The Runaway Papoose/Chapter 6

The shadow of night walked across the cañon, and outlines that had been sharp and clear became suddenly dim and uncertain. One shadow, a little darker than the rest, moved slowly up the face of the cliff below the big ledge and paused very often as if awaiting the strength to go on, or else to listen. It reached the ledge at last, and pulling itself over the edge, stood for a moment motionless—and seemed again to listen. All was silent on the ledge of rock, even the soft whisper of the wind had died away; and in the round room where Nah-tee and Moyo sat the dim light from a dying fire shone warmly on two little faces deep in sleep.

For a long time that shadow stood in the dim light on the ledge and turned this way and that, but ​finally it moved softly nearer to that round hole where now a low red glow shone plainly in the night, and very cautiously and noiselessly a face appeared in that glow and looked down on what it saw within—and smiled. It was a very kindly face, and there were many wrinkles in it that looked as if they had been made by sun and wind and many smiles. There was no real age in a face like that, though the hair that came over the forehead was thin and silvery white, but age does not come with smiles and kindness—they are always young; only bitterness brings age, and there was no bitterness here. For a long time that face looked down at the sleeping ones within, and though the smile did not leave the lips there was a shine in the dark eyes that sparkled in the light from the little fire—a shine that does not always come with smiles.

Nah-tee suddenly gave a start and looked straight up at that opening before the face could move away, and she could not keep back the cry that came to her lips.

Moyo jumped to his feet at that cry and looked about him, very quickly wide awake.

“What is it?” he cried. “Why did you call out like that?”

​Nah-tee had not moved her eyes from the opening overhead, though now it showed only black and empty.

“It was a man,” she said in a very low voice. “A man looked in up there,” and she motioned with her lips to the dark hole and Moyo looked up, too.

“Hi!” he called quickly. “Come back—we cannot get out of this place.”

It was very silent outside for a while, and then a voice said:

“Where have you put that ladder!” And Moyo answered eagerly. He was excited now, and he and Nah-tee watched with bright eyes for what would come to that hole.

“The ladder was broken—it was very old,” he said, “and we want to get out.”

“Wait,” said the voice then. “I will see,” and for a very long time they waited. After a while there was a noise—the sound of something heavy being dragged—and then in a little the ends of a ladder came into view above. Slowly it came down, and Moyo lifted eager arms to receive it and, as it touched the bottom, the face appeared again at the opening and a puzzled look was in the eyes that looked down at them.

​“Has it reached the floor?” asked the old man. “It did not feel that it rested on rock.”

“It does not rest on rock,” answered Moyo with a smile. “The ladder is on the little door.” And he and Nah-tee climbed eagerly again to the outside air that was like a drink of cold water to their thirsty lungs. Nah-tee threw back her head and her arms went high.

“Oh, I am glad,” she said, “that you have come—always I think I knew that you would come—that is why the fear did not come into me.”

There was a brighter twinkle than before in the old man’s eyes, and he put a kindly hand on Nah-tee’s head.

“So—you are glad,” he said, “and I, too, am glad. But why do you fly, you two, like birds, from place to place? I go to the little cave with food for you to eat, and—puff!—you are gone again to some other place; and look how I find you—like coyotes in a trap.”

“It was for you that we came,” said Moyo, and he said it with a shyness that Nah-tee had not seen before. “We would give you thanks for the good meat stew, but never do you wait for thanks.”

The old man, very unexpectedly, threw back his ​head and laughed—a laugh with little chuckly sounds in it that made a giggly feeling come in the inside of Nah-tee. She felt now that it was very easy to laugh. Now everything would be right, and this good old man would help them.

“So—maybe I, too, have that bird-feeling inside,” laughed the old man. “Ah, well—that is not bad if there is a place to roost—and look, how we have all found a place to roost here in my cañon. And here is the food, I have brought it with me. But first, we will have a little fire, already it turns cold.” And he led the way into one of the houses where Nah-tee and Moyo had not been and it was very cosy inside. On the fire-stone were red embers banked in ashes which were quickly blown into a blaze. And all about were pottery dishes and soft skins and blankets on the floor showing that this was where the old man lived. And presently, when they had been made comfortable on a blanket, he gave them bowls of corn-mush with pieces of meat—and Nah-tee and Moyo ate for all the times they had been hungry in that cañon, and the old man smiled when he saw that they could eat no more, and he took a pipe down from a place where he kept it on the wall, and sat down in front of the ​fire and smoked for a while in silence. And then he turned to Moyo—

“Why did you say, my son, when the ladder was let down into that old place, that it rested on a door of wood ?”

“Because that is true,” answered Moyo. “There is a door in that floor that goes down into a room below. Is that not known to you, my father?”

