Chapter XI: Part 11

“Victory!” said the proud Turtle, scarcely deigning to look at her.[21]

[21] The ridiculousness of the dialogue which follows may
readily be understood when it is explained that each office in
the celebration of victory has to be performed by a distinct
individual of specified clans according to the function.

“Who has this day renewed himself?” she inquired.

“Thy grandchildren,” answered the old Turtle.

“Have they won?” asked the old woman, as she said: “Thanks this day!”

“Many caps,” replied the Turtle.

“Will they celebrate?”

“Yes.”

“Who will purify and pass them?” asked the granny.

“Why, you will.”

“Who will bathe the scalps?”

“Why, I will.”

“Who will swing the scalps round the pueblo?”

“Why, you will.”

“Who will adopt them?”

“Why, you will.”

“Who will bring out the feast?”

“Why, you will.”

“Who will be the priest of initiation?”

“Why, I will.”

“Who will be the song-master?”

“Why, I will.”

“Who will be the dancers?”

“Why, I will.”

“Who will draw the arrows and sacrifice them?”

“Why, I will.”

“Who will strive for the sacrificed arrows?”

“Why, I will.”

“Who will lead the dance of victory?”

“Why, I will.”

“Who will be the dancers?”

“Why, I will.”

“Who will go to get the women to join the dance?”

“Why, I will.”

“What women will dance?”

“Why, you will.”

“Who will take them to preside at the feast of their relatives-in-law?”

“Why, you will.”

“Who will be their relatives-in-law?”

“Why, you will.”

“Who will be the priests of their Father Society?”

“Why, I will.”

And they might have talked that way till sunset had not the voices of the two boys, singing the song of victory, been heard coming over the hill. There they were, coming with two great strings of scalps as big as a bunch of buckskins.

“Oh! poor me! How shall I swing all those scalps round the pueblo?” groaned the poor old woman as she limped off to dress for the ceremony.

“Why, swing them,” answered the old Turtle, as he stretched himself up with the importance of being master of ceremonies.

So the boys brought the scalps up and the old Turtle strung them thickly on a long pole.

So day after day they danced and sang, to add strands to the width of the boys’ badges. And the old Turtle was master-priest of ceremonies and people, low priest, song-master, and dancers; sacrificer of arrows and striver after the arrows. He would beat the drum and sing a little, then run and dance out the measure; but it was very hard work.

And the old woman was mother of the children and sisters, and their clan, and somebody’s else clan, matron of ceremonials, and maidens of ceremonials--all at the same time;--but it was very hard work, consequently they didn’t get along very well.

That’s the reason why today we have so many song-masters and singers, dance leaders and dancers, priests and common people, father clans and mother clans, in the great Ceremony of Victory.

Thus it happened with Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma and their old grandmother, and their grandfathers the Rainbow-worm and the old Turtle. That is the reason why rainbow-worms are no bigger than your finger now, because their great grandfather blew all his substance away at the Háwikuhkwe. That’s the reason why the great Turtles in the far-away Waters of the World are so much bigger than their brothers and sisters here, and have so many marks on their shells, where the arrows glanced across the shield of their great grandfather. For old Etawa was so proud after he had been the great master of ceremonies that he despised his old pond, and went off to seek a new home in the Western Waters of the World, and his grandchildren never grew any bigger after he went away, and their descendants are just as small as they were.

And thus shortens my story.

THE YOUNG SWIFT-RUNNER WHO WAS STRIPPED OF HIS CLOTHING BY THE AGED TARANTULA

A long, long time ago, in K’iákime, there lived a young man, the son of the priest-chief of the town. It was this young man’s custom to dress himself as for a dance and run entirely around Thunder Mountain each morning before the sun rose, before making his prayers. He was a handsome young man, and his costume was beautiful to behold.

Now, below the two broad columns of rock which stand at the southeastern end of Thunder Mountain, and which are called Ak’yapaatch-ella,--below these, in the base of the mountain, an old, old Tarantula had his den. Of a morning, as the young man in his beautiful dress sped by, the old Tarantula heard the horn-bells which were attached to his belt and saw him as he passed, this young Swift-runner, and he thought to himself: “Ah, ha! Now if I could only get his fine apparel away from him, what luck it would be for me! I will wait for him the next time.”

Early the next morning, just as the sun peeped over the lid of the world, sure enough the old Tarantula heard the horn-bells, and, thrusting his head out of his den, waited. As the young man approached, he called out to him: “Hold, my young friend; come here!”

“What for?” replied the youth. “I am in a great hurry.”

“Never mind that; come here,” said the old Tarantula.

“What is it? Why do you detain me?” rejoined the youth.

“It is for this reason,” said the old Tarantula. “Wouldn’t you like to look at yourself today?--for if you would, I can show you how.”

“How?” asked the young man. “Make haste, for I am in a hurry.”

“Well, in this way,” was the reply. “Take off your clothing, all of it; then I will take off mine. You place yours in a heap before me; I will place mine in a heap before you. Then I will put on your apparel as you wear it, and then you will see what a handsome fellow you are.”

The young man thought about it and concluded that it would be a very good thing to do. So he began drawing off his clothing--his beautiful painted moccasins, red and green; his fine white leggings, knitted with cunning stitches and fringed down the front, like the leggings worn by the Master of the Dances at New Year; his delicately-embroidered skirt, and mantle, and coat, all of white cotton and marked with figures in many colors; his heavy anklets of sacred white shell; his blue turquoise earrings, like the sky in blueness, and so long that they swept his shoulders; his plaited headband of many-colored fibers, and his bunch of blue, red, and yellow macaw feathers, which he wore in his hair-knot at the back of his head,--all these things, one after another, he took off and laid before the ugly old Tarantula.

