Part 18

The old Owl, taking up a stick, hit the bag one whack. The clouds, before so thick, glaring with lightning, trembling and swirling with thunder, now began to thin out in the zenith and depart, and the sunlight sifted through. The Owl hit the bag another stroke,--behold, afar off scudded the clouds as before a fierce blast. Again the old Owl hit the bag. The clouds were resting on the far away mountain-tops before he had lowered his stick. Then, with one mighty effort, he gave the bag a final whack, wholly emptying it of its contents, and the sky was as clear as it is on a summer’s day in the noon-time of a drought. So potent was this all-penetrating and irresistible odor, that even the Rain-gods themselves could not withstand it, and withdrew their forces and retired before it.

Out from their holes trooped the Prairie-dogs, and sitting up on their haunches all round about the mountain, they shouted at the tops of their shrill voices, “_Wek wek,--wek wek,--wek wek!_” in praise of their great priest, the Grandfather Burrowing-owl.

* * * * *

Behold, thus it was in the days of the ancients. And for that reason prairie-dogs and burrowing-owls have always been great friends. And the burrowing-owls consider no place in the world quite so appropriate for the bringing forth, hatching, and rearing of their children as the holes of the prairie-dogs.

Thus shortens my story.

HOW THE GOPHER RACED WITH THE RUNNERS OF K’IÁKIME

There was a time in the days of the ancients when the runners of K’iákime were famed above those of all other cities in the Valley of Shíwina for their strength, endurance, and swiftness of foot. In running the _tikwa_, or kicked-stick race, they overcame, one after another, the runners of Shíwina or Zuñi, of Mátsaki or the Salt City, of Pínawa or the Town of the Winds, and in fact all who dared to challenge them or to accept their challenges.

The people of Shíwina and Mátsaki did not give up easily. They ran again and again, only to be beaten and to lose the vast piles of goods and precious things which they had staked or bet; and at last they were wholly disheartened and bereft of everything which without shame a man might exhibit for betting.

So the people of the two towns called a council, and the old men and runners gathered and discussed what could be done that the runners of K’iákime might be overcome. They thought of all the wise men and wise beings they knew of; one after another of them was mentioned, and at last a few prevailed in contending that for both wisdom and cunning or craft the Gopher took precedence over all those who had been mentioned. Forthwith a young man was dispatched to find an old Gopher who lived on the side of the hill near which the race-course began.

He was out sunning himself, and finishing a cellar, when the young man approached him, and he called out: “Ha, grandson! Don’t bother me this morning; I am busy digging my cellars.”

The young man insisted that he came with an important message from his people. So the old Gopher ceased his work, and listened attentively while the young man related to him the difficulties they were in.

Said he: “Go back, my grandson, and tell your people to challenge the runners of K’iákime to run the race of the kicked stick with a runner whom they have chosen, a single one, the fourth day from this day; and tell your people, moreover, that I will run the race for them, providing only that the runners of K’iákime will permit me to go my own way, on my own road, which as you know runs underground.”

The youth thanked the old Gopher and was about to retire when the fat-sided, heavy-cheeked old fellow called to him to hold on a little. “Mind you,” said he. “Tell your people also that they shall bet for me only two things--red paint and sacred yellow pollen. These shall, as it were, be the payment for my exertions, if I win, as I prize this sort of possession above all else.”

The young man returned and reported what the Gopher had said. Thereupon the people of Shíwina and Mátsaki sent a challenge to the people of K’iákime for a race, saying: “We bet all that we have against what you have won from us from time to time that our runner, the Gopher, who lives beside the beginning of our race-course, will beat you in the race, which we propose shall be the fourth day from this day. The only condition we name is, that the Gopher shall be permitted to run in his own way, on his own road, which is underground.”

Right glad were the runners of K’iákime to run against anyone proposed by those whom they had so often beaten. They hesitated not a moment in replying that they would run against the Gopher or any other friend of the people of Mátsaki and Shíwina, stipulating only that the Gopher, if he ran underground, should appear at the surface occasionally, that they might know where he was. So it was arranged, and the acceptance of the challenge was reported to the Gopher, and the stipulation also which was named by the runners of K’iákime.

