expected the Queres to return the
same way he came. It was not a sign of much wisdom, but the boy was
young and inexperienced in the stratagems of Indian warfare. Tyope felt
relieved.

Suddenly loud barking sounded directly in front of him, and at no great
distance. Tyope dropped on the ground and began to glide like a snake
toward the place whence this last signal came. He crouched behind a flat
rock and raised his eyes. It was in vain; nothing could be seen in the
obscurity. He felt puzzled. Was this last signal the voice of another
enemy who had hitherto remained silent, or was it Nacaytzusle who had
changed his position? At all events it was safer to rise and go directly
toward the spot, rather than approach it in a creeping posture. He
walked deliberately onward, at the same time calling out in a low
tone,--

"Nacaytzusle!"

Nothing moved.

He advanced a few steps and repeated,--

"Nacaytzusle! Hast thou seen anything?"

"No," said a hollow voice near by, and a human form arose as if from
beneath the surface. The man stepped up to Tyope; and to the latter's
unpeakable relief, he looked stouter and shorter than Nacaytzusle. The
Indian was unknown to him, and Tyope said eagerly,--

"The badger must be hiding near where the fire is. We should cut off his
trail to the north. Nacaytzusle went too far east; there"--he pointed
toward the northeast--"is where he ought to stand."

Tyope spoke the Navajo language fluently.

"Thou art right," said the other; "go thither, and we will be closer
together."

Tyope felt loath to follow this advice, for it would have brought him
uncomfortably near his most dangerous foe; yet, under the circumstances
and to avoid all suspicion he accepted the suggestion, and was about to
turn in the direction indicated when the signals sounded again and
simultaneously from every quarter. The strange Indian held him back,
asking,--

"How is this? We are five, and four have shouted now. Who art thou, and
where dost thou come from?"

"I came from above," Tyope replied, with affected composure.

They stood so close together that the Navajo could notice some details
of Tyope's accoutrements. Grasping the cap of buffalo hide which dangled
from the belt of the Queres, he inquired,--

"What dost thou carry here?"

All was lost, for the Navajos were well acquainted with this garment,
peculiar to the war dress of the Pueblos. Tyope saw that only the most
reckless act could save him. So he dropped all his arrows, which until
now he had carried in his right hand, and thrust his club like a
slung-shot into the other's face. With a yell of pain and surprise the
Navajo tumbled backward into a bush, while Tyope darted forward in the
direction of the Rito. Behind him sounded the hoarse cries of the
wounded man, loud yells answering. They came from four sides; all the
pursuers were running at full speed to the assistance of their
companion.

Madly, like a deer pursued by wolves, Tyope bounded onward. But soon his
speed slackened; he believed that he was safe, and there was no use in
tiring himself. His movements were no longer noiseless as before. During
his first run he had made so much noise as to lead the pursuers directly
on his trail. These pursuers had suddenly become silent. Nevertheless,
from time to time, rustling sounds struck the ear of Tyope, and proved
that the pursuit was carried on unrelentingly. He noticed a suspicious
twittering and cracking, not behind him, but at one side; and it
approached.

He comprehended at once that one of the Navajos, instead of rushing to
the rescue of the one whom Tyope had struck down, had taken a direction
diagonal to his own, with the hope of intercepting him near the brink of
the declivity leading down into the Rito, or perhaps sooner. A change in
his line of flight was thereby rendered necessary, but in what
direction? The warning sounds were heard directly north of him; then
everything became quiet. The same stillness reigned all around; and this
proved that the pursuers, while certainly approaching with the greatest
possible alacrity, were anxious to cover their movements. Tyope stood
still, undecided what to do. The sound of a breaking or bending twig,
faint though audible, caused him to crouch behind a cedar bush again. He
held his breath, listened, and peered through the branches. Soon a man
appeared,--a Navajo; but whether it was Nacaytzusle or not, he could not
discover. The Indian glided across the open space as noiselessly as a
spectre, and disappeared in a northerly direction. Tyope remained in his
concealment for a while, and as nothing more was heard or seen, he
crawled to the nearest shrub to the west. There he again listened and
watched, then rose to his feet and moved in a westerly direction.

The moon had risen, and its crescent shed a glimmer over the tree-tops.
For some time Tyope walked on. Frequently he halted to listen;
everything was still. From this he inferred that his enemies had passed
him, and were now stationed along the brink of the gorge in order to
intercept him, and that he had gone far enough to risk a descent from
where he stood. It did not seem likely that the Navajos had posted
themselves so far up the brink, since he knew it to be beyond the
highest cave-dwellings. Turning to the north, therefore, he soon found
himself under the last trees of the mesa. Beyond opened a whitish chasm,
and the northern cliffs of the Rito rose like dim gigantic phantoms.
Here he knew the descent had to be made, but here also the most imminent
danger was lurking.

The brink of the Rito on the south side is lined by shrubbery, with high
timber interspersed; but ledges of friable volcanic rocks advance in
places beyond this shade, crowning the heights like irregular
battlements. Their surface is bare, and anything moving on them might
become visible to a watchful eye, notwithstanding the dimness of the
moonlight.

Tyope lay down, and began to glide like a snake. He moved slowly,
pushing his body into every depression, hugging closely every
protuberance. Thus he succeeded in crossing the open space between the
woods and the rim of the declivity. Now he could overlook the valley
beneath and glance down the slope. It was not very steep, and thickets
covered it in places. But between him and the nearest brush a bare ledge
had yet to be crossed. He crept into a wide fissure, and then down. The
crags were not high, scarcely ten feet. Then he pushed cautiously on to
the open space. When near the middle of it he raised his head to look
around. Immediately a twang sounded from the heights above him, and a
whiz followed. Tyope bounded to his feet, reeled for a moment; another
twang and another whizzing,--an arrow struck the ground where he had
lain; but already the Queres was away, leaping from rock to rock,
tearing through shrubbery and thickets like a frightened mountain sheep.
Stones rolled from above; somebody was hastening down in pursuit; arrow
upon arrow sped after the fugitive. But Tyope was safely out of reach
and in the bottom, whither the Navajo did not dare to follow. A
drizzling noise, like that of pebbles dropping from a height, told that
the pursuer had withdrawn to the woods again; then all was still.