Then that woolly, hairy, clammy creature hauled off his clothing--gray-blue, ugly, and coarse;--gray-blue leggings, gray-blue skirt and breech-cloth, gray-blue coat and mantle, nothing but gray-blue, woolly and hairy, ugly and dirty. When the old Tarantula had done this, he began to put on the handsome garments that the young man had placed before him, and, after he had dressed himself in these, he perched himself up on his crooked hindlegs, and said: “Look at me, now. How do I look?”

“Well, so far as the clothing is concerned, handsome,” said the young man.

“Just wait till I get a little farther off,” said the old Tarantula, and he straightened himself up and walked backward toward the door of his den. Presently he stopped and stood still, and said: “How do I look now?”

“Handsomer,” said the young man.

“Just wait till I get a little farther”; and again he walked backward, which is a way Tarantulas have, and stood up straight, and said: “How do I look now?”

“Handsomer still,” said the young man.

“Ah, ha! Just wait till I get a little farther”;--and now he backed to the very door of his den, and stood upon the lip of the entrance, and said: “Now, then, how do I look?”

“Perfectly handsome,” said the young man.

“Ah, ha!” chuckled the old Tarantula, and he turned himself around and plunged headforemost into his hole.

“Out upon him!” cried the young man, as he stood there with his head bowed, and thinking. “Out upon the old rascal! That is the trick he serves me, is it? Fearful!” said he. “What shall I do now? I can’t go home naked, or half naked. Well, but I suppose I will have to,” said he to himself. And, bending down, he reached for the hairy gray-blue breech-cloth that had been left there by the old Tarantula, and the skirt, and put them on, and took his way swiftly homeward.

When he reached home the sun was high, which never had happened before, so that the old people had been thinking, “Surely, something must have happened to our young man that he comes not as early as usual.” And when he came, they said: “What has happened that has detained you so?”

“Ha!” replied the youth; “the old Tarantula that lives under the Ak’yapaatch-ella has stripped me of my garments, and with them has run away into his hole.”

“We thought something of the kind must have happened,” said his old father.

“Send for your warrior priest,” said the other old ones. “Let us see what he thinks about this, and what shall be done.”

So the priest-chief sent for his warrior priest, and when the latter had come, he asked: “Why is it that you have sent for me?”

“True, we have sent for you,” said the father, “because Old Tarantula has stripped my son of his handsome apparel, which is sacred and precious, and we therefore hold it a great loss to him and us. How do you think we can recover what has been stolen?”

The warrior priest thought a moment, and said: “I should think we would have to dig him out, for it isn’t likely he will show himself far from his den again.”

So the warrior priest went out on the tops of the houses, and called to his people:

“I instruct ye this day, oh, my people and children! Listen to my instruction! Our child, in running to and from his prayers this very morning was intercepted by Old Tarantula, who, through his skill and cunning, succeeded in stripping our child of his handsome apparel. Therefore, I instruct ye, make haste! Gather together digging-sticks and hoes; let us all go and dig out the old villain; let the whole town turn out, women as well as men and children. My daughters, ye women of this town, take with ye basket-bowls and baskets and other things wherewith ye gather material for plaster, with which to convey away the sand and earth that is dug up by the men. Thus much I instruct ye! Make haste all!” Whereupon he descended, and, after eating, led the way toward the den of Old Tarantula.

When the people had also eaten and followed, they began to work swiftly at tunnelling into the hole of the Tarantula; and thus they worked and worked from morning till night, but did not overtake him, until at last they reached the solid rock foundations of the mountain. They had filled their baskets and basket-bowls with the sand, and cast it behind them, and others had cast it behind them, and so on until a large hillock of earth and sand had been raised, but still they had not overtaken Old Tarantula. Now, when they had reached the solid rock foundations of the mountain, they saw that the hole yawned like a cave before them, and that it was needless to follow farther. They gave up in despair, saying: “What more can we do? Let us go home. Let us give it up, since we must.” And they took their ways homeward.

Now, in the evening the old ones of the town were very thoughtful, and they gathered together and talked the matter over, and finally it was suggested by someone in answer to the query, “What can we do to recover our son’s lost garments?” “Suppose that we send for the Great Kingfisher? He is wise, crafty, swift of flight; he dashes himself from on high, even into the water, and takes him therefrom whatsoever he will, swift though it be, without fail. Suppose we send for him, our grandfather?”

“Ah, ha! that’s it,” replied others. “Send for him straightway.”

So the master warrior priest called to Young Swift-runner, and sent him to the Hill of the Great Kingfisher.

“What is it?” asked Kingfisher, when he heard someone at the entrance of his house.

“Come quickly! In council the old ones of our town await you,” said the young man.

So Great Kingfisher followed, and, arriving at the council, greeted them and asked: “What is it you would have of me?”

Said they: “Old Tarantula has stripped our young man, Swift-runner, of his beautiful garments, and how to recover them we know not. We have dug away the den, even to the foundation of the mountain, but beyond this it extends. What to do we know not. So we have sent for you, knowing your power and ability to quickly snatch even from under the waters whatsoever you will.”

