Part 2

At the feast the great chiefs sat side by side and the smoke of their pipes curled into a single spiral in the air. And when all were gorged with food, they danced about the fire chanting the mighty deeds of their ancestors, or sat upon the ground playing the ancient hand game, he-no-wah, staking their arrows and their bearskin robes, their wampum and their women upon the hand that held the hidden willow stick.

Not only in their pastimes were they friends. When the Great Spirit wafted a soul to the happy land in the West, the runners went again across the Sky Mountains and the tribes gathered together to join in the funeral dance and mingle their voices in the funeral wail. In grief, as in joy, they were friends,--for a thousand years.

But the law of the mountain and the forest is not a law of peace, and it was the will of the Great Spirit that they should not dwell always in harmony.

The Ah-wah-nee-chees numbered more men than women; and from time to time bands of young braves, in the flush of primal strength, swept through the country with the ungoverned madness of a bullock herd, carrying away women from the villages they raided.

When the Mo-no men came to Ah-wah-nee to the feasts of the manzanita berry and of acorns and of venison, they brought their women with them. These mountain women were pleasing to the eye, erect as the silver fir that grows upon the mountain side, clean-limbed and free of motion as the panther; and more than all others were they coveted by the Ah-wah-nee-chees, who chafed under a friendship that thwarted desire.

And the story is told that at a certain feast of venison Wa-hu-lah, a Mo-no maiden, stirred the fancy of a young warrior of Ten-ie-ya's band. Spring, the love season of Nature's children, had passed the young warrior many times since he came to manhood, and he had not heeded her soft whisper. But never before had he seen Wa-hu-lah, the Mo-no maiden.

Now, through all the time of feasting, he watched eagerly for the love sign in Wa-hu-lah's eyes; but he saw there only the depth and the darkness and the mystery of a pool hidden in the heart of a forest of pines, which no ray of sunlight pierces.

Love was dead in the heart of Wa-hu-lah. On her face could still be seen dim traces of mourning, lines of pitch and ashes not yet worn away, though there had been two seasons of grass and flowers since her voice rose in the funeral wail beside the pyre of her dead lover. She had not died as the dove does when her mate is gone; but she could not forget, and as she sat among the feasters sorrow throbbed in her heart like the ceaseless whirr of a grouse's wing. The Ah-wah-nee-chee warrior sought in vain for an answering sign, and when the days of feasting were over Wa-hu-lah went away with her father.

Day and night the Ah-wah-nee-chee thought of his love; the face of Wa-hu-lah was ever before his eyes; and he knew that he must follow her and bring her to his lodge. But already the snow-clouds resting on the peaks of Sky Mountains were scattering their burden, soft and white as the down of Tis-sa-ack's wings. Valley and forest lay lifeless under a thick blanket, and the trails were choked with snow.

The Ah-wah-nee-chee's love smouldered through the winter months, with naught but the memory of Wa-hu-lah's sad, unanswering eyes to feed upon. Far away, in the wig-wam of her father, Wa-hu-lah nursed her grief.

At last spring came, with soft, straying winds that breathe of new life. Birds sang in the trees as they built their nests; squirrels chattered softly among the rocks; Too-loo-lo-we-ack, the Rushing Water, babbled of the joys of summer; and Yo-wi-we dashed from the heights to carry the message of love brought by the sun from the southland to all the valley.

While yet the trails were heavy with melting snows, the Ah-wah-nee-chee warrior stole away from his lodge one night and set his face toward the rising sun, yonder to the eastward of To-co-yah; and ere the day god had wrapped himself in his flaming cloud blanket in the far-off West, the Ah-wah-nee-chee was smoking the peace pipe with the chief of the Mo-nos, Wa-hu-lah's father.

Before the sun again strode the bald peaks of the Sky Mountains, he was gone; and when the women came forth to make ready the morning meal, the old chief saw that Wa-hu-lah was not among them; and he knew that the spirit of the peace pipe had been violated.

