These illustrations are from drawings by George Wharton Edwards,
after photographs by the author.
TÉE-WAHN FOLK-STORIES
THE BROWN STORY-TELLERS
1]
FANCY that if almost any of us were
asked, “When did people begin to make
fairy stories?” our first thought would
be, “Why, of course, after mankind had
become civilized, and had invented writing.”
But in truth the making of myths,
which is no more than a dignified name
for “fairy stories,” dates back to the
childhood of the human race.
Long before Cadmus invented letters
(and I fear Cadmus himself was as much of a myth
as was his dragon’s-teeth harvest), long before there
were true historians or poets, there were fairy stories
and story-tellers. And to-day, if we would seek the
place where fairy stories most flourish, we must go,
not to the nations whose countless educated minds
are now devoted to story-telling for the young, but
to peoples who have no books, no magazines, no
alphabets—even no pictures.
Of all the aboriginal peoples that remain in North
2]
America, none is richer in folk-lore than the Pueblo
Indians of New Mexico, who are, I believe, next to
the largest of the native tribes left in the United
States. They number nine thousand souls. They
have nineteen “cities” (called pueblos, also) in this
Territory, and seven in Arizona; and each has its
little outlying colonies. They are not cities in size, it
is true, for the largest (Zuñi) has only fifteen hundred
people, and the smallest only about one hundred;
but cities they are, nevertheless. And each city,
with its fields, is a wee republic—twenty-six of the
smallest, and perhaps the oldest, republics in the
world; for they were already such when the first
European eyes saw America. Each has its governor,
its congress, its sheriffs, war-captains, and
other officials who are elected annually; its laws,
unwritten but unalterable, which are more respected
and better enforced than the laws of any American
community; its permanent and very comfortable
houses, and its broad fields, confirmed first by Spain
and later by patents of the United States.
The architecture of the Pueblo houses is quaint
and characteristic. In the remote pueblos they are
as many as six stories in height—built somewhat
in the shape of an enormous terraced pyramid. The
Pueblos along the Rio Grande, however, have felt
the influence of Mexican customs, and their houses
have but one and two stories. All their buildings,
including the huge, quaint church which each pueblo
has, are made of stone plastered with adobe mud,
or of great, sun-dried bricks of adobe. They are
the most comfortable dwellings in the Southwest—cool
in summer and warm in winter.
3]
The Pueblos are divided into six tribes, each
speaking a distinct language of its own. Isleta,
the quaint village where I lived five years, in an
Indian house, with Indian neighbors, and under
Indian laws, is the southernmost of the pueblos,
the next largest of them all, and the chief city of
the Tée-wahn tribe.[1] All the languages of the Pueblo
tribes are exceedingly difficult to learn.
Besides the cities now inhabited, the ruins of
about fifteen hundred other pueblos—and some of
them the noblest ruins in the country—dot the
brown valleys and rocky mesa-tops of New Mexico.
All these ruins are of stone, and are extremely interesting.
The implacable savages by whom they
were hemmed in made necessary the abandonment
of hundreds of pueblos; and this great number of
ruins does not indicate a vast ancient population.
The Pueblos never counted above 30,000 souls.
The Pueblo Indians have for nearly two centuries
given no trouble to the European sharers of their
domain; but their wars of defense against the savage
tribes who surrounded them completely—with the
Apaches, Navajos, Comanches, and Utes—lasted
until a very few years ago. They are valiant
fighters for their homes, but prefer any honorable
peace. They are not indolent, but industrious—tilling
their farms, tending their stock, and keeping
all their affairs in order. The women own the
houses and their contents, and do not work outside;
and the men control the fields and crops. An
unhappy home is almost an unknown thing among
them; and the universal affection of parents for
4]
children and respect of children for parents are extraordinary.
I have never seen a child unkindly
treated, a parent saucily addressed, or a playmate
abused, in all my long and intimate acquaintance
with the Pueblos.
Isleta lies on the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad,
upon the western bank of the Rio Grande, on a lava
promontory which was once an island—whence the
town takes its Spanish name. Its Tée-wahn title is
Shee-eh-whíb-bak.[2] Its population, according to
the census taken in 1891, is a little less than twelve
hundred. It is nearly surrounded by fertile vineyards,
orchards of peaches, apricots, apples, cherries,
plums, pears, and quinces, and fields of corn, wheat,
beans, and peppers, all owned by my dusky neighbors.
The pueblo owns over one hundred and ten
thousand acres of land, the greater part of which is
reserved for pasturing horses and cattle.
The people of Isleta are, as a rule, rather short
in stature, but strongly built. All have a magnificent
depth and breadth of chest, and a beautifully
confident poise of the head. Most of the men are
very expert hunters, tireless runners, and fine horsemen.
Besides ordinary hunting they have communal
hunts—for rabbits in the spring, for antelope
and deer in the fall—thoroughly organized, in
which great quantities of game are killed.
Their amusements are many and varied. Aside
from the numerous sacred dances of the year, their
most important occasions, they have various races
5]
which call for great skill and endurance, quaint
social enjoyments, and games of many kinds, some
of which are quite as difficult as chess. They are
very fair weavers and pottery-makers. The women
are good housewives, and most of them excellent
seamstresses.
Yet, with all this progress in civilization, despite
their mental and physical acuteness and their excellent
moral qualities, the Tée-wahn are in some
things but overgrown children. Their secret inner
religion[3] is one of the most complicated systems
on earth. Besides the highest deities, all
the forces of nature, all animals, as well as many
things that are inanimate, are invested by them
with supernatural powers. They do not worship
idols, but images and tokens of unseen powers are
revered. They do nothing without some reason,
generally a religious one, and whatever they observe
they can explain in their own superstitious
way. Every custom they have and every belief
they own has a reason which to them is all-sufficient;
and for each they have a story. There is no
duty to which a Pueblo child is trained in which he
has to be content with the bare command, “Do
thus”; for each he learns a fairy tale designed to
explain how people first came to know that it was
right to do thus, and detailing the sad results which
befell those who did otherwise.
It is from this wonderful folk-lore of the Tée-wahn
that I have learned—after long study of the
people, their language, customs, and myths—and
6]
taken, unchanged and unembellished, this series of
Indian fairy tales. I have been extremely careful
to preserve, in my translations, the exact Indian
spirit. An absolutely literal translation would be
almost unintelligible to English readers, but I have
taken no liberties with the real meaning.
The use of books is not only to tell, but to preserve;
not only for to-day, but for ever. What an
Indian wishes to perpetuate must be saved by
tongue and ear, by “telling-down,” as were the
world’s first histories and poems. This oral transmission
from father to son is of sacred importance
with the natives. Upon it depends the preservation
of the amusements, the history, the beliefs, the customs,
and the laws of their nation. A people less
observant, less accurate of speech and of memory,
would make a sad failure of this sort of record; but
with them it is a wonderful success. The story
goes down from generation to generation, almost
without the change of a word. The fact that it is
told in fixed metrical form—a sort of blank verse—helps
the memory.
“AS I COME IN, KINDLY OLD TATA LORENSO IS JUST BEGINNING A STORY.”
Here in Isleta, the quaint pueblo of the Tée-wahn,
I became deeply interested not only in the
folk-stories themselves, but also in the manner of
handing them down. Winter is the season for
story-telling. Then the thirsty fields no longer cry
for water, the irrigating-ditches have ceased to
gnaw at their banks, and the men are often at
leisure. Then, of an evening, if I go over to visit
some vecino (neighbor), I am likely to find, in the
great adobe living-room, a group of very old men
and very young boys gathered about the queer little
9]
corner fireplace with its blazing upright sticks.
They, too, have come a-visiting. The young men
are gathered in another corner by themselves, eating
roasted corn, and talking in whispers so as not
to disturb their elders, for respect to age is the
corner-stone of all Indian training. They are not
required to listen to the stories, being supposed to
know them already.
If in the far, sweet days when I stood at my
grandmother’s knee, and shivered over “Bluebeard,”
or thrilled at “Jack the Giant-killer,” some
one could have shown us a picture of me as I was
to be listening to other fairy tales twenty-five years
later, I am sure that her eyes would have opened
wide as mine. Certainly neither of us ever dreamed
that, thousands of miles from the old New England
fireplace, when the dear figures that sat with me
before its blazing forestick had long been dust, I
would be sitting where I am to-night and listening
to the strange, dark people who are around me.
The room is long and low, and overhead are
dark, round rafters—the trunks of straight pine-trees
that used to purr on the sides of the most famous
mountain in New Mexico. The walls are
white as snow, and you would never imagine that
they are built only of cut sods, plastered over and
whitewashed. The floor is of adobe clay, packed
almost as hard as a rock, and upon it are bright-hued
blankets, woven in strange figures. Along
the walls are benches, with wool mattresses rolled
up and laid upon them. By and by these will be
spread upon the floor for beds, but just now they
10]
serve as cushioned seats. Over in a corner are
strange earthen jars of water, with little gourd dippers
floating, and here and there upon the wall
hang bows and arrows in sheaths of the tawny hide
of the mountain lion; queer woven belts of red and
green, and heavy necklaces of silver and coral, with
charms of turquoise—the stone that stole its color
from the sky.
There is a fireplace, too, and we are gathered all
about it, a dozen or more—for I have become an
old friend here. But it is not like the fireplace
where the little sister and I used to roast our apples
and pop our corn. A wee hearth of clay rises
a few inches from the floor; a yard above it hangs
the chimney, like a big white hood; and a little
wall, four feet high, runs from it out into the room,
that the wind from the outer door may not blow
the ashes. There is no big front log, but three or
four gnarled cedar sticks, standing on one end,
crackle loudly.
Some of us are seated on benches, and upon the
floor. His back against the wall, squats my host,
who is just going to begin another fairy story.
Such a wee, withered, wrinkled old man! It seems
as though the hot winds of the Southwest had dried
him as they dry the forgotten last year’s apples
that shrivel here and there upon lonely boughs.
He must be a century old. His children, grandchildren,
great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren
are all represented here to-night.
Yet his black eyes are like a hawk’s, under their
heavy brows, and his voice is musical and deep.
I have never heard a more eloquent story-teller,
11]
and I have heard some famous ones. I can tell
you the words, but not the impressive tones, the
animation of eye and accent, the eloquent gestures
of this venerable Indian as he tells—what? An
Indian telling fairy stories?
Yes, indeed. He is the very man to tell them.
If this dusky old playground for wrinkles, who
never saw the inside of a book, could write out all
the fairy stories he knows, Webster’s Unabridged
Dictionary would hardly hold them. His father
and his father’s father, and so on back for countless
centuries, have handed down these stories
by telling, from generation to generation, just as
Tata[4] Lorenso is telling his great-great-grandsons
to-night. When these boys grow up, they will tell
these stories to their sons and grandsons; and so
the legends will pass on and on, so long as there
shall be a Tée-wahn Indian left in all New Mexico.
But Lorenso is ready with his story. He pauses
only to make a cigarette from the material in my
pouch (they call me Por todos, because I have tobacco
“for all”), explains for my benefit that this
is a story of the beginning of Isleta, pats the head
of the chubby boy at his knee, and begins again.
[2] The name means “Knife-laid-on-the-ground-to-play-whib.” Whib is an
aboriginal foot-race in which the runners have to carry a stick with their toes.
The name was perhaps suggested by the knife-like shape of the lava ridge on
which the pueblo is built.
[3] For they are all devout, if not entirely understanding, members of a
Christian church; but keep also much of their prehistoric faiths.
ONCE upon a time there were two towns of the
Tée-wahn, called Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee (white
village) and Nah-choo-rée-too-ee (yellow village).
A man of Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee and his wife were
attacked by Apaches while out on the plains one
day, and took refuge in a cave, where they were
besieged. And there a boy was born to them.
The father was killed in an attempt to return to
his village for help; and starvation finally forced
the mother to crawl forth by night seeking roots
to eat. Chased by the Apaches, she escaped to
her own village, and it was several days before she
could return to the cave—only to find it empty.
The baby had begun to cry soon after her departure.
Just then a Coyote[5] was passing, and
heard. Taking pity on the child, he picked it up
and carried it across the plain until he came to a
herd of antelopes. Among them was a Mother-Antelope
that had lost her fawn; and going to her
the Coyote said:
“Here is an ah-bóo (poor thing) that is left by
its people. Will you take care of it?”
13]
The Mother-Antelope, remembering her own
baby, with tears said “Yes,” and at once adopted
the tiny stranger, while the Coyote thanked her
and went home.
So the boy became as one of the antelopes, and
grew up among them until he was about twelve
years old. Then it happened that a hunter came
out from Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee for antelopes, and
found this herd. Stalking them carefully, he shot
one with an arrow. The rest started off, running
like the wind; but ahead of them all, as long as
they were in sight, he saw a boy! The hunter
was much surprised, and, shouldering his game,
walked back to the village, deep in thought. Here
he told the Cacique[6] what he had seen. Next day
the crier was sent out to call upon all the people to
prepare for a great hunt, in four days, to capture
the Indian boy who lived with the antelopes.
While preparations were going on in the village,
the antelopes in some way heard of the intended
hunt and its purpose. The Mother-Antelope was
very sad when she heard it, and at first would say
nothing. But at last she called her adopted son
to her and said: “Son, you have heard that the
people of Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee are coming to hunt.
But they will not kill us; all they wish is to take
you. They will surround us, intending to let all
the antelopes escape from the circle. You must
follow me where I break through the line, and your
real mother will be coming on the northeast side in
a white manta (robe). I will pass close to her, and
you must stagger and fall where she can catch you.”
14]
On the fourth day all the people went out upon
the plains. They found and surrounded the herd
of antelopes, which ran about in a circle when the
hunters closed upon them. The circle grew smaller,
and the antelopes began to break through; but the
hunters paid no attention to them, keeping their
eyes upon the boy. At last he and his antelope
mother were the only ones left, and when she
broke through the line on the northeast he followed
her and fell at the feet of his own human
mother, who sprang forward and clasped him in
her arms.
Amid great rejoicing he was taken to Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee,
and there he told the principales[7] how
he had been left in the cave, how the Coyote had
pitied him, and how the Mother-Antelope had
reared him as her own son.
It was not long before all the country round
about heard of the Antelope Boy and of his marvelous
fleetness of foot. You must know that the antelopes
never comb their hair, and while among them
the boy’s head had grown very bushy. So the
people called him Pée-hleh-o-wah-wée-deh (big-headed
little boy).
THE COYOTE CARRIES THE BABY TO THE ANTELOPE MOTHER.
Among the other villages that heard of his
prowess was Nah-choo-rée-too-ee, all of whose
people “had the bad road.”[8] They had a wonderful
runner named Pée-k’hoo (Deer-foot), and very
soon they sent a challenge to Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee
for a championship race. Four days were to be
given for preparation, to make bets, and the like.
17]
The race was to be around the world.[9] Each village
was to stake all its property and the lives of all its
people on the result of the race. So powerful were
the witches of Nah-choo-rée-too-ee that they felt
safe in proposing so serious a stake; and the people
of Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee were ashamed to decline
the challenge.
The day came, and the starting-point was surrounded
by all the people of the two villages,
dressed in their best. On each side were huge
piles of ornaments and dresses, stores of grain, and
all the other property of the people. The runner
for the yellow village was a tall, sinewy athlete,
strong in his early manhood; and when the Antelope
Boy appeared for the other side, the witches
set up a howl of derision, and began to strike their
rivals and jeer at them, saying, “Pooh! We might
as well begin to kill you now! What can that
óo-deh (little thing) do?”
At the word “Hái-ko!” (“Go!”) the two runners
started toward the east like the wind. The
Antelope Boy soon forged ahead; but Deer-foot,
by his witchcraft, changed himself into a hawk and
flew lightly over the lad, saying, “We do this way
to each other!”[10] The Antelope Boy kept running,
but his heart was very heavy, for he knew
that no feet could equal the swift flight of the
hawk.
18]
But just as he came half-way to the east, a Mole
came up from its burrow and said:
“My son, where are you going so fast with a
sad face?”
The lad explained that the race was for the
property and lives of all his people; and that the
witch-runner had turned to a hawk and left him far
behind.
RAIN FALLS ON PÉE-K’HOO.
19]
“Then, my son,” said the Mole, “I will be he
that shall help you. Only sit down here a little
while, and I will give you something to carry.”
The boy sat down, and the Mole dived into the
hole, but soon came back with four cigarettes.[11]
Holding them out, the Mole said, “Now, my
son, when you have reached the east and turned
north, smoke one; when you have reached the
north and turn west, smoke another; when you
turn south, another, and when you turn east again,
another. Hái-ko!”
The boy ran on, and soon reached the east.
Turning his face to the north he smoked the first
cigarette. No sooner was it finished than he became
a young antelope; and at the same instant
a furious rain began. Refreshed by the cool
drops, he started like an arrow from the bow.
Half-way to the north he came to a large tree;
and there sat the hawk, drenched and chilled, unable
to fly, and crying piteously.
“Now, friend, we too do this to each other,”
called the boy-antelope as he dashed past. But
just as he reached the north, the hawk—which
had become dry after the short rain—caught up
and passed him, saying, “We too do this to each
other!” The boy-antelope turned westward, and
smoked the second cigarette; and at once another
terrific rain began.[12] Half-way to the west he again
passed the hawk shivering and crying in a tree,
20]
and unable to fly; but as he was about to turn to
the south, the hawk passed him with the customary
taunt. The smoking of the third cigarette
brought another storm, and again the antelope
passed the wet hawk half-way, and again the hawk
dried its feathers in time to catch up and pass him
as he was turning to the east for the home-stretch.
Here again the boy-antelope stopped and smoked
a cigarette—the fourth and last. Again a short,
hard rain came, and again he passed the water-bound
hawk half-way.
“THE TWO RUNNERS CAME SWEEPING DOWN THE HOME-STRETCH, STRAINING EVERY NERVE.”
Knowing the witchcraft of their neighbors, the
people of Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee had made the condition
that, in whatever shape the racers might run the
rest of the course, they must resume human form
upon arrival at a certain hill upon the fourth turn,
which was in sight of the goal. The last wetting
of the hawk’s feathers delayed it so that the antelope
reached the hill just ahead; and there, resuming
their natural shapes, the two runners came
21]
sweeping down the home-stretch, straining every
nerve. But the Antelope Boy gained at each
stride. When they saw him, the witch-people felt
confident that he was their champion, and again
began to push, and taunt, and jeer at the others.
But when the little Antelope Boy sprang lightly
across the line, far ahead of Deer-foot, their joy
turned to mourning.
The people of Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee burned all
the witches upon the spot, in a great pile of corn;
but somehow one escaped, and from him come all
the witches that trouble us to this day.
The property of the witches was taken to Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee;
and as it was more than that village
could hold, the surplus was sent to Shee-eh-whíb-bak
(Isleta), where we enjoy it to this day;
and later the people themselves moved here. And
even now, when we dig in that little hill on the
other side of the charco (pool), we find charred
corn-cobs, where our forefathers burned the witch-people
of the yellow village.
During Lorenso’s story the black eyes of the boys
have never left his face; and at every pause they
have made the customary response, “Is that so?”
to show their attention; while the old men have
nodded approbation, and smoked in deep silence.
Now Lorenso turns to Desiderio,[13] who is far
more wrinkled even than he, and says, “You have
a tail, brother.” And Desiderio, clearing his
throat and making a new cigarette with great impressiveness,
begins: “My sons, do you know why
the Coyote and the Crows are always at war?
No? Then I will tell you.”
[9] The Pueblos believed it was an immense plain whereon the racers were
to race over a square course—to the extreme east, then to the extreme north,
and so on, back to the starting-point.
[10] A common Indian taunt, either good-natured or bitter, to the loser of a
game or to a conquered enemy.
[11] These are made by putting a certain weed called pee-én-hleh into
hollow reeds.
[12] I should state, by the way, that the cigarette plays an important part in
the Pueblo folk-stories,—they never had the pipe of the Northern Indians,—and
all rain-clouds are supposed to come from its smoke.
ONCE on a time many Káh-ahn lived in the edge
of some woods. A little out into the plain
stood a very large tree, with much sand under it.
One day a Coyote was passing, and heard the
Crows singing and dancing under this tree, and
came up to watch them. They were dancing in a
circle, and each Crow had upon his back a large bag.
“Crow-friends, what are you doing?” asked the
Coyote, who was much interested.
“Oh, we are dancing with our mothers,” said
the Crows.
“How pretty! And will you let me dance,
too?” asked the Coyote of the too-whit-lah-wid-deh
crow (captain of the dance).
“Oh, yes,” replied the Crow. “Go and put
your mother in a bag and come to the dance.”
The Coyote went running home. There his old
mother was sitting in the corner of the fireplace.
The stupid Coyote picked up a stick and struck
her on the head, and put her in a bag, and hurried
back to the dance with her.
The Crows were dancing merrily, and singing:
“Ai nana, que-ée-rah, que-ée-rah.” (“Alas, Mama!
23]
you are shaking, you are shaking!”) The Coyote
joined the dance, with the bag on his back, and
sang as the Crows did:
But at last the Crows burst out laughing, and
said, “What do you bring in your bag?”
“My mother, as you told me,” replied the Coyote,
showing them.
Then the Crows emptied their bags, which were
filled with nothing but sand, and flew up into the
tree, laughing.
The Coyote then saw that they had played him
a trick, and started home, crying “Ai nana!”
When he got home he took his mother from the
bag and tried to set her up in the chimney-corner,
always crying, “Ai nana, why don’t you sit up as
before?” But she could not, for she was dead.
When he found that she could not sit up any more,
he vowed to follow the Crows and eat them all the
rest of his life; and from that day to this he has
been hunting them, and they are always at war.
As Desiderio concludes, the old men hitch their
blankets around their shoulders. “No more stories
to-night?” I ask; and Lorenso says:
“In-dáh (no). Now it is to go to bed. Tóo-kwai
(come),” to the boys. “Good night, friends. Another
time, perhaps.”
And we file out through the low door into the
starry night.
[14]Ai nana is an exclamation always used by mourners.
III THE WAR-DANCE OF THE MICE
24]
TO-NIGHT it is withered Diego[15] who begins
with his story, in the musical but strange
Tée-wahn tongue, of “Shée-choon t’o-ah-fuar.”
Serious as that looks, it means only “the war-dance
of the Mice.”
Once upon a time there was war between the
people of Isleta and the Mice. There was a great
battle, in which the Tée-wahn killed many Mice
and took their scalps. Then the Tée-wahn returned
to their village, and the warriors went into
the estufa (sacred council-chamber) to prepare
themselves by fasting for the great scalp-dance
in twelve days. While the warriors were sitting
inside, the Mice came secretly by night to attack
the town, and their spies crept up to the estufa.
When all the Tée-wahn warriors had fallen asleep,
the Mice came stealing down the big ladder into
the room, and creeping from sleeper to sleeper, they
gnawed every bowstring and cut the feathers from
the arrows and the strap of every sling. When
this was done, the Mice raised a terrible war-whoop
and rushed upon the warriors, brandishing their
25]
spears. The Tée-wahn woke and caught up their
bows and arrows, but only to find them useless.
So the warriors could do nothing but run from their
tiny foes, and up the ladder to the roof they rushed
pell-mell and thence fled to their homes, leaving
the Mice victorious.
The rest of the town made such fun of the warriors
that they refused to return to the fight; and
the elated Mice held a public dance in front of the
estufa. A brave sight it was, the army of these
little people, singing and dancing and waving their
spears. They were dressed in red blankets, with
leather leggings glistening with silver buttons from
top to bottom, and gay moccasins. Each had two
eagle feathers tied to the top of his spear—the
token of victory. And as they danced and marched
and counter-marched, they sang exultingly:
Shée-oh-pah ch’-ót-im!
Neh-máh-hlee-oh ch’-ot-im!
Hló-tu feé-ny p’-óh-teh!
over and over again—which means
Quick we cut the bowstring!
Quick we cut the sling-strap!
We shaved the arrow-feathers off!
For four days they danced and sang, and on the
night of the fourth day danced all night around
a big bonfire. The next morning they marched
away. That was the time when the Mice conquered
men; and that is the reason why we have
never been able to drive the Mice out of our homes
to this day.
26]
“Is that the reason?” ask all the boys, who
have been listening with big black eyes intent.
“That is the very reason,” says withered Diego.
“Now, compadre Antonio, there is a tail to you.”
Antonio, thus called upon, cannot refuse. Indian
etiquette is very strict upon this point—as well as
upon all others. So he fishes in his memory for a
story, while the boys turn expectant faces toward
him. He is not nearly so wrinkled as Diego, but
he is very, very old, and his voice is a little tremulous
at first. Wrapping his blanket about him, he
begins:
Then I will tell you why the Coyote and the Blackbirds
are enemies—for once they were very good
friends in the old days.
ONCE upon a time a Coyote lived near an open
wood. As he went to walk one day near the
edge of the wood, he heard the Blackbirds (the
Indian name means “seeds of the prairie”) calling
excitedly:
“Bring my bag! Bring my bag! It is going
to hail!”
The Coyote, being very curious, came near and
saw that they all had buckskin bags to which they
were tying lassos, the other ends of which were
thrown over the boughs of the trees. Very much
surprised, the Coyote came to them and asked:
“Blackbird-friends, what are you doing?”
“Oh, friend Coyote,” they replied, “we are
making ourselves ready, for soon there will be a
very hard hail-storm, and we do not wish to be
pelted to death. We are going to get into these
bags and pull ourselves up under the branches,
where the hail cannot strike us.”
“That is very good,” said the Coyote, “and I
would like to do so, too, if you will let me join you.”
“Oh, yes! Just run home and get a bag and a
lasso, and come back here and we will help you,”
said the Pah-táhn, never smiling.
28]
So the Coyote started running for home, and
got a large bag and a lasso, and came back to the
Blackbirds, who were waiting. They fixed the
rope and bag for him, putting the noose around
the neck of the bag so that it would be closed
tight when the rope was pulled. Then they threw
the end of the lasso over a strong branch and said:
“Now, friend Coyote, you get into your bag
first, for you are so big and heavy that you cannot
pull yourself up, and we will have to help you.”
The Coyote crawled into the bag, and all the
Blackbirds taking hold of the rope, pulled with all
their might till the bag was swung clear up under the
branch. Then they tied the end of the lasso around
the tree so the bag could not come down, and ran
around picking up all the pebbles they could find.
“Mercy! How the hail comes!” they cried excitedly,
and began to throw stones at the swinging
bag as hard as ever they could.
“Mercy!” howled the Coyote, as the pebbles
pattered against him. “But this is a terrible storm,
Blackbird-friends! It pelts me dreadfully! And
how are you getting along?”
“It is truly very bad, friend Coyote,” they answered,
“but you are bigger and stronger than we,
and ought to endure it.” And they kept pelting
him, all the time crying and chattering as if they,
too, were suffering greatly from the hail.
“Ouch!” yelled the Coyote. “That one hit me
very near the eye, friends! I fear this evil storm
will kill us all!”
“But be brave, friend,” called back the Blackbirds.
“We keep our hearts, and so should you,
29]
for you are much stronger than we.” And they
pelted him all the harder.
So they kept it up until they were too tired to
throw any more; and as for the Coyote, he was so
bruised and sore that he could hardly move. Then
they untied the rope and let the bag slowly to the
ground, and loosened the noose at the neck and
flew up into the trees with sober faces.
“Ow!” groaned the Coyote, “I am nearly dead!”
And he crawled weeping and groaning from the
bag, and began to lick his bruises. But when he
looked around and saw the sun shining and the
ground dry, and not a hailstone anywhere, he knew
that the Blackbirds had given him a trick, and he
limped home in a terrible rage, vowing that as soon
as ever he got well he would follow and eat the
Blackbirds as long as he lived. And ever since,
even to this day, he has been following them to eat
them, and that is why the Coyote and the Blackbirds
are always at war.
“Is that so?” cried all the boys in chorus, their
eyes shining like coals.
“Oh, yes, that is the cause of the war,” said old
Antonio, gravely. “And now, brother, there is a
tail to you,” turning to the tall, gray-haired Felipe[16];
and clearing his throat, Felipe begins about the
Coyote and the Bear.
ONCE upon a time Ko-íd-deh (the Bear) and
Too-wháy-deh (the Coyote) chanced to meet at
a certain spot, and sat down to talk. After a while
the Bear said:
“Friend Coyote, do you see what good land this
is here? What do you say if we farm it together,
sharing our labor and the crop?”
The Coyote thought well of it, and said so; and
after talking, they agreed to plant potatoes in partnership.
“Now,” said the Bear, “I think of a good way
to divide the crop. I will take all that grows below
the ground, and you take all that grows above
it. Then each can take away his share when he is
ready, and there will be no trouble to measure.”
The Coyote agreed, and when the time came
they plowed the place with a sharp stick and
planted their potatoes. All summer they worked
together in the field, hoeing down the weeds with
stone hoes and letting in water now and then from
the irrigating-ditch. When harvest-time came, the
Coyote went and cut off all the potato-tops at the
31]
ground and carried them home, and afterward the
Bear scratched out the potatoes from the ground
with his big claws and took them to his house.
When the Coyote saw this his eyes were opened,
and he said:
“But this is not fair. You have those round
things, which are good to eat, but what I took home
we cannot eat at all, neither my wife nor I.”
“But, friend Coyote,” answered the Bear, gravely,
“did we not make an agreement? Then we must
stick to it like men.”
The Coyote could not answer, and went home;
but he was not satisfied.
The next spring, as they met one day, the Bear said:
“Come, friend Coyote, I think we ought to plant
this good land again, and this time let us plant it
in corn. But last year you were dissatisfied with
your share, so this year we will change. You take
what is below the ground for your share, and I will
take only what grows above.”
This seemed very fair to the Coyote, and he
agreed. They plowed and planted and tended the
corn; and when it came harvest-time the Bear
gathered all the stalks and ears and carried them
home. When the Coyote came to dig his share, he
found nothing but roots like threads, which were
good for nothing. He was very much dissatisfied;
but the Bear reminded him of their agreement, and
he could say nothing.
