II

Panamida drove his horses down the creek bank in a cloud of dust.

Standing belly deep, they sluiced the cool water through their

outstretched throats. Panamida let it swirl around his dangling ankles;

here was relief from the afternoon heat. Bending low he could look

up-stream beneath the vaulting willows where the women were filling

their water-baskets. “Fox,” one called to him. “Fox,” indeed! Who was

this who did not know that they had begun to call him Panamida since

his marriage. Couldn’t she see that these three were Left-hand’s

horses: Left-hand, to whom he had given a big blanket, a black Hopi

shirt, and much dried meat, all for Gathawinga when he had first gone

to live at her father’s and work for him. “When I have a son, I will

build my own house on my family fields; Sinyella will give me a place,”

he thought. He knew he was to have a son: only yesterday Hat’s girl had

made a string-figure that resembled a boy.

Shrill laughter came from the dance-ground beyond the screening

thicket: the women were playing hiding games and tossing dice over

there. He laughed abruptly; Swollen-wrist’s voice came bellowing the

song,

“My tally sticks;

I want them to come back;

I am nearly dead.”

“That fellow never does win the stakes,” thought Panamida. “Well, those

women should cook now for the dance to-night: later I will join them

for the racing.”

Panamida turned the horses out and sauntered down the creek side to

Two-wives’ sweat lodge, where a dozen breechclouted men were lounging

about in the sand. One could usually find them here, gossiping through

the midday heat. While they waited a turn to enter, old Corn-thief

droned recollections of his youth: “... We found a flock of mountain

sheep, with several rams among them. I shot a very big one, the others

all ran off. The wounded ram jumped down the cliff, and ran along a

very narrow ledge. I and Hat’s father slid down from rock to rock, and

followed him along that ledge until he stopped abruptly at its end.

Suddenly he turned and dashed back at us, his head held down sideways.

I flattened myself against the wall, Hat’s father beside me; there was

hardly room. The ram struck Hat’s father, throwing him off the ledge:

it is very high there. The ram stood quite still; those above me shot

at him; when he was hit, he too tumbled headlong. Next day we tramped

down the trail and found the body in the canyon. We carried it away,

and dug a hole to bury it; we didn’t have time to burn it....” Panamida

tried to recall Hat’s father’s name: no one said it now that he was

dead.

Some one carried freshly heated stones into the little dome-shaped

lodge. Panamida followed the next three to enter; there should be four

at each of their four “sweats.” He crouched down close to them on the

carpet of leaves. It was blinding dark inside the tightly blanketed

lodge. It was hot; whatever he touched burned. Sweat began to pour into

his eyes and down his back. His hair felt dry and burning at the roots;

each breath was a gulp of liquid fire that seared his nostril-edges and

his throat. It was intensely still. Suddenly his neighbor commenced a

song; he joined; that was better. Now there was a sharp hiss as the

leader threw a handful of water on the rocks: he gasped, the steam

was choking and the heat suddenly unbearable. He bowed his head close

to the ground between his feet to suck in the cooler air there; then

he raised himself slowly. Sweat still streamed from him; every muscle

was relaxed; every ache was gone; he felt pure and renewed. Struggling

out beneath the door flap, he stood up in the sunlight, poised on the

creek bank, and plunged into the stream. He gasped; his breath was

sharply driven out; but his skin tingled, his muscles quivered, he felt

exhilarated.

Many races had been run when Panamida reached the dance-ground. He

would not ride, though he had sung over his colt to make him fleet.

Fragment-of-rock, his youngest brother, should ride, and he would bet.

He would be chief when his father died: he must be dignified now. He

sat beside Gathawinga and her mother, She-chews-men, who were weaving

baskets. “The Navaho have come,” he whispered to Gathawinga, “I have

given one a basket of shelled corn for his big blanket for you: I

have his horse too, for two big buckskins and a little corn.” He went

toward the visitors: “Well, you have only one knot in your string now;

to-night we dance. Ten sleeps ago when you went to tell your chief to

share our harvest bounty there were eleven. It is nearly sundown; the

dance-boss has spread the meat and bread on a bed of willow leaves;

guests must eat everything.”

