Chapter I: FANCY I must have been dozing after that hard ride; for when a (2)

Next day the people all gathered to see the trial of strength between the two wizards. Shó-kee-ah “made medicine,” and caused a driving sleet and a bitter wind that froze all waters. But Mí-o-chin built a fire and heated small stones in it, and with them caused a warm South Wind, which melted the ice. On the second day, Shó-kee-ah used more powerful incantations, and made a deep snow to cover the world; but again Mí-o-chin brought his South Wind and chased away the snow. On the third day Shó-kee-ah used his strongest spell, and it rained great icicles, until everything was buried under them. But when Mí-o-chin built his fire and heated the stones, again the warm South Wind drove away the ice and dried the earth. So it remained to Mí-o-chin; and the defeated Shó-kee-ah went away to his frozen home in the North, leaving Mí-o-chin to live happy ever after with the _kot-chin-á-ka_, whom he married amid the rejoicing of all the people of Acoma.

XX

THE TOWN OF THE SNAKE-GIRLS

IN the times that were farthest back, the forefathers of those who now dwell in Isleta were scattered about in many small villages. You have already heard the myths of how the inhabitants of several villages finally abandoned their homes and came to live in the one big town of the Tée-wahn. Three miles north of Isleta, amid the sandy plain of Los Padillas, stands the strange round mesa of Shee-em-tóo-ai. It is a circular “island” of hard, black lava, cut off from the long lava cliffs which wall the valley of the Rio Grande on the west. Its level top, of over fifty acres, is some two hundred feet above the plain; the last fifty feet being a stern and almost unbroken cliff. Upon its top are still visible the crumbling ruins of the pueblo of Poo-reh-tú-ai--a town deserted, as we are historically sure, over three hundred and fifty years ago. The mound outlines of the round _estufa_, the houses and the streets, are still easy to be traced, and bits of pottery, broken arrow-heads, and other relics, still abound there. In history we know no more of the pueblo than that it was once there, but had been abandoned already when Coronado passed in 1540; but my aboriginal friends and fellow-citizens of Shee-eh-whíb-bahk have an interesting legend of the pueblo of Poo-reh-tú-ai and the cause which led to its abandonment.

When the mesa town was inhabited, so was Isleta; and, being but three miles apart, the intercommunication was constant. At one time, four hundred years ago or more, there lived in Isleta a very handsome youth whose name was K’oo-ah-máh-koo-hóo-oo-aí-deh--which means Young-Man-Who-Embraces-a-Corncob.

In spite of this serious burden of a title, the young man was greatly admired, and had many friends. Probably they called him something else “for short,” or people wouldn’t have had time to associate with him. There were two sisters, very pretty girls, living in Poo-reh-tú-ai, and they fell very seriously in love, both with this same youth. But he had never really found out how handsome he was, and so thought little about girls anyhow, caring more to run fastest in the races and to kill the most game in the hunts. The sisters, finding that he would not notice their shy smiles, began to make it in their way to pass his house whenever they came to Isleta, and to say _hin-a-kú-pui-yoo_ (good morning) as they met him on the road. But he paid no attention to them whatever, except to be polite; and even when they sent him the modest little gift which means “there is a young lady who loves you!” he was as provokingly indifferent as ever.

After long coquetting in vain, the girls began to hate him as hard as before they had loved him. They decided, no doubt, that he was _oó-teh_, the Tée-wahn word for “a mean old thing”; and finally one proposed that they put him out of the way, for both sisters, young and pretty as they were, were witches.

“We will teach him,” said one.

“Yes,” said the other, “he ought to be punished; but how shall we do it?”

“Oh, we will invite him to play a game of _mah-khúr_, and then we’ll fix him. I’ll go now and make the hoop.”

The witch-sisters made a very gay hoop, and then sent word to the youth to meet them at the sacred sand-hill, just west of Isleta, as they had important business with him. Wondering what it could be, he met them at the appointed time and place.

“Now, Brother Young-Man-Who-Embraces-a-Corncob,” said the eldest sister, “we want to amuse ourselves a little, so let us have a game of _mah-khúr_. We have a very nice hoop to play it. You go half-way down the hill and see if you can catch it when we roll it to you. If you can, you may have the hoop; but if you fail, you come and roll it to us and we’ll see if we can catch it.”

So he went down the hill and waited, and the girls sent the bright wheel rolling toward him. He was very nimble, and caught it “on the fly”; but that very instant he was no longer the tall, handsome Young-Man-Who-Embraces-a-Corncob, but a poor little Coyote, with great tears rolling down his cheeks. The witch-sisters came laughing and taunting him, and said:

“You see it would have been better to marry us! But now you will always be a Coyote and an outcast from home. You may roam to the north and to the south and to the west, but never to the east” (and therefore not back to Isleta).

The Coyote started off, still weeping; and the two wicked sisters went home rejoicing at their success. The Coyote roamed away to the west, and at last turned south. After a time he came across a party of Isleteños[75] returning from a trading-trip to the Apache country. He sneaked about their camp, snapping up odd scraps--for he was nearly starved. In the morning the Indians spied this Coyote sitting and watching them at a little distance, and they set their dogs on him. But the Coyote did not run; and when the dogs came to him they merely sniffed and came away without hurting him--though every one knows that the dog and the Coyote have been enemies almost ever since the world began. The Indians were greatly astonished; and one of them, who was a medicine-man, began to suspect that there was something wrong. So, without saying anything to the others, he walked over to the Coyote and said: “Coyote, are you Coyote-true, or somebody bewitched?” But the Coyote made no reply. Again the medicine-man asked: “Coyote, are you a man?” At this the Coyote nodded his head affirmatively, while tears rolled from his eyes.