The old man did not answer but smoked for another little while—and then—

“Did you see what was in that lower room?” he asked.

“It was a kiva,” answered Nah-tee before Moyo could speak. “And there were things—shrine things—and many blue stones.” The old man looked at the fire again, but Moyo felt that he was not so quiet inside as he looked to be on the outside.

“It is very old,” added Moyo. “And all the things went into dust when we touched them—all but the blue stones.”

“Did you take away any of those blue stones?” asked the old man quietly, and Moyo was very glad that he could say he had not, but he felt the red come into his face as he said it—almost he had taken some away.

​“Umm-m,” said the old man, and his voice said many more things than the word, there was a very small tingle of excitement in it—an excitement that he could not entirely hide, though all his life he had been trained to hide excitement—“This will mean,” he said, “this will mean that I must send a message to that mesa when you go—this is a thing that has never happened before.”

“A message to the mesa!” cried Nah-tee, and she jumped to her feet. “When will we go, my father? Oh, that is a thing that we want to do—quickly.”

The old man nodded at the fire.

“I think with the sun to-morrow you will go,” he said. “I have tried the sands and you will not sink in them now.”

“Oh,” cried Nah-tee, and she stood on her tiptoes and could have danced and sung for joy. “How I am glad—how I am glad for that! And I will see my mother and my father—and—and that dance—and oh, all the things!”

The old man spoke again:

“You have not said why you have come to my cañon, and why two little ones ride over the desert alone.” And Nah-tee and Moyo told him from the very beginning all that had happened—and they felt ​now that they spoke to one who was an old friend, and when they were finished he looked keenly at Nah-tee and shook his head slowly.

“It is strange,” he said. “All of it is strange—I think what you have told me is a thing, too, that must be told at the mesa. It may be that you will not find your people there—there is something in this that is not plain—our people of the desert do not fight those who come in peace. And you have told me that your father has said many times that he is poor—so it was not to rob that they came—no, it has been very long since they fought for nothing—those days have gone.”

“But, oh, yes,” cried Nah-tee, “you have said how we will find my people—very surely they will be on that mesa—you have said it, my father.” But a little the happy look went out of her eyes.

“I have said you will find them,” said the old man. “Maybe not there, but somewhere, little one—I am very sure how you will find them—but this thing is very strange that you have told me.” And he shook his head slowly, many times.

“And I think it is strange that you live in this place of the dead,” said Moyo a little timidly. “I did not know that ever living ones had a home in the place of little cliff people.”

​“But it is not a place of the dead,” said the old man slowly. “Listen, and I will tell you, and the things that you have told me this night—of the shrine place and the blue stones and that other thing that you have told me—they are a part of this tale that I shall tell—and it is a true thing—every word.” And Nah-tee quickly sat down on the blanket again and looked at the kindly face of the old man and at the fire and listened eagerly as he told this tale of long ago.