That winter the Coyote was walking one day by
the river (the Rio Grande), when he saw the Bear
sitting on the ice and eating a fish. The Coyote
was very fond of fish, and coming up, he said:
32]
“Friend Bear, where did you get such a fat
fish?”
“Oh, I broke a hole in the ice,” said the Bear,
“and fished for them. There are many here.”
And he went on eating, without offering any to the
Coyote.
“Won’t you show me how, friend?” asked the
Coyote, fainting with hunger at the smell of the
fish.
“Oh, yes,” said the Bear. “It is very easy.”
And he broke a hole in the ice with his paw. “Now,
friend Coyote, sit down and let your tail hang in
the water, and very soon you will feel a nibble.
But you must not pull it till I tell you.”
So the Coyote sat down with his tail in the cold
water. Soon the ice began to form around it, and
he called:
“Friend Bear, I feel a bite! Let me pull him
out.”
“No, no! Not yet!” cried the Bear, “wait
till he gets a good hold, and then you will not lose
him.”
So the Coyote waited. In a few minutes the
hole was frozen solid, and his tail was fast.
“Now, friend Coyote,” called the Bear, “I think
you have him. Pull!”
The Coyote pulled with all his might, but could
not lift his tail from the ice, and there he was—a
prisoner. While he pulled and howled, the Bear
shouted with laughter, and rolled on the ice and
ha-ha’d till his sides were sore. Then he took his
fish and went home, stopping every little to laugh
at the thought of the Coyote.
33]
There on the ice the Coyote had to stay until a
thaw liberated him, and when he got home he was
very wet and cold and half starved. And from that
day to this he has never forgiven the Bear, and will
not even speak to him when they meet, and the
Bear says, politely, “Good morning, friend Too-wháy-deh.”
“Is that so?” cry the boys.
“That is so,” says Felipe. “But now it is time
to go home. Tóo-kwai!”
The story-telling is over for to-night. Grandmother
Reyes is unrolling the mattresses upon the floor;
and with pleasant “good-nights” we scatter for our
homes here and there in the quaint adobe village.
[17] The Coyote, you must know, is very stupid about some things; and in almost
all Pueblo fairy stories is the victim of one joke or another. The bear,
on the other hand, is one of the wisest of animals.
VI THE FIRST OF THE RATTLESNAKES
34]
OW there is a tail to you, compadre
[friend],” said old Desiderio, nodding
at Patricio[18] after we had sat awhile in
silence around the crackling fire.
Patricio had a broad strip of rawhide
across his knee, and was scraping
the hair from it with a dull knife. It
was high time to be thinking of new
soles, for already there was a wee hole
in the bottom of each of his moccasins;
and as for Benito, his shy little grandson, his toes
were all abroad.
But shrilly as the cold night-wind outside hinted
the wisdom of speedy cobbling, Patricio had no wish
35]
to acquire that burro’s tail, so, laying the rawhide
and knife upon the floor beside him, he deliberately
rolled a modest pinch of the aromatic koo-ah-rée
in a corn-husk, lighted it at the coals, and
drew Benito’s tousled head to his side.
“You have heard,” he said, with a slow puff,
“about Nah-chu-rú-chu, the mighty medicine-man
who lived here in Isleta in the times of the ancients?”
“Ah-h!” (Yes) cried all the boys. “You have
promised to tell us how he married the moon!”
“Another time I will do so. But now I shall
tell you something that was before that—for Nah-chu-rú-chu
had many strange adventures before
he married Páh-hlee-oh, the Moon-Mother. Do
you know why the rattlesnake—which is the king
of all snakes and alone has the power of death in
his mouth—always shakes his guaje[19] before he
bites?”
“Een-dah!” chorused Ramón and Benito, and
Fat Juan, and Tomás,[20] very eagerly; for they were
particularly fond of hearing about the exploits of
the greatest of Tée-wahn medicine-men.
“Listen, then, and you shall hear.”
In those days Nah-chu-rú-chu had a friend who
lived in a pueblo nearer the foot of the Eagle-Feather
Mountain than this, in the Place of the
Red Earth, where still are its ruins; and the two
young men went often to the mountain together
to bring wood and to hunt. Now, Nah-chu-rú-chu
36]
had a white heart, and never thought ill; but
the friend had the evil road and became jealous,
for Nah-chu-rú-chu was a better hunter. But he
said nothing, and made as if he still loved Nah-chu-rú-chu
truly.
One day the friend came over from his village
and said:
“Friend Nah-chu-rú-chu, let us go to-morrow
for wood and to have a hunt.”
“It is well,” replied Nah-chu-rú-chu. Next
morning he started very early and came to the village
of his friend; and together they went to the
mountain. When they had gathered much wood,
and lashed it in bundles for carrying, they started
off in opposite directions to hunt. In a short time
each returned with a fine fat deer.
“But why should we hasten to go home, friend
Nah-chu-rú-chu?” said the friend. “It is still early,
and we have much time. Come, let us stop here
and amuse ourselves with a game.”
“It is well, friend,” answered Nah-chu-rú-chu;
“but what game shall we play? For we have
neither pa-toles, nor hoops, nor any other game
here.”
“See! we will roll the mah-khúr,[21] for while I
was waiting for you I made one that we might
play”—and the false friend drew from beneath his
blanket a pretty painted hoop; but really he had
39]
made it at home, and had brought it hidden, on
purpose to do harm to Nah-chu-rú-chu.
“AS HE CAUGHT THE HOOP HE WAS INSTANTLY CHANGED INTO
A POOR COYOTE!”
“Now go down there and catch it when I roll
it,” said he; and Nah-chu-rú-chu did so. But as he
caught the hoop when it came rolling, he was no
longer Nah-chu-rú-chu the brave hunter, but a poor
Coyote with great tears rolling down his nose!
“Hu!” said the false friend, tauntingly, “we do
this to each other! So now you have all the plains
to wander over, to the north, and west, and south;
but you can never go to the east. And if you are
not lucky, the dogs will tear you; but if you are
lucky, they may have pity on you. So now good-by,
for this is the last I shall ever see of you.”
Then the false friend went away, laughing, to his
village; and the poor Coyote wandered aimlessly,
weeping to think that he had been betrayed by the
one he had loved and trusted as a brother. For
four days he prowled about the outskirts of Isleta,
looking wistfully at his home. The fierce dogs ran
out to tear him; but when they came near they
only sniffed at him, and went away without hurting
him. He could find nothing to eat save dry bones,
and old thongs or soles of moccasins.
On the fourth day he turned westward, and
wandered until he came to Mesita.[22] There was no
town of the Lagunas there then, and only a shepherd’s
hut and corral, in which were an old Quères
Indian and his grandson, tending their goats.
Next morning when the grandson went out very
early to let the goats from the corral, he saw a
Coyote run out from among the goats. It went
40]
off a little way, and then sat down and watched
him. The boy counted the goats, and none were
missing, and he thought it strange. But he said
nothing to his grandfather.
For three more mornings the very same thing
happened; and on the fourth morning the boy told
his grandfather. The old man came out, and set
the dogs after the Coyote, which was sitting a little
way off; but when they came near they would not
touch him.
“I suspect there is something wrong here,” said
the old shepherd; and he called: “Coyote, are you
coyote-true, or are you people?”
But the Coyote could not answer; and the old
man called again: “Coyote, are you people?”
At that the Coyote nodded his head, “Yes.”
“If that is so, come here and be not afraid of
us; for we will be the ones to help you out of this
trouble.”
So the Coyote came to them and licked their
hands, and they gave it food—for it was dying of
hunger. When it was fed, the old man said:
“Now, son, you are going out with the goats
along the creek, and there you will see some willows.
With your mind look at two willows, and
mark them; and to-morrow morning you must go
and bring one of them.”
The boy went away tending the goats, and the
Coyote stayed with the old man. Next morning,
when they awoke very early, they saw all the earth
wrapped in a white manta.[23]
41]
“COYOTE, ARE YOU PEOPLE?”
43]
“Now, son,” said the old man, “you must wear
only your moccasins and breech-clout, and go like a
man to the two willows you marked yesterday. To
one of them you must pray; and then cut the other
and bring it to me.”
The boy did so and came back with the willow
stick. The old man prayed, and made a mah-khúr
hoop; and bidding the Coyote stand a little way
off and stick his head through the hoop before it
should stop rolling, rolled it toward him. The
Coyote waited till the hoop came very close, and
gave a great jump and put his head through it before
it could stop. And lo! there stood Nah-chu-rú-chu,
young and handsome as ever; but his
beautiful suit of fringed buckskin was all in rags.
For four days he stayed there and was cleansed
with the cleansing of the medicine-man; and then
the old shepherd said to him:
“Now, friend Nah-chu-rú-chu, there is a road.[24]
But take with you this faja,[25] for though your
power is great, you have submitted to this evil.
When you get home, he who did this to you will
be first to know, and he will come pretending to be
your friend, as if he had done nothing; and he will
ask you to go hunting again. So you must go;
and when you come to the mountain, with this faja
you shall repay him.”
Nah-chu-rú-chu thanked the kind old shepherd,
and started home. But when he came to the Bad
Hill and looked down into the valley of the Rio
Grande, his heart sank. All the grass and
44]
fields and trees were dry and dead—for Nah-chu-rú-chu
was the medicine-man who controlled
the clouds, so no rain could fall when he was
gone; and the eight days he had been a Coyote
were in truth eight years. The river was dry,
and the springs; and many of the people were
dead from thirst, and the rest were dying. But
as Nah-chu-rú-chu came down the hill, it began
to rain again, and all the people were glad.
When he came into the pueblo, all the famishing
people came out to welcome him. And
soon came the false friend, making as if he had
never bewitched him nor had known whither he
disappeared.
In a few days the false friend came again to
propose a hunt; and next morning they went to
the mountain together. Nah-chu-rú-chu had the
pretty faja wound around his waist; and when
the wind blew his blanket aside, the other saw it.
“Ay! What a pretty faja!” cried the false
friend. “Give it to me, friend Nah-chu-rú-chu.”
“Een-dah!” (No) said Nah-chu-rú-chu. But the
false friend begged so hard that at last he said:
“Then I will roll it to you; and if you can
catch it before it unwinds, you may have it.”
So he wound it up,[26] and holding by one end
gave it a push so that it ran away from him,
unrolling as it went. The false friend jumped
for it, but it was unrolled before he caught it.
“Een-dah!” said Nah-chu-rú-chu, pulling it
back. “If you do not care enough for it to be
spryer than that, you cannot have it.”
45]
“AS HE SEIZED IT HE WAS CHANGED FROM A TALL YOUNG MAN INTO A GREAT RATTLESNAKE.”
47]
The false friend begged for another trial; so
Nah-chu-rú-chu rolled it again. This time the
false friend caught it before it was unrolled; and
lo! instead of a tall young man, there lay a great
rattlesnake with tears rolling from his lidless eyes!
“We, too, do this to each other!” said Nah-chu-rú-chu.
He took from his medicine-pouch a
pinch of the sacred meal and laid it on the snake’s
flat head for its food; and then a pinch of the
corn-pollen to tame it.[27] And the snake ran out
its red forked tongue, and licked them.
“Now,” said Nah-chu-rú-chu, “this mountain
and all rocky places shall be your home. But
you can never again do to another harm, without
warning, as you did to me. For see, there is
a guaje[28] in your tail, and whenever you would do
any one an injury, you must warn them beforehand
with your rattle.”
“And is that the reason why Ch’ah-rah-ráh-deh
always rattles to give warning before he bites?”
asked Fat Juan, who is now quite as often called
Juan Biscocho (John Biscuit), since I photographed
him one day crawling out of the big
adobe bake-oven where he had been hiding.
“That is the very reason. Then Nah-chu-rú-chu
left his false friend, from whom all the rattlesnakes
are descended, and came back to his village.
From that time all went well with Isleta,
for Nah-chu-rú-chu was at home again to attend
to the clouds. There was plenty of rain, and the
river began to run again, and the springs flowed.
48]
The people plowed and planted again, as they had
not been able to do for several years, and all their
work prospered. As for the people who lived in
the Place of the Red Earth, they all moved down
here,[29] because the Apaches were very bad; and
here their descendants live to this day.”
“Is that so?” sighed all the boys in chorus,
sorry that the story was so soon done.
“That is so,” replied old Patricio. “And now,
compadre Antonio, there is a tail to you.”
“Well, then, I will tell a story which they
showed me in Taos[30] last year,” said the old man.
[21] The game of mah-khúr, which the Pueblos learned from the Apaches many
centuries ago, is a very simple one, but is a favorite with all witches as a snare
for those whom they would injure. A small hoop of willow is painted gaily,
and has ornamental buckskin thongs stretched across it from side to side,
spoke-fashion. The challenger to a game rolls the hoop rapidly past the challenged,
who must throw a lance through between the spokes before it ceases
to roll.
[22] An outlying colony of Laguna, forty miles from Isleta.
[23] This figure is always used by the Pueblos in speaking of snow in connection
with sacred things.
[29] It is a proved fact that there was such a migration.
[30] The most northern of the Pueblo cities. Its people are also Tée-wahn.
VII THE COYOTE AND THE WOODPECKER
49]
WELL, once upon a time a Coyote and his
family lived near the edge of a wood. There
was a big hollow tree there, and in it lived an old
Woodpecker and his wife and children. One day
as the Coyote-father was strolling along the edge
of the forest he met the Woodpecker-father.
“Hin-no-kah-kée-ma” (Good evening), said the
Coyote; “how do you do to-day, friend Hloo-rée-deh?”
“Very well, thank you; and how are you, friend
Too-wháy-deh?”
So they stopped and talked together awhile;
and when they were about to go apart the Coyote
said:
“Friend Woodpecker, why do you not come as
friends to see us? Come to our house to supper
this evening, and bring your family.”
“Thank you, friend Coyote,” said the Woodpecker;
“we will come with joy.”
THE COYOTES AT SUPPER WITH THE WOODPECKERS.
So that evening, when the Coyote-mother had
made supper ready, there came the Woodpecker-father
and the Woodpecker-mother with their
three children. When they had come in, all five
50]
of the Woodpeckers stretched themselves as they
do after flying, and by that showed their pretty
feathers—for the Hloo-rée-deh has yellow and
red marks under its wings. While they were
eating supper, too, they sometimes spread their
wings, and displayed their bright under-side.
They praised the supper highly, and said the
Coyote-mother was a perfect housekeeper. When
it was time to go, they thanked the Coyotes
very kindly and invited them to come to
51]
supper at their house the following evening.
But when they were gone, the Coyote-father
could hold himself no longer, and he said:
“Did you see what airs those Woodpeckers
put on? Always showing off their bright feathers?
But I want them to know that the
Coyotes are equal to them. I’ll show them!”
Next day, the Coyote-father had all his family
at work bringing wood, and built a great
fire in front of his house. When it was time
to go to the house of the Woodpeckers he
called his wife and children to the fire, and
lashed a burning stick under each of their arms,
with the burning end pointing forward; and
then he fixed himself in the same way.
“Now,” said he, “we will show them! When
we get there, you must lift up your arms now and
then, to show them that we are as good as the
Woodpeckers.”
When they came to the house of the Woodpeckers
and went in, all the Coyotes kept lifting their
arms often, to show the bright coals underneath.
But as they sat down to supper, one Coyote-girl
gave a shriek and said:
“Oh, tata! My fire is burning me!”
“Be patient, my daughter,” said the Coyote-father,
severely, “and do not cry about little
things.”
“Ow!” cried the other Coyote-girl in a moment,
“my fire has gone out!”
This was more than the Coyote-father could
stand, and he reproved her angrily.
“But how is it, friend Coyote,” said the
52]
Woodpecker, politely, “that your colors are so bright at
first, but very soon become black?”
“Oh, that is the beauty of our colors,” replied
the Coyote, smothering his rage; “that they are
not always the same—like other people’s—but
turn all shades.”
But the Coyotes were very uncomfortable, and
made an excuse to hurry home as soon as they
could. When they got there, the Coyote-father
whipped them all for exposing him to be laughed
at. But the Woodpecker-father gathered his children
around him, and said:
“Now, my children, you see what the Coyotes
have done. Never in your life try to appear what
you are not. Be just what you really are, and put
on no false colors.”
“Is that so?” cried the boys.
“That is so; and it is as true for people as for
birds. Now, tóo-kwai—for it is bedtime.”
VIII THE MAN WHO MARRIED THE MOON
53]
MONG the principal heroes of
the Tée-wahn folk-lore, I hear
of none more frequently in the
winter story-tellings to which
my aboriginal neighbors admit
me, than the mighty Nah-chu-rú-chu.
To this day his name,
which means “The Bluish Light
of Dawn,” is deeply revered by
the quaint people who claim him
as one of their forefathers. He had no parents,
for he was created by the Trues themselves, and
by them was given such extraordinary powers as
were second only to their own. His wonderful
54]
feats and startling adventures—as still related by
the believing Isleteños—would fill a volume. One
of these fanciful myths has interested me particularly,
not only for its important bearing on certain
ethnological matters, but for its intrinsic qualities
as well. It is a thoroughly characteristic leaf from
the legendary lore of the Southwest.
Long before the first Spaniards came to New
Mexico (and that was three hundred and fifty
years ago) Isleta stood where it stands to-day—on
a lava ridge that defies the gnawing current
of the Rio Grande.[31] In those far days, Nah-chu-rú-chu
dwelt in Isleta, and was a leader of his
people. A weaver by trade,[32] his rude loom hung
from the dark rafters of his room; and in it he
wove the strong black mantas which are the dress
of Pueblo women to this day.
Besides being very wise in medicine, Nah-chu-rú-chu
was young, and tall, and strong, and handsome;
and all the girls of the village thought it a
shame that he did not care to take a wife. For
him the shyest dimples played, for him the whitest
teeth flashed out, as the owners passed him in the
plaza; but he had no eyes for them. Then, in
the naïve custom of the Tée-wahn, bashful fingers
worked wondrous fringed shirts of buckskin, or
gay awl-sheaths, which found their way to his
house by unknown messengers—each as much as
55]
to say, “She who made this is yours, if you will
have her.” But Nah-chu-rú-chu paid no more attention
to the gifts than to the smiles, and just kept
weaving and weaving such mantas as were never
seen in the land of the Tée-wahn before or since.
The most persistent of his admirers were two
sisters who were called Ee-eh-chóo-ri-ch’áhm-nin—the
Yellow-Corn-Maidens. They were both
young and pretty, but they “had the evil road”—which
is the Indian way of saying that they
were possessed of a magic power which they always
used for ill. When all the other girls gave up,
discouraged at Nah-chu-rú-chu’s indifference, the
Yellow-Corn-Maidens kept coming day after day,
trying to attract him. At last the matter became
such a nuisance to Nah-chu-rú-chu that he hired
the deep-voiced town-crier to go through all the
streets and announce that in four days Nah-chu-rú-chu
would choose a wife.
For dippers, to take water from the big earthen
tinajas, the Tée-wahn used then, as they use to-day,
queer little ladle-shaped omates made of a
gourd; but Nah-chu-rú-chu, being a great medicine-man
and very rich, had a dipper of pure pearl,
shaped like the gourds, but wonderfully precious.
“On the fourth day,” proclaimed the crier,
“Nah-chu-rú-chu will hang his pearl omate at his
door, where every girl who will may throw a handful
of corn-meal at it. And she whose meal is so
well ground that it sticks to the omate, she shall be
the wife of Nah-chu-rú-chu!”
When this strange news came rolling down the
still evening air, there was a great scampering of
56]
little moccasined feet. The girls ran out from
hundreds of gray adobe houses to catch every
word; and when the crier had passed on, they ran
back into the store-rooms and began to ransack the
corn-bins for the biggest, evenest, and most perfect
ears. Shelling the choicest, each took her few
handfuls of kernels to the sloping metate,[33] and
with the mano, or hand-stone, scrubbed the grist
up and down, and up and down, till the hard corn
was a soft, blue meal. All the next day, and
the next, and the next, they ground it over and
over again, until it grew finer than ever flour was
before; and every girl felt sure that her meal
would stick to the omate of the handsome young
weaver. The Yellow-Corn-Maidens worked hardest
of all; day and night for four days they ground
and ground, with all the magic spells they knew.
THE ISLETA GIRLS GRINDING CORN WITH THE “MANO” ON THE “METATE.”
57]
Now, in those far-off days the Moon had not
gone up into the sky to live, but was a maiden of
Shee-eh-whíb-bak. And a very beautiful girl she
was, though blind of one eye. She had long admired
Nah-chu-rú-chu, but was always too maidenly to
try to attract his attention as other girls had done;
and at the time when the crier made his proclamation,
she happened to be
away at her father’s ranch.
It was only upon the fourth
day that she returned to
town, and in a few moments
the girls were to go with
their meal to test it upon
the magic dipper. The two
Yellow-Corn-Maidens were
just coming from their house
as she passed, and told her
of what was to be done.
They were very confident
of success, and told the
Moon-girl only to pain her;
and laughed derisively as
she went running to her
home.
THE MOON-MAIDEN.
By this time a long file
of girls was coming to Nah-chu-rú-chu’s
house, outside
whose door hung the pearl
omate. Each girl carried in
her left hand a little jar of
meal; and as they passed the door one by one, each
took from the jar a handful and threw it against
58]
the magic dipper. But each time the meal dropped
to the ground, and left the pure pearl undimmed
and radiant as ever.
At last came the Yellow-Corn-Maidens, who had
waited to watch the failure of the others. As they
came where they could see Nah-chu-rú-chu sitting
at his loom, they called: “Ah! Here we have the
meal that will stick!” and each threw a handful at
the omate. But it did not stick at all; and still
from his seat Nah-chu-rú-chu could see, in that
mirror-like surface, all that went on outside.
The Yellow-Corn-Maidens were very angry, and
instead of passing on as the others had done, they
stood there and kept throwing and throwing at the
omate, which smiled back at them with undiminished
luster.
Just then, last of all, came the Moon, with a
single handful of meal which she had hastily ground.
The two sisters were in a fine rage by this time,
and mocked her, saying:
“Hoh! P’áh-hlee-oh,[34] you poor thing, we are very
sorry for you! Here we have been grinding our
meal four days and still it will not stick, and you
we did not tell till to-day. How, then, can you
ever hope to win Nah-chu-rú-chu? Pooh, you silly
little thing!”
But the Moon paid no attention whatever to
their taunts. Drawing back her little dimpled
hand, she threw the meal gently against the pearl
omate, and so fine was it ground that every tiniest
bit of it clung to the polished shell, and not a particle
fell to the ground.
59]
THE YELLOW-CORN-MAIDENS THROWING MEAL AT THE PEARL “OMATE.”
61]
When Nah-chu-rú-chu saw that, he rose up
quickly from his loom and came and took the
Moon by the hand, saying, “You are she who
shall be my wife. You shall never want for anything,
since I have very much.” And he gave her
many beautiful mantas, and cotton wraps, and fat
boots of buckskin that wrap round and round, that
she might dress as the wife of a rich chief. But the
Yellow-Corn-Maidens, who had seen it all, went
away vowing vengeance on the Moon.
Nah-chu-rú-chu and his sweet Moon-wife were
very happy together. There was no other such
housekeeper in all the pueblo as she, and no other
hunter brought home so much buffalo-meat from
the vast plains to the east, nor so many antelopes,
and black-tailed deer, and jack-rabbits from the
Manzanos as did Nah-chu-rú-chu. But he constantly
was saying to her:
“Moon-wife, beware of the Yellow-Corn-Maidens,
for they have the evil road and will try to do
you harm, but you must always refuse to do whatever
they propose.” And always the young wife
promised.
One day the Yellow-Corn-Maidens came to the
house and said:
“Friend Nah-chu-rú-chu, we are going to the
llano[35] to gather amole.[36] Will you not let your wife
go with us?”
“Oh, yes, she may go,” said Nah-chu-rú-chu;
but taking her aside, he said, “Now be sure that
you refuse whatever they may propose.”
62]
The Moon promised, and started away with the
Yellow-Corn-Maidens.
In those days there was only a thick forest of
cottonwoods where are now the smiling vineyards,
and gardens, and orchards of Isleta, and to reach
the llano the three women had to go through this
forest. In the very center of it they came to a
deep pozo—a square well, with steps at one side
leading down to the water’s edge.
“Ay!” said the Yellow-Corn-Maidens, “how
hot and thirsty is our walk! Come, let us get a
drink of water.”
But the Moon, remembering her husband’s
words, said politely that she did not wish to drink.
They urged in vain, but at last, looking down into
the pozo, called:
“Oh, Moon-friend! Come and look in this still
water, and see how pretty you are!”
The Moon, you must know, has always been just
as fond of looking at herself in the water as she is to
this very day, and forgetting Nah-chu-rú-chu’s warning,
she came to the brink, and looked down upon
her fair reflection. But at that very moment, the two
witch-sisters pushed her head foremost into the pozo,
and drowned her; and then filled the well with earth,
and went away as happy as wicked hearts can be.
Nah-chu-rú-chu began to look oftener from his
loom to the door as the sun crept along the adobe
floor, closer and closer to his seat; and when the
shadows were very long, he sprang suddenly to his
feet, and walked to the house of the Yellow-Corn-Maidens
with long, strong strides.
63]
“Ee-eh-chóo-ri-ch’áhm-nin,” he said, very sternly,
“where is my little wife?”
“Why, isn’t she at home?” asked the wicked
sisters as if in great surprise. “She got enough
amole long before we did, and started home with it.
We supposed she had come long ago.”
“Ah,” groaned Nah-chu-rú-chu within himself;
“it is as I thought—they have done her ill.” But
without a word to them he turned on his heel and
went away.
From that hour all went ill with Isleta, for Nah-chu-rú-chu
held the well-being of all his people,
even unto life and death. Paying no attention to
what was going on about him, he sat motionless
upon the very crosspiece of the estufa ladder—the
highest point in all the town—with his head
bowed upon his hands. There he sat for days,
never speaking, never moving. The children that
played along the streets looked up to the motionless
figure, and ceased their boisterous play. The
old men shook their heads gravely, and muttered:
“We are in evil times, for Nah-chu-rú-chu is mourning,
and will not be comforted. And there is no more
rain, so that our crops are drying in the fields.
What shall we do?”
At last all the councilors met together, and decided
that there must be another effort made to
find the lost wife. It was true that the great Nah-chu-rú-chu
had searched for her in vain, and the
people had helped him; but perhaps some one else
might be more fortunate. So they took some of
the sacred smoking-weed wrapped in a corn-husk
and went to Shée-wid-deh, who has the sharpest
64]
eyes in all the world. Giving him the sacred gift
they said:
“Eagle-friend, we see Nah-chu-rú-chu in great
trouble, for he has lost his Moon-wife. Come,
search for her, we pray you, if she be alive or
dead.”
So the Eagle took the offering, and smoked the
smoke-prayer; and then he went winging upward
into the very sky. Higher and higher he rose, in
great upward circles, while his keen eyes noted
every stick, and stone, and animal on the face of all
the world. But with all his eyes, he could see nothing
of the lost wife; and at last he came back sadly,
and said:
“People-friends, I went up to where I could see
the whole world, but I could not find her.”
Then the people went with an offering to the
Coyote, whose nose is sharpest in all the world;
and besought him to try to find the Moon. The
Coyote smoked the smoke-prayer, and started off
with his nose to the ground, trying to find her
tracks. He trotted all over the earth; but at last
he too came back without finding what he sought.
Then the troubled people got the Badger to
search, for he is best of all the beasts at digging—and
he it was whom the Trues employed to dig the
caves in which the people first dwelt when they
came to this world. The Badger trotted and
pawed, and dug everywhere, but he could not find
the Moon; and he came home very sad.
Then they asked the Osprey, who can see farthest
under water, and he sailed high above all the
lakes and rivers in the world, till he could count the
67]
pebbles and the fish in them, but he too failed to
discover the lost Moon.
THE GRIEF OF NAH-CHU-RÚ-CHU.
By now the crops were dead and sere in the
fields, and thirsty animals walked crying along the
dry river. Scarcely could the people themselves dig
deep enough to find so much water as would keep
them alive. They were at a loss which way to turn;
but at last they thought: We will go to P’ah-kú-ee-teh-áy-deh,[37]
who can find the dead—for surely
she is dead, or the others would have found her.
So they went to him and besought him. The
Turkey-buzzard wept when he saw Nah-chu-rú-chu
still sitting there upon the ladder, and said:
“Truly it is sad for our great friend; but for me, I
am afraid to go, since they who are more mighty
than I have already failed; but I will try.” And
spreading his broad wings he went climbing up the
spiral ladder of the sky. Higher he wheeled, and
higher, till at last not even the Eagle could see
him. Up and up, till the hot sun began to singe
his head, and not even the Eagle had ever been so
high. He cried with pain, but still he kept mounting—until
he was so close to the sun that all the
feathers were burned from his head and neck. But
he could see nothing; and at last, frantic with
the burning, he came wheeling downward. When
he got back to the estufa where all the people were
waiting, they saw that his head and neck had been
burnt bare of feathers—and from that day to this
the feathers would never grow out again.
“And did you see nothing?” they all asked,
when they had bathed his burns.
68]
“Nothing,” he answered, “except that when I
was half-way down I saw in the middle of yon cottonwood
forest a little mound covered with all the
beautiful flowers in the world.”
“Oh!” cried Nah-chu-rú-chu, speaking for the
first time. “Go, friend, and bring me one flower
from the very middle of that mound.”
Off flew the Buzzard, and in a few minutes returned
with a little white flower. Nah-chu-rú-chu
took it, and descending from the ladder in silence,
walked to his house, while all the wondering people
followed.
When Nah-chu-rú-chu came inside his home once
more, he took a new manta and spread it in the
middle of the room; and laying the wee white
flower tenderly in its center, he put another new
manta above it. Then, dressing himself in the
splendid buckskin suit the lost wife had made him,
and taking in his right hand the sacred guaje (rattle),
he seated himself at the head of the mantas
and sang:
“Shú-nah, shú-nah!