[75] Pronounced Eez-lay-táyn-yos.

“Very well, then,” said the medicine-man, “come with me.” So the Coyote rose and followed him to the camp; and the medicine-man fed and cared for him as the party journeyed toward Isleta. The last night they camped at the big barranca, just below the village; and here the medicine-man told his companions the story of the bewitchment,--for the Coyote had already told him,--and they were all greatly astonished, and very sad to learn that this poor Coyote was their handsome friend, K’oo-ah-máh-koo-hóo-oo-aí-deh.

“Now,” said the medicine-man, “we will make a nice hoop and try a game.” He made it, and said to the Coyote: “Friend, go and stand over there; and when I roll this hoop toward you, you must jump and put your head through it before it stops rolling or falls over upon its side.”

The Coyote stood off, and the medicine-man sent the hoop rolling toward him very hard. Just as it came near enough the Coyote made a wonderful jump and put his head squarely through the middle of it--and there, instead of the gaunt Coyote, stood the Young-Man-Who-Embraces-a-Corncob, handsome and well and strong as ever. They all crowded around to congratulate him and to listen to what had befallen him.

“Now,” said the medicine-man, “when we get home, the two witch-sisters will come to congratulate you, and will pretend not to know anything of the trouble that befell you, and when you see them you must invite _them_ to a game of _mah-khúr_.”

It all came about as he said. When the party got back to Isleta all the people welcomed the young man whose mysterious disappearance had made all sad. The news of his return spread rapidly, and soon reached the village of Poo-reh-tú-ai. In a day or two the witch-sisters came to Isleta, bringing on their heads baskets of the choicest foods and other gifts, which they presented to him in the most cordial manner. To see how they welcomed him, one would never fancy that they had been the wicked causes of his suffering. He played his part equally well, and gave no sign that he saw through their duplicity. At last, when they were about to start home, he said: “Sisters, let us come to the sand-hill to-morrow to play a little game.”

An invitation--or rather a challenge--of that sort must be accepted under all Indian etiquette; and the witch-sisters agreed. So at the appointed hour they met him at the sacred hill. He had made a very beautiful hoop, and when they saw it they were charmed, and took their positions at the foot of the declivity. “One, two, three!” he counted; and at the word “three!” sent the hoop rolling down to them. They both grabbed it at the same instant, and lo! instead of the pretty, but evil-minded sisters of Poo-reh-tú-ai, there lay two huge rattlesnakes, with big tears falling from their eyes. Young-Man-Who-Embraces-a-Corncob laid upon their ugly, flat heads a pinch of the sacred meal, and they ran out their tongues and licked it.

“Now,” he said, “this is what happens to the treacherous. Here in these cliffs shall be your home forever. You must never go to the river, so you will suffer with thirst and drag yourselves in the dust all the days of your life.”

The Young-Man-Who-Embraces-a-Corncob went back to Isleta, where he lived to a ripe old age. As for the snakes, they went to live in the cliffs of their own mesa. The people of Poo-reh-tú-ai soon learned of the fate of the witch-sisters, and knew that those two great snakes, with tears in their eyes, were they. That was the beginning of the downfall of Poo-reh-tú-ai; for the people grew fearful of one another, lest there might be many more witches, unbeknown, among them. The distrust and discontent grew rapidly--for to this day nothing on earth will disrupt any Indian community so quickly or so surely as the belief that some of the people are witches. In a very short time the people decided to abandon Poo-reh-tú-ai altogether. Most of them migrated to the Northwest, and I have not as yet found even a legend to tell what became of them. The rest settled in Isleta, where their descendants dwell to this day. There are old men here now who claim that their great-grandfathers used to see the two huge rattlesnakes basking on the cliffs of the mesa of Shee-em-tóo-ai, and that the snakes always wept when people came near them.

XXI

THE DROWNING OF PECOS

TWENTY-FIVE miles southeast of Santa Fé, New Mexico, lie the deserted ruins of the ancient Pueblo town of Pecos. The village was finally abandoned by the Indians in 1840; and their neat houses of adobe bricks and stone, and their quaint adobe church, have sadly fallen to decay. The history of the abandonment of Pecos is by no means startling; but the Indian tradition--for they have already added this to their countless myths--is decidedly so. The story is related by two aged Pecos Indians who still live in the pueblo of Jemez.

“Now, this is a true story,” said my informant, an Isleteño, who had often heard it from them.

Once Pecos was a large village, and had many people.[76] But it came that nearly all of them had the evil road, and in the whole town were but five True Believers (in the Indian religion). These were an old woman, her two sons, and two other young men. Agostin, her elder son, was a famous hunter, and very often went to the mountains with a friend of his who had an evil spirit--though Agostin was not aware of that.

[76] It was, indeed, the largest pueblo in New Mexico, having
at one time a population of about 2000.

