While she stood and gazed around, her attention was directed to a young couple passing in front of her. The handsome lad with the dark, streaming hair was Okoya, and she recognized him proudly as the best-looking youth on the ground, Hayoue perhaps excepted. But then, was not Hayoue, Okoya's father's brother? But who was the girl by Okoya's side? That slender figure of medium height, that earnest, thoughtful expression of the face, those lustrous eyes,—whose were they? The two were manifestly a handsome pair, and the longer she watched them the more she became satisfied that they were the prettiest couple in the dance. They were certainly well matched; her son's partner was the handsomest girl of the tribe; of this she was convinced, and she felt proud of it. Motherly pride caused her heart to flutter, and the instinct of woman made her eager to know who the maiden was who appeared such a fitting partner for her own good-looking son. Say Koitza determined to improve the first opportunity that might present itself for ascertaining who the girl was and where she belonged.

The day was drawing to a close, a day of joyful excitement for the people of the Tyuonyi. The dance terminated. As the sun went down the dancers crowded out of the passage-way; so did the visitors; it grew quieter and quieter on and about the large house. The swarm of people leaving it scattered toward the cliffs in little bands and thin streams, separating and diverging from each other like the branches of an open fan. And yet, after night had come and the moon had risen in a cloudless sky, there was still bustle everywhere. Households ravaged by the visitations of the Koshare were being restored to order, the exhausted dancers were being feasted, and the estufas were being cleared of everything bearing a sacred character. Young men and boys still loitered in groups, repeating with hoarse voices the songs and chants they had lately addressed to the ruler of day.

On the terrace roof of the home of Tyope's wife a young girl stood quite alone, gazing at that moon where the mother of all mankind, the Sanatyaya, is supposed to reside. It was Mitsha Koitza, who had just returned from the estufa of her clan with the mother-soul of her own home, and who still lingered here holding in her hands the cluster of snowy, delicate feathers. She thinks, while her nimble fingers play with it, of the young man who has been her partner the whole day, who has danced beside her so quiet, modest, and yet so handsome, and who once appeared to her on this same roof brave and resolute in her defence. While she thus stands, gazes, and dreams, a flake of down becomes detached and quivers upward into the calm, still air. Involuntarily the maiden fastens her glance on the plumelet, which flits upward and upward in the direction of the moon's silvery orb. Such a flitting and floating plume is the symbol of prayer. Mitsha's whole heart goes anxiously with the feather. It rises and rises, and at last disappears as if absorbed by moonlight. The features of the maiden, which till now have carried an anxious, pleading look, brighten with a soft and happy smile. The mother above has listened to her entreaty, for the symbol of her thoughts, the feather, has gone to rest on the bosom of her who watches over every house, who feels with every loving and praying heart.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 7: It was natural for her to think of removing the feathers, as they would in all probability be looked for just where she had put them; that is, under the floor. Such was the case at Nambe in March, 1855, when owl's feathers were found buried at several places in the Pueblo. The result of the discovery at Nambe was the slaughter of three men and one woman for alleged witchcraft by the infuriated mob of Indians.]

[Footnote 8: Schleiermacher.]



CHAPTER VII.

Among Indians any great feast, like the dance of the ayash tyucotz described in the preceding chapter, is not followed by the blue Monday with which modern civilization is often afflicted. Intoxicating drinks were unknown to the sedentary inhabitants of New Mexico previous to the advent of Europeans. If it happened, however, that one or other of the feasters overloaded his stomach with the good things set before him, after the ceremony was over a decoction made from juniper-twigs afforded prompt and energetic relief. Among the younger men it was not rare for some to remain in company with the fair sex until the small hours of morning, in which case the rising sun found them somewhat out of sleep. But the majority were glad to retire to their habitual quarters for a good rest after the day's exertions, and these woke up the following morning bright and active, as if nothing had happened to divert them from the duties and occupations of every-day life. To this majority belonged Okoya.

After the dance was over he had loitered and lounged about for a time with some companions of his own age, but as soon as the moon rose he had sauntered home. His mother was busy putting things into shape, for the Delight Makers had left behind a fearful disorder. Shyuote was there, too; he was careful not to assist his mother, but to stand in her way as much as possible, which action on his part called forth some very active scolding. But it struck Okoya that she appeared more cheerful than before. Her motions were brisker, her step more elastic. Say Koitza placed the usual food before her eldest son, and at this moment Zashue came in also. He felt exceedingly proud of his exploits as a jester, and was jollier than ever before. Okoya listened for a while to the clumsy and not always chaste jokes of his parent, and then retired to the estufa. The next morning, bright and refreshed, he strolled back to the house for breakfast, expecting to meet his father, who would assign him his day's work.

Zashue had gone already. Nobody asked where, but it was taken for granted that he had gone to see the old chief of the Delight Makers about the approaching days of penitential retirement. His mother was up; and she addressed her son in a pleasant manner, set food before him, and then inquired,—

"Sa uishe, who was the girl that danced by your side?"

"It was Mitsha Koitza," Okoya replied without looking up.

"Mitsha Koitza," she repeated, "where does she belong?"

"Tyame hanutsh."

"Who is her father?"

"Tyope Tihua. Do you like her?" and he looked at his mother pleadingly, as if asking her forgiveness and her consent to his choice.

The woman's brow clouded at the mention of a name so hateful to her. She looked hard at her son and said in a tone of bitter reproach,—

"And you go with that girl?"

"Why not!" His face darkened also.

"Have I not told you what kind of man Tyope is?"

"The girl is no Koshare," he answered evasively.

"But her mother is, and he."

Both became silent. Okoya stared before him; his appetite was gone; he was angry, and could not eat any more.

What right had this woman, although she was his mother, to reprove him because he was fond of a girl whose father she did not like! Was the girl responsible for the deeds of her parents? No! So he reasoned at once, and then his temper overcame him. How could his mother dare to speak one single word against the Koshare! Had she not betrayed him to them? In his thoughts the hatred which she pretended to display against the Koshare appeared no longer sincere; it seemed to him hypocrisy, duplicity, deception. Such deceit could mean only the darkest, the most dangerous, designs. With the Indian the superlative of depravity is witchcraft. Okoya revolved in his mind whether his mother was not perhaps his most dangerous enemy.

On the other hand, Say Koitza, when she began to question her son, had in view a certain object. She was anxious to find out who the maiden was whose looks had at once charmed her. Next she was curious to know whether the meeting of the two was accidental or not. Therefore the leading question, "And you go with that girl?" Under ordinary circumstances his affirmative reply might have filled her motherly heart with joy, for Mitsha's appearance had struck her fancy; but now it filled her with dismay. Nothing good to her could result from a union between her child and the daughter of Tyope. That union would be sure to lead Okoya over to the home of his betrothed, which was the home of her mother, where he could not fail to gradually succumb to the influence which that mother of Mitsha, a sensual, cunning, sly woman utterly subservient to her husband, would undoubtedly exert upon him. It was not maternal jealousy that beset her now and filled her with flaming passion, it was fear for her own personal safety. Under the influence of sudden displeasure human thought runs sometimes astray with terrific swiftness. Say Koitza saw her son already going to the house of that fiend, Tyope, night after night, whereas in reality he had never called there as yet. She fancied that she heard him in conversation with this girl, confiding in her little by little, just as Zashue used, before he and she became man and wife. But what could Okoya tell after all that might prove of harm to her? He was a mere child as yet. At this stage of her reasoning, a cloud rose within her bosom and spread like wildfire. Was it not strange that the discovery of the owl's feathers, the betrayal of that dread secret, almost coincided with Okoya's open relations with the daughter of the man who, she felt sure, was at the bottom of the accusation against her? A ghastly suspicion flashed up and soon became so vivid that no doubt could arise,—her own son must accidentally have discovered the fatal feathers; he himself without intending any harm must have mentioned them to the girl, perhaps even in the presence of her mother.

Say became satisfied that she held the key to her betrayal. The riddle was solved. That solution dissipated all hopes of salvation, for if her own son was to be witness against her in the dreaded hour when the tribal council had to determine for or against her guilt, there could be no doubting his testimony. And Tyope would have that testimony in any case, for if Okoya should deny, Okoya's own betrothed might be brought face to face with him as a witness. Thus she reasoned in much less time than it can be written, and these conclusions overwhelmed her to such a degree that she turned away from her favourite child in bitter passion, with the conviction that her son in whom she had trusted was her destroying angel. She hid her face from him in anger and grief.

Okoya noticed his mother's feelings. Her anger was inexplicable to him, unless it meant disappointment in relation to some of her own supposed dark designs. It made him angrier still, for Say's bitterness against the Koshare was in his opinion only feigned. Persuaded that his mother was false to him, and that she was even harbouring evil designs, he rose abruptly and left the house in silence.

He could no longer refuse to believe that she was planning his destruction. Otherwise, why did she oppose what to him appeared the prelude to a happy future? And why that apparent duplicity on her part,—condemning the Koshare to his face, and, as he thought, being in secret understanding with them? Only one explanation was reasonable, the only one within reach of the Indian mind,—that Say Koitza was in some connection with evil powers which she, for some reason unknown to him, was courting for the purpose of his destruction; in other words, that Say Koitza, his own mother, was a witch!

Nothing more detestable or more dangerous than witchcraft is conceivable to the Indian. To a young and untrained mind like Okoya's the thought of being exposed to danger from such a source is crushing. The boy felt bewildered, dazed. He leaned against the wall of the great house for support, staring at the huge cliffs without seeing them; he looked at people passing to and fro without taking any notice of their presence. He could not even think any more, but merely felt,—felt unutterably miserable.

If only he knew of somebody who might help him! This was his first thought after recovering strength and self-control. Why not speak to Hayoue? The idea was like the recollection of a happy dream, and indeed he had harboured it before. It roused him to such a degree that he tore himself away from the wall against which he had leaned as on a last staff, and straightening himself he walked deliberately toward the upper end of the Rito, where the cave-dwellings of the Water clan were situated.