Wa-hu-lah made no struggle when she found herself borne along in the arms of her captor. Her heart beat like the heart of a hunted thing that feels the hunter near and cover far away, but her face showed no sign. It was useless to resist; but had the Ah-wah-nee-chee looked into the still, sad depths of her eyes, he would have seen there a glittering spark, the fire of a woman's lasting hate.

Along the heavy trail he toiled, and not until he reached the kinder paths that Spring had cleared did he let Wa-hu-lah's feet rest upon the ground. Then she walked before him, silent, submissive, but with the spark still glowing in her downcast eyes.

Silent, submissive, she followed as he led the way to the place he had prepared for her,--a woodland bower, pine carpeted, roofed with boughs of oak and alder, the couch of branches spread with deerskin.

Silent, submissive, she ate of the food he brought her, fresh bear meat and acorn bread, and grass roots fattened by the melting snows.

Silent still, but with submission changed to defiant purpose, she watched him go away and take his place among the braves of his tribe who ate as the women prepared their food. Hunger possessed him and he gave no thought to caution. At another time his quick ear might have caught the sound of twigs snapping under the pressure of a moccasined foot; now it heard only the hiss of meat thrown upon live coals.

The moon floated high above Cloud's Rest and the valley was full of light, yet none saw the dark figure that crept stealthily, warily, into the shadow of the crouching chaparral, keeping with the wind that blew from, not toward, the camp-fire. Once only Wa-hu-lah paused, and turned to see that she was not discovered; and from her eyes shot one swift look that would have killed, could looks deal death. Then she sped forward on the trail that led from Ah-wah-nee, with its blossoming dogwood and azalea, its buckthorn and willow, to the snows of the higher mountains, the home of her people.

Swiftly she ran, frightened by the night shapes that danced before her in the path, nor daring to slacken her pace or give a backward glance. But scarce had she passed through the spray thrown across the trail by Py-we-ack, the White Water, when she heard wild shouts rising from the half-darkness below, shouts that told her the Ah-wah-nee-chees knew that she was gone, had started in pursuit. Behind her on the trail her footprints lay naked on the yielding earth, and she knew that here in Ah-wah-nee the men of Ten-ie-ya's band knew every path that she might choose, every tree and rock where she might find a hiding-place. Already the race was won.

Nearer they came, her Ah-wah-nee-chee captor and a score of braves who joined with boisterous shouts this chase that had no need of cunning since for a weak prey there was no escape.

Among the trees they caught uncertain glimpses of the fleeing figure, but at last Wa-hu-lah bounded into a clear, broad stretch of moonlight where the trees fall back to let the river widen to a calmer course after its reckless plunge from the cliff above.

The pool that shines emerald bright by day lay still and black with the pale gold moon upon its breast. Straight for its bank Wa-hu-lah ran, and as her foot touched the rocky ledge, her pursuers sprang with a cry of triumph into the open. Not a moment did the maiden dare to lose. Stooping, she unloosed the canoe that floated in the shadow of the ledge, a canoe used by the Ah-wah-nee-chees in crossing the Emerald Pool.

Stepping into the shallow bark, Wa-hu-lah pushed it from the shore, and with quick strokes drove it toward the middle of the stream, where she knew the water ran swift and deep and strong.

Like some strange night bird the canoe skimmed the surface of the pool, the girl erect, defiant, her long black hair tossing, winglike, on the wind. Drawn by the current it glided on, dark and silent, toward Py-we-ack, where the water with a second leap dashes itself to death upon the rocks.

Along the shelving bank the baffled Ah-wah-nee-chee ran, but swifter ran the dark and silent figure in the stream; and even as the young chief plunged into the icy water in one last effort to reclaim his stolen bride, the boat slipped over the edge of the cliff and went to pieces on the rocks, where the white spirits of the water threw themselves around the maiden and hid her in a shroud of spray.

Thus Wa-hu-lah proved herself faithful to her Mo-no lover, and the Ah-wah-nee-chee was cheated of his bride.

Tu-tock-ah-nu-lah and Tis-sa-ack

Since the world was young Tu-tock-ah-nu-lah, the Rock Chief, had guarded Ah-wah-nee, the home of the children of the sun. For his watch-tower he chose a storm-tried rock on the northern wall of the valley, and from this far height defied all the powers of evil.

