Autumn in New Mexico, as well as in many other parts of the world, is
the most beautiful time of the year. The rains are over, and vegetation
is refreshed and has developed. Yellow flowers cover the slopes of the
higher ranges; the summits are crowned with glistening snow again; the
days are pleasant and the nights calm, clear, and wonderfully cool.
Nature in autumn seems to display its greatest charms to allure mankind
into placid submission to the approach of rigid winter.
Autumn has come, and the two adventurers of whose reception we have
spoken in the last chapter are still guests, kindly treated and waiting
for the guide to give the signal of departure for the south. A few days
the old man had said,--in a few days he would himself go to the southern
pueblos of his tribe. But upon the rabbit-hunts there followed
ceremonial dances which lasted for days, and Hayoue and Zashue could not
leave until they were over. Then it required several days to rest and to
perform certain rites, and Zashue and Hayoue could not leave on that
account. Furthermore, Zashue being Koshare, the Koshare of the Tanos
held him back for certain performances of their own, and Hayoue could
not or would not start alone. Afterward, Hayoue being Cuirana, the
Cuirana held something in store for him, and Zashue did not care to
start without his brother. And when all that was finished the old man
was not ready; and so they are waiting and waiting, and autumn is here
in all its beauty, and Hayoue and Zashue, Zashue as well as Hayoue,
begin to chafe; but it is of no avail; they must wait.
While they are thus waiting until it pleases their friend to start, we
shall precede them to that south which is their objective point, in
order to anticipate if possible the cravings of the two adventurous
young men. They may overtake us there, perhaps when we least expect it.
* * * * *
About thirty miles south of Santa Fé, the southern rim of the so-called
Basin of Galisteo is bounded by a low and shaggy ridge running from east
to west, whose crest is formed of trap-dyke sharply though irregularly
dentated. In Spanish this ridge and another similar one which traverses
the plain several miles north of it, running parallel to the former, is
called very appropriately El Creston, for if seen from a distance and
edgewise it strikingly resembles the crest of an antique helmet. The
plain of Galisteo expands between _crestones_, and on the edges of it
stand several villages of the Tanos. Of the Galisteo Basin a Spanish
report from the sixteenth century says: "There they have no stream;
neither are there any running brooks nor any springs which the people
could use."
The mountain clusters of the Real de Dolores and Sierra de San
Francisco, and beyond these the high Sandia chain, divide the Galisteo
country from the valley of the Rio Grande in the west. To the south
there extends a dreary plain as far as the salt marshes of the Manzano;
eastward spread the wooded slopes of the plateau; above the Pecos border
upon the basin. To the north the plain rises gradually, traversed only
by the northern _creston_, until it merges into the plain of Santa Fé.
On the southwestern corner of the Galisteo Basin a broad channel
discharges its waters into it, passing between the San Francisco range
and the mountains of Dolores. The channel is arid. Mountain torrents
rush through it only in the season of thunderstorms, and they have
burrowed and ploughed through its surface, scarring it with deep furrows
and shifting waterfalls. Near the mouth of the pass and at no great
distance from the plain, one of these arroyos has cut through an ancient
village, exposing on both banks the lower walls and rooms of its
buildings, visible on the surface only as irregular lines and
quadrangles of rubbish. The village must have been quite large for an
Indian settlement, since seven rectangles with wing-like additions can
still be traced. This village in ruins is called to-day the Pueblo
Largo, and the name is not inappropriate.
At the time of which we speak, the Pueblo Largo was inhabited, and in as
high a state of prosperity as Indian pueblos ever attain unto. It
contained, as the ruins attest, nearly fifteen hundred people of the
Tanos tribe. Its name was Hishi. The name is well known to-day to the
remnants of the Tanos, for they have piously preserved the recollections
of their former abodes.
Hishi is not on a beautiful site. It lies in a wide ditch rather than in
a valley. No view opens from it, and sombre mountains loom up in close
proximity both to the north and west. In the rear of the village, the
soil rises gradually to a low series of ridges, from the top of which,
at some distance from Hishi, the eye ranges far off toward the plains
and the basin of the salt lakes. These ridges are convenient posts of
observation. Scouts placed there can descry the approach of hostile
Apaches. The latter roam up and down the plains, following the immense
herds of buffalo, and prey upon the village Indians whenever the latter
present any opportunity for a successful surprise.
The buffalo himself not infrequently comes to graze within a short
distance of Hishi. South of the present ruins lies the buffalo spring.
When the dark masses of this greatest of American quadrupeds are
descried from the heights above the village, the Tanos go out with bow
and arrow; and woe to the straggling steer or calf that lags behind.