One day the friend invited Agostin to go hunting, and next day they went to the mountains. Just at the foot they found a herd of deer, one of which Agostin wounded. The deer fled up the mountain, and the two friends followed by the drops of blood. Half-way to the top they came to a second herd, which ran off to the right of the trail they were following, and the evil-spirited friend went in pursuit of them, while Agostin kept on after the one he had wounded.

He came at last to the very top of the mountain, and there of a sudden the trail ceased. Agostin hunted all about, but in vain, and at last started down the other side of the mountain.

As he came to a deep cañon he heard singing, and, peering cautiously through the bushes, he saw a lot of witch-men sitting around a fallen pine and singing, while their chief was trying to raise the tree.

Agostin recognized them all, for they were of Pecos, and he was much grieved when he saw his friend among them. Then he knew that the deer had all been witches, and that they had led him off on a false trail.

Greatly alarmed, he crept back to a safe distance, and then hurried home and told his aged mother all that had happened, asking her if he should report it to the Cacique.

“No,” said she, with a sigh, “it is of no use; for he, too, has the evil road. There are but few True Believers left, and the bad ones are trying to use us up.”

Among the five good people was one of the Cum-pah-whit-lah-wen (guards of the medicine-men); and to him Agostin told his story. But he also said: “It is of no use. We are too few to do anything.”

At last the bad people falsely accused the old woman, saying that her power was more than that of all the medicine-men put together (which is a very serious charge, even to-day, among the Indians); and challenged her to come before all the people in the medicine-house and perform miracles with them, well knowing that she could not. The challenge was for life or death; whichever side won was to kill the others without being resisted.

The poor old woman told her sons, with tears, saying: “Already we are killed. We know nothing of these things, and we may make ready to die.”

“Nay, Nana,” said Agostin.[77] “Despair not yet, but prepare lunch for Pedro[77] and me, that we go to other villages for advice. Perhaps there the medicine-men will tell us something.”

[77] Pronounced Ah-gohs-téen and Páy-droh.

So the mother, still weeping, made some tortillas, and, strapping these to their belts, the young men set out.

Pedro, the younger, went east, and Agostin took the road to the north. Whatever person they met, or to whatever village they came, they were to seek advice.

When Agostin came to the foot of the mountains, he was very thirsty, but there was no water. As he entered a gorge he saw Hyo-kwáh-kwah-báy-deh, a little bird which builds its nest with pebbles and clay in the crannies of the cliffs, and is of exactly the same color as the sandstones. He thought, “Ah, little bird, if you could speak I would ask you where there is water, for I am fainting with thirst, and dare not eat, for that would make it worse!”

But the little bird, knowing his thought, said:

“Friend Agostin, I see that you are one of the True Believers, and I will show you where there is water; or wait, I will go and bring you some, for it is very far.” And off he flew.

Agostin waited, and presently the little bird came back, bringing an acorn-cup full of water. Then Agostin’s heart sank, and he thought: “Alas! what good will that drop do me?”

But the little bird replied: “Do not think that way, friend. Here is enough, and even more; for when you drink all you wish, there will still be some left.”

And so it was. Agostin drank and drank, then ate some tortillas and drank again; and when he was satisfied, the acorn-cup was still nearly full.

Then the little bird said: “Now come, and I will lead you. But when we come to the top of the mountain, and I say, ‘We are at the top,’ you must say, ‘No, we are down in the mountain--at the bottom of it.’ Do not forget.”

Agostin promised, and the little bird flew in front of him. At last they were at the top, and the little bird said:

“Here we are, friend, at the top.”

“No,” answered Agostin, “we are down in the mountain--at the bottom of it.”

Three times the little bird repeated his words, and three times Agostin made the same answer.

At the third reply they found themselves in a room in the mountain. There was a door in front of them, and beside it stood a Cum-pah-whit-lah-wíd-deh (guard), who said to Agostin--for the little bird had disappeared:

“Son, how came you here, where none ever think of coming? Do you think you are a man?”

Agostin told the whole story of the witches’ challenge, and of how he had gone out to seek advice, and of how the little bird had brought him here, and the guard said:

“You are coming with the thought of a man; so now come in,” and he opened the door.

But when Agostin entered the inner room, which was so large that no end could be seen, he found himself in the presence of the Trues in human shape.

There sat the divinities of the East, who are white; and of the North, who are blue; and beyond them were the sacred animals--the mountain lion, the eagle, bear, buffalo, badger, hawk, rabbit, rattlesnake, and all the others that are of the Trues. Agostin was very much afraid, but the guard said to him:

“Do not fear, son, but take the heart of a man, and pray to all sides.” So he faced to the six sides, praying. When he had finished, one of the Trues spoke to him, and said:

“What can it be that brought you here? Take the heart of a man and tell us.”

Then Agostin told his whole story; after which the Trues said to him:

“Do not be worried, son. We will help you out of that.”

The principal True of the East said:

“Son, I will give you the clothes you must wear when you are in the medicine-house for the contest of power”; and he gave Agostin four dark-blue breech-clouts and some moccasins for himself and the three other good young men, and a black _manta_ (robe) and pair of moccasins for his mother.