Hayoue might be at home, still it was more than likely that the Don Juan of the Rito had been spending the last night elsewhere. If at home, so much the better; if not, there was nothing left but to wait until he came. The prospect of waiting and resting was not an unpleasant one for Okoya, who felt exhausted after the shock of disappointment and disgust he had just experienced. As he slowly approached the recess wherein the grottoes of the Water clan lay, he halted for a moment to catch breath, and just then descried Shotaye, who was coming down toward him. The woman had been quite a favourite of his ever since she became so kind to his sick mother. Nevertheless he had always felt afraid of her on account of her reputation as a doubtful character. Now the sight of her made him angry, for she was his mother's friend and a witch also! So he resumed his walk and passed her with a short, sulky guatzena. Shotaye noticed his surly manner and looked straight at him, returning the morose greeting with a loud raua that sounded almost like a challenge. Then she went on with a smile of scorn and amusement on her lips. She was not afraid of the young fellow, for she attributed his surly ways to sitting up late.

Okoya was glad to get out of the woman's reach, and he did not stop until at the entrance to the caves which Hayoue and his folk occupied. There was no necessity of announcing himself; he merely lifted the curtain of rawhide that hung over the doorway, and peeped in.

His youthful uncle—so much he saw at a glance—was not in. Another young gentleman of the tribe lay on the floor beside the other members of the family. All were sound asleep yet, and Okoya dropped the curtain quietly and turned toward the brook. On its banks he selected a spot where, unseen to others, he could look down the valley. Here he threw himself on the ground to watch, and await Hayoue's coming.

Although deeply anxious to meet his uncle, Okoya entertained no thought of impatience. He had to wait, that was all. Beside, his heart was so heavy, so full of grief and despair, that not even his surroundings could divert him from gloomy thoughts. The brook murmured and rustled softly by his side, its waters looked clear and limpid; he neither heard nor saw them. He only longed to be alone, completely alone, until his uncle should come. Okoya had not performed his morning ablutions, but there was no thought of them; for he was in deep sorrow, and when the Indian's heart is heavy he is very careful not to wash.

Flat on his stomach, with chin resting on both hands, indifferent to the peculiar scenery before him, he nevertheless scanned the cliffs as far as they were visible. The grottoes of Tzitz hanutsh opened right in front of him; lower down, the entrances of a few of the caves of Kohaio hanutsh could be seen, for the rocks jutted out like towering pillars. They completely shut out from his gaze the eastern cave-dwellings of Tzina hanutsh. Farther to the east, the wall of cliffs swept around to the southeast, showing the houses of the Eagle clan built against its base, the caverns of Yakka hanutsh opening along a semicircle terminating in a sharp point of massive rocks. In that promontory the port-holes of some of the dwellings of the Cottonwood people were visible. Beyond, all detail became undistinguishable through the distance, for the north side of the Rito turned into a dim yellowish wall crowned by dark pine-timber.

Okoya lay there, scanning, watching every doorway back and forth the whole length of the view; hours went by; there were no signs of Hayoue. Yet Okoya did not rise in anger and pace the ground with impatience, he did not scratch his head or stamp, he did not even think of swearing,—he simply waited. And his patient waiting proved of comfort to him, for he gradually cooled off, and freed from the effects of his violent impressions, began to think what he could do. Nothing, absolutely nothing, at least until he had seen Hayoue. To wait for the latter was a necessity, if it took him the whole day. But to wait in the same posture for hours was rather tiresome, so he rolled over on his back, and folding his arms under his head began to gaze on the skies.

Bright and cloudless as they had appeared at sunrise, a change had come over them since which attracted even Okoya's attention. Instead of the usual deep azure, the heavens had assumed a dingy hue, and long white streamers traversed them like arches. Had the boy looked in the west he would have seen shredded clouds looming up behind the mountains, a sure sign of approaching rain. But he had become fascinated by what was directly above him, and so he watched with increasing interest the white arches overhead. Slowly, imperceptibly, they pushed up, crossing the zenith and approaching the eastern horizon, toward which the boy's face was turned. And while they shifted they grew in width and density. Delicate filaments appeared between and connected bow with bow, gradually thickening, until the zenith was but one vault of pale gray. The boy watched this process with increased eagerness; it caused him to forget his troubles. He saw that rain—one of the great blessings for which he and his people had so fervently prayed, chanted, and danced yesterday—was coming on, and his heart became glad. The spirits—the Shiuana—he thought, were kindly disposed toward his people; and this caused him to wonder what the Shiuana might really be, and why they acted so and so, and not otherwise. The Shiuana, he had been taught, dwelt in the clouds, and they were good; why, then, was it that from one and the same cloud the beneficial rain descended, which caused the food of mankind to grow, and also the destructive hail and the deadly thunderbolt?[9]

A faint, muttering sound, deep and prolonged, struck his ear. He started, for it was distant thunder. The Shiuana, he believed, had read his thoughts, and they reminded him that their doings were beyond the reach of his mind. Turning away from the sights above, he looked again down the valley. There, at last, came the long-expected Hayoue, slowly, drowsily, like one who has slept rather late than long. Hayoue, indeed, was so sleepy yet that his nephew had to call him thrice. After the third umo, however, he glanced around, saw Okoya beckoning to him, and came down to the brook. Yawning and rubbing his eyes he sat down, and Okoya said,—

"Satyumishe, I want to speak to you. Will you listen to my speech?"

Hayoue smiled good-naturedly, but looked rather indifferent or absent-minded as he replied,—

"I will; what is it about? Surely about Mitsha, your girl. Well, she is good," he emphatically added; "but Tyope is not good, not good," he exclaimed, looking up with an expression of strong disgust and blowing through his teeth. It was clear that the young man was no friend to Tyope.

Okoya moved uneasily, and continued in a muffled tone of voice,—

"You are not right, nashtio; it is not concerning Mitsha that I want to speak to you."

"About what else, then?" Hayoue looked up in surprise, as if unable to comprehend how a boy of the age of Okoya could think of anything else than of some girl.

His brother's son took from his neck the little satchel containing sacred meal. Without a word he opened it, and scattered the flour in the usual way to the six regions. Then he pointed to the clouds and whispered, "The Shiuana are good," at the same time handing the bag to his uncle. The latter's astonishment had reached its maximum; the boy's actions were utterly incomprehensive to him.

Again the sound of distant thunder vibrated from the west, and the cliffs sighed in return.

"They are calling us," Okoya whispered.

Hayoue became suddenly very sober. He performed the sacrifice in silence, and then assumed the position of an earnest and attentive listener.

"Do you like the Koshare?" began Okoya, in a whisper.

"No. But why do you ask this?"

"Because I don't like them either."

"Is that all you had to tell me? I could have told you that in their own presence." Hayoue seemed to be disappointed and vexed.

"That is not why I called you, umo," Okoya continued; "it is because the Koshare know that I dislike them."

"What if they do know it?"

"But they might harm me!"

"They cannot. Otherwise I should have been harmed by them long ago. But I don't care for them."



Okoya shook his head and muttered,—

"I am afraid of the Koshare."

The other shrugged his shoulders.

"I am not," he said. "Men can do harm with their hands and with their weapons; and against those you have your fist and the shield. Those Above"—he pointed at the skies—"can harm us; they can kill us. But men—why, we can defend ourselves."

Okoya felt shocked at words which sounded to him like sacrilegious talk. Timidly and morosely he objected,—

"Don't you know that there are witches!"

"Witches! There are no witches."

Again there was a mutter from the west, a hollow, solemn warning; and the cliffs responded with a plaintive moan. Even incredulous Hayoue started, and Okoya sighed.

"I will tell you why I ask all this," said he, and he went on to explain. Beginning with the incident provoked by Shyuote, he confessed to the suspicions which it had aroused in his mind, and laid the whole process of his reasoning bare before his listener. His speech was picturesque, but not consciously poetic; for the Indian speaks like a child, using figures of speech, not in order to embellish, but because he lacks abstract terms and is compelled to borrow equivalents from comparisons with surrounding nature. Hayoue listened attentively; occasionally, however, he smiled. At last Okoya stopped and looked at his friend in expectation. The latter cast at the boy a humorous glance; he felt manifestly amused by his talk.

"Motātza," he began, "in what you have told me there is not more substance than in the clouds above, when the Shiuana do not dwell in them. It is colour, white colour. It is nothing. You have been painting; the picture is done, but no spirit is there. Shyuote is a lazy, idle brat; he shirks work; but when you say to him, Sit down and eat, then he all at once becomes active. In this way he sneaks around from house to house. He may have overheard something said about you and your ways, he may even have surprised the Koshare while talking among themselves. But it is quite as likely that the toad has invented the whole story just in order to anger you, for he always finds time to sneak, to lounge, and to hatch lies, the lazy, good-for-nothing eavesdropper! I tell you what it is, that boy is fit for nothing but a Koshare, and a real good one will he become."

"But," Okoya rejoined, "if the Delight Makers have spoken about the yaya and me, there must be some cause for it."

"Don't you know that these shutzuna always find some occasion for gossip?" Hayoue cried. "Don't they run into every house? Don't their women stick their noses into every bowl, in order to find out what the people cook and eat? Rest easy, satyumishe, your mother is good, she has nothing in common with the Koshare."

"But is not the nashtio one of them? Your brother, my father? Is he like the rest of them?"

Hayoue replied, assuming an important mien,—

"It is true that brother is, and I don't like it; but we can't change it. It was so ordained long ago, for my father himself was Koshare. Beside, let me tell you that not all that the Koshare do is wrong. If there were no Koshare, it would not be good for the people. They must see that Those Above assist us when the corn ripens, and inasmuch as they perform their duties, they are necessary to us. It is also well that they should bring joy and mirth among the tribe, but"—he raised his hand and his eyes flashed—"they must not go beyond their duty. Their leader shall not presume to be more than the Hotshanyi, who has to suffer and bear for our sake and for our good. They shall do their duty and no more. It is not their duty to make people believe that they are wiser than the chayani and to induce the people to give them bowl after bowl full of meal, feathers, shells, and whatever else may be good and precious. For it is not to the Koshare as a body that all these things are distributed; it is only their naua who gets them, and through him his hanutsh, at the expense of all the other clans. Neither shall the Koshare alone enjoy our makatza, pretending that it pleases Those Above!"

