Chapter VIII: Part 8

One day the old Coyote of Cedar Cañon went out hunting, and as he was prowling around among the sage-bushes below Thunder Mountain, he heard the clang and rattle and the shrill cries of the K’yámakwe. He pricked up his ears, stuck his nose into the air, sniffed about and looked all around, and presently discovered the K’yámakwe children running rapidly back and forth on the very edge of the mountain.

“Delight of my senses, what pretty creatures they are! Good for me!” he piped, in a jovial voice. “I am the finder of children. I must capture the little fellows tomorrow, and bring them up as Coyotes ought to be brought up. Aren’t they handsome, though?”

All this he said to himself, in a fit of conceit, with his nose in the air (presumptuous cur!), planning to steal the children of a god! He hunted no more that day, but ran home as fast as he could, and, arriving there, he said: “Wife! Wife! O wife! I have discovered a number of the prettiest waifs one ever saw. They are children of the _Kâkâ_, but what matters that? They are there, running back and forth and clanging their rattles along the very edge of Thunder Mountain. I mean to steal them tomorrow, every one of them, and bring them here!”

“Mercy on us!” exclaimed the old Coyote’s wife. “There are children enough and to spare already. What in the world can we do with all of them, you fool?”

“But they are pretty,” said the Coyote. “Immensely fine! Every Coyote in the country would envy us the possession of them!”

“But you say they are many,” continued the wife.

“Well, yes, a good many,” said the Coyote.

“Well, why not divide them among our associated clans?” suggested the old woman. “You never can capture them alone; it is rare enough that you capture _anything_ alone, leave out the children of the K’yámakwe. Get your relatives to help you, and divide the children amongst them.”

“Well, now, come to think of it, it is a good plan,” said the Coyote, with his nose on his neck. “If I get up this expedition I’ll be a big chief, won’t I? Hurrah! Here’s for it!” he shouted; and, switching his tail in the face of his wife, he shot out of the hole and ran away to a high rock, where, squatting down with a most important air and his nose lifted high, he cried out:

“_Au hii lâ-â-â-â!
Su Homaya-kwe!
Su Kemaya-kwe!
Su Ayalla-kwe!
Su Kutsuku-kwe!_

[Listen ye all!
Coyotes of the Cedar-cañon tribe!
Coyotes of the Sunflower-stalk-plain tribe!
Coyotes of the Lifted-stone-mountain tribe!
Coyotes of the Place-of-rock-gullies tribe!]

I have instructions for you this day. I have found waif children many--of the K’yámakwe, the young. I would steal the waif-children many, of the K’yámakwe, the young. I would steal them tomorrow, that they may be adopted of us. I would have your aid in the stealing of the K’yámakwe young. Listen ye all, and tomorrow gather in council. Thus much I instruct ye:

“Coyotes of the Cedar-cañon tribe!
Coyotes of the Sunflower-stalk-plain tribe!
Coyotes of the Lifted-stone-mountain tribe!
Coyotes of the Place-of-rock-gullies tribe!”

It was growing dark, and immediately from all quarters, in dark places under the cañons and arroyos, issued answering howls and howls. You should have seen that crowd of Coyotes the next morning, large and small, old and young,--all four tribes gathered together in the plain below Thunder Mountain!

When they had all assembled, the Coyote who had made the discovery mounted an ant-hill, sat down, and, lifting his paw, was about to give directions with the air of a chief when an ant bit him. He lost his dignity, but resumed it again on the top of a neighboring rock. Again he stuck his nose into the air and his paw out, and with ridiculous assumption informed the Coyotes that he was chief of them all and that they would do well to pay attention to his directions. He then showed himself much more skilful than you might have expected. As you know, the cliff of Thunder Mountain is very steep, especially that part back of the two standing rocks. Well, this was the direction of the Coyote:

“One of you shall place himself at the base of the mountain; another shall climb over him, and the first one shall grasp his tail; and another over them, and his tail shall be grasped by the second, and so on until the top is reached. Hang tight, my friends, every one of you, and every one fall in line. Eructate thoroughly before you do so. If you do not, we may be in a pretty mess; for, supposing that any one along the line should hiccough, he would lose his hold, and down we would all fall!”

So the Coyotes all at once began to curve their necks and swell themselves up and strain and wriggle and belch wind as much as possible. Then all fell into a line and grabbed each other’s tails, and thus they extended themselves in a long string up the very face of Thunder Mountain. A ridiculous little pup was at one end and a good, strong, grizzled old fellow--no other than the chief of the party--at the other.

“Souls of my ancestors! Hang tight, my friends! Hang tight! Hang tight!” said he, when, suddenly, one near the top, in the agitation of the moment, began to sneeze, lost his hold, and down the whole string, hundreds of them, fell, and were completely flattened out among the rocks.

The warrior of the _Kâkâ_--he of the Long Horn, with frightful, staring eyes, and visage blue with rage,--bow and war-club in hand, was hastening from the sacred lake in the west to rescue the children of the K’yámakwe. When he arrived they had been rescued already, so, after storming around a little and mauling such of the Coyotes as were not quite dead, he set to skin them all.

And ever since then you will observe that the dancers of the Long Horn have blue faces, and whenever they arrive in our pueblo wear collars of coyote-skin about their necks. That is the way they got them. Before that they had no collars. It is presumable that that is the reason why they bellow so and have such hoarse voices, having previously taken cold, every one of them, for the want of fur collars.

Thus shortens my story.