Aí-ay-ay, aí-ay-ay, aí-ay-ay!”
(Seeking her, seeking her!
There-away, there-away!)
When he had finished the song, all could see
that the flower had begun to grow, so that it lifted
the upper manta a little. Again he sang, shaking
his gourd; and still the flower kept growing.
Again and again he sang; and when he had finished
for the fourth time, it was plain to all that a
human form lay between the two mantas. And
69]
when he sang his song the fifth time, the form sat
up and moved. Tenderly he lifted away the over-cloth,
and there sat his sweet Moon-wife, fairer than
ever, and alive as before![38]
For four days the people danced and sang in the
public square. Nah-chu-rú-chu was happy again;
and now the rain began to fall. The choked earth
drank and was glad and green, and the dead crops
came to life.
When his wife told him how the witch-sisters
had done, he was very angry; and that very day
he made a beautiful hoop to play the mah-khúr.
He painted it, and put strings across it, decorated
with beaded buckskin.
“Now,” said he, “the wicked Yellow-Corn-Maidens
will come to congratulate you, and will
pretend not to know where you were. You must
not speak of that, but invite them to go out and
play a game with you.”
In a day or two the witch-sisters did come, with
deceitful words; and the Moon invited them to go
out and play a game. They went up to the edge
of the llano, and there she let them get a glimpse
of the pretty hoop.
“Oh, give us that, Moon-friend,” they teased.
But she refused. At last, however, she said:
“Well, we will play the hoop-game. I will stand
here, and you there; and if, when I roll it to you,
you catch it before it falls upon its side, you may
have it.”
70]
So the witch-sisters stood a little way down the
hill, and she rolled the bright hoop. As it came
trundling to them, both grasped it at the same instant;
and lo! instead of the Yellow-Corn-Maidens,
there were two great snakes, with tears rolling
down ugly faces. The Moon came and put upon
their heads a little of the pollen of the corn-blossom
(still used by Pueblo snake-charmers) to tame them,
and a pinch of the sacred meal for their food.
“Now,” said she, “you have the reward of treacherous
friends. Here shall be your home among
these rocks and cliffs forever, but you must never
be found upon the prairie; and you must never
bite a person. Remember you are women, and
must be gentle.”
And then the Moon went home to her husband,
and they were very happy together. As for the
sister snakes, they still dwell where she bade them,
and never venture away; though sometimes the
people bring them to their houses to catch the
mice, for these snakes never hurt a person.
[31] Bandelier has published a contrary opinion, to which I do not think he
would now cling. The folk-lore and the very name of the town fully prove to
me that its site has not changed in historic times.
[32] In the ancient days, weaving was practised only by the men, among the
Pueblos. This old usage is now reversed, and it is the women who weave,
except in the pueblos of Moqui.
[33] The slab of lava which still serves as a hand-mill in Pueblo houses.
[34] Tée-wahn name of the moon; literally, “Water-Maiden.”
[38] Nah-chu-rú-chu’s incantation followed the exact form still used by the
Indian conjurors of the Southwest in their wonderful trick of making corn
grow and mature from the kernel in one day.
IX THE MOTHER MOON
71]
AND do you know why it is that the Moon has
but one eye? It is a short story, but one of
the most poetic and beautiful in all the pretty folk-lore
of the Pueblos.
P’áh-hlee-oh, the Moon-Maiden, was the Tée-wahn
Eve[39]—the first and loveliest woman in all
the world. She had neither father nor mother,
sister nor brother; and in her fair form were the
seeds of all humanity—of all life and love and
goodness. The Trues, who are the unseen spirits
that are above all, made T’hoor-íd-deh, the Sun,
who was to be father of all things; and because he
was alone, they made for him a companion, the first
to be of maids, the first to be a wife. From them
began the world and all that is in it; and all their
children were strong and good. Very happy were
the Father-all and the Mother-all, as they watched
their happy brood. He guarded them by day and
72]
she by night—only there was no night, for then
the Moon had two eyes, and saw as clearly as the
Sun, and with glance as bright. It was all as one
long day of golden light. The birds flew always,
the flowers never shut, the young people danced
and sang, and none knew how to rest.
But at last the Trues thought better. For the
endless light grew heavy to the world’s young eyes
that knew no tender lids of night. And the Trues
said:
“It is not well, for so there is no sleep, and the
world is very tired. We must not keep the Sun
and Moon seeing alike. Let us put out one of his
eyes, that there may be darkness for half the time,
and then his children can rest.” And they called
T’hoor-íd-deh and P’áh-hlee-oh before them to say
what must be done.
But when she heard that, the Moon-Mother
wept for her strong and handsome husband, and
cried:
“No! No! Take my eyes, for my children,
but do not blind the Sun! He is the father, the
provider—and how shall he watch against harm,
or how find us game without his bright eyes?
Blind me, and keep him all-seeing.”
And the Trues said: “It is well, daughter.”
And so they took away one of her eyes, so that
she could never see again so well. Then night
came upon the tired earth, and the flowers and
birds and people slept their first sleep, and it was
very good. But she who first had the love of
children, and paid for them with pain as mother’s
pay, she did not grow ugly by her sacrifice. Nay,
73]
she is lovelier than ever, and we all love her to
this day. For the Trues are good to her, and
gave her in place of the bloom of girlhood the
beauty that is only in the faces of mothers.
So mother-pale above us
She bends, her watch to keep,
Who of her sight dear-bought the night
To give her children sleep.
[39] She is honored in almost every detail of the Pueblo ceremonials. The
most important charm or implement of the medicine-men, the holiest fetish
of all, is typical of her. It is called Mah-pah-róo, the Mother, and is the
most beautiful article a Pueblo ever fashioned. A flawless ear of pure white
corn (a type of fertility or motherhood) is tricked out with a downy mass of
snow-white feathers, and hung with ornaments of silver, coral, and the
precious turquoise.
X THE MAKER OF THE THUNDER-KNIVES
74]
YOU have perhaps seen the beautiful arrow-heads
of moss-agate, petrified wood, or volcanic
glass which were used, until very recently,
by the Indians of the Southwest, and are still treasured
by them. At least you are familiar with the
commoner flint ones left by the aboriginal tribes
farther eastward. And seeing them, you must
have wondered how they were ever made from
such fearfully stubborn stone—always the very
hardest that was accessible to the maker. I have
tried for six hours, with the finest drills, to make a
little hole in the thinnest part of an agate arrow-head,
to put it on a charm-ring; but when the drill
and I were completely worn out, there was not so
much as a mark on the arrow-head to show what
we had been doing. If you will take one to your
jeweler, he will have as poor luck.
But the making of the arrow-heads is really a
very simple matter; and I have fashioned many
very fair ones. The only implements are part of
a peculiarly shaped bone—preferably from the
thigh of the elk—and a stick about the size of a
lead-pencil, but of double the diameter. The maker
75]
of puntas takes the bone in his left hand; in his
right is the stick, against which the selected splinter
of stone is firmly pressed by the thumb. With
a firm, steady pressure against the sharp edge of
the bone, a tiny flake is nicked from the splinter.
Then the splinter is turned, and a nick is similarly
made on the other side, just a little ahead of the
first; and so on. It is by this alternate nicking
from opposite sides that the stone-splinter grows
less by tiny flakes, and is shaped by degrees to a
perfect arrow-head. If you will notice the edge of
an arrow-head, you will see plainly that the work
was done in this way, for the edge is not a straight
but a wavy line—sometimes even a zigzag, recalling
the manner in which saw-teeth are “set.”
Every Indian, and every one who has studied
the Indian, knows this. But if I ask one of my
brown old compadres here, where he got the
arrow-head which he wears as a charm about his
wrinkled neck, he will not tell me any such story
as that. No, indeed!
Quáh-le-kee-raí-deh, the Horned Toad, gave it
to him. So? Oh, yes! He talked so nicely to a
Horned Toad on the mesa[40] the other day, that the
little creature put a punta where he could find it
the next time he went thither.
Whenever a Pueblo sees a Quáh-le-kee-raí-deh,
he jumps from his horse or his big farm-wagon,
and makes every effort to capture the animalito before
it can reach a hole. If successful, he pulls from
his blanket or his legging-garters a red thread—no
other color will do—and ties it necklace-fashion
76]
around the neck of his little prisoner. Then he
invokes all sorts of blessings on the Horned Toad,
assures it of his sincere respect and friendship,
begs it to remember him with a punta, and lets it
go. Next time he goes to the mesa, he fully expects
to find an arrow-head, and generally does
find one—doubtless because he then searches
more carefully on that broad reach where so many
arrow-heads have been lost in ancient wars and
hunts. Finding one, he prays to the Sun-Father
and the Moon-Mother and all his other deities,
and returns profound thanks to the Horned Toad.
Some finders put the arrow-head in the pouch
which serves Indians for a pocket.[41] Some wear
it as an amulet on the necklace. In either case,
the belief is that no evil spirit can approach the
wearer while he has that charm about him. In
fact, it is a sovereign spell against witches.
The common belief of the Pueblos is that the
Horned Toad makes these arrow-heads only during
a storm, and deposits them at the very instant
when it thunders. For this reason an arrow-head
is always called Kóh-un-shée-eh, or thunder-knife.
The strange appearance of this quaint, spiked lizard—which
is really not a “hop-toad” at all—doubtless
suggested the notion; for his whole back is
covered with peculiar points which have very much
the shape and color of Indian arrow-heads.
Quáh-le-kee-raí-deh is a very important personage
in the Pueblo folk-lore. He not only is the
inventor and patentee of the arrow-head and the
77]
scalping-knife,[42] but he also invented irrigation, and
taught it to man; and is a general benefactor of
our race.
There is one very sacred folk-story which tells
why boys must never smoke until they have
proved their manhood. Pueblo etiquette is very
strict on all such points.[43]
Once upon a time there lived in Isleta two boys
who were cousins. One day their grandfather,
who was a True Believer (in all the ancient rites),
caught them in a corner smoking the weer.
Greatly shocked, he said to them:
“Sons, I see you want to be men; but you
must prove yourselves before you are thought to
be. Know, then, that nobody is born with the
freedom of the smoke, but every one must earn it.
So go now, each of you, and bring me Quée-hla-kú-ee,
the skin of the oak.”
Now, in the talk of men, Quée-hla-kú-ee is another
thing; but the boys did not know. They got their
mothers to give them some tortillas,[44] and
with this lunch they started for the Bosque (a
10,000-foot peak twenty miles east of Isleta).
Reaching the mountain, they went to every kind
of tree and cut a little piece of its bark—for they
were not sure which was the oak. Then they
came home, very tired, and carried the bark to
their grandfather. But when he had looked at
it all he said:
78]
“Young men, you have not yet proved yourselves.
So now it is for you to go again and look
for the oak-bark.”
At this their hearts were heavy, but they took
tortillas and started again. On the way they met
an old Horned Toad, who stopped them and said:
“Young-men-friends, I know what trouble you
are in. Your tata has sent you for the skin of the
oak, but you do not know the oak he means. But
I will be the one to help you. Take these,” and he
gave them two large thunder-knives, “and with
these in hand go up that cañon yonder. In a little
way you will see a great many of your enemies, the
Navajos, camping. On the first hill from which
you see their fire, there stop. In time, while you
wait there, you will hear a Coyote howling across
the cañon. Then is the time to give your enemy-yell
[war-whoop] and attack them.”
The boys thanked the Horned Toad and went.
Presently they saw the camp-fire of the Navajos,
and waiting till the Coyote called they gave the
enemy-yell and then attacked. They had no weapons
except their thunder-knives, but with these they
killed several Navajos, and the others ran away.
In the dark and their hurry they made a mistake
and scalped a woman (which was never customary
with the Pueblos).
Taking their scalps, they hurried home to their
grandfather, and when he saw that they had
brought the real oak-skin (which is an Indian
euphemy for “scalp”), he led them proudly to the
Cacique, and the Cacique ordered the T’u-a-fú-ar
(scalp-dance). After the inside days, when the
79]
takers of scalps must stay in the estufa, was the
dance. And when it came to the round dance at
night the two boys were dancing side by side.
Then a young woman who was a stranger came
and pushed them apart and danced between them.
She was very handsome, and both fell in love with
her. But as soon as their hearts thought of love,
a skeleton was between them in place of the girl—for
they who go to war or take a scalp have no
right to think of love.
They were very frightened, but kept dancing until
they were too tired, and then went to the singers
inside the circle to escape. But the skeleton followed
them and stood beside them, and they could
not hide from it.
At last they began to run away, and went to the
east. Many moons they kept running, but the
skeleton was always at their heels. At last they
came to the Sunrise Lake, wherein dwell the Trues
of the East.
The guards let them in, and they told the Trues
all that had happened, and the skeleton stood beside
them. The Trues said: “Young men, if you
are men, sit down and we will protect you.”
But when the boys looked again at the skeleton
they could not stop, but ran away again. Many
moons they ran north till they came to where the
Trues of the North dwell in the Black Lake of
Tears.
The Trues of the North promised to defend
them, but again the skeleton came and scared
them away; and they ran for many moons until
they came to the Trues of the West, who dwell
80]
in T’hoor-kím-p’ah-whée-ay, the Yellow Lake
Where the Sun Sets. And there the same things
happened; and they ran away again to the south,
till they found the Trues of the South in P’ah-chéer-p’ah-whée-ay,
the Lake of Smooth Pebbles.
But there again it was the same, and again they
ran many moons till they came to the Trues of the
Center, who live here in Isleta. And here the
skeleton said to them:
“Why do you run from me now? For when
you were dancing you looked at me and loved me,
but now you run away.”
But they could not answer her, and ran into the
room of the Trues of the Center, and told their
story. Then the Trues gave power to the Cum-pa-huit-la-wid-deh[45]
to see the skeleton,—which
no one else in the world could see, except the
Trues and the two young men,—and said to him:
“Shoot this person who follows these two.”
So the Cum-pa-huit-la-wid-deh shot the skeleton
through with an arrow from the left side to the
right side,[46] and took the scalp.
That was the end of the skeleton, and the young
men were free. And when the Trues had given
them counsel, they came to their people, and told
the Cacique all. He made a new scalp-dance, because
they had not stayed to finish the first one.
And when the dance was done, they told all the
people what had happened. Then the principals
had a meeting and made a rule which is to this
81]
day, that in the twelve days of the scalp[47] no warrior
shall think thoughts of love.
For it was because they had love-thoughts of
the Navajo girl that her skeleton haunted them.
And at the same time it was made the law, which
still is, that no one shall smoke till he has taken a
scalp to prove himself a man.
For if the boys had not been smoking when
they had not freedom to, their grandfather would
not have sent them, and all that trouble would not
have come. And that is why.
[41] The “left-hand-bag,” shur-taí-moo, because it always hangs from the
right shoulder and under the left arm.
[42] Which were formerly about the same thing—a large and sharp-edged
arrow-head or similar stone being the only knife of the Pueblos in prehistoric
times.
[43] See my “Strange Corners of Our Country” (The Century Co.), chap. xviii.
[44] A cake of unleavened batter cooked on a hot stone. They look something
like a huge flapjack, but are very tough and keep a long time.
[46] The only official method of killing a witch, which is one of the chief
duties of the Cum-pa-huit-la-wen.
[47] The period of fasting and purification before and during the scalp-dance.
XI THE STONE-MOVING SONG
82]
THE Horned Toad is also a famous musician—a
sort of Pueblo Orpheus, whose song charms
the very stones and trees. A short folk-story of
Isleta refers to this.
One day Quáh-le-kee-raí-deh was working in
his field. There were many very large rocks,
and to move them he sang a strong song as he
pulled:
Yah éh-ah, héh-ah háy-na,
Yah, éh-ah, heh-ah hay-na,
Wha-naí-kee-ay hee-e-wid-deh
Ah-kwe-ée-hee ai-yén-cheh,
Yahb-k’yáy-queer ah-chóo-hee.
When he sang this and touched the heaviest stone,
it rose up from the ground, and went over his head
and fell far behind him.
While he worked so, Too-wháy-deh came along;
and seeing what happened, he wished to meddle,
as his way is. So he said:
“Friend Quáh-le-kee-raí-deh, let me do it.”
“No, friend,” said the Horned Toad. “It is
better for every one to do what he knows, and not
to put himself in the work of others.”
83]
“Do not think so,” answered the Coyote.
“For I can do this also. It is very easy.”
“It is well, then—but see that you are not
afraid; for so it will be bad.”
Too-wháy-deh laid off his blanket and took
hold of the largest rock there was, and sang
the song. When he sang, the rock rose up in
the air to go over his head; but he, being
scared, ducked his head. Then at once the
rock fell on him, and he had no bones left.
Then the Horned Toad laughed, and gave the
enemy-yell (war-whoop), saying: “We do this
to one another!”
XII THE COYOTE AND THE THUNDER-KNIFE
84]
ANOTHER Isleta myth tells of an equally sad
misadventure of the Coyote.
Once upon a time an old Coyote-father took
a walk away from home; for in that season of
the year his babies were so peevish they would
not let him sleep. It happened that a Locust
was making pottery, under a tree; and every
time she moved the molding-spoon around the
soft clay jar, she sang a song. The Coyote,
coming near and hearing, thought: “Now that
is the very song I need to put my óo-un to
sleep.” And following the sound he came to
the tree, and found Cheech-wée-deh at work.
But she had stopped singing.
“Locust-friend,” said he, “come teach me that
song, so that I can soothe my children to sleep.”
But the Locust did not move to answer; and
he repeated:
“Locust-friend, come teach me that song.”
Still she did not answer, and the Coyote,
losing his patience, said:
“Locust, if you don’t teach me that song, I
will eat you up!”
85]
At that, the Locust showed him the song,
and he sang with her until he knew how.
“Now I know it, thank you,” he said. “So I
will go home and sing it to my children, and
they will sleep.”
So he went. But as he came to a pool, half-way
home, a flock of Afraids-of-the-Water[48] flew
up at his very nose, and drove out his memory.
He went looking around, turning over the stones
and peeping in the grass; but he could not find
the song anywhere. So he started back at last
to get the Locust to teach him again.
But while he was yet far, the Locust saw him,
so she shed her skin, leaving a dry husk, as snakes
do, and filled it with sand. Then she made it to sit
up, and put the molding-spoon in its hands, and
the clay jars in front of it; and she herself flew up
into the tree.
Coming, the Coyote said: “Friend Locust, show
that song again; for I got scared, and the song
was driven out of me.” But there was no answer.
“Hear, Locust! I will ask just once more; and if
you do not show me the song, I’ll swallow you!”
Still she did not reply; and the Coyote, being
angry, swallowed the stuffed skin, sand, spoon, and
all, and started homeward, saying: “Now I think
I have that song in me!”
But when he was half-way home he stopped and
struck himself, and said: “What a fool, truly! For
now I am going home without a song. But if I
had left the Locust alive, and bothered her long
enough, she would have shown me. I think now
86]
I will take her out, to see if she will not sing for
me.”
So he ran all around, hunting for a black thunder-knife,[49]
and singing:
Where can I find Shée-eh-fóon?
Where can I find Shée-eh-fóon?
At last he found a large piece of the black-rock,
and broke it until he got a knife. He made a mark
on his breast with his finger, saying: “Here I will
cut, and take her out.”
Then he cut. “Mercy!” said he, “but it bites!”
He cut again, harder. “Goodness! but how it
bites!” he cried, very loud. And cutting a third
time, he fell down and died. So he did not learn
the song of the pottery-making.
The Quères Pueblos have exactly the same
folk-story, except that they make the Horned
Toad, instead of the Locust, the music-teacher. In
their version, the Horned Toad, after being swallowed,
kills the Coyote by lifting its spines. Remembering
what I have said of the maker of the
thunder-knives, you will readily see the analogy
between this and the obsidian splinter of the Tée-wahn
story. It is, indeed, one of the most characteristic
and instructive examples of the manner in
which a folk-story becomes changed.
FANCY I must have been dozing after
that hard ride; for when a far-away,
cracked voice that could be none other
than Grandfather Ysidro’s said, “Kah-whee-cá-me,
Lorenso-kaí-deh!” I started
up so hastily as to bump my head
against the whitewashed wall. That
may seem a queer sentence to rouse
one so sharply; and especially when
you know what it means. It meant
that old Ysidro[50] had just finished a
story, which I had altogether missed, and was now
calling upon the old man next him to tell one, by
using the customary Pueblo saying:
“There is a tail to you, Father Lorenso!”
88]
Kah-whee-cá-me is what a Teé-wahn Indian always
says in such a case, instead of “Now you tell
a story, friend.” It is not intended as an impolite
remark, but merely refers to the firm belief of these
quaint people that if one were to act like a stubborn
donkey, and refuse to tell a story when called
on, a donkey’s tail would grow upon him!
With such a fate in prospect, you may be sure
that the roundabout invitation thus conveyed is
never declined.
Grandfather Lorenso bows his head gravely,
but seems in no haste. He is indeed impressively
deliberate as he slowly makes a cigarette from a
bit of corn-husk and a pinch of tobacco, lights it
upon a coal raked out of the fireplace by his
withered fingers, blows a slow puff eastward, then
one to the north, another to the west, a fourth to
the south, one straight above his head, and one
down toward the floor. There is one part of the
United States where the compass has six cardinal
points (those I have just named), and that is among
these Indians, and in fact all the others of the
Southwest. The cigarette plays a really important
part in many sacred ceremonies of the
Pueblos; for, as I have explained, its collective
smoke is thought to be what makes the rain-clouds
and brings the rain; and it is also a charm
against witches.
Having thus propitiated the divinities who dwell
in the directions named, Lorenso looks about the
circle to see if all are listening. The glance satisfies
him—as well it may. There are no heedless
eyes or ears in the audience, of which I am the
89]
only white member—and a very lucky one, in
that I, an “Americano,” am allowed to hear these
jealously guarded stories, and to see the silent
smoke-prayer which would never be made if a
stranger were present. There are seven agèd
men here, and nine bright-eyed boys—all Isleteños
(inhabitants of Isleta). We are huddled
around the fireplace in the corner of the big,
pleasant room, against whose dark rafters and
farther white walls the shadows dance and waver.
And now, taking a deep puff, Lorenso exclaims:
“Nah-t’ hóo-ai!” (In a house.) It has nothing
to do with the story; but is the prologue to inform
the hearers that the story is about to open.
“Ah-h-h!” we all responded, which is as much
as to say, “We are listening—go on”; and Lorenso
begins his story.
Once upon a time there was a Teé-wahn village
on the other side of the mountain, and there lived
a man and his wife who thought more of the future
of their children than did the others. To care
better for the children they moved to a little ranch
some distance from the village, and there taught
their two little sons all they could. Both boys
loved the outdoors, and games, and hunting; and
the parents were well pleased, saying to each
other:
“Perhaps some day they will be great hunters!”
By the time the elder boy was twelve and the
younger ten, they both were very expert with the
little bows and arrows their father carefully made
them; and already they began to bring home many
90]
rabbits when they were allowed to go a little way
from home. There was only one command their
parents gave about their hunts; and that was that
they must never, never go south. They could
hunt to the east, north, and west, but not south.
Day after day they went hunting, and more
and more rabbits they killed, growing always more
expert.
One day when they had hunted eastward, the
elder boy said:
“Brother, can you say any reason why we must
not go south?”
“I know nothing,” replied the younger, “except
what I overheard our parents saying one day.
They spoke of an old woman who lives in the
south who eats children; and for that they said
they would never let us go south.”
“Pooh!” said the elder, “I think nothing of that.
The real reason must be that they wish to save the
rabbits in the south, and are afraid we would kill
them all. There must be many rabbits in that
bosque [forest] away down there. Let’s go and
see—they won’t know!”
The younger boy being persuaded, they started
off together, and after a long walk came to the
bosque. It was full of rabbits, and they were
having great sport, when suddenly they heard a
motherly voice calling through the woods. In a
moment they saw an old woman coming from the
south, who said to the boys:
“Mah-kóo-oon [grandchildren], what are you
doing here, where no one ever thinks to come?”
“We are hunting, Grandmother,” they replied.
“Our parents would never let us come south; but
91]
to-day we came to see if the rabbits are more numerous
here than above.”
“Oh!” said the old woman, “this game you see
here is nothing. Come, and I will show you where
there is much, and you can carry very large rabbits
home to your parents.” But she was deceiving
them.
She had a big basket upon her back, and stooping
for the boys to get into it, she carried them
farther and farther into the woods. At last they
came to an old, battered house; and setting the
basket down, she said:
“Now we have come all the way here, where no
one ever came before, and there is no way out.
You can find no trail, and you will have to stay
here contented, or I will eat you up!”
The boys were much afraid, and said they would
stay and be contented. But the old woman went
into the house and told her husband—who was as
wicked as she—to get wood and build a big fire
in the horno.[51] All day long the fire burned, and
the oven became hotter than it had ever been. In
the evening the old witch-woman raked out the
coals, and calling the boys seized them and forced
them into the fiery oven.
“Tahb-kóon-nahm?” (Is that so?) we all exclaimed—that
being the proper response whenever
the narrator pauses a moment.
“That is so,” replied Lorenso, and went on.
Then the old woman put a flat rock over the
little door of the oven, and another over the smoke-hole,
92]
and sealed them both tight with clay. All
that night she and her husband were chuckling to
think what a nice breakfast they would have—for
both of them were witch-people, and ate all
the children they could find.
But in the morning when she unsealed the oven,
there were the two boys, laughing and playing together
unhurt—for the Wháy-nin[52] had come to
their aid and protected them from the heat.
Leaving the boys to crawl out, the old woman
ran to the house and scolded the old man terribly
for not having made the oven hot enough. “Go
this minute,” she said, “and put in the oven all the
wood that it will hold, and keep it burning all
day!”
When night came, the old woman cleaned the
oven, which was twice as hot as before; and again
she put in the boys and sealed it up. But the next
morning the boys were unhurt and went to playing.
The witch-woman was very angry then; and giving
the boys their bows and arrows, told them to
go and play. She stayed at home and abused the
old witch-man all day for a poor fire-maker.
When the boys returned in the evening, she said:
“To-morrow, grandchildren, we will play Nah-oo-p’ah-chée
(hide-and-seek), and the one who is found
three times by the other shall pay his life.”
The boys agreed,[53] and secretly prayed to the
Trues to help them—for by this time they knew
that the old man and the old woman “had the bad
road.”
93]
The next day came;
and very soon the old
woman called them to
begin the game. The
boys were to hide first;
and when the old woman
had turned her eyes and
vowed not to look, they
went to the door and
hid, one against each of
its jambs. There you
could look and look, and
see the wood through
them—for the Trues, to
help them, made them
invisible. When they
were safely hidden they
whooped, “Hee-táh!”
and the old woman began
to hunt, singing the
hide-and-seek song:
Hee-táh yahn
Hee choo-ah-kóo
Mee, mee, mee?
(Now, now,
Which way
Went they, went they, went they?)
94]
After hunting some time she called:
“You little fellows are on the door-posts. Come
out!”
So the boys came out and “made blind” (covered
their eyes) while the old woman went to hide.
There was a pond close by, with many ducks on
it; and making herself very little, she went and hid
under the left wing of the duck with a blue head.[54]
When they heard her “Hee-táh!” the boys
went searching and singing; and at last the elder
cried out:
“Old woman, you are under the left wing of the
whitest duck on the lake—the one with the blue
head. Come out!”
This time the boys made themselves small and
crawled into the quivers beside their bows and arrows.
The old woman had to sing her song over
a great many times, as she went hunting all
around; but at last she called:
“Come out of the quivers where you are!”
Then the witch made herself very small indeed,
and went behind the foot of a big crane that was
standing on one leg near the lake. But at last
the boys found her even there.
“THE WITCH MADE HERSELF VERY SMALL, AND WENT BEHIND THE FOOT OF A BIG CRANE.”
It was their last turn now, and the old woman
felt very triumphant as she waited for them to hide.
But this time they went up and hid themselves
under the right arm of the Sun.[55] The old witch
hunted everywhere, and used all her bad power,
but in vain; and when she was tired out she had
97]
to cry, “Hee-táh-ow!” And then the boys came
down from under the Sun’s arm rejoicing.
The old witch, taking her last turn, went to the
lake and entered into a fish, thinking that there
she would be perfectly safe from discovery. It did
take the boys a great while to find her; but at last
they shouted:
“Old woman, you are in the biggest fish in the
lake. Come out!”
As she came walking toward them in her natural
shape again, they called: “Remember the agreement!”
and with their sharp arrows they killed
the old witch-woman and then the old witch-man.
Then they took away the two wicked old hearts,
and put in place of each a kernel of spotless corn;
so that if the witches should ever come to life
again they would no longer be witches, but people
with pure, good hearts. They never did come to
life, however, which was just as well.
Taking their bows and arrows, the boys—now
young men, for the four “days” they had been
with the witches were really four years—returned
home. At the village they found their anxious
parents, who had come to ask the Cacique to order
all the people out to search.
When all saw the boys and heard their story,
there was great rejoicing, for those two witch-people
had been terrors to the village for years. On
their account no one had dared go hunting to the
south. And to this day the game is thicker there
than anywhere else in the country, because it has
not been hunted there for so long as in other places.
The two young men were forgiven for disobedience
98]
(which is a very serious thing at any age, among
the Pueblos), and were made heroes. The Cacique
gave them his two daughters for wives, and all
the people did them honor.[56]
“Is that so?” we responded; and Lorenso replied,
“That is so,” gathering his blanket and rising
to go without “putting a tail” to any one, for it
was already late.
I may add that the game of hide-and-seek is still
played by my dusky little neighbors, the Pueblo
children, and the searching-song is still sung by
them, exactly as the boys and the old witch played
and sang—but of course without their magical
talent at hiding.
[51] An outdoor bake-oven, made of clay, and shaped like a beehive.
[52] “The Trues,” as the Pueblos call their highest divinities.
[53] For such a challenge, which was once a common one with the Indians,
could not possibly be declined.