It thundered again, louder and longer than before. Hayoue stopped, and then went on.

"Zashue fails to see all this. He is Koshare, and follows in the tracks of the others like a blind man. But we, the Cuirana,—we see it. I am not a principal, I cannot sit in council and speak, but withal I have noticed these doings for a long time. I tell you, motātza, that if the Delight Makers, the old fiend who rules them, and Tyope are not restrained very soon, there will be sorrow in the tribe; the people will become weak because they will be discontented, and finally the Moshome may come and destroy us all."

"But if the Koshare are so powerful," retorted Okoya, "must I not be on my guard?"

"With some of them, to be sure. Beware of Tyope and of the old rogue; they are base and dangerous men. Avoid Shtiranyi, avoid Ture Tihua, Pesana, and the like of them. But your father, Zashue, and Shiape, your grandfather's brother,—do you believe they would forsake you? Mind, boy, even if the Koshare be against you, you are not lost. There is your umo, Topanashka, and he has great weight with the old men, with the council, and with the people. There is your clan, Tanyi, and in fine I and my people are here too." He uttered these words proudly, looking at his nephew encouragingly. But Okoya was not fully reassured; his doubts were not removed. There was one thing yet that he held in reserve for the last, and that was his dread of witchcraft and the suspicion that such a danger threatened him from his own mother. He resolved to tell his friend all, including the scene of the morning and the conclusions he had drawn from it.

"Hayoue," said he, "you are good and wise, much wiser than I; still, listen to me once more."

Louder and nearer sounded the thunder. Hayoue bent over toward Okoya, a close, attentive, sympathizing listener. The young man related everything,—his relations with Mitsha, how he had quarrelled with his mother, and the conclusions at which he had arrived touching his mother's evil designs and practices. At this point Hayoue began to laugh, and laughed till he coughed.

"And you really believe this!" he cried. But at once he grew very serious and even stern. "Motātza, it is not right in you to think thus of your mother. Say Koitza is good; she is better than most women at the Tyuonyi, far too good for my brother Zashue, and better than I or you. I know her well, and even if there should be witches, which I do not believe—"

A loud thunderpeal caused the mountains to tremble. Hayoue started, shook his head, and muttered,—

"They call loudly. It may be that there are witches. At all events"—he raised his voice again—"if there are such women, your mother does not belong to them. It is not right, brother, for you to think such things of your mother. You have done her a great wrong, for I tell you again she is good and she is your best friend. Where do you belong? Whose blood is yours? Is it your father's? Are the Water people your people? No, Tanyi is your hanutsh. Your mother's clan are your kindred. Mind, satyumishe, our life is in our blood, and it is the blood of her who gave you life that flows in your veins. When you say aught against your mother, you tarnish your own life."

"But why does she not want me to go with Mitsha?" Okoya asked, and pouted.

"Don't you see why, satyumishe? Don't you understand it? Say knows Tyope; she mistrusts him and is even afraid of him. Mitsha is a good girl, and your mother has nothing against her; but she is her mother's daughter, and that mother is Tyope's wife. If Mitsha becomes your wife you will go and live with her, until Tyame hanutsh has a house ready for Mitsha. You will even have to stay at the home of Tyope's wife. Now I cannot say that Hannay, the wife of Tyope, is really bad; she is not nearly as bad as he, but then Hannay is silly and allows him to make her his tool. Everything that concerns her clan—things that he of course is not entitled to know—she tattles to him; and she tells him everything else that she sees, hears, or imagines. I know it to be so. Now, your mother is afraid lest through Mitsha's mother, first Mitsha, afterward through her you, might become entangled in the coils of that sand-viper Tyope. For I tell you, motātza,"—his eyes flashed, and he shook his clenched fist toward the houses of the Eagle clan,—"that man is a bad man; he is bad from head to foot, and he thinks of nothing but injury to others for the sake of his own benefit."

"But what has Tyope done? How do you know that he is such a bad man?"

"That's just it. He never acts openly. Like the badger, after which he is named, he burrows and burrows in darkness and covers up his ways; and when the earth caves in beneath those who walk over his trap and they fall, he is already far away, and looks as innocent and bland as a badger on top of the ground. But if you follow him, then he will turn around and snap at you, like a real tyope. Your mother is right in fearing him; perhaps not so much on her account as for your sake. You and Mitsha are both very young, and that man knows how to entrap such little rabbits."

Okoya could not deny the truth of his uncle's speech. He felt that he had wronged his mother, had misinterpreted her motives; and now he was ashamed of himself. Nevertheless Indian nature is exceedingly wary and suspicious in all important matters, and it struck him that Hayoue was trying to dissuade him from his project of union with Mitsha. Knowing the propensities of his gallant uncle in the matter of women, he began to suspect that the latter might wish to estrange him from the girl or frighten him off in order to step into his shoes. So he assumed an air of quiet indifference and said,—

"I think it is better, after all, not to see Mitsha any more." With this he attempted to rise; but Hayoue held him back, and spoke very earnestly,—

"No; it would not be well. You are fit for each other, and you must come together. I will help you all I can."

"Can you help me?" Okoya exclaimed, delightfully surprised.

"Perhaps I can, perhaps not. I will talk to your mother and get her to be in your favour; but there is one thing you must promise me faithfully, and that is to be very, very careful. When you go to the house of Tyope's wife and you are asked about anything, say nothing; reveal nothing in regard to matters of our clans but what you might shout over the housetops with perfect impunity. Otherwise"—and his voice sounded like an impressive warning—"you may do great injury to the tribe."

"But if Mitsha herself inquires of me?"

"You must be wise, brother, wiser than she is; for women are seldom wise,—only forward, curious, and inquisitive. Wisdom"—and the dandy of the Rito shrugged his shoulders—"is a gift to man, never to woman. When you and Mitsha are together alone, be wise. Don't ask her anything that does not concern you; and if she begins to pry into your matters, you will have a right to say to her, 'I don't pry into your affairs, so don't ask me about those of my people.' I am sure that she will let you alone thereafter, for Mitsha is a good girl. Nevertheless, be careful, for it is as certain as that the brook runs through here that they will attempt to draw you out. Tyope will say to his wife, 'Find out this or that from him.' He may even tell her why he wants to know it. The woman goes to her daughter, and bids her ask the boy about such and such a thing. But she is careful not to let out why, and that Tyope is at the bottom of the inquiry. The girl suspects nothing wrong and asks you, and you tell her all you know. In this manner precious things get little by little into evil hands, and the end of it is evil. If you will promise me that you will be very cautious, I will speak to Say Koitza such words that she will feel glad to see you and Mitsha become one."

Okoya seized the hand of his friend, breathed on it, then clasped it with both hands, lifting it up to heaven. He could not utter a word; joy and hope deprived him of the power of speech. Hayoue suffered him to go through this ceremony; he also felt glad.

The storm was drawing nearer; dense clouds hovered over the Rito, but they did not notice them. Louder and louder the thunders rolled, and in quicker succession came the peals; they heeded not. From the heights in the west there was a sound of gushing rain; they paid no attention to it.

Hayoue spoke again,—

"Something I have yet to tell you. Although Mitsha may like you, and even if her mother be in your favour,—perhaps as much for her own sake as on her daughter's account," he added, with a scornful smile,—"it is by no means certain that Tyope will give his consent. If you become his tool, if you let him wield you as a hand wields flint or stone, then he will be in your favour; if not, he will not be. He knows very well how precious Mitsha is, and with the aid of her mother and of that mother's clan he hopes to sell his pretty girl to his own best advantage. Unless you are willing to let him use you to grind his corn as a woman grinds it on the yanyi, you have no chance; he will barter away Mitsha to a Navajo, if thereby he reaches his ends."

Okoya started, horrified. "Is Tyope as bad as that?" he asked.

"Do you recollect Nacaytzusle, the savage stranger boy?" Hayoue inquired in return.

"I do; but he has left us."

"It does not matter; for to that wild wolf he would rather give Mitsha than let her be your wife. There is no danger of my obtaining her," he added, with a grim smile, "for he hates me like a water-mole. True it is that I, too, detest him as I do a spider."

Okoya felt bewildered.

"Why should he give Mitsha to a Moshome?" he timidly inquired. "What would he gain by it?"

"I don't know; and nobody knows, except perhaps the young Navajo, that fiend. But sure it is, and it bodes no good for us at the Tyuonyi."

A violent crash of thunder was followed by a few drops of rain. Hayoue looked up and said,—

"Kaatsh is coming; let us go."

Both rose and walked toward the caves for shelter. On the high mesa above, the wind roared through the timber; in the valley, it was yet quiet. Lightning flashed through the clouds. Hayoue stood still, grasped the arm of his companion, and pointed at the southern heights.

"If you ever go up there," he warned, "be very careful." Okoya failed to understand, and only stared.

"Be careful," the other insisted, "and if possible never go alone." He turned, and Okoya followed. What he had heard and learned went beyond his comprehension.

Ere they could reach the caves a fiery dart shot from the clouds that shrouded the mountain-crests; it sped across the sky and buried itself in the forest above the Rito. A clinking and crackling followed, as if a mass of scoria were shattered, then a deafening peal shook the cliffs to the very foundations. A strong gust of wind swept down the gorge. It caused the tall pines to shake, and the shrubbery surged in the blast. In the nooks and angles of the cliffs the wind whirled, raising clouds of dust and sand. Raindrops began to fall, large and sparse at first, afterward smaller but thick and fast. The first rain of the season poured down upon the Rito de los Frijoles.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 9: A clear definition of the Shiuana is not easy to give. In a general sense, they might be called the "spirits of the Fetiches." As everything strange, unusual, or inexplicable is attributed to spiritual origin, the numbers of the Shiuana are very great. Even the pictures of the sun-father, of the moon-mother, etc., are Shiuana, in the sense of their supposed spiritual connection with the deified beings they represent.]



