Part 6 (1/2)

Howkawanda had never had good use of his shoulder since the fire bit it, and even a buck's quarter weights a man too much in loose snow. So he took a bough of fir, thick-set with little twigs, and tied the kill on that. This he would drag behind him, and it rode lightly over the surface of the drifts. When the going was bad, Younger Brother would try to tug a little over his shoulder, so at last Howkawanda made a harness for him to pull straight ahead. Hours when they would lie storm-bound under the cedars, he whittled at the bough and platted the twigs together till it rode easily.

”In the moon of Tender Leaves, the people of the Buffalo Country, when they came up the hills for the spring kill, met a very curious procession coming down. They saw a man with no clothes but a few tatters of deerskin, all scarred down one side of his body, and following at his back a coyote who dragged a curiously plaited platform, by means of two poles harnessed across his shoulders. It was the first travoise. The men of the Buffalo Country put their hands over their mouths, for they had never seen anything like it.”

The Coyote waited for the deep ”huh-huh” of approval which circled the attentive audience at the end of the story.

”Fire and a dog!” said the Blackfoot, adding a little pinch of sweet-gra.s.s to his smoke as a sign of thankfulness,-- ”Friend-on-the-Hearth and Friend-at-the-Back! Man may go far with them.”

Moke-icha turned her long flanks to the sun. ”Now I thought the tale began with a mention of a Talking Skin--”

”Oh, that!” The Coyote recalled himself. ”After he had been a year in the Buffalo Country, Howkawanda went back to carry news of the trail to the Dry Washes. All that summer he worked over it while his dogs hunted for him--for Friend-at-the-Back had taken a mate and there were four cubs to run with them. Every day, as Howkawanda worked out the trail, he marked it with stone and tree-blazes. With colored earth he marked it on a buffalo skin; from the Wind Trap to the Buffalo Country.

”When he came to Hidden-under-the-Mountain he left his dogs behind, for he said, 'Howkawanda is a dead man to them.' In the Buffalo Country he was known as Two-Friended, and that was his name afterward. He was dressed after the fas.h.i.+on of that country, with a great buffalo robe that covered him, and his face was painted. So he came to Hidden-under-the-Mountain as a stranger and made signs to them. And when they had fed him, and sat him in the chief place as was the custom with strangers, he took the writing from under his robe to give it to the People of the Dry Washes. There was a young woman near by nursing her child, and she gave a sudden sharp cry, for she was the one that had been his maiden, and under the edge of his robe she saw his scars. But when Howkawanda looked hard at her she pretended that the child had bitten her.”

Dorcas Jane and Oliver drew a long breath when they saw that, so far as the rest of the audience was concerned, the story was finished. There were a great many questions they wished to ask,--as to what became of Howkawanda after that, and whether the People of the Dry Washes ever found their way into the Buffalo Country,--but before they could begin on them, the Bull Buffalo stamped twice with his fore-foot for a sign of danger. Far down at the other end of the gallery they could hear the watchman coming.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

VI

DORCAS JANE HEARS HOW THE CORN CAME TO THE VALLEY OF THE MISSI-SIPPU; TOLD BY THE CORN WOMAN

It was one of those holidays, when there isn't any school and the Museum is only opened for a few hours in the afternoon, that Dorcas Jane had come into the north gallery of the Indian room where her father was at work mending the radiators. This was about a week after the children's first adventure on the Buffalo Trail, but it was before the holes had been cut in the Museum wall to let you look straight across the bend in the Colorado and into the Hopi pueblo. Dorcas looked at all the wall cases and wondered how it was the Indians seemed to have so much corn and so many kinds of it, for she had always thought of corn as a civilized sort of thing to have. She sat on a bench against the wall wondering, for the lovely clean stillness of the room encouraged thinking, and the clink of her father's hammers on the pipes fell presently into the regular _tink-tink-a-tink_ of tortoise-sh.e.l.l rattles, keeping time to the shuffle and beat of bare feet on the dancing-place by the river. The path to it led across a clearing between little hillocks of freshly turned earth, and the high forest overhead was bursting into tiny green darts of growth like flame. The rattles were sewed to the leggings of the women--little yellow and black land-tortoise sh.e.l.ls filled with pebbles--who sang as they danced and cut themselves with flints until they bled.

”Oh,” said Dorcas, without waiting to be introduced, ”what makes you do that?”

”To make the corn grow,” said the tallest and the handsomest of the women, motioning to the others to leave off their dancing while she answered. ”Listen! You can hear the men doing their part.”

From the forest came a sudden wild whoop, followed by the sound of a drum, little and far off like a heart beating. ”They are scaring off the enemies of the corn,” said the Corn Woman, for Dorcas could see by her headdress, which was of dried corn ta.s.sels dyed in colors, and by a kind of kilt she wore, woven of corn husks, that that was what she represented.

”Oh!” said Dorcas; and then, after a moment, ”It sounds as if you were sorry, you know.”

”When the seed corn goes into the ground it dies,” said the Corn Woman; ”the tribe might die also if it never came alive again. Also we lament for the Giver-of-the-Corn who died giving.”

”I thought corn just grew,” said Dorcas; ”I didn't know it came from any place.”

”From the People of the Seed, from the Country of Stone Houses. It was bought for us by Given-to-the-Sun. Our people came from the East, from the place where the Earth opened, from the place where the Noise was, where the Mountain thundered.... This is what I have heard; this is what the Old Ones have said,” finished the Corn Woman, as though it were some sort of song.

She looked about to the others as if asking their consent to tell the story. As they nodded, sitting down to loosen their heavy leggings, Dorcas could see that what she had taken to be a shock of last year's cornstalks, standing in the middle of the dancing-place, was really tied into a rude resemblance to a woman. Around its neck was one of the Indian's sacred bundles; Dorcas thought it might have something to do with the story, but decided to wait and see.

”There was a trail in those days,” said the Corn Woman, ”from the buffalo pastures to the Country of the Stone House. We used to travel it as far as the ledge where there was red earth for face-painting, and to trade with the Blanket People for salt.

”But no farther. Hunting-parties that crossed into Chihuahua returned sometimes; more often they were given to the Sun.--On the tops of the hills where their G.o.d-houses were,” explained the Corn Woman seeing that Dorcas was puzzled. ”The Sun was their G.o.d to them. Every year they gave captives on the hills they built to the Sun.”

Dorcas had heard the guard explaining to visitors in the Aztec room.

”Teocales,” she suggested.

”That was one of their words,” agreed the Corn Woman. ”They called themselves Children of the Sun. This much we knew; that there was a Seed. The People of the Cliffs, who came to the edge of the Windswept Plain to trade, would give us cakes sometimes for dried buffalo tongues.

This we understood was _mahiz_, but it was not until Given-to-the-Sun came to us that we thought of having it for ours. Our men were hunters.

They thought it shame to dig in the ground.

”Shungakela, of the Three Feather band, found her at the fork of the Turtle River, half starved and as fierce as she was hungry, but _he_ called her 'Waits-by-the-Fire' when he brought her back to his tipi, and it was a long time before we knew that she had any other name. She belonged to one of the mountain tribes whose villages were raided by the People of the Sun, and because she had been a child at the time, she was made a servant. But in the end, when she had shot up like a red lily and her mistress had grown fond of her, she was taken by the priests of the Sun.