Down below on the edge of the brook lay Tyope, panting from exhaustion.
His life was safe and he felt unhurt, but he was overcome by emotion and
effort. As long as the excitement had lasted his physical strength had
held out. Now that all was over he felt tired and weak. Yet he could not
think of rest, for daybreak was close at hand. He dipped some water from
the brook and moistened his parched lips, taking care not to touch his
face or body with the liquid. Tyope was tired and worn out, but at the
same time angry; and when the Indian suffers or when he is angry he
neither washes nor bathes. Physical or mental pain, disappointment, and
wrath, are with him compatible only with lack of cleanliness, and since
he becomes wrathful or disappointed or sick quite as often as we do, his
bodily condition is frequently far from pleasant.

Tyope felt angry and disappointed at himself. The failure in regard to
Nacaytzusle was not the cause of his disappointment. What angered him
was that he had not killed the Navajo whom he struck down on the mesa,
and taken his scalp. There would have been ample time, and he could have
concealed the trophy, returning for it in the daytime. He had already
taken one scalp in his life, but to have missed this opportunity of
securing a second one was an unpardonable failure. It was this which
caused him to avoid the cooling waters and forget the demands of
cleanliness.

He rose and walked on. The valley opened before him; the dim light of a
waning moon shone into it, allowing a practised eye to discern grotto
after grotto in the cliffs. As Tyope proceeded down the gorge, following
the brook's course, he glanced at the caves. They were those of the
Water clan. He frowned and clenched his fist in anger. There lived his
enemy, Shotaye, his former spouse. There was her den, the abode of the
hated witch. How often had she crossed his path, how often warned those
whom he had planned to injure! Yes, she was a sorceress, for she knew
too much about his ways. But now his time would come, for he too knew
something concerning her that must ruin her forever. He had known it for
some time, but only now was it possible to accuse her. He shook his fist
at the cliffs in silent rage; the thought of taking revenge filled his
heart with sinister joy, and made him forget the fatigue and
disappointment of the past hours.

He soon stood in front of the place where the cliffs form a
perpendicular wall, and where instead of excavating dwellings the people
of the Eagle clan had built their quarters outside, using the smooth
surface of the rock as a rear wall. A row of terraced houses, some
three, some two stories high, others with a ground-floor only, extended
along the base of the rocks, looking like a shapeless ruin in the faint
glow of the moon. Toward this edifice Tyope walked. All was silent, for
nobody had as yet risen from sleep. He climbed on the roof of a
one-story house and stooped over the hatchway to listen. It was dark
inside, and only the sound of regular breathings could be heard.
Tyope descended into the room. Two persons lay on the floor fast
asleep. They were his wife and daughter. Concealing his weapons and
war-accoutrements, he stretched himself at full length beside the
others. The rushing of the brook was but faintly heard; a cold blast
entered through the loophole in the wall. Tyope heaved a deep sigh of
relief and closed his weary eyes. The night was nearly over, but he had
reached home before the dawn of day.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 6: This custom of taking the disguise of a wolf is or has been
used by the Navajos frequently in order to surprise herds of cattle and
horses.]




CHAPTER IV.


A bright morning followed the night on which Tyope underwent his
adventures. He slept long, but it attracted no undue attention and
called forth no remarks on the part of his wife and daughter. They were
wont to see him come and go at any hour of the night. It was very near
noon when he awoke at last, and after disposing of his late breakfast,
_à la mode du pays_, sauntered off to parts unknown to the others. The
day was one of remarkable beauty. No dim foggy city sun cast a sullen
glance at the landscape. The sun stood in the zenith of a sky of the
deepest azure, like a flaming, sparkling, dazzling meteor. Still its
heat was not oppressive.

On the mesa above the Rito a fresh wind was blowing. The shrubbery was
gently moved by the breeze. A faint rushing sound was heard, like
distant waves surging back and forth. In the gorge a zephyr only fanned
the tops of the tallest pines; a quietness reigned, a stillness, like
that which the poets of old ascribe to the Elysian fields.

There is not much bustle about the big house on the Tyuonyi. The men are
out and at work, and the children have retired to the court-yard, A
group of girls alone enlivens the space between the main building and
the new home of the Corn people. They are gathered in a throng while
they talk, laugh, and chatter, pointing at the fresh coat of clay which
they have finished applying to the outside of the new building. Their
hands are yet filled with the liquid material used for plastering, and
they taunt each other as to the relative merits of their work.

One of the maidens, a plump little thing with a pair of lively eyes,
calls out to another, pointing at a spot where the plaster appears less
smooth and even,--

"See there, Aistshie, you did that! You were too lazy to go over it
again. Look at my work; how even it is compared with yours!"

The other girl shrugged her shoulders and retorted,--

"It may be, but it is not my fault, it is yours, Sayap. You did it
yesterday when we beat off the boys. You pushed Shyuote against the wall
and he thumped his head here. See, this is the mark where he struck the
clay. You did this, Sayap, not I."

Sayap laughed, and her buxom form shook.

"You are right; I did it, I served the urchin right. It was good, was it
not, Aistshie? How I punished the brat, and how he looked afterward with
his face all one mud-patch!"