CHAPTER VIII.

Shotaye had taken no part in the great dance, and no one had missed her. It was known that whenever the Koshare appeared in public she was certain to stay at home. In point of fact she seldom left her cell, unless it was to ascend one of the mesas for the purpose of gathering medicinal herbs. Shotaye enjoyed the reputation of being a strange and even mysterious being; and so long as her services were not absolutely required, nobody cared to intrude upon her. Nevertheless, she often received visitors of the male sex. She despised men most thoroughly, but accepted their attentions if profitable.

On the day following the ayash tyucotz Shotaye left her cave in quest of vegetable medicaments. We have seen how she met Okoya, and how they greeted one another. The boy's sullen manner amused her; she attributed his morose ways to the effects of an over-lively night. Onward she went, down to the edge of the brook, then turned to the right up the course of the streamlet. That the skies threatened to become overcast and that rain might overtake her during the day mattered little. Whenever the Indian is bent upon the performance of some task, sunshine or rain, moonlight or snow, are matters of indifference. Shotaye strolled on regardless of things above or below. People were of as little interest to her as the clouds. The latter could do her errand no harm, and that errand everybody might know if they chose to follow her.

Wandering up the gorge of the Rito and along its northern limit, the woman soon reached the upper part, where the cliffs crowd the water's edge, where the southern slopes become more rugged and the valley terminates. There a series of gigantic steps, formed by high and beetling rocks, closes the Rito to the west. Down that mass of ledges the brook trickles from its source, and a trail, formerly much used by the Navajos on their raids, creeps up, meandering over and between crags, ledges, and shelves of bare rock. This trail was seldom trodden at that time, and then only by armed men, for it was regarded as dangerous. Notwithstanding the proximity of the settlement at the Rito, the Navajos—Dinne, or Moshome—lurked here quite often, and many an unfortunate had lost his life while ascending the trail alone.

Shotaye was therefore travelling an exceedingly hazardous road, but she did not think of danger. Many a time before had she clambered up and down this rocky labyrinth, and while the Dinne fairly swarmed, nothing had ever happened to her. It is true that she was exceedingly wary, and had in her innumerable excursions gathered quite as much knowledge of the tricks of war as the most experienced scout, so that she felt almost intuitively the approach of danger. She had gradually become imbued with the idea that she was invulnerable. To-day, therefore, she moved along this dangerous trail with the greatest apparent nonchalance. Furthermore her thoughts so completely absorbed her that while ascending from the level of the Rito she unconsciously went on thinking of nothing else but of what Say Koitza had told her in the cave, and of the plans for relief which she had begun to devise, or at least to revolve in her mind.

The trail is not only rough and long, it is very steep in places; and the woman stopped for rest, sitting on a ledge of rocks. Below her the vale was no longer visible; a dark chasm yawned at her feet; out of it the cliffs of the Tyuonyi rose like the heads of giants.

One more difficult stretch had to be overcome before Shotaye could reach the timber crowning the plateau on the northern cliffs of the Rito. Massive benches or ledges, abrupt and high, seemed to render farther ascent impracticable. But Shotaye kept on after a short stop without the slightest hesitation. The trail wound its way upward. It crept from rocky step to rocky step, led her from crags to narrow bands skirting dizzy cliffs, until she came to a level where the timber of the northern mesa was easily reached. Once in the shade of pines she looked around; the original object of her expedition returned to her mind, and she scanned with particular care the underbrush in hope of finding there the herbs on which she based the efficacy of her cures. It thundered audibly, but that was nothing to her.

There, close to a juniper-bush, grew one of the coveted plants. She went to it, knelt down, and began to pull it up by the roots.

Suddenly she felt both of her upper arms seized with irresistible power. Her body was jerked backward. Ere she could think of resistance, she was lying on the ground. Not a shriek, however, escaped her mouth, for although surprised, the woman had presence of mind enough to think that either Tyope or some Navajo must have attacked her. In either case it was useless to scream, for in either case she was lost. As soon however as she was able to glance at her captor her worst fears were dispelled.

The man, or being, whatever he might be, loosened his grip and stood erect. He looked down into her face and grinned. That grin did not in the least beautify his already horrible features. The creature was indeed a man, but so disfigured by paint and accoutrements that any one unaccustomed to the appearance of Indian warriors in full dress must necessarily have taken him for some fiend or demon from the nether world. He was of robust build, his muscular chest was naked to the waist, a kilt of deer-hide covered his thighs, and his feet rested on small hoops laid horizontally and tied to them like sandals. Face and body were painted with a black metallic powder; under each eye there was a red dash. Out of this sinister face the eyes gleamed like living coals; and the smile, though intended for a friendly token, appeared more like a beastly leer. A close-fitting cap covered the skull to the ears, giving it the appearance of ghastly baldness. From under this protection coarse locks of black hair protruded.

Shotaye looked up at the monster, and, strange to say, returned his horrid grin with a smile and with encouraging winks. But the man did not move; he only let go her arms. So she rose. Thereupon he touched her right arm with his left hand, pointed at himself with the right, and uttered in a strange dialect, "Tehua." Afterward he pointed at her, adding, "tema quio," and accompanied these words by most significant gestures.

Shotaye did not understand the language, but the signs were clear to her.

"Koitza," she replied, imitating his motions; "Tehua hachshtze;" and with a wink, "amoshko."

The Indian shook his head; he dropped the arm of the woman, made with both hands the motion of stringing a bow, and exclaimed,—

"Uan save." Grasping the war-club that hung from his wrist he struck two or three blows with it at random, repeated the words "uan save," and looked askance.

This was beyond Shotaye's powers of comprehension. She again pointed at herself, saying,—

"Tyuonyi koitza," then in the direction of the Rito, made the gesture-sign for killing, and looked at the stranger inquiringly and with an anxious face.

Now the Indian understood her. His eyes sparkled; he shook his head emphatically, uttering,—

"Nyo nyo tema, uan save, uan save;" at the same time he pointed to the west and brandished his war-club.

It became clear to the woman that the warrior was on an expedition against the Navajos, and not after the scalps of her own people; but it was equally plain to her that, being on the war-path, any kind of enjoyment was prohibited to him. This was a disappointment, and the strange dialogue came therefore to a stand-still. Each eyed the other in silence. All at once the stranger stepped up to her, and extending his arms to the west, asked,—

"Uan save?"

She shrugged her shoulders in silence.

"Quio," he said now, and grasped her hand; "tupoge," pointing toward the Rito. "Quio," he beckoned her to go with him. "Puye," waving his hand to the north. Lastly he grinned and whispered, "cuinda?"

There was no possibility of misunderstanding the smile and the motions, although the words, of course, were beyond Shotaye's comprehension. In return she pointed to the west again, made the conventional sign for night and sleep, and began to count her fingers. As she bent the eighth digit the Tehua stopped her, held up every finger of the right hand and three of the left, described, as if in confirmation eight times, an arch from east to west, and concluded by pointing to the north, exclaiming very emphatically,—

"Puye!" He looked at her and laughed aloud, as the Indian does when he feels delighted, pressed both hands against his chest, and uttered proudly,—

"Cayamo."

"Shotaye," she eagerly replied.

The black-painted hero burst out in immoderate laughter.

"Shotaye, Shotaye," he repeated, caught hold of one of her hands, caressed his chest with it, and danced about merrily, exclaiming,—

"Cuindae, Cayamo, cuindae, Shotaye, cuinda!" He counted the number eight several times, and then suddenly bent down. One of his sandals had become loose.

These sandals consisted, as mentioned before, of wooden hoops covered by strips of rabbit-skin and tied to the naked foot with bands of the same material. The wearer stood on them as on wheels lying flat on the ground; he was able to walk and even to run at a moderate speed, and the prints which he made, being circular, gave a pursuing enemy no clew to the direction of his going or coming.

While the man was stooping and fastening the leather thongs, Shotaye scanned his appearance thoroughly. She perceived on his back, aside from a bow and the usual quiver filled with war-arrows, a shield. The painting on that shield she examined with particular care. The target was painted white, with a black rim; and in the centre was a green crescent, with four red crosses. Such figures have no heraldic signification; they are but the creation of fancy or taste, and recall the designs of the ancient Teutons which Tacitus describes, "Scuta tantum lectissimis coloribus distinguunt."

Shotaye evidently took an interest in the stranger. He, on the other hand, looked up to her from time to time with a terrific grin that was intended for a sweet smile. As often as he turned his face toward her she sought to decipher his real features, which the war-paint rendered utterly unrecognizable.

At last the sandal was fastened again, and the Tehua stood erect. He waved his hand to the west and north, repeated the words, "Cayamo, cuinda," and placed a finger on his lips. She nodded, raised eight fingers, softly uttered "raua, raua, Shotaye," and pointed to the north also. Thereupon he moved away stealthily; but before disappearing in the timber, he turned around once more and waved his hand northward. The woman replied with affirmative nods, and after his form had disappeared she also turned to go. Her eyes sparkled; a gleam of intense satisfaction illumined her features, as with head erect and heedless of the plants she had come to gather, she penetrated deeper into the forest. She now went due east, in a direction opposite to the one the Tehua had taken.