“Now,” said the True, “the evil-spirited ones will have this medicine-making contest in the _estufa_,[78] and when you enter, you five, you must all be dressed in these clothes. The people will all be there, old and young, and there will hardly be room for you to stand; and they will all sneer at you and spit upon you. But do not be sorry. And take this cane to hold between you. Let your mother take it with one hand at the bottom, then the Whit-lah-wíd-deh’s hand, then her other hand, and then his other hand; and last your brother’s hand, your hand, then his other hand, and your other hand at the top of all. And when you say, ‘We are at the top of the mountain,’ he must answer, ‘No, we are down in the mountain--at the bottom of it.’ This you must keep saying. Now go, son, with the heart of a man.”

[78] Where it is sacrilegious to make medicine.

Then the Whit-lah-wíd-deh led Agostin out, and the little bird showed him the way down the mountain.

When he reached home it was the afternoon of the appointed day, and in the evening the medicine-making contest for life or death was to come.

In a little while the younger brother arrived, with his new clothes and moccasins torn to shreds; for he had traveled far in a rough country, without meeting a soul from whom to ask advice.

Agostin called together the four other True Believers, and told them all that had happened and what they must do, giving them the sacred clothing.

In the evening they went to the _estufa_, which was crowded with the witch-people, so that they had barely room to stand.

Then the evil-spirited ones began to make medicine, and turned themselves into bears, coyotes, crows, owls, and other animals. When they were done, they said to the old woman:

“Now it is your turn. We will see what you can do.”

“I know nothing about these things,” she said, “but I will do what I can, and the Trues will help me.”

Then she and the four young men took hold of the sacred cane as the Trues had showed Agostin.

“We are on the top of the mountain,” said he.

“No,” answered his brother, “we are down in the mountain--at the bottom of it.”

This they said three times. At the third saying the people heard on all sides the _guajes_ of the Trues.[79] At the same moment the ladder[80] was jerked violently up out of the room, so that no one could get out.

[79] The thunder is said by the Tée-wahn to be the sacred
dance-rattle of their gods.

[80] The only entrance to any _estufa_ is by a ladder let down
through a door in the roof.

Then the two brothers repeated their words again, and at the third saying the thunder began to roar outside, and all could hear plainly the singing and the _guajes_ of the Trues. It began to rain violently, and the water poured down through the roof-door, and the lightning stuck its tongue in. The brothers kept repeating their words, and soon the water was knee-deep. But where the five True Believers stood, holding the cane, the floor was dusty. Soon the flood came to the waists of the witch-people, and then to their necks, and the children were drowning. Then they cried out to the old woman:

“Truly, mother, your power is greater than ours. We submit.”

But she paid no attention to them, and her sons continued their words, and the water kept pouring in until it touched the very ceiling. But all around the five it stood back like a wall, and they were on dry ground.

At last all the evil-spirited ones were drowned. Then the rain ceased and the water departed as fast as it had come. The ladder came down through the roof-door again, and the five True Believers climbed out and went to their homes.

But it was very desolate, for they were the only survivors. Their nearest relatives and dearest friends had perished with the other witch-people. At last they could no longer bear to live in the lonely valley, and they decided to live elsewhere. On the way the old mother and one of the men died. Agostin went to the pueblo of Cochití, and Pedro and the Whit-lah-wíd-deh settled in the pueblo of Jemez, where they are still living (or were in the spring of 1891).

Such is the Indian version of the abandonment of the great pueblo which Coronado--that wonderful Spanish explorer--found in 1540. As a matter of fact, the Hyó-qua-hoon, or people of Pecos, had dwindled away by war, epidemics, and the like, until only five were left; and in 1840 these lonely survivors moved to other pueblos, and abandoned their ruined town forever. But the story is very valuable, not only for the glimpse it affords of some of their most secret beliefs, but also as showing how folk-stories of the most aboriginal stamp are still coined.

Witchcraft is still a serious trouble in all the pueblos, despite the efforts of the medicine-men, whose special duty it is to keep down the witches. One little pueblo called Sandia is dying out--as many others have done before it--because the medicine-men are quietly killing those whom they suspect of being witches. In 1888 a very estimable Indian woman of that town was slain by them in the customary way,--shot through from side to side with an arrow,--and this form of execution is still practised.

In Isleta they fear the Americans too much to indulge in witch-killing, for Albuquerque is only a few miles away. But it is only a little while ago that a young Isletan who was accused spent three months in the neck-stocks in our aboriginal prison, and much of the time had to “ride the horse,” sitting with his legs crossed upon the adobe floor and the heavy weight of the stocks pressing him down, a torture worthy of the Inquisition. The case was kept out of the American courts only by the payment of a large sum to his parents by his accusers.

One whose eyes or lids look red is always regarded with suspicion here, for witch-people are supposed not to sleep at night, but to change themselves into animals and roam over the world. Eccentric actions also lay one open to accusation; and when I first came here I was dangerously near being classed with the witches because, to amuse my dusky little neighbors, I imitated various animal cries to their great edification, but to the very serious doubt of their elders. The fact that they doubt whether Americans know enough to be first-class witches was largely instrumental in saving me from serious danger.

XXII

THE ANTS THAT PUSHED ON THE SKY

A VERY ancient and characteristic story about the origin of Isleta is based on the historic fact that part of its founders came from east of the Manzano Mountains, from one of the prehistoric pueblos whose ruins are now barely visible in those broad plains.