THE COYOTE AND THE BEETLE

In remote times, after our ancients were settled at Middle Ant Hill, a little thing occurred which will explain a great deal.

My children, you have doubtless seen Tip-beetles. They run around on smooth, hard patches of ground in spring time and early summer, kicking their heels into the air and thrusting their heads into any crack or hole they find.

Well, in ancient times, on the pathway leading around to Fat Mountain, there was one of these Beetles running about in all directions in the sunshine, when a Coyote came trotting along. He pricked up his ears, lowered his nose, arched his neck, and stuck out his paw toward the Beetle. “Ha!” said he, “I shall bite you!”

The Beetle immediately stuck his head down close to the ground, and, lifting one of his antennæ deprecatingly, exclaimed: “Hold on! Hold on, friend! Wait a bit, for the love of mercy! I hear something very strange down below here!”

“Humph!” replied the Coyote. “What do you hear?”

“Hush! hush!” cried the Beetle, with his head still to the ground. “Listen!”

So the Coyote drew back and listened most attentively. By-and-by the Beetle lifted himself with a long sigh of relief.

“_Okwe!_” exclaimed the Coyote. “What was going on?”

“The Good Soul save us!” exclaimed the Beetle, with a shake of his head. “I heard them saying down there that tomorrow they would chase away and thoroughly chastise everybody who defiled the public trails of this country, and they are making ready as fast as they can!”

“Souls of my ancestors!” cried the Coyote. “I have been loitering along this trail this very morning, and have defiled it repeatedly. I’ll cut!” And away he ran as fast as he could go.

The Beetle, in pure exuberance of spirits, turned somersaults and stuck his head in the sand until it was quite turned.

Thus did the Beetle in the days of the ancients save himself from being bitten. Consequently the Tip-beetle has that strange habit of kicking his heels into the air and sticking his head in the sand.

Thus shortens my story.

HOW THE COYOTE DANCED WITH THE BLACKBIRDS

One late autumn day in the times of the ancients, a large council of Blackbirds were gathered, fluttering and chattering, on the smooth, rocky slopes of Gorge Mountain, northwest of Zuñi. Like ourselves, these birds, as you are well aware, congregate together in autumn time, when the harvests are ripe, to indulge in their festivities before going into winter quarters; only we do not move away, while they, on strong wings and swift, retreat for a time to the Land of Everlasting Summer.

Well, on this particular morning they were making a great noise and having a grand dance, and this was the way of it: They would gather in one vast flock, somewhat orderly in its disposition, on the sloping face of Gorge Mountain,--the older birds in front, the younger ones behind,-and down the slope, chirping and fluttering, they would hop, hop, hop, singing:

“_Ketchu, Ketchu, oñtilã, oñtilã,
Ketchu, Ketchu, oñtilã, oñtilã!
Âshokta a yá-à-laa Ke-e-tchu,
Oñtilã,
Oñtilã!_”--

Blackbirds, Blackbirds, dance away, O, dance away, O!
Blackbirds, Blackbirds, dance away, O, dance away, O!
Down the Mountain of the Gorges, Blackbirds,
Dance away, O!
Dance away, O!--

and, spreading their wings, with many a flutter, flurry, and scurry, _keh keh,--keh keh,--keh keh,--keh keh_,--they would fly away into the air, swirling off in a dense, black flock, circling far upward and onward; then, wheeling about and darting down, they would dip themselves in the broad spring which flows out at the foot of the mountain, and return to their dancing place on the rocky slopes.

A Coyote was out hunting (as if he could catch anything, the beast!) and saw them, and was enraptured.

“You beautiful creatures!” he exclaimed. “You graceful dancers! Delight of my senses! How do you do that, anyway? Couldn’t I join in your dance--the first part of it, at least?”

“Why, certainly; yes,” said the Blackbirds. “We are quite willing,” the masters of the ceremony said.

“Well,” said the Coyote, “I can get on the slope of the rocks and I can sing the song with you; but I suppose that when you leap off into the air I shall have to sit there patting the rock with my paw and my tail and singing while you have the fun of it.”

“It may be,” said an old Blackbird, “that we can fit you out so that you can fly with us.”

“Is it possible!” cried the Coyote, “Then by all means do so. By the Blessed Immortals! Now, if I am only able to circle off into the air like you fellows, I’ll be the biggest Coyote in the world!”

“I think it will be easy,” resumed the old Blackbird. “My children,” said he, “you are many, and many are your wing-feathers. Contribute each one of you a feather to our friend.” Thereupon the Blackbirds, each one of them, plucked a feather from his wing. Unfortunately they all plucked feathers from the wings on the same side.

“Are you sure, my friend,” continued the old Blackbird, “that you are willing to go through the operation of having these feathers planted in your skin? If so, I think we can fit you out.”

“Willing?--why, of course I am willing.” And the Coyote held up one of his arms, and, sitting down, steadied himself with his tail. Then the Blackbirds thrust in the feathers all along the rear of his forelegs and down the sides of his back, where wings ought to be. It hurt, and the Coyote twitched his mustache considerably; but he said nothing. When it was done, he asked: “Am I ready now?”

“Yes,” said the Blackbirds; “we think you’ll do.”

So they formed themselves again on the upper part of the slope, sang their songs, and hopped along down with many a flutter, flurry, and scurry,--_Keh keh, keh keh, keh keh_,--and away they flew off into the air.