This had been a very remarkable meeting indeed. More than ever, Shotaye believed that she was invulnerable. The Queres of the Rito and the Tehuas, living north of them on the other side of savage mountain-fastnesses, and more than a day's journey distant, were not always on the best of terms. There was no regular intercourse between the tribes, for the speech of one differed from that of the other. Barter and traffic took place at long intervals; but as not a soul at the Tyuonyi spoke Tehua, and no one at the Puye understood Queres, such attempts at commercial intercourse usually terminated in a fracas, in bloodshed even, and the party offended sought to make things even afterward by waylaying and murdering such of the other side as might chance to wander in the neighbourhood of their abodes. Actual warfare had taken place between the tribes within the time of Shotaye's recollection, and engagements were fought; one party got worsted and ran home, the other went home, too, and that settled the matter for the time being. It was, therefore, not at all safe for an Indian from the Rito to meet one from the Puye, and vice versa. Women made an exception, inasmuch as they were exposed only to capture and adoption in the tribe to which their captors belonged. Such compulsory adoption was rendered very easy by the fact that nearly the same clans existed among all the Pueblos. But the Eagle clan, for instance, which the Queres called Tyame hanutsh in their dialect, bore in the Tehua language the name of Tzedoa.

As soon as Shotaye saw into whose hands she had fallen, she felt completely reassured. Even if she were carried off a prisoner, it was no misfortune. When, moreover, she discovered that the stranger had not even such an object in view, but was after the scalp of some Navajo, she experienced a feeling of delight. When at last the Indian readily understood her suggestions, and went so far as to indicate a day when she should come to him at the Puye, her gladness knew no bounds. In the accidental meeting, all her hopes for relief had been realized. She was now able to save herself by flight to the other tribe, but enough time was left her to provide for the safety of her companion in peril.

She had no hope or thought of becoming the wife of her new acquaintance. He was probably married; but marriage, as we have seen, was no obstacle to temporary outside friendships. She could take refuge at the Puye without hesitation, and claim the protection of her warrior. In case she afterward felt like tying herself to one man only, there was no doubt in her mind that a domestic animal of the genus husband could easily be found. How often could she have been married at the Rito, had the men not looked upon her as a witch!

The friend whom she had now secured among the Tehuas called himself Cayamo. Thus much she had guessed, and guessed rightly. But would she be able to recognize him after his face was washed and the military undress exchanged for that of civil life? Never mind, she had noted the paintings on his shield, and that was enough. There are no two shields alike in one village; and by uttering the name Cayamo and describing the white escutcheon with a green crescent and four red crosses—a thing easy for Indian sign-language—she could not fail to identify him. That Cayamo would recognize her and acknowledge her acquaintance she did not doubt for a moment. She even hoped to meet him half way on the trail to the village of his tribe, provided the Navajos did not kill the hero. While she sincerely hoped that he would return safe and in possession of many scalps, there was still a possibility of his own scalp being taken by the enemy. The Navajos were very cunning, and their arrows were tipped with very sharp flint. With all her feelings for her knight, and the reliance she placed on his broad shoulders, heavy neck, strong arms, and well-turned legs, accidents remained possible. In case Cayamo should never return to his native village, what then? Well, he was not the only man among the Tehuas, and that consoled her.

There seemed to be but one dark point in the otherwise bright outlook. Would she have time to put her plans in execution? Would the Koshare, would Tyope, leave her sufficient respite? Things might have taken place during and after the dance that changed the face of matters and precipitated them beyond remedy. In case, for instance, that the Delight Makers had overturned Say's household as they were wont to overturn others, and had discovered the feathers, was not all hope gone? Shotaye suddenly recollected how Okoya had greeted her that morning,—how surly his glance, how gruff and unfriendly his call. Was that significant? Still, if the secret had been disclosed, there would surely have been some noise about it the night before. On the other hand, it might be that the council had the case in hand and preferred not to make anything public for the present. What if the council were in deliberation at the very moment, discussing her fate and that of her accomplice? Would it not be safer, instead of returning to the Rito, to follow the tracks of her new friend, Cayamo, and join him on his dangerous errand?

Yes, it would have been safer, provided Cayamo would have tolerated the companionship of a woman. But this he was not allowed to enjoy, and furthermore, what would then become of that accomplice of hers? The latter thought staggered her.

Shotaye was a very strange woman. She was heartless, cold-blooded, merciless, remorseless, in everything that concerned her relations to others. One person only she excepted in her selfish calculations, and that was her accomplice and victim, Say Koitza. Happen what might, she could not forsake Say. She must at all hazards go back to the Tyuonyi, call at her house, and find out from her whether or not anything had occurred that might jeopardize her plans and designs. In case matters were unchanged, she intended to tell her friend the occurrence of the day, giving her at the same time directions for the future.

Shotaye quickened her step, for the road was long. It was not advisable to return by the trail she had taken in coming, for she needed a pretext for running into the abode of Say Koitza as if by chance. At last she noticed the change in the weather and the approaching shower, and thought it a good plan to regulate her gait so as to reach the valley and the big house when the storm broke. She might then seek shelter under her friend's roof and avoid suspicion.

Crashing thunder roared in the high Sierra, and as Shotaye looked around she saw the rain-streaks that swept down on the mesas in advance of the shower. The Sierra de la Jara had vanished in the clouds, and gray fleeces whirled about the flanks of the Sierra de San Miguel. She stood on the brink above the eastern end of the Rito, and began to descend over boulders and crags, and through bushes. Only a part of the valley was visible; in the corn-fields not a living soul appeared. Faster and faster Shotaye ran, regardless of rocks and shrubbery. The western mountains were completely shrouded, lightning tore the clouds, thunder bellowed nearer and stronger. At last she reached the bottom and turned toward the houses, panting, perspiring, but untired. As she passed the new house of the Corn clan, the first angry blast of the storm met her, and she had to stop. It filled her with lively satisfaction, however, to see how accurately she had regulated her movements. She might get into the big house almost unnoticed, for the rain began to fall.

At the moment when Hayoue and Okoya found shelter in the caves of the Water clan, Shotaye dashed through the gangway of the building. A tremendous shower was falling, and as soon as she entered the court she was drenched from head to foot, to the great delight of those who, well protected themselves, were standing in the doorways of their quarters. One single voice called to her to come in, but she took no notice of it. Blinded by the torrents of falling water, she groped her way along the walls, and finally stumbled into the open door of Say Koitza's home. Not a single thread of her scanty clothing was dry; her hair, soaked and dripping, clung to her forehead and cheeks as if glued to the skin; water filled her eyes, nostrils, and ears. She removed the hair from her brow, shook herself, coughed, sneezed, and looked around. The room was empty, but in the inner cell a fire crackled on the hearth; and Say came out. At the sight of her friend she burst into a hearty laugh, and asked,—

"Where do you come from?"

"Tziro kauash." Shotaye coughed, then in a whisper she inquired,—

"Are you alone?"

Say's brow clouded, and a deadly pang seized her. What meant this query, this call so unusual, so mysterious? In a low, hollow tone she replied,—

"We are alone," and turned back into the kitchen. Her friend's question sounded like a prelude to dismal tidings.

Both women squatted close to the fire. Not a word was spoken. The new-comer was busy drying herself, and the mistress of the house was struck by her rather cheerful looks. Possibly her sad presentiment was wrong. It was almost impossible to talk, except in a very loud tone; for the rain fairly roared, peals of thunder followed each other in quick succession, flashes of yellow lightning quivered outside of the little port-hole. The room itself was very dark.

How often had the two women sat here years ago in anxious doubt, but hopeful at last! How often had Say Koitza complained to her friend on this very spot,—complained of her illness, of the sad outlook before her; and when she began to recuperate how often she told Shotaye about her plans for the future. Now that future had come, and in what shape!

The roaring outside diminished gradually, the thunder sounded more remote. Through the roof of mud and brush rivulets of water began to burst, forming little puddles on the mud floor and dripping on the heads of the two women. Shotaye took no notice of it, but Say moved to avoid the moisture. The roof seemed a sieve, the floor became a lagune.

Shotaye inquired,—

"Have the Koshare been here?"

"They have," the other said, "and they turned everything upside down, but found nothing."

Shotaye drew a long breath, exclaiming,—

"Then everything is right, all right; and you are safe!"

But the wife of Zashue Tihua shook her head mournfully. "No, sa tao," she replied, "it cannot save me. I am lost, lost beyond hope."

"Rest easy, sister. Believe me," the medicine-woman assured her, "you are saved; they can do you no harm."

It rained softly in the court-yard; inside of the room it went on, pat, pat, pat, pat, dripping through the ceiling.

Shotaye resumed the conversation.

"Speak, sa tao," she said; "speak, and tell me what you think. Why is it that you still believe that bad men will be able to do you harm? Don't you know, sister, that you are safe from them now, and that they cannot injure you any more?"

Say Koitza shook her head gloomily and replied, pointing to her ear and eye,—

"Sanaya, what the ear hears and the eye sees, the heart must fain believe."

"Then speak to me; tell me, sa uishe, what it is that your ear has heard, your eye has seen, that makes your heart so sad." The woman spoke softly, entreatingly, as if she was soothing a sick child. But the object of her sympathy sighed, and continued, in the same tone of utter despondency,—

"Sister, had you been present at the ayash tyucotz, when all the people danced and sang, your eyes would have seen what the heart could not approve. I saw my son Okoya Tihua, the child of Tanyi hanutsh, dancing beside Mitsha Koitza, the girl from Tyame; and she is the daughter of our base enemy."



"Is that all that causes you trouble, koya?" Shotaye very placidly asked. "Listen to me further, yaya," Say entreated. "This morning I took the boy to task for it, and then I found out that Mitsha is near to him,—nearer than his own mother. I discovered that he goes to see her, and thus gets to the house of the woman of whom they say that she is Tyope's ear and eye, tongue and mouth. What do you say to that, sa tao?"

Shotaye smiled. "Have you ever spoken to Mitsha?"

"Never!" exclaimed Say. "How could I speak to one whose mother is a sand-viper, and whose father a carrion crow?"

"Is that all?"

"You know," Say cried, "how mean Tyope is! If my child goes to see his child, is it not easy for the young serpent to ask this and that of my son? Then she will go and tell the old sand-viper, her mother, who will whisper it to Tyope himself. Don't you see it, sister?"