Once upon a time there lived in one of those villages (so runs the story) a young Indian named Kahp-too-óo-yoo, the Corn-stalk Young Man. He was not only a famous hunter and a brave warrior against the raiding Comanches, but a great wizard; and to him the Trues had given the power of the clouds. When Kahp-too-óo-yoo willed it, the glad rains fell, and made the dry fields laugh in green; and without him no one could bring water from the sky. His father was Old-Black-Cane, his mother was Corn-Woman, and his two sisters were Yellow-Corn-Maiden, and Blue-Corn-Maiden.

Kahp-too-óo-yoo had a friend, a young man of about the same age. But, as is often true, the friend was of a false heart, and was really a witch, though Kahp-too-óo-yoo never dreamed of such a thing.

The two young men used to go together to the mountains to get wood, and always carried their bows and arrows, to kill deer and antelopes, or whatever game they might find.

One day the false friend came to Kahp-too-óo-yoo, and said:

“Friend, let us go to-morrow for wood, and to hunt.”

They agreed that so they would do. Next day they started before sunrise, and came presently to the spot where they gathered wood. Just there they started a herd of deer. Kahp-too-óo-yoo followed part of the herd, which fled to the northwest, and the friend pursued those that went southwest. After a long, hard chase, Kahp-too-óo-yoo killed a deer with his swift arrows, and brought it on his strong back to the place where they had separated. Presently came the friend, very hot and tired, and with empty hands; and seeing the deer, he was pinched with jealousy.

“Come, friend,” said Kahp-too-óo-yoo. “It is well for brothers to share with brothers. Take of this deer and cook and eat; and carry a part to your house, as if you had killed it yourself.”

“Thank you,” answered the other coldly, as one who will not; but he did not accept.

When they had gathered each a load of wood, and lashed it with rawhide thongs in bundles upon their shoulders, they trudged home--Kahp-too-óo-yoo carrying the deer on top of his wood. His sisters received him with joy, praising him as a hunter; and the friend went away to his house, with a heavy face.

Several different days when they went to the mountain together, the very same thing came to pass. Kahp-too-óo-yoo killed each time a deer; and each time the friend came home with nothing, refusing all offers to share as brothers. And he grew more jealous and more sullen every day.

At last he came again to invite Kahp-too-óo-yoo to go; but this time it was with an evil purpose that he asked. Then again the same things happened. Again the unsuccessful friend refused to take a share of Kahp-too-óo-yoo’s deer; and when he had sat long without a word, he said:

“Friend Kahp-too-óo-yoo, now I will prove you if you are truly my friend, for I do not think it.”

“Surely,” said Kahp-too-óo-yoo, “if there is any way to prove myself, I will do it gladly, for truly I am your friend.”

“Then come, and we will play a game together, and with that I will prove you.”

“It is well! But what game shall we play, for here we have nothing?”

Near them stood a broken pine-tree, with one great arm from its twisted body. And looking at it, the false friend said:

“I see nothing but to play the _gallo_ race; and because we have no horses[81] we will ride this arm of the pine-tree--first I will ride, and then you.”

[81] This mention of the horse is, of course, modern. I think
it is an interpolation. The rest of the story bears traces of
great antiquity.

So he climbed the pine-tree, and sat astride the limb as upon a horse, and rode, reaching over to the ground as if to pick up the chicken.[82]

[82] In imitation of one of the most popular and exciting
sports of the Southwestern Indians and Mexicans.

“Now you,” he said, coming down; and Kahp-too-óo-yoo climbed the tree and rode on the swinging branch. But the false friend bewitched the pine, and suddenly it grew in a moment to the very sky, carrying Kahp-too-óo-yoo.

“We do this to one another,” taunted the false friend, as the tree shot up; and taking the wood, and the deer which Kahp-too-óo-yoo had killed, he went to the village. There the sisters met him, and asked:

“Where is our brother?”

“Truly I know not, for he went northwest and I southwest; and though I waited long at the meeting-place, he did not come. Probably he will soon return. But take of this deer which I killed, for sisters should share the labors of brothers.”

But the girls would take no meat, and went home sorrowful.

Time went on, and still there was no Kahp-too-óo-yoo. His sisters and his old parents wept always, and all the village was sad. And soon the crops grew yellow in the fields, and the springs failed, and the animals walked like weary shadows; for Kahp-too-óo-yoo, he who had the power of the clouds, was gone, and there was no rain. And then perished all that is green; the animals fell in the brown fields; and the gaunt people who sat to warm themselves in the sun began to die there where they sat. At last the poor old man said to his daughters:

“Little daughters, prepare food, for again we will go to look for your brother.”

The girls made cakes of the blue corn-meal for the journey; and on the fourth day they started. Old-Black-Cane hobbled to the south, his wife to the east, the elder girl to the north, and the younger to the west.