“Ah, ha! I will take a step toward this thing,” said Great Kingfisher, “but it is a difficult task you place before me. Old Tarantula is exceedingly cunning and very keen of sight, moreover. I will, however, take a step, and if I have good luck will be able to bring back to you something of what he has stolen.” He then made his adieu, and went back to his house at the Hill of the Kingfisher.

Very early the next morning he took his swift way to the Ak’yapaatch-ella, and there where the columns of rock fork he lay himself down between them, like a little finger between two other fingers, merely thrusting his beak over the edge, and looking at the opening of Old Tarantula’s hole.

The plumes of sunlight were but barely gleaming on the farther edge of the world when Old Tarantula cast his eyes just out of the edge of his hole, and looked all around. Eyes like many eyes had he, wonderfully sharp and clear. With these he looked all around, as might have been expected. He discovered Great Kingfisher, little-so-ever of him showing, and called out: “_Heee! Wóloi weee!_” (“Ho, ho! skulker skulking. Ho, ho! skulker skulking!”) Instantly Great Kingfisher shook out his wings, and _thluooo_, descended like a breath of strong wind; and _thlu-u-u-kwa_, finished his flight like a loosed arrow; but he merely brushed the tips of the plumes in Old Tarantula’s head-knot, and the creature doubled himself up and headforemost plunged into his hole. Once in, “Ha, ha!” said he. “Good for him! Good! Good! Let’s have a dance, and sing,” said he, talking to himself; and thereupon he pranced up, jigged about his dark, deep room, singing this song:

“_Ohatchik’ya ti Tákwà,
Ai yaa Tákwà!
Ohatchik’ya lii Tákwà,
Ohatchik’ya lii Tákwà!
Ai yaa Tákwà!
Ai yaa Tákwà!
Tákwà, Tákwà!_”

Thus singing, he danced,--surely a song that nobody but he could dance to, if it be a song, but he danced to it. And when he had finished jigging about, he looked at his fluttering garments, and said: “Ha, ha! Just look at my fine dress! Now am I not handsome? I tell you I am handsome! Now, let’s have another dance!” And again he sang at the top of his wheezing voice, and pranced round on his crooked hind legs, with his fine garments fluttering.

But Great Kingfisher, with wings drooping and beak gaped down at the corners,--as though being hungry he had tried to catch a fish and hadn’t caught him,--took his way back to the council; and he said to the people there: “No use! I failed utterly. As I said before, he is a crafty, keen-sighted old fellow. What more have I to say?” He made his adieus, and took his way back to the Hill of the Kingfisher.

Again the people talked with one another and considered; and at last said some: “Inasmuch as he has failed, let us send for our grandfather, Great Eagle. He, of all living creatures with wings, is swiftest and keenest of sight, strong of grasp, hooked of beak, whatever getting holding, and getting whatever he will.”

They sent for the Eagle. He came, and when made acquainted with their wishes turned quickly, and said, in bidding them adieu: “I think that possibly I can succeed, though surely, as my brother has said, Old Tarantula is a crafty, keen-sighted creature. I will do my best.”

Early the next morning he took his way, before sunrise, to the peak of the Mountain of the Badgers, a long distance away from Ak’yapaatch-ella, but still as no distance to the Eagle. There he stood, with his head raised to the winds, turning first one eye, then the other, on the entrance of Old Tarantula’s den, until Old Tarantula again thrust out his woolly nose, as might have been expected. He discovered the Eagle, and was just shouting “Ho, skulker, skulking!” when the Eagle swept like a singing stone loosed from the sling straight at the head of Old Tarantula. But his wings hissed and buzzed past the hole harmlessly, and his crooked talons reached down into the dark, clutching nothing save one of the plumes in Old Tarantula’s head-dress. Even this he failed to bring away.

The Old Tarantula tumbled headlong into his lower room, and exclaimed: “Ha, ha! Goodness save us! What a startling he gave me! But he didn’t get me! No, he didn’t get me! Let’s have a dance! Jig it down! What a fine fellow I am!” And he began to prance about, and jig and sing as he had sung before:

“_Ohatchik’ya ti Tákwà,
Ai yaa Tákwà!
Ohatchik’ya lii Tákwà,
Ohatchik’ya lii Tákwà!
Ai yaa Tákwà!
Ai yaa Tákwà!
Tákwà, Tákwà!_”

As soon as he paused for breath, he glanced askance at his fluttering bright garments and cried out: “Ho! what a handsome fellow I am! How finely dressed I am! Let’s have another dance!” And again he danced and sang, all by himself, admiring himself, answering his own questions, and watching his own movements. But Great Eagle, crestfallen and shame-smitten, took his way to the place of the council, reported his failure, and made his adieu.

Then again the people considered, and the old ones decided to send for Hatchutsanona (the Lesser Falcon), whose plumage is hard and smooth and speckled, gray and brown, like the rocks and sagebrush, and who, being swift as the Kingfisher, and strong as the Eagle, and small, is not only able to fly where other birds fly, but can penetrate the closest thicket when seeking his prey, for trimmed he is like a well-feathered arrow. They sent for him; he came and, being made acquainted with the facts of the case, said he could but try, though he modestly affirmed that when his elder brothers, Great Kingfisher and Great Eagle, had made such efforts, it were well-nigh needless for him to try, and repeated what they had said of the cunning and keenness of sight of Old Tarantula.