The argument was forcible, and Shotaye felt the truth of it. The other proceeded,—

"Okoya may have been going with the girl for a long while; and I knew nothing of it. Have you found out, sister,"—she leaned forward and looked at her guest with a very earnest expression,—"how the Koshare have learned about the owl's feathers in my house?"

The other shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.

"Neither have I," continued Say; "but might not Okoya—" The hand of her friend closed her lips.

"Hush!" cried the medicine-woman, imperatively; "speak not, believe not, think not, such a thing! Okoya is good; I, too, know the boy. He will never do what you suspect."

But Say was too excited to listen to her. She drew Shotaye's hand away from her mouth and exclaimed,—

"Remember that it is but a short time that the Koshare have known about the feathers."

"And remember, you, that Okoya is of your own blood!"

"He is young, and the makatza has great power over him, for he likes her. When Zashue"—her voice trembled and she turned her face away with a suppressed sigh—"came to me and I went to him, he often told me things about your people,—things that your hanutsh would not have liked, had they known that I knew of them."

"Hush! I tell you again. Hush, koitza!" the other commanded. "Hush! or I will never listen to you any more. You loathe your own flesh, the very entrails that have given birth to the motātza! I tell you again, Okoya is good. He is far better than his father! Thus much I know, and know it well." She looked hard at the wife of Zashue, while her lips disdainfully curled. Say cast her eyes to the ground; she did not care to learn about her husband's outside affairs.

It was very still in the dark room. Even the rain was scarcely heard; and from the ceiling it dripped in one place only,—the very spot where the owl's feathers had lain buried. It seemed as if the waters from heaven were eager to assist in obliterating every trace of the fatal tuft. Shotaye turned away from her friend indignantly; the mere thought of a mother accusing her child, and such a son as Okoya, was revolting to her. Say hung her head and pouted; and yet she felt that Shotaye was right, after all. And then it was so gratifying to hear from Shotaye's own lips how good her son was.

"Sanaya," she asked after a while, timidly, "tell me for what you came."

"No," the other curtly answered.

Say started. "Be not angry with me," she pleaded. "I do not mean anything wrong."

"And yet you slander your best child."

Say Koitza began to sob.

Shotaye continued, angrily,—

"You may well weep! Whoever speaks ill of his own blood, as you do, ought to be sad and shed tears forever. Listen to me, koitza. Okoya is good; he will not betray anybody, and least of all his mother. And hear my words,—Mitsha also is good; as good as her father is bad, as wise as her mother is foolish. Even if Okoya had found the feathers, and had told makatza of it, she would keep it to herself, and the secret would lie buried within her heart as deep as if it rested beneath the nethermost rock on which the Tetilla stands. And in the end let me tell you,"—she raised her head defiantly and her eyes flashed,—"if Okoya likes the girl and she wants him, they are sure to come together. You cannot prevent it; neither can Tyope, the tapop, the Hotshanyi,—not even the whole tribe! Those on high hold the paths of our lives; they alone can do and undo, make and unmake."

Say wept no more. She was convinced, and lifted her eyes again.

"Mother,"—it was Shyuote's voice which called into the outer room from the court-yard,—"mother, come out and look at the fine rainbow." With this he dashed into the inner door and stood there, the very incarnation of dirt. He had been playing at Delight Makers in the mud-puddles outside with some of his comrades, and was covered with splashes of mud from head to foot. Say bounded from her seat and pushed back the forward youngster.

"Who is with you, sanaya?" he inquired, while retreating.

"Nobody, you water-mole! I want to be alone. I have no time to look at your rainbow. Get away!" and she hustled him outside and quickly returned to the kitchen.

But Shyuote, not satisfied with his mother's statement, rushed to the port-hole to see for himself. This Shotaye had expected; and as soon as his dirty face darkened the opening, it received a splash of muddy rain-water that caused the boy to desist from further prying.

After Say had resumed her seat by the hearth, Shotaye bent toward her and whispered,—

"Mark me, the Shiuana are with us; the rainbow stands in the skies. Those Above know that what I speak to you is the truth." Okoya's mother nodded; she was fully convinced.

The cave-dweller took up the former subject again.

"Do not misunderstand me, sister," she said; "I do not say that it is well that Okoya should go to the house of the girl's mother. There is danger in it. But your son is careful and wise, and Mitsha is good, as good as our mother on high. Therefore don't cross his path; let him go as he pleases; and if Mitsha should come to you, be kind to her, for she deserves it. All this, however,"—the tone of her voice changed suddenly,—"is not what I came to see you for. What I have to tell you concerns me and you alone. Keep it precious, as precious as the green stone hidden in the heart of the yaya; and whatever may happen, be silent about it, as silent as the mountain. Keep your lips closed against everybody until the time comes when we must speak."

Say nodded eagerly, and Shotaye was fully satisfied with the mute pledge, for she knew that the woman dared not betray her.

"Believe me," she continued, "your life is safe. You will not, you cannot, be harmed."

Say Koitza looked at her in surprise; she could not realize the truth of these hopeful tidings.

"They found nothing in your house," resumed the other, "because, I presume, you removed the feathers in time, and in this you were wise. If Tyope says that he saw you holding owl's feathers in your hands, and you have not kept them, who can speak against you at the council? Rest assured of one thing. Tyope is at the bottom of all our troubles, and unless he or somebody else watched you while you buried the hapi at the foot of the beams on which the Koshare go up to their cave, nobody will believe him when he rises against you. Are you sure," she added, "that nobody saw you?"

"They were all up there, so Zashue himself told me."

"Tyope, also?"

"Tyope," Say replied with animation,—"I saw Tyope. He was outside, clinging to the rock on high like a squirrel to a tree. But he could not see me."

"Then, child, you are safe; let them do as they please."

"But if he comes and says, 'I saw Say and Shotaye with black corn, and owl's feathers on it; and I heard them ask of the evil corn to speak to them'?"

"Then everybody will say, 'Shotaye is a witch, Say only her tool; we must punish Shotaye, she must be killed,' and that will be the end of it."

She brought her face so close to that of her friend that the latter, while unable to see her features, clearly felt her breath. The last words of the medicine-woman shocked Say. She stood toward Shotaye almost in the relation of a helpless child, and the thought of seeing her friend exposed to death produced a feeling of dismay and sadness.

"But, sanaya," she asked, "how can they harm you and let me go free? Am I not as guilty as you? What you did, was it not for me, for my good? Why may I not go along if they send you to our mother at Shipapu?"

"Hush, sa uishe," the other retorted. "Do not speak thus. I have led you to do things which those on high do not like, so I alone must suffer. Nevertheless"—she laid her hand on the other's lap—"rest easy; I shall not die."

In her simplicity, Say, when Shotaye mentioned the probability of her suffering capital punishment, had not thought of her children and of the consequences that would arise in case she herself were to share that fate. She felt greatly relieved upon hearing the cave-woman speak so hopefully of her own case, for she bethought herself of those whom she would leave motherless. But her curiosity was raised to the highest pitch. Eager and anxious to learn upon what grounds Shotaye based her assurance of safety, Say nestled close to her side in order not to lose a syllable of the talk. It was necessary, for Shotaye proceeded in a slow solemn whisper,—

"Sister, I shall be accused and you will be accused also. If you are brought before the council, and they ask you about our doings, deny everything, say no to everything, except when the black corn is spoken of. That you may confess. They will inquire of you why we used the evil cobs. Answer, and mark well my words, that you did not understand what I was doing, that you only did what I told you to do. Lay all the blame on me."

"But it is not true," the little woman objected.

"Never mind, provided you go free."

"They, then, will kill you!" Say cried.

"Be not concerned about me; I will save myself."

"How can you?"

"That is my secret; still this I will confide to you;" her whisper became scarcely audible as she added, "I shall flee!"

"Whither?" gasped Say in surprise.

"To the Tehuas! But, sa tao, be silent, as silent as the stone, as quiet as kohaio when in winter he is asleep. Whatever you may hear, heed it not; what you may see, do not notice. Deny everything you can deny, and what you have to confess lay on me. Do as I tell you, sa uishe," she insisted, as Say moved uneasily, "and trust to me for the rest."

Shotaye arose, shook her wet garments, and stepped into the outer room. There she turned around once more, and repeated in a low but impressive voice,—

"Sa tao, trust in me, and believe also that Okoya is good, and Mitsha better yet. Be kind to both and be silent."

She stepped into the court-yard, and Say Koitza remained standing in the doorway.

The rain had ceased; the sky was clear again, all ablaze with the richest golden hues over the crest of the big houses. It was near sunset. Say watched her friend as she went to the entrance; and as Shotaye's form vanished in the dark passage Okoya emerged from it, coming toward his mother, slowly, shyly, but with a smile on his countenance. That was surely a good omen, and she anticipated the timid "guatzena" with which he was about to greet her by a warm and pleasant "raua opona."



CHAPTER IX.

The interview between Okoya and Hayoue, which took place at almost the same time that Shotaye fell in with the Tehua Indian on the mesa, had completely changed the mind of Say Koitza's eldest son, and turned his thoughts into another channel. He saw clearly now to what extent he had been led astray by mere imagination,—to what sinister depths his reasoning had carried him. Since Hayoue's talk, Okoya felt like another man. The world of his thoughts, limited as it was still, appeared now in rosy hues, hope-inspiring and encouraging in spite of all obstacles. These obstacles he saw in their true light, and the last warning of Hayoue had made a deep impression. But obstacles clearly understood are half surmounted already, and "threatened people live long."

It is not good for man to be alone. Okoya had felt the truth of it bitterly. Now that he knew that he was not forsaken, he was filled with strength and vigour. On the whole, an Indian is much less exposed to isolation than a white man, for his clan and, in a wider range, his tribe, stand by him against outside danger; but when that danger arises within the narrow circle of constant surroundings there is imminent peril. Okoya had fancied that such peril threatened his own existence, and that he stood alone and unsupported. Now he saw that in any event he would be neither abandoned nor forsaken, and this imparted to his spirit a degree of buoyancy which he had never experienced before.

