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 debris, 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 pinon 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.



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, a 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!"



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 motātza 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.