In the spring he besought the Great Spirit to send rain that the wild corn might hang heavy with tasseling grain, the berries cluster thick on the branches of the manzanita, and the fish abound in the waters of the river. In the summer he fattened the bear and deer, and in the autumn he wandered through the mountains driving them from their haunts that the hunter might not return empty-handed from the chase. The smoke of his pipe spread like a soft haze through the air, sheltering the women from the sun when they went forth to gather acorns and wood for winter.

His form was like a spear, straight and strong; and he reared his head high above the clouds. In his arm was the strength of an untamed grizzly; and his voice was like the sound of Cho-look, the great fall that thunders down from the north, starting deep echoes from crag and gorge. When the sunlight danced upon the water, the Ah-wah-nee-chees were happy, for they knew that Tu-tock-ah-nu-lah smiled; when the sky was overcast, they trembled, fearful of his frown; when his sighs swept mournfully through the pines, they, too, were sad. The children of Ah-wah-nee loved the mighty Rock Chief who dwelt above them in his lonely lodge.

One morning, as his midnight watch drew to a close and the first pale glint of day shone on his forehead, he heard a soft voice whisper, "Tu-tock-ah-nu-lah!"

His eyes burned with the passion fire as a fair vision rose before him, yonder on the granite dome of the southern wall. It was the form of a maiden, not of the dark tribe he loved and guarded, but fairer than any he had seen or known in dreams. Her face had the rosy flush of dawn, her eyes took their color from the morning sky, and her hair was like strands of golden sunlight. Her voice was low as a dove call when she whispered Tu-tock-ah-nu-lah's name.

For a moment she lingered, smiling; but even as the Rock Chief leaped from his tower in answer to her call, she glided across the rounded dome and faded from his sight, leaving her throne shrouded in a snowy cloud. Piqued by the mystery of her flight, Tu-tock-ah-nu-lah followed the sound of her rustling garments, wandering all day over the mountains; but the pine trees wove a blue mist about her, hiding her from his eyes. Not until he returned to his citadel at night did he see her face again. Then for an instant she appeared upon her throne, her pale brow tinged with the rose glow of the sun; and he knew that she was Tis-sa-ack, the Goddess of the Valley, who shared with him the loving care of the Ah-wah-nee-chees.

Every morning now at dawn Tu-tock-ah-nu-lah left his tower and sped across the valley to meet the lovely goddess of his heart's desire. Through the day he hovered near her, gazing upon the fair form, always half hidden by billowing cloud, trying to read an answering love in her wide blue eyes. But never again did he hear the voice that came to him across the valley in the stillness of that one gray dawn.

Tu-tock-ah-nu-lah's passion grew day by day, as summer ripens the fruits of springtime budding; but Tis-sa-ack had no joy in his love. Her heart was heavy with a great sorrow, for she saw that the Rock Chief was blind to the needs of his people, that he had forsaken those who looked to him for life.

The sun burned his way through the sky, and no rains fell to cool the aching earth. Tu-tock-ah-nu-lah paid no heed to the withering leaves of the wild corn, the shrunken streams from which the fisherman turned with empty nets, the shriveling acorns that fell worthless to the ground. He neither knew nor cared that the hunter, after weary days in the mountains, came to his lodge at night with arrows unused, to meet the anxious glance of starving women and hear the wailing cry of hungry children.

The Ah-wah-nee-chees called upon the Rock Chief in vain. He did not hear their cries; he thought only of his love. The harvest moon looked down into the valley and saw the dark form of Famine skulking there. Then it was that Tis-sa-ack's love was swept away by an overwhelming pity; and as she lay upon her couch she cried out to the Great Spirit to send the rain-clouds that bear life to all things of the earth.

And even as she prayed, there came an answer to her prayer. With a voice of thunder the Great Spirit gave commands to the spirits of the air. With a barbed shaft of lightning he rent the granite dome where Tis-sa-ack prayed; and from the cleft rock came a rush of water that filled the dry basin of Wai-ack, the Mirror Lake, and sent a wandering stream through the thirsty fields.