When he issued from the cave where both his uncle and he had found shelter, the storm was over, and nature had assumed a different aspect. A heavy shower in the mountains of New Mexico is often followed by illuminations of peculiar beauty. So it happened then. The west, where the sun had already descended behind the mountains, was crossed by a series of arches displaying successively from below upward the most resplendent gold, bright orange, green, and finally deep blue colours. In the eastern skies the storm-king hovered still in a mass of inky clouds above the horizon, but these clouds had receded beyond the graceful cone of the Tetilla, which stood out in front of the dark mass of the storm sharply defined, with a rosy hue cast over every detail of its slopes. The air was of wonderful transparency, and every tint of the brilliant heavens above and in the west seemed to reproduce itself with increased intensity, on the dark, cloudy bank in the east, in the dazzling arch of a magnificent rainbow. The rays of the setting sun no longer penetrated the depths of the vale, they only grazed the moisture-dripping tops of the tallest pines, changing them into pyramids of sparkling light.

Okoya looked at the scenery before him, but its beauty was not what caused him to gaze and to smile. The Indian is quite indifferent to the sights of nature, except from the standpoint of strictest and plainest utilitarianism. The rainbow fascinated the boy, not through its brilliancy and the perfection of the arch, but because the rainbow was in his conception Shiuana, and a messenger from Those Above.[10] Where the ends of the luminous arch appear to rest, a message from heaven is said to be deposited. No more favourable token could have greeted him, for although the message was not for him, since the brilliant bow seemed to stand far off from the Rito, still the Shiuana, the spirits, graced the sky with their presence. They appeared clad in the brightest hues, and what is bright and handsome is to the Indian a harbinger of good.

No wonder, therefore, that the boy greeted his mother with a happy face and a pleasant smile. He had passed Shotaye in the entrance, and his salutation to her was widely different from the gruff notice he had taken of her in the morning. When, afterward, he met his mother's gaze and saw how kindly she looked at him, how warm her invitation to come in sounded, his heart bounded with delight, and he obeyed her summons with a deep sigh of relief. His appearance was not very prepossessing, for between the caves and the big house a number of newly created mud-puddles and rivulets had crossed his path. His scanty clothing was profusely bespattered, and broad cakes of mud clung to the soles of his naked feet. Before entering the house he carelessly shook off and scraped away the heaviest flakes, and then went in and sat down on the bundle of skins. Say Koitza offered him no change of clothing; she did not bring a pair of slippers, warm and dry, for his wet feet. No, she simply went into the kitchen and let him alone. Such is the Indian custom. But in the kitchen she began to move about. She was cooking, and that proved beyond a doubt that everything must be right again. After a while she squatted in the inner doorway and inquired,—

"Where were you while it was raining?"

"With Hayoue."

"How late did he come home?" She laughed; he chimed in and answered,—

"Late enough; I had to wait a long time before he came, and so sleepy was he,—as tired and sleepy as a bear in spring."

"Do you know where he spent the night?" The tone of the conversation sounded easy and pleasant.

"I don't know the name of the makatza,"—here Okoya laughed again and his mother caught the contagion,—"but she must belong to Oshatsh. He did not say much, for he was tired from yesterday."

"Was she a short, stumpy girl?"

"I don't know. It must have been the same one with whom he was at the dance. I paid no attention to her."

"It is Haatze; I know her. She is a strong girl and tall."

"Do you think he goes to see her?" Okoya asked.

"It may be, and it may be not. Hayoue goes to every one; he is like a fly,—he sits down everywhere and stops nowhere."

Okoya enjoyed hugely his mother's joke. The latter with some hesitancy continued,—

"Does he also visit Mitsha Koitza?"

Okoya bent down to avoid her glance, then he resolutely replied,—

"No."

"Are you sure of it?"

"I am sure." He cast a furtive glance at his mother.

"Did Mitsha tell you?"

Not in the harsh tone of an inquisitor were these words uttered. Say spoke them softly, gently; and Okoya was comforted. He was moved by the question.

"No," he replied in the same manner; "Hayoue spoke to me about it."

Say felt a decided relief. It was clear to her now where Okoya had spent the day, and how he had spent it. She liked her husband's younger brother and trusted him. Although very fond of the other sex, Hayoue was still honest and trustworthy in everything else. Her son had evidently spoken to his uncle about Mitsha, and in Say's estimation he could not have chosen a better person in whom to confide. Hayoue, she knew, harboured toward Tyope sentiments akin to her own. His advice to Okoya must therefore have been sound. On the other hand she was herself, since the talk with Shotaye, greatly drawn toward Mitsha. This made her anxious to find out what Hayoue thought of the girl. So she put the direct question,—

"You spoke with your nashtio about Mitsha?"

"I did."

"What says he of the makatza?"

Had the room been better lighted Say would have seen how flushed Okoya's face became, notwithstanding the tawny colour of his complexion. The boy saw at once that he had confessed much more than he had intended,—that the secret of his interview of the morning was divulged. Recede he could not; neither could he conceal his embarrassment. He began to twist the end of his wrap, and stammered,—

"He says not much." And then he stared at the doorway with that stolid air which the Indian assumes when he is in trouble.

"Does he speak good or ill?" Say insisted.

"Good," muttered Okoya, casting his eyes to the ground. The mild, soft smile which played over his mother's features as he uttered the word escaped him. When he raised his eyes again her looks were serious, though not stern. He was completely bewildered. What had occurred to cause his mother to speak in this manner? Had she changed her mind since morning, and why so suddenly? He had, of course, no thought of attributing to Shotaye and to her influence this surprisingly favourable change, for he did not know the intimate relations existing between her and his mother. So he remained silent, staring, wrapped in his own musings. His mother looked at him in silence also, but with a half-suppressed smile.

At last she asked,—

"Sa uishe, will you eat?"

"Yes," he replied, considerably relived by this turn in the conversation. He rose and moved briskly toward the entrance to the cooking apartment; but Say held him back.

"Tell me, but tell me the truth; did Hayoue say it was well for you to go with Mitsha?"

Okoya was so embarrassed by this direct query that he could not answer at once. He stood still and hung his head.

"Tell me, child," Say insisted.

"He said"—the words were scarcely audible—"that it was well."

"Did he also say it was good for you to listen to the words of Tyope and his woman?"

Now light began to dawn upon the boy. He felt a presentiment of something favourable. "No," he exclaimed, "he said that I must beware of Tyope and of his koitza; but that Mitsha I could trust."

"Then it is well, sa uishe," replied the mother; "come in and eat."

Okoya could hardly believe his senses. Had his mother really said, "It is well?" Was it possible that she was satisfied and in sympathy with his feeling toward Mitsha? Such was his surprise that he performed his prayers before squatting down to the meal without a thought of the kopishtai, to whom he scattered crumbs mechanically. He forgot to eat, and stared like a blind man with eyes wide open, heedless of the food, heedless of everything around him.

"Eat," said Say to him. Twice she repeated the invitation ere he came to himself and reached out for the first morsel. Aware of his mute astonishment and conscious of his perplexity, his mother finally asked,—

"What is the matter with you, motātza?"

He merely shook his head and stared.

Very few young Indians in Okoya's condition would have placed so much stress on their mother's consent or dissent. All or nearly all of them would simply have left the old home and would have joined their betrothed at her mother's house; and only the clan, and not the family, could have interfered with their action. In the case of Okoya it was different, and unusual circumstances complicated the matter. Mitsha's clan was that of Topanashka, his own maternal grandfather; and if he spoke against the union matters would be desperate. His mother, therefore, held the key to the situation, inasmuch as through her both the Eagle clan, to which Mitsha belonged, and Tanyi hanutsh, his own consanguine cluster, could be favourably or unfavourably influenced. As things appeared now, all seemed most promising. Even his mother—who a short time ago had expressed herself so bitterly against his choice—was now favourable to it. What could Tyope do under such circumstances? Nothing at all. So the boy reasoned unconsciously; but beside, he felt glad, he felt happy, because his mother approved of him. He was fond of his mother at the bottom of his heart, as fond as any Indian can be.

Say Koitza approved his choice. There was no doubt about it, and still she had not spoken plainly as yet. At any other time he would have maintained a prudent reserve and waited his time to inquire. To-day he felt so surprised, so completely stupefied, that only one course was left him, and that was to learn her real feelings by asking his mother directly for an explanation of her inexplicable demeanour.

When, therefore, Say asked again, "What ails you, motātza, why don't you eat?" he turned to her with a heavy sigh, placed both hands on his knees, and replied,—

"I cannot eat until I have asked a question of you. Tell me, yaya, how it is that this morning, when I said to you that I was going with Mitsha Koitza, you grew angry at me, and now you say it is right? Tell me, sanaya, how it comes about that you like the girl in the evening, whereas in the morning she was not precious to you?"

His mother smiled. She sat down beside him, and her face almost touched his own. The glare of the fire illuminated her features, so that their expression became fully visible to him. Then she spoke softly,—

"Umo, have I not often said to you, 'Beware of Tyope'? Is it not so, sa uishe?"

Okoya nodded affirmatively.

"Can you suppose that I should feel easy at heart, if you go to the house where dwells the woman of that man?"

Okoya trembled. This was a discouraging beginning. Had he mistaken his mother's views? In a faltering voice he replied,—

"No."

Say continued, "When for the first time you said, 'Mitsha and I see each other,' I felt afraid. My heart spoke to me and said, Your child is lost; and then sa nashka became angry. This was early in the morning; but afterward, when I was sitting alone here and the Shiuana called loudly above during the storm, it seemed to me as if some kopishtai whispered, 'Mitsha is good,—she is as good as Okoya; she will belong to him, and not to her mother, much less to her father.' And as I was thinking, I heard the kopishtai again, saying to me, 'Okoya is good; he is your child, and Mitsha will become your daughter, for she is of your father's own blood.' And as the kopishtai thus spoke, the Shiuana thundered louder and more loud. Then I thought it must be right and good for the motātza to go to the girl, and I was no longer angry. And then you came, and I asked you what I wanted to know, and you told me what Hayoue had said. So it is well, and thus it shall remain."