That night the old Gopher went to his younger brother, old like himself, heavy-cheeked, gray-and-brown-coated, and dusty with diggings of his cellars. “My younger brother,” said the old Gopher, “the fourth day from this day I am to run a race. I shall start at the beginning of the race-course of the people of K’iákime over here, which is near my home, as you know. There I shall dig two holes; one at the beginning of the race-course, the other a little farther on. Now, here at your home, near the Place of the Scratching Bushes, do you dig a hole, down below where the race-course passes your place, off to one side of it, and another hole a little beyond the first. The means by which I shall be distinguished as a racer will be a red plume tied to my head. Do you also procure a red plume and tie it to your head. When you hear the thundering of the feet of the racers, run out and show yourself for a minute, and rush into the other hole as fast as you can.”

“I understand what you would have of me, and right gladly will I do it. It would please me exceedingly to take down the pride of those haughty runners of K’iákime, or at least to help in doing it,” replied the younger brother.

The old Gopher went on to the Sitting Space of the Red Shell, where dwelt another of his younger brothers precisely like himself and the one he had already spoken to, near whose home the race-course also ran. To him he communicated the same information, and gave the same directions. Then he went on still farther to the place called K’ópak’yan, where dwelt another of his younger brothers. To him also he gave the same directions; and to still another younger brother, who dwelt beneath the base of the two broad pillars of Thunder Mountain, at the last turning-point of the race-course; and to another brother, who dwelt at the Place of the Burnt Log; and lastly to another brother quite as cunning and inventive as himself, who dwelt just below K’iákime where the race-course turned toward its end. When all these arrangements had been made, the old Gopher went back and settled himself comfortably in his nest.

Bright and early on the fourth day preparations were made for the race. The runners of K’iákime had been fasting and training in the sacred houses, and they came forth stripped and begirt for the racing, carrying their stick. Then came the people of Mátsaki and Shíwina, who gathered on the plain, and there they waited. But they waited not long, for soon the old Gopher appeared close in their midst, popping out of the ground, and on his head was a little red plume. He placed the stick which had been prepared for him, on the ground, where he could grab it with his teeth easily, saying: “Of course, you will excuse me if I do not kick my stick, since my feet are so short that I could not do so. On the other hand,” he said to the runners, “you do not have to dig your way as I do. Therefore, we are evenly matched.”

The runners of K’iákime, contemptuously laughing, asked him why he did not ask for some privilege instead of talking about things which meant nothing to them.

At last the word was given. With a yell and a spring, off dashed the racers of K’iákime, gaily kicking their stick before them. Grabbing his stick in his teeth, into the ground plunged the old Gopher. Fearful lest their runner should be beaten, the people of Shíwina and Mátsaki ran to a neighboring hill, watching breathlessly for him to appear somewhere in the course of the race above the plain. Away over the plain in a cloud of dust swept the runners of K’iákime. They were already far off, when suddenly, some distance before them, out of the ground in the midst of the race-course, popped the old Gopher, to all appearance, the red plume dusty, but waving proudly on his forehead. After looking round at the runners, into the ground he plunged again. The people of Shíwina and Mátsaki yelled their applause. The runners of K’iákime, astounded that the Gopher should be ahead of them, redoubled their efforts. When they came near the Place of the Red Shell, behold! somewhat muddy round the eyes and nose, out popped the old Gopher again, to all appearance. Of course it was his brother, the red plume somewhat heavy with dirt, but still waving on his forehead.