"Yes," Aistshie objected, "but I did more. I faced Okoya, despite his
bow and arrows. That was more than you did."

The other girls interrupted the scornful reply which Sayap was on the
point of giving. They crowded around the two with a number of eager
questions.

"What was it?" queried one.

"What happened yesterday?" another.

"Did you have a quarrel with boys," a third; and so on. All pressed
around begging and coaxing them to tell the story of yesterday's
adventure. The heroines themselves looked at each other in
embarrassment. At last Aistshie broke out,--

"You tell it, Sayap."

"Well," began the latter, "it was yesterday afternoon and we were just
putting on the last touches of the coating, when Okoya and little
Shyuote his brother--"

A clod, skilfully hurled, struck her right ear, filling it with sand and
cutting off the thread of her narrative rather abruptly. Sayap wheeled
around to see whence the blow had come. The other girls all laughed, but
she was angry. Her wrath was raised to the highest pitch however, when
she discovered that Shyuote was the aggressor. On a little eminence near
by stood the scamp, dancing, cutting capers, and yelling triumphantly.

"Shyuote is small, but he knows how to throw."

"Fiend," cried Sayap in reply. She picked up a stone, raised it in the
awkward manner in which most girls handle missiles, and running toward
the boy hurled it at him. It fell far short of its mark, of course, and
Shyuote only laughed, danced, and grimaced so much the more. As Sayap
kept advancing and the other girls followed, he threw a second clod,
which struck her squarely in the face, and so sharply that blood flowed
from her nose and mouth. At the same time the rogue shouted at the top
of his voice,--

"Come on! All of you! I am not afraid. You will never catch me!"

And as the majority of his pursuers came on, while two or three remained
behind soothing and consoling Sayap, who stood still, crying and
bleeding, he thrust out his tongue at them its full length, performed a
number of odious grimaces, and then nimbly clambered up between a group
of erosive cones that lay in front of the cliff. He turned around once
more to yell defiance and scorn at his pursuers, and disappeared on the
other side. Farther pursuit being hopeless, the girls clustered around
the weeping Sayap and held a council of war. They vowed dire vengeance
on the lad, and promised their injured sister to improve the first
opportunity that should present itself.

Shyuote, on the other hand, felt proud of his success. His revenge was,
he felt, a glorious one. Still he was careful not to forget the counsels
of prudence, and instead of returning to the house by a direct route,
which might have carried him too near the enraged damsels, he sauntered
along, hugging the cliffs for some distance, and then cautiously sneaked
into the fields below the new homes of the Maize clan. Once in the corn
he felt safe, and was about to cross the brook to the south side, when
the willows bordering the streamlet rustled and tossed, and a voice
called to him from the thicket,--

"Where are you going, uak?"

Shyuote stopped, and looked around for the speaker; but nobody was
visible. Again the boughs rustled and shook, and there emerged from the
willows an old man of low stature, with iron-gray hair and shrivelled
features. He wore no ornaments at all; his wrap was without belt and
very dirty. In his left hand he held a plant which he had pulled up by
the roots. He stepped up to Shyuote, stood close by his side, and
growled at him rather than spoke.

"I asked you where you were going. Why don't you answer?"

Shyuote was frightened, and stammered in reply,--

"To see my father."

"Who is your father?"

"Zashue Tihua."

The features of the interlocutor took on a singular expression. It was
not one of pleasure, neither did it betoken anger; if anything, it
denoted a sort of grim satisfaction.

"If Zashue is your father," continued he, and his eyes twinkled
strangely, "Say Koitza must be your mother."

"Of course," retorted the boy, to whom this interrogatory seemed
ludicrous.

"And Okoya your brother," the old man persisted.

"Why do you ask all this?" inquired the child, laughingly.

A look, piercing and venomous, darted from the eyes of the questioning
man. He snarled angrily,--

"Because I ask it. I ask, and you shall answer me without inquiring why
and wherefore. Do you hear, uak?"

Shyuote hung his head; he felt afraid.

"I forbid you to say anything about what I say to you to your mother,"
continued the other, grasping the left arm of the boy.

Shyuote shook off the grip, and also shook his head in token of refusal.
The old man seized the arm again and clutched it so firmly with his bony
fingers that the lad screamed from pain.

"Let me go!" he cried. "You hurt me, let me go!"

"Will you do as I bid you?" asked his tormentor.

"Yes," sobbed the child. "I will obey. My mother shall not know
anything. Let me go, you hurt!"

The man loosened his grip slightly.

"To your father you shall say that I, the Koshare Naua,"--the boy looked
up at him at these words in astonishment,--"send word to him through you
to come to my house on the night after the one that will follow this
day, when the new moon sets behind the mountains. Do you hear me, boy?"

Shyuote stared at the interlocutor with mouth wide open, and with an
expression of fear and surprise that evidently amused the other. He gave
him a last look, a sharp, threatening, penetrating glance; then his
features became less stern.

"Have no fear," he said in a milder tone. "I will not do you any harm;
but you must do as I say. Go to your nashtio now, and tell him what I
said." With this he wheeled about and left the boy as abruptly as he
had appeared. Shyuote stood gaping and perplexed.

He felt very much like crying. His arm still ached from the grip of the
old man, and while he was rubbing the sore spot his anger rose at the
harsh and cruel treatment he had suffered. He thought of rushing home to
his mother forthwith and telling her all about the bad old man, and how
he had forbidden him to say anything to her. Still, the Koshare Naua was
not to be trifled with, and Shyuote, young and childish as he was, had
some misgivings about betraying his confidence. His father had told him
that the Naua, or chief leader of the Koshare, was a very wise and
therefore a very powerful man. Zashue, who as soon as Shyuote was born
had pledged the child to become one of the Delight Makers, was educating
the lad gradually in his duties; and Shyuote had already imbibed enough
of that discipline to feel a tremendous respect for the leader of the
society to which he was pledged to belong. He suppressed the thoughts of
rebellion that had arisen, and strolled on, crossing the creek and
hunting for his father among the corn-patches on the other side. But his
good-humour had left him. Instead of being triumphantly buoyant, he felt
morose and humiliated.

