privacy about anything. Yet they are neither immoral nor unmoral. The
girls all marry very young. At the age of twelve or thirteen the girl is
chosen by some brave, who bargains with the father for her. A pony or
its value in buckskin will buy almost any father's favorite daughter.
But the girl is not forced to go with a lover whom she does not approve.
The marriage ceremony is not elaborate; after all preliminaries are
disposed of, the would-be bridegroom takes his blanket and moves into
the hewa of the girl's people. If two or three moons pass without any
quarrels between the young people, they move into a hewa of their own,
and thus it is known that they are married. Divorce is just as simple;
he merely sends her back to her father. An Indian brave of the Supai
tribe can have as many wives as he can buy according to the tribal law.
But since there is only about one squaw to every three braves, a man is
lucky to have any wife, and divorce is rare. When two or more braves
center their affections on one fair damsel, things are likely to happen.
But three Indian judges solemnly sit in council and settle the question.
Their solution is usually final, although two or three disgruntled
braves have journeyed to our home at El Tovar sixty miles away to appeal
to White Mountain for aid.
The valley is fertile, and all sorts of fruits and vegetables thrive. In
fact the natives live on what they raise in their haphazard way. They
have a rude system of irrigation which carries water to every little
garden. One other thing grows in abundance there--dogs! Such a flock of
surly, mangy mongrels one would have to travel far to find. I don't know
what they live on, for I never saw one of them being fed.
"Big sing tonight," said one of the squaws squatting by our campfire.
"What is a sing, Dottie?"
"Much sing and dance. Medicine man drive away bad spirit from blind
man."
Of course we were present at the "sing," although I would never have
called it that. An old half-blind Indian afflicted with granulated
eyelids was the victim. The night was chilly, but he was clothed only in
a look of resignation. The medicine man had a shot-filled gourd, a bunch
of dried herbs, and an unlimited capacity for howling. First of all the
patient was given a "sweat bath." He was put into a little teepee made
of willows closely covered with burlap. Hot rocks were introduced and a
pan of water thrown on them. More rocks and more water went inside until
the poor Indian could stand it no longer. He came forth choking and
gasping with the perspiration running from him. Buckets of cold water
were then dashed over him and the medicine man got busy beating him over
the head with the bunch of herbs, keeping up an unearthly screeching.
This would last until morning, they said, but my interest flagged just
about the time the priest found his second wind, and I retired.
Five beautiful waterfalls are scattered down the valley, and I was most
anxious to visit these. For some reason Wattahomigie hung back and we
had trouble in persuading him to take us there. He reluctantly
accompanied us when he saw we intended to go either with him or without.
His attitude was explained when we were well along the trail; some freak
of formation has made great sounding boxes of the Canyon, and these
gather the noises of the water and the wind and return them again in
shrieks of demoniacal laughter, barking of dogs, and sounds of talking
and singing. It is startling to say the least, and no amount of
explaining would convince Wattahomigie that it is not the revel hall of
departed Indian spirits. The sun is lost there at midday, and darkness
settles down soon after.
We camped at Mooney Falls that night, so called on account of an
adventurous prospector of that name losing his life by falling over the
ledge there. It took ten months for his comrades to get equipment
together and recover his body, which they buried at the foot of the
falls. This place naturally holds no attraction for our Indian friends,
and we had literally to push them from under our feet. They almost sat
in the campfire, so determined were they to stay near us.
The next day we started to Hilltop, with Big Jim and his squaw with us
as an escort of honor. Jim rode serenely along, while Mary trudged after
on foot.
"Jim," said the Chief, "how is it that you ride and Mary walks?"
Jim's voice was reproachfully astonished that anyone could be so dense:
"Mary, she no got um horse!"
The Indians gathered to see us off. I looked at the faces before me.
Even the babies seemed hopeless and helpless. It is a people looking
backward down the years with no thought of the morrow.
"Can't you get them to be more hopeful or cheerful? Won't they even try
to help themselves?" I asked Wattahomigie in desperation. He sadly shook
his head.
"No help," he said; "plenty for today, maybe no tomorrow."
And maybe he's right. Not many more morrows for that doomed tribe.