The Coyote, somewhat startled, got out of time, but followed bravely, making heavy flops; but, as I have said before, the wings he was supplied with were composed of feathers all plucked from one side, and therefore he flew slanting and spirally and brought up with a whack, which nearly knocked the breath out of him, against the side of the mountain. He picked himself up, and shook himself, and cried out: “Hold! Hold! Hold on, hold on, there!” to the fast-disappearing Blackbirds. “You’ve left me behind!”

When the birds returned they explained: “Your wings are not quite thick enough, friend; and, besides, even a young Blackbird, when he is first learning to fly, does just this sort of thing that you have been doing--makes bad work of it.”

“Sit down again,” said the old Blackbird. And he called out to the rest: “Get feathers from your other sides also, and be careful to select a few strong feathers from the tips of the wings, for by means of these we cleave the air, guide our movements, and sustain our flight.”

So the Blackbirds all did as they were bidden, and after the new feathers were planted, each one plucked out a tail-feather, and the most skilful of the Blackbirds inserted these feathers into the tip of the Coyote’s tail. It made him wince and “yip” occasionally; but he stood it bravely and reared his head proudly, thinking all the while: “What a splendid Coyote I shall be! Did ever anyone hear of a Coyote flying?”

The procession formed again. Down the slope they went, hopity-hop, hopity-hop, singing their song, and away they flew into the air, the Coyote in their midst. Far off and high they circled and circled, the Coyote cutting more eager pranks than any of the rest. Finally they returned, dipped themselves again into the spring, and settled on the slopes of the rocks.

“There, now,” cried out the Coyote, with a flutter of his feathery tail, “I can fly as well as the rest of you.”

“Indeed, you do well!” exclaimed the Blackbirds. “Shall we try it again?”

“Oh, yes! Oh, yes! I’m a little winded,” cried the Coyote, “but this is the best fun I ever had.”

The Blackbirds, however, were not satisfied with their companion. They found him less sedate than a dancer ought to be, and, moreover, his irregular cuttings-up in the air were not to their taste. So the old ones whispered to one another: “This fellow is a fool, and we must pluck him when he gets into the air. We’ll fly so far this time that he will get a little tired out and cry to us for assistance.”

The procession formed, and hopity-hop, hopity-hop, down the mountain slope they went, and with many a flutter and flurry flew off into the air. The Coyote, unable to restrain himself, even took the lead. On and on and on they flew, the Blackbirds and the Coyote, and up and up and up, and they circled round and round, until the Coyote found himself missing a wing stroke occasionally and falling out of line; and he cried out: “Help! help, friends, help!”

“All right!” cried the Blackbirds. “Catch hold of his wings; hold him up!” cried the old ones. And the Blackbirds flew at him; and every time they caught hold of him (the old fool all the time thinking they were helping) they plucked out a feather, until at last the feathers had become so thin that he began to fall, and he fell and fell and fell,--flop, flop, flop, he went through the air,--the few feathers left in his forelegs and sides and the tip of his tail just saving him from being utterly crushed as he fell with a thud to the ground. He lost his senses completely, and lay there as if dead for a long time. When he awoke, he shook his head sadly, and, with a crestfallen countenance and tail dragging between his legs, betook himself to his home over the mountains.

The agony of that fall had been so great and the heat of his exertions so excessive, that the feathers left in his forelegs and tail-tip were all shrivelled up into little ugly black fringes of hair. His descendants were many.

Therefore you will often meet coyotes to this day who have little black fringes along the rear of their forelegs, and the tips of their tails are often black. Thus it was in the days of the ancients.

Thus shortens my story.

HOW THE TURTLE OUT HUNTING DUPED THE COYOTE

In the times of the ancients, long, long ago, near the Highflowing River on the Zuñi Mountains, there lived an old Turtle. He went out hunting, one day, and by means of his ingenuity killed a large, fine deer. When he had thrown the deer to the ground, he had no means of skinning it. He sat down and reflected, scratching the lid of his eye with the nail of his hind foot. He concluded he would have to go hunting for a flint-knife; therefore he set forth. He came after a while to a place where old buildings had stood. Then he began to hum an old magic song, such as, it is said, the ancients sung when they hunted for the flint of which to make knives. He sang in this way:

“_Apatsinan tse wash,
Apatsinan tse wash,
Tsepa! Tsepa!_”

which may be translated, not perhaps correctly, but well enough:

Fire-striking flint-stone, oh, make yourself known!
Fire-striking flint-stone, oh, make yourself known!
Magically! Magically!

As he was thus crawling about and singing, a Coyote running through the woods overheard him. He exclaimed: “Uh! I wonder who is singing and what he is saying. Ah, he is hunting for a flint-knife, is he?--evidently somebody who has killed a deer!” He turned back, and ran over to where the old Turtle was. As he neared him, he cried out: “Halloo, friend! Didn’t I hear you singing?”

“Yes,” was the reply of the Turtle.

“What were you singing?”

“Nothing in particular.”

“Yes, you were, too. What were you saying?”

“Nothing in particular, I tell you; at least, nothing that concerns you.”

“Yes, you were saying something, and this is what you said.” And so the Coyote, who could not sing the song, deliberately repeated the words he had heard.

“Well, suppose I did say so; what of that?” said the Turtle.

“Why, you were hunting for a flint-knife; that is why you said what you did,” replied the Coyote.

“Well, what of that?”

“What did you want the flint-knife for?”

“Nothing in particular,” replied the Turtle.

“Yes, you did; you wanted it for something. What was it?”

“Nothing in particular, I say,” replied the Turtle. “At least, nothing that concerns you.”

“Yes, you did want it for something,” said the Coyote, “and I know what it was, too.”