Like the wolf, the Indian rarely attacked any but isolated animals. Only
when a communal hunt was organized, and a whole village sallied forth to
make war upon the mighty king of the prairies,--only then, previous to
the introduction of fire-arms, could the redman venture to assault even
a small herd or the rear-guard of a numerous column.
September is drawing to a close, and the autumnal sky is as cloudless
and as pure over Hishi as it is over most of the other portions of New
Mexico. But in the hollow where the village is situated the sun is
scorching, as Hishi lies much lower than the "corner in the east" and
lower than the Rito. The chaparro flowers, in dense masses of deep
yellow, carpet the earth; and the dark pine forests on the
mountain-slopes stare, while yellow streaks sweep up among the dusky
timber. In the distance we catch a glimpse of the eastern slope of the
Sandia range glistening in the bright yellow hue of the flowers that
cover miles of its slanting surface.
On the ridges south of Hishi human figures stand. They are scattered,
watching and spying attentively. They are videttes,--outposts, placed to
scan the plains and the slopes of the mountains, lest some enemy sneak
up and pounce upon the defenceless village. For at the time of which we
are speaking the Tanos, or Hishi, are not only defenceless, but
singularly unsuspecting and heedless of danger. They would be at the
mercy of an enemy, were it not for these guards and scouts, who watch
and pry, straining every organ of perception that their people at home
may be without care while singing, praying, and making merry. Is not
the dance now going on at the village danced, prayed, and sung for their
benefit also?
Whenever these outposts turn toward their pueblo they see clouds of dust
rising from it, hear loud rhythmic shouting, whoops and yells, beating
of drums, and the shrill sounds of flutes. A haze seems to cover the
tall and long terraced buildings quite distinct from the vertical
columns of sand-whirls that drift over the plain of Galisteo, in calm
weather rising above the horizon like thin films of smoke.
It is a great day at Hishi. A dance is performed, songs are sung, and
prayers and sacrifices are offered that shall be powerful with Those
Above. The people make merry over the fruits of the soil that have now
matured. They are grateful, and they wish to be precious to the higher
powers in years to come. The great harvest dance is performed to-day. A
long procession perambulates the long village. The Koshare trot ahead.
They are the same black and white goblins with whom we are already
acquainted, but their bodies are decorated now with ripe fruit, with
small squashes and ears of corn, all strung to cords of fibre or
buckskin, and hung over their shoulders like wreaths. Wild sunflowers
adorn their heads. They are followed by the Cuirana, whose bodies are
daubed over with bluish clay. Then the general public tramp along. The
procession is divided into four sections, the faces of all being painted
_ad libitum_. The first detachment is led by an old man whose snow-white
hair supports a wreath of yellow blossoms. He is the so-called summer
cacique.
The winter cacique leads on the second group. Behind each ear he wears a
tall plume from the wings of the eagle, and around his neck are strung
rows upon rows of sacred shell beads, turquoises, and gaudy pebbles. The
third is preceded by the great shaman of the hunt. His dress is a
tight-fitting suit of buckskin; long fringes depend from his sleeves,
and the front and shoulders of his jacket are profusely embroidered with
porcupine-quills. A small plumelet of eagle-down dances over his head.
The last section is led by the highest shaman. His head is also
decorated with yellow flowers, and a green and a yellow plume stand
erect behind each ear. The war shaman is not to be seen; the spirits of
strife have nothing to do with the feast of peace. The war captain and
his assistants accompany the procession to keep order and clear the way.
This long, long pageant winds on, meandering through the pueblo to the
sound of drums, of flutes, and of monotonous chants; the white satyrs go
ahead, then follow the blue ones, then come in single file the men,
vigorously stamping, and behind each a woman, tripping lightly.
Every man is loaded with fruit of some kind, and carries corn and
squashes also in each hand. Every woman or girl bears on her head a
basket of willows or yucca filled with corn-cakes, yucca preserve, and
other delicacies, products of the vegetable kingdom. It is a procession
of baskets filing through Hishi, solemn and sober, and in the main
extremely monotonous. At intervals the Koshare break ranks to cut a few
capers, but to-day the Delight Makers of the Tehuas are remarkably
decent, for they are those, par excellence, who say grace. Since their
labours have been rewarded, and the crops are now ripe, and the people
have sufficient food, they are merry in the prospects of an easy winter,
and there is no need of any artificial delight-making.
The procession has passed through the entire village and returned to one
of its main squares. The end of the pageant is still on the march when
the Koshare break ranks again and cluster in the centre of the square.
From every side bystanders come up with fruits, scattering them over the
ground where the Delight Makers are waiting; and when the soil is well
covered with squash, corn, and other vegetables, the white satyrs begin
to dance with the most serious faces, singing and lifting their hands to
the skies. Gradually the whole of the offering is crushed, and at last
pounded into the earth by the feet of the dancing clowns. The earth has
brought forth the necessaries of life to man; now man, in token of
gratitude, returns a tribute to the earth.