The sigh of relief heaved by Okoya at hearing these words was as sincere as it was deep. He had barely strength to ask in the meekest manner possible,—

"Then you have nothing against my going to Mitsha?"

"Nothing; I like to see you go, for Mitsha is good and"—her voice became a whisper—"the Shiuana have thus disposed it. But"—she spoke louder again—"hear me, go to Mitsha, and to her alone."

"But I cannot disown her mother and father."

"You need do nothing of the kind unless you wish. Be pleasant to the man, as behooves you, but be careful. Never say sanaya is doing this or that, or to-day they speak so or so at the estufa. If Tyope queries what is your yaya doing, answer, her usual work. If he inquires about what is going on in the estufa of Tanyi hanutsh, reply to him, 'Nashtio, I am only a boy, and do not know what the men talk about.' To Tyope's wife say nothing but what even Shyuote might hear. To the makatza you can say, 'Let us be together and live for each other and talk as is right. What concerns your hanutsh shall be hidden from me, and I will be silent on anything that concerns mine.' If you will do thus, sa uishe, then you can go to see Mitsha; and I myself would like to see the girl who is to become my child."

This was too much for Okoya. He grasped with both his hands the hand of his mother, carried it to his lips, and breathed on it. Then he gave back the hand, and said with an effort,—

"You are good, yaya, and I will do as you say. Hayoue said to me the same things you have."

"Hayoue is a true friend. His tongue is like his heart, and you did right in taking his advice."

A tall figure stepped into the apartment with a shuffling step. His loud greeting, "guatzena," cut off further talk for a moment. Both mother and son, taken by surprise, answered,—

"Raua Ā."

It was Hayoue himself who thus suddenly appeared. He complied with the request to sit down, and afterward with the customary invitation to eat. But he seemed as much surprised as the inmates themselves; for while eating, his glance flitted inquiringly from mother to son, as if he were astonished to see them together. When he had finished, he asked,—

"When will Zashue be here?"

"I do not know," replied Say.

Hayoue turned to his nephew,—

"Okoya, will you let me speak to your yaya alone?" These words he accompanied with a knowing wink at the young man. It amused Okoya to see that his uncle came so decidedly post festum in the matter, but he at once rose and went out.

In the court-yard it was still very damp, and hardly anybody was outside of the dwellings; but from the estufas there sounded merry talking, singing, and the beating of drums. Okoya stood a while in the doorway, undecided whether he ought not to go to Mitsha at once. He wavered, but at last the impressions received during the day, especially the warnings about Mitsha's mother, prevailed, and he concluded not to go at this time. He was afraid as yet to cross the threshold of that woman's home. So he crept into the estufa of Tanyi hanutsh, sat down beside the others, and soon joined in the chorus of discordant voices in the everlasting refrain,—

"Ho-ā-ā! Heiti-na! Ho-ā-ā! Heiti-na!"

In the meantime Hayoue had drawn closer to Say in the kitchen, saying,—

"Sister-in-law, I have come to speak to you concerning Okoya."

She motioned to him to remain where he was, and said, half in jest, half in earnest,—

"Stay where you are, I hear you. You talk loud enough for me."

"Rest easy, samān," he replied, with a peal of laughter that fairly shook his tall and slender form. "Have no fear, I am tired out after yesterday. But I must talk to you about the motātza." He patted his knees and looked straight into her face. "Are you aware that your child goes with the child of Tyope?"

"I am," said Say, with a smile.

"What do you think of it?"

"Good," was the simple reply. "And you?"

"Good, yes, in one way, and not good in another."

"What do you think of the girl?" the woman inquired.

"Very, very good!" Hayoue emphatically exclaimed. "But her mother and her father,"—he hissed through his teeth and shook his head with every sign of disgust,—"they are very, very bad."

"I think as you do," said Okoya's mother, "and yet I know that the boy is good and the girl is good. Why should they not go together?"

"I say the same, but how comes it that you believe so now?"

"I presume the motātza has told you a different story?" Say suggested, with a smile.

Hayoue nodded.

"I thought differently," she explained, "but now my heart has changed."

"You are right," the young man said approvingly, adding, "but he must avoid the snares which that turkey-buzzard Tyope may set for him, and we must preserve him from them."

"I warned him."

"So have I, and he promised to be wise."

"Had we not better speak to Zashue?" suggested Say Koitza.

Hayoue remained thoughtful for a while; then he said,—

"I dislike to say aught against my own brother, but in this matter I dislike to speak to him."

"He is Okoya's father," objected Say.

"True, but he is Koshare, and completely under Tyope's influence. Nevertheless do as you like, for you know him better than I do."

"He ought to come soon," Say said, and rose.

She went out. A noise of quarrelling children was approaching the door. Soon she clearly distinguished the voice of Shyuote scolding.

"Come with me, worm! Go home, frog!" he yelled, and mournful cries succeeded to his kind invitation. At the same time his young sister, propelled by a violent push of his fist, stumbled into the outer room and grasped the dress of her mother for protection.

"Satyumishe is beating me," whined the little one, glancing anxiously toward the entrance. In the doorway appeared Shyuote himself, a solid lump of mud from head to foot. His black eyes stared out of the dirty coating that covered his face, like living coals. The appearance of his mother put an end to his hostile actions,—he felt uncertain about the manner in which they would be viewed by his parent. Say quickly changed his forebodings into absolute certainty.

"Are you not ashamed of yourself, you big, ugly uak," she scolded, "to beat your poor little sister?"

"She would not come home."

"Neither would you, lazy brat, else you would have been here a long while ago! Do not cry, my heart,"—she turned to the weeping child,—"do not weep. He will not hurt you any more, the bad, bad mocking-bird. Weep not." She took the crying child into her arms in order to carry her into the kitchen, but on the way she turned back and called,—

"Shyuote!"

"What do you want," growled the boy, and stumbled after her.

"Do you know where your nashtio is?"

"He is coming."

"Go and tell him to come. Say that Hayoue is here, and that he wants to see him."

"Did I not tell you that he was coming?" muttered the unruly lad. This answer was too much for Hayoue, who until now had been a mere listener. He said in a peculiar tone of command,—

"Will you go or not, you silly, lazy, good-for-nothing whelp! Go at once, or I will lead you where your father is;" and he pretended to rise.

Shyuote had not noticed the presence of his uncle. His sudden appearance upon the scene was to him an unwelcome sight, and he sped away with unusual and commendable alacrity. Hayoue was greatly amused and laughed aloud.

"That urchin," he said, "is more afraid of me than of Zashue and you together. The brat is no good, and will never do for anything but a Koshare. How different is Okoya!"

Say had again squatted near the hearth. She gathered the crying child into her arms. The little girl continued to sob for a while, and at first refused to eat. Finally Say persuaded her to take one of the corn-cakes, and still sobbing, she pushed the greater portion of it gradually into her little mouth. Thus chewing, sobbing, and resting on the lap of her mother, the child forgot all fear, and ultimately forgot herself and fell asleep.

"Umo," Say began again, "I think it is better to speak to Zashue about it. Not that he has anything to do in the matter, but then you know how it is. Sooner or later he must hear of it, and if we tell him first he may perhaps assist us in teaching Okoya and advising him about the future. All the boy needs is counsel, for we cannot prevent him from going to live with the people of Tyame hanutsh with this girl."

"The people of Tyame," Hayoue remarked, "are good. It is only that woman of Tyope's who is bad, and after all she is not all-powerful."

"How would it do," suggested Say, "to call sa nashtio?"

Hayoue looked at her like one to whom has come a sudden revelation.

"Topanashka, the maseua," he said; "you are right, koya, this is a wise thought. Nashtio is very wise. He will give us counsel that we can trust, but do you think he is here?"

"He was in his cell while it rained."

Hayoue rose. "I will go and call him," he said. "He can help us. Zashue listens to the talk of the old man, and what he says goes far with my brother." With this Hayoue, ere Say could interpose a word, went out and left her alone with the sleeping child.

She felt happy. For years past she had not enjoyed the feeling of contentment, of quiet bliss, that filled her now. It seemed as if the danger that threatened her so direly had vanished. Her thoughts were all with the future of the child whom only a few hours ago she had so bitterly accused. Shotaye had worked wonders.

But it was not the influence of Shotaye alone that produced such a great change in the mind of Say Koitza. It was the fact that at the same time, and through the unwelcome interruption by Shyuote, the Shiuana—so she believed—had sent her a message confirmatory of the woman's admonition. Say did not, she could not, reason as we should under similar circumstances. The rainbow of whose presence the awkward boy informed her appeared to her, not in the natural order of phenomena, but, in the light of her creed, as a messenger specially sent by one or more of the innumerable spirits which surround man in nature, whose call she had to obey implicitly. This implicit, slavish obedience to signs and tokens of a natural order to which a supernatural origin is assigned, is the Indian's religion. The life of the Indian is therefore merely a succession of religious acts called forth by utterances of what he supposes to be higher powers surrounding him, and accompanying him on every step from the cradle to the grave. The Indian is a child whose life is ruled by a feeling of complete dependence, by a desire to accommodate every action to the wills and decrees of countless supernatural beings.

In the eyes of Say Koitza, the whole afternoon appeared now like an uninterrupted chain of dispensations from Those Above. She was, of course, convinced that the rain had come in response to the prayers and ceremonies of yesterday's dance. That same rain had driven Shotaye to shelter under her roof, had given the medicine-woman an opportunity to clear the mind of Say of many a dismal fear, many a distressing apprehension and suspicion. The rainbow, in her eyes, was a token that what the cave-dweller said was true; it was also the messenger through whose agency Okoya, and later on Hayoue, had drifted into her home with cheering tidings. Even Shyuote had arrived at the right moment, in time to be sent after the husband and father. So happy felt Say, that in view of Shyuote's opportune coming, she almost regretted having scolded the boy.