The Runaway Papoose/Chapter 3

With the first gray light of dawn Moyo awoke with a start and jumped to his feet. The fire was almost as gray as the dawn, and the air had a frosty nip to it, but it was not the cold that had made him jump to his feet with his heart in his mouth—he had dreamed of mountain lions slinking nearer and nearer to the cave place, and not yet had the dream feeling altogether left him. But there was no living thing that he could see in the cañon and the pony looked at him with a little nicker of surprise and hunger, and ponies always know and have a way of telling to others when wild animals are about, so Moyo very quickly gathered more sticks and built up the fire again, and by that time Nah-tee sat up ​on her blanket with round eyes very big and wide and blinked for a moment until she remembered the place where she was, and then she smiled at Moyo and jumped as quickly to her feet as he had done.

“The coyotes did not come,” she cried, “and nothing else came—and I think I am more hungry than any coyote ever was!” and she was very glad to get the piki bread and meat that Moyo gave her. There was grain, too, to give the pony from a little bag they had brought for him, and they gave him a drink of water from their own bottle. And after that Nah-tee could not keep still—she threw up her head as the pony did at times.

“Oh, how the air is good!” she cried, “and all washed clean with the wind and rain. And we will ride again to-day and see things—and I think never was I so happy!” and she jumped up and down and in little circles all the way round the fire, and some of the wood that Moyo had gathered was scattered again by her little feet.

“Can you not stay still for one moment?” he cried with some annoyance in his voice, the very first that he had shown, for it had not been easy to gather that wood. “Can you not stay still for one

​single little moment?” But a spirit of mischief had come into Nah-tee, and she made a face at him.

“I can stay still for one moment and for more than one moment, but this is not the one,” she said. “This is the moment when I am happy and my feet have a dance feeling in them. I will help you to gather that wood in a little while, maybe, but look, Moyo, how it is good to dance now.”

He sat back on his heels and looked up at her with a little frown on his face. It was not a real frown, but he tried hard to make it look like one.

“I think never you have been taught to mind,” he said then. “Maybe that is a thing they do not teach in the desert where you live. I have been taught always that it is bad not to mind the ones who are older.”

Nah-tee was suddenly quiet and opened her eyes very wide.

“Yes, I have been taught that thing, too,” she said in a very small voice, “but I did not know—that is a funny thing—I did not know that you were an older one.” There was still a look of mischief in her eyes and Moyo made his look and his voice very solemn, so that the mischief would not again go into her feet.

​“Yes, I am an older one,” he said very seriously, “and I will tell you why always you must mind the older ones.”

“I know,” said Nah-tee eagerly, “I know why.”

“But maybe,” said Moyo, “maybe the ‘why’ you know is not the ‘why’ of my people. I will tell you my ‘why’ and then, afterward, if it is not the same one, you can tell me the ‘why’ that you have been told.”

Nah-tee sat down on her blanket and put her hands together and looked down like a very well-behaved little girl and said:

“My ears are open, my father, I will listen.”

A little quiver came to the lips of Moyo, but he did not let it get as far as a smile, and he, too, sat down on a rock by the fire.

“This is the way it was told to me by my father,” he began, “and before that by his father, and it goes away back to the time when there was only one tribe of people in all the earth and that was a very, very great while ago.” Nah-tee nodded her head but did not take her eyes from the toes of her moccasins and Moyo knew that she was trying to tease him; but he could not be teased so easily as that, and went on in the same tone of voice: “Out ​on the edge of the desert in a queer little hogan lived an old Spider-woman. All humped up and black she was, and so old that her hair was as white as the silk stuff of the milkweed seed, but her eyes were black and shiny as stars, and she knew much magic. At first the little ones had fear of her, for they had heard tales of how she stole children and they never were seen again; but after a while they did not fear her, as she gave to them little seed cakes to eat and spoke only words that were honey sweet and soft. ‘Do not go near the hogan of that old Spider-woman,’ said the mothers and the fathers to the children. ‘She is an evil one, and bad things will happen if you go there.’ But not yet had the children learned that always the older ones know more than they, and nothing at all bad happened when they went to the hogan, so they laughed when the mothers said that and called back to them: ‘No bad thing will happen to us—that Spider-woman is very little and old, and we have no fear of her!’ And they ate her seed cakes and laughed at the joke things she told them, but not ever would they go into her house—that was a thing they would not do, even though she told them of the very fine things that were there: the bow made of the strongest ash wood, ​fit for a warrior or a hunter of big game, and the blue sky stones that could be traded for many wonderful things, and the soft woven blankets that no cold wind could blow through. But she could not get them to go into the hogan, for something told them that they would not be safe there as they were out in the open air. And then came the time of a great feast. It was the feast of the harvest, when dancers and runners came from the very farthest camping places, and there were games and races and many ceremonies.” Nah-tee wriggled.