He drew back with his relatives that the Navaho and Hopi might eat

first. Though they had not brought their women, these strangers could

be trusted here, especially the Hopi, who lived so well and knew all

manner of strange things, yet it was laughable to see them trotting by

afoot when a man should ride.

But the enemy, those Yavapai; Panamida knew them too. He recalled the

previous autumn when the owls were warning, “Some one comes from the

south: hoo hu.” And they had come climbing down into the canyon in the

early dawn. He recalled the alarm; the women and children scrambling

up to hide on the cliffs; the day-long pursuit up the canyon, the

skirmish, and the enemy fleeing again. Then the Yavapai, tiring, had

taken refuge on a little hill. “Good,” Chief Manakadja had said. “We

are hungry now: some of you ride back and fetch us food.” After they

had eaten they felt braver. Two took thick buckskins, which they hung

from their bows before them. Panamida, crouching with arrow set, had

followed in this shelter with the others. Boldly they marched up

the hill, Yavapai arrows raining harmlessly on the flapping skins.

Suddenly the carriers dipped their shields and the hidden archers let

fly. They had nearly reached the summit, when Wasakwivama, who held

a skin, was hit. “My arm is getting weak; I can’t hold it up much

longer; we had better go back.” A second time they tried: the Yavapai

arrows were exhausted, they were rolling rocks. Panamida chuckled at

the recollection of his foolhardy spring, the sudden jerk that sent an

unwary enemy sprawling down the slope to be pounced on and dispatched.

Well, another feat like that and they might call him a chief even

before his father died. The Yavapai had fled in the night, but they

would return. “Yes,” he ruefully reflected, “they like to come; they

always kill so many....”

Moonlight spread across the clearing as they danced: the eastern cliffs

stood sharply black against the sky. The song ended, and the group

around the pole melted away. Sinyella rose in his place among the

watching families. “My own land, hear me. Let all of us remain alive

always. I want to live well always. Ground, hear me.” He prayed to the

rocks, the ground, the creek: he told the young men to work hard, to

dance well, not to be quarrelsome, as chiefs always spoke in the lull

between the dances. Paiya, the best singer, again took up his place,

facing the pole; Panamida, with the drum, stepped beside him; quickly

others formed the circle with them. Shoulder to shoulder they stood;

fingers intertwined. Paiya began to sing to the drum beats:

“A fresh wind in that country,

Girls dance circling.”

He had dreamed that he had gone to that far land where he had seen them

dancing. The others caught up the refrain: they stood singing for some

minutes. Then when they sang in unison Paiya signaled and all began

circling to the left with a short, sidewise shuffling step. Slowly the

circle swung, fifty men in their gala dress, girls with their jingling

ornaments; over and over they sang the song, to bring it to an end when

the leader reached his starting point. They stood hardly a minute: none

dropped out. “Nidjanwi,” several prompted; so Paiya began the favorite:

“Nidjanwi, I do it;

I am the man who names himself;

Maidens stand alongside.”

Soon all were chanting, and the circle moved again. Excitement was

high; the old people called out encouraging compliments; girls

shouldered their way beside partners of their choice; reluctant Navaho

were laughingly forced into the throng. Panamida felt some one pushing

against his thigh; there was little Lanso, his older brother’s boy:

“Yes, come in,” as he made space. Another song, and they stopped

to rest. Navaho paid a trifle to their partners for release. Now a

grotesque figure dashed from the obscurity of the night; white mask,

cross-barred body, yucca leaf switches in hand, he sprang about,

whipping the laggards to the dance; adults were laughing, children

scampering in fright, dogs barking. The dance commenced again. Panamida

was hoarse, it was far from dawn, and this was only the first of three

nights’ dance.