It is contrary to the custom of the Indians for a war-party to enter
their village at once upon returning. For at least one day the warriors
must wait at some distance from the pueblo. They are provided with the
necessaries of life, and afterward are conducted to the village in
triumph. In the present case all these formalities were neglected, but
not through spite or disapproval; the terrible visitation which the Rito
had suffered changed everything; the survivors of the Queres were
anxious to have their numbers increased by the returning warriors.
Mechanically Tyope accompanied his guide. The warriors followed in
sullen silence, the Hishtanyi Chayan alone holding his head erect. The
visitation from above affected him least of all. No one asked about the
details of the Navajos' attack, but all feared the moment when their
valley homes should come in sight. As they neared the brink of the gorge
many lagged behind.
Tyope was filled with thoughts of the most dismal nature. He felt
wretched, crushed, almost distracted! The news brought by Kauaitshe
weighed him down in a manner that allowed neither hope or quietude. His
plans had become realized, but how? The loss of his wife he hardly felt,
so much the more did he regret Mitsha's disappearance. But far above all
this loomed up the terrible consequences, less of the defeat than of the
blow which the Navajos, following the instructions he had once given
Nacaytzusle, had struck during his absence. He had done most toward
bringing about the expedition to the Puye; therefore he had led the
flower of the tribe into perdition. During his absence and that of the
majority of its defenders the Navajos had executed the fatal surprise.
He had often been reproached with his intimacy with the young Dinne, and
while the savage remained at the Rito everybody knew that the boy was a
favourite of his. What else could the caciques, the leading shamans,
infer but that the savage had been able to select his time, and that he,
Tyope, had betrayed the tribe to the Dinne? And the worst of it was, it
was true! He had at one time suggested the plan and had abandoned it
afterward as too dangerous. He had suggested it with the view of
furthering his personal ends. Now its execution took place when he least
expected it, and when the very event which he had prepared for his
benefit struck the most crushing blow he could ever have imagined
possible for him to have suffered.
Had Tyope returned from the campaign victorious, it might have been
different; but now the Shiuana bore down upon him with crushing power;
there was no hope nor thought of his ever rising again. The best he
could expect was to be set aside forever as a broken, useless
unfortunate.
But the Koshare still remained, and they would not forsake him in the
hour of need. The Naua, if alive, would certainly not permit his utter
ruin. The two conspirators had prevailed upon the Hishtanyi so that only
a few of the Delight Makers accompanied the war-party. Of these, two or
three had escaped. How had the majority fared,--that majority which
remained at the Rito for prudence's sake? Tyope dared not ask questions;
he went along mutely as if in a dream.
The Hishtanyi Chayan stopped Kauaitshe, and asked him,--
"Have any of my brethren the yaya suffered?"
Tyope's heart throbbed, and he turned his face away, so fearful was he
of the reply.
"The Shkuy Chayan," replied Kauaitshe, in his simple manner, "is dead.
An arrow entered his eye."
Tyope shivered; misfortune crowded upon misfortune. He could no longer
resist inquiring. Panting, he asked,--
"Is our father the Naua still alive?"
"He lives and mourns. After you were gone with the people, he retired to
the place in the cliffs with the Koshare; and when the Moshome came,
nearly all the men were up there."
Tyope's head was swimming. Everything he had prepared for the
destruction of others and the security of his own tools had come about
as he had schemed, but the results had been fatal to him and his. The
Shiuana allowed him to apparently succeed in everything, but they
reserved for themselves the final results. It was terrible; all was
lost; he was forever undone.
Still if the Koshare had been at their estufa, they were out of harm's
way.
"Satyumishe," he asked, faltering, "have many of my brethren perished?"
"Nearly all," was the plain answer. "When the Dinne came upon us, the
Koshare rushed out after bows and arrows; but the Moshome met them
before they could reach the houses, and killed many before they could
get into the cave."
The poor man had to cling to a tree for support; then he slipped down
along its trunk to the ground.