On rushed the runners, and they had no sooner neared K’ópak’yan than again they saw the Gopher in advance of them, now apparently covered with sweat,--for this cunning brother had provided himself with a little water which he rubbed over his fur and made it all muddy, as though he were perspiring and had already begun to grow tired. He came out of his hole and popped into the other less quickly than the others had done; and the runners, who were not far behind him, raised a great shout and pushed ahead. When they thought they had gained on him, behold! in their pathway, all bedraggled with mud, apparently the same old Gopher appeared, moving with some difficulty, and then disappeared under the ground again. And so on, the runners kept seeing the Gopher at intervals, each time a little worse off than before, until they came to the last turning-place; and just as they reached it, almost in their midst appeared the most bedraggled and worn out of all the Gophers. They, seeing the red plume on his crest, almost obscured by mud and all flattened out, regarded him as surely the same old Gopher.

Finally, the original old Gopher, who had been quietly sleeping meanwhile, roused himself, and besoaking himself from the tip of his nose to the end of his short tail, wallowed about in the dirt until he was well plastered with mud, half closing his eyes, and crawled out before the astonished multitude at the end of the goal, a sorry-looking object indeed, far ahead of the runners, who were rapidly approaching. A great shout was raised by those who were present, and the runners of K’iákime for the first time lost all of their winnings, and had the swiftness, or at least all their confidence, taken out of them, as doth the wind lose its swiftness when its legs are broken.

* * * * *

Thus it was in the days of the ancients. By the skill and cunning of the Gopher--who, by digging his many holes and pitfalls, is the opponent of all runners, great and small--was the race won against the swiftest runners among the youth of our ancients. Therefore, to this day the young runners of Zuñi, on going forth to prepare for a race, take with them the sacred yellow pollen and red paint; and they make for the gophers, round about the race-course in the country, beautiful little plumes, and they speak to them speeches in prayer, saying: “Behold, O ye Gophers of the plains and the trails, we race! And that we may have thy aid, we give ye these things, which are unto ye and your kind most precious, that ye will cause to fall into your holes and crannies and be hidden away in the dark and the dirt the sticks that are kicked by our opponents.”

Thus shortens my story.

HOW THE RATTLESNAKES CAME TO BE WHAT THEY ARE

Know you that long, long ago there lived at Yathlpew’nan, as live there now, many Rattlesnakes; but then they were men and women, only of a Rattlesnake kind.

One day the little children of one of the houses there wished to go out to play at sliding down the sand-banks south of the Bitter Pond on the other side of our river. So they cried out to their parents: “Let us go, O mother, grandmother, father! and take our little sister to play on the sunny side of the sand-banks.”

“My children,” said the mother, “go if you wish, but be very careful of your little sister; for she is young. Carry her gently on your shoulders, and place her where she will be safe, for she is very small and helpless.”

“Oh, yes!” cried the children. “We love our little sister, don’t we, little one?” said they, turning to the baby girl. Then they took her up in their mantles, and carried her on their shoulders out to the sunny side of the sand-banks; and there they began to play at sliding one after another.

The little girl, immensely delighted with their sport, toddled out from the place where they had set her down, just as one of the girls was speeding down the side of the sand-hill. The little creature ran, clapping her hands and laughing, to catch her sister as she came; and the elder one, trying in vain to stop herself, called out to her to beware; but she was a little thing, and knew not the meaning of her sister’s warning; and, alas! the elder one slid down upon her, knocked her over and rolled her in the sand, crushing her so that she died, and rolling her out very small.

The children all gathered around their little sister, and cried and cried. Finally they took her up tenderly, and, placing her on their shoulders, sang as they went slowly toward home:

“_Tchi-tola tsaaana! Tchi-tola tsaaana! Tchi-tola tsaaana!_

_Ama ma hama seta! Ama ma hama seta!_”

Rattlesnake little-little! Rattlesnake little-little! Rattlesnake little-little!

Alas, we bear her! Alas, we bear her!

As they approached the village of the Rattlesnakes, the mother of the little one looked out and saw them coming and heard their song.

“O, my children! my children!” she cried. “Ye foolish little ones, did I not tell ye to beware and to be careful, O, my children?” Then she exclaimed--rocking herself to and fro, and wriggling from side to side at the same time, casting her hands into the air, and sobbing wildly--

“_Ayaa mash toki! Ayaa mash toki! Hai! i i i i!_”[15]

and fell in a swoon, still wriggling, to the ground.