“Well, what?” asked the Turtle, who was waxing rather angry.

“You wanted it to skin a deer with; that’s what you wanted it for. Where is the deer now, come? You have killed a deer and I know it. Tell, where is it.”

“Well, it lies over yonder,” replied the Turtle.

“Where? Come, let us go; I’ll help you skin it.”

“I can get along very well without you,” replied the Turtle.

“What if I do help you a little? I am very hungry this morning, and would like to lap up the blood.”

“Well, then, come along, torment!” replied the Turtle. So, finding a knife, they proceeded to where the deer was lying.

“Let me hold him for you,” cried the Coyote. Whereupon he jumped over the deer, spread out its hind legs, and placed a paw on each of them, holding the body open; and thus they began to skin the deer. When they had finished this work, the Coyote turned to the Turtle and asked: “How much of him are you going to give me?”

“The usual parts that fall to anyone who comes along when the hunter is skinning a deer,” replied the Turtle.

“What parts?” eagerly asked the Coyote.

“Stomach and liver,” replied the Turtle, briefly.

“I won’t take that,” whined the Coyote. “I want you to give me half of the deer.”

“I’ll do no such thing,” replied the Turtle. “I killed the deer; you only helped to skin him, and you ought to be satisfied with my liberality in giving you the stomach and liver alone. I’ll throw in a little fat, to be sure, and some of the intestines; but I’ll give you no more.”

“Yes, you will, too,” snarled the Coyote, showing his teeth.

“Oh, will I?” replied the Turtle, deliberately, hauling in one or two of his flippers.

“Yes, you will; or I’ll simply murder you, that’s all.”

The Turtle immediately pulled his feet, head, and tail in, and cried: “I tell you, I’ll give you nothing but the stomach and liver and some of the intestines of this deer!”

“Well, then, I will forthwith kill you!” snapped the Coyote, and he made a grab for the Turtle. _Kopo!_ sounded his teeth as they struck on the hard shell of the Turtle; and, bite as he would, the Turtle simply slipped out of his mouth every time he grabbed him. He rolled the Turtle over and over to find a good place for biting, and held him between his paws as if he were a bone, and gnawed at him; but, do his best, _kopo, kopo!_ his teeth kept slipping off the Turtle’s hard shell. At last he exclaimed, rather hotly: “There’s more than one way of killing a beast like you!” So he set the Turtle up on end, and, catching up a quantity of sand, stuffed it into the hole where the Turtle’s head had disappeared and tapped it well down with a stick until he had completely filled the crevice. “There, now,” he exclaimed, with a snicker of delight. “I think I have fixed you now, old Hardshell, and served you right, too, you old stingy-box!”--whereupon he whisked away to the meat.

The Turtle considered it best to die, as it were; but he listened intently to what was going on. The Coyote cut up the deer and made a package of him in his own skin. Then he washed the stomach in a neighboring brook and filled it with choppings of the liver and kidneys, and fat stripped from the intestines, and clots of blood, dashing in a few sprigs of herbs here and there. Then, according to the custom of hunters in all times, he dug an oven in the ground and buried the stomach, in order to make a baked blood-pudding of it while he was summoning his family and friends to help him take the meat home.

The Turtle clawed a little of the sand away from his neck and peered out just a trifle. He heard the Coyote grunting as he tried to lift the meat in order to hang it on a branch of a neighboring pine tree. He was just exclaiming: “What a lucky fellow I am to come on that lame, helpless old wretch and get all this meat from him without the trouble of hunting for it, to be sure! Ah, my dear children, my fine old wife, what a feast we will have this day!”--for you know the Coyote had a large family over the way,--he was just exclaiming this, I say, when the Turtle cried out, faintly: “_Natipa!_”

“You hard-coated old scoundrel! You ugly, crooked-legged beast! You stingy-box!” snarled the Coyote. “So you are alive, are you?” Dropping the meat, he leaped back to where the Turtle was lying, his head hauled in again, and, jamming every crevice full of sand, made it hard and firm. Then, hitting the Turtle a clip with the tip of his nose, he sent him rolling over and over like a flat, round stone down the slope.

“This is fine treatment to receive from the hands of such a sneaking cur as that,” thought the Turtle. “I think I will keep quiet this time and let him do as he pleases. But through my ingenuity I killed the deer, and it may be that through ingenuity I can keep the deer.”

So the Turtle kept perfectly dead, to all appearances, and the Coyote, leaving the meat hanging on a low branch of a tree and building a fire over the oven he had excavated, whisked away with his tail in the air to his house just the other side of the mountain.

When he arrived there he cried out: “Wife, wife! Children, children! Come, quick! Great news! Killed an enormous deer today. I have made a blood-pudding in his stomach and buried it. Let us go and have a feast; then you must help me bring the meat home.”

Those Coyotes were perfectly wild. The cubs, half-grown, with their tails more like sticks than brushes, trembled from the ends of their toe-nails to the tips of their stick-like tails; and they all set off--the old ones ahead, the young ones following single file--as fast as they could toward the place where the blood-pudding was buried.

Now, as soon as the old Turtle was satisfied that the Coyote had left, he dug the sand out of his collar with his tough claws, and, proceeding to the place where the meat hung, first hauled it up, piece by piece, to the very top of the tree; for Turtles have claws, you know, and can climb, especially if the trunk of the tree leans over, as that one did. Having hauled the meat to the very topmost branches of the tree, and tied it there securely, he descended and went over to where the blood-pudding was buried. He raked the embers away from it and pulled it out; then he dragged it off to a neighboring ant-hill where the red fire-ants were congregated in great numbers. Immediately they began to rush out, smelling the cooked meat, and the Turtle, untying the end of the stomach, chucked as many of the ants as he could into it. Then he dragged the pudding back to the fire and replaced it in the oven, taking care that the coals should not get near it.