As soon as this part of the ceremony is over, there arises a great shout
from all sides. Ears of corn, gourds, cakes of corn meal, pieces of
dried preserve, ripe fruits of the yucca, are thrown up into the air;
the baskets are emptied, and bystanders run home to replenish them.
Whoever can catch anything proceeds to devour it at once. The whole
tribe displays its gratitude by throwing heavenward the food which
heaven has enabled it to raise. Man intercepts and enjoys it after the
will and the deed have satisfied the invisible powers on high.
The usual mass of spectators are gathered on the roofs and along the
walls of the houses. When the noisy distribution of offerings begins,
many run to get their share. But it is not those who are most eager that
are most considered; it seems that the bulk of the food thrown into the
air is showering down upon a row of houses on whose terraces stands a
group of men, women, and children who seem no part of the inhabitants of
Hishi, manifesting this not so much in dress as from their distant and
timid deportment. All of them are very poorly clad, the children mostly
naked; and yet here and there a girl among them wears a new hide, and
some old woman a new white cotton wrap. Their pieces of clothing appear
like new mendings on old rags, or like a substantial shawl thrown over
scanty vestments. The older members of this peculiar group look down
upon the merry spectacle below with grave and melancholy eyes; the
younger would fain be merry also, but sadness lurks in their smiles.
The children alone yield fully to the excitement and happiness of the
hour. As the gifts fall down from above the older ones do not attempt to
seize them; the girls and younger women gather what they can and place
them carefully in a heap. What the children do not succeed in devouring
at once is taken away from them and placed with the rest. They are
improving the opportunity to lay in stores, and the Tanos lend them a
willing hand. Spectators below turn over to them what has fallen to
their share, others place what they have secured with the little hoard
the strangers are accumulating. For these people, so poorly clad and
looking so needy, must be strangers in the village of Hishi. Strangers,
yes; but strangers in need; and could there be any sacrifice, any
offering, more agreeable to those on high than the feeding of people
whom they allow to live by thrusting them on the charity of
fellow-beings? These strangers are after all but children of the same
spiritual parents from the upper world, and as such they are brothers,
sisters, and relatives.
That the strangers are village Indians can easily be seen. It is proved
by the cut of the hair, and by the rags which still protect their bodies
from absolute nakedness. But the tongue they speak is different from
that spoken by the people of Hishi. To us, however, it is not new. We
have heard that dialect before. It is the Queres language, the language
of the Rito. The strangers are the lost ones whom Hayoue and Zashue have
sought so anxiously and with so much suffering, and for the sake of whom
they have exposed their lives a hundred times perhaps, in vain. Zashue
was right, the fugitives had turned south from the Bocas; and had Hayoue
been less self-sufficient they would have found them ere now.
Still we miss among that little band of Queres fugitives those with whom
we have become more closely acquainted.
[Illustration: Ruins of an Ancient Pueblo]
In vain we look for Say Koitza, for Mitsha, for Okoya. Can it be true,
as Hayoue surmised, that his bosom friend, Zashue's eldest son, is dead?
The throwing about of fruit has ceased; the dance is resumed, and new
figures may appear. Everybody hushes, and fastens his gaze on the
performance.
The dancers have formed a wide ring. Men and women hold each other by
the hands, and dance in a circle around the place which has been covered
with objects of sacrifice. One after the other, the Koshare, the
Cuirana, after them each one of the four sections, step within the
circle, stamping down the fruits spread out there. Two or three of the
Delight Makers improve the occasion to cut some of their usual capers,
and the spectators laugh to their heart's content. Laughter is
contagious, it captures even the melancholy group of Queres; the old
among them smile, the young chuckle, the children shout and yell from
sheer delight. One boy in particular is very conspicuous from the
intense interest he takes in everything the Koshare are doing. He is
about ten years of age. A dirty breech-clout constitutes his only
vestment, but a necklace of multi-coloured pebbles adorns his neck; and
as often as a Koshare grimaces, or makes an extraordinary gesture, or
displays his tongue to the public, this boy jumps up, screams and
shouts, and screeches in delirious joy. His whole heart is with the
Koshare; he imitates their movements, improves on their gestures to such
a degree that those around him smile, exchanging winks of approval as if
saying, "He will be a good one."
The head of a girl slowly rises through a hatchway; and as her face
turns toward us, we recognize the soft, beaming eyes of Mitsha Koitza.
The maiden looks thinner, her features sharper. She remains standing on
the notched beam serving as a ladder, and calls out,--
"Shyuote!"