[15] It is impossible to translate this exclamation, as it is probably archaic, and it is certainly the intention that its meaning shall not be plain. Judging from its etymology, I should think that its meaning might be:

“Oh, alas! our little maiden! Oh, alas! our little maiden! Ala-a-a-a-a-s!”

When the old grandmother saw them coming, she too said:

“_Ayaa mash toki! Ayaa mash toki! Hai! i i i i!_”

And as one after another in that village saw the little child, so beloved, brought home thus mutilated and dead, each cried out as the others had cried:

“_Ayaa mash toki! Ayaa mash toki! Hai! i i i i!_”

and all swooned away; and the children also who were bringing the little one joined in the cry of woe, and swooned away. And when they all returned to life, behold, they could not arise, but went wriggling along the ground, faintly crying, as Rattlesnakes wriggle and cry to this day.

So you see that once--as was the case with many, if not all, of the animals--the Rattlesnakes were a people, and a splendid people too. Therefore we kill them not needlessly, nor waste the lives even of other animals without cause.

Thus shortens my story.

HOW THE CORN-PESTS WERE ENSNARED

In the days of the ancients, long, long ago, there lived in our town, which was then called the Middle Ant Hill of the World, a proud maiden, very pretty and very attractive, the daughter of one of the richest men among our people. She had every possession a Zuñi maiden could wish for,--blankets and mantles, embroidered dresses and sashes, buckskins and moccasins, turquoise earrings and shell necklaces, bracelets so many you could not count them. She had her father and mother, brothers and sisters, all of whom she loved very much. Why, therefore, should she care for anything else?

There was only one thing to trouble her. Behold! it came of much possession, for she had large corn-fields, so large and so many that those who planted and worked them for her could not look after them properly, and no sooner had the corn ears become full and sweet with the milk of their being than all sorts of animals broke into those fields and pulled down the corn-stalks and ate up the sweet ears of corn. Now, how to remove this difficulty the poor girl did not know.

Yes, now that I think of it, there was another thing that troubled her very much, fully as much as did the corn-pests,--pests of another kind, however, for there wasn’t an unmarried young man in all the valley of our ancients who was not running mad over the charms of this girl. Besides all that, not a few of them had an eye on so many possessions, and thought her home wouldn’t be an uncomfortable place to live in. So they never gave the poor girl any peace, but hung round her house, and came to visit her father so constantly that at last she determined to put the two pests together and call them one, and thereby get rid, if possible, of one or the other. So, when these young men were very importunate, she would say to them, “Look you! if any one of you will go to my corn-fields, and destroy or scare away, so that they will never come back again, the pests that eat up my corn, him I will marry and cherish, for I shall respect his ability and ingenuity.”

The young men tried and tried, but it was of no use. Before long, everybody knew of this singular proposition.

There was a young fellow who lived in one of the outer towns, the poorest of the poor among our people; and not only that, but he was so ugly that no woman would ever look at him without laughing.

Now, there are two kinds of laugh with women. One of them is a very good sort of thing, and makes young men feel happy and conceited. The other kind is somewhat heartier, but makes young men feel depressed and very humble. It need not be asked which kind was laughed by the women when they saw this ugly, ragged, miserable-looking young man. He had bright twinkling eyes, however, and that means more than all else sometimes.

Now, this young man came to hear of what was going on. He had no present to offer the girl, but he admired her as much as--yes, a good deal more than--if he had been the handsomest young man of his time. So just in the way that he was he went to the house of this girl one evening. He was received politely, and it was noticeable to the old folks that the girl seemed rather to like him,--just as it is noticeable to you and me today that what people have they prize less than what they have not. The girl placed a tray of bread before the young man and bade him eat; and after he had done, he looked around with his twinkling little eyes. And the old man said, “Let us smoke together.” And so they smoked.