“Maybe like the dance they will have at the big mesa, she cried, and altogether she had forgotten to tease Moyo and listened with big eyes to the tale he was telling. He nodded in answer and went on:

“The games were for everyone, big ones and little ones, and there were very fine prizes given, and everyone wanted to win those prizes. The best prizes of all were to go for the great race, and everyone was to run in that race. The little ones were in the front, and back of them the women, and farther back still were the men. Before the very day of the feast there was much running for practice, and one young boy watched the others run, and in his eyes there was a ​very eager look to win. He was the only one of all the children who did not go out to the hogan of the old Spider-woman—‘The older ones have said not to go, and they are wiser than we,’ he said, and the others laughed at him and jeered and pointed the finger: ‘Hi! Brave-young-man-tied-to-the-papoose-carrier-of-his-mother,’ they cried, ‘See, how he is afraid of the old Spider-woman—Yi! Yi! Brave one! But surely you will win all of the prizes with to-morrow’s sun because of the bravery that is in you!’

“‘Maybe it is more brave not to go to the Spider-woman than to go,’ said an old man who saw what happened, but he said the words inside himself, and no one heard.

“But others saw it, too, and they nodded wisely to one another. And the children who did not mind ran out again to the hogan of the Spider-woman, and to each one she spoke secretly and gave to him a very small bag with a little yellow powder in it.

“‘This is a magic charm,’ she said, ‘a very secret and very strong magic. On the day of that race, at the very start of it, you must swallow this powder, and then you will be more swift than any man there and will surely win.’ And each one who was given the ​magic charm thought he was the only one, and went away with his head in a cloud to think that he would win that race.

“And then, on the very day of the race, there was great excitement. Never had there been such excitement as on that day; and each one of the children looked at the others with the thought that how sad would the other one be when the day was over and the race lost for him—all but the one boy who did not have a magic charm—he looked only straight ahead to the place where they were to run the race, and his thoughts sent only a little prayer to the Great Spirit for speed and the strength to win. The old Spider-woman was there watching, and there was a greedy look in her black shiny eyes that was not good to see.

“And then came the moment when the word was given to start that race, and then—a very strange thing happened—for when the word was given, of all the children only the boy who had minded leaped forward down the track, the others, every one, put to his mouth the little charm bag and stood for an instant while the powder went down his throat—and then—a great shout went up from everyone watching, and louder than all shouted the old ​Spider-woman, and leaped and sang in joy—for where there had been children standing just a moment ago were now only little black spiders running back and forth and jumping up and down in confusion. The magic had been spider magic, and because they had not minded the older ones the children had put themselves in the power of the Spider-woman, and the boy who had minded won the race, and all the prizes were given to him. And never, in all that tribe, has there been a child since who has not minded the words of the older ones.

“And now,” said Moyo, with a grin for Nah-tee, “is that the thing the children of your people are told when they are taught to mind the words of the older ones?”

“No—o—o,” answered Nah-tee slowly, and she drew a deep breath. “I like that tale, and I like how the good boy won the race, but they have another tale with my people. Maybe I cannot tell it in the way the Wise men have told it, I do not know the words to tell it that way, but I will tell it to you the way it is in my thoughts.”

“Yes,” said Moyo, “tell it that way.” And he put some more sticks on the fire and sat down to listen very carefully; but just as he did that a sharp click ​of falling stone came plainly from the cañon below, and they both jumped to their feet in quick alarm. Nah-tee was going to look over the edge, but Moyo held her firmly back and put his finger to his lips.

“Be very quiet,” he said close to her ear. “I will see—you must stay here”; and he crept very cautiously to the edge of the little shelf and looked over. But there was nothing to see at all. There were many rocks in the cañon, and almost anything could hide behind them, and in some places there were tall pillars of stone close to the cañon walls that rose almost to the tops of the walls themselves. Everywhere Moyo felt that there might be eyes watching—yellow animal eyes or keen human ones—and he did not like the feeling, it made a shivery coldness run down his back that was not exactly fear, but it was not a good feeling. But, he reasoned, if animals were hiding they were not the kind he need fear, and they would run if he threw a piece of blazing wood at them, and why should he fear anything else? He stood up suddenly and gave a little laugh at the thought.

“I think there is a fear magic in dark places,” he said, “and it is dark in this cañon. See how the sun goes right over the top and does not come down ​inside. Let us go, Nah-tee. I think the desert is a better place.” Nah-tee gave a quick little breath of relief at his words.

“Then you do not have fear for the thing that made that noise?” she asked, and there was a shine in her eyes as she looked at Moyo. She thought he was very brave, and it made her feel very much safer when he did not fear.

“No, I have no fear of a thing that is nothing,” said Moyo with a toss of his head. He was very glad that Nah-tee thought that he was brave; it made it much easier for him to act that way. “Maybe the storm made loose a rock somewhere,” he went on, “and it fell down—that is all I think it was.” But very much he wanted to get away from this cave place. There was not wood enough to last a great while, and lions might come back to their own place if there was nothing to frighten them away. And then, too, the pony many times lifted his head into the air and twitched his ears first this way and then that, as if always he were listening, and Moyo did not like that—why should he listen if there was not something to hear?

“I think we will go now,” he said slowly, and he listened carefully as he said it, but he could not hear ​anything. He wished he could have ears that heard things as a pony did. “We will go now and see if we cannot go quickly over the desert and reach the big mesa,” and he felt the little food bag with his fingers and knew that there was very little left in it.

“I am ready,” answered Nah-tee. Always she was ready to go anywhere, and much she liked to ride the pony. They did not put out the fire, for there was nothing it could burn but the little sticks Moyo had collected, and he thought it might be well to have some sticks burning if he should have a quick need for them. They led the pony down the little slant of rock and were soon on his back again, but they found they had to go slowly and carefully on the floor of the cañon, for the sand was very soft, and the pony had to pick each step that he took. Nah-tee saw that each print he left filled slowly with water, and very quickly a look of worry came to the face of Moyo when he saw that. He knew what that water meant—it meant quicksand, and any moment they might come to a place too soft to be crossed safely. He knew, as all Indians who live near such places know, that after a storm the beds of many cañons are really rushing rivers with only a thin ​coating of sand on the top, and any moment that sand might give way.

“Look,” said Nah-tee suddenly, “there has been someone else here,” and she pointed a little way ahead to where there were fresh prints—footprints of a man’s foot—in the sandy floor, filling slowly with water as their own had done. Moyo gave a little cry as he saw them.

“This moment have these prints been made,” he said, “for, look, they are not yet filled with water—and—” he stopped quickly and a frown of perplexity came to his face—the prints in the sand stopped as suddenly as they had begun! And there was no place on either side of the narrow cañon that they could see where anyone or anything large enough to make those prints could find shelter.

“What is it?”’ asked Nah-tee in a voice of wonder, “and where has it gone?” Moyo shook his head and kicked his pony with his heels.

“I think we will go fast,” he said, “and get away from this place, and then it will not matter.” Nah-tee was silent for a little, and then she said:

“My mother tells me that the Great Spirit is everywhere and this ts a part of everywhere.”