[54] I should tell you that, being a witch, she could not possibly have gone
under the right wing. Everything that is to the left belongs to the witches.
[55] Who is, in the Pueblo belief, the father of all things.
[56] This story seems to be one of the myths about the Hero Twin Brothers,
the children of the Sun. They are, next to Sun-Father and Moon-Mother,
the chief deities of all the southwestern tribes. In the Quères folk-lore they
figure very prominently; but in the Tée-wahn are more disguised.
XIV THE RACE OF THE TAILS
99]
NEARLY every people has its own version of
the race of the Hare and the Tortoise. That
current among the Pueblos makes the Rabbit the
hero, by a trick rather cleverer than Æsop’s.
Once the Coyote came where Pee-oo-ée-deh,
the little “cotton-tail” rabbit, sat at the door of
his house, thinking.
“What do you think, friend Pee-oo-ée-deh?”
said the Coyote.
“I am thinking, friend Too-wháy-deh, why some
have large tails like you; but we have no tails.
Perhaps if we had tails like yours, we could run
straight; but now we have to hop.”
“It is true, ah-bóo,”[57] said the Coyote, not knowing
that the Rabbit laughed in his heart. “For I
can run faster than any one, and never did any
gain from me in the foot-races. But you,—you just
hop like a bird.”
The Rabbit made a sad face, and the Coyote
said: “But come, friend Pee-oo-ée-deh, let us run
a race. We will run around the world, and see
100]
who will win. And whichever shall come in first,
he shall kill the other and eat him.”[58]
“It is well,” answered the Rabbit. “In four
days we will run.”
Then the Coyote went home very glad. But
Pee-oo-ée-deh called a junta of all his tribe, and
told them how it was, and the way he thought to
win the race. And when they had heard, they all
said: “It is well. Fear not, for we will be the ones
that will help you.”
When the fourth day came, the Coyote arrived
smiling, and threw down his blanket, and stood
ready in only the dark blue taparabo,[59] saying:
“But what is the use to run? For I shall win. It
is better that I eat you now, before you are tired.”
But the Rabbit threw off his blanket, and tightened
his taparabo, and said: “Pooh! For the end
of the race is far away, and there is time to talk of
eating. Come, we will run around the four sides
of the world.[60] But I shall run underground, for
so it is easier for me.”
Then they stood up side by side. And when
they were ready, the Capitan shouted “Haí-koo!”
and they ran. The Coyote ran with all his legs;
but the Rabbit jumped into his hole and threw out
sand, as those who dig very fast.
Now for many days the Coyote kept running to
the east, and saw nothing of Pee-oo-ée-deh. But
101]
just as he came to the east and was turning to the
north, up jumped a rabbit from under the ground
in front of him, and shouted: “We do this to one
another”; and jumped back in the hole and began
to throw out dirt very hard.
“Ai!” said the Coyote. “I wish I could run
under the ground like that, for it seems very easy.
For all these days I have run faster than ever any
one ran; yet Pe-oo-ée-deh comes to the east
ahead of me.” But he did not know it was the
brother of Pee-oo-ée-deh, who had come out to
the east to wait for him.
So Too-wháy-deh ran harder; and after many
days he came to the end of the world, to the
north. But just as he was to turn west, up
sprang a rabbit in front of him, and taunted him,
and went back in its hole, digging.
The Coyote’s heart was heavy, but he ran very
hard. “Surely,” he said, “no one can run so fast
as this.”
But when he came to the west, a rabbit sprang
up ahead of him, and mocked him, and went again
under the ground. And when he had run to the
south, there was the same thing. At last, very
tired and with his tongue out, he came in sight of
the starting-point, and there was Pee-oo-ée-deh,
sitting at the door of his house, smoothing his hair.
And he said: “Pooh! Coyote-friend, we do this to
one another. For now it is clear that big tails are
not good to run with, since I have been waiting
here a long time for you. Come here, then, that I
may eat you, though you are tough.”
But Too-wháy-deh, being a coward, ran away and
102]
would not pay his bet. And all the brothers of
Pee-oo-ée-deh laughed for the trick they had put
upon the Coyote.
In a case which I knew of, years ago, this folk-story
seems to have given a hint to human racers.
A Mexican who owned a large and very fleet-footed
burro, challenged a young Indian of Acoma
to a ten-mile race. The Indian was a very famous
runner, and the challenger depended on the distance
alone to wear him out. In accordance with
the conditions the rivals started together from
the goal, the Indian on foot, the Mexican on his
burro. For about four miles the Indian left the
galloping donkey far behind; but he could not
keep up such a tremendous pace, and the burro began
to gain. About midway of the course where
the trail touches a great lava-flow, the Indian dove
into a cave. Just as the Mexican was passing, out
came an Indian, passed the burro with a magnificent
spurt, and after a long run reached the farther
goal about a hundred feet ahead. Unfortunately
for him, however, the trick was detected—he was
the twin brother of the challenged man, and had
awaited him in the cave, taking up the race fresh
when the first runner was tired!
[58] A challenge of this sort, with life as the stake, was very common
among all Indians; and it was impossible for the challenged to decline. This
story recalls that of the Antelope Boy. Four days always elapsed between
the challenge and the race.
[59] Breech-clout, which is the only thing worn in a foot-race.
[60] Which the Pueblos believe to be flat and square.
XV HONEST BIG-EARS
103]
NEARLY all of you have seen pictures of the
Burro, the quaint little donkey of the Southwest.
He is very small,—not more than half the
weight of a smallish mule,—but very strong, very
sure-footed, and very reliable. And he is one of
the drollest, “cutest,” wisest-looking creatures on
earth.
T’ah-hlá-a-hloon, or Big-ears, as the Tée-wahn
call him, does not appear very often in their folk-lore—and
for a very natural reason. Most of
these myths were made centuries before a white
man ever saw this country; and until Europeans
came, there were neither horses, donkeys, sheep,
goats, cats, nor cattle (except the buffalo) in either
America. It was the Spanish pioneers who gave
all these animals to the Pueblos. Nor did the Indians
have milk, cheese, wheat, or metals of any
sort. So when we see a story in which any of
these things are mentioned, we may know that it
was made within the last three hundred and fifty
years—or that an old story has been modified to
include them.
There is one of these comparatively modern
104]
nursery-tales which is designed to show the honesty
and wisdom of the Burro.
Once Big-ears was coming alone from the farm
of his master to Isleta, carrying a load of curd
cheeses done up in buckskin bags. As he came
through the hills he met a Coyote, who said:
“Friend Big-ears, what do you carry on your
back?”
“I carry many cheeses for my master, friend
Too-wháy-deh,” answered the Burro.
“Then give me one, friend, for I am hunger-dying.”
“No,” said the Burro, “I cannot give you one,
for my master would blame me—since they are
not mine but his, and a man of the pueblo waits
for them.”
Many times the Coyote asked him, with soft
words; but Big-ears would not, and went his way.
Then Too-wháy-deh followed him behind, without
noise, and slyly bit the bag and stole a cheese.
But Big-ears did not know it, for he could not see
behind.
When he came to the pueblo, the man who
awaited him unloaded the cheeses and counted
them. “There lacks one,” he said; “for thy master
said he would send so many. Where is the other?”
“Truly, I know not,” answered Big-ears, “but
I think Too-wháy-deh stole it; for he asked me
on the way to give him a cheese. But wait—I
will pay him!”
So Big-ears went back to the hills and looked
for the house of Too-wháy-deh. At last he found
it, but the Coyote was nowhere. So he lay down
105]
near the hole, and stretched his legs out as if dead,
and opened his mouth wide, and was very still.
Time passing so, the Old-Woman-Coyote came
out of the house to bring a jar of water. But
when she saw the Burro lying there, she dropped
her tinaja, and ran in crying:
“Hloo-hli![61] come out and see! For a buffalo
has died out here, and we must take in some meat.”
So Old-Man-Coyote came out, and was very
glad, and began to sharpen his knife.
But his wife said: “But before you cut him up,
get me the liver, for I am very hungry”—and the
liver is that which all the foxes like best.
Then the Old-Man-Coyote, thinking to please
her, went into the Burro’s mouth to get the liver;
but Big-ears shut his teeth on Too-wháy-deh’s
head, and jumped up and ran home. The Old-Woman-Coyote
followed running, crying: “Ay,
Nana! Let go!” But Big-ears would not listen
to her, and brought the thief to his master.
When the master heard what had been, he killed
the Coyote, and thanked Big-ears, and gave him
much grass. And this is why, ever since, Big-ears
strikes with his hind feet if anything comes
behind him slyly; for he remembers how Too-wháy-deh
stole the cheese.
THE coyote, one summer day, having taken a
bath in the river, lay down in the hot sand to dry
himself. While he was sleeping there, a crowd of
Quails came along; and seeing that he was asleep,
they said:
“Huh! Here is that foolish Too-wháy-deh. Let
us give him a trick!”
So they cut off all his hair, which makes one to
be laughed at, and ran away.
When the Coyote woke up he was ashamed,
and wished to punish those who had made him
pelado; and he ran around to see if he could find
the tracks of an enemy. There were only the
tracks of the Quails, so he knew they had done it.
Very angry, he followed the trail until it went into
a large hole. He went all around to see if they
had come out; but there were no other tracks,
so he went in. First the hole was big, but then
it grew small, and he had to dig. When he had
dug a long time, he caught a Quail, and he said:
“Ho, Ch’um-níd-deh! It is you that cut my hair
and left me a laughed-at. But I am going to eat
you this very now!”
107]
“No, friend Too-wháy-deh, it was another who
did it. You will find him farther in, with the scissors[62]
still in his hand.”
So the Coyote let that Quail go, and dug and dug
till he caught another. But that one said the same
thing; and Too-wháy-deh let him go, and dug
after the next one. So it was, until he had let
them all go, one by one; and when he came to the
very end of the hole, there were no more.
With this, the Coyote was very angry, and ran
out of the hole, promising to catch and eat them
all. As he came out he met the Cotton-tail, and
cried with a fierce face:
“Hear, you Pee-oo-ée-deh! If you don’t catch
me the Ch’úm-nin that cut my hair, I’ll eat you!”
“Oh, I can catch them, friend Coyote,” said the
Rabbit. “See, here is their trail!”
When they had followed the trail a long way,
they saw the birds sitting and laughing under a
bush.
“Now you wait here while I go and catch them,”
said Pee-oo-ée-deh. So the Coyote sat down to
rest. As soon as the Rabbit was near them, the
Quails flew a little way, and he kept running after
them. But as soon as they were over a little hill,
he turned aside and ran home, and the Coyote
never knew if the Quails were caught or not.
[62] This indicates that the tale is comparatively modern.
XVII THE ACCURSED LAKE
108]
WAY to the southeast of the Manzano
Mountains, two days’ journey
from my pueblo of Isleta,
are the shallow salt lakes. For
scores of miles their dazzling
sheen is visible—a strange
patch of silver on the vast
brown plains. They are
near the noblest ruins in our
North America—the wondrous
piles of massive masonry
of Abó, Cuaray, and the so-called “Gran
Quivira”—the latter the home of the silliest delusion
that ever lured treasure-hunters to their death.
The whole region has a romantic history, and is important
to the scientific student. From that locality
109]
came, centuries ago, part of the people who then
founded Isleta, and whose descendants dwell here
to this day. Perhaps you would like to know why
those lakes are salt now—for my Indian neighbors
say that once they were fresh and full of fish, and
that the deer and buffalo came from all the country
round to drink there. The story is very important
ethnologically, for it tells much of the strange secret
religion of the Pueblos, and more concerning
the method of initiating a young Indian into one
of the orders of medicine-men—both matters which
men of science have found extremely difficult to
be learned. Here is the story as it is believed by
the Tée-wahn, and as it was related to me by one
of them.
Long ago there was still a village east of Shoo-paht-hóo-eh,
the Eagle-Feather (Manzano) Mountains,
and in it lived a famous hunter. One day,
going out on the plains to the east, he stalked a
herd of antelopes, and wounded one with his arrows.
It fled eastward, while the herd went south;
and the hunter began to trail it by the drops of
blood. Presently he came to the largest lake, into
which the trail led. As he stood on the bank, wondering
what to do, a fish thrust its head from the
water and said:
“Friend Hunter, you are on dangerous ground!”
and off it went swimming. Before the Hunter
could recover from his surprise, a Lake-Man came
up out of the water and said:
“How is it that you are here, where no human
ever came?”
110]
The Hunter told his story, and the Lake-Man
invited him to come in. When he had entered the
lake, he came to a house with doors to the east,
north, west, and south, and a trap-door in the roof,
with a ladder; and by the latter door they entered.
In their talk together the Lake-Man learned that
the Hunter had a wife and little son at home.
“If that is so,” said he, “why do you not come
and live with me? I am here alone, and have
plenty of other food, but I am no hunter. We
could live very well here together.” And opening
doors on four sides of the room he showed the
Hunter four other huge rooms, all piled from floor
to ceiling with corn and wheat and dried squash
and the like.
“That is a very good offer,” said the astonished
Hunter. “I will come again in four days; and if my
Cacique will let me, I will bring my family and stay.”
So the Hunter went home—killing an antelope
on the way—and told his wife all. She thought
very well of the offer; and he went to ask permission
of the Cacique. The Cacique demurred, for
this was the best hunter in all the pueblo,[63] but at
last consented and gave him his blessing.
So on the fourth day the Hunter and his wife
and little boy came to the lake with all their property.
The Lake-Man met them cordially, and gave
the house and all its contents into the charge of the
woman.[64]
THE HUNTER AND THE LAKE-MAN.
Some time passed very pleasantly, the Hunter
going out daily and bringing back great quantities
113]
of game. At last the Lake-Man, who was of an
evil heart, pretended to show the Hunter something
in the east room; and pushing him in, locked
the great door and left him there to starve—for
the room was full of the bones of men whom he
had already entrapped in the same way.
The boy was now big enough to use his bow
and arrows so well that he brought home many
rabbits; and the witch-hearted Lake-Man began
to plot to get him, too, out of the way.
So one morning when the boy was about to
start for a hunt, he heard his mother groaning as
if about to die; and the Lake-Man said to him:
“My boy, your mother has a terrible pain, and
the only thing that will cure her is some ice from
T’hoor-p’ah-whée-ai [Lake of the Sun],[65] the water
from which the sun rises.”
“Then,” said the boy, straightway, “if that is so,
I will take the heart of a man [that is, be brave]
and go and get the ice for my little mother.” And
away he started toward the unknown east.
Far out over the endless brown plains he trudged
bravely; until at last he came to the house of Shee-chóo-hlee-oh,
the Old-Woman-Mole, who was there
all alone—for her husband had gone to hunt.
They were dreadfully poor, and the house was almost
falling down, and the poor, wrinkled Old-Woman-Mole
sat huddled in the corner by the
fireplace, trying to keep warm by a few dying
coals. But when the boy knocked, she rose and
welcomed him kindly and gave him all there was
in the house to eat—a wee bowl of soup with a
114]
patched-up snowbird in it. The boy was very
hungry, and picking up the snowbird bit a big
piece out of it.
“Oh, my child!” cried the old woman, beginning
to weep. “You have ruined me! For my husband
trapped that bird these many years ago, but we
could never get another; and that is all we have
had to eat ever since. So we never bit it, but
cooked it over and over and drank the broth. And
now not even that is left.” And she wept bitterly.
“Nay, Grandmother, do not worry,” said the
boy. “Have you any long hairs?”—for he saw
many snowbirds lighting near by.
“No, my child,” said the old woman sadly.
“There is no other living animal here, and you
are the first human that ever came here.”
But the boy pulled out some of his own long
hair and made snares, and soon caught many birds.
Then the Old-Woman-Mole was full of joy; and
having learned his errand, she said:
“My son, fear not, for I will be the one that shall
help you. When you come into the house of the
Trues, they will tempt you with a seat; but you
must sit down only on what you have.[66] Then they
will try you with smoking the weer, but I will help you.”
Then she gave him her blessing, and the boy
started away to the east. At last, after a weary,
weary way, he came so near the Sun Lake, that
the Whit-lah-wíd-deh[67] of the Trues saw him coming,
and went in to report.
115]
“Let him be brought in,” said the Trues; and
the Whit-lah-wíd-deh took the boy in and in
through eight rooms, until he stood in the presence
of all the gods, in a vast room. There were all the
gods of the East, whose color is white, and the
blue gods of the North, the yellow gods of the
West, the red gods of the South, and the rainbow-colored
gods of the Up, the Down, and the
Center, all in human shape. Beyond their seats
were all the sacred animals—the buffalo, the bear,
the eagle, the badger, the mountain lion, the rattlesnake,
and all the others that are powerful in
medicine.
Then the Trues bade the boy sit down, and
offered him a white manta (robe) for a seat; but
he declined respectfully, saying that he had been
taught, when in the presence of his elders, to sit
on nothing save what he brought, and he sat upon
his blanket and moccasins. When he had told his
story, the Trues tried him, and gave him the sacred
weer to smoke—a hollow reed rammed with pee-en-hleh.[68]
He smoked, and held the smoke bravely.
But just then the Old-Woman-Mole, who had followed
him underground all this way, dug a hole
up to his very toes; and the smoke went down
through his feet into the hole, and away back to
the Old-Woman-Mole’s house, where it poured out
in a great cloud. And not the tiniest particle escaped
into the room of the Trues. He finished
the second weer[69] without being sick at all; and the
116]
Trues said, “Yes, he is our son. But we will try
him once more.” So they put him into the room
of the East with the bear and the lion; and the
savage animals came forward and breathed on him,
but would not hurt him. Then they put him into
the room of the North, with the eagle and the
hawk; then into the room of the West, with the
snakes; and lastly, into the room of the South,
where were the Apaches and all the other human
enemies of his people. And from each room he
came forth unscratched.
“Surely,” said the Trues, “this is our son! But
once more we will try him.”
They had a great pile of logs built up (“cob-house”
fashion), and the space between filled with
pine-knots. Then the Whit-lah-wíd-deh set the
boy on the top of the pile and lighted it.
But in the morning, when the guard went out,
there was the boy unharmed and saying: “Tell
the Trues I am cold, and would like more fire.”
Then he was brought again before the Trues,
who said: “Son, you have proved yourself a True
Believer, and now you shall have what you seek.”
So the sacred ice was given him, and he started
homeward—stopping on the way only to thank
the Old-Woman-Mole, to whose aid he owed his
success.
When the wicked Lake-Man saw the boy coming,
he was very angry, for he had never expected
him to return from that dangerous mission. But
he deceived the boy and the woman; and in a few
days made a similar excuse to send the boy to the
gods of the South after more ice for his mother.
117]
The boy started off as bravely as before. When
he had traveled a great way to the south, he came
to a drying lake; and there, dying in the mud,
was a little fish.
“Ah-bóo [poor thing], little fish,” said the boy;
and picking it up, he put it in his gourd canteen
of water. After awhile he came to a good lake;
and as he sat down to eat his lunch the fish in his
gourd said:
“Friend Boy, let me swim while you eat, for
I love the water.”
So he put the fish in the lake; and when he was
ready to go on, the fish came to him, and he put
it back in his gourd. At three lakes he let the fish
swim while he ate; and each time the fish came
back to him. But beyond the third lake began a
great forest which stretched clear across the world,
and was so dense with thorns and brush that no
man could pass it. But as the boy was wondering
what he should do, the tiny fish changed itself
into a great Fish-Animal with a very hard, strong
skin,[70] and bidding the boy mount upon its back, it
went plowing through the forest, breaking down
big trees like stubble, and bringing him through
to the other side without a scratch.
“Now, Friend Boy,” said the Fish-Animal,
“you saved my life, and I will be the one that
shall help you. When you come to the house
118]
of the Trues, they will try you as they did in
the East. And when you have proved yourself,
the Cacique will bring you his three daughters,
from whom to choose you a wife. The two
eldest are very beautiful, and the youngest is
not; but you ought to choose her, for beauty
does not always reach to the heart.”
The boy thanked his fish-friend and went on,
until at last he came to the house of the Trues of
the South. There they tried him with the weer
and the fire, just as the Trues of the East had
done, but he proved himself a man, and they gave
him the ice. Then the Cacique brought his three
daughters, and said:
“Son, you are now old enough to have a wife,[71]
and I see that you are a true man who will dare
all for his mother. Choose, therefore, one of my
daughters.”
The boy looked at the three girls; and truly the
eldest were very lovely. But he remembered the
words of his fish friend, and said:
“Let the youngest be my wife.”
Then the Cacique was pleased, for he loved
this daughter more than both the others. And
the boy and the Cacique’s daughter were married
and started homeward, carrying the ice and many
presents.
When they came to the great forest, there was
the Fish-Animal waiting for them, and taking both
on his back he carried them safely through. At
the first lake he bade them good-by and blessed
them, and they trudged on alone.
119]
THE CURSING OF THE LAKE.
121]
At last they came in sight of the big lake, and
over it were great clouds, with the forked lightning
leaping forth. While they were yet far off, they
could see the wicked Lake-Man sitting at the top
of his ladder, watching to see if the boy would
return, and even while they looked they saw the
lightning of the Trues strike him and tear him to
shreds.
When they came to the lake the boy found his
mother weeping for him as dead. And taking his
wife and his mother,—but none of the things of
the Lake-Man, for those were bewitched,—the boy
came out upon the shore. There he stood and prayed
to the Trues that the lake might be accurst forever;
and they heard his prayer, for from that
day its waters turned salt, and no living thing has
drunk therefrom.
[63] All hunters give the Cacique a tenth of their game, for his support.
[65] Located “somewhere to the east”; perhaps the ocean.
[66] That is, upon his blanket and moccasins, the unvarying etiquette of the
Medicine House.
[67] One of an order of medicine-men, who among other duties, act as guards
of the Medicine House.
[68] The smoking of the pungent weer is a very severe ordeal; and it is a
disgrace to let any of the smoke escape from the mouth or nose.
[69] Two being the usual number given a candidate for initiation into a medicine
order.
[70] It is quite possible that this “Fish-Animal with a hard, strong skin,”
living far to the south, is the alligator. Of course, the Pueblos never saw
that strange saurian; but they probably heard of it in the earliest days from
nomad tribes, and as a great scientist has pointed out, we may always depend
upon it that there is a nucleus of truth in all these folk-myths. Such
a strange animal, once heard of, would be very sure to figure in some story.
[71] For it must be remembered that all these travels had taken many years.
XVIII THE MOQUI [72] BOY AND THE EAGLE
122]
SOME of the folk-stories told in Isleta were
evidently invented in other pueblos, whence
the Tée-wahn have learned them in their trading-trips.
There is even a story from the far-off towns
of Moqui, three hundred miles west of here and
ninety miles from the railroad. The Moquis live
in northeast Arizona, in strange adobe towns,[73]
perched upon impregnable islands of rock, rising
far above the bare, brown plain. They are seldom
visited and little known by white men. All the
other Pueblo towns and tribes have changed
somewhat in the present era of American occupation;
but the Moquis remain very much as they
were when the first Spaniard found them—three
hundred and fifty years ago. They retain
many customs long extinct among their kindred,
and have some of which no trace is to be found
elsewhere. One of the minor differences, but one
which would be almost the first to strike a stranger,
is the absence of captive eagles in Moqui; and this
is explained by the following folk-story:
123]
The Eagle is Kah-báy-deh (commander) of all that
flies, and his feathers are strongest in medicine.
So long ago that no man can tell how long,
there lived in Moqui an old man and an old
woman, who had two children—a boy and a
girl. The boy, whose name was Tái-oh, had a
pet Eagle, of which he was very fond; and the
Eagle loved its young master. Despite his
youth, Tái-oh was a capital hunter; and every
day he brought home not only rabbits enough for
the family, but also to keep the Eagle well fed.
One day when he was about to start on a
hunt, he asked his sister to look out for the
Eagle during his absence. No sooner was he
out of sight than the girl began to upbraid the
bird bitterly, saying: “How I hate you, for my
brother loves you so much. If it were not for
you, he would give me many more rabbits, but
now you eat them up.”
The Eagle, feeling the injustice of this, was
angry; so when she brought him a rabbit for
breakfast the Eagle turned his head and looked
at it sidewise, and would not touch it. At noon,
when she brought him his dinner, he did the
same thing; and at night, when Tái-oh returned,
the Eagle told him all that had happened.
“Now,” said the Eagle, “I am very tired of
staying always here in Moqui, and I want to go
home to visit my people a little. Come and go
along with me, that you may see where the
Eagle-people live.”
“It is well,” replied Tái-oh. “To-morrow
morning we will go together.”
124]
In the morning they all went out into the
fields, far down in the valley, to hoe their corn,
leaving Tái-oh at home.
“Now,” said the Eagle, “untie this thong from
my leg, friend, and get astride my neck, and we
will go.”
The string was soon untied, and Tái-oh got
astride the neck of the great bird, which rose up
into the air as though it carried no weight at all.
It circled over the town a long time, and the people
cried out with wonder and fear at seeing an Eagle
with a boy on his back. Then they sailed out over
the fields, where Tái-oh’s parents and his sister
were at work; and all the three began to cry, and
went home in great sorrow.
The Eagle kept soaring up and up until they
came to the very sky. There in the blue was
a little door, through which the Eagle flew.
Alighting on the floor of the sky, he let Tái-oh
down from his back, and said:
“Now, you wait here, friend, while I go and
see my people,” and off he flew.
Tái-oh waited three days, and still the Eagle did
not return; so he became uneasy and started out
to see what he could find. After wandering a long
way, he met an old Spider-woman.
“Where are you going, my son?” she asked.
“I am trying to find my friend, the Eagle.”
“Very well, then, I will help you. Come into
my house.”
“But how can I come into so small a door?”
objected Tái-oh.
“Just put your foot in, and it will open big
enough for you to enter.”
125]
So Tái-oh put his foot in, and, sure enough, the
door opened wide, and he went into the Spider’s
house and sat down.
“Now,” said she, “you will have some trouble
in getting to the house of your friend, the Eagle,
for to get there you will have to climb a dreadful
ladder. It is well that you came to me for help,
for that ladder is set with sharp arrow-heads and
knives of flint, so that if you tried to go up it, it
would cut your legs off. But I will give you this
sack of sacred herbs to help you. When you come
to the ladder, you must chew some of the herbs
and spit the juice on the ladder, which will at once
become smooth for you.”[74]
Tái-oh thanked the Spider-woman and started
off with the sack. After awhile he came to the
foot of a great ladder, which went away up out of
sight. Its sides and rungs were bristling with keen
arrow-heads, so that no living thing could climb
it; but when Tái-oh chewed some of the magic
herb and spat upon the ladder, all the sharp points
fell off, and it was so smooth that he climbed it
without a single scratch.
After a long, long climb, he came to the top of
the ladder, and stepped upon the roof of the Eagles’
house. But when he came to the door he found it
so bristling with arrow-points that whoever might
try to enter would be cut to pieces. Again he
chewed some of the herb, and spat upon the door;
126]
and at once all the points fell off, and he entered
safely, and inside he found his Eagle-friend, and
all the Eagle-people. His friend had fallen in love
with an Eagle-girl and married her, and that was
the reason he had not returned sooner.
Tái-oh stayed there some time, being very nicely
entertained, and enjoyed himself greatly in the
strange sky-country. At last one of the wise old
Eagle-men came to him and said:
“Now, my son, it is well that you go home, for
your parents are very sad, thinking you are dead.
After this, whenever you see an Eagle caught
and kept captive, you must let it go; for now you
have been in our country, and know that when we
come home we take off our feather-coats and are
people like your own.”
So Tái-oh went to his Eagle-friend and said he
thought he must go home.
“Very well,” said the Eagle; “get on my neck
and shut your eyes, and we will go.”
So he got on, and they went down out of the
sky, and down and down until at last they came to
Moqui. There the Eagle let Tái-oh down among
the wondering people, and, bidding him an affectionate
good-by, flew off to his young wife in the
sky.
Tái-oh went to his home loaded down with dried
meat and tanned buckskin, which the Eagle had
given him; and there was great rejoicing, for all
had given him up as dead. And this is why, to
this very day, the Moquis will not keep an Eagle
captive, though nearly all the other Pueblo towns
have all the Eagle-prisoners they can get.
[73] See “Some Strange Corners of Our Country.” The Century Co., New York.
[74] This recalls a superstition of the Peruvian mountain Indians, ancient
and modern. The latter I have often seen throwing upon a stone at the crest
of a mountain pass the quid of coca-leaves they had been chewing. They
believe such use of this sacred herb propitiates the spirits and keeps off the
terrible soroche, or mountain-sickness; and that it also makes veins of metal
easier to be worked—softening the stone, even as it did for Tái-oh.
XIX THE NORTH WIND AND THE SOUTH WIND
127]
NEARLY every nation has its folk-lore concerning
Jack Frost and his anti-type. The cold
North Wind is always the enemy of man, and the
warm South Wind always his friend. The Quères
pueblos of Acoma and Laguna have an allegorical
folk-story, in which the good spirit of heat defeats
his icy-hearted rival.
Once, long ago, the ta-pó-pe (governor) of
Acoma had a beautiful daughter, for whom many
of the young men had asked in vain, for she would
have none of them. One day there came climbing
up the stone ladder to the cliff-built pueblo a tall
and handsome stranger. His dress glistened with
white crystals, and his face, though handsome, was
very stern. The fair kot-chin-á-ka (chief’s daughter),
bending at a pool in the great rock to fill her
water-jar, saw and admired him as he came striding
proudly to the village; and he did not fail to
notice the dusky beauty. Soon he asked for her in
due form; and in a little while they were to be
married.
But, with the coming of Shó-kee-ah—for that
was the name of the handsome stranger—a sad
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change befell Acoma. The water froze in the
springs and the corn withered in the fields. Every
morning Shó-kee-ah left the town and went away
to his home in the far North; and every evening
he returned, and the air grew chill around. The
people could raise no crops, for the bitter cold
killed all that they planted, and nothing would grow
but the thorny cactus. To keep from starving,
they had to eat the cactus-leaves, roasting them
first to remove the sharp thorns. One day, when
the kot-chin-á-ka was roasting cactus-leaves, there
came another handsome stranger with a sunny
smile and stood beside her.