“It is a tale with fighting in it,”” he began, “though always the people of the cliff were a peaceful people. It was for that reason they built their pueblos up in these rocky walls—to be away from those who wanted always to fight and to kill. It was not easy to live in a place like this—water was not here and the women had to go up the cañon to a place where a spring comes bubbling through the sands—and the fields and orchards were not close at hand. In the early morning, before the coming of the sun, the men had to go far down to the mouth of the cañon, and beyond, to dig in the fields and to bring back the crops of maize and beans and melons. And the hunters went far beyond where the fields were, and brought deer and other animals for food—but always ​the women were glad that the men went not out to war and they sang as they wove garments of cotton and of the skins of small animals and made many kinds of jars and bowls and baskets for the preparing and cooking and storing of food. And the houses then of this place where we now are were strong and new and the sun flashed back from white walls where no stones were missing—and for a long time no enemies came. The gods smiled down on the people of the cliff and they were very prosperous and happy. There was a wise old man of the house of those who ruled then, who knew more than most humans know—it was said that the gods of the up-above country spoke to him in visions, and he was much loved by the people. This old man had two sons who were born when the sun came up on the same day. The one who was born first was marked with a thread of red-dyed thong tied about his ankle, but very strangely this thong disappeared, and there were those who said that the gods had taken it—but now it could not be known which was the elder of the two, and which would rule when wise old Hukuman was gone. Alike as two grains of corn were these two sons, and ever alike they continued to be as they grew to manhood, and in the council there was much shaking of the head and ​many puzzled thoughts among the wise ones to know what would happen when Hukuman was gathered to the Lost-Others, and who would be ruler of the cliff people then. And Hukuman was very full of years, and as he lay on his blanket, with visions in his eyes that were not of this country, an enemy people came in great numbers and shot arrows up at the houses of the cliff people and called to them to come down into the cañon and fight. And when they would not come down, the enemy people made shelter places in the cañon and brought much food and said—‘We will stay here until you die for lack of water and for lack of food!’—And it was a very bad day for the little people of the cliff. The wise ones met in council in the kiva, and before he closed his eyes for the Long Sleep Hukuman said words to his two sons, now grown to strong manhood, and they gave him promise to do what he said, and sacred meal was scattered in the four ways and up and down and the sign of peace was mad for Hukuman, and in peace he went down the long trail to Those-who-go-before. But one thing only he had said that they did not understand—and only now do we know the meaning of his words—he said, before all his people, how he was glad that his sons were men of ​much wealth—and all the people knew that they were poor. But he did not tell them where to find those blue sky stones, and it must be—I think it must be—that he thought they knew. Perhaps it was that his thoughts were not clear on that day, but after Hukuman was gone the sons began to do the thing that he had said. All the people were divided into two parts, and the number of one side was the same as the number of the other side—even to the very blankets that they carried and the jars of water and the ears of maize—and then, when it was dark, the people climbed up by the secret way—the way that you have come—over the top of the cañon wall—down into that cañon on the other side. And they took with them everything that could be carried in the hands or on the back—only the sacred things of the shrine they did not carry—they knew that the shrine was well hidden from their enemies and could not be found (I do not speak of that shrine place that you have found, it must have been that one was a secret shrine of Hukuman, no, that is not the one of which I speak—but another one). And always, since that time—and that was so long ago that even the father of my father cannot remem​ber how long ago was that—always since that time, there has been one here to guard the shrine and to keep fresh the things of the sacred ones—and the one who is here must not, if it is a thing that he can help, speak or show himself if strangers come to this place—that is why, for a time, you did not see me. But, to return to the telling of what came to pass when the people came down into the cañon—it was a time of parting, and not a glad time for any of the people—for one brother went to the north with one half of the people and the other one went south—it was so Hukuman had said. And the one to the north built houses of stone high on a mesa top and his people prospered, and the one to the south built where little hills come into the desert and there is water there—but it is a place easy for the enemy to come very close to, and many of that people have gone down the long trail with Hukuman, and the town is now very small—there are those who say now that soon there will be no town in that place. And that is the tale—and it is a true one.”

Nah-tee was looking deep into the fire as the old man finished and her eyes were very dark with thought.

​“Is it the big mesa, where we go—is that the one where the brother of the north went?” she asked, and the old man nodded.

“It is to that very mesa—and the one who is ruler now—he is called Lampayo—has come down from the son of Hukuman.”

“And the other one?” asked Nah-tee, and there was a little frown place on her face—it was not often that she thought such deep thoughts—“Where is that town of the other one?”

The old man did not speak for a little and then he leaned forward and looked deep into the eyes of Nah-tee.

“How is that place called—that place where you have come from—that place in the little hills?”

“It is called Tawamana,” said Nah-tee, and her eyes opened wide as she looked into the eyes of the old man. He nodded as she spoke.

“You have said it,” he said. “It was to Tawamana that the brother of the south took his people—and it was for that reason that I told to you the tale of the little cliff people—and tell me now, what is the name that your father is called?”

“His name is called Pah-tō-qua,” said Nah-tee, and she felt that a little her voice trembled—again ​the old man nodded, but his eyes were very bright.

“Always it is the gods who lead,” he said. “It is for that that you have come to this place—daughter of Hukuman—and it is the hand of the gods that has led you to the place of the blue sky stones.” The heart of Nah-tee beat very fast—there were very many things that she would like to say, and there were things that she did not understand that she wanted to ask about, but she did not know how, and the words would not come—and Moyo looked at her strangely.

“Ai-ee, but there will be things to say in that message to the mesa,” said the old man. “When you have come to that place maybe you can tell much—if not already your father has told it.”

“What is it like—that place—that mesa?” asked Nah-tee. “Is it that you have been there, my father?” The old man smiled, a very big smile.

“I have been there,” he said. “I lived on that mesa from when I was a very little papoose until I reached the years of a man. Ai, and things happened in those days,” and he laughed inside of himself. “But not always were they laugh-things. One time very nearly I flew away on the sky trail to the land of the Lost-Others.”

​“Was that before you were a man?” asked Moyo, suddenly interested.

“It was when I was like you,” answered the old man, “and very much I was like to you in those days, that 1s why I spoke of that time. It seems almost that you have come back, a memory-thought of the me that was.”

“I think I would like very much to hear about that time,” said Moyo, and the old man looked into the fire and drew softly on his pipe—and Nah-tee smiled at Moyo and back at the old man eagerly—another tale! Ah, but there would be much to tell when again she saw her mother—and always a tale was good to hear!