"I am very tired," he murmured. It was not fatigue, however; it was the
ghastly tidings which were poured on his head, so slowly, so surely,
with such deadly effect. Kauaitshe looked at him with genuine pity. The
Hishtanyi said nothing; he was in his thoughts with Those Above, and
hardly listened to the conversation. Kauaitshe extended his hand to
Tyope.
"We are not far from the brink," said he, kindly; "come, satyumishe, a
few steps only, and you may rest, and I will tell you all,--how the
attack came, and how Hayoue saved the Zaashtesh from being all driven
into the woods. Hayoue is a mighty warrior; he is wise and very strong.
As soon as our mourning is over, the Hotshanyi will make him maseua in
place of our father Topanashka. The Shiuana have left us Hayoue; had he
gone with you not one of us would be alive."
Even that! Hayoue! Hayoue, whom Tyope had left behind in order to
deprive him of all opportunity to distinguish himself! Hayoue had reaped
laurels, whereas he had harvested only shame, disgrace, destruction.
Hayoue was a great warrior. He had averted a part at least of the
disaster which Tyope had secretly prepared for the tribe. The hand of
Those Above weighed heavily upon him; all he cared for henceforth, all
he could hope for, was not to suffer the rightful doom which he had
intended for Shotaye.
That Kauaitshe, the poor simple man whom he so disdainfully rebuked at
the council, had been selected to communicate to Tyope all this crushing
news, the latter did not interpret as an intentional cruelty. The Indian
is not malicious. He will insult and exult over the vanquished foe in
the heat of passion; but he will take the scalp and keep it very
carefully, respect it, and to a certain extent the memory of the slain.
But to sneer at and taunt a fallen adversary in the hour of sadness, and
in the condition in which Tyope was, is not the Indian's way. That was
not what made Tyope suffer. What overpowered his faculties, darkened his
mind, and deprived him of energy for all time to come, were the results
that crowded upon him so wonderfully, so completely at variance with his
own intentions. And yet they were strictly the consequences of what he
had schemed and done. Everything he had thought of and planned had taken
place, but the results did not coincide with his expectations. Those
Above alone could have directed the course of events; they were against
his doings; he was a doomed man.
* * * * *
The reader will forgive a digression. We will leave Tyope and his
companions on the brink of the Rito, and abandon them for a while to
their sombre thoughts; nay, we will leave the Rito even, and transport
ourselves to our own day. I desire to relate a story, an Indian
folk-lore tale of modern origin, which is authentic in so far that it
was told me by an Indian friend years ago at the village of Cochiti,
where the descendants of those who once upon a time inhabited the caves
on the Rito de los Frijoles now live. My object in rehearsing this tale
is to explain something I have neglected; namely, the real conception
underlying the custom of taking the scalp of an enemy.
The Indian friend of whom I am speaking, and whose home I inhabited for
quite a while, came over to the little dingy room I was occupying one
winter evening. The fire was burning in a chimney not much better than
the one Shotaye possessed at the Tyuonyi. He squatted down on his folded
blanket, rolled a cigarette, and looked at me wistfully. I felt that he
was disposed for a long talk, and returned his glance with one of eager
expectation. Casting his eyes to the ground, he asked me,--
"You know that the Navajos have done us much harm?"
"Yes, you and your brother Shtiranyi have told me so."
He curled his lip at the reference to his brother's knowledge, and said
sneeringly,--
"Shtiranyi is young; he does not know much."
"Still he told me a great deal about the wars you had with the Moshome
Dinne."
"Did he ever tell you of the hard times the people of Cochiti suffered
three generations ago?"
"Never."
"He knows nothing of them. He is too young. I,"--he assumed an air of
solemn importance,--"I will tell you something; something true,
something that you can believe; for the old men, those from a long time
ago, tell it, and what they say is so. The Mexicans never hear of it,
and to the Americans we don't tell such things, for they think they are
too smart, and laugh at what we say."