“What dost thou there?” he asked; and she
told him.
“But do not so,” said the young man, giving her
an ear of green corn. “Eat this, and I will bring
thee more.”
So saying, he was gone; but very soon he returned
with such a load of green corn as the
strongest man could not lift, and carried it to
her house.
“Roast this,” he said, “and when the people
come to thee, give them each two ears, for hereafter
there shall always be much corn.”
She roasted the corn and gave it to the people,
who took it eagerly, for they were starving. But
soon Shó-kee-ah returned, and the warm, bright
day grew suddenly cold and cloudy. As he
put his foot on the ladder to come down into the
house (all Pueblo rooms used to be entered only
from the roof, and thousands are so yet) great
flakes of snow fell around him; but Mí-o-chin,
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the newcomer, made it very warm, and the
snow melted.
“Now,” said Shó-kee-ah, “we will see which is
more powerful; and he that is shall have the kot-chin-á-ka.”
Mí-o-chin accepted the challenge, and
it was agreed that the contest should begin on the
morrow and last three days. Mí-o-chin went to
consult an old Spider-woman as to the best way to
conquer his powerful rival, and she gave him the
necessary advice.
Next day the people all gathered to see the trial
of strength between the two wizards. Shó-kee-ah
“made medicine,” and caused a driving sleet and
a bitter wind that froze all waters. But Mí-o-chin
built a fire and heated small stones in it, and with
them caused a warm South Wind, which melted the
ice. On the second day, Shó-kee-ah used more
powerful incantations, and made a deep snow to
cover the world; but again Mí-o-chin brought his
South Wind and chased away the snow. On the
third day Shó-kee-ah used his strongest spell, and
it rained great icicles, until everything was buried
under them. But when Mí-o-chin built his fire
and heated the stones, again the warm South Wind
drove away the ice and dried the earth. So it
remained to Mí-o-chin; and the defeated Shó-kee-ah
went away to his frozen home in the North,
leaving Mí-o-chin to live happy ever after with the
kot-chin-á-ka, whom he married amid the rejoicing
of all the people of Acoma.
XX THE TOWN OF THE SNAKE-GIRLS
130]
IN the times that were farthest back, the forefathers
of those who now dwell in Isleta were
scattered about in many small villages. You have
already heard the myths of how the inhabitants of
several villages finally abandoned their homes and
came to live in the one big town of the Tée-wahn.
Three miles north of Isleta, amid the sandy plain
of Los Padillas, stands the strange round mesa of
Shee-em-tóo-ai. It is a circular “island” of hard,
black lava, cut off from the long lava cliffs which
wall the valley of the Rio Grande on the west. Its
level top, of over fifty acres, is some two hundred
feet above the plain; the last fifty feet being a
stern and almost unbroken cliff. Upon its top are
still visible the crumbling ruins of the pueblo of
Poo-reh-tú-ai—a town deserted, as we are historically
sure, over three hundred and fifty years ago.
The mound outlines of the round estufa, the houses
and the streets, are still easy to be traced, and bits
of pottery, broken arrow-heads, and other relics,
still abound there. In history we know no more of
the pueblo than that it was once there, but had
been abandoned already when Coronado passed in
131]
1540; but my aboriginal friends and fellow-citizens
of Shee-eh-whíb-bahk have an interesting legend
of the pueblo of Poo-reh-tú-ai and the cause which
led to its abandonment.
When the mesa town was inhabited, so was
Isleta; and, being but three miles apart, the intercommunication
was constant. At one time, four
hundred years ago or more, there lived in Isleta
a very handsome youth whose name was K’oo-ah-máh-koo-hóo-oo-aí-deh—which
means Young-Man-Who-Embraces-a-Corncob.
In spite of this serious burden of a title, the
young man was greatly admired, and had many
friends. Probably they called him something else
“for short,” or people wouldn’t have had time to
associate with him. There were two sisters, very
pretty girls, living in Poo-reh-tú-ai, and they fell
very seriously in love, both with this same youth.
But he had never really found out how handsome
he was, and so thought little about girls anyhow,
caring more to run fastest in the races and to kill
the most game in the hunts. The sisters, finding
that he would not notice their shy smiles, began to
make it in their way to pass his house whenever
they came to Isleta, and to say hin-a-kú-pui-yoo
(good morning) as they met him on the road. But
he paid no attention to them whatever, except
to be polite; and even when they sent him the
modest little gift which means “there is a young
lady who loves you!” he was as provokingly indifferent
as ever.
After long coquetting in vain, the girls began to
hate him as hard as before they had loved him.
132]
They decided, no doubt, that he was oó-teh, the
Tée-wahn word for “a mean old thing”; and
finally one proposed that they put him out of the
way, for both sisters, young and pretty as they
were, were witches.
“We will teach him,” said one.
“Yes,” said the other, “he ought to be punished;
but how shall we do it?”
“Oh, we will invite him to play a game of mah-khúr,
and then we’ll fix him. I’ll go now and
make the hoop.”
The witch-sisters made a very gay hoop, and
then sent word to the youth to meet them at the
sacred sand-hill, just west of Isleta, as they had
important business with him. Wondering what it
could be, he met them at the appointed time and
place.
“Now, Brother Young-Man-Who-Embraces-a-Corncob,”
said the eldest sister, “we want to amuse
ourselves a little, so let us have a game of mah-khúr.
We have a very nice hoop to play it. You
go half-way down the hill and see if you can catch
it when we roll it to you. If you can, you may
have the hoop; but if you fail, you come and roll
it to us and we’ll see if we can catch it.”
So he went down the hill and waited, and the
girls sent the bright wheel rolling toward him.
He was very nimble, and caught it “on the fly”;
but that very instant he was no longer the tall,
handsome Young-Man-Who-Embraces-a-Corncob,
but a poor little Coyote, with great tears rolling
down his cheeks. The witch-sisters came laughing
and taunting him, and said:
133]
“You see it would have been better to marry
us! But now you will always be a Coyote and
an outcast from home. You may roam to the
north and to the south and to the west, but never
to the east” (and therefore not back to Isleta).
The Coyote started off, still weeping; and the
two wicked sisters went home rejoicing at their
success. The Coyote roamed away to the west,
and at last turned south. After a time he came
across a party of Isleteños[75] returning from a trading-trip
to the Apache country. He sneaked
about their camp, snapping up odd scraps—for
he was nearly starved. In the morning the Indians
spied this Coyote sitting and watching them at a
little distance, and they set their dogs on him.
But the Coyote did not run; and when the dogs
came to him they merely sniffed and came away
without hurting him—though every one knows
that the dog and the Coyote have been enemies
almost ever since the world began. The Indians
were greatly astonished; and one of them, who
was a medicine-man, began to suspect that there
was something wrong. So, without saying anything
to the others, he walked over to the Coyote
and said: “Coyote, are you Coyote-true, or somebody
bewitched?” But the Coyote made no reply.
Again the medicine-man asked: “Coyote, are you
a man?” At this the Coyote nodded his head affirmatively,
while tears rolled from his eyes.
“Very well, then,” said the medicine-man, “come
with me.” So the Coyote rose and followed him
to the camp; and the medicine-man fed and cared
134]
for him as the party journeyed toward Isleta. The
last night they camped at the big barranca, just
below the village; and here the medicine-man told
his companions the story of the bewitchment,—for
the Coyote had already told him,—and they were
all greatly astonished, and very sad to learn that
this poor Coyote was their handsome friend, K’oo-ah-máh-koo-hóo-oo-aí-deh.
“Now,” said the medicine-man, “we will make
a nice hoop and try a game.” He made it, and
said to the Coyote: “Friend, go and stand over
there; and when I roll this hoop toward you, you
must jump and put your head through it before it
stops rolling or falls over upon its side.”
The Coyote stood off, and the medicine-man
sent the hoop rolling toward him very hard. Just
as it came near enough the Coyote made a wonderful
jump and put his head squarely through the
middle of it—and there, instead of the gaunt Coyote,
stood the Young-Man-Who-Embraces-a-Corncob,
handsome and well and strong as ever. They
all crowded around to congratulate him and to listen
to what had befallen him.
“Now,” said the medicine-man, “when we get
home, the two witch-sisters will come to congratulate
you, and will pretend not to know anything of
the trouble that befell you, and when you see them
you must invite them to a game of mah-khúr.”
It all came about as he said. When the party
got back to Isleta all the people welcomed the
young man whose mysterious disappearance had
made all sad. The news of his return spread rapidly,
and soon reached the village of Poo-reh-tú-ai.
135]
In a day or two the witch-sisters came to Isleta,
bringing on their heads baskets of the choicest
foods and other gifts, which they presented to him
in the most cordial manner. To see how they
welcomed him, one would never fancy that they
had been the wicked causes of his suffering. He
played his part equally well, and gave no sign
that he saw through their duplicity. At last, when
they were about to start home, he said: “Sisters,
let us come to the sand-hill to-morrow to play a
little game.”
An invitation—or rather a challenge—of that
sort must be accepted under all Indian etiquette;
and the witch-sisters agreed. So at the appointed
hour they met him at the sacred hill. He had
made a very beautiful hoop, and when they saw it
they were charmed, and took their positions at the
foot of the declivity. “One, two, three!” he counted;
and at the word “three!” sent the hoop rolling
down to them. They both grabbed it at the same
instant, and lo! instead of the pretty, but evil-minded
sisters of Poo-reh-tú-ai, there lay two huge
rattlesnakes, with big tears falling from their eyes.
Young-Man-Who-Embraces-a-Corncob laid upon
their ugly, flat heads a pinch of the sacred meal,
and they ran out their tongues and licked it.
“Now,” he said, “this is what happens to the
treacherous. Here in these cliffs shall be your
home forever. You must never go to the river, so
you will suffer with thirst and drag yourselves in
the dust all the days of your life.”
The Young-Man-Who-Embraces-a-Corncob
went back to Isleta, where he lived to a ripe old
136]
age. As for the snakes, they went to live in the
cliffs of their own mesa. The people of Poo-reh-tú-ai
soon learned of the fate of the witch-sisters,
and knew that those two great snakes, with tears
in their eyes, were they. That was the beginning of
the downfall of Poo-reh-tú-ai; for the people grew
fearful of one another, lest there might be many
more witches, unbeknown, among them. The distrust
and discontent grew rapidly—for to this day
nothing on earth will disrupt any Indian community
so quickly or so surely as the belief that some
of the people are witches. In a very short time
the people decided to abandon Poo-reh-tú-ai altogether.
Most of them migrated to the Northwest,
and I have not as yet found even a legend to tell
what became of them. The rest settled in Isleta,
where their descendants dwell to this day. There
are old men here now who claim that their great-grandfathers
used to see the two huge rattlesnakes
basking on the cliffs of the mesa of Shee-em-tóo-ai,
and that the snakes always wept when
people came near them.
TWENTY-FIVE miles southeast of Santa Fé,
New Mexico, lie the deserted ruins of the
ancient Pueblo town of Pecos. The village was finally
abandoned by the Indians in 1840; and their
neat houses of adobe bricks and stone, and their
quaint adobe church, have sadly fallen to decay.
The history of the abandonment of Pecos is by
no means startling; but the Indian tradition—for
they have already added this to their countless
myths—is decidedly so. The story is related
by two aged Pecos Indians who still live in the
pueblo of Jemez.
“Now, this is a true story,” said my informant,
an Isleteño, who had often heard it from
them.
Once Pecos was a large village, and had many
people.[76] But it came that nearly all of them had
the evil road, and in the whole town were but five
True Believers (in the Indian religion). These
were an old woman, her two sons, and two other
young men. Agostin, her elder son, was a famous
138]
hunter, and very often went to the mountains with
a friend of his who had an evil spirit—though
Agostin was not aware of that.
One day the friend invited Agostin to go hunting,
and next day they went to the mountains.
Just at the foot they found a herd of deer, one of
which Agostin wounded. The deer fled up the
mountain, and the two friends followed by the
drops of blood. Half-way to the top they came
to a second herd, which ran off to the right of
the trail they were following, and the evil-spirited
friend went in pursuit of them, while Agostin kept
on after the one he had wounded.
He came at last to the very top of the mountain,
and there of a sudden the trail ceased.
Agostin hunted all about, but in vain, and at
last started down the other side of the mountain.
As he came to a deep cañon he heard singing,
and, peering cautiously through the bushes, he
saw a lot of witch-men sitting around a fallen
pine and singing, while their chief was trying
to raise the tree.
Agostin recognized them all, for they were of
Pecos, and he was much grieved when he saw his
friend among them. Then he knew that the deer
had all been witches, and that they had led him off
on a false trail.
Greatly alarmed, he crept back to a safe distance,
and then hurried home and told his aged
mother all that had happened, asking her if he
should report it to the Cacique.
“No,” said she, with a sigh, “it is of no use;
for he, too, has the evil road. There are but few
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True Believers left, and the bad ones are trying
to use us up.”
Among the five good people was one of the
Cum-pah-whit-lah-wen (guards of the medicine-men);
and to him Agostin told his story. But he
also said: “It is of no use. We are too few to do
anything.”
At last the bad people falsely accused the old
woman, saying that her power was more than that
of all the medicine-men put together (which is a
very serious charge, even to-day, among the Indians);
and challenged her to come before all the
people in the medicine-house and perform miracles
with them, well knowing that she could not. The
challenge was for life or death; whichever side
won was to kill the others without being resisted.
The poor old woman told her sons, with tears,
saying: “Already we are killed. We know nothing
of these things, and we may make ready to die.”
“Nay, Nana,” said Agostin.[77] “Despair not yet,
but prepare lunch for Pedro[77] and me, that we go to
other villages for advice. Perhaps there the medicine-men
will tell us something.”
So the mother, still weeping, made some tortillas,
and, strapping these to their belts, the young
men set out.
Pedro, the younger, went east, and Agostin took
the road to the north. Whatever person they met,
or to whatever village they came, they were to seek
advice.
When Agostin came to the foot of the mountains,
he was very thirsty, but there was no water. As he
140]
entered a gorge he saw Hyo-kwáh-kwah-báy-deh,
a little bird which builds its nest with pebbles and
clay in the crannies of the cliffs, and is of exactly
the same color as the sandstones. He thought,
“Ah, little bird, if you could speak I would ask
you where there is water, for I am fainting with
thirst, and dare not eat, for that would make it
worse!”
But the little bird, knowing his thought, said:
“Friend Agostin, I see that you are one of the
True Believers, and I will show you where there is
water; or wait, I will go and bring you some, for
it is very far.” And off he flew.
Agostin waited, and presently the little bird
came back, bringing an acorn-cup full of water.
Then Agostin’s heart sank, and he thought: “Alas!
what good will that drop do me?”
But the little bird replied: “Do not think that
way, friend. Here is enough, and even more; for
when you drink all you wish, there will still be
some left.”
And so it was. Agostin drank and drank, then
ate some tortillas and drank again; and when he
was satisfied, the acorn-cup was still nearly full.
Then the little bird said: “Now come, and I will
lead you. But when we come to the top of the
mountain, and I say, ‘We are at the top,’ you must
say, ‘No, we are down in the mountain—at the
bottom of it.’ Do not forget.”
Agostin promised, and the little bird flew in front
of him. At last they were at the top, and the little
bird said:
“Here we are, friend, at the top.”
141]
“No,” answered Agostin, “we are down in the
mountain—at the bottom of it.”
Three times the little bird repeated his words,
and three times Agostin made the same answer.
At the third reply they found themselves in a
room in the mountain. There was a door in front
of them, and beside it stood a Cum-pah-whit-lah-wíd-deh
(guard), who said to Agostin—for the
little bird had disappeared:
“Son, how came you here, where none ever
think of coming? Do you think you are a man?”
Agostin told the whole story of the witches’
challenge, and of how he had gone out to seek
advice, and of how the little bird had brought him
here, and the guard said:
“You are coming with the thought of a man; so
now come in,” and he opened the door.
But when Agostin entered the inner room, which
was so large that no end could be seen, he found
himself in the presence of the Trues in human shape.
There sat the divinities of the East, who are
white; and of the North, who are blue; and beyond
them were the sacred animals—the mountain
lion, the eagle, bear, buffalo, badger, hawk, rabbit,
rattlesnake, and all the others that are of the Trues.
Agostin was very much afraid, but the guard said
to him:
“Do not fear, son, but take the heart of a man,
and pray to all sides.” So he faced to the six
sides, praying. When he had finished, one of the
Trues spoke to him, and said:
“What can it be that brought you here? Take
the heart of a man and tell us.”
142]
Then Agostin told his whole story; after which
the Trues said to him:
“Do not be worried, son. We will help you out
of that.”
The principal True of the East said:
“Son, I will give you the clothes you must wear
when you are in the medicine-house for the contest
of power”; and he gave Agostin four dark-blue
breech-clouts and some moccasins for himself and
the three other good young men, and a black
manta (robe) and pair of moccasins for his mother.
“Now,” said the True, “the evil-spirited ones
will have this medicine-making contest in the estufa,[78]
and when you enter, you five, you must all be
dressed in these clothes. The people will all be
there, old and young, and there will hardly be room
for you to stand; and they will all sneer at you
and spit upon you. But do not be sorry. And take
this cane to hold between you. Let your mother
take it with one hand at the bottom, then the Whit-lah-wíd-deh’s
hand, then her other hand, and then
his other hand; and last your brother’s hand,
your hand, then his other hand, and your other
hand at the top of all. And when you say, ‘We
are at the top of the mountain,’ he must answer,
‘No, we are down in the mountain—at the bottom
of it.’ This you must keep saying. Now go, son,
with the heart of a man.”
Then the Whit-lah-wíd-deh led Agostin out,
and the little bird showed him the way down the
mountain.
When he reached home it was the afternoon of
143]
the appointed day, and in the evening the medicine-making
contest for life or death was to come.
In a little while the younger brother arrived,
with his new clothes and moccasins torn to shreds;
for he had traveled far in a rough country, without
meeting a soul from whom to ask advice.
Agostin called together the four other True Believers,
and told them all that had happened and
what they must do, giving them the sacred clothing.
In the evening they went to the estufa, which
was crowded with the witch-people, so that they
had barely room to stand.
Then the evil-spirited ones began to make medicine,
and turned themselves into bears, coyotes,
crows, owls, and other animals. When they were
done, they said to the old woman:
“Now it is your turn. We will see what you
can do.”
“I know nothing about these things,” she said, “but
I will do what I can, and the Trues will help me.”
Then she and the four young men took hold of
the sacred cane as the Trues had showed Agostin.
“We are on the top of the mountain,” said he.
“No,” answered his brother, “we are down in
the mountain—at the bottom of it.”
This they said three times. At the third saying
the people heard on all sides the guajes of the
Trues.[79] At the same moment the ladder[80] was
jerked violently up out of the room, so that no
one could get out.
144]
Then the two brothers repeated their words
again, and at the third saying the thunder began
to roar outside, and all could hear plainly the singing
and the guajes of the Trues. It began to rain
violently, and the water poured down through the
roof-door, and the lightning stuck its tongue in.
The brothers kept repeating their words, and soon
the water was knee-deep. But where the five True
Believers stood, holding the cane, the floor was
dusty. Soon the flood came to the waists of the
witch-people, and then to their necks, and the
children were drowning. Then they cried out to
the old woman:
“Truly, mother, your power is greater than ours.
We submit.”
But she paid no attention to them, and her sons
continued their words, and the water kept pouring
in until it touched the very ceiling. But all around
the five it stood back like a wall, and they were on
dry ground.
At last all the evil-spirited ones were drowned.
Then the rain ceased and the water departed as
fast as it had come. The ladder came down through
the roof-door again, and the five True Believers
climbed out and went to their homes.
But it was very desolate, for they were the only
survivors. Their nearest relatives and dearest
friends had perished with the other witch-people.
At last they could no longer bear to live in the
lonely valley, and they decided to live elsewhere.
On the way the old mother and one of the men
died. Agostin went to the pueblo of Cochití, and
Pedro and the Whit-lah-wíd-deh settled in the
145]
pueblo of Jemez, where they are still living (or
were in the spring of 1891).
Such is the Indian version of the abandonment
of the great pueblo which Coronado—that wonderful
Spanish explorer—found in 1540. As a
matter of fact, the Hyó-qua-hoon, or people of
Pecos, had dwindled away by war, epidemics, and
the like, until only five were left; and in 1840 these
lonely survivors moved to other pueblos, and abandoned
their ruined town forever. But the story is
very valuable, not only for the glimpse it affords
of some of their most secret beliefs, but also as
showing how folk-stories of the most aboriginal
stamp are still coined.
Witchcraft is still a serious trouble in all the
pueblos, despite the efforts of the medicine-men,
whose special duty it is to keep down the witches.
One little pueblo called Sandia is dying out—as
many others have done before it—because the
medicine-men are quietly killing those whom they
suspect of being witches. In 1888 a very estimable
Indian woman of that town was slain by them
in the customary way,—shot through from side to
side with an arrow,—and this form of execution is
still practised.
In Isleta they fear the Americans too much to
indulge in witch-killing, for Albuquerque is only a
few miles away. But it is only a little while ago
that a young Isletan who was accused spent three
months in the neck-stocks in our aboriginal prison,
and much of the time had to “ride the horse,” sitting
with his legs crossed upon the adobe floor and
the heavy weight of the stocks pressing him down,
146]
a torture worthy of the Inquisition. The case was
kept out of the American courts only by the payment
of a large sum to his parents by his accusers.
One whose eyes or lids look red is always regarded
with suspicion here, for witch-people are
supposed not to sleep at night, but to change
themselves into animals and roam over the world.
Eccentric actions also lay one open to accusation;
and when I first came here I was dangerously near
being classed with the witches because, to amuse
my dusky little neighbors, I imitated various animal
cries to their great edification, but to the very serious
doubt of their elders. The fact that they doubt
whether Americans know enough to be first-class
witches was largely instrumental in saving me from
serious danger.
[76] It was, indeed, the largest pueblo in New Mexico, having at one time a
population of about 2000.
[79] The thunder is said by the Tée-wahn to be the sacred dance-rattle of
their gods.
[80] The only entrance to any estufa is by a ladder let down through a door
in the roof.
XXII THE ANTS THAT PUSHED ON THE SKY
147]
VERY ancient and characteristic
story about the origin of Isleta is
based on the historic fact that part
of its founders came from east of
the Manzano Mountains, from one
of the prehistoric pueblos whose
ruins are now barely visible in
those broad plains.
Once upon a time there lived in one of those
villages (so runs the story) a young Indian named
Kahp-too-óo-yoo, the Corn-stalk Young Man. He
was not only a famous hunter and a brave warrior
against the raiding Comanches, but a great wizard;
and to him the Trues had given the power of the
clouds. When Kahp-too-óo-yoo willed it, the glad
rains fell, and made the dry fields laugh in green;
148]
and without him no one could bring water from
the sky. His father was Old-Black-Cane, his
mother was Corn-Woman, and his two sisters were
Yellow-Corn-Maiden, and Blue-Corn-Maiden.
Kahp-too-óo-yoo had a friend, a young man of
about the same age. But, as is often true, the
friend was of a false heart, and was really a witch,
though Kahp-too-óo-yoo never dreamed of such a
thing.
The two young men used to go together to the
mountains to get wood, and always carried their
bows and arrows, to kill deer and antelopes, or
whatever game they might find.
One day the false friend came to Kahp-too-óo-yoo,
and said:
“Friend, let us go to-morrow for wood, and to
hunt.”
They agreed that so they would do. Next day
they started before sunrise, and came presently to
the spot where they gathered wood. Just there
they started a herd of deer. Kahp-too-óo-yoo
followed part of the herd, which fled to the northwest,
and the friend pursued those that went southwest.
After a long, hard chase, Kahp-too-óo-yoo
killed a deer with his swift arrows, and brought it
on his strong back to the place where they had
separated. Presently came the friend, very hot
and tired, and with empty hands; and seeing the
deer, he was pinched with jealousy.
“Come, friend,” said Kahp-too-óo-yoo. “It is
well for brothers to share with brothers. Take of
this deer and cook and eat; and carry a part to
your house, as if you had killed it yourself.”
149]
“Thank you,” answered the other coldly, as one
who will not; but he did not accept.
When they had gathered each a load of wood,
and lashed it with rawhide thongs in bundles upon
their shoulders, they trudged home—Kahp-too-óo-yoo
carrying the deer on top of his wood. His
sisters received him with joy, praising him as a
hunter; and the friend went away to his house,
with a heavy face.
Several different days when they went to the
mountain together, the very same thing came to
pass. Kahp-too-óo-yoo killed each time a deer;
and each time the friend came home with nothing,
refusing all offers to share as brothers. And he
grew more jealous and more sullen every day.
At last he came again to invite Kahp-too-óo-yoo
to go; but this time it was with an evil purpose
that he asked. Then again the same things
happened. Again the unsuccessful friend refused
to take a share of Kahp-too-óo-yoo’s deer; and
when he had sat long without a word, he said:
“Friend Kahp-too-óo-yoo, now I will prove you
if you are truly my friend, for I do not think it.”
“Surely,” said Kahp-too-óo-yoo, “if there is any
way to prove myself, I will do it gladly, for truly I
am your friend.”
“Then come, and we will play a game together,
and with that I will prove you.”
“It is well! But what game shall we play, for
here we have nothing?”
Near them stood a broken pine-tree, with one
great arm from its twisted body. And looking at
it, the false friend said:
150]
“I see nothing but to play the gallo race; and
because we have no horses[81] we will ride this arm
of the pine-tree—first I will ride, and then you.”
So he climbed the pine-tree, and sat astride the
limb as upon a horse, and rode, reaching over to
the ground as if to pick up the chicken.[82]
“Now you,” he said, coming down; and Kahp-too-óo-yoo
climbed the tree and rode on the swinging
branch. But the false friend bewitched the
pine, and suddenly it grew in a moment to the
very sky, carrying Kahp-too-óo-yoo.
“We do this to one another,” taunted the false
friend, as the tree shot up; and taking the wood,
and the deer which Kahp-too-óo-yoo had killed,
he went to the village. There the sisters met him,
and asked:
“Where is our brother?”
“Truly I know not, for he went northwest and
I southwest; and though I waited long at the
meeting-place, he did not come. Probably he will
soon return. But take of this deer which I killed,
for sisters should share the labors of brothers.”
But the girls would take no meat, and went
home sorrowful.
Time went on, and still there was no Kahp-too-óo-yoo.
His sisters and his old parents wept
always, and all the village was sad. And soon
the crops grew yellow in the fields, and the springs
failed, and the animals walked like weary shadows;
for Kahp-too-óo-yoo, he who had the power of the
151]
clouds, was gone, and there was no rain. And
then perished all that is green; the animals fell in
the brown fields; and the gaunt people who sat to
warm themselves in the sun began to die there
where they sat. At last the poor old man said to
his daughters:
“Little daughters, prepare food, for again we
will go to look for your brother.”
The girls made cakes of the blue corn-meal for
the journey; and on the fourth day they started.
Old-Black-Cane hobbled to the south, his wife to
the east, the elder girl to the north, and the
younger to the west.
For a great distance they traveled; and at last
Blue-Corn-Maiden, who was in the north, heard a
far, faint song. It was so little that she thought
it must be imaginary; but she stopped to listen,
and softly, softly it came again:
Tó-ai-fóo-ni-hlóo-hlim,
Eng-k’hai k’háhm;
Eé-eh-bóori-kóon-hlee-oh,
Ing-k’hai k’háhm.
Ah-ee-ái, ah-hee-ái,
Aim!
(Old-Black-Cane
My father is called;
Corn-Woman
My mother is called.
Ah-ee-ái, ah-hee-ái,
Aim!)
When she heard this, Blue-Corn-Maiden ran
until she came to her sister, and cried:
152]
“Sister! Sister! I think I hear our brother somewhere
in captivity. Listen!”
Trembling, they listened; and again the song
came floating to them, so soft, so sad that they
wept—as to this day their people weep when a
white-haired old man, filled with the memories of
Kahp-too-óo-yoo, sings that plaintive melody.
“Surely it is our brother!” they cried; and off
they went running to find their parents. And
when all listened together, again they heard the
song.
“Oh, my son!” cried the poor old woman, “in
what captivity do you find yourself? True it is
that your father is Old-Black-Cane, and I, your
mother, am called Corn-Woman. But why do you
sing thus?”
Then all four of them began to follow the song,
and at last they came to the foot of the sky-reaching
pine; but they could see nothing of Kahp-too-óo-yoo,
nor could their cries reach him. There, on
the ground, were his bow and arrows, with strings
and feathers eaten away by time; and there was
his pack of wood, tied with the rawhide thong,
ready to be taken home. But after they had
searched everywhere, they could not find Kahp-too-óo-yoo;
and finally they went home heavy at
heart.
At last it happened that P’ah-whá-yoo-óo-deh,
the Little Black Ant, took a journey and went up
the bewitched pine, even to its top in the sky.
When he found Kahp-too-óo-yoo there a prisoner,
the Little Black Ant was astonished, and said:
“Great Kah-báy-deh [Man of Power], how comes
155]
it that you are up here in such a condition, while
your people at home are suffering and dying for
rain, and few are left to meet you if you return?
Are you here of your free will?”
SOUTH, EAST, NORTH, AND WEST IN SEARCH OF KAHP-TOO-ÓO-YOO.
“No,” groaned Kahp-too-óo-yoo; “I am here
because of the jealousy of him who was as my
brother, with whom I shared my food and labor,
whose home was my home, and my home his. He
is the cause, for he was jealous and bewitched me
hither. And now I am dying of famine.”
“If that is so,” said the Little Black Ant, “I will
be the one to help you”; and he ran down to the
world as fast as he could. When he got there he
sent out the crier to summon all his nation, and
also that of the In-toon, the Big Red Ants. Soon
all the armies of the Little Black Ants and the Big
Red Ants met at the foot of the pine, and held a
council. They smoked the weer and deliberated
what should be done.