“I am not afraid,” answered Moyo, and he made ​his voice big, so that it echoed from the cañon walls. “I am not afraid one bit—but—but—I like that desert very much better than this place,” and he tried to make the pony go a little faster than he was going. But he kept his eyes very carefully searching the rocks on either side in the cliff walls, and also the sandy floor, but he did not see one living thing—but he saw something else. Something that made him pull back quickly on the rope bridle that guided the pony and draw him over to the very edge of the sand where he felt that the rock was underneath, and there he stopped. The sand had grown suddenly too soft to bear their weight, and even as fast as they had been going, the pony’s feet had been sinking deeper and deeper with every step.

“We cannot go any farther,” said Moyo, and he could not keep the alarm altogether out of his voice. “Look how the sand is turning into water. Soon this place will be a river in the cañon—I have seen it do that way. We are safe right here on the edge of this rock, but we cannot go anywhere else.”

Nah-tee looked at the wet sand and then up at the high walls of the cañon, and it was plain that there was no thought of fear or danger in her mind. Instead a little twinkle came to her eyes.

​“But how can we stay here and go to that big mesa, too?” Moyo did not answer her; a sudden thought had come to him.

“Maybe it is because we are too heavy—all the three of us—that we sink into the sand,” he said. “Get down from the pony, Nah-tee, and we will see if we each one can go alone.” And they both got down, and Moyo gave a little pull to the rope of the pony, leading him out into the sand again. He knew that the pony could tell if it was safe.

“Be ready, Nah-tee,” he cried. “You must hold my hand, and we will go if he will go.” There was a sharp crash of a falling stone from somewhere high in the cañon wall, and the pony, with a loud, startled snort, leaped into the watery sand, jerking the rope out of the hand of Moyo. He floundered helplessly for a moment, and Moyo, with a shout of fear, thought that he was sinking. “GO!” he cried. “GO, NIKI!” and he clapped his hands and shouted as loudly as he could, and the pony thrashed about with his legs in a very great effort to get out, and in a little he did pull himself higher in the sand, on the other side of the narrow cañon, and then looked back at Movyo as if he would return.

“Oh, he will sink down if he comes back,” cried ​Nah-tee. “Do not let him come back, Moyo”; and even as he stood hesitating the sand seemed to be reaching up for him again.

“Go on!” cried Moyo, though there were almost tears in his voice. “Go on, Niki!” and the pony turned slowly and went stumbling and stepping with great difficulty until he disappeared around a big rock in a bend of the cañon wall. The two children stood for a moment watching where he had gone, and a queer, lonely feeling came to them immediately when he was no longer in sight.

“Do you think,” asked Nah-tee, a little timidly, “do you think he will wait for us when he finds a place that he can stand on?”

Moyo did not answer immediately. Already he felt that he had done a very terrible thing. How could he be certain that the pony would find any place to wait?—and what would they do now, if they did not have a horse? But very surely that pony would have gone down under the sands if he had tried to return to them. And what had been that sound that had frightened him in the first place? They had not looked then, and now there was nothing at all to see. Moyo tried the sand cautiously now to see if it would bear his weight, but he had very ​little hope—the pony had gone down too quickly just here. The water rose immediately he touched it, and his foot sank over the shoe top before he could draw it out. A cold feeling came into his heart.

“We will have to wait,” he said in a voice that somehow did not want to come out of his throat. “We will have to wait until—until—the sand dries a little.” But he knew very well that the sand would not dry—already the water was rising above it, here and there, and soon it would be a rushing stream. No, it would not be safe at all to walk on it now—they would quickly sink beyond any help—they could not do that.

“We will find a place to climb up,” he said, and he tried not to show in his voice any of the fear that he felt. “Maybe there is another cave that we will find.”

Nah-tee leaned against the rocky wall back of her, and a big tear splashed down her cheek. Moyo saw it, and almost a panic came into his heart.

“Maybe you are hungry,” he said. “Here—here is piki bread to eat,” and she did not know that the little piece of bread that he put into her hand was the very last bit of their bundle of food, and they ​did not know, either of them—when they sat down on a narrow ledge of rock to watch the waters rise slowly and surely over the floor of the cañon—that from another place eyes watched them as carefully as they watched the waters.