But he went early the next morning, and placed himself on the very edge of the high cliff overhanging the columns of rock and looking into the den of Old Tarantula. There, when the sun rose, you could scarcely have seen him, even though near you might have been, for his coat of gray and brown was like the rocks and dry grass around him, and he lay very close to the ground, like an autumn leaf beaten down by the rain. By-and-by Old Tarantula thrust out his rugged face, and turned his eyes in every direction, up and down; then twisted his head from side to side. He saw nothing. He had even poked his head entirely out of his hole, and his shoulders were just visible, when Lesser Falcon bestirred himself, and Old Tarantula, alas! saw him; not in time to wholly save himself, however, for Lesser Falcon, with a sweep of his wings like the swirl of a snowdrift, shot into the mouth of Old Tarantula’s den, grasped at his head, and brought away with him the macaw plumes of the youth’s head-dress.

Down into his den tumbled Old Tarantula, and he sat down and bent himself double with fright and chagrin. He wagged his head to and fro, and sighed: “Alas! alas! my beautiful head-dress; the skulking wretch! My beautiful head-dress; he has taken it from me. What is the use of bothering about a miserable bunch of macaw feathers, anyway? They get dirty, they get bent and broken, moths eat them, they change their color; what is the use of troubling myself about a worthless thing like that? Haven’t I still the finest costume in the valley?--handsome leggings and embroidered skirt and mantle, sleeves as pretty as flowers in summer, necklaces worth fifty head-plumes, and earrings worth a handful of such necklaces? Ha, ha! let him away with the old head-plumes! Let’s have a dance, and dance her down, old fellow!” said he, talking to himself. And again he skipped about, and sang his tuneless song:

“_Ohatchik’ya ti Tákwà,
Ai yaa Tákwà!
Ohatchik’ya lii Tákwà,
Ohatchik’ya lii Tákwà!
Ai yaa Tákwà,
Ai yaa Tákwà.
Tákwà, Tákwà!_”

He admired himself as much as before. “Forsooth,” said he; “I could not have seen the head-plume for I would have worn it in the back of my head.”

The Lesser Falcon, cursing at his half-luck, took his way back to the council, and, casting the head-plume at the feet of the old men, said: “Alas! my fathers; this is the best I could do, for before I had fairly taken my flight, Old Tarantula discovered me and made into his den. But this I got, and I bring it to you. May others succeed better!”

“Thou hast succeeded exceeding well, for most precious are these plumes from Summerland,” said the old priest. “Thanks be to you, this day, my grandfather!” And the Lesser Falcon took his way to the thickets and hillsides.

Then the people said to one another: “What more is there to be done? We must even have recourse to the Gods, it seems.” And they called Swift-runner and said to him: “Of the feathered creatures we have chosen the wisest and swiftest and strongest to aid us; yet they have failed mainly. Therefore, we would even send you to the Gods, for your performance of duty to them has been faithful from morning to morning.” So they instructed him to climb to the top of Thunder Mountain and visit the home of the two War-gods, Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma, for in those days they still dwelt on the top of Thunder Mountain with their old grandmother, at the Middle Place of Sacrifice.

The priests in the town prepared sacrificial plumes and divided their treasures for the Gods, and again calling the young man, presented them to him as their messenger, bidding him bear to the Gods their greetings.

On the morning following, he climbed the steep path and soon neared the dwelling of the Gods and their grandmother. She was on the roof of the house, while the two bad boys--always out of the way when wanted, and never ceasing to play their pranks, as was their little way, you know--were down in the lower rooms. The old grandmother bade the youth to enter, and called out to her grandchildren, the two Gods: “My children, come up, both of you, quickly. A young man has arrived to see you, bringing greetings.” So they cast off their playful behavior, and with great gravity came into the room, and looking up to the tall youth, said: “Thou hast come. May it be happily. Sit down. What is it that thou wouldst have? because for nothing no stranger comes to the house of another.”

“It is true, this which you say,” said the youth reverently, breathing on his hands. “O ye, my fathers! I bring greetings from the fathers of my town below the mountain, and offerings from them.”

“It is well thus, my child,” replied the Gods.

“And I bring also my burden of trouble, that I may listen to your counsel, and perchance implore your aid,” said the youth.

“What is it?” said the Two; and they listened.

Then the youth related his misfortune, telling how he had been stripped of his clothing by Old Tarantula; how the old ones, gathered in council, had sought the aid, one after another, of the wisest and swiftest of feathered beings, but with little success; how they had at last counselled his coming to them, the fathers of the people in times of difficulty and strife.

“Grandmother!” shouted the younger brother War-god. “Make haste! Make haste, grandmother! Bestir yourself! Grind flour for us. Let it be rock flour!”

The old grandmother gathered some white calcareous sandstone called _kétchïpawe_. She broke those rocks into fragments and ground them into meal; then reduced them on a finer stone to soft, impalpable powder. She made dough of this with water, and the two Gods, with wonderful skill, molded this dough, as it hardened, into figures of elk-kind,--two deer and two antelope images they made. When they had finished these, they placed them before the youth, and said: “Take these and stand them on the sacrificial rock-shelf or terrace on the southern side of our mountain, with prayer to the gods over them. Return to your home, and tell the old ones what we have directed you to do. Tell them also where we said you should place these beings, for such they will become upon the rock-shelf; and you should go to greet them in the morning and guide them with you toward the den of Old Tarantula,--Old Tarantula is very fond of hunting; nothing is so pleasing to him as to kill anything,--that thereby he may be tempted forth from his hiding-place in his den.”

The youth did as he was directed, and when he had placed the figures of the deer and the antelope in a row on the shelf, and reached home, he informed the old ones of the word that had been sent to them.

His father, the old priest-chief, called the warrior priest, and said to him: “It may be possible that Old Tarantula will be tempted forth from his den tomorrow. Would it not be well for us to take the war-path against him?”

“It would, indeed, be well,” said the warrior priest. And the priest-chief went to the house-top and called to the people, saying:

“O, ye, my people and children, I instruct ye today! Let the young men and the warriors gather and prepare as for war. By means of the sacred images which have been made by the Two Beloved for our son, Swift-runner, it may be that we shall succeed in tempting Old Tarantula forth from his den tomorrow. Let us be prepared to capture him. Make haste! Make ready! Thus much I instruct ye.”

In great haste, as if under the influence of joyful tidings indeed, the people prepared for war, gathered together in great numbers, testing the strength of their bows, and with much racket issued forth from the town under Thunder Mountain, spreading over all the foot-hills. And toward daylight the youth alone took his way toward the sacrificial rock-shelf on the side of the mountain. When he arrived there, behold! the two Antelopes and the two Deer were tamely walking about, cropping the grass and tender leaves, and as he approached, they said: “So, here you are.”

“Now, this day, behold, my children!” said he in his prayer. “Even for the reason that we have made ye beings, follow my instructions, oh, do! Most wickedly and shamefully has Old Tarantula, living below Ak’yapaatch-ella, robbed me of my sacred fine apparel. I therefore call ye to aid me. Go ye now toward his home, that he may be tempted forth by the sight of ye.”

Obediently the Deer and Antelope took their way down the sloping sides of the foot-hills toward Old Tarantula’s den. As they neared the den the youth called out from one of the valleys below, “_Hu-u-u-u-u-u!_ Hasten! There go some deer and antelope! Whoever may be near them, understand, there go some deer and antelope!”

Old Tarantula was talking to himself, as usual, down in his inner room. He heard the faint sound. “Ha!” cried he, “what is this humming? Somebody calling, no doubt.” He skipped out toward the doorway just as the young man called the second time. “Ah, ha!” said he. “He says deer are coming, doesn’t he? Let us see.” And presently, when the young man called the third time, he exclaimed: “That’s it! that is what he is calling out. Now for a hunt! I might as well get them as anyone else.”

He caught up his bow, slipped the noose over the head of it, twanged the string, and started. But just as he was going out of his hole, he said to himself: “Good daylight! this never will do; they will be after me if I go out. Oh, pshaw! Nonsense! they will do nothing of the kind. What does it matter? Haven’t I bow and arrows with me?” He leaped out of his hole and started off toward the Deer. As he gained an eminence, he cried: “Ah, ha! sure enough, there they come!” Indeed, he was telling the truth. The Deer still approached, and when the first one came near he drew an arrow strongly and let fly. One of them dropped at once. “Ah, ha!” cried he, “who says I am not a good hunter?” He whipped out another arrow, and fired at the second Deer, which dropped where it had stood. With more exclamations of delight, he shot at the Antelope following, which fell; and then at the last one, which fell as the others had.

“Now,” said he, “I suppose I might as well take my meat home. Fine game I have bagged today.” He untied the strap which he had brought along and tied together the legs of the first deer he had shot. He stooped down, raised the deer, knelt on the ground and drew the strap over his forehead, and was just about to rise with his burden and make off for his den when, _klo-o-o-o-o!_ he fell down almost crushed under a mass of white rock. “Goodness! what’s this? Mercy, but this is startling!” He looked around, but he saw nothing of his game save a shapeless mass of white rock. “Well, I will try this other one,” said he to himself. He had no sooner placed the other on his back than down it bore him, another mass of white rock! “What can be the matter? The devil must be to pay!” said he. Then he tried the next, with no better success. “Well, there is one left, anyway,” said he. He tied the feet of the last one together, and was about to place the strap over his forehead, when he heard a mighty and thundering tread and great shouting and a terrible noise altogether, for the people were already gathering about his den. He made for the mouth of it with all possible speed, but the people were there before him; they closed in upon him, they clutched at his stolen garments, they pulled his earrings out of his ears, slitting his ears in doing so, until he put up his hands and cried: “Death and ashes! Mercy! Mercy! You hurt! You hurt! Don’t treat me so! I’ll be good hereafter. I’ll take the clothing off and give it back to you without making the slightest trouble, if you will let me alone.” But the people closed in still more angrily, and pulled him about, buffeted him, tore his clothing from him, until he was left nude and bruised and so maimed that he could hardly move.

Then the old priests gathered around, and said one of them: “It will not be well if we let this beast go as he is; he is too large, too powerful, and too crafty. He has but to think of destruction; forsooth, he destroys. He has but to think of over-reaching; it is accomplished. It will not be well that he should go abroad thus. He must be roasted; and thus only can we rid the world of him as he is.”

So the people assembled and heaped up great quantities of dry firewood; and they drilled fire from a stick, and lighted the mass. Then they cast the struggling Tarantula amid the flames, and he squeaked and sizzled and hissed, and swelled and swelled and swelled, until, with a terrific noise, he burst, and the fragments of his carcass were cast to the uttermost parts of the earth. These parts again took shape as beings not unlike Old Tarantula himself.

* * * * *

Thus it was in the days of the ancients. And therefore today, though crooked are the legs of the tarantula, and his habit of progress backward, still he is distributed throughout the great world. Only he is very, very much smaller than was the Great Tarantula who lived below the two rocky columns of Thunder Mountain.

Thus shortens my story.

ÁTAHSAIA, THE CANNIBAL DEMON

In the days of the ancients, when the children of our forefathers lived in Héshokta (“Town of the Cliffs”), there also lived two beautiful maidens, elder and younger, sisters one to the other, daughters of a master-chief.

One bright morning in summer-time, the elder sister called to the younger, “_Háni!_”

“What sayest thou?” said the _háni_.

“The day is bright and the water is warm. Let us go down to the pool and wash our clothes, that we may wear them as if new at the dance to come.”

“Ah, yes, sister elder,” said the _háni_; “but these are days when they say the shadows of the rocks and even the sage-bushes lodge unthinkable things, and cause those who walk alone to breathe hard with fear.”

“_Shtchu!_” exclaimed the elder sister derisively. “Younger sisters always are as timid as younger brothers are bad-tempered.”

“Ah, well, then; as you will, sister elder. I will not quarrel with your wish, but I fear to go.”

“_Yaush!_ Come along, then,” said the elder sister; whereupon they gathered their cotton mantles and other garments into bundles, and, taking along a bag of yucca-root, or soap-weed, started together down the steep, crooked path to where the pool lay at the foot of the great mesa.

Now, far above the Town of the Cliffs, among the rocks of red-gray and yellow--red in the form of a bowlder-like mountain that looks like a frozen sand-bank--there is a deep cave. You have never seen it? Well! to this day it is called the “Cave of Átahsaia,” and there, in the times I tell of, lived Átahsaia himself. Uhh! what an ugly demon he was! His body was as big as the biggest elk’s, and his breast was shaggy with hair as stiff as porcupine-quills. His legs and arms were long and brawny,--all covered with speckled scales of black and white. His hair was coarse and snarly as a buffalo’s mane, and his eyes were so big and glaring that they popped out of his head like skinned onions. His mouth stretched from one cheek to the other and was filled with crooked fangs as yellow as thrown-away deer-bones. His lips were as red and puffy as peppers, and his face as wrinkled and rough as a piece of burnt buckskin. That was Átahsaia, who in the days of the ancients devoured men and women for his meat, and the children of men for his sweet-bread. His weapons were terrible, too. His finger-nails were as long as the claws of a bear, and in his left hand he carried a bow made of the sapling of a mountain-oak, with two arrows ready drawn for use. And he was never seen without his great flint knife, as broad as a man’s thigh and twice as long, which he brandished with his right hand and poked his hair back with, so that his grizzly fore-locks were covered with the blood of those he had slaughtered. He wore over his shoulders whole skins of the mountain lion and bear clasped with buttons of wood.

Now, although Átahsaia was ugly and could not speak without chattering his teeth, or laugh without barking like a wolf, he was a very polite demon. But, like many ugly and polite people nowadays, he was a great liar.

Átahsaia that morning woke up and stuck his head out of his hole just as the two maidens went down to the spring. He caught sight of them while his eyes travelled below, and he chuckled. Then he muttered, as he gazed at them and saw how young and fine they were: “_Ahhali! Yaa-tchi!_” (“Good lunch! Two for a munch!”) and howled his war-cry, “_Ho-o-o-thlai-a!_” till Teshaminkia, the Echo-god, shouted it to the maidens.

“Oh!” exclaimed the _háni_, clutching the arm of her elder sister; “listen!”

“_Ho-o-o-thlai-a!_” again roared the demon, and again Teshaminkia.

“Oh, oh! sister elder, what did I tell you! Why did we come out today!” and both ran away; then stopped to listen. When they heard nothing more, they returned to the spring and went to washing their clothes on some flat stones.

But Átahsaia grabbed up his weapons and began to clamber down the mountain, muttering and chuckling to himself as he went: “_Ahhali! Yaa-tchi!_” (“Good lunch! Two for a munch!”).

Around the corner of Great Mesa, on the high shelves of which stands the Town of the Cliffs, are two towering buttes called Kwilli-yallon (Twin Mountain). Far up on the top of this mountain there dwelt Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma.

You don’t know who Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma were? Well, I will tell you. They were the twin children of the Sun-father and the Mother Waters of the World. Before men were born to the light, the Sun made love to the Waters of the World, and under his warm, bright glances, there were hatched out of a foam-cup on the face of the Great Ocean, which then covered the earth, two wonderful boys, whom men afterward named _Ua nam Atch Píahk’oa_ (“The Beloved Two who Fell”). The Sun dried away the waters from the high-lands of earth and these Two then delivered men forth from the bowels of our Earth-mother, and guided them eastward toward the home of their father, the Sun. The time came, alas! when war and many strange beings arose to destroy the children of earth, and then the eight Stern Beings changed the hearts of the twins to _sawanikia_, or the medicine of war. Thenceforth they were known as Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma (“Our Beloved,” the “Terrible Two,” “Boy-gods of War”).

Even though changed, they still guarded our ancients and guided them to the Middle of the World, where we now live. Gifted with hearts of the medicine of war, and with wisdom almost as great as the Sun-father’s own, they became the invincible guardians of the Corn-people of Earth, and, with the rainbow for their weapon and thunderbolts for their arrows,--swift lightning-shafts pointed with turquoise,--were the greatest warriors of all in the days of the new. When at last they had conquered most of the enemies of men, they taught to a chosen few of their followers the songs, prayers, and orders of a society of warriors who should be called their children, the Priests[22] of the Bow, and selecting from among them the two wisest, breathed into their nostrils (as they have since breathed into those of their successors) the _sawanikia_. Since then we make anew the semblance of their being and place them each year at mid-sun on the top of the Mountain of Thunder, and on the top of the Mountain of the Beloved, that they may know we remember them and that they may guard (as it was said in the days of the ancients they would guard) the Land of Zuñi from sunrise to sunset and cut off the pathways of the enemy.

[22] Here and hereafter I use this term _priest_ reluctantly, in
lack of a better word, but in accordance with Webster’s second
definition.--F. H. C.

Well, Áhaiyúta, who is called the elder brother, and Mátsailéma, who is called the younger, were living on the top of Twin Mountain with their old grandmother.

Said the elder to the younger on this same morning: “Brother, let us go out and hunt. It is a fine day. What say you?”

“My face is in front of me,” said the younger, “and under a roof is no place for men,” he added, as he put on his helmet of elk-hide and took a quiver of mountain-lion skin from an antler near the ladder.

“Where are you two boys going now?” shrieked the grandmother through a trap-door from below. “Don’t you ever intend to stop worrying me by going abroad when even the spaces breed fear like thick war?”

“O grandmother,” they laughed, as they tightened their bows and straightened their arrows before the fire, “never mind us; we are only going out for a hunt,” and before the old woman could climb up to stop them they were gaily skipping down the rocks toward the cliffs below.

Suddenly the younger brother stopped. “Ahh!” said he, “listen, brother! It is the cry of Átahsaia, and the old wretch is surely abroad to cause tears!”

“Yes,” replied the elder. “It is Átahsaia, and we must stop him! Come on, come on; quick!”

“Hold, brother, hold! Stiffen your feet right here with patience. He is after the two maidens of Héshokta! I saw them going to the spring as I came down. This day he must die. Is your face to the front?”

“It is; come on,” said the elder brother, starting forward.

“Stiffen your feet with patience, I say,” again exclaimed the younger brother. “Know you that the old demon comes up the pathway below here? He will not hurt them until he gets them home. You know he is a great liar, and a great flatterer; that is the way the old beast catches people. Now, if we wait here we will surely see them when they come up.”

So, after quarrelling a little, the elder brother consented to sit down on a rock which overlooked the pathway and was within bow-shot of the old demon’s cave.

Now, while the girls were washing, Átahsaia ran as fast as his old joints would let him until the two girls heard his mutterings and rattling weapons.

“Something is coming, sister!” cried the younger, and both ran toward the rocks to hide again, but they were too late. The old demon strode around by another way and suddenly, at a turn, came face to face with them, glaring with his bloodshot eyes and waving his great jagged flint knife. But as he neared them he lowered the knife and smiled, straightening himself up and approaching the frightened ones as gently as would a young man.

The poor younger sister clung to the elder one, and sank moaning by her side, for the smile of Átahsaia was as fearful as the scowl of a triumphant enemy, or the laugh of a rattlesnake when he hears any old man tell a lie and thinks he will poison him for it.

“Why do you run, and why do you weep so?” asked the old demon. “I know you. I am ugly and old, my pretty maidens, but I am your grandfather and mean you no harm at all. I frightened you only because I felt certain you would run away from me if you could.”

“Ah!” faltered the elder sister, immediately getting over her fright. “We did not know you and therefore we were frightened by you. Come, sister, come,” said she to the younger. “Brighten your eyes and thoughts, for our grandfather will not hurt us. Don’t you see?”

But the younger sister only shook her head and sobbed. Then the demon got angry. “What are you blubbering about?” he roared, raising his knife and sweeping it wildly through the air. “Do you see this knife? This day I will cut off the light of your life with it if you do not swallow your whimpers!”

“Get up, oh, do get up, _háni_!” whispered the elder sister, now again frightened herself. “Surely he will not cut us off just now, if we obey him; and is it not well that even for a little time the light of life shine--though it shine through fear and sadness--than be cut off altogether? For who knows where the trails tend that lead through the darkness of the night of death?”

You know, in the speech of the rulers of the world and of our ancients,[23] a man’s light was cut off when his life was taken, and when he died he came to the dividing-place of life.

[23] One of the figures of speech meaning the gods.

The _háni_ tried to rally herself and rose to her feet, but she still trembled.

“Now, my pretty maidens, my own granddaughters, even,” said the old demon once more, as gently as at first, “I am most glad I found you. How good are the gods! for I am a poor, lone old man. All my people are gone.” (Here he sighed like the hiss of a wild-cat.) “Yonder above is my home” (pointing over his shoulder), “and as I am a great hunter, plenty of venison is baking in my rear room and more sweet-bread than I can eat. Lo! it makes me homesick to eat alone, and when I saw you and saw how pretty and gentle you were, I thought that it might be you would throw the light of your favor on me, and go up to my house to share of my abundance and drink from my vessels. Besides, I am so old that only now and then can I get a full jar of water up to my house. So I came as fast as I could to ask you to return and eat with me.”

Reassured by his kind speech, the elder sister hastened to say: “Of course, we will go with our grandfather, and if that is all he may want of us, we can soon fill his water-jars, can’t we, _háni_?”

“You are a good girl,” said the old demon to the one who had spoken; then, glaring at the younger sister: “Bring that fool along with you and come up; she will not come by herself; she has more bashfulness than sense, and less sense than my knife, because that makes the world more wise by killing off fools.”

He led the way and the elder sister followed, dragging along the shrinking _háni_.

The old demon kept talking in a loud voice as they went up the pathway, telling all sorts of entertaining stories, until, as they neared the rocks where Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma were waiting, the Two heard him and said to one another: “Ahh, they come!”

Then the elder brother jumped up and began to tighten his bow, but the younger brother muttered: “Sit down, won’t you, you fool! Átahsaia’s ears are like bat-ears, only bigger. Wait now, till I say ready. You know he will not hurt the girls until he gets them out from his house. Look over there in front of his hole. Do you see the flat place that leads along to that deep chasm beyond?”

“Yes,” replied the elder brother. “But what of that?”

“What but that there he cuts the throats of his captives and casts their bones and heads into the depths of the chasm! Do you see the notch in the stone? That’s where he lets their blood flow down, and for that reason no one ever discovers his tracks. Now, stiffen your feet with patience, I say, and we will see what to do when the time comes.”

Again they sat and waited. As the old demon and the girls passed along below, the elder brother again started and would have shot had not Mátsailéma held him back. “You fool of a brother elder, but not wiser. No! Do you not know that your arrow is lightning and will kill the maidens as well as the monster?”

Finally, the demon reached the entrance to his cave, and, going in, asked the girls to follow him, laying out two slabs for them to sit on. “Now, sit down, my pretty girls, and I will soon get something for you to eat. You must be hungry.” Going to the rear of the cave, he broke open a stone oven, and the steam which arose was certainly delicious and meaty. Soon he brought out two great bowls, big enough to feed a whole dance. One contained meat, the other a mess resembling sweet-bread pudding. “Now, let us eat,” said the demon, seating himself opposite, and at once diving his horny fingers and scaly hand half up to the wrist in the meat-broth. The elder sister began to take bits of the food to eat it, when the younger made a motion to her, and showed her with horror the bones of a little hand. The sweet-bread was the flesh and bones of little children. Then the two girls only pretended to eat, taking the food out and throwing it down by the side of the bowls.

“Why don’t you eat?” demanded the demon, cramming at the same time a huge mouthful of the meat, bones and all, into his wide throat.

“We are eating,” said one of the girls.

“Then why do you throw my food away?”

“We are throwing away only the bones.”

“Well, the bones are the better part,” retorted the demon, taking another huge mouthful, by way of example, big enough to make a grown man’s meal. “Oh, yes!” he added; “I forgot that you had baby teeth.”

After the meal was finished, the old demon said: “Let us go out and sit down in the sun on my terrace. Perhaps, my pretty maidens, you will comb an old man’s hair, for I have no one left to help me now,” he sighed, pretending to be very sad. So, showing the girls where to sit down, without waiting for their assent he settled himself in front of them and leaned his head back to have it combed. The two maidens dared not disobey; and now and then they pulled at a long, coarse hair, and then snapped their fingers close to his scalp, which so deceived the old demon that he grunted with satisfaction every time. At last their knees were so tired by his weight upon them that they said they were done, and Átahsaia, rising, pretended to be greatly pleased, and thanked them over and over. Then he told them to sit down in front of him, and he would comb their hair as they had combed his, but not to mind if he hurt a little for his fingers were old and stiff. The two girls again dared not disobey, and sat down as he had directed. Uhh! how the old beast grinned and glared and breathed softly between his teeth.

The two brothers had carefully watched everything, the elder one starting up now and then, the younger remaining quiet. Suddenly Mátsailéma sprang up. He caught the shield the Sun-father had given him,--the shield which, though made only of nets and knotted cords, would ward off alike the weapons of the warrior or the magic of the wizard. Holding it aloft, he cried to Áhaiyúta: “Stand ready; the time is come! If I miss him, pierce him with your arrow. Now, then--”

He hurled the shield through the air. Swiftly as a hawk and noiselessly as an owl, it sailed straight over the heads of the maidens and settled between them and the demon’s face. The shield was invisible, and the old demon knew not it was there. He leaned over as if to examine the maidens’ heads. He opened his great mouth, and, bending yet nearer, made a vicious bite at the elder one.

“Ai, ai! my poor little sister, alas!” with which both fell to sobbing and moaning, and crouched, expecting instantly to be destroyed.

But the demon’s teeth caught in the meshes of the invisible shield, and, howling with vexation, he began struggling to free himself of the encumbrance. Áhaiyúta drew a shaft to the point and let fly. With a thundering noise that rent the rocks, and a rush of strong wind, the shaft blazed through the air and buried itself in the demon’s shoulders, piercing him through ere the thunder had half done pealing. Swift as mountain sheep were the leaps and light steps of the brothers, who, bounding to the shelf of rock, drew their war-clubs and soon softened the hard skull of the old demon with them. The younger sister was unharmed save by fright; but the elder sister lay where she had sat, insensible.

“Hold!” cried Mátsailéma, “she was to blame, but then--” Lifting the swooning maiden in his strong little arms, he laid her apart from the others, and, breathing into her nostrils, soon revived her eyes to wisdom.