For a great distance they traveled; and at last Blue-Corn-Maiden, who was in the north, heard a far, faint song. It was so little that she thought it must be imaginary; but she stopped to listen, and softly, softly it came again:

_Tó-ai-fóo-ni-hlóo-hlim,
Eng-k’hai k’háhm;
Eé-eh-bóori-kóon-hlee-oh,
Ing-k’hai k’háhm.
Ah-ee-ái, ah-hee-ái,
Aim!_

(Old-Black-Cane
My father is called;
Corn-Woman
My mother is called.
_Ah-ee-ái, ah-hee-ái,
Aim!_)

When she heard this, Blue-Corn-Maiden ran until she came to her sister, and cried:

“Sister! Sister! I think I hear our brother somewhere in captivity. Listen!”

Trembling, they listened; and again the song came floating to them, so soft, so sad that they wept--as to this day their people weep when a white-haired old man, filled with the memories of Kahp-too-óo-yoo, sings that plaintive melody.

“Surely it is our brother!” they cried; and off they went running to find their parents. And when all listened together, again they heard the song.

“Oh, my son!” cried the poor old woman, “in what captivity do you find yourself? True it is that your father is Old-Black-Cane, and I, your mother, am called Corn-Woman. But why do you sing thus?”

Then all four of them began to follow the song, and at last they came to the foot of the sky-reaching pine; but they could see nothing of Kahp-too-óo-yoo, nor could their cries reach him. There, on the ground, were his bow and arrows, with strings and feathers eaten away by time; and there was his pack of wood, tied with the rawhide thong, ready to be taken home. But after they had searched everywhere, they could not find Kahp-too-óo-yoo; and finally they went home heavy at heart.

At last it happened that P’ah-whá-yoo-óo-deh, the Little Black Ant, took a journey and went up the bewitched pine, even to its top in the sky. When he found Kahp-too-óo-yoo there a prisoner, the Little Black Ant was astonished, and said:

“Great _Kah-báy-deh_ [Man of Power], how comes it that you are up here in such a condition, while your people at home are suffering and dying for rain, and few are left to meet you if you return? Are you here of your free will?”

“No,” groaned Kahp-too-óo-yoo; “I am here because of the jealousy of him who was as my brother, with whom I shared my food and labor, whose home was my home, and my home his. He is the cause, for he was jealous and bewitched me hither. And now I am dying of famine.”

“If that is so,” said the Little Black Ant, “I will be the one to help you”; and he ran down to the world as fast as he could. When he got there he sent out the crier to summon all his nation, and also that of the _In-toon_, the Big Red Ants. Soon all the armies of the Little Black Ants and the Big Red Ants met at the foot of the pine, and held a council. They smoked the _weer_ and deliberated what should be done.

“You Big Red Ants are stronger than we who are small,” said the War-Captain of the Little Black Ants, “and for that you ought to take the top of the tree to work.”

“_Een-dah!_” (No) said the War-Captain of the Big Red Ants. “If you think we are the stronger, give us the bottom, where we can work more, and you go to the top.”

So it was agreed, and the captains made their armies ready. But first the Little Black Ants got the cup of an acorn, and mixed in it corn-meal and water and honey, and carried it up the tree. They were so many that they covered its trunk all the way to the sky.

When Kahp-too-óo-yoo saw, his heart was heavy, and he thought: “But what good will that very little do me, for I am dying of hunger and thirst?” “Nay, friend,” answered the Captain of the Little Black Ants, who knew his thought. “A person should not think so. This little is enough, and there will be some left.”

And it was so; for when Kahp-too-óo-yoo had eaten all he could, the acorn-cup was still nearly full. Then the ants carried the cup to the ground and came back to him.

“Now, friend,” said the Captain, “we will do our best. But now you must shut your eyes till I say ‘_Ahw!_’”

Kahp-too-óo-yoo shut his eyes, and the Captain sent signals down to those at the foot of the tree. And the Little Black Ants above put their feet against the sky and pushed with all their might on the top of the pine; and the Big Red Ants below caught the trunk and pulled as hard as they could; and the very first tug drove the great pine a quarter of its length into the earth.

“_Ahw!_” shouted the Captain of the Little Black Ants, and Kahp-too-óo-yoo opened his eyes; but he could see nothing below.

“Shut your eyes again,” said the Captain, giving the signal. Again the Little Black Ants pushed mightily against the sky, and the Big Red Ants pulled mightily from below; and the pine was driven another fourth of its length into the earth.

“_Ahw!_” cried the Captain; and when Kahp-too-óo-yoo opened his eyes he could just see the big, brown world.

Again he closed his eyes. There was another great push and pull, and only a quarter of the pine was left above the ground. Now Kahp-too-óo-yoo could see, far below, the parched fields strewn with dead animals, and his own village full of dying people.

Again the Little Black Ants pushed and the Big Red Ants pulled, and this time the tree was driven clear out of sight, and Kahp-too-óo-yoo was left sitting on the ground. He hastily made a bow and arrows and soon killed a fat deer, which he brought and divided among the Little Black Ants and the Big Red Ants, thanking them for their kindness.

Then he made all his clothing to be new, for he had been four years a prisoner in the bewitched tree, and was all in rags. Making for himself a flute from the bark of a young tree, he played upon it as he strode homeward and sang:

_Kahp-too-óo-yoo tú-mah-quee,
Nah-chóor kwé-shay-tin,
Nah-shúr kwé-shay-tin;
Kahp-too-óo-yoo tú-mah-quee!_

(Kahp-too-óo-yoo has come to life again,
Is back to his home coming,
Blowing the yellow and the blue;
Kahp-too-óo-yoo has come to life again!)