Now the withered corn-stalks raised their drooping heads, flowers nodded among the waving grasses and offered their lips to the wild bees, and the acorns swelled with sap that crept upward from reviving roots. The women went joyously into the fields to gather the harvest, and the men no longer returned with empty pouches from the forest or fished by the riverside in vain.

The chief of the Ah-wah-nee-chees ordered a great feast, and all faces were turned in gratitude to the dome where Tis-sa-ack dwelt. But Tis-sa-ack was gone. She had sacrificed her love, her life, for the children of Ah-wah-nee. Through her they had suffered; through her their sufferings had ceased; and that all might hold her memory dear she left them the lake, the river and a fragment of her throne. Upon the bosom of Ke-koo-too-yem, the Sleeping Water, her spirit rests, wandering sometimes of a summer evening to the Half Dome, there to linger for a moment as the sun slips over the western wall of the valley.

As she flew away a soft down from her wings fell upon the earth; and where it fell, along the edge of the river and over the meadows stretching toward Tu-tock-ah-nu-lah's watch-tower, one can now find tiny white violets, whose fragrance is the secret of a loving spirit, a breath of happiness to all who gather them.

When Tu-tock-ah-nu-lah found that Tis-sa-ack was gone, a great sadness came upon him. Day and night his sighs swept through the pine trees. He puffed gloomily at his pipe until his tower was hidden in a cloud of smoke. At last, thinking to follow and find his lost love, he went away; and lest he be forgotten, he carved with his hunting-knife the outlines of his face upon the wall of his fortress, which the white man has named El Capitan.

As he turned sadly from his lodge, Tu-tock-ah-nu-lah perceived that the air was filled with a rare and subtle perfume, blowing from a stretch of meadow fringed with tamarack. Thinking it the breath of Tis-sa-ack, he followed on and on, forgetful of the arts of E-ee-ke-no, who dwells among the water-lilies in the lake which the Three Brothers hold in the hollow of their hands.

E-ee-ke-no had long loved the Rock Chief, but Tu-tock-ah-nu-lah scorned her unsought love, which turned through jealousy to bitter hate. Now as she saw him go away in search of Tis-sa-ack, she threw around him the mystic fragrance of the water-lily, which, gentle as a caress, is deadly to all who win the hatred of E-ee-ke-no.

On and on across the meadow fringed with tamarack, among the wild flowers and the waving grasses, Tu-tock-ah-nu-lah wandered, following blindly the transformed spirit of E-ee-ke-no until he disappeared forever in the depths of the lake.

Kom-po-pai-ses, Leaping Frog Rocks

Forever and forever the Three Brothers sit looking over each other's shoulders from the north wall of Ah-wah-nee.

The Indians likened these peaks to frogs sitting back upon their haunches ready to leap, and called them Kom-po-pai-ses, the Leaping Frog Rocks. This the white man did not know when he named them the Three Brothers.

The story of the Three Brothers is history, not tradition. It has to do with the coming of the white man to Ah-wah-nee, and the downfall of Ten-ie-ya, the last chief of the Ah-wah-nee-chees.

Across the plains that billow away toward the sea, Ten-ie-ya watched the approach of the white stranger, having always in mind the words of the old man who was his counselor when he left the land of his Mo-no mother and returned to Ah-wah-nee to rule over his father's people.

The patriarch had heard the call of the Great Spirit, bidding him to the happy land of the West, and had told Ten-ie-ya many things. This, last of all:

"Obey my word, O Ten-ie-ya, and your people shall be many as the blades of grass, and none shall dare to bring war into Ah-wah-nee. But look you ever, my son, against the white horsemen of the great plains beyond; for once they have crossed the western mountains, your tribe will scatter as the dust before a desert wind, and never come together again. Guard well your stronghold, O Ten-ie-ya, lest you be the last of the great chiefs of Ah-wah-nee."