“You Big Red Ants are stronger than we who
are small,” said the War-Captain of the Little
Black Ants, “and for that you ought to take the
top of the tree to work.”
“Een-dah!” (No) said the War-Captain of the
Big Red Ants. “If you think we are the stronger,
give us the bottom, where we can work more, and
you go to the top.”
So it was agreed, and the captains made their
armies ready. But first the Little Black Ants got
the cup of an acorn, and mixed in it corn-meal and
water and honey, and carried it up the tree. They
were so many that they covered its trunk all the
way to the sky.
156]
When Kahp-too-óo-yoo saw, his heart was
heavy, and he thought: “But what good will that
very little
do me, for
I am dying of hunger
and thirst?”
“Nay, friend,” answered
the Captain
of the Little Black
Ants, who knew his
thought. “A person
should not think so. This
little is enough, and there
will be some left.”
And it was so; for when Kahp-too-óo-yoo
had eaten all he could,
the acorn-cup was still nearly full.
Then the ants carried the cup to
the ground and came back to him.
“Now, friend,” said the Captain,
“we will do our best.
But now you must shut your
eyes till I say ‘Ahw!’”
Kahp-too-óo-yoo shut his eyes,
and the Captain sent signals down
to those at the foot of the tree. And
the Little Black Ants above put their
feet against the sky and pushed with
all their might on the top of the pine;
and the Big Red Ants below caught the
trunk and pulled as hard as they could; and the
very first tug drove the great pine a quarter of its
length into the earth.
157]
“Ahw!” shouted the Captain of the Little Black
Ants, and Kahp-too-óo-yoo opened his eyes; but
he could see nothing below.
“Shut your eyes again,” said the Captain, giving
the signal. Again the Little Black Ants
pushed mightily against the sky, and the Big Red
Ants pulled mightily from below; and the pine was
driven another fourth of its length into the earth.
“Ahw!” cried the Captain; and when Kahp-too-óo-yoo
opened his eyes he could just see the big,
brown world.
Again he closed his eyes. There was another
great push and pull, and only a quarter of the pine
was left above the ground. Now Kahp-too-óo-yoo
could see, far below, the parched fields strewn with
dead animals, and his own village full of dying
people.
Again the Little Black Ants pushed and the Big
Red Ants pulled, and this time the tree was driven
clear out of sight, and Kahp-too-óo-yoo was left
sitting on the ground. He hastily made a bow and
arrows and soon killed a fat deer, which he brought
and divided among the Little Black Ants and the
Big Red Ants, thanking them for their kindness.
Then he made all his clothing to be new, for he
had been four years a prisoner in the bewitched
tree, and was all in rags. Making for himself
a flute from the bark of a young tree, he played
upon it as he strode homeward and sang:
Kahp-too-óo-yoo tú-mah-quee,
Nah-chóor kwé-shay-tin,
Nah-shúr kwé-shay-tin;
Kahp-too-óo-yoo tú-mah-quee!
158]
(Kahp-too-óo-yoo has come to life again,
Is back to his home coming,
Blowing the yellow and the blue;
Kahp-too-óo-yoo has come to life again!)
KAHP-TOO-ÓO-YOO CALLING THE RAIN.
As he walked and sang, the forgotten clouds
came over him, and the soft rain began to fall, and
all was green and good. But
only so far as his voice reached
came the rain; and beyond all
was still death and drought.
When he came to the end of
the wet, he played and sang
again; and again the rain fell
as far as his voice was heard.
This time the Fool-Boy, who
was wandering outside the dying
village, saw the far storm
and heard the singing. He
ran to tell Kahp-too-óo-yoo’s
parents; but nobody would
believe a Foolish, and they
sent him away.
When the Fool-Boy went
out again, the rain fell on him
and gave him strength, and
he came running a second
time to tell. Then the sisters
came out of the house and saw
the rain and heard the song;
and they cried for joy, and
told their parents to rise and
meet him. But the poor old people were dying of
weakness, and could not rise; and the sisters went
159]
alone. When they met him they fell on their knees,
weeping; but Kahp-too-óo-yoo lifted them up and
blessed them, gave an ear of blue corn to Blue-Corn-Maiden,
and to Yellow-Corn-Maiden an ear
of yellow corn, and brought them home.
As he sang again, the rain fell in the village;
and when it touched the pinched faces of the dead
they sat up and opened their mouths to catch it.
And the dying crawled out to drink, and were
strong again; and the withered fields grew green
and glad.
When they came to the house, Kahp-too-óo-yoo
blessed his parents, and then said:
“Little sisters, give us to eat.”
But they answered, “How? For you have been
gone these four years, and there was none to give
us rain. We planted, but nothing came, and to-day
we ate the last grain.”
“Nay, little sisters,” he said. “A person should
not think so. Look now in the store-rooms, if
there be not something there.”
“But we have looked and looked, and turned
over everything to try to find one grain.”
“Yet look once more,” he said; and when they
opened the door, lo! there was the store-room
piled to the roof with corn, and another room was
full of wheat. Then they cried for joy, and began to
roast the blue ears, for they were dying of hunger.
At the sweet smell of the roasting corn came
the starving neighbors, crowding at the door, and
crying:
“O Kahp-too-óo-yoo! Give us to taste one
grain of corn, and then we will go home and die.”
160]
But Kahp-too-óo-yoo handed to each an ear,
and said:
“Fathers, brothers, go now to your own houses,
for there you will find corn as much as here.” And
when they went, it was so. All began to roast
corn and to eat; and the dead in the houses awoke
and were strong again, and all the Village sang
and danced.
From that time there was plenty of rain, for he
who had the power of the clouds was at home
again. In the spring the people planted, and in
the fall the crops were so great that all the town
could not hold them; so that which was left they
brought to Shee-eh-whíb-bak (Isleta), where we
enjoy it to this day.
As for the false friend, he died of shame in his
house, not daring to come out; and no one wept
for him.
[81] This mention of the horse is, of course, modern. I think it is an interpolation.
The rest of the story bears traces of great antiquity.
[82] In imitation of one of the most popular and exciting sports of the Southwestern
Indians and Mexicans.
XXIII THE MAN WHO WOULDN’T KEEP SUNDAY
161]
AMONG the folk-stories of the Pueblos which
show at once that they are not of such antiquity
as the rest, is this. It is plain that the
story is post-Spanish—that it has been invented
within the last three hundred and fifty years. That
seems to us a long time to go back in the history of
America, but to the Pueblos it is a trifling dot on
the long line of their antiquity.
The following tale is an amusing instance of the
fashion in which some of the myth-makers have
mixed things. It is an Indian fairy tale, but with
a Christian moral—which was learned from the
noble and effective Spanish missionaries who toiled
here.
Once upon a time, in a pueblo south of Isleta,—one
of its old colonies known as P’ah-que-tóo-ai,
the Rainbow Town, but deserted long ago,—there
were two Indians who were great friends. They
started in life with equal prospects, married young,
and settled in the same town. But though friends,
their natures were very different. One was a good
man in his heart, and the other was bad. The
good man always observed Sunday, but the other
162]
worked every day. The good man had better luck
than the bad; and the latter became jealous. At
last he said: “Friend, tell me, why is it that you
always make more success than I?”
“Perhaps,” answered Good, “because I keep
Sunday, but work hard all the other days of the
week, while you work every day.”
Time went on, and both the friends accumulated
considerable wealth in servants, stock, and
ornaments. The good man let his servants rest
on Sunday, but the bad made his work every day,
and did not even give them time to smoke. Good
prospered most, and had more servants, more
stock, and more ornaments than Bad, who grew
more jealous daily. At last Bad said to Good:
“Friend, you say that you have good luck because
you keep Sunday, but I’ll bet I am right in not
keeping it.”
“No,” replied Good; “I’ll bet I am right, and
that Sunday ought to be kept.”
“Then I will bet all my stock against all your
stock, and all my lands against your lands, and
everything we have except our wives. To-morrow,
be ready about breakfast-time, and we will go
out into the public road and ask the first three
men we meet which of us is right. And whichever
gets the voice of the majority, he shall be the winner,
and shall take all that is of the other.”
Good agreed—for an Indian cannot back out
of a challenge,—and so the next morning the two
friends took the public road. In a little while they
met a man, and said to him: “Friend, we want
your voice. Which of us is right, the one who
163]
observes Sunday and lets his peons rest then, or
he who does not?”
Now it happened that this person was not a
man, but an old devil who was taking a walk in
human form; and he promptly answered: “Without
doubt he is right who does not keep Sunday,”
and went his road.
“Aha!” said Bad to Good. “You see I got the
first voice.”
They started on again and soon met another
man, to whom they asked the same. But it was
the same old devil, and he gave them the same
answer.
“Aha!” said Bad. “Now I have the second
voice, you see.”
Presently they met a third man, and asked him
the same, and he answered the same; for it was
the same old devil in another body.
“Aha!” said Bad, “I am the winner! Get down
from that burro, and let me have her and her colt,
for now all that was yours is mine, as we agreed.”
Good got down from the burro with tears in his
eyes, for he was thinking of his wife, and said:
“Now, friend, having gained all, you are going
back to our home; but I shall not. Tell my wife
that I am going to the next pueblo to seek work,
and that I will not be back until I have earned as
much as I have lost in this bet, or more; but tell
her not to be sad.”
Then they shook hands and parted, Bad riding
home full of joy, and Good trudging off through
the sand toward Isleta, which was the largest and
wealthiest pueblo of the tribe. On the road night
164]
overtook him, and seeing an abandoned house in
a field, he hastened to it for shelter from the cold
of night. A portion of the roof still remained, with
the fogon (corner fireplace) and chimney, and he
began to brush a place to lie down. Now it happened
that this house was the place where all the
devils of that country used to meet at night; and
before Good went to sleep he heard noises of the
devils coming. He was very much frightened, and
to hide himself climbed up into the chimney and
stood upon its crosspiece.
In a moment the devils began to arrive singly or
in pairs; and at last came the old devil—the very
one who had played the trick on Good. He called
the meeting to order, and asked them what they
had been doing. A young devil arose and said:
“The next pueblo is the largest and wealthiest
of this nation. For three weeks now, all its people,
and all the people along that river, have been
working at the spring from which the river comes,
but have not been able to undo me. Three weeks
ago I came to that spring and thought how nice it
would be to stop up the spring, and how the people
would swear if their gods did not send rain. So I
stuck a big stone in the spring and stopped all the
water; and ever since, the water will not come out,
and the people work in vain, and they are dying of
thirst, and all their stock. Now they will either
forsake their gods and serve us, or die like the
animals, thinking nothing of their past or future.”
“Good!” said the old devil, rubbing his hands.
“You have done well! But tell me—is there no
way to open the spring?”
165]
“There is only one way,” said the young devil,
“and one man could do that—but they will never
think of it. If a man took a long stick, shaped like
a sword, and went and stood on top of the stone,
and struck it with the full length of the stick first
east and west, and then north and south, the water
would come out so hard that the stone would be
thrown out upon the banks and the spring could
never be stopped again.”
“Is that the only way?” said the old devil. “You
have done very well, for they certainly will never
think to do that. Now for the next.”
Then another young devil arose and reported this:
“I, too, have done something. In the pueblo
across the mountain I have the daughter of the
wealthiest man sick in bed, and she will never get
well. All the medicine-men have tried in vain to
cure her. She, too, will be ours.”
“Good!” said the old devil. “But is there no
way in which any one may cure her?”
“Yes, there is one way, but they never will think
of that. If a person should carry her to the door just
as the sun is rising, and hold her so that its very
first rays would touch the top of her head, she would
be well at once, and never could be made sick again.”
“You are right,” said the old devil, “they will
never think of that. You have done well.”
Just then a rooster crowed, and the old devil
cried, “You have a road!”—which means, “an
adjournment is in order.” All the devils hurried
away; and when they were gone, poor Good
crawled down from the chimney half dead with
fright, and hurried on toward Isleta. When he
166]
got there he found the people in great trouble, for
their crops were withering and their cattle dying
for want of water.
“I see,” thought Good to himself, “that these
devils told the truth about one thing, and so
perhaps they did about all. I will try to undo
them, even if I fail.” Going to the Cacique he
asked what they would give him if he would open
the spring. The Cacique told the principales, and
they held a junta, and decided to let the stranger
name his own price.
“Well,” said he, “I will do this if you will give
me half the value of the whole village.”
They agreed, and asked how many men he
would need to help him, and when he would begin.
“I need no men. Lend me only a hard stick
the length of my outstretched arms, and a horse.”
These were given him, and he went to the spring
alone. Leaping upon the stone he struck it with
the full length of the stick east and west, and then
north and south, and sprang nimbly to the bank.
At that very instant the water rushed out harder
than it had ever done. All the people and cattle
along the river came to the banks and drank and
revived. They began to irrigate their fields again,
and the dying crops grew green.[83] When Good got
back to the pueblo, half of all the grain and money
167]
and dresses and ornaments were piled up in a
huge pile waiting for him, and half the horses and
cattle and sheep were waiting in big herds. It
was so that he had to hire a great many men to
help him home with his wealth, which was more
than any one person ever had before. He appointed
a mayordomo to take charge of this caravan,
and to meet him at a certain point on the way
home. He himself, taking a horse, rode away at
once to the other pueblo, where the rich man’s
daughter was sick. Arriving at nightfall, he
stopped at the house of an old woman. While he
ate, she told him how sad was all the village; for
the girl who had been so kind to all was dying.
“But,” said he, “I can cure her.”
“In-dah,” said the crone; “for all the medicine
men have tried vainly, and how shall you?”
“But I can,” he insisted; and at last the old
woman went to the rich man, and said there was a
stranger at her house who was sure he could cure
the girl.
The rico said: “Go and tell him to come here
quickly,” and the old woman did so. When Good
came, the rich man said: “Are you he who says
he can cure my daughter?”
“I am the one.”
“For how much will you cure her?”
“What will you give?”
“Half of all I have, which is much.”
“It is well. To-morrow be ready, for I will
come just before the sun.”
In the blue of the morning Good came and
waked the girl, and carried her to the door. In a
168]
moment came the sun, and its first ray fell upon
her bent head. In an instant she was perfectly
well, and stronger and prettier than ever.
That very day her father gladly divided all his
wealth into two equal shares, and gave half to
Good, who again had to hire many cow-boys and
men with carretas to help him transport all this.
At the appointed spot he found his mayordomo;
and putting all the stock together, with many
herders, and all the wagons full of corn and dresses
and ornaments and money together, started homeward,
sending ahead a messenger on a beautiful
horse to apprise his wife.
When the jealous Bad saw this fine horse going
to the house of his friend, he ran over to see what
it meant; and while he was still there, Good arrived
with all his wealth. Filled with envy, Bad
asked him where he had got all this; and Good
told the whole story.
“Well,” said Bad, “I will go there too, and perhaps
I will hear something.” So off he rode on the
burro he had won from Good, till he came to the
deserted house, and climbed up in the chimney.
Soon the devils met, and the two young ones
told their chief that the spring had been opened
and the girl cured, and that neither could ever be
bewitched again.
“Somebody must have listened to us last night,”
said the old devil, greatly troubled. “Search the
house.” In a little while they found the jealous
friend in the chimney, and supposing him to be the
one who had undone them, without mercy puffed
him to the place where devils live.
[83] Here, as in several other stories in this volume, is a touch of the arid
character of the Southwest. The country is always so dry that irrigation is
necessary in farming, and in very bad years the streams have not water even
for that. The Rio Grande itself frequently disappears in September between
certain points in its course in sandy New Mexico; and within ten miles below
Isleta I have seen its bed bone-dry. Ignorance of this fact has caused serious
blunders on the part of historians unfamiliar with the country of which they
wrote.
XXIV THE BRAVE BOBTAILS
169]
WHEN it came old Anastacio’s turn, one
night, to tell a story to the waiting circle, it
was several minutes before he responded to the
quaint summons; and at last Lorenso repeated:
“There is a tail to you, compadre Anastacio!”
The words seemed to remind him of something;
for he turned to his fat grandson, and said:
“Juan! Knowest thou why the Bear and the
Badger have short tails? For once they had them
long as Kéem-ee-deh, the Mountain Lion. In-dah?
Then I will tell thee.”
Once in the Days of the Old, it was that a young
man lived here in Shee-eh-whíb-bak whom they
called T’hoor-hlóh-ah, the Arrow of the Sun. He
was not of the Tée-wahn, but a Ute, who was
taken in war while yet a child. When the warriors
brought him here, a Grandmother who was
very poor took him for her son, and reared him,
loving him greatly, and teaching him all the works
of men. Coming to be a young man, he was a
mighty hunter; but so good in his heart that he
loved the animals as brothers, and they all loved
170]
him. When he went out to hunt, the first game he
killed he always dressed and left there for his animal-friends
to eat. Sometimes it was Kéem-ee-deh,
king of the four-feet, who came to the feast
Sun-Arrow had made; and sometimes Kahr-naí-deh,
the Badger, who is best of all to dig, and who
showed Those of Old how to make their caves;
and sometimes the smaller ones. They were all
grateful; for no other was so kind to feed them.
Now the Grandmother would never let Sun-Arrow
go to war, fearing that he would be killed;
and all the other young men laughed at him, because
he had never taken the sacred oak-bark.
And when the others danced the great round-dance,
he had to stand alone. So he was ashamed,
and vowed that he would prove himself a man;
and taking secretly his bow and arrows and his
thunder-knife, he went away by night alone, and
crossed the Eagle-Feather Mountains.
Now in that time there was always great war
with the Comanches, who lived in the plains.
They came often across the mountains and attacked
Isleta by night, killing many people. Their
chief was P’ee-kú-ee-fa-yíd-deh, or Red Scalp, the
strongest and largest and bravest of men. For
many years all the warriors of Isleta had tried to
kill him, for he was the head of the war; but he
slew all who came against him. He was very
brave, and painted his scalp red with páh-ree, so
that he might be known from far; and left his
scalp-lock very long, and braided it neatly, so that
an enemy might grasp it well.
Now Sun-Arrow met this great warrior; and
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with the help of an old Spider-woman,[84] slew him
and took his scalp. When the people of Isleta
saw Sun-Arrow returning, the young men began to
laugh and say: “Va! T’hoor-hlóh-ah has gone to
make war again on the rabbits!”
But when he came into the plaza, saying nothing,
and they saw that oak-bark which all knew,
all cried out: “Come and look! For here is Sun-Arrow,
who was laughed at—and now he has
brought the bark of Red Scalp, whom our bravest
have tried in vain to kill.”
So when he had taken the scalp to the Cacique,
and they had had the round-dance, and the days
of purification were over, they called Sun-Arrow
the greatest warrior of the Tée-wahn, and made
him second to the Cacique. Then all who had
daughters looked at him with good eyes, and all
the maidens wished for so brave a husband. But
he saw none of them, except the youngest daughter
of the Cacique; for he loved her. When the Grandmother
had spoken to the Cacique, and it was well,
they brought the young people together, and gave
them to eat of the betrothal corn—to Sun Arrow
an ear of the blue corn, and to her an ear of the
white corn, because the hearts of maidens are
whiter than those of men. When both had eaten
the raw corn, every seed of it, the old folks said:
“It is well! For truly they love each other. And
now let them run the marrying-race.”
Then all the people gathered yonder where are
the ashes of the evil-hearted ones who were burned
when Antelope Boy won for his people. And the
172]
elders marked a course, as of three miles, from
there to the sacred sand-hill beside the Kú-mai.
When they said the word, Sun-Arrow and the girl
went running like young antelope, side by side.
Up to the Place of the Bell they ran, and turned
back running; and when they came to the people,
the girl was a little in front, and all cried:
“It is well! For now Eé-eh-chah has won a
husband, and she shall always be honored in her
own house.”
So they were married, and the Cacique blessed
them. They made a house by the plaza,[85] and Sun-Arrow
was given of the fields, that he might plant.
But of the maidens there was one who did not
forgive Sun-Arrow that he would not look at her;
and in her heart she thought to pay him. So she
went to a Spider-woman,[86] and said: “Grandmother,
help me! For this young man despised
me, and now I will punish him.”
Then the Spider-woman made an accursed
prayer-stick of the feathers of the woodpecker,
and spoke to the Ghosts, and said to the girl:
“It is well, daughter! For I am the one that
will help you. Take only this Toad, and bury it in
your floor, this way, and then ask T’hoor-hlóh-ah
to come to your house.”
The girl made a hole in her floor, and buried
P’ah-foo-ée-deh, the Toad. Then she went to Sun-Arrow
and said: “Friend T’hoor-hlóh-ah, come to
my house a little; for I have to talk to you.”
But when Sun-Arrow sat down in her house, his
173]
feet were upon the floor over the hole; and in a
moment the Toad grew very great, and began to
swallow him by the feet. Sun-Arrow kicked and
fought, for he was very strong. But he could do nothing;
and in a little, he was swallowed to the knees.
Then he called in a great voice for his wife; and
all the people of the Tée-wahn came running with
her. When they saw him so, they were very sad;
and Eé-eh-chah took his hand, and the Grandmother
took his other, and all the people helped
them. But all were not so strong as the great
Toad; and fast it was swallowing him, until he was
at the waist. Then he said:
“Go, my people! Go, my wife! For it is in vain.
Go from this place, that you may not see me.
And pray to the Trues if they will help me.” So
they all went, mourning greatly.
In that time it came that Shee-íd-deh, the
House-Mouse, stirred from his hole; and seeing
Sun-Arrow so, he came to him, weeping.
“Oh, Friend Sun-Arrow!” he cried. “You
who have been a father to us all, you who have fed
us, and have proved yourself so brave—it is not deserved
that you should be thus. But we for whom
you have cared, we will be the ones to help you!”
Then Shee-íd-deh ran from the house until he
found the Dog, and to him told it all. And Quee-ah-níd-deh,
whose voice was big, ran out into the
plains, up and down, pregonando[87] to all the animals;
and they came hurrying from all places.
Soon all the birds and all the four-feet were met in
174]
council in the room where Sun-Arrow was; and
the Mountain Lion was captain. When he had
listened to them, he said:
“Now let each tribe of you choose from it one
who is young and strong, to give help to him who
has fed us. For we cannot leave him to die so.”
When every kind that walks or flies had chosen
its strongest one, the chosen stood out; Kéem-ee-deh
called them by name to take their turns.
“Kóo-ah-raí-deh!” he called; and the Bluebird
of the mountains came to Sun-Arrow, who was
now swallowed up to his armpits. Sun-Arrow
grasped her long tail with both hands, and she
flew and flew with all her might, not caring for the
pain, until her tail was pulled off. But Sun-Arrow
was not budged a hair.
Then the captain called Ku-íd-deh, the Bear, to
try. He gave his long tail to Sun-Arrow to hold;
and when he had counted “One, two, three!” he
pulled with a great pull, so hard that his whole tail
came off. And still Sun-Arrow was not stirred.
Then it was to the Coyote. But he said: “My
ears are stronger”; for he was a coward, and
would not give to pull on his pretty tail, of which
he is proud. So he gave to Sun-Arrow to hold
by his ears, and began to pull backward. But
soon it hurt him, and he stopped when his ears
were pulled forward.
“Now it is to you, Kahr-naí-deh,” said the
Mountain Lion; and the Badger came out to try.
First he dug around Sun-Arrow, and gave him to
hold his tail. Then he counted three, and pulled
greatly, so that his tail came off—and Sun-Arrow
175]
was moved a very little. But the Badger did not
fear the pain, and said:
“It is well!” said the Mountain Lion. “So let
it be.”
So the Badger dug again, and gave the stump
of his tail, and pulled. And Sun-Arrow was
loosened a little more; but the stump slipped
through his hands, for it was very short.
“Around me, friend,” said the Badger, when
he had dug a third time; and Sun-Arrow clasped
his hands around the Badger’s body, behind the
fore legs. Then for the third time Kahr-naí-deh
pulled—so mightily that he dragged Sun-Arrow
clear out from the Toad’s mouth. At that, all the
animals fell upon the wicked Toad, and killed it;
and gave thanks to Those Above for the deliverance
of their friend.
When they had prayed, Sun-Arrow thanked all
the animals, one by one; and to the Bluebird, the
Bear, and the Badger, he said:
“Friends, how shall I thank you who have suffered
so much for me? And how can I pay you for
your help, and for the tails that you have lost?”
But to the Coyote he did not say a word.
Then said the Badger:
“Friend T’hoor-hlóh-ah, as for me, your hand
has always been held out to me. You have fed
me, and have been as a father: I want no pay for
this tail that I have lost.”
And the Bear and the Bluebird both answered
the same thing.
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So Sun-Arrow again gave them many thanks,
and they went away to their homes. As for Sun-Arrow,
he hurried to the Medicine House, where
all the Tée-wahn were making medicine[89] that he
might be saved. And when they saw him entering,
his wife ran and cried on his shoulder, and all
the people gave thanks to the Trues.
Sun-Arrow told them all that was; and when
the Father-of-all-Medicine looked in the sacred
cajete[90] he saw the evil-hearted girl paying the
Spider-woman. Then the Cum-pah-whít-la-wen[91]
went running with their bows and arrows, and
brought the girl; and she was punished as are
they that have the evil road. As for the Spider-woman,
she was already dead of shame; for she
knew all that had been.
In a time it came that his father-in-law the
Cacique died; and they made Sun-Arrow Cacique
in his place. For many years he was so,
bringing great good to his people; for he was
very wise.
As for the Bear, the Badger, and the Bluebird,
they would never go to the medicine-men of their
tribes to have their tails mended to grow again;
for they were proud that they had suffered to help
their friend. And to this very day they go with
short tails, and are honored by all the animals, and
by all True Believers. But Too-wháy-deh, the
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coward, he who would not hurt himself with pulling—he
is a laughed-at to this day. For his ears
cannot lie back, as is well for beasts, but always
point straight forward, as Sun-Arrow pulled them.
Any one who has ever seen the Coyote, or any
other of the wolf or fox tribe, must have noticed
the alert forward pricking of the ears. Among the
Pueblos, any such peculiarity of nature—and particularly
of animal life—is very sure to have a folk-story
hung to it. It has always seemed to me that
the boy who always wants to know “why?” has a
better time of it among my Indian friends than anywhere
else. For there is always sure to be a why,
and an interesting one—which is much more satisfactory
than only learning that “it’s bedtime now,”
or that “I’m busy.”
[89] Not compounding remedies, but going through the magic dance and incantations
to which the Indians always resort in time of trouble. For a description
of a medicine-making, see “Some Strange Corners of Our Country.”
[90] A jar of magic water, in which the chief conjuror is supposed to see all
that is going on in the world.
ON CARLOS,” said Vitorino, throwing
another log upon the fire, which
caught his tall shadow and twisted it
and set it dancing against the rocky
walls of the cañon in which we were
camped for the night, “did you ever
hear why the Wolf and the Deer are
enemies?” And as he spoke he
stretched out near me, looking up
into my face to see if I were going to be interested.
A few years ago it would have frightened me
very seriously to find my self thus—alone in one
of the remotest corners of New Mexico save for
that swarthy face peering up into mine by the weird
light of the camp-fire. A stern, quiet but manly
face it seems to me now; but once I would have
179]
thought it a very savage one, with its frame of long,
jet hair, its piercing eyes, and the broad streak of
red paint across its cheeks. By this time, however,
having lived long among the kindly Pueblos,
I had shaken off that strange, ignorant prejudice
against all that is unknown—which seems to be
inborn in all of us—and wondered that I could
ever have believed in that brutal maxim, worthy
only of worse than savages, that “A good Indian
is a dead Indian.” For Indians are men, after all,
and astonishingly like the rest of us when one really
comes to know them.
I pricked up my ears—very glad at his hint of
another of these folk-stories.
“No,” I answered. “I have noticed that the
Wolf and the Deer are not on good terms, but
never knew the reason.”
“Si, señor,” said he,—for Vitorino knows no
English, and most of our talk was in Spanish, which
is easier to me than the Tée-wahn language,—“that
was very long ago, and now all is changed.
But once the Wolf and the Deer were like brothers;
and it is only because the Wolf did very wickedly
that they are enemies. Con su licencia, señor.”[92]
So Vitorino leaned his shoulders against a convenient
rock and began.
Once upon a time, when the Wolf and the Deer
were friends, there were two neighbors in the country
beyond the Rio Puerco, not far from where the
180]
pueblo of Laguna (a Quères town) now is. One
was a Deer-mother who had two fawns, and the
other a Wolf-mother with two cubs. They had
very good houses of adobe, just such as we live in
now, and lived like real people in every way. The
two were great friends, and neither thought of
going to the mountain for firewood or to dig
amole[94] without calling for the other to accompany
her.
One day the Wolf came to the house of the Deer
and said:
“Friend Peé-hlee-oh [Deer-woman], let us
go to-day for wood and amole, for I must wash
to-morrow.”
“It is well, friend Káhr-hlee-oh,” replied the
Deer. “I have nothing to do, and there is food
in the house for the children while I am gone.
Toó-kwai! [Let us go].”
So they went together across the plain and into
the hills till they came to their customary spot.
They gathered wood and tied it in bundles to bring
home on their backs, and dug amole, which they
put in their shawls to carry. Then the Wolf sat
down under a cedar-tree and said:
“Ai! But I am tired! Sit down, friend Deer-woman,
and lay your head in my lap, that we may
rest.”
“No, I am not tired,” replied the Deer.
“But just to rest a little,” urged the Wolf. The
Deer good-naturedly lay down with her head in the
lap of her friend. But soon the Wolf bent down
and caught the trusting Deer by the throat, and
181]
killed her. That was the first time in the world
that any one betrayed a friend, and from that deed
comes all the treachery that is.
The false Wolf took off the hide of the Deer, and
cut off some of the meat and carried it home on her
load of amole and wood. She stopped at the house
of the Deer, and gave the Fawns some of the accursed
meat, saying:
“Friends, Deer-babies, do not fear, but eat;
your mother met relatives and went to their house,
and she will not come to-night.”