Zashue Tihua was at work in the fields of the Water clan, on the
southern border of the cultivated plots. He was not alone; another young
man kept him company. It was his younger brother, Hayoue. They were
weeding side by side, and exchanging remarks while the work went on.
Zashue looked up, and his handsome face brightened when he discovered
Shyuote coming toward them through the maize. A visit from his favourite
child, although by no means an unusual occurrence, was always a source
of pleasure. He liked to have Shyuote around him when he was at work.

Throwing a small, sharp stone-splinter toward the boy, he called out to
him,--

"Come, take this okpanyi and begin weeding where you stand. Weed toward
us until we meet, and we will go home together to the yaya."

This was still further a source of displeasure to Shyuote, who above all
things disliked work. He had not come down to the fields to toil. What
he sought for was a friendly chat with his father, a few hours of
lounging and loafing near him. Disappointed and pouting, he bent over
the work assigned, while the two men went on with their task as well as
with their conversation.

Hayoue was taller than his brother, and a strikingly handsome young
Indian. His eyes had a more serious and less mischievous expression than
those of Zashue. He was yet unmarried; but, notwithstanding, a marked
predilection for the fair sex formed one of his characteristics. He was
held in high esteem by the leading men of the tribe, Tyope and his
adherents excepted, for his sagacity, good judgment, and personal
valour.

"I tell you," Zashue spoke up, "Shyuote will become a good one."

Hayoue shrugged his shoulders and replied,--

"You should know your own children better than I, yet I tell you Okoya
also is good; besides, he is wise and reserved."

"Yes; but he is too much with the women, and his mother stands nearer to
him than his father. He never follows me to the fields unless I tell
him. Look at the little one, on the other hand. He will be a man."

While his brother spoke Hayoue had quietly observed Shyuote; and the
slow, loitering way in which the boy performed his work had not escaped
his observation. He said,--

"It may be. To-day he certainly acts rather like an old woman. See how
loath he is to weed the plants."

"You always prefer Okoya," replied Zashue. "You like him because he
never opens his mouth unless an arrow is forced between his teeth."

"And you prefer Shyuote because you are making a Koshare of him," Hayoue
answered, with great composure.

"He surely will become a good one, a better one than I am."

"If he becomes as good a Delight Maker as you are, Zashue, we may be
satisfied. Shall you soon retire to the estufa?" he inquired, changing
the subject of the conversation.

"I don't know; the Naua has not said anything as yet, but the time is
near at hand when we should begin to work. Before going into the round
house in the rocks, we ought to be sure that there are no Navajos in the
neighbourhood. You are Kauanyi, a member of the order of warriors," he
added with a side-glance at his brother, "do you know anything of the
sneaking wolves in the mountains?"

Hayoue denied any knowledge concerning the Navajos, adding,--

"I did not like it when that fellow Nacaytzusle ran away from us. He
knew too much of our ways."

"He can do no harm. He is glad to stay among his people."

"Still I don't trust him," Hayoue muttered.

"Neither would I, if I were in your place," Zashue taunted, and a
good-natured though mischievous smile lit up his features. "If I were
you I would keep still better guard over Mitsha Koitza."

"What have I to do with the child of Tyope," exclaimed the other, rather
contemptuously.

"Indeed?" queried Zashue, "so you, too, are against Tyope? What has he
done to you?"

"Nothing, but I mistrust him as much as I do the Navajo."

These last words were uttered in such a positive manner--they were so
earnestly emphasized--that they cut off the conversation. It was plain
that Hayoue had made up his mind on the subject, and that he did not
wish to have it broached again.

"Sa nashtio," called Shyuote over to where the brothers were weeding in
silence, "come over here; I must tell you something, but I must tell it
to you alone."

Hayoue at once turned away, while Zashue called the lad to him. But
Shyuote protested, saying that only his father was to hear his
communication, and Zashue at last went where the boy was standing. It
vexed him, and he inquired rather gruffly what he had to say. Shyuote
made a very wise and important face, placed a finger to his lips, and
whispered,--

"The Koshare Naua told me to tell you that you should go to see him, not
to-morrow, but the day after, when the moon goes behind the mountains."

"Is that all!" exclaimed Zashue, disappointed and angry,--"is that all
you had to say? That much you might have shouted to me. There was no
need of being so secret about it, and"--he glanced at the insignificant
and careless work the boy had performed--"is that all you have done
since you came? You are lazy, uak! Go home. Go home at once to your
mother and tell her that I shall not return for the evening, but will
stay with Hayoue in the caves." And as Shyuote, dismayed and troubled,
appeared loath to go, Zashue turned to him again, commanding in a very
angry tone,--

"Go home! Go home at once!"

[Illustration: (Upper picture) A Navajo Hogan]

[Illustration: (Lower picture) The Heart of the Tyuonyi: The
excavated lower story of the great terraced Communal House]

Shyuote left in haste; he felt very much like crying. Hayoue said to his
brother,--

"Didn't I tell you that Shyuote was lazy? Okoya is far, far more
useful."

"Let me alone about Okoya," growled Zashue; and both went on with the
work as before.