[Illustration]
_Chapter X: WHERE THEY DANCE WITH SNAKES_[2]
A few days after our visit to Supai, Ranger Fisk dropped in.
"Going to the Snake Dance?" he asked me.
"What's a Snake Dance, and where is it?"
"Oh, it's over in the Hopi Reservation, and the crazy redskins hop
around with rattlesnakes in their mouths so it'll rain."
"I don't believe _that_. I'm going over and ask Joe about it," I
replied, indignant that Charlie would try to tell me anything so
improbable.
I returned pretty soon from my visit to Joe, who is Chief of the Hopi
Indians. He made his home with the Spencers at the Hopi House, and we
were tried and true friends.
"What did he say?" Both the Chief and Ranger Fisk hurled the question at
me.
"He said rattlesnakes are their brothers and they carry messages to the
rain gods telling them of the need for rain in Hopi land. He didn't want
to tell me much about it. White Mountain, let's go. _Please!_"
So we went. But before we started I managed to gather a little more
information about the yearly ceremony that is held in the Painted Desert
country. Joe told me that the Government at Washington was opposed to
their Snake Dance. He told me to bear in mind that water is the very
breath of life to the desert dwellers, and that while his people did not
like to oppose the agents placed there by the Government they certainly
intended to continue their dance.
We loaded the flivver with food and water, since we knew our welcome
would be a shade warmer if we did not draw on the meager water supply in
the Reservation. We dropped down to Flagstaff, and there on every street
corner and in every store and hotel the Hopi Snake Dance was the main
subject of conversation. It seemed that everybody was going!
We left the main road there and swung off across the desert for the Hopi
villages, built high on rocky mesas overlooking the surrounding country.
It was delightful during the morning coolness, but all too soon the sun
enveloped us. We met two or three Navajo men on their tough little
ponies, but they were sullen and refused to answer my waves to them.
While we repaired a puncture, a tiny Navajo girl in her full calico
skirt and small velvet basque drove her flock of sheep near and shyly
watched us. I offered her an apple and she shied away like a timid
deer. But candy was too alluring. She crept closer and closer, and then
I got sorry for her and placed it on a rock and turned my back. She lost
no time in grabbing the sweet and darting back to her flock.
The road was badly broken up with coulees and dry washes that a heavy
rain would turn into embryo Colorados. I found myself hoping that the
Snake Dance prayer for rain would not "take" until we were safely back
over this road.
Evening found us encamped at the foot of the high mesa upon which was
built the Hopi village where the dance would be held this year. Close
beside was the water hole that furnished the population with a scant
supply. It was a sullen, dripping, seeping spring that had nothing in
common with our gushing, singing springs of the Southern mountains. The
water was caught in a scooped-out place under the cliff, crudely walled
in with stones to keep animals away. Some stray cattle, however, had
passed the barrier and perished there, for their bones protruded from
the soft earth surrounding the pool. It was not an appetizing sight.
Rude steps were cut in the rocky trail leading to the pueblo dwellings
above two miles away, from whence came the squaws with big ollas to
carry the water. This spring was the gossiping ground for all the female
members of the mesa. They met there and laughed and quarreled and
slandered others just as we white women do over a bridge table.
I found myself going to sleep with my supper untasted, and leaving White
Mountain to tidy up I went to bed with the sand for a mattress and the
stars for a roof. Some time in the night I roused sufficiently to be
glad that all stray rattlers, bull snakes, and their ilk were securely
housed in the kivas being prayed over by the priests. At dawn we
awakened to see half a score of naked braves dash by and lose themselves
in the blue-shadowed distance. While we had breakfast I spoke of the
runners.
"Yes," said the Chief, "they are going out to collect the rattlesnakes."
"Collect the rattlesnakes! Haven't they been garnered into the fold
yet?"
"No, today they will be brought from the north, tomorrow from the west,
next day from the south, and last from the east." He glanced at me.
"Provided, of course, that they don't show up here of their own accord.
I _have_ heard that about this time of year every snake within a radius
of fifty miles starts automatically for the Snake Dance village."
"Well, _I_ shall sleep in the car tomorrow night and the next night and
the next one, too."
"Where will you sleep tonight?"
