The people of the Water clan dwelt at the western end of the cliffs
which border the Tyuonyi on the north. They occupied some twenty caves
scooped out along the base of the rock, and an upper tier of a dozen
more, separated from the lower by a thickness of rock averaging not over
three feet. This group of cave-dwellings--and vestiges thereof are still
visible at this day--lay in a re-entering angle formed by the cliffs,
which overhang in such a manner as to form a sheltered nook open to the
south. Ascent to their base is quite steep, and great heaps of débris
cover the slope. The gorge is narrow, a dense thicket interspersed with
pine-trees lines the course of the brook, and the declivity forming the
southern border of the Rito approaches the bottom in rocky steps,
traversed laterally by ledges overgrown with scrubby vegetation.
Vestiges of former occupancy are still scattered about the caves. Some
of these furnish a clew to the manner in which the dwellings were formed
by scraping and burrowing. Splinters of obsidian and of basalt--sharp
fragments, resembling clumsy chisels or knives--served to dig an oblong
hole in the soft pumice or tufa of the cliff. After this narrow cavity
had penetrated a depth of one or two feet, the artisan began to enlarge
it inside, until a room was formed for which the tunnelled entrance
served as a doorway. The room, or cell, was gradually finished in a
quadrangular or polygonal shape, with a ceiling high enough to permit a
person of average size to stand erect. Not unfrequently side rooms were
excavated connecting with the first by low apertures, to pass through
which it was necessary to stoop, or even to creep on all fours. These
passages were too low for doorways, too short to deserve the name of
tunnels. Into the front apartment light and air were admitted through
the entrance, and sometimes through small window-like apertures. The
side cells were utterly dark except where excavated parallel to the face
of the rock, when sometimes another entrance was opened to the front,
sometimes an air-hole only admitted light and air.
If on the afternoon of the day when Shyuote had his perilous adventure
with the young people of the Corn clan, we had been able to peep into
the third one of the ground-floor caves, counting from the west end of
the group inhabited by the Water people, we should have found the
apartment empty; that is, as far as human occupancy was concerned. But
not deserted; for while its owner was not there, ample signs of his
presence only a short time before could be detected everywhere. In the
fireplace wood was smouldering, and a faint smoke rising from this found
egress through a crude chimney. This was built over the hearth, with two
vertical side slabs of pumice supporting a perforated square flag, over
which a primitive flue, made of rubble cemented by mud, led to a
circular opening in the front wall of the cave. In a corner stood the
frame for the grinding-slabs, or _metates_, and in it the three plates
of lava on which the Indian crushes and pulverizes his maize were placed
in the convenient slanting position. Not only the prismatic
crushing-pins, but freshly ground meal also, lay in the stone casings of
the primitive mill, and on these the plates themselves. Deerskins and
cotton wraps were rolled in a bundle in another corner. Others hung on a
line made of rawhide and stretched across one end of the room, fastened
to wooden pins driven into the soft rock. On the floor--to which a thick
coating of mud, washed with blood and smoothed, gave a black, glossy
appearance--there were beside, here a few stone axes with handles, there
some black sooty pots, painted bowls, and finally the inevitable
water-urn with wide body and narrow top, decorated in the usual style
with geometrical and symbolical figures painted in red and black on
whitish ground. The walls of the cave were burnished with burnt gypsum;
the ceiling was covered by a thick coat of soot; and a band of yellow
ochre, like wainscoting, ran along the base of the sides.
The owner of this troglodytic home, however, is not to be seen; but in a
side chamber, which communicates with this apartment through one of the
dark and low passages just described, a rustling sound is heard, as of
some one rummaging about in darkness. After a while a woman's head peeps
through the passage into the outer room, and little by little the whole
body emerges, forcing itself through the narrow opening. She rises and
stands erect in front of the hearth, and the sunbeam which still enters
the apartment by the round hole above the fireplace strikes her features
full and enables us to scan them. The woman into whose dwelling we have
pryed, and who stands now in the dim chamber as sole occupant and owner,
is Shotaye, Tyope's former wife, and the friend who has given Say Koitza
such ill advice.