The Fawns were very hungry, and as soon as
the Wolf had gone home they built a big fire in the
fireplace and set the meat to cook. But at once it
began to sputter and to hiss, and the Fawn who
was tending it heard it cry, “Look out! look out!
for this is your mother!”
He was greatly frightened, and called his brother
to listen, and again the same words came from the
meat.
“The wicked old Wolf has killed our nana!
[mama],” they cried, and, pulling the meat from
the fire, they laid it gently away and sobbed themselves
to sleep.
Next morning the Wolf went away to the
mountain to bring the rest of the deer-meat; and
when she was gone her Cubs came over to play
with the Fawns, as they were used to doing.
When they had played awhile, the Cubs said:
“Pee-oo-weé-deh [little Deer], why are you so
prettily spotted, and why do you have your eyelids
red, while we are so ugly?”
“Oh,” said the Fawns, “that is because when
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we were little, like you, our mother put us in a
room and smoked us, and made us spotted.”
“Oh, Fawn-friends, can’t you spot us, too, so
that we may be pretty?”
So the Fawns, anxious to avenge the death
of their mother, built a big fire of corn-cobs in
the fireplace, and threw coyote-grass on it to
make a great smoke. Then, shutting the Cubs
into the room, they plastered up the door and
windows with mud, and laid a flat rock on top
of the chimney and sealed it around with mud;
and climbing down from the roof, they took each
other’s hands and ran away to the south as fast
as ever they could.
After they had gone a long way, they came to a
Coyote. He was walking back and forth with one
paw to his face, howling dreadfully with the toothache.
The Fawns said to him very politely:
“Ah-bóo! [poor thing]. Old-man friend, we
are sorry your tooth hurts. But an old Wolf is
chasing us, and we cannot stay. If she comes this
way, asking about us, do not tell her, will you?”
“Een-dah. Little-Deer-friends, I will not tell
her”—and he began to howl again with pain,
while the Fawns ran on.
When the Wolf came to her home with the rest
of the meat, the Cubs were not there; and she
went over to the house of the Deer. It was all
sealed and still; and when she pushed in the door,
there were her Cubs dead in the smoke! When
she saw that, the old Wolf was wild with rage, and
vowed to follow the Fawns and eat them without
mercy. She soon found their tracks leading away
185]
to the south, and began to run very swiftly in
pursuit.
THE WOLF, AND THE COYOTE WITH THE TOOTHACHE.
In a little while she came to the Coyote, who
was still walking up and down, howling so that
one could hear him a mile away. But not pitying
his pain, she snarled at him roughly:
“Say, old man! have you seen two Fawns running
away?”
The Coyote paid no attention to her, but kept
walking with his hand to his mouth, groaning,
“Mm-m-páh! Mm-m-páh!”
Again she asked him the same question, more
snappishly, but he only howled and groaned.
Then she was very angry, and showed her big
teeth as she said:
“I don’t care about your ‘Mm-m-páh! Mm-m-páh!’
Tell me if you saw those Fawns, or I’ll eat
you this very now!”
“Fawns? Fawns?” groaned the Coyote—“I
have been wandering with the toothache ever since
the world began. And do you think I have had
nothing to do but to watch for Fawns? Go along,
and don’t bother me.”
So the Wolf, who was growing angrier all the
time, went hunting around till she found the trail,
and set to running on it as fast as she could go.
By this time the Fawns had come to where two
Indian boys were playing k’wah-t’hím[95] with their
bows and arrows, and said to them:
“Friends boys, if an old Wolf comes along and
asks if you have seen us, don’t tell her, will you?”
The boys promised that they would not, and the
186]
Fawns hurried on. But the Wolf could run much
faster, and soon she came to the boys, to whom she
cried gruffly:
“You boys! did you see two Fawns running this
way?”
But the boys paid no attention to her, and went
on playing their game and disputing: “My arrows
nearest!” “No; mine is!” “’T ain’t! Mine is!”
She repeated her question again and again, but got
no answer till she cried in a rage:
“You little rascals! Answer me about those
Fawns, or I’ll eat you!”
At that the boys turned around and said:
“We have been here all day, playing k’wah-t’hím,
and not hunting Fawns. Go on, and do not
disturb us.”
So the Wolf lost much time with her questions
and with finding the trail again; but then she began
to run harder than ever.
In the mean time the Fawns had come to the
bank of the Rio Grande, and there was P’ah-chah-hlóo-hli,
the Beaver, hard at work cutting down
a tree with his big teeth. And they said to him
very politely:
“Friend Old-Crosser-of-the-Water, will you
please pass us over the river?”
The Beaver took them on his back and carried
them safely across to the other bank. When they
had thanked him, they asked him not to tell the old
Wolf about them. He promised he would not, and
swam back to his work. The Fawns ran and ran,
across the plain, till they came to a big black hill
of lava that stands alone in the valley southeast of
Tomé.
187]
THE WOLF MEETS THE BOYS PLAYING WITH THEIR BOWS AND ARROWS.
189]
“Here!” said one of the Fawns, “I am sure
this must be the place our mother told us about,
where the Trues of our people live. Let us look.”
And when they came to the top of the hill, they
found a trap-door in the solid rock. When they
knocked, the door was opened and a voice called,
“Enter!” They went down the ladder into a great
room underground; and there they found all the
Trues of the Deer-people, who welcomed them and
gave them food.
When they had told their story, the Trues said:
“Fear not, friends, for we will take care of you.”
And the War-captain picked out fifty strong
young bucks for a guard.
By this time the Wolf had come to the river,
and there she found the Beaver hard at work and
grunting as he cut the tree.
“Old man!” she snarled, “did you see two
Fawns here?”
But the Beaver did not notice her, and kept on
walking around the tree, cutting it and grunting,
“Ah-oó-mah! Ah-oó-mah!”
She was in a terrible rage now, and roared:
“I am not talking ‘Ah-oó-mah!’ to you. I’m
asking if you saw two Fawns.”
“Well,” said the Beaver, “I have been cutting
trees here by the river ever since I was born, and
I have no time to think about Fawns.”
The Wolf, crazy with rage, ran up and down the
bank, and at last came back and said:
“Old man, if you will carry me over the river I
will pay you; but if you don’t, I’ll eat you up.”
“Well, wait then till I cut around the tree three
190]
times more,” said the Beaver; and he made her
wait. Then he jumped down in the water and
took her on his neck, and began to swim across.
But as soon as he came where the water was deep,
he dived to the bottom and stayed there as long as
he could.
“Ah-h-h!” sputtered the Wolf when he came to
the surface. As soon as the Beaver got a breath,
down he went again; and so he kept doing all the
way across, until the Wolf was nearly drowned—but
she clung to his neck desperately, and he could
not shake her off.
When they came to the shore the old Wolf was
choking, coughing, and crying, and so mad that
she would not pay the Beaver as she had promised—and
from that day to this the Beaver will never
again ferry a Wolf across the river.
Presently she found the trail, and came running
to the hill. When she knocked on the trap-door a
voice from within called, “Who?”
“Wolf-woman,” she answered as politely as she
could, restraining her anger.
“Come down,” said the voice, and hearing her
name the fifty young Deer-warriors—who had
carefully whetted their horns—stood ready. The
door flew open, and she started down the ladder.
But as soon as she set her foot on the first rung,
all the Deer-people shouted:
“Look what feet!” For, though the Deer is so
much larger than the Wolf, it has smaller feet.
At this she was very much ashamed, and pulled
back her foot; but soon her anger was stronger,
and she started down again. But each time the
193]
Deer-people laughed and shouted, and she drew
back.
“THE FAWNS APPEARED SUDDENLY, AND AT SIGHT OF THEM THE WOLF DROPPED THE SPOONFUL OF SOUP.”
At last they were quiet, and she came down the
ladder. When she had told her story the old men
of the Deer-people said:
“This is a serious case, and we must not judge
it lightly. Come, we will make an agreement.
Let soup be brought, and we will eat together.
And if you eat all your soup without spilling a
drop, you shall have the Fawns.”
“Ho!” thought the Wolf. “That is easy enough,
for I will be very careful.” And aloud she said:
“It is well. Let us eat.”
So a big bowl of soup was brought, and each
took a guayave[96] and rolled it like a spoon to dip up
the soup. The old Wolf was very careful, and had
almost finished her soup without spilling a drop.
But just as she was lifting the last sup to her
mouth the Fawns appeared suddenly in the door
of the next room, and at sight of them she dropped
the soup in her lap.
“She spilled!” shouted all the Deer-people, and
the fifty chosen warriors rushed upon her and tore
her to pieces with their sharp horns.
That was the end of the treacherous Wolf; and
from that day the Wolf and the Deer have been
enemies, and the Wolf is a little afraid of the Deer.
And the two Fawns? Oh, they still live with the
Deer-people in that black hill below Tomé.
[96] An Indian bread made by spreading successive films of blue corn-meal
batter on a flat hot stone. It looks more like a piece of wasp’s nest than
anything else, but is very good to eat.
XXVI THE SOBBING PINE
194]
ANOTHER folk-story told by the Quères colony
in Isleta also relates to Acoma, perched
upon the great round cliff in its far, fair valley.
Among the folk-lore heroes of whom every
Quères lad has heard is Ees-tée-ah Muts, the Arrow
Boy. He was a great hunter and did many
remarkable things, but there was once a time when
all his courage and strength were of no avail,—when
but for the help of a little squirrel he would
have perished miserably.
On reaching manhood Ees-tée-ah Muts married
the daughter of the Kot-chin (chief). She was a
very beautiful girl and her hunter-husband was
very fond of her. But, alas! she was secretly a
witch and every night when Ees-tée-ah Muts was
asleep she used to fly away to the mountains,
where the witches held their uncanny meetings.
You must know that these witches have dreadful
appetites, and that there is nothing in the world
of which they are so fond as boiled baby.
Ees-tée-ah Muts, who was a very good man,
had no suspicion that his wife was guilty of such
195]
practices, and she was very careful to keep him in
ignorance of it.
One day, when the witch-wife was planning to
go to a meeting, she stole a fat young baby and
put it to cook in a great olla (earthen jar) in the
dark inner room. But before night she found she
must go for water, and as the strange stone reservoir
at Acoma is a laborious half-mile from the
houses, she would be gone some time. So, as she
departed with a bright-painted tinaja upon her
head, she charged her husband on no account to
enter the inner room.
When she was gone Ees-tée-ah Muts began to
ponder what she had said, and he feared that all
was not well. He went to the inner room and
looked around, and when he found the baby cooking
he was grieved, as any good husband would
be, for then he knew that his wife was a witch.
But when his wife returned with water, he said not
a word, keeping only a sharp lookout to see what
would come.
Very early that night Ees-tée-ah Muts pretended
to go to sleep, but he was really very wide awake.
His wife was quiet, but he could feel that she was
watching him. Presently a cat came sneaking into
the room and whispered to the witch-wife:
“Why do you not come to the meeting, for we
await you?”
“Wait me yet a little,” she whispered, “until the
man is sound asleep.”
The cat crept away, and Ees-tée-ah Muts kept
very still. By and by an owl came in and bade
the woman hurry. And at last, thinking her
196]
husband asleep, the witch-wife rose noiselessly and
went out. As soon as she was gone, Ees-tée-ah
Muts got up and followed her at a distance, for it
was a night of the full moon.
The witch-wife walked a long way till she came
to the foot of the Black Mesa, where was a great
dark hole with a rainbow in its mouth. As she
passed under the rainbow she turned herself into a
cat and disappeared within the cave. Ees-tée-ah
Muts crept softly up and peered in. He saw a
great firelit room full of witches in the shapes of
ravens and vultures, wolves and other animals of ill
omen. They were gathered about their feast and
were enjoying themselves greatly, eating and dancing
and singing and planning evil to mankind.
For a long time Ees-tée-ah Muts watched them,
but at last one caught sight of his face peering in
at the hole.
“Bring him in!” shouted the chief witch, and
many of them rushed out and surrounded him and
dragged him into the cave.
“Now,” said the chief witch, who was very angry,
“we have caught you as a spy and we ought to kill
you. But if you will save your life and be one
of us, go home and bring me the hearts of your
mother and sister, and I will teach you all our ways,
so that you shall be a mighty wizard.”
Ees-tée-ah Muts hurried home to Acoma and
killed two sheep; for he knew, as every Indian
knows, that it was useless to try to escape from the
witches. Taking the hearts of the sheep, he
quickly returned to the chief witch, to whom he
gave them. But when the chief witch pricked the
hearts with a sharp stick they swelled themselves
197]
out like a frog. Then he knew that he had been
deceived, and was very angry, but pretending not
to care he ordered Ees-tée-ah Muts to go home,
which the frightened hunter was very glad to do.
But next morning when Ees-tée-ah Muts awoke
he was not in his own home at all, but lying on a
tiny shelf far up a dizzy cliff. To jump was certain
death, for it was a thousand feet to the ground;
and climb he could not, for the smooth rock rose a
thousand feet above his head. Then he knew that
he had been bewitched by the chief of those that
have the evil road, and that he must die. He
could hardly move without falling from the narrow
shelf, and there he lay with bitter thoughts until
the sun was high overhead.
At last a young Squirrel came running along
the ledge, and, seeing him, ran back to its mother,
crying:
“Nana! Nana! Here is a dead man lying
on our ledge!”
“No, he is not dead,” said the Squirrel-mother
when she had looked, “but I think he is very
hungry. Here, take this acorn-cup and carry him
some corn-meal and water.”
The young Squirrel brought the acorn-cup full
of wet corn-meal, but Ees-tée-ah Muts would not
take it, for he thought:
“Pah! What is so little when I am fainting
for food?”
But the Squirrel-mother, knowing what was in
his heart, said:
“Not so, Sau-kée-ne [friend]. It looks to be
little, but there will be more than enough. Eat
and be strong.”
198]
Still doubting, Ees-tée-ah Muts took the cup
and ate of the blue corn-meal until he could eat no
longer, and yet the acorn-cup was not empty.
Then the young Squirrel took the cup and brought
it full of water, and though he was very thirsty he
could not drain it.
“Now, friend,” said the Squirrel-mother, when
he was refreshed by his meal, “you cannot yet
get down from here, where the witches put you;
but wait, for I am the one that will help you.”
She went to her store-room and brought out a
pine-cone, which she dropped over the great cliff.
Ees-tée-ah Muts lay on the narrow ledge as
patiently as he could, sleeping sometimes and
sometimes thinking of his strange plight. Next
morning he could see a stout young pine-tree
growing at the bottom of the cliff, where he was
very sure there had been no tree at all the day
before. Before night it was a large tree, and the
second morning it was twice as tall. The young
Squirrel brought him meal and water in the acorn-cup
twice a day, and now he began to be confident
that he would escape.
By the evening of the fourth day the magic pine
towered far above his head, and it was so close to
the cliff that he could touch it from his shelf.
“Now, Friend Man,” said the Squirrel-mother,
“follow me!” and she leaped lightly into the tree.
Ees-tée-ah Muts seized a branch and swung over
into the tree, and letting himself down from bough
to bough, at last reached the ground in safety.
The Squirrel-mother came with him to the
ground, and he thanked her for her kindness.
199]
“But now I must go back to my home,” she said.
“Take these seeds of the pine-tree and these piñon-nuts
which I have brought for you, and be very
careful of them. When you get home, give your
wife the pine-seeds, but you must eat the piñons.
So now, good-by,” and off she went up the tree.
When Ees-tée-ah Muts had come to Acoma and
climbed the dizzy stone ladder and stood in the
adobe town, he was very much surprised. For the
four days of his absence had really been four years,
and the people looked strange. All had given him
up for dead, and his witch-wife had married another
man, but still lived in the same house, which was
hers[97]. When Ees-tée-ah Muts entered she seemed
very glad to see him, and pretended to know nothing
of what had befallen him. He said nothing
about it, but talked pleasantly while he munched
the piñon-nuts, giving her the pine-seeds to eat.
Her new husband made a bed for Ees-tée-ah Muts,
and in the morning very early the two men went
away together on a hunt.
That afternoon the mother of the witch-wife
went to visit her daughter, but when she came near
the house she stopped in terror, for far up through
the roof grew a great pine-tree, whose furry arms
came out at doors and windows. That was the
end of the witch-wife, for the magic seed had
sprouted in her stomach, and she was turned into
a great, sad Pine that swayed above her home,
and moaned and sobbed forever, as all her Pine-children
do to this day.
[97] It is one of the fundamental customs of the Pueblos that the house and its
general contents belong to the wife; the fields and other outside property to
the husband.
XXVII THE QUÈRES DIANA
200]
THERE is a fragmentary Quères folk-story
which bears internal evidence that its heroine
was the mother of the Hero Twins—that is, the
Moon. The adventure described here is one of
those which befell the Moon-Mother, as related
in several myths; though it has been varied, evidently
by some later story-teller, and the identity
of the heroine does not appear at first sight. It
is a story common to all the Quères, and is undoubtedly
ancient; but as I heard it first in Isleta
its scene is laid in Laguna, a pueblo only two hundred
years old.
Once upon a time the Tah-póh-pee[98] of Laguna
had a daughter, who was the belle of the village.
She was very fond of hunting, and killed as much
game as any of the young men. Several miles
south of Laguna is a very large sandstone dome
rising in the plain, and in the heart of this rock
the Governor’s daughter had hollowed out a room
in which she used to camp when on her hunting-expeditions.
One day there came a snow that covered the
201]
ground so that one could easily track rabbits, and
taking her bow and arrows she started off to hunt.
She had unusual luck, and by the time she
reached the hunting-lodge she was loaded down
with rabbits. The evening was very cold, and she
was hungry; so, going into the rock-house, she
built a fire on the hearth and began to roast a rabbit.
Just as it was cooking a strong west wind
came up and carried the savory smell from her
chimney far to the east, till it reached a dark cavern
in the Sandia Mountains, fifty miles away.
There lived an old giantess, the terror of all the
world, and when she caught a whiff of that sweet
meat she started up and rubbed her big red eye.
“Um!” she cried, “that is good! I am going to see
where it is, for I have had nothing to eat to-day.”
In two steps she was at the rock-house, and,
stooping down, she called at the door: “Quáh-tzee?
[How are you?] What are you cooking in
there?”
“Rabbits,” said the girl, dreadfully scared at
that great voice.
“Then give me one,” shouted the old giantess.
The girl threw one out at the door, and the
giantess swallowed it at a gulp and demanded
more. The girl kept throwing them out until all
were gone. Then the giantess called for her
manta (dress), and her shawl and her buckskin
leggings, and ate them all, and at last said:
“Little girl, now you come out, and let me eat
you.”
The girl began to cry bitterly when she saw that
great savage eye at the door, which was so small
202]
that the giantess could not get her huge hand in.
She repeated her commands thrice, and when the
girl still refused to come out, picked up a great
boulder and began to hammer the rock-house to
pieces. But just as she had broken off the roof
and stooped to pick out the girl, two hunters
chanced to pass and hear the noise. They crept
up and shot the giantess through the neck with
their strong arrows and killed her, and, bringing
new clothes for the girl, took her home safely to
Kó-iks (the native name for Laguna), where she
lived for many years.
ANOTHER fragmentary story of the Quères
seems to refer to this same remarkable woman.
You will see the connection when you remember
that the Moon disappears every month; and I
should judge that the following myth means that
the Storm-King steals her.
Once upon a time a chief of Acoma had a lovely
daughter. One day a handsome stranger stole her
and took her away to his home, which was in the
heart of the Snow Mountain (Mt. San Mateo).
He was none other than Mast-Truan, one of the
Storm-Gods. Bringing his captive home, the powerful
stranger gave her the finest clothing and
treated her very nicely. But most of the time he
had to be away from home, attending to the storms,
and she became very lonesome, for there was no
one to keep her company but Mast-Truan’s wrinkled
old mother.
One day when she could stand the loneliness no
longer, she decided to take a walk through the
enormous house and look at the rooms which she
had not seen. Opening a door she came into a
very large room toward the east; and there were
204]
a lot of women crying and shivering with cold, for
they had nothing to wear. Going through this
room she came to another, which was full of gaunt,
starving women, and here and there one lay dead
upon the floor; and in the next room were scores
of bleached and ghastly skeletons. And this was
what Mast-Truan did with his wives when he was
tired of them. The girl saw her fate, and, returning
to her room, sat down and wept—but there
was no escape, for Mast-Truan’s old hag of a
mother forever guarded the outer door.
When Mast-Truan came home again, his wife
said: “It is now long that I have not seen my
fathers. Let me go home for a little while.”
“Well,” said he, “here is some corn which must
be shelled. When you have shelled it and ground
it, I will let you out”; and he showed her four great
rooms piled from floor to ceiling with ears of corn.
It was more than one could shell in a year; and
when her husband went out, she sat down again
to cry and bemoan her fate.
Just then a queer little old woman appeared before
her, with a kindly smile. It was a cumúsh-quio
(fairy-woman).
“What is the matter, my daughter?” asked the
old fairy, gently, “and why do you weep?”
The captive told her all, and the fairy said: “Do
not fear, daughter, for I will help you, and we will
have all the corn shelled and ground in four days.”
So they fell to work. For two days the girl
kept shelling; and though she could not see the
old fairy at all, she could always hear at her side
the click of the ears together. Then for two days
205]
she kept grinding on her metate, apparently alone,
but hearing the constant grind of another metate
close beside her. At the end of the fourth day the
last kernel had been scrubbed into blue meal, and
she was very happy. Then the old fairy-woman
appeared again, bringing a large basket and a rope.
She opened the doors to all the rooms where the
poor women were prisoners, and bade them all get
into the basket one by one. Mast-Truan had taken
away the ladder from the house when he left, that
no one might be able to get out; but with her
basket and rope the good old fairy-woman let them
all down to the ground, and told them to hurry
home—which they did as fast as ever their poor,
starved legs could carry them. Then the fairy-woman
and the girl escaped, and made their way
to Acoma. So there was a Moon again—and that
it was the Moon, we may be very sure; since this
same girl became the mother of the Hero Twins,
who were assuredly Children of the Moon.
XXIX THE HERO TWINS
206]
THAT the heroes of “The Magic Hide-and-Seek”
were really the Pueblo Castor and
Pollux, the twin offspring of the Sun-Father and
the Moon-Mother, is more than probable. For
some reason which I do not know, these demigods
do not figure as clearly in the Tée-wahn myths as
among the other Pueblos, the Navajos and the
Apaches; but that they are believed in, even in
Isleta, there can be no doubt. They were the ones
who led mankind forth from its first home in the
dark center of the earth.[99] The rainbow is their
bow, the lightnings are their arrows. Among the
other Pueblos there are countless folk-stories about
these Hero Twins; and the following example
myth will quickly remind you of the boys who
played hide-and-seek. It is told in Isleta, though
I have never heard it from the Tée-wahn people
there. Ever since the great drouth of a generation
ago, about one hundred and fifty Quères,
starved out from the pueblos of Acoma and Laguna,
have dwelt in Isleta, and they are now a
207]
permanent part of the Village, recognized by representation
in the civil and religious government,
though speaking an altogether different language.
Tée-wahn and Quères cannot understand each
other in their own tongues, so they have to communicate
in Spanish.
Máw-Sahv and Oó-yah-wee, as the Hero Twins
are named in Quères, had the Sun for a father.
Their mother died when they were born, and lay
lifeless upon the hot plain. But the two wonderful
boys, as soon as they were a minute old, were big
and strong, and began playing.
There chanced to be in a cliff to the southward a
nest of white crows; and presently the young crows
said: “Nana, what is that over there? Isn’t it
two babies?”
“Yes,” replied the Mother-Crow, when she had
taken a look. “Wait and I will bring them.” So
she brought the boys safely, and then their dead
mother; and, rubbing a magic herb on the body
of the latter, soon brought her to life.
By this time Máw-Sahv and Oó-yah-wee were
sizable boys, and the mother started homeward
with them.
“Now,” said she when they reached the edge of
the valley and could look across to that wondrous
rock whereon stands Acoma, “go to yonder town,
my sons, for that is Ah-ko, where live your grandfather
and grandmother, my parents; and I will
wait here. Go ye in at the west end of the town
and stand at the south end of the council-grounds
until some one speaks to you; and ask them to
take you to the Cacique, for he is your grandfather.
208]
You will know his house, for the ladder to it has
three uprights instead of two. When you go in
and tell your story, he will ask you a question to
see if you are really his grandchildren, and will
give you four chances to answer what he has in a
bag in the corner. No one has ever been able to
guess what is in it, but there are birds.”
The Twins did as they were bidden, and
presently came to Acoma and found the house of
the old Cacique. When they entered and told
their story, he said: “Now I will try you. What
is in yonder bag?”
“A rattlesnake,” said the boys.
“No,” said the Cacique, “it is not a rattlesnake.
Try again.”
“Birds,” said the boys.
“Yes, they are birds. Now I know that you are
truly my grandchildren, for no one else could ever
guess.” And he welcomed them gladly, and sent
them back with new dresses and jewelry to bring
their mother.
When she was about to arrive, the Twins ran
ahead to the house and told her father, mother, and
sister to leave the house until she should enter; but
not knowing what was to come, they would not go
out. When she had climbed the big ladder to the
roof and started down through the trap-door by
the room-ladder, her sister cried out with joy at
seeing her, and she was so startled that she fell
from the ladder and broke her neck, and never
could be brought to life again.
Máw-Sahv and Oó-yah-wee grew up to astounding
adventures and achievements. While still
209]
very young in years, they did very remarkable
things; for they had a miraculously rapid growth,
and at an age when other boys were toddling
about home, these Hero Twins had already become
very famous hunters and warriors. They
were very fond of stories of adventure, like less
precocious lads; and after the death of their
mother they kept their grandmother busy telling
them strange tales. She had a great many anecdotes
of a certain ogre-giantess who lived in the
dark gorges of the mountains to the South, and so
much did Máw-Sahv and Oó-yah-wee hear of this
wonderful personage—who was the terror of all
that country—that their boyish ambition was fired.
One day when their grandmother was busy they
stole away from home with their bows and arrows,
and walked miles and miles, till they came to a
great forest at the foot of the mountain. In the
edge of it sat the old Giant-woman, dozing in the
sun, with a huge basket beside her. She was so
enormous and looked so fierce that the boys’ hearts
stood still, and they would have hidden, but just
then she caught sight of them, and called: “Come,
little boys, and get into this basket of mine, and I
will take you to my house.”
“Very well,” said Máw-Sahv, bravely hiding his
alarm. “If you will take us through this big
forest, which we would like to see, we will go with
you.”
The Giant-woman promised, and the lads
clambered into her basket, which she took upon
her back and started off. As she passed through
the woods, the boys grabbed lumps of pitch from the
210]
tall pines and smeared it all over her head and
back so softly that she did not notice it. Once she
sat down to rest, and the boys slyly put a lot of big
stones in the basket, set fire to her pitched hair,
and hurriedly climbed a tall pine.
Presently the Giant-woman got up and started
on toward home; but in a minute or two her head
and manta were all of a blaze. With a howl that
shook the earth, she dropped the basket and rolled
on the ground, grinding her great head into the
sand until she at last got the fire extinguished.
But she was badly scorched and very angry, and
still angrier when she looked in the basket and
found only a lot of stones. She retraced her steps
until she found the boys hidden in the pine-tree,
and said to them: “Come down, children, and get
into my basket, that I may take you to my house,
for now we are almost there.”
The boys, knowing that she could easily break
down the tree if they refused, came down. They
got into the basket, and soon she brought them to
her home in the mountain. She set them down
upon the ground and said: “Now, boys, go and
bring me a lot of wood, that I may make a fire in
the oven and bake you some sweet cakes.”
The boys gathered a big pile of wood, with
which she built a roaring fire in the adobe oven
outside the house. Then she took them and
washed them very carefully, and taking them by
the necks, thrust them into the glowing oven and
sealed the door with a great, flat rock, and left
them there to be roasted.
But the Trues were friends of the Hero Twins,
211]
and did not let the heat harm them at all. When
the old Giant-woman had gone into the house,
Máw-Sahv and Oó-yah-wee broke the smaller
stone that closed the smoke-hole of the oven, and
crawled out from their fiery prison unsinged.
They ran around and caught snakes and toads
and gathered up dirt and dropped them down into
the oven through the smoke-hole; and then,
watching when the Giant-woman’s back was
turned, they sneaked into the house and hid in a
huge olla on the shelf.
Very early in the morning the Giant-woman’s
baby began to cry for some boy-meat. “Wait till
it is well cooked,” said the mother; and hushed
the child till the sun was well up. Then she went
out and unsealed the oven, and brought in the sad
mess the boys had put there. “They have cooked
away to almost nothing,” she said; and she and
the Giant-baby sat down to eat. “Isn’t this
nice?” said the baby; and Máw-Sahv could not
help saying, “You nasty things, to like that!”
“Eh? Who is that?” cried the Giant-woman,
looking around till she found the boys hidden in
the olla. So she told them to come down, and
gave them some sweet cakes, and then sent them
out to bring her some more wood.
It was evening when they returned with a big
load of wood, which Máw-Sahv had taken pains to
get green. He had also picked up in the mountains
a long, sharp splinter of quartz.[100] The evening
was cool, and they built a big fire in the fireplace.
But immediately, as the boys had planned,
212]
the green wood began to smoke at a dreadful rate,
and soon the room was so dense with it that they
all began to cough and strangle. The Giant-woman
got up and opened the window and put her
head out for a breath of fresh air; and Máw-Sahv,
pulling out the white-hot splinter of quartz from
the fire, stabbed her in the back so that she died.
Then they killed the Giant-baby, and at last felt
that they were safe.
Now the Giant-woman’s house was a very large
one, and ran far back into the very heart of the
mountain. Having got rid of their enemies, the
Hero Twins decided to explore the house; and,
taking their bows and arrows, started boldly down
into the deep, dark rooms. After traveling a long
way in the dark, they came to a huge room in
which corn and melons and pumpkins were growing
abundantly. On and on they went, till at last
they heard the growl of distant thunder. Following
the sound, they came presently to a room in
the solid rock, wherein the lightning was stored.