"I'll not sleep. I intend to sit on top of the machine and see if any
snakes do come in by themselves. Not that I'm afraid of snakes," I
hastened to add; "but I'd hate to delay any pious-minded reptile
conscientiously bent on reaching the scene of his religious duties."
We solved the difficulty by renting a room in one of the pueblo houses.
We followed the two-mile trail up the steep cliff to Walpi and found
ourselves in a human aerie. Nobody knows how many centuries have passed
since this tribe first made their home where we found them now. Living
as they do in the very heart of a barren, arid waste, they control very
little land worth taking from them and have therefore been unmolested
longer than they otherwise would have been. They invite little attention
from tourists except during the yearly ceremonial that we had come to
witness. What _is_ this Snake Dance? The most spectacular and weird
appeal to the gods of Nature that has ever been heard of!
To gain an understanding of what rain means to these Indians we had only
to live in their village the few days preceding the dance. They are
compelled to exist on the water from winter's melting snow and the
annual summer showers, which they catch in their rude cisterns and water
holes. One's admiration for this unconquerable tribe is boundless, as
the magnitude of their struggle for existence is comprehended. Choosing
the most inaccessible and undesirable region they could find in which to
make a determined and successful stand against the Spanish and the hated
friars, they have positively subjugated the desert. Its every resource
is known and utilized for their benefit. Is there an underground
irrigation that moistens the soil, they have searched it out and thrust
their seed corn into its fertile depths. The rocks are used to build
their houses; the cottonwood branches make ladders and supports for the
ceilings; the clay is fashioned into priceless pottery; grasses and
fiber from the yucca turn into artistic baskets under their skillful
fingers. Every drop of water that escapes from the springs nourishes
beans and pumpkins to be stored away for winter use. Practically every
plant on the desert is useful to them, either for their own needs or as
food for their goats and burros.
We knew and were known by many of the younger members of the tribe who
had visited at the Grand Canyon, so we found a warm welcome and ready
guides in our stroll around the village.
The Hopi Indians are friendly and pleasant. They always respond to a
greeting with a flashing smile and a cheery wave of the hand. This is
not the way the sullen Navajos greet strangers. We saw many of that
nomad tribe walking around the Hopi village. They were just as curious
as we were about this snake dance.
"Do the Navajos believe your dance will make the rain come?" I asked a
young Hopi man who was chatting with the Chief.
"Oh, yes. They believe."
"Well, why don't you Hopis make them pay for their share of the rain you
bring. It falls on their Reservation." That was a new thought to the
Hopi and we left him staring over the desert, evidently pondering. I
hope I didn't plant the seed that will lead to a desert warfare!
I watched with fascinated eyes the antics of round, brown babies playing
on the three-story housetops. I expected every instant that one would
come tumbling off, but nobody else seemed to worry about them. On one
housetop an aged Hopi was weaving a woolen dress for his wife. What a
strange topsy-turvy land this was--where the men do the weaving and the
wives build the houses. For the women do build those houses. They are
made from stone brought up from the desert far below, and then they are
thickly plastered with a mixture of adobe and water. Many families live
in the same pueblo, but there are no openings from one room to another.
Each house has its own entrance. There are generally three stories to
each pueblo, the second one set back eight or ten feet on the roof of
the first, and the third a like distance on the top of the second. This
forms a terrace or balcony where many household duties are performed.
I noticed that one pueblo was completely fenced in with head and foot
pieces of ornate iron beds! Evidently the Government had at some time
supplied each family with a bed and they had all passed into the hands
of this enterprising landscape engineer. The houses we peeped into were
bare of furniture with the exception of a Singer sewing machine. I
venture to say there was one in every home up there. Many family groups
were eating meals, all sitting in a circle around the food placed in
dishes on the floor. It was difficult to see what they were serving, on
account of the swarms of flies that settled on everything around. I saw
corn on the ear, and in many places a sort of bean stew. Where there was
a baby to be cared for, the oldest woman in the family sat apart and
held it while the others ate. One old grandmother called my attention to
the child she had on her lap. He was a big-eyed, shrunken mite, strapped
flat to his board carrier. The day was broiling hot, but she motioned me
to touch his feet. "Sick," she said. His tiny feet were like chunks of
ice. It was a plain case of malnutrition, and what could I do to help,
in the few days I was to be there?
Many of the school boys and girls from boarding-schools were home for
vacation, but they knew little or nothing about the meaning of the
different dances and ceremonies that were going on in a dozen
underground kivas in the village. One pretty maiden with marvelous
masses of gleaming black hair volunteered to help us interview her
uncle, an old Snake Priest, about his religion. We found "Uncle"
lounging in the sunshine, mending his disreputable moccasins. He was not
an encouraging subject as he sat there with only a loin cloth by way of
haberdashery. He welcomed us as royally, however, as if he wore a king's
robes, and listened courteously while the girl explained our errand.
If there is a more difficult feat in the world than extracting
information from a reluctant Indian I have never come across it. We gave
up at last, and waited to see what was going to happen.
The exact date of the dance is determined by the Snake Priest, and
announced from the housetops nine days before it takes place. The
underground "kivas" are filled with the various secret orders,
corresponding to our lodges, going through their mystic ceremonies. From
the top of the ladder that extends above the kiva opening, a bunch of
turkey feathers hung, notifying outsiders that lodge was in session and
that no visitors would be welcome.
What candles and a cross mean to good Catholics, feathers mean to a
Hopi. Flocks of turkeys are kept in the village for the purpose of
making "bahos," or prayer sticks. These little pleas to spirits are
found stuck all over the place. If a village is particularly blessed,
they have a captive eagle anchored to a roof. And this bird is
carefully fed and watered in order that its supply of feathers may not
fail.
Days before the dance, the young men are sent out to bring in the
snakes. Armed with a little sacred meal, feathers, a long forked stick,
and a stout sack, they go perhaps twenty miles from the village. When a
snake is located dozing in the sun, he is first sprinkled with the
sacred meal. If he coils and shows fight the ever trusty feather is
brought into play. He is stroked and soothed with it, and pretty soon he
relaxes and starts to crawl away. Quick as a flash he is caught directly
behind the head and tucked away in the sack with his other objecting
brethren. Every variety of snake encountered is brought in and placed in
the sacred kiva.
The legend on which they so firmly base their belief in snake magic is
this:
An adventurous Hopi went on a journey to find the dwelling-place of the
Rain God, so that he might personally present their plea for plenty of
showers. He floated down the Colorado until he was carried into the
Underworld. There he met with many powerful gods, and finally the Snake
God taught him the magic of making the rain fall on Hopi fields. They
became fast friends, and when the Hopi returned to his home the Snake
God presented him with his two daughters, one for a wife to the Hopi's
brother, who belonged to the Antelope Clan, and the other to become his
own bride. When the weddings took place all the snake brothers of the
brides attended, and a great dance was made in their honor. Since that
time a yearly dance and feast is held for the snakes, and they then
descend to their Snake God father and tell him the Hopis still need
rain.
While the men garner snakes and perform in the kivas, the women are not
idle. Far from it! Pottery-makers are busy putting the last touches of
paint on their pottery, and basket makers add the last row of weaving to
the baskets. These wares are displayed in every doorway and window,
where they are most likely to catch the tourist eye. The best specimens
are not put out for sale. I believe the attitude is, "Why place pearls
before swine?"
Houses are swept, and new plaster is applied inside and out. The girls
chatter over their grinding stones, where they crush the meal for making
"piki." Others mix and bake this piki, and it is piled high on flat
baskets. It is made of cornmeal and water, and is baked on hot flat
stones. The stone is first greased with hot mutton tallow, then the cook
dips her fingers into the mixture and with one swift swipe spreads it
evenly over the scorching surface. How they escape blistered fingers is
always a marvel to me.
Squaws are wearily climbing the steep trail with heavy ollas of water on
their backs, held there by a shawl knotted around their foreheads.
Others pass them going to the spring, where they sit and gossip a while
before starting back with their burdens. It takes about the last of the
hoarded water to prepare for the dance, since religion demands that
every house and street be sprinkled and each and every Hopi must have
his yearly bath and shampoo.
I found a pretty girl having her hair put up in squash blossoms for the
first time. Her mother told me she was ready to choose her husband now,
and that the hairdress would notify the young braves to that effect. In
Hopi land the girl chooses her own husband, proposes, and then takes him
to live in her house. If she tires of him she throws his belongings out,
and _he_ "goes back to mother!" After the Snake Dance my little girl
would make her choice. I tried to get advance information, but she
blushed and giggled like any other flapper.
The old men were going to and from the planting grounds, many miles away
in the valley. They went at a sort of dog trot, unless one was rich
enough to own a burro; in that case it did the dog trotting. After the
fields are planted, brush shelters are built and the infirm members of
the tribe stay there to protect the fields from rabbits and burros. Who
could blame a hungry little burro for making away with a luscious hill
of green corn in the midst of a barren desert? And yet if he is caught
he has to pay, literally--one of his ears for the ear of corn he has
eaten. Very few Hopi burros retain their original couple of ears.
The agents say that the time and strength consumed by the Indians in
going to and from their fields, and in carrying water up to the village,
could better be spent cultivating the crops. Therefore, many attempts
have been made to move the Hopis from their lofty homes on the crags to
Government houses on the level below. But they steadfastly refuse to be
moved.
Stand at the mesa edge and look out across the enchanting scene. To the
far south the snow-crowned San Francisco peaks rear their lofty heights.
To the north and east the sandy desert stretches away in heart-breaking
desolation, relieved only by the tiny green patches of peach trees and
corn fields. The blazing sun beats down appallingly. A purple haze
quivers over the world. But evening comes, and as the sun drops out of
sight a pink glow spreads over the eastern sky, giving a soft radiance
to the landscape below. Soon this desert glow fades, and shadows creep
nearer and nearer, until one seems to be gazing into the sooty depths of
a midnight sea. Turn again toward the village. Firelight darts upward
and dies to a glow; soft voices murmur through the twilight; a carefree
burst of laughter comes from a group of returned school children.
It suddenly dawns on one that this is the home of these people, their
home as it was their fathers' and their fathers' home before them. They
are contented and happy. Why leave their sun-kissed, wind-swept heights,
seven thousand feet high, for the scorching desert below?
The village was seething at the first hint of dawn on the day of the
actual snake dance. Crowding the dizzy mesa edges were masses of Indians
and whites drawn there for the ceremony. Somewhere, far below, through
the desert dawn, a score of young men were running the grilling race to
reach the village. The first to arrive would secure the sacred token
bestowed by the Head Priest. This would insure fruitful crops from his
planting next year and, perhaps more important, the most popular girl in
the village would probably choose him for a husband. We stood near our
squash-blossom girl, and the progress of the race was written on her
face. I knew her choice was among the runners, and when the first one to
arrive darted, panting, up to the priest and grasped the token, I knew
who was her choice!
The white visitors spent the forenoon strolling around the mesa, tasting
Hopi food, feeding candy to the naked, roly-poly babies, or bargaining
with visiting Navajos for rugs and silver jewelry. French, Spaniards,
Mexicans, Germans, Americans, and Indians jostled each other
good-naturedly. Cowboys, school teachers, moving-picture men, reporters,
missionaries, and learned doctors were all there. One eminent doctor
nudged the Chief gleefully and displayed a small flask he had hidden
under his coat. I wondered if he had fortified himself with liquor in
case of snakebite. He surely had! And how? He had heard for years of the
secret antidote that is prepared by the Snake Priest and his wife, to be
used all during the nine days the snakes are being handled. He traveled
there from Chicago to secure a sample of that mixture. He found the
ready ear of a Hopi youth, who supplied him with a generous sample in
return for five dollars. The doctor was satisfied, for the time being,
and so was the mischief-loving kid. He told us a few minutes later that
he had sold seven such samples on the Q.T. and that he was going to have
to mix up another brew! "What are you selling them?" I asked, trying to
be as stern as possible. "Water we all washed in," he said, and we both
had a good laugh.
At noon the snakes were taken from the big jars and washed in other
ollas of water. This is a matter of politeness. Since the snake brothers
cannot wash themselves, it must be done for them.
The middle of the afternoon found the crowd choosing places of vantage
for the Snake Dance, which would begin just before sundown and last
perhaps half an hour. Owners of houses were charging a dollar a seat on
their roofs, and they could have sold many more seats had there been
room for them.