Shyuote stumbled across the patches of corn, rather than walked through
them. He felt sad, dejected, and very wrathful. All the buoyancy with
which his victory over the girls had inspired him was gone. Since that
heroic feat nothing but ill-luck had crossed his path. He was angry at
his father for scolding him and driving him home, in the presence of
Hayoue, for whom the boy had as great a dislike as his uncle had for
him. Why, it was worse than the threats and cuffs of the old Naua! It
was not only an injustice, it was an insult! So the lad reasoned, and
began to brood over vengeance. He was going to show his father that he,
the ten-year-old boy, was not to be trifled with. Yes, he would show his
teeth by refusing to become a Koshare. Would not that be a glorious
revenge! The little fellow did not know that he was pledged to the
Delight Makers by a sacred vow of his parent which it was not in his
power to break. After a while his thoughts changed, and he concluded
that it might be better to say nothing and to go home and ask for
something to eat. But never, never again would he favour his father with
a friendly call in the corn-patch. This latter resolve appeared to him
so satisfactory, the revenge so ample for the injury received, that he
forgot the past and fairly danced through the fields, hopping sometimes
on one foot and sometimes on the other. He crossed the brook and reached
the large house almost to his own surprise.

It was noon, and the full blaze of the sun flooded the valley with
light. Not a breeze fanned the air, nothing stirred. No vibrations
troubled the picture which the cliffs, the caves, the buildings,
presented in the dazzling glare. The cliffs had lost their yellowish hue
and appeared white, with every protuberance, every indentation, or
cavity, marked by intense shadows. The houses inhabited by the Eagle
clan along the foot of the rocks were like a row of irregularly piled
cubes and prisms; each beam leaning against them cast a jet-black streak
of shadow on the ground. Below the projecting beams of the roofs a short
black line descended along the wall, and the towering rocks jutted in
and out from dark recesses like monsters. So strong were the contrasts
between shadow and light that even Shyuote was struck by it. He stood
still and stared.

Something indefinite, a vague feeling of awe, crept over him. For the
real grandeur of the scenery he had no sense of appreciation, and yet it
seemed to him as if everything about were new and strange. Thousands of
times had he gazed at the cliffs of his valley home, but never had they
appeared to him as they did now. So strong was this impression, and so
sudden, too, that he shrank from the sight in amazement; then he turned
his eyes away and walked rapidly toward home. He was afraid to look at
the colossal pillars and walls; they appeared to him like giants
threatening to move. All his plans for revenge, every thought of wrath
and indignation, had vanished.

Suddenly his left knee was struck by a stone hurled with such force that
Shyuote bounded and screamed. At the same time six or seven boys, some
apparently of his age while others were taller and older, rushed from
the bushes skirting the ditch. Two of them ran directly in front of him.
They were armed with sticks and short clubs, and the largest, who seemed
to be of the same age as Okoya, shouted,--

"You have injured Sayap, and caused her blood to flow. You rotten
squash, you shall suffer for it."

Shyuote took in the situation at a glance. He saw that only desperate
running would save him from being roughly handled. He darted off like an
arrow toward the cave-dwellings in front of him. Unfortunately these
were the quarters of the Corn people who had not yet moved into their
new homes. To them belonged Sayap and the boys that were assailing
Shyuote; and as the fugitive approached the slope, he saw it occupied by
other youth ready and eager to give him a warm reception. At the same
time the tallest of his pursuers was gaining on him rapidly; rocks flew
past his head; a stone struck him between the ribs, stopping his breath
almost. In despair he turned to the left, and making a last effort flew
towards the houses of the Eagle clan. Panting, blinded by exertion and
by pain, he reached one of the beams leading to a roof, rushed upward
along it, and was about to take refuge in the room below, when a young
girl came up the primitive ladder down which he had intended to
precipitate himself. Issuing from the hatchway she quietly pushed the
lad to one side; then, as in that moment one of his pursuers appeared on
the roof, she stepped between him and Shyuote.

"Get out of the way, Mitsha! Let me get at the wren!" cried the youth
who had just climbed the roof. Shyuote fled to the very wall of the
rock; he gave up all hope and thought himself lost. But the girl quietly
asked,--

"What do you want with the boy?"

"He has hurt Sayap, our sister," the tall youngster answered. "He threw
a stone at her and caused her to bleed. Now I am going to pay him for
it."

"So will I!" shouted another one from below.

"I too!" "And I!" "He shall get it from all of us!" yelled a number of
youthful voices, and in an instant the roof was crowded with boys.

Mitsha had placed herself so as to shield the trembling lad with her own
body. Very quietly she said,--

"Don't you see that he also is bleeding? Let him go now, it is enough."
A stone had indeed grazed Shyuote's scalp, and blood was trickling down
his cheek.

"It is not enough!" shouted one of the older boys, angrily. "Get out of
the way, Mitsha!"

"You shall not hurt him on this roof," replied Mitsha, in a calm but
very positive tone.

"Do you intend to protect him?" cried the tallest one of the pursuers,
and another one exclaimed,--

"How does it concern you? You have nothing to do here." All turned
against the girl. A little fellow, who carried several large pebbles in
his hand for the occasion, endeavoured to steal a march around Mitsha in
order to reach Shyuote; but she noticed it, and grasped his arm and
pulled him back so vigourously that he reeled and fell at full length on
the roof. Then she ordered them all to leave forthwith.

"You belong to the Corn clan," she said, "and have nothing to do here on
the houses of the Eagle clan. Go down! Get away at once or I will call
our men. As long as I am here you shall not touch the uak."

"So you take his part?" cried the biggest one of the invaders. He raised
a stick to strike her.

"Lay down your club, you dirty ear of corn," replied the maiden, "or you
will fare badly." With this she drew from under her wrap a heavy
war-club; it was the same weapon which Tyope had used the night
previous.