No reply is made to the call. The din and noise of the dance drown her
voice, and all are so occupied by the sights that none pay any attention
to her. The youngster who has been devoting all his time to the pranks
of the Delight Makers jumps forward in his enthusiasm, and would have
tumbled sheer over the low parapet encircling the roof had not one of
the men standing near grasped his hair and pulled him back. It saved the
boy's life, but the urchin is highly displeased at the informal manner
in which he is restrained. He screams and struggles to free himself.
Again the voice of the maiden is heard; this time it is louder and the
tone commanding.
"Shyuote!"
"She is calling you, uak," the man says who has saved the brat.
"I won't go," retorts our old friend Shyuote, for he it is who attempts
to play at Koshare here.
"Shyuote, come to sanaya!" again calls the maiden.
The mention of his mother creates a stir among the bystanders. They
forget the dance and turn toward Mitsha. Shyuote still refuses to obey,
but the others push him forcibly to the hatchway. Several of the women
approach Mitsha, and one inquires of her in a subdued voice,--
"How goes it below?"
The girl's eyes fill with tears. At last she whispers,--
"It goes--to Shipapu." She turns around and disappears beneath, sobbing.
Shyuote is sent after her.
The people stand and shake their heads. The news wanders from lip to
lip, "She is dying." All the pleasure, every interest in the
performance, has vanished. Indifferent to the celebration, the Queres
hang their heads in sadness; yet no complaint is heard, not a tear
glistens in those mournful eyes. She is only dying, not dead.
But who is dying? The query cannot be answered up here. Let us go down
and follow Mitsha.
In the dingy room of an Indian home, where light and air penetrate
through a single diminutive air-hole, sit and crouch half a dozen
people. They surround at some distance a human being whose head rests on
a bundle of skins, the body on a buffalo-robe. The knees are drawn up,
and cotton mantles cover the lower extremities. The chest, scantily
covered with a ragged, dark-coloured wrap, heaves at long intervals; the
extremities begin to stretch; the face is devoid of expression; the eyes
are wide open, staring, glassy; the lips parted; and on each side of the
mouth-corners ominous wrinkles begin to form. The sufferer is a woman,
and as we look closer we recognize her as Say Koitza, the wife of
Zashue. He must hasten his steps if he wishes to find her upon earth,
for she is dying!
It is very still in the room. The prayers which the medicine-man of the
Tanos has been reciting are hushed, the little idols of lava with
red-painted faces and eyes made of turquoises by means of which he hoped
to conjure the sickness, lean against the wall useless. Those whose duty
it is cower about the dying woman, and look on speechless. How faint the
breathings grow, how the chest rises and falls at longer intervals,
weaker every time! They listen as the rattling in her throat becomes
harder and slower. They dare not weep, for all is not over.
Say Koitza is dying! Not the sudden death she once prayed for when
Topanashka her father went over to Shipapu; but still she dies a
painless death,--she dies from exhaustion.
What is going on in her mind while the fetters which tied her soul to
the body are being dissolved? That body is henceforth powerless; it has
no wants, no cravings. The soul becomes free. Can it already glance
beyond? Not yet, for as long as earthly matter clings to him man cannot
perceive the other world. Flashes of light gleam through the mist in
which he is plunged, through both physical weakness and the efforts of
the soul to become free. The body struggles for preservation, the spirit
for freedom from its henceforth useless shell.
Are mind and body merely one? Does not death put an end to everything
that we ever were and can be? Does there remain after death anything
beyond the memory of our former existence, preserved in the hearts of
our fellow-beings? Nobody has ever returned from beyond the grave to
tell us how he felt, what he thought, while dying. But a dying person
always casts rays of light over his surroundings, and the surroundings
of dying Say Koitza are not without their lesson for us.
What do we see? A man sits near the dying woman. He lifts up his hands
and stares; it is the medicine-man, and he has done his utmost; he is
powerless, his art useless. What he did was done in the conviction that
spiritual influences, however grossly conceived and coarsely applied,
could compel the soul to master the body's ailment, could prop up the
sinking machinery and strengthen the motive power without regard to its
decaying tools. To-day, provided the body is helped along with physical
means, the soul would remain against its will, or against the will of
what stands in closer relation to it originally than the form which it
has animated here beneath. If mind and body were one, either method
could be successful. Neither is, when death steps in to proclaim their
separation.
By the side of the shaman a young man leans against the wall. He is
well-built and lithe. His head is bent so low in grief that the dark
hair streams over his face, concealing his features. The youth is
mourning, mourning deeply. Over what? Over the body or its sufferings?
No, he mourns because of an impending separation. From what? From the
form of her whom he will miss? No, for that form will not leave this
earth in substance. He mourns for something that goes beyond his grasp,
and remains beyond it so long as he himself moves upon this earth.
Mitsha also is here. She has properly no right to be for she does not
belong to the same clan as Say; but she has remained, and nobody has
objected to her presence. She has not craved permission, it has come by
tacit consent. Mitsha has felt that Say was approaching the point when
the soul breaks loose and flits to another realm, and she wishes to
remain with her to the last. If that soul should drop like a shrivelled
fruit, to decay and perish forever, nobody would bend to gaze fondly at
it. But if it flutter upward, we follow it with our eyes as long as we
can, unconsciously thinking, "How happy you are, free now; and how much
I wish to be with you." The very grief caused by the separation, the
longing, the clinging to him or to her whom we know to be leaving us,
are signs that there is something beyond, something which we are loath
to lose but sure to find again elsewhere, Mitsha has known Okoya's
mother but little, but the fearful distress of the past two months has
brought them together at last. Now the girl weeps, but not loudly, at
the thought of separation. If death be annihilation, tears are of no
avail. But if death be a promise of life in another condition, then,
child, well may you shed tears, for your grief is a token of hope.
Shyuote stands at the foot of the beam, gaping. His mother lies so
still, she breathes so loudly. How well she must be sleeping! Why did
they call him down at all? It would have been much nicer upstairs where
there are Koshare to be seen. He knows well enough that sanaya is sick,
but as long as she has such good rest she ought to feel well. A child is
not afraid of a dying mother, and when she has breathed her last is
convinced that she must be happy. To be well is compatible in the minds
of children only with life. Death therefore appears to them as a step
into a better and more beautiful existence. Children and fools tell the
truth. The gleam of light which from dying Say is cast on her unruly son
is but the rosy hue of a hopeful twilight.
The remaining occupants of the room stand with sad looks; they are all
women but one, a middle-aged man. They do not feel the occasion except
so far as there is a certain solemnity connected with it. Silent and
grave, they watch a process going on whose real nature they cannot
understand except as a momentous and appalling change. Change is only
transformation, not annihilation.
Say Koitza has been lying thus for several days. The end is near at
hand, and yet hours may elapse ere she dies. So still it is in the
apartment that nobody dares even move. Rising and falling come the song
and the noise of the dance from the outside, but they seem to halt at
the little opening, as if an invisible medium would interpose itself,
saying, "Stay out, for within there ripens a fruit for another and a
better world."
Mitsha glides over to the young man with the dark, streaming hair and
touches his arm lightly. He looks up and at her. It is Okoya,--Okoya,
whom we believed to be dead, but who stands here by the side of his
dying mother. He also looks emaciated and wan. After all the dangers and
misery of a protracted flight this hour has come upon him. The eyes of
the two meet; their looks express neither tenderness nor passion, but a
perfect understanding that betokens a union which even death cannot
destroy. It is that simple, natural attachment which forms the basis of
Indian wedlock when the parties are congenial to each other.
That the two are one can be plainly seen. As yet no outward sanction has
been given to their union; but they are tacitly regarded as belonging to
each other, and no opposition is offered to an intimacy which lacks but
the bond of marriage. Passion has little to do with that intimacy; the
severe trials of the past have riveted them together on a higher plane.
Mitsha has made a sign to the young man. Both steal from the chamber
noiselessly and climb to the roof. He goes first and she follows, as is
customary among Indians. Once up there the dance attracts Okoya's
attention for a moment. He has not seen anything of it as yet, for all
day he has remained by his mother's side.
Shyuote improves the opportunity to slip out also. As he sees his
brother and future sister-in-law go out, he follows. Why should he stay
down any longer? His mother is well. She sleeps soundly and breathes so
loud! She certainly is improving, and up there he can see Koshare. But
he is careful not to let Mitsha see him; her positive ways are
distasteful, so he creeps in among the spectators where her eyes cannot
follow and soon has lost sight of everything in contemplation of the
Koshare.
The appearance of Okoya and Mitsha on the roof attracts no attention. As
long as the death-wail is not sounded, none but those of her clan have a
right to be with the dying. Still one or other of the women casts an
inquisitive glance at Mitsha; a slight shake of her head is sufficient
answer to them. The young pair go to one side; he sits down on the
parapet of the roof and she beside him. Their eyes follow the dance, but
their thoughts are elsewhere. Okoya whispers at last, "Sanaya is dying."
Mitsha nods, and tears come to her eyes. Here she is not afraid to weep.
Okoya continues,--
"I knew it would happen. Yonder"--he points at the mountains--"I heard
the owl, and I knew it meant what is now coming upon us."
The girl shudders. She weeps no longer; dread scenes of the past are
looming up before her mind.
"In the kote," says she, "it was very bad. Do you remember over on the
other side of the great river on the mesa, from which one can see so
very far, almost over where we are now?"
"Not as far as that," replied Okoya, in a quiet tone, "but far enough.
You are right, makatza; on the mesa we suffered much; there the Moshome
did us a great deal of harm. If it had not been for you we should not be
here."
"For me?" Mitsha asked in surprise.
"Yes, you. You saved me, saved the yaya, saved Shyuote from the fierce
shuatyam! Yes, surely," he continued as the girl shook her head
incredulously. "Do you remember, sa uishe, when one Moshome was holding
my hands while another struck at me with his club? You took a big stone
and hit him so that he fell and I could kill the other. Afterward you
took the bow away from the dead Moshome, and you did as much with it as
I did with mine. Yes, indeed, you are strong, but you are wise too, and
good." He fastened his eyes on her with a deep, earnest look, and the
girl turned away her face. She felt embarrassed.
"We shall be happy when you have built your house and you dwell in it as
my koitza," Okoya whispered.
Mitsha cast her eyes to the ground, and a faint glow appeared on her
bronzed cheeks. The young man was not misled by her manner, he knew well
enough that she liked him to speak in this way.
"Sanaya goes to Shipapu," said he, moving closer to her, "and I must
have a koitza. You said you would be mine and I should be your husband.
It was the night of the council on the Tyuonyi. Do you remember?"
"I do, and so it will be," she said, raising her head. Her large eyes
beamed upon him with an expression of softness and deep joy. "But
whither shall we go? Here we are strangers; and the Puyatye, although
they are very good to us, speak a tongue we do not understand. Shall we
return to the Tyuonyi and live with my mother and the hanutsh?"
"Are you sure that your mother is still alive? Are you sure that there
is a single one of our people alive?" Okoya objected.
Again the eyes of Mitsha grew moist; she turned her head away and Okoya
heard her sobs. Well did he understand her grief; it was stirred for the
fate of her parents. Had he, had she, known all that had happened on the
Rito!
A tremendous shout arose from the dancing crowd below. The distribution
of gifts was beginning anew. Again the majority of the missiles were
directed toward the Queres; a perfect shower of provisions, cooked and
raw, pattered down upon the strangers. A large ear of corn tumbled into
Mitsha's lap, and she handed it to Okoya, whispering,--
"The Shiuana are good."
"They are. They are good also to the yaya, for they take her away to
Shipapu, where there is no hunger as on the shore of the great stream."
He sighed, and gazed to the west, where the San Francisco mountains
stood. Beyond them, along the northern base of the Sierra de Sandia, in
the sandy bottom of the Rio Grande, uninhabited at this time, they had
suffered from hunger and heat. There misery had reached its climax. It
is terrible even in our days to be compelled to flee from house and home
in time of war into the cold, strange world. And yet nowadays one can
flee to one's kind; and where there are human beings there are hearts.
But in the days of old, and for Indians, it was not only distressing, it
was ghastly to be obliged to fly. Nature alone stared them in the face,
and Nature has no heart, although it is said that we are one with her.
The Navajos had driven away the fugitives, had tracked and tormented
them fearfully, and yet once relieved from the enemy's clutches and
thrust upon Nature alone, the wretched band regretted the days when the
ruthless enemy swarmed about them. The Moshome at least fed those whom
they captured, and those whom they killed were happy forever. Nature
knows but law and force, and whoever depends upon her at a time when her
laws will not tolerate the existence of man, falls a victim to the power
of her forces.
Now all this was past. It rained gifts about them, and with a sad smile
Mitsha gathered them into a little pile. Okoya looked on; he thought the
girl was making provision for their future household.
The distribution stopped, for the dancers were resting. They began to
sit down along the walls of the houses to rest and to enjoy the needed
recess, Mitsha took some of the fruit on her arm, and said to Okoya,--
"Come, let us go down again."
"What do you want to do with that?" asked he, designating her little
burden.
"I give it to the Chayan for what the Shiuana are doing for our mother."
Even in the state of most abject poverty, the Indian shows gratitude to
Those Above.
The head of a man rises above the hatchway and signals the two young
people gravely, sadly. They descend hastily; Okoya remains standing in
the middle of the room, and Mitsha goes over to him as soon as she has
deposited her burden. As nobody notices her she grasps his hand, and he
presses it softly with his own. Say Koitza remains in the same position
as before, but she lies more extended, and her chest heaves no longer.
The bystanders are motionless like statues, expectant. A last rattle
sounds from the throat of the woman; a deep heavy effort, and all is
over. Light froth issues from her lips. Say Koitza has breathed her
last.
It has become very quiet outside, as if men there had guessed at what
was going on within. In the little apartment it is as still as the
grave,--a stillness which speaks louder to the heart than the mightiest
sound, and which is appropriately designated by the popular saying,
"There is an angel flitting through the room."