By-and-by the old man asked if he were not thinking of something in coming to the house of a stranger. And the young man replied, it was very true; he had thoughts, though he felt ashamed to say it, but he even wished to be accepted as a suitor for his daughter.

The father referred the matter to the girl, and she said she would be very well satisfied; then she took the young man aside and spoke a few words to him,--in fact, told him what were the conditions of his becoming her accepted husband. He smiled, and said he would certainly try to the best of his ability, but this was a very hard thing she asked.

“I know it is,” said the girl; “that is why I ask it.”

Now, the young man left the house forthwith. The next day he very quietly went down into the corn-fields belonging to the girl, and over toward the northern mesa, for that is where her corn-fields were--lucky being! He dug a great deep pit with a sharp stick and a bone shovel. Now, when he had dug it--very smooth at the sides and top it was--he went to the mountain and got some poles, placing them across the hole, and over these poles he spread earth, and set up corn-stalks just as though no hole had been dug there; then he put some exceedingly tempting bait, plenty of it, over the center of these poles, which were so weak that nobody, however light of foot, could walk over them without breaking through.

Night came on, and you could hear the Coyotes begin to sing; and the whole army of pests--Bears, Badgers, Gophers, all sorts of creatures, as they came down slowly, each one in his own way, from the mountain. The Coyotes first came into the field, being swift of foot; and one of them, nosing around and keeping a sharp lookout for watchers, happened to espy those wonderfully tempting morsels that lay over the hole.

“Ha!” said he (Coyotes don’t think much what they are doing), and he gave a leap, when in he went--sticks, dirt, bait, and all--to the bottom of the hole. He picked himself up and rubbed the sand out of his eyes, then began to jump and jump, trying to get out; but it was of no use, and he set up a most doleful howl.

He had just stopped for breath, when a Bear came along. “What in the name of all the devils and witches are you howling so for?” said he. “Where are you?”

The Coyote swallowed his whimpers immediately, set himself up in a careless attitude, and cried out: “Broadfoot, lucky, lucky, lucky fellow! Did you hear me singing? I am the happiest creature on the face of the earth, or rather under it.”

“What about? I shouldn’t think you were happy, to judge from your howling.”

“Why! Mercy on me!” cried the Coyote, “I was singing for joy.”

“How’s that?” asked the Bear.

“Why,” said the Coyote, “I came along here this evening and by the merest accident fell into this hole. And what do you suppose I found down here? Green-corn, meat, sweet-stuff, and everything a corn-eater could wish for. The only thing I lacked to complete my happiness was someone to enjoy the meal with me. Jump in!--it isn’t very deep--and fall to, friend. We’ll have a jolly good night of it.”

So the old Bear looked down, drew back a minute, hesitated, and then jumped in. When the Bear got down there, the Coyote laid himself back, slapped his thighs, and laughed and laughed and laughed. “Now, get out if you can,” said he to the Bear. “You and I are in a pretty mess. I fell in here by accident, it is true, but I would give my teeth and eyes if I could get out again!”

The Bear came very near eating him up, but the Coyote whispered something in his ear. “Good!” yelled the Bear. “Ha! ha! ha! Excellent idea! Let us sing together. Let them come!”

So they laughed and sang and feasted until they attracted almost every corn-pest in the fields to the spot to see what they were doing. “Keep away, my friends,” cried out the Coyote. “No such luck for you. We got here first. Our spoils!”

“Can’t I come?” “Can’t I come?” cried out one after another.

“Well, yes,--no,--there may not be enough for you all.” “Come on, though; come on! who cares?”--cried out the old Bear. And they rushed in so fast that very soon the pit-hole was almost full of them, scrambling to get ahead of one another, and before they knew their predicament they were already in it. The Coyote laughed, shuffled around, and screamed at the top of his voice; he climbed up over his grandfather the Bear, scrambled through the others, which were snarling and biting each other, and, knowing what he was about, skipped over their backs, out of the hole, and ran away laughing as hard as he could.