He had barely climbed the tree again and nestled himself on his bundle of meat, when along came those eager Coyotes. Everything stuck up all over them with anxiety for the feast--their hair, the tips of their ears, and the points of their tails; and as they neared the place and smelt the blood and the cooked meat, they began to sing and dance as they came along, and this was what they sang:

“_Na-ti tsa, na-ti tsa!
Tui-ya si-si na-ti tsa!
Tui-ya si-si na-ti tsa!
Tui-ya si-si! Tui-ya si-si!_”

We will have to translate this--which is so old that who can remember exactly what it means?--thus:

Meat of the deer, meat of the deer!
Luscious fruit-like meat of the deer!
Luscious fruit-like meat of the deer!
Luscious fruit-like! Luscious fruit-like!

No sooner had they neared the spot where they smelt the meat than, without looking around at all, they made a bound for it. But the old Coyote grabbed the hindmost of the young ones by the ear until he yelped, shook him, and called out to all the rest: “Look you here! Eat in a decent manner or you will burn your chops off! I stuffed the pudding full of grease, and the moment you puncture it, the grease, being hot, will fly out and burn you. Be careful and dignified, children. There is plenty of time, and you shall be satisfied. Don’t gorge at the first helping!”

But the moment the little Coyotes were freed, they made a grand bounce for the tempting stomach, tearing it open, and grabbing huge mouthfuls. It may be surmised that the fire-ants were not comfortable. They ran all over the lips and cheeks of the voracious little gormands and bit them until they cried out, shaking their heads and rubbing them in the sand: “_Atu-tu-tu-tu-tu-tu!_”

“There, now, didn’t I tell you, little fools, to be careful? It was the grease that burnt you. Now I hope you know enough to eat a little more moderately. There’s plenty of time to satisfy yourselves, I say,” cried the old Coyote, sitting down on his haunches.

Then the little cubs and the old woman attacked the delicacy again. “_Atu-tu-tu-tu-tu-tu-tu!_” they exclaimed, shaking their heads and flapping their ears; and presently they all went away and sat down, observing this wonderful hot pudding.[14]

[14] It may be well to explain here that there is no more
intensely painful or fiery bite known than the bite of the
fire-ant or red ant of the Southwest and the tropics, named, in
Zuñi, _halo_. Large pimples and blisters are raised by the bite,
which is so venomous, moreover, that for the time being it
poisons the blood and fills every vein of the body with burning
sensations.

Then the Coyote looked around and observed that the meat was gone, and, following the grease and blood spots up the tree with his eye, saw in the top the pack of meat with the Turtle calmly reclining upon it and resting, his head stretched far out on his hand. The Turtle lifted his head and exclaimed: “_Pe-sa-las-ta-i-i-i-i!_”

“You tough-hided old beast!” yelled the Coyote, in an ecstasy of rage and disappointment. “Throw down some of that meat, now, will you? I killed that deer; you only helped me skin him; and here you have stolen all the meat. Wife! Children! Didn’t I kill the deer?” he cried, turning to the rest.

“Certainly you did, and he’s a sneaking old wretch to steal it from you!” they exclaimed in chorus, looking longingly at the pack of meat in the top of the tree.

“Who said I stole the meat from you?” cried out the Turtle. “I only hauled it up here to keep it from being stolen, you villain! Scatter yourselves out to catch some of it. I will throw as fine a pair of ribs down to you as ever you saw. There, now, spread yourselves out and get close together. Ready?” he called, as the Coyotes lay down on their backs side by side and stretched their paws as high as they could eagerly and tremblingly toward the meat.

“Yes, yes!” cried the Coyotes, in one voice. “We are all ready! Now, then!”

The old Turtle took up the pair of ribs, and, catching them in his beak, crawled out to the end of the branch immediately over the Coyotes, and, giving them a good fling, dropped them as hard as he could. Over and over they fell, and then came down like a pair of stones across the bodies of the Coyotes, crushing the wind out of them, so that they had no breath left with which to cry out, and most of them were instantly killed. But the two little cubs at either side escaped with only a hurt or two, and, after yelling fearfully, one of them took his tail between his legs and ran away. The other one, still very hungry, ran off with his tail lowered and his nose to the ground, sidewise, until he had got to a safe distance, and then he sat down and looked up. Presently he thought he would return and eat some of the meat from the ribs.

“Wait!” cried the old Turtle, “don’t go near that meat; leave it alone for your parents and brothers and sisters. Really, I am so old and stiff that it took me a long time to get out to the end of that limb, and I am afraid they went to sleep while I was getting there, for see how still they lie.”

“By my ancestors!” exclaimed the Coyote, looking at them; “that is so.”

“Why don’t you come up here and have a feast with me,” said the Turtle, “and leave that meat alone for your brothers and sisters and your old ones?”

“How can I get up there?” whined the Coyote, crawling nearer to the tree.

“Simply reach up until you get your paw over one of the branches, and then haul yourself up,” replied the Turtle.

The little Coyote stretched and jumped, and, though he sometimes succeeded in getting his paw over the branch, he fell back, _flop!_ every time. And then he would yelp and sing out as though every bone in his body was broken.

“Never mind! never mind!” cried the Turtle. “I’ll come down and help you.” So he crawled down the tree, and, reaching over, grabbed the little Coyote by the top-knot, and by much struggling he was able to climb up. When they got to the top of the tree the Turtle said: “There, now, help yourself.”

The little Coyote fell to and filled himself so full that he was as round as a plum and elastic as a cranberry. Then he looked about and licked his chops and tried to breathe, but couldn’t more than half, and said: “Oh, my! if I don’t get some water I’ll choke!”

“My friend,” said the Turtle, “do you see that drop of water gleaming in the sun at the end of that branch of this pine tree?” (It was really pitch.) “Now, I have lived in the tops of trees so much that I know where to go. Trees have springs. Look at that.”

The Coyote looked and was convinced.

“Walk out, now, to the end of the branch, or until you come to one of those drops of water, then take it in your mouth and suck, and all the water you want will flow out.”

The little Coyote started. He trembled and was unsteady on his legs, but managed to get half way. “Is it here?” he called, turning round and looking back.

“No, a little farther,” said the Turtle.

So he cautiously stepped a little farther. The branch was swaying dreadfully. He turned his head, and just as he was saying, “Is it here?” he lost his balance and fell plump to the ground, striking so hard on the tough earth that he was instantly killed.

“There, you wretched beast!” said the old Turtle with a sigh of relief and satisfaction. “Ingenuity enabled me to kill a deer. Ingenuity enabled me to retain the deer.”

It must not be forgotten that one of the little Coyotes ran away. He had numerous descendants, and ever since that time they have been characterized by pimples all over their faces where the mustaches grow out, and little blotches inside of their lips, such as you see inside the lips of dogs.

Thus shortens my story.

THE COYOTE AND THE LOCUST

In the days of the ancients, there lived south of Zuñi, beyond the headland of rocks, at a place called Suski-ashokton (“Rock Hollow of the Coyotes”), an old Coyote. And this side of the headland of rocks, in the bank of a steep arroyo, lived an old Locust, near where stood a piñon tree, crooked and so bereft of needles that it was sunny.

One day the Coyote went out hunting, leaving his large family of children and his old wife at home. It was a fine day and the sun was shining brightly, and the old Locust crawled out of his home in the loam of the arroyo and ascended to one of the bare branches of the piñon tree, where, hooking his feet firmly into the bark, he began to sing and play his flute. The Coyote in his wanderings came along just as he began to sing these words:

“_Tchumali, tchumali, shohkoya,
Tchumali, tchumali, shohkoya!
Yaamii heeshoo taatani tchupatchinte,
Shohkoya,
Shohkoya!_”

Locust, locust, playing a flute,
Locust, locust, playing a flute!
Away up above on the pine-tree bough, closely clinging,
Playing a flute,
Playing a flute!

“Delight of my senses!” called out the Coyote, squatting down on his haunches, and looking up, with his ears pricked and his mouth grinning; “Delight of my senses, how finely you play your flute!”

“Do you think so?” said the Locust, continuing his song.

“Goodness, yes!” cried the Coyote, shifting nearer. “What a song it is! Pray, teach it to me, so that I can take it home and dance my children to it. I have a large family at home.”

“All right,” said the Locust. “Listen, then.” And he sang his song again:

“_Tchumali, tchumali, shohkoya,
Tchumali, tchumali, shohkoya!
Yaamii heeshoo taatani tchupatchinte,
Shohkoya,
Shohkoya!_”

“Delightful!” cried the Coyote. “Now, shall I try?”

“Yes, try.”

Then in a very hoarse voice the Coyote half growled and half sang (making a mistake here and there, to be sure) what the Locust had sung, though there was very little music in his repetition of the performance.

“_Tchu u-mali, tchumali--shohshoh koya,
Tchu tchu mali, tchumali shohkoya,
Yaa mami he he shoo ta ta tante tchup patchin te,
Shohkoya,
Shohkoya!_”

“Ha!” laughed he, as he finished; “I have got it, haven’t I?”

“Well, yes,” said the Locust, “fairly well.”

“Now, then, let us sing it over together.”

And while the Locust piped shrilly the Coyote sang gruffly, though much better than at first, the song.

“There, now,” exclaimed he, with a whisk of his tail; “didn’t I tell you?” and without waiting to say another word he whisked away toward his home beyond the headland of rocks. As he was running along the plain he kept repeating the song to himself, so that he would not forget it, casting his eyes into the air, after the manner of men in trying to remember or to say particularly fine things, so that he did not notice an old Gopher peering at him somewhat ahead on the trail; and the old Gopher laid a trap for him in his hole.

The Coyote came trotting along, singing: “_Shohkoya, shohkoya_,” when suddenly he tumbled heels over head into the Gopher’s hole. He sneezed, began to cough, and to rub the sand out of his eyes; and then jumping out, cursed the Gopher heartily, and tried to recall his song, but found that he had utterly forgotten it, so startled had he been.

“The lubber-cheeked old Gopher! I wish the pests were all in the Land of Demons!” cried he. “They dig their holes, and nobody can go anywhere in safety. And now I have forgotten my song. Well, I will run back and get the old Locust to sing it over again. If he can sit there singing to himself, why can’t he sing it to me? No doubt in the world he is still out there on that piñon branch singing away.” Saying which, he ran back as fast as he could. When he arrived at the piñon tree, sure enough, there was the old Locust still sitting and singing.