This stillness might have lasted long; but now the noise and uproar
arise again outside, and with full power the sounds of delight and mirth
break into the dingy cell like mighty waves. With the departure of life
from the body, it is as if a barrier that forbade entrance to noise from
the outer world had been drawn away, permitting the sounds of joy to
come in triumphantly, now that the soul is free. They find an echo
inside, a dismal echo of lamentations and tears. Mitsha cannot weep
boisterously like the rest, neither can Okoya. The two lean toward each
other sobbing; the girl has grasped his arm with both hands, her head
rests on his shoulder, and she weeps.
The lament below has been heard on the roof; it is a signal to rush down
and join in it. Soon the room is crowded with people; the women grasp
their hair and pull it over their faces. Dismal wailing fills the cell.
Among the others stands Shyuote, who has been told that his mother is
dead. He plants himself squarely with the rest, and howls at the top of
his voice. In front of the house the dance continues, and the monotonous
chant and the dull drumming ascend to the sky; alongside of it the
death-wail.
Tanos also crowd into the room; the throng is so great that the last
comers must stand on the beam. Suddenly they are pushed aside; a tall
young man rushes down and makes room, regardless of the weeping and
howling crowd. Up to Okoya he forces his way; throws his left arm around
him and Mitsha; his right hand seizes the hand of the youth and presses
it against his breast. It is Hayoue, who has come from the north at
last,--his heart guiding him to that friend whom he has so bravely, so
unwearyingly sought.
Another Indian rushes down after Hayoue, his motions not less anxious,
not less rapid and determined. He makes his way to the body and falls
down upon his knees, staring with heaving chest but tearless eyes into
the placid, emaciated face. It is Zashue Tihua. With a tension akin to
despair he searches for lingering life in the features of that wife whom
he formerly neglected and afterward suspected, whom he at last anxiously
sought, and now finds asleep in death.
CONCLUSION.
After twenty-one long and it may be tedious chapters, no apology is
required for a short one in conclusion. I cannot take leave of the
reader, however, without having made in his company a brief excursion
through a portion of New Mexico in the direction of the Rito de los
Frijoles, though not quite so far.
We start from Santa Fé, that "corner in the east" above which the Tano
village stood many centuries ago. We proceed to the Rio Grande valley,
to the little settlement called Peña Blanca, and to the Queres village,
or Pueblo of Cochiti. There you will hear the language that was once
spoken on the Rito; you will see the Indians with characteristic
sidelocks, with collars of turquoises and shell beads, but in modern
coats and trousers, in moccasins and in New England boots and shoes.
Still they are at heart nearly the same Indians we found them in this
story. I could introduce you to Hayoue, to Zashue, to Okoya, and the
rest. If we strike the time well, you may witness the Koshare at their
pranks, and in their full, very unprepossessing ceremonial toggery. At
Cochiti we take a guide, possibly Hayoue, and proceed northward in the
direction of the Rito.
For a number of hours we have to follow the base of the huge potreros,
crossing narrow ravines, ascending steep but not long slopes, until at
about noon we stand on the brink of a gorge so deep that it may be
termed a chasm. We look down to a narrow bottom and groves of cottonwood
trees. To the north, the chasm is walled in by towering rocks; the Rio
Grande flows through one corner; and on its opposite bank arise cliffs
of trap lava and basalt, black and threatening, while the rocks on the
west side are bright red, yellow, and white. The trail to the Rito goes
down into this abyss and climbs up on the other side through clefts and
along steep slopes. But we are not going to follow this trail. We turn
to the left, and with the dizzy chasm of Cañon del Alamo to our right,
proceed westward on one of the narrow tongues which, as the reader may
remember, descend toward the Rio Grande from the high western mountains,
and which are called in New Mexico potreros. The one on which we are
travelling, or rather the plateau, or mesa, that constitutes its
surface, is called Potrero de las Vacas.
For about two hours we wander through a thin forest, From time to time
the trail approaches the brink of the rocky chasm of the Cañon del
Alamo, near enough to have its echo return to us every word we may shout
down into its depths. Suddenly the timber grows sparse and we behold an
open space on a gentle rise before us. It is a bare, bleak spot, perhaps
a quarter of a mile long, and occupying the entire width of the mesa,
which here is not much broader. Beyond, the timber begins again, and in
the centre of the opening we see the fairly preserved ruins of an
abandoned Indian pueblo.
[Illustration: A Modern Pueblo]
There are still in places three stories visible. The walls are of evenly
broken parallelopipeds of very friable pumice-stone, and the village
forms the usual quadrangles. In the centre is a large square; and no
fewer than six depressions indicate that the Pueblos had at one time as
many as six circular subterranean estufas. In the ruins of the
dwellings over four hundred cells are still well defined, so that the
population of this communal village must formerly have reached as high
as one thousand souls. Over and through the ruins are scattered the
usual vestiges of primitive arts and industry,--pottery fragments and
arrow-heads. Seldom do we meet with a stone hammer, whereas
grinding-slabs and grinders are frequent, though for the most part
scattered and broken.