If Shotaye be a witch, she certainly is far from displaying the hag-like
appearance often attributed to the female sorcerer. There is even
something decidedly fascinating about her. Shotaye, although near the
forties, is for an Indian woman undoubtedly good-looking. No wonder some
other women of the tribe are afraid of her. She is tall and well
rounded, and her chest is of that fulnesss that develops at an early age
in the women of the Pueblos. Her face is even pretty,--her lips are
pouting and sensual, the nose small and shaped like a short, pointed
beak, the cheek-bones high, while the chin indicates remarkable
determination. Magnificent black hair streams down her back. It is as
full as a wave, as lustrous as polished obsidian.
Her dress consists of a buckskin wrap without girdle, embroidered at the
lower end with multi-coloured porcupine-quills. Bracelets of white
shells, a necklace of feldspar crystals and turquoises, and strings of
yellow cotton threads around her ankles complete the costume. Such is
the woman who has played and still plays an ominous part in the history
of Okoya's mother, and in the history of the people at the Rito de los
Frijoles. Now that we have seen her home and her person, let us proceed
with the tale of her doings on the afternoon to which the close of the
preceding chapter has been devoted.
Shotaye had been rummaging about in the inner cell of her rocky house in
search of some medicinal plant, for that cell was her storeroom,
laboratory, and workshop. But as the room was without light at all, she
had entered it with a lighted stick in her hand; and just as she had
begun her search the flame had died out. So after a vain attempt by
groping in darkness, she crawled back to the exterior apartment and
knelt down in front of the hearth to fan the coals with her breath and
thus obtain another torch for her explorations. At that moment the
deerskin robe closing the entrance to her grotto was timidly lifted, and
a feeble voice called the usual greeting. "Opona," replied Shotaye,
turning toward the doorway. A lithe figure crept into the cave. When
near the fireplace it stood still, enabling the mistress of the dwelling
to recognize the features of Say, her friend and now fully recovered
patient.
But how different was Say's appearance from what it was when Shotaye a
few days ago saw her last? How changed,--how thin and wan her cheeks,
how sunken her eyes, how sallow and sickly her complexion! Her face
seemed to bear the seal of approaching death, for the eyes stared
expressionless, the mouth twitched without speaking. But one thought
seized Shotaye, that her friend must be ill, very, very ill,--that the
old disease had returned in full force and had clutched her anew with
perhaps irresistible power. Anxiously she rose to her feet, and scanned
the face of the invalid.
"What ails you, my sister," she inquired tenderly. "Has disease come on
you again? Speak, sa uishe, speak to me that I may know."
Her visitor only shook her head and glanced about as if seeking a place
to rest herself. The medicine-woman gathered hurriedly a few robes,
folded them so as to make a cushion near the hearth, and then gently
urged Say to sit down on this soft and easy seat. She yielded, and then
remained motionless, her glassy eyes staring vacantly at the floor.
"Sister," Shotaye reiterated, "sister, what ails you? Speak, and I will
do all I can for you." But the other merely shook her head and began to
shiver. Shotaye noticed the wristbands of red leather on her arms, and
it startled her. She asked eagerly,--
"Why do you wear in trouble the colour that should make our hearts glad?
What has happened to you that causes you to seek relief for your
distress?" The tone of her voice sounded no longer like entreaty; it was
an anxious, nay stern, command. Okoya's mother raised her eyes with an
expression of intense misery; she threw toward her questioner a look
imploring relief and protection, and finally gasped,--
"They know everything!" Then her head dropped on her knees, she grasped
her hair, covered her face and chest with it, and broke out in
convulsive sobs.
"They know everything!" Shotaye repeated, "Who know everything?"
Suddenly the truth seemed to flash upon her mind.
"What, the Koshare?" she cried in terror.
Convulsive sobs and groans were the only reply to her exclamation. They
amply confirmed her worst apprehensions. "The Koshare know all."
Unconsciously the cave-dweller uttered these words while staring into
the remnant of gleaming coals on the hearth; then she became silent.
Neither could Say Koitza utter a word; only from time to time her
spasmodic sobs broke the stillness of the room. The bright disk which
the light from the outside painted on the wall opposite was fading
little by little, a sign of approaching sunset.
Shotaye's features displayed few signs of the terror which her friend's
disclosures had produced. Soon her face betokened that fear could not
retain its hold long on her resolute mind, that intense reflection had
superseded dismay. She turned to her visitor and asked,--
"Tell me, sister, how you came to know that the Delight Makers are
acquainted with your doings? Tell me, and do not weep." And as Say
remained silent and immovable she crouched beside her, removed her hair
gently from her face, then raised her head and placed it so as to rest
on her bosom. Then she looked deep into the eyes of the poor woman. They
were glassy and almost lifeless. While thus gazing intently at Say,
Shotaye's features changed and became sad and dejected.
It was for a moment only. Soon the expression of hopelessness vanished
and the lines of her face became resolute, hard, and determined.
Surprise had yielded to reflection, reflection to pity and remorse. Now
remorse in turn gave way to determination. Shotaye felt that she, much
rather than her friend, was lost, irretrievably lost; but her energetic
nature demanded that she should see the situation clearly. Although the
spasmodic hints of Say, her broken words, spoke enough, she wanted more.
Her mind craved the full truth, however terrible it might prove.
Say Koitza had slowly recovered from her stupor. She became quieter and
quieter. In the arms of her resolute and sympathizing friend
consciousness returned; she sobbed no more, and from time to time would
raise her eyes with a look that besought pity, mercy, and assistance.
The medicine-woman eagerly watched these changes and repeated her
previous query.
"How do you know that the Koshare are aware of it?"
"Sa nashtio told me," moaned the poor woman.
Shotaye sighed. This was bad news indeed. She muttered,--
"This is bad, very bad. If the maseua knows it, then the tapop will not
be long without notice."
"The tapop knows nothing," breathed Say.
"But how can the maseua have been informed without the knowledge of the
other?" Shotaye asked with surprise.
"He is my father," replied Say, and wept aloud. "He is my father, and
yet"--she started to rise and grasped her hair with both hands,
screaming--"he has to kill me with his own hands!"
So loud and piercing was her shriek that Shotaye was seized with sudden
fright. Rising quickly, she ran to the doorway and peeped outside to see
if the scream had attracted attention. But there appeared to be nobody
about, except a few children who were playing and romping in front of
the caves and whose cries had drowned the shriek. Reassured she returned
to Say, who was lying with her face on the floor, tearing her hair and
uttering low convulsive groans. Shotaye grew frightened, and brought
water in a gourd. She moistened her forehead and hands with the liquid,
rubbed her face, and thus finally brought her back to some composure.
After drinking some water Say sat on the robes again, shivering and
gasping. Her mind seemed entirely gone, the expression of her features
was akin to idiocy. The room had grown darker, night was approaching.
As soon as she appeared to be quiet, Shotaye felt tempted to resume her
questionings. But she bethought herself of the late hour, and of the
suspicion which might arise in case Say Koitza should not be home in
time. Still, she must ask some questions; her positive mind required
some additional knowledge which must be gained ere she could afford to
let her visitor return home. Shotaye returned to the entrance, looked
stealthily outside, and listened. Dusk had set in, and the bottom of the
gorge was wrapped in twilight. The shrubbery along the brook appeared
dim and pale, the lofty pines looked like black monuments. On the
southern declivity all detail had vanished, but the top of the southern
mesa glistened yet like a golden seam. In the recess formed by the angle
of the cliffs which contained her home, the usual bustle of the evening
hours prevailed; and laughter, merry and boisterous, issued from a cave
opposite that where Shotaye, concealed by folds of the half-lifted
curtain, stood watching with eye and ear. In those caves fronting hers
dwelt the family of Zashue, Say's husband. Thence sounded the merriment,
and the woman recognized familiar voices. Surely enough Hayoue was
there; and there could be no mistake, that clear good-natured laugh was
from Zashue himself. Shotaye dropped the curtain and turned back
considerably relieved. If Zashue was at his mother's and brother's
home, she reasoned, he would not return to the big house that night; and
since he was so gay, so merry, it was not likely that he knew anything
of the terrible accusation against his wife and her. If that were the
case there was no immediate danger, since all the Koshare were not
informed of the matter. Returning to the hearth she poked the embers,
placed on them another stick of pitchy wood, and fanned it with her
breath until the flames burst forth, lively and bright. Until then Say
had remained motionless in her seat. She had taken no notice of her
friend's movements; but when the wood flamed and a warm glow began to
spread over the apartment, she started like one whose dreams are
suddenly disturbed and began to speak.
"I must go," she exclaimed anxiously. "I must go home. I must cook for
Zashue! He is looking for me! I must go," and she attempted to rise.
Shotaye tried to quell her sudden apprehension, but she kept on with
growing excitement,--
"I must! Let me go! Let me go! For he is looking for me."
"He is not," assured the other. "Be quiet. He is yonder with his people
in the cave. There he sits and there he will stay till late."
A sudden tremor seized the body of Say. Her hands shook like aspen
leaves. "Is he there?" she gasped. "Then he is coming after me. Is he
not a Koshare?" Her eyes glistened with that peculiar glare which
betokens aberration of the mind.
Any ordinary Indian woman would have concluded from the appearance and
utterances of Say that she was hopelessly insane, and would either have
resorted to incantations or left her in terror. Shotaye, although very
much frightened, did not think of desertion, but only of relief. With
keen self-possession she said in a decided and convincing tone,--
"Fear nothing, sa tao; he will not come, for he knows nothing."
"Nothing?" inquired Say, looking at her with the shy and sly glance of a
doubting maniac.
"Nothing at all!" Shotaye exclaimed, firmly. She had recovered her
ascendency. She directed her glance, commanding and convincing, straight
at the wavering gaze of the excited woman, whose look became dim and
finally meek. Shotaye took advantage of the change.
"Zashue knows nothing at all," she asserted, "and that is very, very
good; for it gives us hope."
"But if they tell him!" and the anxious look came back to her face.
"Let them tell, if they choose," defiantly exclaimed the other;
"afterward we shall see."
Say shook her head in doubt.
"But how did the Koshare come to know about it?" Shotaye again pressed
the main question.
"I do not know," sighed Say; and she again stared into the fire, and her
face quivered suspiciously. The cave-dweller quickly interjected,--
"What do the Delight Makers really know about us?"
"They know--they know that I spoke to the dark-coloured corn."
"Is that all?"
"No--yes--no. They know more." She spoke with greater vivacity, and in a
natural tone of voice; "they know about the owl's feathers, too." A deep
sigh followed this reply, and tears came to her eyes. Say was herself
again.
Shotaye also heaved a deep sigh of relief. Her friend's mind was
restored, and she had gained the much-desired information. But it would
have been dangerous to proceed further in this conversation, lest the
cloud which had threatened Say's mental powers should return and settle
permanently. So, after a short silence, she turned to her friend, and
said in a positive tone,--
"Sister, go home now and rest easy. Nothing is lost as yet. Go home, be
quiet, and attend to your work as usual. I shall be on the watch."
"But the Koshare!" Say anxiously exclaimed.
"Leave them to me," the other answered; and so powerful was her
influence on the timid mind of her visitor, so unbounded the confidence
which the latter had in her abilities and her faithfulness, that Say
rose without a word, and like an obedient child, covering her head with
one corner of her wrap, went out and meekly strolled home. It was night,
and nobody noticed her. Okoya was already at the estufa; Shyuote and the
little girl were asleep. Say lay down beside her sleeping children and
soon sank into a heavy slumber. Her body, weak from over-strain,
compelled a rest which the mind might have denied to her.
In her dark chamber in the rock, Shotaye sat alone before the fire on
the hearth. It began to flame lustily, for the woman fed it well. She
wanted the glow, first in order to cook her food, next in order to
brighten the room; for with the dark and tangled subject on her mind,
she felt the need of light and warmth as her companions in musing. When
the flames rustled and crackled, Shotaye squatted down in front of them,
folded her arms around her knees, and began to think.
She felt far from being as reassured about the outlook as she had
pretended to be when she sent Say Koitza home with soothing and
comforting words. But the preservation of her friend's mental powers was
an imperative necessity. Had Say been permitted to fall a prey to her
momentary excitement, everything would have been lost for Shotaye. Had
Say's mind given way permanently, the cause of that calamity would have
been attributed to her, and she would have been charged with her
friend's insanity in addition to the charge of witchcraft already being
formulated.
These thoughts, however, came to her now in the stillness of the night
and by the fireside. So long as her poor friend was with her she had
acted almost instinctively, with the quick grasp of an active intellect
and under the good impulses of compassion and attachment. Now that she
was alone the time had come to ponder, and Shotaye weighed in her mind
the liabilities and assets of her situation. She began to calculate the
probabilities for and against.
It was not difficult for her to escape; but this was only possible when
attempted alone. With Say Koitza flight was next to impossible. Beside,
it appeared very unlikely to her that the woman would flee from her
children.
[Illustration: Rito de los Frijoles
A cliff estufa of the Snake-Clan]
As for Shotaye, the case was different; she might leave her cave and her
scanty effects at any time, provided she knew where to go. This was not
so easy to determine. The Navajos, or Dinne, haunted the country around
the Tyuonyi; and in case she fell in with one or more of their number,
it became a matter of life or death. The Moshome, or enemies of her
tribe, might take a fancy to the woman and spare her; but they might
feel wicked and kill her. Death appeared, after all, not such a terrible
misfortune; for under present circumstances what else could she expect
at the Rito but a horrible and atrocious death? But Shotaye was intent
upon living, not so much for the sake of life itself--although it had
many sensual charms for her--as out of a spirit of combativeness
resulting from her resolute character, as well as from the constant
struggles which she had undergone during the time of her separation from
her husband. She felt inclined to live, if possible, in spite of her
enemies. To endure the lot of a captive among the Navajos was repulsive
to her instincts; she hated to be a drudge. Admitting that she succeeded
in eluding those enemies, whither was she to direct her flight? That
there were village communities similar to her own at a remote distance
was known to her; but she was aware of only one in which she might be
received, and that belonged to the Tehuas, of whom she knew that a
branch dwelt in the mountains west of the river, inhabiting caves
somewhere in the rocks at one day's journey, more or less, from the
Rito. Between these Tehuas and the Queres of the Tyuonyi there was
occasional intercourse, and a fairly beaten trail led from one place to
the other; but this intercourse was so much interrupted by hostilities,
and the Navajos rendered the trail so insecure beside, that she had
never paid much attention to it. Still, there was no doubt in her mind
that if she reached the habitations of the Tehuas, above where the
pueblo of Santa Clara now stands, a hospitable reception would be
extended to her. But could she leave Say alone to her dismal fate?
After all, death was not such a fearful thing, so long as no torture
preceded or accompanied it. Death must come to her once, at all events,
and then what of it? There need be no care for the hereafter, according
to her creed. The Pueblo Indian knows of no atonement after dying; all
sins, all crimes, are punished during this life. When the soul is
released from the thralls of this body and its surrounding nature, it
goes to Shipapu, at the bottom of the lagune, where there is eternal
dancing and feasting, and where everything goes on as here upon earth,
but with less pain, care, anguish, and danger. Why therefore shun death?
Shotaye was in what we should call a philosophic mood.
Such careless philosophy may temporarily ease the mind, since it stifles
for a moment the pangs of apprehension and dread. But with the
temporary relief which Shotaye felt, the demands of physical nature grew
more apparent. In other words she felt hungry, and the more so as, being
now almost resolved to suffer death with resignation, it was imperative
to live, and consequently to eat, until Death should knock at her door.
She poured a good portion of the now boiling stew into a smaller bowl
and began to fish out the morsels with her fingers, while between times
she drank of the broth. The warm food comforted her, gave her strength,
and aroused her vital powers, which arduous thinking had almost put to
sleep.
She placed the pot with the stew in a corner and sat down again, leaning
against the wall. No sleepiness affected her. There was too much to
think of as yet. Her thoughts returned to the absorbing subject of the
day, and with these thoughts, random at first, a pale, wan figure rose
before her inner eye,--a form well, only too well, known to her; that of
Say Koitza. She saw that figure as she had seen it not long
ago,--crouching before that very fire in bitterest despair, bewailing
her own lot, lamenting her imminent untimely death, and yet without one
single word of reproach for her who had beguiled her into doing what now
might result in the destruction of both. Was not that thin, trembling
woman her victim? Was she not the one who had led Say astray? The Indian
knows not what conscience is, but he feels it all the same; and Shotaye,
ignorant of the nature of remorse, nevertheless grew sad.
Indeed she it was who had beguiled the poor frail creature,--she it was
who had caused her to perform an act which, however immaterial in fact,
still entailed punishment of the severest kind according to Indian
notions and creed. She was the real culprit, not Say,--poor, innocent,
weak-minded Say. Shotaye felt that she had done wrong, and that she
alone deserved to suffer. But would her punishment save the other?
Hardly, according to Indian ideas. Therefore, while it dawned upon her
that by accusing herself boldly and publicly she might perhaps ward off
the blow from the head of her meek and gentle accomplice, that thought
was quickly stifled by the other, that it was impracticable. Again a
voice within her spoke boldly, Save yourself regardless of the other.
Yet she discarded that advice. She could not forsake her victim. For in
addition to the legitimate motives of sympathy, another and stronger
reason prevailed,--the dread of the very powers whom she thought to have
invoked in Say's behalf, and to whose dark realm she fancied that she
would be fettered and still faster riveted by committing an action which
she regarded as worse than all her other deeds. Dismissing every thought
of self she resolved to remain true to Say, happen what might. Shotaye
had almost become--
"part of the power that still
Produceth good, whilst ever scheming ill."
She believed that death stood plainly at her door. Nevertheless she
hated to die. The philosophy of careless, frivolous resignation could
not satisfy her strong vitality, still less her stronger feelings of
hatred against her enemies. She felt that there might be a bare
possibility of saving her companion; and the wish to save herself at the
same time, and in the very teeth as it were of the Koshare, grew
stronger and stronger. It waxed to an intense longing for life and
revenge. But what was to be done? There was the riddle, and to solve it
she thought and thought. Shotaye became oblivious of all around her,
completely absorbed in her musings.
It thus escaped her notice that the curtain over the doorway had been
cautiously lifted several times, and that a human face had peered into
the apartment. She even failed to hear the shuffling step of two men
who stealthily entered the room. Only when they stood quite near her did
the woman start and look up. Both men broke out into roaring laughter at
her surprise. Shotaye grew angry.
"Why do you come in so unceremoniously," she cried. "Why do you sneak in
here like a Moshome, or like a prairie wolf after carrion? Cannot you
speak, you bear?" she scolded without rising.
Her anger increased the merriment of the intruders. One of them threw
himself down by her side, forced his head into her lap, attempting to
stroke her cheeks. She pushed him from her, and recognized in him the
gallant Zashue, Say Koitza's husband. He grasped both her hands. This
she allowed; but continued scolding.
"Go away, you hare, let me alone." He again reached toward her face, but
she avoided him. "Go home to your woman; I have no use for you."
The men laughed and laughed; and the other one knelt down before her,
looking straight into her face with immoderate merriment. Then she
became seriously angry.
"What do you want here," she cried; and when the first one attempted to
encircle her waist she pushed him from her with such force that he fell
aside. Then she rose to her feet and Zashue followed.
"Be not angry, sister," he said good-naturedly, rubbing his sore
shoulder; "we mean you no harm."
"Go home and be good to your woman."
"Later on I will," he continued, "but first we want to see you."
"And talk to you," said Hayoue, for he was Zashue's companion;
"afterward I shall go." He emphasized the "I" and grinned.
"Yes, you are likely to go home," she exclaimed. "To Mitsha you will go,
not to your mother's dwelling."
"Mitsha is a good girl," replied the young man, "but I never go to see
her."
His brother meanwhile attempted to approach the woman again, but she
forbade it.
"Go away, Zashue, I tell you for the last time." Her speech and manner
of action were very positive.
"Why do you drive us away?" he said in a tone of good-natured
disappointment.
"I do not drive you away," replied Shotaye. "You may stay here a while.
But then both of you must leave me." Her eyes nevertheless gazed at the
two handsome forms with evident pleasure, but soon another thought
arose.
"Sit down," she added quietly, as she grasped after the stew-pot, placed
it on the fire, and sat down so that she was in the shadow, whereas she
could plainly see the features of both men. The visitors had squatted
also; they feared to arouse the woman's anger, and the surprise they had
planned had failed.
Hayoue spoke up first,--
"You are good, sanaya, you give us food."
"Indeed," she remonstrated, "when I am not willing to do as you want,
you call me mother and make an old woman of me." She looked at the young
man, smiling, and winked at him.
"You are not very young after all," he teased; "you might easily be my
mother."
"What! I your mother? The mother of such an elk? You have one mother
already, and if you need another, go to Mitsha's mother." With these
words she fixed her gaze on the youth searchingly and inquiringly. As
her face was in the shadow Hayoue could not well notice its expression.
But he said again, and very emphatically,--
"I tell you once more, koitza, that I will not have anything to do with
the girl; she is all right, but--" he stopped and shrugged his
shoulders. Zashue interjected,--
"Why not? Tyope would then be your nashtio."
"For that very reason I do not want his daughter," Hayoue exclaimed,
looking straight at his brother. He was in earnest about this matter,
and whenever Hayoue grew serious it was best not to tease him too much.
Shotaye had treasured every word, noticed every look and gesture. Of
course she, as Tyope's former wife, took care not to take part in the
conversation as far as Tyope was concerned.
Zashue turned to her with the query,--
"Sam[=a]m, have you any feathers?"
Shotaye was startled; what might be the import of this suspicious
inquiry? Did he know about her affair and come only as a spy? She
withheld her answer for a moment, just time enough for reflection. It
was better to seem unconcerned, so she replied quietly,--
"I have."
"If you have hawk's feathers, will you give me some?"
The mention of hawk's feathers reassured Shotaye. At the same time it
indicated to her a prospective trade, and the woman had always an eye to
business. So she placed both elbows on her knees, looked straight at
Zashue, and inquired,--
"What will you give me for them?"
"Nothing," replied Zashue, with a laugh.
"Promise her the next owl that you may find," Hayoue taunted.
"Be still, you crow," scolded Shotaye, with well-feigned indignation;
"you need owl's eyes that you may sneak about in the dark after the
girls. There is not a single maiden safe when you are at the Tyuonyi."
"And no man is safe from you," retorted the young man.
"You are safe, at any rate."
"When you call me a turkey-buzzard you say the truth," he answered,
"else I would not have come to you."
Shotaye understood the venomous allusion and was going to retort, but
bethought herself in time and only said in a contemptuous tone,--
"Why should I quarrel with you, uak." Then turning to Zashue and
changing the subject,--
"How many feathers do you want, and what will you give me for them?"
"Four, but they must be long ones."
"What will you give me for them?"
"Let me see the feathers." With this he rose.
Without replying Shotaye poured out two little bowls of broth, placed
them before her visitors, said "eat," took a lighted stick from the
hearth, and crawled into the dark passage leading to her magazine. Soon
she was heard to rummage about in that apartment, and a faint glow
illuminated the low tunnel.
While the woman was busy searching for the feathers, the two men partook
of the food she had set before them sparingly, as it was a mere matter
of etiquette. But while eating they exchanged sly glances and winks,
like bad boys bent upon some mischief. At last, as Shotaye did not
return, Zashue stealthily arose, removed one of the heavy
grinding-plates from its frame, and placed it across the mouth of the
gangway. Then he stretched himself at full length on the floor with his
back leaning against the slab. Hayoue watched him and chuckled.
The light of the torch shone through the space which the slab could not
cover; the mistress of the cave was coming back. Very soon however the
light disappeared and all grew silent. The firebrand had been
extinguished; the woman was inside, but kept perfectly still, giving no
signs of impatience or disappointment. The mischievous men looked at
each other in astonishment; they had not expected that.
They waited and waited. Nothing stirred in the inner room; it grew late
and later. Hayoue had intended to make other calls, and Zashue also
became impatient to go. So he called into the dark passage,--
"Shotaye." No reply.
"Shotaye."
"Shotaye sam[=a]m!"
All was as silent as the grave. They sat in expectation for a while;
then he again shouted,--
"Shotaye sam[=a]m! Come out!"
Nothing was heard. He noisily removed the grinding-slab from the
entrance and cried,--
"Shotaye, we must go. Bring the feathers."
"Let me alone and go," sounded the dull reply at last.
"Give me the feathers first," Zashue demanded.
"Come and get them yourself," replied the voice inside.
This was rather an awkward invitation, for both men, like almost
everybody else at the Rito, were afraid of the medicine-woman's private
room.
"Do bring them," Zashue begged.
"Go! I will not come out any more," growled the voice within.
"Shotaye, sister, bring me the feathers. I will give you a fine deerskin
for them," implored the husband of Say.
"What do you want them for?"
"For the dance."
"You lie! There is no dance now."
Anxiously and eagerly Zashue cried,--
"There will certainly be a dance. Three days hence we shall dance the
ayash tyucotz!"
And Hayoue, who until then had quietly enjoyed the dialogue, now
interjected emphatically,--
"Certainly, sanaya, in three days."
"What will you give me if I bring them?" came the dull query again from
within.
"A hide."
"Go! I will keep my feathers."
"I will give you two turquoises."
"Give me four," demanded the cave-dweller.
"It is too much," cried both men at once.
No reply followed. Shotaye remained silent. The trade was broken off.
Still the younger brother felt disinclined to give up. He went to the
mouth of the passage and said aloud,--
"If you give us the feathers you shall have two green stones and one
deerskin."
"Is it true; do both of you promise it?" asked the woman, after a while.
"Yes! yes!" cried both men together.
"Then put the things near the hearth and sit down," she commanded.
"We have them not with us."
"Go and get them."
"We cannot to-night."
"Then I will keep my feathers until you bring what you have promised;"
and with these words Shotaye crept smiling out of the passage and
planted herself before the discomfited men.
"Go home, now, children," she said. "I am tired. I am sleepy."
They attempted to beg, they pleaded and implored; but she was firm. All
they finally obtained was her promise to deliver the feathers on the
next day, provided the price agreed upon was paid. With this the two men
had to be satisfied, and their exit was as crestfallen and disappointed
as their entrance had been mischievous and buoyant.
They had been completely outwitted and foiled by the wily woman.
Nevertheless, they never thought for a moment of obtaining by force what
she so positively refused. It would have been easy for the two strong
men to overpower her; but both were afraid of the supernatural powers
attributed to Shotaye. For the same reason they were anxious to obtain
the feathers. An object coming from her and having been in her
possession was suspected of having acquired thereby virtues which it did
not possess before. But these virtues were thought to be beneficial only
as long as the object was obtained from her in a legitimate way, and
with her own free will and kind consent. In the opposite case, the bad
will of the woman went with the feathers, and was thought to work harm
to their new owner. It was easy to taunt or to tease Shotaye, but to
arouse her anger appeared a dangerous undertaking; and as for harming
her person, none but the shamans would have attempted it.
After her guests' departure Shotaye felt wide awake. She had dismissed
them, not in order to go to rest, but in order to be once more alone
with her thoughts. For during the bantering conversation with the
brothers, she had learned several important facts that changed
materially her plans. In order to ponder carefully over the different
aspect of matters, she poked the fire again and sat down by the hearth
in the same position as before the interruption, and mused.
In the first place, it had become clear to her that Zashue was utterly
ignorant of the accusation against his wife.
Next, she was convinced that Hayoue was far from being Tyope's friend;
on the contrary, he seemed to dislike him thoroughly. Hayoue was known
to be very outspoken in matters of sympathy and antipathy, and if he
were not fond of Tyope, the latter certainly had come to feel it in some
way or other. Then, for she knew Tyope well, he doubtless hated Hayoue
cordially, and would have shown his enmity in the dark, underhand way
peculiar to himself. If Hayoue, on the other hand, was not favourably
inclined toward Tyope, it was quite certain that he, being Cuirana,
nursed feelings of dislike toward the Koshare in general. Any
accusation, therefore, which the Delight Makers would bring against Say
Koitza was sure to meet at first with decided incredulity on the part of
the young man, and this incredulity might possibly be converted, through
adroit management, into active opposition.
But the most valuable piece of news she had heard from the intruders was
that three days hence a solemn dance, the ayash tyucotz, was to be
performed at the Rito. These ceremonies, which are always of a religious
nature, are proposed generally by the principal shamans to the civil
chiefs,--in council or privately,--either on the strength of some
presage or dream, or as a public necessity. The proposal agreed to, as
it usually is, the time is set; but no publication is made either of the
performance or of the hour until the day on which it is to occur or the
evening previous. But the matter is talked about at home, in the circle
of friends, and thus it gradually becomes known to everybody as a public
secret, and everybody has time to prepare for it. Shotaye mixed very
little with the people at the Rito; she hardly ever went to see any one,
and such as came to see her had other matters to talk about. It was no
surprise to her to learn that an important dance was near at hand; but
it was a source of much gratification nevertheless. For until the dance
was over nothing could or would be undertaken against Say and herself.
After the performance, it was equally sure that several days would
elapse ere the council could meet in full, as the religious heads of the
tribe had yet to go through ceremonies of a private nature. At all
events, it proved to her that there was no immediate danger, and that
she still had time before her. With time, so the resolute and wary woman
reasoned, there was hope.
Thus musing and speculating, she sat for a long while. The fire went
out, but she did not notice it. At last she arose, unfolded several
robes and mantles, which she easily found in the dark, and spread them
out on the floor for her couch. Shotaye could go to sleep; for at last
she saw, or thought she saw, her way clearly. She had fully determined
upon her plan of action.