"Is the story really true?" I inquired, for I saw that something
interesting was coming.
"As true as if I had seen it myself. But I was not born when it
happened. Cochiti was larger then, a big village, twice as big as it is
to-day. But the Navajos were very powerful. They attacked us in the
daytime in the fields. They killed the men who went to gather firewood,
and they stole our cattle. At night they would come to the Zaashtesh and
carry off the women and the girls. There lived at the time a young
koitza who had recently married, and she liked her husband. One evening
after dark this woman went to the corral. There the Moshome seized her,
closed her mouth with their hands, dragged her from the village, tied
and gagged her, and placed her on a horse; then they rode off as fast as
they could, far, far away to the northwest and the hogans of their
people. The young woman cried bitterly, but it availed her nothing; she
had to live with one of the Navajos, had to cook for him and work his
corn-patch like other women. Soon the koitza saw that it was useless to
weep, so she put on a contented look in the daytime, while at night she
was thinking and scheming how she might escape from the enemy. Women are
sometimes wiser than we are ourselves. Is it not so, sa ukinyi?"
"Certainly."
"It was springtime when she was captured. She suffered summer to pass,
worked well, and appeared satisfied. The Moshome began to trust and even
to like her. It began to turn cool; the time came when the piñons are
ready for gathering, and the captive thought of flight. One morning she
said to a young woman of the Navajos, 'Let us go and gather piñon!' Both
women went to work and prepared food for several days, then they went
out into the timber far away until they came to a place where there were
many piñon-trees. There they gathered nuts, and placed them on the
blankets; and as noon-time came on, and it became warm, the young Navajo
woman grew sleepy. So the koitza from Cochiti said, 'Sister, lay your
head on my lap, I will cleanse your hair.' As the other was lying thus
and the Queres woman cleansed her head, she fell asleep. Thereupon the
captive took a large stone, crushed her skull with it, and killed her.
Was not that very wise?"
"Indeed," I uttered, but thought to myself that the action was not very
praiseworthy from our point of view.
"Then our koitza took a knife, scalped the dead, and concealed the scalp
under her skirt. It was now toward evening. All at once the woman heard
a voice calling to her, 'Sister!' She was frightened, and looked about,
but saw nobody. She lay down. Again a voice spoke close to her, 'Sister,
stay here no longer, they are uneasy!' Nothing was to be seen, and the
woman began to feel afraid. For the third time the same voice said, 'Do
not fear, sister; it is I, the ahtzeta, which speaks to thee. Go now,
for the men are saddling their horses to look for us.' The captive
gathered hastily as much food as she could carry with ease; and as the
sun went down the scalp spoke again, 'It is time to go, for my people
are on their way hither, and it is far to Cochiti.' So she ran and ran
all the night long, and always straight toward our pueblo. Toward
morning she felt tired, and the scalp spoke, 'Lie down to rest, it is
far yet to your people.' She slept, but soon woke again feeling fresh
and bright. Then the ahtzeta said to her, 'Let us go now, for soon the
Dinne will be where you took me and where I became yours.' On she ran,
eating piñons as she went. At noon the scalp was heard to say, 'My men
have found the place, and are searching for your tracks. You must go
faster.' When the sun set the ahtzeta spoke again, 'Run, sister, they
have found the trail and follow it on horseback.' Thus she went all
night long, and the nearer she came to Cochiti the more the scalp urged
her to quicken her speed, for the Navajos were coming nearer and nearer.
You know," asked he, "where the sand-hills are, a little this side of
Cuapa?"
I assented; that whole track is nothing but sand and drift, but which
particular hills he meant I could not of course imagine. Still, the
Indian knows every foot of the country, and he supposed that I, having
been over the trail two or three times, recollected every detail of it
as well as he did himself.
"You know also that there are junipers right there."
Such was indeed the case. Not only there, but all over the country.
"Well, there, about two leagues from Cochiti, the scalp spoke, 'Sister,
they are quite near; hide yourself.' The woman looked around, but she
saw no other hiding-place except the junipers. You know them, they are
to the left of the trail."
I nodded of course. There are a great many to the left of the trail.
"Then the scalp told her, 'Crawl into a rabbit-hole under the tree.' You
know the hole, don't you?"
I said yes to this query also. Around Cochiti there are perhaps hundreds
of rabbit-burrows; and it might have been one of those, although after a
full century a rabbit's hole is not supposed to be apparent. The
narrator was satisfied, nevertheless, for I had assented.
"It is well; but as the woman looked at that hole she was frightened and
replied, 'It is too small.' 'Creep into it,' ordered the scalp. 'I
cannot even get my head into it,' objected the koitza from Cochiti.
'Creep in quick, they come!' the scalp cried. The woman tried, and the
opening became larger and larger. First she found room for her head,
afterward for her shoulders; lastly her whole body was inside. As soon
as she was within, the hole closed again and appeared as small as
before. Was not that wonderful?"
I thought it was strange indeed, exceedingly wonderful. I could not
refrain from asking my friend,--
"But was it really so?"
"So the old men are telling, those from many years ago. It must be true.
Therefore don't disturb me in my speech, and listen. The Navajos came
on. They saw that the tracks stopped. They jumped from their horses, and
the woman heard them go about searching, complaining, howling, scolding.
At last they mounted their horses again and rode off. When all was quiet
the scalp spoke, 'Sister, they have gone; get out now and let us return
to your people.' With this the hole opened; the woman crept out and ran
and ran as fast as she could. When she reached the Cañada de la Peralta,
the scalp spoke for the last time, saying to her, 'Sister, now you are
safe; henceforth I shall speak no more.' And so it was. On the other
side of the ravine stood her own husband. He recognized her at once.
They went together to the houses, where she lived for many years."
He paused and looked at me, scanning my face to see the impression made
by his tale. Then he continued,--
"You see now, sa uishe, how the scalp saved her to whom it belonged.
Therefore we take ahtzeta, for as long as the spirit is not at Shipapu
it follows him who has taken the scalp, and serves and helps him. And
the strength, wisdom, and knowledge of him whose scalp has been taken,
hereafter belong to the man who took it; they increase his power and
make the tribe more powerful."
* * * * *
The appearance of the Rito from above presented at first sight nothing
startling. From the tall building thin films of smoke arose, but no
flames were visible. The house of the Corn clan seemed inhabited, for
people stood on its roof. As the returning warriors grouped themselves
on the brink to look down into the valley, those below stood still,
gazing at them. Then they broke out into a plaintive wail; the women
tore their hair, shrieked, screamed, and wept. The men above gazed and
listened in silence. Very few men were seen in the vale. The tribe of
the Queres seemed divided into two parties, the women lamenting below,
the men, like dark, blood-stained statues, standing high above them,
posted on yellowish rocks among the shrubbery.
Kauaitshe told Tyope to rest, and he willingly complied. His figure
appeared less conspicuous when he sat down. Around the two the others
gathered, except the Hishtanyi, who was slowly descending the slope
alone, eager to hear the story of the people's misfortunes. Kauaitshe
began,--
"It was yesterday, and the sun had not yet come up." He heaved a deep
sigh. "All the Koshare were in the estufa over there," he pointed at
the cliffs to his right; "the makatza and our koitza were grinding corn;
many also had gone to the brook to wash away sadness and grief. Most of
them, mainly those of Tanyi, Huashpa, and our women, bathed higher up
beyond the fields; some farther down. Shotaye was not among them; nobody
knows what has become of her."
Tyope twitched nervously. He knew where the woman had gone.
"Hayoue," the man from Tzitz proceeded, "was the only one who carried
weapons. He had gone out very early with Okoya, the youth from Tanyi who
is his brother's child. They had started while it was yet night,
following the tshinaya up to the top of the rocks. As soon as it became
light they noticed tracks and heard sounds that told them that there
were Moshome about. They went around by the south, and as it began to
dawn they stood there;" he pointed to a spot on the southern mesa
directly opposite the big house and facing the latter. "That saved us,"
he cried; "if Hayoue had not stood there to watch, we should all have
died!"
Tyope could not help contrasting the watchfulness of Hayoue with his own
supercilious negligence. Yes indeed, it was all over with him; he was
good for nothing any more.
"I was in the katityam," Kauaitshe went on, "when I heard the yells of
the savages in the corn below. They had concealed themselves there over
night, and as soon as the people came forth from their homes unarmed,
not thinking of any danger, they rushed upon them and into the big
house. I grasped uishtyak and the club, and ran for the stream. There
everybody was screaming; some were running this way, others fled that
way, but none could get back to the cliffs, none into the houses, for
the Moshome stood between them and their homes. They fled toward the
south into the kote as a mountain sheep runs from the panther. But as
tyame shoots down upon a hind, so the enemies flew after them,
scattering them in every direction. All this happened so quickly,
brother, that I was not half way down when it was over, and a few of the
Dinne rushed up to kill me. They were going to the caves to slaughter
the people. I ran back and hid myself, and as they came up I shot at one
of them so that he died. The Cuirana Naua killed another; the others ran
away. We took their ahtzeta and kept guard over the caves, but for what?
There was nobody left of Tzitz hanutsh except a few old women and Ciay
Tihua, the little boy. Go down we could not, for below was such a
noise,--such fighting, struggling, shouting, and wailing! The Moshome
tore the firebrands from the hearths, set fire to the beams, dragged the
cloth and the hides into the court-yard and burned them there. Fire came
out of the big house, and great was the smoke and black! In the smoke we
could see how the shuatyam were dancing on the roofs, and how they threw
the dead down upon the ground so that their bodies rattled and the blood
spurted and spattered everywhere. Satyumishe, it was sad, very sad; but
I could not help, nor could the Naua, for we were alone. Still I have
one scalp," he added with simple satisfaction. "Hayoue has many, many!
How many have you brought home?"
Tyope cast his eyes to the ground.
"None," he breathed; he could not conceal his contrition and shame.
Kauaitshe made no remark. He was not malicious.
"From the great house they ran into that of Tyame hanutsh. There they
killed your wife."
"And Mitsha, my daughter?" Tyope asked at last.
"Mitsha was at the brook, and fled with the others. Nacaytzusle, the
fiend, was after her to catch her, but he caught her not. Hayoue told us
afterward that Okoya Tihua killed the savage just as he had overtaken
the girl. Okoya is strong and good; he will become a great warrior, like
sa umo the maseua. That is, if he still live."
At last a ray of light seemed to penetrate the darkness that shrouded
Tyope's heart. Nacaytzusle was dead! The dangerous accomplice, the only
one who might have told about Tyope's attempted conspiracy with the
Navajos, was forever silenced. He felt relieved also to think that
Mitsha had not become a prey to the savage, and it pleased him to hear
Okoya praised. If the youth had still been at the Rito he might have
become a support for him.
"Where is Okoya?" he anxiously inquired.
"In the mountains or dead," was the reply. "When the women fled up to
the mesa, Hayoue and Okoya ran to meet them. But the Moshome were too
many, and the two became separated. Okoya killed the shuatyam, the
Navajo boy. He went close to him and struck him with his club till he
died. So Hayoue says. Hayoue remained behind; he kept back the Dinne and
then came down through the enemy--how I do not know--and protected the
katityam, helping the Koshare. All the Moshome who entered the house of
the Eagles--twelve of them--were killed inside; their scalps are with
us. And when the others saw it they ran out of the big house; but Hayoue
and the men followed and killed nine ere they could hide on the Kauash."
"So you have taken many ahtzeta?" one of the bystanders asked.
Kauaitshe began to count, "Eleven--two--twelve--nine; thirty-four," he
concluded, adding, "without those that Okoya may have if he be alive."
An exclamation of admiration and a grunt of satisfaction sounded from
the lips of those present. But they became silent and sad again at
once, for they, the warriors, had only eight or nine all told.
Kauaitshe's pride and exultation could not last long. He bethought
himself of the losses, and continued in a tone of sadness,--
"But we have lost many, many. Nearly one hundred of our people have gone
over to Shipapu, and twice as many are now in the woods, hungry and
forlorn, or the Moshome have taken them with them. Luckily, they are
mostly women. Hardly more than twenty of the men can have died, for it
may be that Okoya is still alive. Of these, sixteen were Koshare; and
the Shkuy Chayan is no more." He cast a glance of sincere pity at Tyope.
The latter said nothing, and all the others stared in mournful silence.
The lamentations below had gone on uninterruptedly. Corpses might be
seen lying on the roofs, others partly hanging down over the walls. Two
men were carrying a dead body toward the caves of the Turquoise people.
In the distance a group was seen dragging another corpse up the gorge.
Below the house of Yakka hanutsh there stood a group of men, their faces
turned toward the brink of the mesa.
The nashtio of the Water clan rose, and pointed at the group.
"There stand Hayoue, the Shikama Chayan, the three Yaya, the Hotshanyi,
Shaykatze, and Uishtyaka; and see, the Hishtanyi Chayan is down on the
Tyuonyi already, and goes up to them. Let us go now, and"--he turned to
Tyope--"you, brother, tell us what you have achieved and how you all
have fared. We cannot receive you as it behooves us; there is too much
mourning on the Tyuonyi. The Shiuana have punished us so that we cannot
be merry and glad. Therefore I have been sent to receive you, for the
men are few in the vale and"--he looked around as if counting the
bystanders--"of those that went out to avenge the death of our father
not many have come back either."
In dreary silence they began to move downward. Not a shout, not a whoop,
heralded their coming; not a scalp was waved on high in triumph. In dead
silence those below watched the sombre forms as they descended slowly,
clambering over rocks, rustling through bushes, and coming nearer and
nearer. From the caves issued plaintive wails; from the big house moans
and subdued crying ascended,--the lament over the dead on the Rito.
* * * * *
More than a week has elapsed since the return of the discomfited
war-party to their desolate and ravished homes. It is August, and the
rains have fallen abundantly. What little was left of the growing crops,
what the torrent has not destroyed and the Navajos did not lay waste,
looks promising. But this remainder is slight, and there is anxiety lest
the surviving inhabitants may starve in the dreary winter. The
formalities of mourning have therefore been performed hastily and
superficially. The remaining Koshare have retired into the round grotto,
there to fast and to pray for the safe maturity of the scanty crops. But
Tyope is not among them. His accomplice, the Naua, has forsaken him. He,
too, has become convinced that everything is lost for them, and he has
thrown away Tyope like a blunt and useless tool. Hereafter the Naua
attends strictly to his official duties, and to nothing beyond his
duties. For the Shkuy Chayan is dead, the Shikama Chayan has no love for
him, and the old Hishtanyi, who has seen more of the real nature of
events than any on the Rito, went over to the cave of the old sinner and
spake to him a few words. The "old sinner" comprehended; he has gone
back to his duties and attends to them exclusively.
Afterward the Chayan called upon the chief penitent, or Hotshanyi, and
spoke to him long and earnestly; after him to the shaykatze and the
uishtyaka; lastly with all three yaya together. Then the yaya went into
retirement, all three in the same place. They are fasting, doing
penance, mercilessly mortifying themselves, in order that Those Above
may forgive the tribe and suffer it to prosper again.
All this has taken place in silence and secret, and nothing has come to
the surface. The only thing that has become public is a general council,
not merely of the delegates of clans with the yaya, but of the tribe.
Hayoue assisted, with Zashue his brother. Tyope was present also, but he
said nothing, and nobody requested him to speak. He was not outlawed; no
punishment was dealt to him; he was simply suffered to remain on that
lower level to which he had naturally dropped.
The principal question agitating the council was the nomination of a
maseua, or head war-chief. The caciques intimated that Hayoue would be
their choice, and all concurred in the selection. But Hayoue positively
declined, insisting that his clan had virtually ceased to exist on the
Rito, and that it was his duty to follow his people in their distress.
Zashue also spoke to the same effect. His wife Say Koitza and his
children had disappeared, even to the little girl, whose brains were
still clinging to the walls of the big house, against which the enemy
had dashed her head. However much the people insisted, Hayoue remained
firm in his resolve to go after the fugitives and to save them if
possible. Most of the people thought them lost, dead, or captives; but
both young men were of the opinion that there were too many of them, and
that at least some must have escaped. It was consequently the duty of
the two youngest survivors to trace them if possible.
The Hishtanyi Chayan was the first to accede to Hayoue's demands, but
conditionally. He insisted that when their duties were fulfilled Hayoue
and his brother should return to the Rito with the rescued. But Hayoue
refused to consent even to this. The grounds given by him were obvious,
though hard to listen to. In case they found a few, he promised to
return; but should there be many yet alive he was determined upon
founding a new settlement. He reproached the council bitterly for having
allowed the lack of arable soil to have been taken as a pretext for
depriving his own small clan of its allotment in order to give it to a
larger one. That small clan should not come back and again be in the way
of the others. "Tzitz hanutsh," said he in closing, alluding to his own
performances, "has saved the tribe; it has done its duty. Now we will go
and see whether our brethren and sisters are still alive; and in case we
find them, seek for another spot where there will be sufficient room for
all."
Every one present did not understand these words; but the members of the
council knew to what the young man was alluding, and they bowed their
heads in shame. Even the Hishtanyi Chayan felt the reproach, for he knew
that it was partly his fault, since had he followed the hint dropped by
Topanashka, and his own first impressions, all might have taken a
different turn. He did not therefore insist any longer, and did not even
think it advisable to invoke the will of Those Above in aid of his
personal desire. His silence determined the people of the Rito, for they
took it for granted that the higher powers approved of Hayoue's
resolution to leave.
It may seem strange that the Chayan did not insist upon consulting the
Shiuana first, for Hayoue would have been compelled to abide by their
final decision. Here the question arises how far the Indian shaman is
sincere in his oracular utterances,--how much of his decisions is
honest error, and how much of his official acts may be deception or
mere jugglery.
In most cases of importance the shaman is honest. He really believes
that what he says is the echo from a higher world. This firm belief is
the fruit of training; and the voices he hears, the sights he sees when
alone with Those Above are the products of honest hallucination. His
training and the long and painful discipline he undergoes in rising from
degree of knowledge to degree of knowledge, the constant privations and
bodily and mental tortures, prepare him for a dreamy state in which he
becomes thoroughly convinced that he really is a medium. As such he
speaks in council, and he is most thoroughly satisfied that what he says
is the truth. Of course there are among them some who are rogues, who
profit by the credulity of others, and who even invent tricks in order
to fasten their authority upon the people in an illegitimate manner.
These tricks themselves are not performed in the majority of cases as
conscious sleight of hand. They may have been such at their inception,
but their origin has been forgotten by subsequent generations, and
nothing has remained but the bare wonderful, inexplicable fact of their
performance. Thus they have become in course of time hallowed; and the
shaman who causes lightning to flash through a dark room, or corn to
grow and mature in the course of one day, honestly believes in the
supernatural origin of the trick. Such men are often very punctilious,
and while they will go to the direst extremity in what they regard as
their duties and privileges, will with equal scruple avoid going a
single step beyond. Imbued with an idea that they are the mouth-pieces
of Those Above, they listen anxiously to everything that is striking and
strange, and attribute to inspiration forcible arguments as well as
their own speeches and actions. So it was with the Hishtanyi Chayan. The
refusal of Hayoue to accept an honourable charge struck him as being an
expression of the will of the Shiuana, against which it was his duty not
to protest. When the young man brought forward such strong arguments he
was still further confirmed in his belief, and bowed to the inevitable
in respectful silence.
At the close of the council the Koshare retired to the estufa, the
caciques followed their example, and the Chayan came next. But before he
withdrew into privacy, the great medicine-man had a long talk with
Hayoue, his object being to strengthen the tie which united the young
man with the people of the Rito, and to engage him not to forsake
altogether the abode of the spirits of his tribe. Hayoue made no
definite promise beyond what he had already pledged himself to at the
general meeting.
Hayoue and Zashue had taken leave of the invisible ones as well as of
the inhabitants of the Tyuonyi, and ascended to the brink of the
southern mesa above the Rito. Here they turned around to look back upon
the home to which neither of them was any longer strongly attached. The
sun was setting, and they wished to improve the night, for fear that
Navajos might still be prowling about on the mesas. At the bottom of the
gorge there was little life, compared with the bustle that prevailed in
former days. On the plateau the evening breeze fanned the trees; in the
east, distant lightning played about sombre clouds.
"The corn-plant is good," Zashue remarked to his brother; "the Zaashtesh
will not starve this winter. We have called loudly to Those Above."
"It is well," said the other in a tone of authority, which since his
achievements he was wont to assume toward his elder brother; "when the
Koshare perform their duty they are precious to the people."
"Without the Cuirana," the elder replied, "the sprouting corn cannot
grow." Zashue had conceived a very high opinion of Hayoue, and his
weaker mind gladly leaned upon the strong will of the youth. Hayoue
started; it was as if a sudden thought struck him. "Look, see how good
the Shiuana are! We are leaving the Tyuonyi; and behold, if we find our
people there can be no lack of food wherever we dwell. I am Cuirana, you
are Koshare. I pray and fast for the growing corn, you do the same for
the ripening of the grain. It will be well."
"If Shyuote is alive he will help me." Zashue uttered these words
timidly.
"Okoya will help me;" Hayoue spoke with great assurance. "In that case
we shall be four already. How often have I told you, satyumishe, that
Okoya is good. He is a man; I saw it when he struck Nacaytzusle, the
young Moshome."
The elder brother said nothing. He acknowledged the wrong he had done
his eldest child. In case Say Koitza, in case Shyuote were still alive,
it would be owing to that elder son of his. And his wife, Say Koitza, he
longed for now as never before. For her sake he had left
everything,--his home, his field. Willingly he abandoned his whole past
in order to find her. He regretted all that he had done in that
past,--his suspicions, his neglect, his carelessness to her. The fearful
visitations of the latter days had changed him completely.
All these thoughts he gathered in one exclamation,--
"If we only find them!"
"Let us go and search," said Hayoue, turning to go. His brother followed
him into the woods.
Henceforth we shall have to follow the two adventurers, for a while at
least. Therefore we also must take leave of the Rito de los Frijoles. Of
its inhabitants nothing striking can hereafter be told. They lived and
died in the seclusion of their valley gorge, and neither the Tehuas nor
the Navajos molested them in the years following. Tyope continued to
vegetate, anxiously taking care to give no occasion for recalling his
former conduct. The Naua soon died. The subsequent fate of the tribe is
faintly delineated by dim historical traditions, stating that they
gradually emigrated from the Rito in various bands, which little by
little, in course of time, built the villages inhabited by the Queres
Indians of to-day. Long before the advent of the Spaniards, in the
sixteenth century of our era, the Rito was deserted and forgotten. The
big house, the houses of the Eagles and of the Corn clan, are now
reduced to mere heaps of rubbish, overgrown by cactus and bunches of low
grass. Most of the cave-dwellings have crumbled also. But the Rito
always remains a beautiful spot, lovely in its solitude, picturesque and
grand. About its ruins there hovers a charm which binds man to the place
where untold centuries ago man lived, loved, suffered, and died as
present generations live, suffer, and die in the course of human
history.