The spot is well selected for an abode of sedentary Indians. An
extensive view opens toward the east, north, and south. We see in the
east the mountains above Santa Fé, in the south the ranges at whose foot
lie the ruins of Hishi. In the north the high plateaus above the Rito
shut out a glimpse of the Puye, but a whitish streak in that direction
indicates the top line of the northern cliffs that overhang the Rito de
los Frijoles. Right and left of the village, not more than a hundred
yards from each side, begin the rugged declivities of the sides of the
potrero. If we want to go farther we can proceed to the west only, and
there we soon get into timber again.
A few steps within that timber, and we have before us a strange sight. A
wall of rudely piled stone slabs planted upright, flags laid upon them
crosswise, and smaller fragments piled against and between them, form a
pentagonal enclosure which at first sight reminds us of a diminutive
Stonehenge. There is an entrance to it from the southeast,--an open
corridor flanked by similar parapets. The enclosing wall is not more
than three feet high, and we easily peep into the interior.
Inside there are two statues carved out of the living rock. Although
much disfigured to-day they still show a plain resemblance to the
figures of two crouching panthers or pumas. They are life size; and the
animals seem to lie there with their heads to the east, their tails
extended along the ground. As we stand and gaze, our Indian goes up to
the statues and furtively anoints their heads with red ochre, muttering
a prayer between his teeth.
What may be the signification of this statuary? Do you remember the
great dance at the Rito, and the painting on the wall of the estufa
where the Koshare Naua sat and held communication with Those Above? Do
you recollect that among these paintings there was one of a panther and
another of a bear? The relation of the bear and panther of the estufa to
the picture of the sun-father is here that of the two stone panthers to
the sun himself. Their faces are turned to the east, whence rises the
sun, in which dwells the father of all mankind, and the moon, which
their mother inhabits. As in the estufa on the Rito, so in the outside
world, the pictures of stone express a prayer to the higher powers, and
here daily the people of the village were wont to make offerings and say
their prayers.
We are therefore on sacred ground in this crumbling enclosure. But who
knows that we are not on magic ground also? We might make an experiment;
and though our Indian guide is not one of the great shamans, he might
help us in an attempt at innocent jugglery.
Let us suffer ourselves to be blindfolded, and then turn around three
times from left to right while our friend recites some cabalistic
formula, incomprehensible of course to us.
One, two, three! The bandage is removed. What can we see?
Nothing strange at first. Surrounding nature is the same as before. The
same extensive view, the same snow-clad ranges in the far east, the same
silent, frowning rocks, the same dark pines around us. But in the north,
over the yellowish band that denotes the cliffs of the Rito, we notice a
slight bluish haze.
A change has taken place in our immediate vicinity. The stone panthers
and the stone enclosure have vanished, and the ground is bare, like all
the ground in the neighbourhood. Looking beyond we see that a
transformation has also taken place on the spot where stood the ruin.
The crumbling walls and heaps of rubbish are gone, and in their place
newly built foundations are emerging from the ground; heaps of stone,
partly broken, are scattered about; and where a moment ago we were the
only living souls, now Indians--village Indians like our guide, only
somewhat more primitive--move to and fro, busily engaged.
Some of them are breaking the stones into convenient sizes, for the
friable pumice breaks in parallelopipeds without effort. The women are
laying these in mortar made of the soil from the mesa, common adobe. We
are witnessing the beginning of the construction of a small village.
Farther down, on the edge of the timber, smoke arises; there the
builders of this new pueblo dwell in huts while their house of stone is
growing to completion. It is the month of May, and only the nights are
cool.
These builders we easily recognize. They are the fugitives from the
Rito, the little band whom the Tanos of Hishi have kindly received and
charitably supported until a few months since, when they allowed them to
go and build a new home. They came hither led on by Hayoue, who is now
their maseua; for each tribe, however small, must have one. Okoya is
with him, and Mitsha, now Okoya's wife, comes up from the bottom with
the water-urn on her head, as on the day when we first saw her on the
Rito de los Frijoles.
And now we have, though in a trance, seen the further fate of those
whose sad career has filled the pages of this story. We may be
blindfolded again, turned about right to left; and when the bandage is
taken from our eyes the landscape is as before, silent and grand. The
ruins are in position again; the panthers of stone with their mutilated
heads lie within the enclosure; an eagle soars on high; and our Indian
points to it, smiles, and whispers,--
"Look! see! the Shiuana are good!"