The boy's arm remained uplifted, but still the attitude of the girl, her
threatening look and resolute appearance, checked the assailants. Mitsha
stood with apparent composure, but her eyes sparkled and the expression
of her face denoted the utmost determination. Besides she was fully as
tall as most of her opponents, and the weapon she was holding in
readiness looked quite formidable. But the superior number of her
assailants exercised a certain pressure on these assailants themselves,
and the Indian under such circumstances has no thought of chivalrous
feeling. A dozen boys stood before the solitary maiden on the roof, and
they were not to be intimidated by her. For an instant only neither said
a word; then a threatening murmur arose. One of the lads called out to
the tallest of the crowd,--

"Strike her down, Shohona!"

A stone was thrown at her but missed its aim. At this moment the boys
nearest the brink of the roof were suddenly thrust aside right and left,
the one who had threatened Mitsha with his stick was pulled back and
jerked to one side violently, and before the astonished girl stood
Okoya. Pale with emotion, breathless, with heaving chest, and quivering
from excitement, he gasped to her,--

"Go down into the room; I will protect my brother." Then he turned to
face the assailants.

The scene on the roof had attracted a large number of spectators, who
had gathered below and were exchanging surmises and advice on the merits
of a case about which none of them really knew anything. Now a woman's
voice rose from amid this gaping and chattering crowd,--the sharp and
screechy voice of an angry woman. She shouted to those who were on the
roof,--

"Get down from my house! Get down, you scoundrels! If you want to kill
each other do it elsewhere, and not on my home!" With this the woman
climbed on to the roof. She seized the boy nearest to her by the hair
and pulled him fairly to the ground, so that the poor fellow howled
from pain. With the other hand she dealt blows and cuffs, and scratched
and punched indiscriminately among the youngsters, so that a sudden
panic broke out among these would-be heroes. Each sought to get out of
her reach with the greatest alacrity. She at last released her hold on
the first victim and reached out for another; but the last of the young
Corn people was just tumbling down from the roof, and her clutch at his
leg came too late. In an instant the roof was cleared. The young braves
from the Maize clan were ungraciously received below. A number of their
parents had assembled, and when the woman began to expostulate, they
looked at the matter from her point of view. They saw that it was an
infringement, a trespass, upon the territory and rights of another clan,
and treated their pugnacious sons to another instalment of bodily
punishment as fast as they came tumbling from above. The final result
for the incipient warriors of the Corn people was that they were
ignominiously driven home.

While peace was thus restored upon the ground it still looked quite
stormy on the roof. The woman who had so energetically interfered at
last discovered Okoya, who was looking in blank amazement at this sudden
change of affairs. Forthwith she made a vicious grab at his ebony locks,
with the pointed remark,--

"Down with you, you stinking weed!"

But Mitsha interfered.

"Mother," she said gently, "do not harm him. He was defending his
brother and me. He is none of the others."

"What!" the woman screamed, "was it you whom they were about to strike,
these night-owls made of black corn? You, my child? Let me tell them
again what they are," and she ran to the brink of the roof, raised
handfuls of dust from it, and hurled them in the direction of the caves
of the offenders. She stamped, she spat; she raved, and heaped upon the
heads of the Corn people, their ancestors, and their descendants, every
invective the Queres language contains. To those below this appeared
decidedly entertaining; the men especially enjoyed the performance, but
Mitsha felt sorry,--she disliked to see her mother display such frenzy
and to hear her use such vulgar language. She pulled her wrap, saying,--

"It is enough now, sanaya. Don't you see that those who wanted to hurt
me are gone? Their fathers and mothers are not guilty. Be quiet, mother;
it is all over now."

Her mother at last yielded to these gentle remonstrances, turned away
from the brink, and surveyed the roof. She saw Okoya standing before
weeping Shyuote, and scolding him.

"What are you doing to this child?" asked Mitsha's mother, still under
the pressure of her former excitement. She was ready for another fray.

"He is my brother, and the cause of the whole trouble," Okoya explained
to her. "I chide him for it, as it is my duty to do. Nevertheless, they
had no right to kill him, still less to hurt the girl."

The woman had at last had time to scrutinize the looks of the young man.
She herself was not old, and when not under the influence of passion was
rather comely. Okoya's handsome figure attracted her attention, and she
stepped nearer, eyeing him closely.

"Where do you belong?" she inquired in a quieter tone.

"I am Tanyi."

"Who is your father?"

"Zashue Tihua."

The woman smiled; she moved still nearer to the young man and
continued,--

"I know your father well. He is one of us, a Koshare." Her eyes remained
fastened on his features; she was manifestly more and more pleased with
his appearance. But at the same time she occasionally glanced toward her
daughter Mitsha, and it struck her forcibly that Mitsha, too, was
handsome.

"I know who you are," she said smilingly. "You are Okoya Tihua, your
little brother is called Shyuote, and Say Koitza is your mother's name.
She is a good woman, but"--and she shrugged her shoulders--"always sick.
Have you any cotton?" she suddenly asked, looking squarely into the eyes
of the boy.

"No," he replied, and his features coloured visibly, "but I have some
handsome skins."

Mitsha too seemed embarrassed; she started to go into the room below,
but her mother called her back.

"Sa uishe," she coaxed, "won't you give the mot[=a]tza something to
eat?"

The faces of both young people became fiery red. He stood like a statue,
and yet his chest heaved. He cast his eyes to the ground. Mitsha had
turned her face away; her whole body was trembling like a leaf. Her
mother persisted.

"Take him down into the room and feed him," she repeated, and smiled.

"I have nothing," murmured Mitsha.

"If such is the case I shall go and see myself." With these words the
woman descended the beam into the room below, leaving the two alone on
the roof, standing motionless, neither daring to look at the other.

While the colloquy between Okoya and Mitsha's mother was going on,
Shyuote had recovered somewhat from his fright and grief and had sneaked
off. Once on the ground he walked--still trembling and suspiciously
scanning the cliff wherein the Corn people had their abodes--as
straight as possible toward the big house. Nobody interfered with him;
not even his two defenders noticed that he had gone; they both remained
standing silent, with hearts beating anxiously.

"Okoya," the woman called from below, "come and eat. Mitsha, come down
and give sa uishe something to eat."

A thrill went through Okoya's whole frame. She had called him _sa
uishe_,--"my child." He ventured to cast a furtive glance at the maiden.
Mitsha had recovered her self-control; she returned his shy glance with
an open, free, but sweet look, and said,--

"Come and partake of the food." There was no resisting an invitation
from her. He smiled; she returned the smile in a timid way, as shy and
embarrassed as his own.

She descended first and Okoya followed. On the floor of the room, the
same chamber where Tyope had taken rest the night before, stood the
usual meal; and Okoya partook of it modestly, said his prayer of thanks,
and uttered a plain, sincere hoya at the end. But instead of rising, as
he would have done at home, he remained squatting, glancing at the two
women.

While he ate, the mother watched him eagerly; her cunning eyes moved
from his face toward that of her daughter like sparks; and gradually an
expression of satisfaction mingled with that of a settled resolve
appeared on her features. There was no doubt that the two would be a
handsome pair. They seemed, as the vulgar saying goes, made for each
other; and there was something besides that told that they were fond of
each other also. Okoya had never before entered this dwelling; but the
woman thought that they had met before, nay, that her desire had been
anticipated, inasmuch as the young people already stood to each other,
if not in an intimate, in a more than merely friendly, relation.

"Why do you never come to see us?" asked the woman, after Okoya had
finished his meal.

"I stay at the estufa during the night," was the modest reply.

"You need have no fear," she answered pleasantly, "Tyope and your father
are good friends. You should become a Koshare!" she exclaimed.

Okoya's face clouded; he did not like the suggestion, but nevertheless
asked,--

"Is she," looking at Mitsha, "a Koshare also?"

"No. We had another child, a boy. He was to have become a Delight Maker,
but he died some time ago." The woman had it on her lips to say, "Do you
become one in his place as our child," but she checked herself in time;
it would have been too bold a proposal.

Okoya glanced at the daughter and said timidly,--

"If you like, I shall come again to see you;" and Mitsha's face
displayed a happy smile at the words, while her mother eagerly nodded.

"Come as often as you can," she replied. "We"--emphasizing the word
strongly--"like it. It is well."

"Then I will go now," said Okoya, rising. His face was radiant. "I must
go home lest Shyuote get into more trouble. He is so mischievous and
awkward. Good-bye." He grasped the woman's hand and breathed on it; gave
a smiling look to the girl, who nodded at him with a happy face; and
returned to the roof again. Thence he climbed down to the ground. How
happy he felt! The sun seemed to shine twice as brightly as before; the
air felt purer; all around him breathed life, hope, and bliss. At the
foot of the slope he turned back once more to gaze at the house where so
much joy had come to him. A pair of lustrous eyes appeared in the little
air-hole of the wall. They were those of the maiden, which were
following him on his homeward way.

Tyope's wife was right in supposing that her daughter and Okoya were not
strangers to each other. And yet not a single word had passed between
them before beyond a casual greeting. As often as they had met he had
said "guatzena," and she had responded with "raua." But at every meeting
his voice was softer, and hers more timid and trembling. Each felt happy
at the sight of the other, but neither thought of speaking, still less
of making any advances. Okoya was aware of the fact--which he felt
deeply and keenly--that a wide breach, a seemingly impassable chasm,
existed between him and the girl. That gap was the relation in which he
stood toward Tyope, the girl's father. Or rather the relation in which
he fancied himself to stand toward him. For Tyope had hardly ever spoken
to him, still less done him any wrong. But Okoya's mother had spoken of
Tyope as a bad man, as a dangerous man, as one whom it was Okoya's duty
to avoid. And so her son feared Tyope, and dared not think of the bad
man's daughter as his future companion through life. Now everything was
changed.

Mitsha's mother had said that Tyope was a friend of his father, and that
Tyope would not be angry if Okoya came to her house. Then he was not,
after all, the fiend that Say Koitza had pictured him. On the contrary
he appeared to Okoya, since the last interview, in the light of an
important personage. Okoya's faith in his mother was shaken before; now
he began to think that Tyope after all, while he was certainly to him an
important man, was not as bad as represented. The Koshare also appeared
to him in a new and more favourable light. The adroit suggestion made by
the woman that he should join the society bore its fruits. Okoya felt
not only relieved but happy; he felt elated over his success. He was
well trained in the religious discipline of the Indians; and now that he
saw hope before him, his next thought was one of gratitude toward that
mother of all who, though dwelling at the bottom of the lagune of
Shipapu at times, and then again in the silvery moon, was still watching
over the destinies of her children on earth, and to whose loving
guidance he felt his bright prospects due.

He had no prayer-plumes with him. These painted sticks--to which
feathers or down of various birds, according to the nature of the prayer
they are to signify, are attached--the aborigine deposits wherever and
whenever he feels like addressing himself to the higher powers, be it
for a request, in adoration only, or for thanksgiving. In a certain way
the prayer-plume or plume-stick is a substitute for prayer, inasmuch as
he who has not time may deposit it hurriedly as a votive offering. The
paint which covers the piece of stick to which the feather is attached
becomes appropriately significant through its colours, the feather
itself is the symbol of human thought, flitting as one set adrift in the
air toward heaven, where dwell Those Above. But as in the present
instance, the Indian has not always a prayer-plume with him. So he has
recourse to an expedient, simple and primitive.