The faded eyes had the light that comes when the call of the Great Spirit sounds very near, and the feeble hand of the patriarch trembled as he raised his pipe above his head, and said:

"Great Spirit, I pray be good to my son, the chief of the Ah-wah-nee-chees. Toward the pines, north, cold wind treat him kindly; toward the rising sun, east, great sun shine upon his lodge in the early morning; toward the place where the sun goes in winter, south, bless my son; toward the land of the setting sun, west, waft on the breezes a peaceful sleep. And, lowering my pipe, I say, kind mother earth, when you receive my son into your warm bosom, hold him gently. Let the howl of the coyote, the roaring of the bear and the mountain-lion, and the sound of winds swaying the tops of the pine trees, be to him a sweet lullaby."

Because of these last words of the dying seer, Ten-ie-ya guarded his mountain retreat as a she-bear guards the refuge of her young. With vague foreboding he saw the white horsemen coming nearer. They took the land that the Great Spirit had made for the people of his race. They burrowed into it like moles, and washed the sands of its rivers, searching for something yellow and shining that the Indian neither knew was there nor cared to know. They grazed their horses and their cattle upon the broad stretches that had been the Indian's hunting-ground since time began. They even went so far, these pale-faced strangers, as to steal Indian women for their wives. And always they made their camps nearer and nearer to Ah-wah-nee.

While the vigor of youth remained, Ten-ie-ya did not fear these men of an alien race. He only hated them. With his band of lawless Grizzlies he stole forth in the night and drove away their horses to kill for food; and as they feasted, drunk with the taste of warm blood, their spirits were made bold, and the deep gorge rang with shouts of defiance.

But Ten-ie-ya grew old, and the white horsemen of the plains, now strong in number, were at the very walls of Ah-wah-nee. The words of the dying patriarch were ever in his ears, and he knew that the evil day was come.

At last the white men climbed the western mountains, offering gifts in the name of the Great Father, their chief; and when they went away they led Ten-ie-ya captive to their camp. The young braves fled from Ah-wah-nee, across To-co-yah, the North Dome, to the home of the Mo-nos. It was well that Ten-ie-ya should go to the plains, they said; but they were young and could find plenty in the mountains; they would not go to be herded like horses in the white man's camp.

Though he appeared to yield, the spirit of Ten-ie-ya was not broken. Like a wild beast in captivity, he chafed under restraint. With the cunning of his race, he watched his chance; and when it came, he returned to his stronghold in the Sky Mountains, bearing in his heart a fiercer hate for the white man, a hate made keener by defeat, a hate that burned for revenge.

But an evil spell seemed cast upon the children of Ah-wah-nee. They were scattered, and they did not rally round their chief. Again the white horsemen climbed the western mountains, this time without gifts. But day and night signal fires had burned upon the mountain tops; and when the messengers of the Great Father entered Ah-wah-nee they found the valley deserted, save for five dark figures that darted like shadows from tree to rock at the base of a jagged spur of the northern wall.

Feeling themselves secure because of the swollen river that lay between, the five scouts came into the open when discovered, and mocked the strangers; then disappeared up the side of a cliff so straight and pathless that no white man could follow. By fair promises carried to them by an Indian guide they were induced to come into camp, and three of them were found to be sons of Ten-ie-ya.

It does not speak for the faith of white men that one of the brothers was killed while held as hostage until the aged chief should come in and deliver himself to the messengers of the Great Father; and that only an uncertain aim saved another who tried to escape through the Cañon of the Arrow-wood, where his father was hiding. When he saw it was useless to resist further these fearless, faithless horsemen of the plains, who had stolen his lands and his women, who would not let him live in peace in his mountains, Ten-ie-ya came down from Le-ham-i-te, the Cañon of the Arrow-wood, by a trail that led into the valley through the branches of a giant oak.

The first sight that met the gaze of the twice-conquered chieftain was the dead body of his youngest son. He spoke no word, but lines of sorrow appeared in the hard, old face; and secretly, in the heart of the night, he had the young chief's body carried away--none knew where. Once more he tried for his liberty; once more was captured. Then in a passion of grief and rage, he turned his bare breast to his captors, and cried: