The long line of hunters, laden with the game secured by a week’s
vigorous chase, was at the niche stairway before the boys reached them.
Impatient to be in the court when they should arrive, to partake in
the welcoming ceremony, the boys could not wait until the last of the
procession had filed up the dizzy rock steps. Long before, in their
explorations about the canyon, they had discovered another way to reach
the cavern, steeper and more perilous, but entirely passable for boys
whose lives had been spent in scaling cliffs and finding footholds in
all sorts of precarious places.
Running around a projecting spur and diving through a thicket of scrub
oaks, Kwasa and Wiki were at the second stairway in a moment. It was
one that few boys of to-day would care to attempt. It ran almost
straight up the side of the cliff, and in many places they had to pull
themselves from ledge to ledge by straggling tufts of wiry grass or by
the tough, well-rooted clumps of grease-wood brush. At one spot, to
bridge a particularly smooth and difficult part of the ascent, a pole
with sticks bound upon it at intervals to make a sort of rude ladder
had been swung down from a rocky ledge above.
Up this dangerous ascent Kwasa led the way nimbly, Wiki following close
behind him. The young stranger, after looking doubtfully for a moment
from the hunting band to the boys, finally plunged through the thicket
and took the steeper path, reaching the top only a moment after Kwasa
and Wiki had landed with a final active spring upon the safe ledge at
the rim of the cavern.
“I must speak to your chief quickly,” he said gravely, as Kwasa, who
in the excitement had forgotten all about the stranger at the spring,
looked at him in surprise.
“But,” began Kwasa, “this is no time--”
“All times are alike when danger threatens,” said the youth
impatiently. “Tell me with whom I should speak.”
Kwasa pointed to a little group of men who stood a little apart from
the rest, waiting to greet the hunters as they came up, one by one,
over the edge of the cliff.
“Mosu is a priest,” he said, indicating a tall old man with a band of
flat red and black beads bound about his forehead. “Honau is very wise,
too, and then there is Bimba--”
But the young stranger had hurried away and was accosting Mosu, the
tall priest, respectfully. Before he had spoken many words the whole
group was listening intently, and in a few minutes the court was hushed
and all came crowding about to see what this unusual interruption might
mean.
Presently the lad stopped speaking and Mosu held up his hand for
attention.
“This young man is Sado. He comes from the Seven Cities to bring us
tidings to which it were well to listen, for the Utes are again on the
warpath, and the Buffalo and Fox clans have sent out runners to warn
all to the southward. They reached Walpi yesterday, and from there
this messenger brings us word, that we, too, may be in readiness for an
attack.”
“But surely we are safe--”
“They can not reach our village--”
“We could hold the cliff against a thousand, even--”
A babel of voices broke out anxiously. Mosu held up his hand again.
“All you say is true,” he said. “When our fathers came here from
the Great Mesa, driven out by the savages from the far north, they
sought a place where they might rest secure from attack. And here they
found it.” He waved his hand toward the great walls of rock rising
protectingly all about them.
“But we must eat, and planting time is near. Those who stay in the
village are indeed secure, but what of the men who must plant the seeds
and care for the grain in the far fields? We must say farewell to Waka
(the sun) with full storehouses, and with heaped fuel for the cold days
of winter. And if the thieving Utes swarm down upon our fields and
carry off our corn and beans and squashes, what then? Then there is the
danger while we plant and harvest. The Watcher in the High Tower must
indeed be keen of eye to guard every path that leads to the fields. It
is of these things we must think. And in the meantime,” he broke off
abruptly, “this lad is weary and hungry. See that he has refreshment
and rest. We must not send him back to the Seven Cities to tell of our
ingratitude for a friendly deed.”
But Sado shook his head.
“There are many others to warn,” he said earnestly. “I must not stay,
though the thought of rest is tempting. But first I will eat--”
“Has the Snake Clan no runners?” interrupted Mosu proudly.
Old Honau stepped out from the group.
“I am not fleet of foot as when I was young,” he began, “but rather
than suffer this brave lad to go farther without rest, I myself will
take the warning to the farthest clan.”
But a dozen lads were already pressing forward, Kwasa and Wiki among
them. Motioning Honau kindly aside, four of the tallest and strongest
were quickly chosen, and Mosu, drawing them to one side, had Sado
repeat carefully the message he had brought.
“The Rainbow people are yonder,” he said, pointing southwestward down
the open canyon. “And the Bear Clan is not far from them. It is a three
days’ journey--”
“They must take plenty of meat and piki,” called one of the women,
hurrying forward. “We will fill the food-bags well. It is a long way,
but, praise to Waka, the new springs are filling and they cannot suffer
from thirst.”
Immediately there was a great bustle in the court. Women ran here
and there, bringing new sandals of tough fiber for the feet of the
messengers, and thick woolen blankets for the cool nights in the
canyons. The skin food-bags were quickly filled and strapped over the
slender young shoulders, and Kwasa, as leader, was given a heavy new
spear in addition to the bows and arrows which they all carried.
At last all was ready, and the lads stood forth to be sprinkled with
the sacred meal from the handsome red and black bowl in Mosu’s hands.
“The Old Ones be with you,” muttered the priest, as he strewed the meal
in a circle about them, and upon the boys’ bowed heads.
“Come back quickly,” called many anxious voices as, one by one, the
lads dropped down the niche stairway. Kwasa, the last one to descend,
stooped as he left the court and picked up the three red and white dice
with which he and Wiki had been playing so short a time before.
“For luck,” he laughed, as he dropped them into the deerskin pouch that
hung at his belt.
“Luck is in the hands of the Old Ones, not in painted sticks,” muttered
Tcua, the old grandmother of Kwasa, watching the lads with anxious eyes
as they filed down the canyon and out of sight. “May they bring back my
son’s son safely--a good lad--a good lad.”
And then she went down to grind corn for piki, for waiting in idleness
is hard.