“Now, how lucky this is, my friend!” cried the Coyote, long before he had reached the place. “The lubber-cheeked, fat-sided old Gopher dug a hole right in my path; and I went along singing your delightful song and was so busy with it that I fell headlong into the trap he had set for me, and I was so startled that, on my word, I forgot all about the song, and I have come back to ask you to sing it for me again.”

“Very well,” said the Locust. “Be more careful this time.” So he sang the song over.

“Good! Surely I’ll not forget it this time,” cried the Coyote; so he whisked about, and away he sped toward his home beyond the headland of rocks. “Goodness!” said he to himself, as he went along; “what a fine thing this will be for my children! How they will be quieted by it when I dance them as I sing it! Let’s see how it runs. Oh, yes!

“_Tchumali, tchumali, shohkoya,
Tchumali, tchumali, shohko_--”

_Thli-i-i-i-i-p, piu-piu, piu-piu!_ fluttered a flock of Pigeons out of the bushes at his very feet, with such a whizzing and whistling that the Coyote nearly tumbled over with fright, and, recovering himself, cursed the Doves heartily, calling them “gray-backed, useless sage-vermin”; and, between his fright and his anger, was so much shaken up that he again forgot his song.

Now, the Locust wisely concluded that this would be the case, and as he did not like the Coyote very well, having been told that sometimes members of his tribe were by no means friendly to Locusts and other insects, he concluded to play him a trick and teach him a lesson in the minding of his own affairs. So, catching tight hold of the bark, he swelled himself up and strained until his back split open; then he skinned himself out of his old skin, and, crawling down the tree, found a suitable quartz stone, which, being light-colored and clear, would not make his skin look unlike himself. He took the stone up the tree and carefully placed it in the empty skin. Then he cemented the back together with a little pitch and left his exact counterfeit sticking to the bark, after which he flew away to a neighboring tree.

No sooner had the Coyote recovered his equanimity to some extent than, discovering the loss of his song and again exclaiming “No doubt he is still there piping away; I’ll go and get him to sing it over,”--he ran back as fast as he could.

“Ah wha!” he exclaimed, as he neared the tree. “I am quite fatigued with all this extra running about. But, no matter; I see you are still there, my friend. A lot of miserable, gray-backed Ground-pigeons flew up right from under me as I was going along singing my song, and they startled me so that I forgot it; but I tell you, I cursed them heartily! Now, my friend, will you not be good enough to sing once more for me?”

He paused for a reply. None came.

“Why, what’s the matter? Don’t you hear me?” yelled the Coyote, running nearer, looking closely, and scrutinizing the Locust. “I say, I have lost my song, and want you to sing for me again. Will you, or will you not?” Then he paused.

“Look here, are you going to sing for me or not?” continued the Coyote, getting angry.

No reply.

The Coyote stretched out his nose, wrinkled up his lips, and snarled: “Look here, do you see my teeth? Well, I’ll ask you just four times more to sing for me, and if you don’t sing then, I’ll snap you up in a hurry, I tell you. Will--you--sing--for me? Once. Will you sing--for me? Twice. Two more times! Look out! Will you sing for me? Are you a fool? Do you see my teeth? Only once more! Will--you--sing--for me?”

No reply.

“Well, you are a fool!” yelled the Coyote, unable to restrain himself longer, and making a quick jump, he snapped the Locust skin off of the bough, and bit it so hard that it crushed and broke the teeth in the middle of his jaw, driving some of them so far down in his gums that you could hardly see them, and crowding the others out so that they were regular tusks. The Coyote dropped the stone, rolled in the sand, and howled and snarled and wriggled with pain. Then he got up and shook his head, and ran away with his tail between his legs. So excessive was his pain that at the first brook he came to he stooped down to lap up water in order to alleviate it, and he there beheld what you and I see in the mouths of every Coyote we ever catch,--that the teeth back of the canines are all driven down, so that you can see only the points of them, and look very much broken up.

In the days of the ancients the Coyote minded not his own business and restrained not his anger. So he bit a Locust that was only the skin of one with a stone inside. And all his descendants have inherited his broken teeth. And so also to this day, when Locusts venture out on a sunny morning to sing a song, it is not infrequently their custom to protect themselves from the consequences of attracting too much attention by skinning themselves and leaving their counterparts on the trees.

Thus shortens my story.

THE COYOTE AND THE RAVENS WHO RACED THEIR EYES

Long, long ago, in the days of the ancients, there lived in Hómaiakwin, or the Cañon of the Cedars, a Coyote,--doubtless the same one I have told you of as having made friends with the Woodpounder bird. As you know, this cañon in which he lived is below the high eastern cliff of Face Mountain.

This Coyote was out walking one day. On leaving his house he had said that he was going hunting; but,--miserable fellow!--who ever knew a Coyote to catch anything, unless it were a prairie-dog or a wood-rat or a locust or something of the kind? So you may depend upon it he was out walking; that is, wandering around to see what he could see.

He crossed over the valley northward, with his tail dragging along in an indifferent sort of a way, until he came to the place on Thunder Mountain called Shoton-pia (“Where the Shell Breastplate Hangs”). He climbed up the foot-hills, and along the terraces at the base of the cliff, and thus happened to get toward the southeastern corner of the mountain. There is a little column of rock with a round top to it standing there, as you know, to this day.