Two little sticks or twigs, placed crosswise and held to their place by
a rock or stone, serve the same purpose in case of emergency. Such
accumulations of rocks, little stone-heaps, are plentiful around Indian
villages; and they represent votive offerings, symbolizing as many
prayers. There were a number of them at the Rito around the big house,
along the fields, and on the trails leading up to the mesa. Okoya went
to the nearest one and placed two twigs crosswise on it, poising them
with a stone. Then he scattered sacred meal, which he always carried
with him in a small leather wallet, and thanked the Sanashtyaya, our
mother, with an earnest ho-a-a, ho-a-a.

Then he turned homeward. The very thought of that home, however, made
his heart heavy and sad. For more and more he became convinced that his
mother was false to him. The assertion made by Tyope's wife that he was
welcome in her house, and that Tyope would not object to his visiting
there, worked another breach in the faith he was wont to place in his
mother's words. Not that the invitation to join the Koshare had
exercised any influence upon his opinion regarding that society of men
and women. He mistrusted, he hated, he feared them as much as ever, but
toward Tyope personally he felt differently. His thoughts were carried
back to the gloomy subject; one by one his doubts and misgivings
returned with them, and a longing after some friend to whom he might
communicate his fears and whom he might consult with absolute
confidence. As he was thus pondering and walking on, slowly and more
slowly, he saw at some distance two men climbing up toward where the
cave-dwellings of the Water clan lay. One of them was his father; he
recognized him at once. Who was his companion? He stopped and looked. It
was his father's brother, Hayoue; and with this it seemed as if a veil
had suddenly dropped from his eyes. The tall, slender young man yonder,
who was advancing up the declivity at such an easy gait, was the friend
upon whom he could fully rely, the adviser who would not, at least
purposely, lead him astray. Hayoue was but a few years older than Okoya.
The relations between the two were those of two brothers and chums,
rather than those of uncle and nephew. Hayoue was not a member of his
clan, consequently not exposed to any influence which his mother,
through her father, Topanashka, might attempt to exert. Hayoue, he knew,
disliked the Koshare as much as he disliked them himself, and Hayoue was
thoroughly trustworthy and discreet, though very outspoken if
necessary, and fearless. Yes, Hayoue was the friend in need he so
anxiously desired to find, and now that he had found him he resolved to
seize upon the first opportunity of consulting him on the subject that
so seriously troubled his mind. He was so delighted at this sudden
discovery, as it might be called, that he attributed it to an
inspiration from above, and stood for a moment in doubt whether he
should not return to the stone-heap and offer another prayer of thanks
to the mother above, for what he considered to have been a gift of her
goodness to him. But the house was too near, and he bethought himself of
Shyuote and what the mischievous urchin might have done since he had
left him. He entered the front room of his mother's dwelling with a
lighter and easier mind than the day before, and what he saw at once
diverted his thoughts into another widely different channel.

Shyuote sat in a corner, and his eyes were red from crying. Beside him
stood Say, agitated and angry. Without giving her elder son time to
speak, she asked,--

"Who sent the boy to the fields?"

"I don't know," replied Okoya, in astonishment. He knew nothing of
Shyuote's morning rambles. "He must know; how could I tell?"

"He says that they drove him from the corn because he threw mud at a
girl," added the mother.

"That is quite likely," rejoined his elder brother. "That is why the
lads of the Corn clan intended to beat him, I presume."

"Why did you not stay with your father?" cried Say.

"Because,"--he held his arm up to his eyes and commenced to
sob,--"because my father drove me off."

"Why did he drive you away?"

"Because--" He stopped, then raised his head as if a sudden and wicked
thought had flashed across his mind.

His eyes sparkled. "I dare not tell." He cast his eyes to the ground,
and a bitter smile passed over his lips.

"Why dare you not tell?" both Say and Okoya inquired. "Has sa nashtio
told you not to say anything about it?"

"Not he, but the Koshare Naua." It was like an explosion. Say Koitza
felt a terrible pang; she stared vacantly at the wicked lad for a
moment, and then turned and went into the kitchen. Shyuote wept aloud;
his brother looked down upon him with an expression of mingled
compassion and curiosity.

The doorway was suddenly darkened by a human form, and with the usual
_guatzena_ the grandfather, Topanashka, entered the apartment. Okoya
stood up quickly and replied,--

"Raua opona."

"What is the boy crying for?" inquired the old man.

"The Corn people tried to hurt him because he threw something at one of
their girls," Okoya explained.

"Is that all? I heard scolding and crying going on here, and so I
thought I would come and see what was the matter. Where is your yaya?"

Say, when she heard her father's voice, came out and leaned against the
entrance to the kitchen. Her face was convulsed, her eyes glassy.
Topanashka scanned her features quietly and then said in a cold tone,--

"Guatzena."

She understood the meaning of his cold, searching gaze, and gathered all
her strength to meet it with composure.

"Shyuote cries also," she said, "because his father sent him home from
the fields."

"Why did Zashue do that?"

"This he dare not tell, for the Koshare Naua"--her voice trembled at the
mention of the name--"forbade him to say anything about it." Her eyes
clung to the features of her father. Topanashka turned away slowly and
quietly, and she followed him to the door. As he was crossing the
threshold he whispered to her,--

"There is nothing new as yet."




CHAPTER V.


The people of the Water clan dwelt at the western end of the cliffs
which border the Tyuonyi on the north. They occupied some twenty caves
scooped out along the base of the rock, and an upper tier of a dozen
more, separated from the lower by a thickness of rock averaging not over
three feet. This group of cave-dwellings--and vestiges thereof are still
visible at this day--lay in a re-entering angle formed by the cliffs,
which overhang in such a manner as to form a sheltered nook 

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