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:
“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 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?”
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration]
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.
“_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!_
(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!)
[Illustration: 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 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.”
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.
XXIII
THE MAN WHO WOULDN’T KEEP SUNDAY
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 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 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
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?”
“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 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 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.
[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.
“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 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.
XXIV
THE BRAVE BOBTAILS
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 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 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!”
[84] About equivalent to our “fairy godmother.”
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.”