As he walked and sang, the forgotten clouds came over him, and the soft rain began to fall, and all was green and good. But only so far as his voice reached came the rain; and beyond all was still death and drought. When he came to the end of the wet, he played and sang again; and again the rain fell as far as his voice was heard. This time the Fool-Boy, who was wandering outside the dying village, saw the far storm and heard the singing. He ran to tell Kahp-too-óo-yoo’s parents; but nobody would believe a Foolish, and they sent him away.

When the Fool-Boy went out again, the rain fell on him and gave him strength, and he came running a second time to tell. Then the sisters came out of the house and saw the rain and heard the song; and they cried for joy, and told their parents to rise and meet him. But the poor old people were dying of weakness, and could not rise; and the sisters went alone. When they met him they fell on their knees, weeping; but Kahp-too-óo-yoo lifted them up and blessed them, gave an ear of blue corn to Blue-Corn-Maiden, and to Yellow-Corn-Maiden an ear of yellow corn, and brought them home.

As he sang again, the rain fell in the village; and when it touched the pinched faces of the dead they sat up and opened their mouths to catch it. And the dying crawled out to drink, and were strong again; and the withered fields grew green and glad.

When they came to the house, Kahp-too-óo-yoo blessed his parents, and then said:

“Little sisters, give us to eat.”

But they answered, “How? For you have been gone these four years, and there was none to give us rain. We planted, but nothing came, and to-day we ate the last grain.”

“Nay, little sisters,” he said. “A person should not think so. Look now in the store-rooms, if there be not something there.”

“But we have looked and looked, and turned over everything to try to find one grain.”

“Yet look once more,” he said; and when they opened the door, lo! there was the store-room piled to the roof with corn, and another room was full of wheat. Then they cried for joy, and began to roast the blue ears, for they were dying of hunger.

At the sweet smell of the roasting corn came the starving neighbors, crowding at the door, and crying:

“O Kahp-too-óo-yoo! Give us to taste one grain of corn, and then we will go home and die.”

But Kahp-too-óo-yoo handed to each an ear, and said:

“Fathers, brothers, go now to your own houses, for there you will find corn as much as here.” And when they went, it was so. All began to roast corn and to eat; and the dead in the houses awoke and were strong again, and all the Village sang and danced.

From that time there was plenty of rain, for he who had the power of the clouds was at home again. In the spring the people planted, and in the fall the crops were so great that all the town could not hold them; so that which was left they brought to Shee-eh-whíb-bak (Isleta), where we enjoy it to this day.

As for the false friend, he died of shame in his house, not daring to come out; and no one wept for him.

XXIII

THE MAN WHO WOULDN’T KEEP SUNDAY

AMONG the folk-stories of the Pueblos which show at once that they are not of such antiquity as the rest, is this. It is plain that the story is post-Spanish--that it has been invented within the last three hundred and fifty years. That seems to us a long time to go back in the history of America, but to the Pueblos it is a trifling dot on the long line of their antiquity.

The following tale is an amusing instance of the fashion in which some of the myth-makers have mixed things. It is an Indian fairy tale, but with a Christian moral--which was learned from the noble and effective Spanish missionaries who toiled here.

Once upon a time, in a pueblo south of Isleta,--one of its old colonies known as P’ah-que-tóo-ai, the Rainbow Town, but deserted long ago,--there were two Indians who were great friends. They started in life with equal prospects, married young, and settled in the same town. But though friends, their natures were very different. One was a good man in his heart, and the other was bad. The good man always observed Sunday, but the other worked every day. The good man had better luck than the bad; and the latter became jealous. At last he said: “Friend, tell me, why is it that you always make more success than I?”

“Perhaps,” answered Good, “because I keep Sunday, but work hard all the other days of the week, while you work every day.”

Time went on, and both the friends accumulated considerable wealth in servants, stock, and ornaments. The good man let his servants rest on Sunday, but the bad made his work every day, and did not even give them time to smoke. Good prospered most, and had more servants, more stock, and more ornaments than Bad, who grew more jealous daily. At last Bad said to Good: “Friend, you say that you have good luck because you keep Sunday, but I’ll bet I am right in _not_ keeping it.”

“No,” replied Good; “I’ll bet _I_ am right, and that Sunday ought to be kept.”

“Then I will bet all my stock against all your stock, and all my lands against your lands, and everything we have except our wives. To-morrow, be ready about breakfast-time, and we will go out into the public road and ask the first three men we meet which of us is right. And whichever gets the voice of the majority, he shall be the winner, and shall take all that is of the other.”

Good agreed--for an Indian cannot back out of a challenge,--and so the next morning the two friends took the public road. In a little while they met a man, and said to him: “Friend, we want your voice. Which of us is right, the one who observes Sunday and lets his _peons_ rest then, or he who does not?”

Now it happened that this person was not a man, but an old devil who was taking a walk in human form; and he promptly answered: “Without doubt he is right who does not keep Sunday,” and went his road.

“Aha!” said Bad to Good. “You see I got the first voice.”

They started on again and soon met another man, to whom they asked the same. But it was the same old devil, and he gave them the same answer.

“Aha!” said Bad. “Now I have the second voice, you see.”

Presently they met a third man, and asked him the same, and he answered the same; for it was the same old devil in another body.

“Aha!” said Bad, “I am the winner! Get down from that burro, and let me have her and her colt, for now all that was yours is mine, as we agreed.”

Good got down from the burro with tears in his eyes, for he was thinking of his wife, and said:

“Now, friend, having gained all, you are going back to our home; but I shall not. Tell my wife that I am going to the next pueblo to seek work, and that I will not be back until I have earned as much as I have lost in this bet, or more; but tell her not to be sad.”

Then they shook hands and parted, Bad riding home full of joy, and Good trudging off through the sand toward Isleta, which was the largest and wealthiest pueblo of the tribe. On the road night overtook him, and seeing an abandoned house in a field, he hastened to it for shelter from the cold of night. A portion of the roof still remained, with the _fogon_ (corner fireplace) and chimney, and he began to brush a place to lie down. Now it happened that this house was the place where all the devils of that country used to meet at night; and before Good went to sleep he heard noises of the devils coming. He was very much frightened, and to hide himself climbed up into the chimney and stood upon its crosspiece.

In a moment the devils began to arrive singly or in pairs; and at last came the old devil--the very one who had played the trick on Good. He called the meeting to order, and asked them what they had been doing. A young devil arose and said:

“The next pueblo is the largest and wealthiest of this nation. For three weeks now, all its people, and all the people along that river, have been working at the spring from which the river comes, but have not been able to undo me. Three weeks ago I came to that spring and thought how nice it would be to stop up the spring, and how the people would swear if their gods did not send rain. So I stuck a big stone in the spring and stopped all the water; and ever since, the water will not come out, and the people work in vain, and they are dying of thirst, and all their stock. Now they will either forsake their gods and serve us, or die like the animals, thinking nothing of their past or future.”

“Good!” said the old devil, rubbing his hands. “You have done well! But tell me--is there no way to open the spring?”

“There is only one way,” said the young devil, “and one man could do that--but they will never think of it. If a man took a long stick, shaped like a sword, and went and stood on top of the stone, and struck it with the full length of the stick first east and west, and then north and south, the water would come out so hard that the stone would be thrown out upon the banks and the spring could never be stopped again.”

“Is _that_ the only way?” said the old devil. “You have done very well, for they certainly will never think to do that. Now for the next.”

Then another young devil arose and reported this:

“I, too, have done something. In the pueblo across the mountain I have the daughter of the wealthiest man sick in bed, and she will never get well. All the medicine-men have tried in vain to cure her. She, too, will be ours.”

“Good!” said the old devil. “But is there no way in which any one may cure her?”

“Yes, there is one way, but they never will think of that. If a person should carry her to the door just as the sun is rising, and hold her so that its very first rays would touch the top of her head, she would be well at once, and never could be made sick again.”

“You are right,” said the old devil, “they will never think of that. You have done well.”

Just then a rooster crowed, and the old devil cried, “You have a road!”--which means, “an adjournment is in order.” All the devils hurried away; and when they were gone, poor Good crawled down from the chimney half dead with fright, and hurried on toward Isleta. When he got there he found the people in great trouble, for their crops were withering and their cattle dying for want of water.

“I see,” thought Good to himself, “that these devils told the truth about one thing, and so perhaps they did about all. I will try to undo them, even if I fail.” Going to the Cacique he asked what they would give him if he would open the spring. The Cacique told the _principales_, and they held a _junta_, and decided to let the stranger name his own price.

“Well,” said he, “I will do this if you will give me half the value of the whole village.”

They agreed, and asked how many men he would need to help him, and when he would begin.

“I need no men. Lend me only a hard stick the length of my outstretched arms, and a horse.”

These were given him, and he went to the spring alone. Leaping upon the stone he struck it with the full length of the stick east and west, and then north and south, and sprang nimbly to the bank. At that very instant the water rushed out harder than it had ever done. All the people and cattle along the river came to the banks and drank and revived. They began to irrigate their fields again, and the dying crops grew green.[83] When Good got back to the pueblo, half of all the grain and money and dresses and ornaments were piled up in a huge pile waiting for him, and half the horses and cattle and sheep were waiting in big herds. It was so that he had to hire a great many men to help him home with his wealth, which was more than any one person ever had before. He appointed a mayordomo to take charge of this caravan, and to meet him at a certain point on the way home. He himself, taking a horse, rode away at once to the other pueblo, where the rich man’s daughter was sick. Arriving at nightfall, he stopped at the house of an old woman. While he ate, she told him how sad was all the village; for the girl who had been so kind to all was dying.

[83] Here, as in several other stories in this volume, is a
touch of the arid character of the Southwest. The country is
always so dry that irrigation is necessary in farming, and in
very bad years the streams have not water even for that. The
Rio Grande itself frequently disappears in September between
certain points in its course in sandy New Mexico; and within
ten miles below Isleta I have seen its bed bone-dry. Ignorance
of this fact has caused serious blunders on the part of
historians unfamiliar with the country of which they wrote.

“But,” said he, “I can cure her.”

“_In-dah_,” said the crone; “for all the medicine men have tried vainly, and how shall you?”

“But I can,” he insisted; and at last the old woman went to the rich man, and said there was a stranger at her house who was sure he could cure the girl.