Going in, they took the lightning and played with it
awhile, throwing it from one to the other, and at last
started home, carrying their strange toy with them.
When they reached Acoma and told their grandmother
of their wonderful adventures, she held up
her withered old hands in amazement. And she
was nearly scared to death when they began to
play with the lightning, throwing it around the
house as though it had been a harmless ball, while
the thunder rumbled till it shook the great rock of
Acoma. They had the blue lightning which belongs
in the West; and the yellow lightning of the
213]
North; and the red lightning of the East; and the
white lightning of the South; and with all these
they played merrily.
But it was not very long till Shée-wo-nah, the
Storm-King, had occasion to use the lightning;
and when he looked in the room where he was
wont to keep it, and found it gone, his wrath knew
no bounds. He started out to find who had stolen
it; and passing by Acoma he heard the thunder as
the Hero Twins were playing ball with the lightning.
He pounded on the door and ordered them
to give him his lightning, but the boys refused.
Then he summoned the storm, and it began to rain
and blow fearfully outside; while within the boys
rattled their thunder in loud defiance, regardless
of their grandmother’s entreaties to give the Storm-King
his lightning.
It kept raining violently, however, and the water
came pouring down the chimney until the room
was nearly full, and they were in great danger of
drowning. But luckily for them, the Trues were
still mindful of them; and just in the nick of time
sent their servant, Teé-oh-pee, the Badger, who is
the best of diggers, to dig a hole up through the
floor; all the water ran out, and they were saved.
And so the Hero Twins outwitted the Storm-King.
South of Acoma, in the pine-clad gorges and
mesas, the world was full of Bears. There was
one old She-Bear in particular, so huge and fierce
that all men feared her; and not even the boldest
hunter dared go to the south—for there she had
her home with her two sons.
214]
Máw-sahv and Oó-yah-wee were famous hunters,
and always wished to go south; but their
grandmother always forbade them. One day,
however, they stole away from the house, and got
into the cañon. At last they came to the She-Bear’s
house; and there was old Quée-ah asleep
in front of the door. Máw-sahv crept up very
carefully and threw in her face a lot of ground
chile,[101] and ran. At that the She-Bear began to
sneeze, ah-hútch! ah-hútch! She could not stop,
and kept making ah-hútch until she sneezed herself
to death.
Then the Twins took their thunder-knives and
skinned her. They stuffed the great hide with
grass, so that it looked like a Bear again, and tied
a buckskin rope around its neck.
“Now,” said Máw-sahv, “We will give our
grandma a trick!”
So, taking hold of the rope, they ran toward
Acoma, and the Bear came behind them as if leaping.
Their grandmother was going for water;
and from the top of the cliff she saw them running
so in the valley, and the Bear jumping behind
them. She ran to her house and painted one side
of her face black with charcoal, and the other side
red with the blood of an animal;[102] and, taking a bag
of ashes, ran down the cliff and out at the Bear, to
make it leave the boys and come after her.
But when she saw the trick, she reproved the
boys for their rashness—but in her heart she was
very proud of them.
[99] They are represented in the sacred dances by the Káh-pee-óo-nin, “the
Dying-of-Cold” (because they are always naked except for the breech-clout).
A DISOBEDIENT child is something I have
never seen among the Pueblos, in all the
years I have lived with them. The parents are
very kind, too. My little amigos in Isleta and the
other Pueblo towns—for they are my friends in all—are
never spoiled; but neither are they punished
much.[103] Personal acquaintance with a spanking is
what very few of them have. The idea of obedience
is inborn and inbred. A word is generally
enough; and for extreme cases it only needs the
threat: “Look out, or I will send for the Grandfathers!”
Now, perhaps you do not know who the Grandfathers
are; but every Pueblo youngster does. It
has nothing to do with the “truly” grandpa, who
is as lovely an institution among the Tée-wahn as
anywhere else. No, the Abuelos were of an altogether
different sort. That name is Spanish, and
has three applications in Isleta: real grandparents;
the remarkable masked officials of a certain
dance; and the bad Old Ones. These last
216]
are called in the Tée-wahn tongue T’ai-kár-nin
(Those-Who-Eat-People). They were, in fact, aboriginal
Ogres, who once sadly ravaged Isleta.
The T’ai-kár-nin had no town, but dwelt in
caves of the lava mountain a couple of miles west
of this village—the Kú-mai hill. It is a bad
place at best: bleak, black, rough, and forbidding—just
the place that a properly constituted Ogre
would choose for his habitation. In the first place,
it is to the west of the town, which is “bad medicine”
in itself to any Indian, for that point of the
compass belongs to the dead and to bad spirits.
Then its color is against it; and, still worse, it is to
this day the common stamping-ground of all the
witches in this part of the country, where they
gather at night for their diabolical caucuses. Of
its serious disrepute I can convey no better idea
to the enlightened and superstitionless American
mind than by saying that it is a sort of aboriginal
“haunted house.”
So the hill of Kú-mai was a peculiarly fit place
for the Ogres to dwell in. Deep in its gloomy
bowels they huddled on the white sand which floors
all the caves there; and crannies overhead carried
away the smoke from their fires, which curled from
crevices at the top of the peak far above them.
Ignorant Americans would probably have taken it
for a volcanic emission; but the good people of
Shee-eh-whíb-bak knew better.
These Ogres were larger than ordinary men,
but otherwise carried no outward sign of their odious
calling. Their teeth were just like anybody’s
good teeth, and they had neither “tushes” nor
217]
horns nor hoofs. Indeed, except for their unusual
size, they would have been easily mistaken for
Indians of some distant tribe. But, ay de mi!
How strong they were! One could easily whip
five common men in a bunch—“men even as
strong as my son, Francisco,” says Desiderio; and
Francisco is as stout as a horse.
They were people of very fastidious palates,
these Ogres. Nothing was good enough for them
except human flesh—and young at that. Their
fare was entirely baby—baby young, baby brown,
and baby very fat. They never molested the
adults; but as often as they found an appetite they
descended upon the village, scooped up what children
they could lay their hands upon, and carried
them off to their caves. There they had enormous
ollas, into which half a dozen children could be
thrown at once.
There seemed to be some spell about these
Ogres—besides their frequent hungry spells—for
the Pueblos, who were so brave in the face of other
foes, never dared fight these terrible cave-dwellers.
They continued to devastate the village, until
babies were at a premium, and few to be had at
any price; and the only way the people dared to
try to circumvent them was by strategy. In time
it came about that every house where there were
children, or a reasonable hope of them, had secret
cubby-holes back of the thick adobe walls; with
little doors which shut flush with the wall and were
also plastered with adobe, so that when they were
shut a stranger—even if he were a sharp-eyed
Indian—would never dream of their existence.
218]
And whenever arose the dreaded cry, “Here come
the T’ai-kár-nin!” the children were hustled,
shivering and noiseless, into the secret recesses,
and the doors were shut. Then Mr. Ogre could
come in and peer and sniff about as he liked, but
no chance to fill his market-basket could he find.
And when parents were forced to go away and
leave the babies behind, the poor young ones were
inclosed in their safe but gloomy prisons, and there
in darkness and silence had to await the parental
home-coming. These inconveniences were gladly
borne, however, since they preserved the children—and
we all know that preserved baby is better
than baby-stew. It was, of course, rather rough
on the Ogres, who began to find all their belts
most distressfully loose; but no one seemed to
consider their feelings. They were pretty well
starved when the Spaniards came and delivered
the suffering Isleteños by driving off these savage
neighbors. This looks suspiciously as if the whole
myth of the Ogres had sprung from the attacks of
the cruel Apaches and Navajos in the old days.
There was one queer thing about these Ogres—on
their forages they always wore buckskin
masks, just like those of the Abuelos of the sacred
dance. Their bare faces were seen sometimes by
hunters who encountered them on the llano, but
never here in town. It was in connection with
these masks that Isleta had a great sensation recently.
The Hungry Grandfathers had been almost
forgotten, except as a word to change the
minds of children who had about quarter of a mind
to be naughty; but interest was revived by a
219]
discovery of which my venerable friend Desiderio
Peralta was the hero.
This dear old man—news of his death has come
to me as I write this very chapter—was a remarkable
character. He was one of “the oldest inhabitants”
of New Mexico—older than any other
Indian among the twelve hundred of Isleta, except
tottering Diego; and that is saying a great deal.
His hair was very gray, and his kindly old face
such an incredible mass of wrinkles that I used to
fancy Father Time himself must have said: “No,
no! You apprentices never do a thing right!
Here, this is the way to put on wrinkles!” and that
he then and there took old Desiderio for a model,
and showed the journeymen wrinkle-makers a trick
they never dreamed of. Certainly the job was never
so well done before. From chin to hair-roots,
from ear to ear, was such a crowded, tangled, inextricable
maze of furrows and cross-harrow lines as
I firmly believe never dwelt together on any other
one human face. Why, Desiderio could have furnished
an army of old men with wrinkles! I never
saw him smile without fearing that some of those
wrinkles were going to fall off the edge, so crowded
were they at best!
But if his face was arrugada, his brain was not.
He was bright and chipper as a young blackbird,
and it was only of late that a touch of rheumatism
took the youth out of his legs. Until recently he
held the important position of Captain of War
for the pueblo; and only two years ago I had the
pleasure of going with two hundred other Indians
on a huge rabbit-hunt which was under his
220]
personal supervision, and in which he was as active as
any one, both on his feet and with the unerring
boomerang. His eyes were good to find about as
much through the sights of a rifle as anybody’s;
and on the whole he was worth a good deal more
than I expect to be some seventy years from now.
He was a good neighbor, too; and I had few
pleasanter hours than those spent in talking with
this genial old shrivel, who was muy sabio in all
the folk-lore and wisdom of his unfathomable race;
and very close-mouthed about it, too—as they all
are. Still, there were some things which he seemed
willing to confide to me; and he always had an attentive
listener.
Desiderio was not yet too old to herd his own
cattle during the season when they roam abroad;
and, while thus engaged, he made a discovery
which set the whole quiet village agog, though
no other outsider ever heard of it.
One day in 1889 Desiderio started out from the
village, driving his cattle. Having steered them
across the acequia and up the sand-hills to the beginning
of the plain, he climbed to the top of the
Kú-mai to watch them through the day—as has
been the custom of Isleta herders from time immemorial.
In wandering over the rocky top of the
peak, he came to a ledge of rocks on the southeast
spur of the hill; and there found a fissure, at one
end of which was a hole as large as a man’s head.
Desiderio put his face and his wrinkles down to
the hole to see what he could see; and all was
dark inside. But if his eyes strained in vain, his
ears did not. From far down in the bowels of the
221]
mountain came a strange roaring, as of a heavy
wind. Desiderio was somewhat dismayed at this;
for he knew at once that he had found one of the
chimneys of the Ogres; but he did not run away.
Hunting around awhile, he found in the fissures
of the rocks some ancient buckskin masks—the
very ones worn by the Ogres, of course. He put
them back, and coming to town straightway told
the medicine-men of the Black Eyes—one of the
two parties here. They held a junta; and after
mature deliberation decided to go and get the
masks. This was done, and the masks are now
treasured in the Black Eye medicine-house.
I have several times carefully explored the Kú-mai—a
difficult and tiresome task, thanks to the
knife-like lava fragments which cover it everywhere,
and which will cut a pair of new strong
shoes to pieces in an afternoon. It is true that
in this hill of bad repute there are several lava-caves,
with floors of white sand blown in from the
llano; and that in these caves there are a few human
bones. No doubt some of the savage nomads
camped or lived there. None of those famous ollas
are visible; nor have I ever been able to find any
other relics of the Hungry Grandfathers.
[103] I must qualify this now. In the last two years I have seen one spoiled
child—just one, in ten years’ acquaintance with 9000 Pueblos!
XXXI THE COYOTE
222]
ALL the animals with which the Tée-wahn are
familiar—the buffalo (which they used to hunt
on the vast plains to the eastward), the bear, deer,
antelope, mountain lion, badger, wild turkey, fox,
eagle, crow, buzzard, rabbit, and so on—appear in
their legends and fairy tales, as well as in their religious
ceremonials and beliefs. Too-wháy-deh,
the Coyote,[104] or little prairie wolf, figures in countless
stories, and always to his own disadvantage.
Smart as he is in some things, he believes whatever
is told him; and by his credulity becomes the
butt of all the other animals, who never tire of
“April-fooling” him. He is also a great coward.
To call an Indian here “Too-wháy-deh” is one of
the bitterest insults that can be offered him.
223]
You have already heard how the Coyote fared
at the hands of the fun-loving Bear, and of the
Crows and the Blackbirds. A very popular tale is
that of his adventure with a bright cousin of his.
Once upon a time Too-wháy-shur-wée-deh, the
Little-Blue-Fox,[105] was wandering near a pueblo,
and chanced to come to the threshing-floors, where
a great many crows were hopping. Just then the
Coyote passed, very hungry; and while yet far off,
said: “Ai! how the stomach cries! I will just
eat Little-Blue-Fox.” And coming, he said:
“Now, Little-Blue-Fox, you have troubled me
enough! You are the cause of my being chased
by the dogs and people, and now I will pay you. I
am going to eat you up this very now!”
“No, Coyote-friend,” answered the Little-Blue-Fox,
“don’t eat me up! I am here guarding these
chickens, for there is a wedding in yonder house,
which is my master’s, and these chickens are for
the wedding-dinner. Soon they will come for the
chickens, and will invite me to the dinner—and
you can come also.”
“Well,” said the Coyote, “if that is so, I will
not eat you, but will help you watch the chickens.”
So he lay down beside him.
At this, Little-Blue-Fox was troubled, thinking
how to get away; and at last he said:
“Friend Too-wháy-deh, I make strange that
they have not before now come for the chickens.
Perhaps they have forgotten. The best way is for
224]
me to go to the house and see what the servants
are doing.”
“It is well,” said the Coyote. “Go, then, and
I will guard the chickens for you.”
So the Little-Blue-Fox started toward the house;
but getting behind a small hill, he ran away with
fast feet. When it was a good while, and he did
not come back, the Coyote thought: “While he is
gone, I will give myself some of the chickens.”
Crawling up on his belly to the threshing-floor, he
gave a great leap. But the chickens were only
crows, and they flew away. Then he began to
say evil of the Little-Blue-Fox for giving him a
trick, and started on the trail, vowing: “I will eat
him up wherever I catch him.”
After many miles he overtook the Little-Blue-Fox,
and with a bad face said: “Here! Now I am
going to eat you up!”
The other made as if greatly excited, and answered:
“No, friend Coyote! Do you not hear
that tombé[106]?”
The Coyote listened, and heard a drum in the
pueblo.
“Well,” said the Little-Blue-Fox, “I am called
for that dance,[107] and very soon they will come for
me. Won’t you go too?”
“If that is so, I will not eat you, but we will go
to the dance.” And the Coyote sat down and
began to comb his hair and to make himself pretty
with face-paint. When no one came, the Little-Blue-Fox
said:
225]
“THERE THEY STOOD SIDE BY SIDE.”
227]
“Friend Coyote, I make strange that the alguazil
does not come. It is best for me to go up
on this hill, whence I can see into the village.
You wait here.”
“He will not dare to give me another trick,”
thought the Coyote. So he replied: “It is well.
But do not forget to call me.”
So the Little-Blue-Fox went up the hill; and
as soon as he was out of sight, he began to run
for his life.
Very long the Coyote waited; and at last, being
tired, went up on the hill—but there was no one
there. Then he was very angry, and said: “I
will follow him, and eat him surely! Nothing shall
save him!” And finding the trail, he began to
follow as fast as a bird.
Just as the Little-Blue-Fox came to some high
cliffs, he looked back and saw the Coyote coming
over a hill. So he stood up on his hind feet and
put his fore paws up against the cliff, and made
many groans, and was as if much excited. In a
moment came the Coyote, very angry, crying:
“Now you shall not escape me! I am going to eat
you up now—now!”
“Oh, no, friend Too-wháy-deh!” said the other;
“for I saw this cliff falling down, and ran to hold
it up. If I let go, it will fall and kill us both. But
come, help me to hold it.”
Then the Coyote stood up and pushed against
the cliff with his fore paws, very hard; and there
they stood side by side.
Time passing so, the Little-Blue-Fox said:
“Friend Too-wháy-deh, it is long that I am
228]
holding up the cliff, and I am very tired and thirsty.
You are fresher. So you hold up the cliff while I
go and hunt water for us both; for soon you too
will be thirsty. There is a lake somewhere on the
other side of this mountain; I will find it and get a
drink, and then come back and hold up the cliff
while you go.”
The Coyote agreed, and the Little-Blue-Fox
ran away over the mountain till he came to the
lake, just as the moon was rising.
But soon the Coyote was very tired and thirsty,
for he held up the cliff with all his might. At last
he said: “Ai! how hard it is! I am so thirsty
that I will go to the lake, even if I die!”
So he began to let go of the cliff, slowly, slowly—until
he held it only with his finger-nails; and then
he made a great jump away backward, and ran as
hard as he could to a hill. But when he looked
around and saw that the cliff did not fall, he was
very angry, and swore to eat Too-wháy-shur-wée-deh
the very minute he should catch him.
Running on the trail, he came to the lake; and
there the Little-Blue-Fox was lying on the bank,
whining as if greatly excited. “Now I will eat you
up, this minute!” cried the Coyote. But the other
said: “No, Friend Too-wháy-deh! Don’t eat me
up! I am waiting for some one who can swim as
well as you can. I just bought a big cheese[108] from
a shepherd to share with you; but when I went to
drink, it slipped out of my hands into the water.
231]
Come here, and I will show you.” He took the
Coyote to the edge of the high bank, and pointed
to the moon in the water.
“‘HOW SHALL I GET IT?’ SAID THE COYOTE.”
“M—m!” said the Coyote, who was fainting
with hunger. “But how shall I get it? It is very
deep in the water, and I shall float up before I can
dive to it.”
“That is true, friend,” said the other. “There
is but one way. We must tie some stones to your
neck, to make you heavy so you can go down
to it.”
So they hunted about until they found a buckskin
thong and some large stones; and the Little-Blue-Fox
tied the stones to the Coyote’s neck, the
Coyote holding his chin up, to help.
“Now, friend Too-wháy-deh, come here to the
edge of the bank and stand ready. I will take you
by the back and count weem, wée-si, p’áh-chu!
And when I say three, you must jump and I will
push—for now you are very heavy.”
So he took the Coyote by the back of the neck,
swaying him back and forth as he counted. And
at “p’áh-chu!” he pushed hard, and the Coyote
jumped, and went into the deep water, and—never
came out again!
[105] He is always a hero, and as smart as the Coyote is stupid. His beautiful
pelt is an important part of the costume worn in many of the sacred
dances of the Tée-wahn.
[106] Pronounced tom-báy. The sacred drum used in Pueblo dances.
[107] In all such Indian dances the participants are named by the officials.
[108] Of course chickens and cheeses were not known to the Pueblos before the
Spanish conquest; and the cheese is so vital a part of the story that I hardly
think it can be an interpolation. So this tale, though very old, is probably
not ancient—that is, it has been invented since 1600.
XXXII DOCTOR FIELD-MOUSE
232]
IT was the evening of the 14th of March. In
the valley of the Rio Grande, that stands at the
end of the winter. Now it is to open the big
mother-canal that comes from the river to all the
fields, giving them to drink after their long thirst;
and now to plow the milpas, and to uncover the
buried grape-vines, and make ready for the farmer’s
work.
As the door opened to admit stalwart Francisco
to the big flickering room where we were all sitting
in silence, the long, shrill wail of a Coyote,
away up on the Accursed Hill, blew in after him
on the boisterous March wind. The boys pricked
up their ears; and bright-faced Manuelito[109] turned
to his white-headed grandfather, and said:
“Tata, why is it that Too-wháy-deh always
howls so? Perhaps he has a pain; for he has
been crying ever since the beginning of the world—as
they told us in the story of the Fawns and
the She-Wolf.”
“What, Unknowing!” answered the old man,
kindly. “Hast thou never heard of the Coyote’s
233]
toothache, and who was the first medicine-man in
all the world? It is not well not to know that;
for from that comes all that we know to cure the
sick. And for that, I will tell—but it is the last
story of the year. For to-morrow is Tu-shée-wim,
the Spring Medicine-Dance; and the snakes are
coming out from their winter houses. After that,
we must not tell of the Things of Old. For it
is very long ago; and if one made a mistake in
telling, and said that which was not all true, Ch’áh-rah-ráh-deh
would bite him, and he would die.[110]
But this one I will tell thee.”
In the First Days, when the people had broken
through the crust of the earth, and had come up
out of their dark prison, underground, and crossed
Shee-p’ah-póon, the great Black Lake of Tears,
they came to the shore on this side. Then it came
that all the animals were made; and very soon the
Coyote was sent by the Trues to carry a buckskin
bag far south, and not to open it until he should
come to the Peak of the White Clouds. For
many days he ran south, with the bag on his back.
But there was nothing to eat, and he grew very
hungry. At last he thought: “Perhaps in this
bag there is to eat.” So he took it from his back,
and untied the thongs, and looked in. But there
was nothing in it except the stars; and as soon as
the bag was opened they all flew up into the sky,
where they are to this day.
234]
When the Trues saw that Too-wháy-deh had
disobeyed, they were angry, and made it that his
punishment should be to wander up and down forever,
howling with the toothache and finding no rest.
So Too-wháy-deh went out with his toothache,
running all over the world groaning and crying;
and when the other four-feet slept he could only
sit and howl. Because he came to talk with the
other animals, if they could not cure him, they
caught the toothache too; and that is the reason
why they sometimes cry. But none have it like
the Coyote, who can find no rest.
In those times there were no medicine-men in
the world,—not even of the people,—and the animals
found no cure.
Time passing so, it came one day that T’hoo-chée-deh,
the smallest of Mice, who lives in the little
mounds around the chapparo-bush, was making
his road underground, when he came to a kind of
root with a sweet smell. T’hoo-chée-deh was very
wise; and he took the root, and put it with others
in a buckskin pouch he carried under his left arm.
In a few days Kee-oo-ée-deh, the Prairie-Dog,
came with his head all fat with toothache, and said:
“Friend Field-Mouse, can you not cure me of this
pain? For all say you are very wise with herbs.”
“I do not know,” answered T’hoo-chée-deh.
“But we will try. For I have found a new root,
and perhaps it is good.”
So he mixed it with other roots, all pounded,
and put it on the cheek of Kee-oo-ée-deh; and
in a little, the toothache was gone.
In that time it was that there was so much
235]
toothache among the animals that the Mountain
Lion, Commander of Beasts, called a council to
see what should be done. When every kind that
walks on the ground had met, he asked each of
them if they had found no cure; but none of them
knew any. The Coyote was there, howling with
pain; but all the other sick were at home.
At last it was to the Field-Mouse, who is the
smallest of all animals, and who did not wish to
seem wise until all the greater ones had spoken.
When the Mountain Lion said, “And thou, T’hoo-chée-deh—hast
thou a cure?” he rose in his place
and came forward modestly, saying: “If the others
will allow me, and with the help of the Trues,
I will try what I found last.”
Then he drew from his left-hand bag the roots
one by one; and last of all, the root of the chee-ma-hár,
explaining what it had done for Kee-oo-ée-deh.
He pounded it to powder with a stone,
and mixed it with fat; and spreading it on flat
leaves, put it to the Coyote’s jaw. And in a little
the pain was gone.[111]
At that the Mountain Lion, the Bear, the Buffalo,
and all the other Captains of Four-feet, declared
T’hoo-chée-deh the Father-of-All-Medicine.
They made a strong law that from that time the
body of the Field-Mouse should be held sacred, so
that no animal dares to kill him or even to touch him
dead. And so it remains to this day. But only the
236]
birds and the snakes, who were not at the Council of
the Four feet, they do not respect T’hoo-chée-deh.
So the Field-Mouse was the first medicine-man.
He chose one of each kind of four-feet to be his
assistants, and taught them the use of all herbs,
and how to cure pain, so that each might practise
among his own people—a Bear-doctor for the
Bears, and a Wolf-doctor for the Wolves, and so to
all the tribes of the animals.
Of those he taught, there was one who was not
a True Believer—the Badger. But he listened
also, and made as if he believed all. With time,
the teaching was done; and T’hoo-chée-deh sent
all his assistant doctors home to their own peoples
to heal. But whenever one of them was asked
with the sacred corn-meal[112] to come and cure a sick
one, he always came first to get the Father, the
Field-Mouse, to accompany and help him.
But all this time Kahr-naí-deh, the Badger, was
not believing; and at last he said to his wife:
“Now I will see if Old T’hoo-chée-deh is really a
medicine-man. If he finds me, I will believe him.”
So from that day for four days the Badger
touched no food, until he was almost dead. And
on the fifth day he said:
“In-hlee-oo wáy-ee, wife of me, go now and call
T’hoo-chée-deh, to see if he will cure me.”
So the Badger-wife went with meal to the house
of the Field-Mouse, making to be very sad; and
brought him back with her. When they came, the
Badger was as if very sick and in great pain.
237]
T’hoo-chée-deh asked nothing; but took off the
little pouch of roots and laid it beside him. And
then rubbing a little wood-ashes on his hands, he
put them on the stomach and breast of the Badger,
rubbing and feeling. When he had felt the Badger’s
stomach, he began to sing:
Káhr-nah-hlóo-hlee wee-end-t’hú
Beh-hú hoo-báhn,
Ah-náh káh-chah-him-aí
T’hóo-chée-hlóo-hlee t’oh-ah-yin-áhb
Wee-end-t’hú beh-hú hoo-báhn.
(Badger-Old-Man four days
Has the hunger-killing,
To know, to know surely
If Field-Mouse-Old-Man
Has the Medicine Power.
Four days, four days,
He has the hunger-killing.)
When he had finished rubbing and singing, he said
to the Badger:
“There is no need of a remedy. In my teaching
I found you attentive—now be true. You
have wasted, in trying my power. Now get up
and eat, to make up for the lost. And do not
think that way again.”
With that, he took his pouch of roots and went
home. As soon as he was out of the house, the
Badger said to his wife:
“My wife, now I believe that Mouse-Old-Man has
the Power; and never again will I think that way.”
Then the Badger-wife brought food, and he
ate—for he was dying of hunger. When he had
eaten, the animals came in to see him, for they had
heard that he was very sick. He told them all
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that had been, and how T’hoo-chée-deh had known
his trick. At that, all the animals were afraid of
the Field-Mouse, and respected him more than ever—for
it was plain that he indeed had the Power.
Time passing so, it came that one day the Men
of the Old made nah-kú-ah-shu, the great round-hunt.
When they had made a great circle on the
llano, and killed many rabbits, some of them found
T’hoo-chée-deh, and made him prisoner. They
brought him before the principales, who questioned
him, saying:
“How do you gain your life?”
“I gain it,” he answered, “by going about
among the animals who are sick, and curing
them.”
Then the elders said: “If that is so, teach us
your Power, and we will set you free; but if not,
you shall die.”
T’hoo-chée-deh agreed, and they brought him
to town with honor. For twelve days and twelve
nights he and the men stayed shut up in the estufa,
for two days fasting, and one day making the medicine-dance,
and then fasting and then dancing
again, as our medicine-men do to this day.
On the last night, when he had taught the men
all the herbs and how to use them, and they had
become wise with practice, they sent T’hoo-chée-deh
out with a strong guard, that nothing should
harm him. They set him down at the door of his
own house under the chapparo. A law was made,
giving him full liberty of all that is grown in the
fields. To this day, all True Believers honor him,
so that he is not called small any more. When
they sing of him in the sacred places, they make
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his house great, calling it koor-óo-hlee naht-hóo, the
Mountain of the Chapparo. And him they call not
T’hoo-chée-deh, the Field-Mouse, but Pee-íd-deh
p’ah-hláh-queer, the Deer-by-the-River, that he may
not seem of little honor.[113] For he was the Father
of Medicine, and taught us how to cure the sick.
“Tahb-kóon-ahm?” cried the boys. “Is that
why the Coyote always cries? And is that why we
must never hurt the Field-Mouse, but show him respect,
as to elders?”
“That is the very why,” said Manuelito’s grandfather,
gravely; and all the old men nodded.
“And why—” began ’Tonio. But his father
shook his head.
“Tah! It is enough. Tóo-kwai!”
So we stepped out into the night to our homes.
And from the Kú-mai, black against the starry sky,
the howl of Too-wháy-deh, wandering with his
toothache, swelled across the sleeping village of
the Tée-wahn.
[110] A fixed belief among the Pueblos, who will tell none of their myths between
the Spring Medicine-Making, in March, and the Fall Medicine-Making,
in October, lest the rattlesnake punish them for some slip from the truth.
[111] This cure is still practised among the Tée-wahn. The sovereign remedy
for toothache, however, is to go to the estufa after dark, carrying food in the
left hand, march round inside the big circular room three times, leave the
food under the secret recess in the wall where the scalps taken in old wars are
kept, and then come out. The toothache is always left behind!
[112] The necessary accompaniment, among the Pueblos, of a call for the
doctor. In some cases, the sacred smoking-herb was used. Either article
was wrapped in corn-husk. See, also, “Some Strange Corners of Our
Country,” chapters xviii and xx.
[113] This is not an exception. Nearly all the animals known to the Tée-wahn
have not only their common name, but a ceremonial and sacred one, which is
used exclusively in the songs and rites.
Transcriber’s Note
All inconsistencies in hyphenation and accent use are preserved as printed.
Minor punctuation errors have been repaired.
The following typographic errors have been fixed:
Page 79—stanger amended to stranger—Then a young woman who was a stranger ...
Page 126—seen amended to see—After this, whenever you see an Eagle ...
The frontispiece has been moved to follow the title page. Other illustrations have been moved where necessary so that they are not in the middle of a paragraph.