Now, on the top of this standing rock sat two old Ravens, racing their eyes. One of them would settle himself down on the rock and point with his beak straight off across the valley to some pinnacle in the cliffs of the opposite mesa. Then he would say to his companion, without turning his head at all: “You see that rock yonder? Well, ahem! Standing rock yonder, round you, go ye my eyes and come back.” Then he would lower his head, stiffen his neck, squeeze his eyelids, and “_Pop!_” he would say as his eyes flew out of their sockets, and sailed away toward the rock like two streaks of lightning, reaching which they would go round it, and come back toward the Raven; and as they were coming back, he would swell up his throat and say “_Whu-u-u-u-u-u-u_,”--whereupon his eyes would slide with a _k’othlo!_ into their sockets again. Then he would turn toward his companion, and swelling up his throat still more, and ducking his head just as if he were trying to vomit his own neck, he would laugh inordinately; and the other would laugh with him, bristling up all the feathers on his body.

Then the other one would settle himself, and say: “Ah, I’ll better you! You see that rock away yonder?” Then he would begin to squeeze his eyelids, and _thlut!_ his eyes would fly out of their sockets and away across the mesa and round the rock he had named; and as they flew back, he would lower himself, and say “_Whu-u-u-u-u-u-u_,” when _k’othlo!_ the eyes would slide into their sockets again. Then, as much amused as ever, the Ravens would laugh at one another again.

Now, the Coyote heard the Ravens humming their eyes back into their sockets; and the sound they made, as well as the way they laughed so heartily, exceedingly pleased him, so that he stuck his tail up very straight and laughed merely from seeing them laugh. Presently he could contain himself no longer. “Friends,” he cried, in a shrieky little voice, “I say, friends, how do you do, and what are you doing?”

The Ravens looked down, and when they saw the Coyote they laughed and punched one another with their wings and cried out to him: “Bless you! Glad to see you come!”

“What is it you are doing?” asked he. “By the daylight of the gods, it is funny, whatever it is!” And he whisked his tail and laughed, as he said this, drawing nearer to the Ravens.

“Why, we are racing our eyes,” said the older of the two Ravens. “Didn’t you ever see anyone race his eyes before?”

“Good demons, no!” exclaimed the Coyote. “Race your eyes! How in the world do you race your eyes?”

“Why, this way,” said one of the Ravens. And he settled himself down. “Do you see that tall rock yonder? Ahem! Well, tall rock, yonder,--ye my eyes go round it and return to me!” _K’othlo! k’othlo!_ the eyes slipped out of their sockets, and the Raven, holding his head perfectly still, waited, with his upper lids hanging wrinkled on his lower, for the return of the eyes; and as they neared him, he crouched down, swelled up his neck, and exclaimed “_Whu-u-u-u-u-u-u_.” _Tsoko!_ the eyes flew into their sockets again. Then the Raven turned around and showed his two black bright eyes as good as ever. “There, now! what did I tell you?”

“By the moon!” squeaked the Coyote, and came up nearer still. “How in the world do you do that? It is one of the most wonderful and funny things I ever saw!”

“Well, here, come up close to me,” said the Raven, “and I will show you how it is done.” Then the other Raven settled himself down; and _pop!_ went his eyes out of their sockets, round a rock still farther away. And as they returned, he exclaimed “_Whu-u-u-u-u-u-u_,” when _tsoko!_ in again they came. And he turned around laughing at the Coyote. “There, now!” said he, “didn’t I tell you?”

“By the daylight of the gods! I wish I could do that,” said the Coyote. “Suppose I try my eyes?”

“Why, yes, if you like, to be sure!” said the Ravens. “Well, now, do you want to try?”

“Humph! I should say I did,” replied the Coyote.

“Well, then, settle down right here on this rock,” said the Ravens, making way for him, “and hold your head out toward that rock and say: ‘Yonder rock, these my eyes go round it and return to me.’”

“I know! I know! I know!” yelled the Coyote. And he settled himself down, and squeezed and groaned to force his eyes out of his sockets, but they would not go. “Goodness!” said the Coyote, “how can I get my eyes to go out of their sockets?”

“Why, don’t you know how?” said the Ravens. “Well, just keep still, and we’ll help you; we’ll take them out for you.”

“All right! all right!” cried the Coyote, unable to repress his impatience. “Quick! quick! here I am, all ready!” And crouching down, he laid his tail straight out, swelled up his neck, and strained with every muscle to force his eyes out of his head. The Ravens picked them out with a dexterous twist of their beaks in no time, and sent them flying off over the valley. The Coyote yelped a little when they came out, but stood his ground manfully, and cringed down his neck and waited for his eyes to come back.

“Let the fool of a beast go without his eyes,” said the Ravens. “He was so very anxious to get rid of them, and do something he had no business with; let him go without them!” Whereupon they flew off across the valley, and caught up his eyes and ate them, and flew on, laughing at the predicament in which they had left the Coyote.

Now, thus the Coyote sat there the proper length of time; then he opened his mouth, and said “_Whu-u-u-u-u-u-u!_” But he waited in vain for his eyes to come back. And “_Whu-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u!_” he said again. No use. “Mercy!” exclaimed he, “what can have become of my eyes? Why don’t they come back?” After he had waited and “_whu-u-u-u-u-d_” until he was tired, he concluded that his eyes had got lost, and laid his head on his breast, wofully thinking of his misfortune. “How in the world shall I hunt up my eyes?” he groaned, as he lifted himself cautiously (for it must be remembered that he stood on a narrow rock), and tried to look all around; but he couldn’t see. Then he began to feel with his paws, one after another, to find the way down; and he slipped and fell, so that nearly all the breath was knocked out of his body. When he had recovered, he picked himself up, and felt and felt along, slowly descending, until he got into the valley.