I dropped my bucket and started up the trail as fast as I could go, and as a runner found that I was nothing: with a few leaps the young Hopi and his four old priests were ahead of me, leaving me, snatching up here and there a stone as they ran. After Hannah’s cry of “George! George! Come quick!” we heard her no more. Something terrible had happened to her, I was sure. It was but a little way — a hundred yards — to the little clearing on top of the ridge. As I came into it, well behind the others, I saw that the cabin door was closed. Hannah’s cry for help had been in the open, or we should not have heard it so plainly, if at all. I believed that she had gone out into the timber; that she had been suddenly overpowered there by some one, or, maybe. Double Killer, or she would have kept calling me. I was in a terrible state of mind. And then, what relief! The cabin door swung open and she came running to us, pistol in one hand, my rifle in the other.
‘‘I went out in there,” she cried, as I took the weapon from her, —out into those spruces for dry twigs to start the fire, and a man was lying there. He sprang up, and I turned and ran to the cabin, screaming for you, and got inside and barred the door. Oh, how frightened I was! I was sure the man would catch me before I could get to the cabin!”
‘‘He chased you?” I cried.
“When he sprang up he came straight toward me. How far he followed I don’t know. I did n’t dare look back. I just kept running until I got inside, and when I turned to shut and bar the door he was not in sight.”
“But you saw him! Was he white, or an Apache?
“I don’t know. It was all so dim in there, the branches were so thick that I did n’t get a good look at him. I did n’t have time to look at him: I had to run!” she answered.
I did n’t know what to say to this. I sure was mad. Not afraid, though; I just wanted to get sight of any one who would chase my sister.
The young Hopi had been telling his priests what we were saying, and one of them now asked: ‘‘Have you any enemies?”
“There are some bad men in the forest,” I answered, and went on to tell them about the deserter, who, we believed, had stolen our food, and about the I.W.W. firebugs. And when I had finished, one of the old men spoke to the others in a low, sad voice.
“What did he say?” I asked the interpreter. “These were his words,” he solemnly replied: “Whites, Apaches, Navajos, all of the tribes we know, are murderers, thieves, liars! We alone are People-of-Peace. We do no wrong to any of them, yet how they make us suffer!'”
Now, what answer could we make to that ? None. It was true. Hannah and I stood ashamed before those gentle old men. Not for ourselves, but for those of our kind who were mean to them.
“Well, let us all try to learn who was the man in the timber, whether Apache or white,” the young Hopi proposed.
‘‘But your old men have no weapons — they will be afraid to go in there,” I said.
He spoke to them and they all nodded assent, gripping more tightly the rocks they held. We went across the clearing and into the spruces, and Hannah showed us just where she had seen the man. Under the low-branching tree the dead needles were packed as though he had lain there a long time; all night, perhaps. Along the way that he had chased her, only a few yards, the needles were only slightly pressed by his footsteps. We cut a circle around the place; then a larger one, and, down on the slope of the ridge, one of the old men called us to him and pointed to tracks in a bare stretch of ground; broad-heel shoetracks far apart, leading down into the canyon. I needed but one look at them: “The deserter! He is back again!” I said to Hannah. She did not answer; she just shivered a bit as though she were cold. I explained to the others that I knew the tracks; that they were made by the man who had camped down in the canyon, and several times stolen our food.
“It is well for us that he was n’t an Apache, to come again with a lot of his people to take our scalps and dance over our bodies,” one of the old men remarked.
“Sister, this sure does settle it! I can’t fireguard all day and watch all night for this thieving deserter! I am going to call for help,” I said.
“Don’t you do it!” she cried. “I am not afraid, now. If I had had my pistol when I first came out, you would have heard my shot instead of my scream for help.”
“No! Don’t call people up here; I will help you, stand watch nights for you, the young Hopi pleaded. “With you two, we feel at ease; we know that your hearts are right. But with a lot of white men up here, laughing, sneering at us, oh, my old men could not do that they have come so far to do. To fail now would just about kill them!”
“All right! All right! We ’ll just go on as we are,” I told him.
Our Hopi friends, of course, refused to eat with us. They would go back to the spring for a time, they said. Hannah and I had a hurried breakfast and a silent one. Just before seven o’clock, while we were washing the dishes, the telephone rang my call, rang it twice before I could get to the receiver, and when I answered, my ear ached with the Supervisor’s shout: ‘‘Big fire somewhere near the sawmill! Go up top as fast as you can leg it, and report!”
“Yes! Right away!” I shouted back. Hannah had heard him as plainly as I. “Oh, the firebugs again! And the wind blowing! This is terrible!” she cried, flinging the dishcloth upon its nail and stuffing some bread and things into our lunch sack, and her pistol into the holster at her hip.
We locked the door behind us, although that was almost useless; without doubt Henry King had a key to fit the lock. I had noticed as well as Hannah that there was a stiff southwest wind, and had hoped that there was no fire in the forest for it to spread. As we neared the top of the trail it blew Stronger, and, once we were clear of the spruces, it was that hard we had to lean against it the rest of the way up to the lookout.
We scrambled up into the little house, and I swung the chart sight onto the fire, and stepping across to the telephone, gave the Supervisor the degree.
“The firebugs again! Describe it!” he shouted.
‘‘Set in four places in a line of maybe a mile north and south, and spreading fast! The sky that way is black with smoke!” I thought that I heard him swear as he hung up.
For a time Hannah and I by turns watched the fire with the glasses, and now and then could see the awful red flames break skyward up through the rolling black blanket of smoke. With the aid of the strong wind, the I.W.W. firebugs were at last carrying out their threat. If they did not succeed in burning the sawmill, they were anyhow destroying the great firs and pines that it was to turn into lumber, and it would have to be moved — at great expense — to another locality. I tell you that we sure felt bad, watching that wicked burning of our beautiful forest. And the meanness of it! Out there in the great world, why were people so mean? Why were they always fighting, stealing, doing everything that was mean to one another?
We presently saw the Hopis coming up on the summit, and said Hannah: thought that I could never like Indians, but they are different. I just love those Hopi Indians, those People-of-Peace, because, George, they are just like us, here in these little mountain settlements. We do no wrong to one another, nor to outsiders. Why can’t all the world be like us?”
You’ve sure got me! All I know is that they just can’t be good, and that is all there is to it. I don’t want to think about it any more, it makes me sick.”
The Hopis came on to the foot of the lookout butte and we went down, and asked them up into our little house. They shook their heads. No, they would not go up. By putting the house there, the whites had spoiled their once sacred ground. One of them took up two or three pottery fragments that lay scattered at his feet, examined them, held them out in our view, and told the young Hopi that he was going to say a few words to us.
‘‘White children of good heart,’’ he began, “these are pieces of beautiful ollas left here by our People-of-Peace. They have lain here in the rain and snow and sun a long time, some of them hundreds of years, but you see that they are still smooth, and the different colors of paint as bright as the day the maker put them on. Yes, the pottery of our long-ago people was far better made, the painted figures upon it far more beautiful than our women of to-day can make. But perhaps you are not interested in this.”
“Oh, yes! We are interested! Tell us all about it!” Hannah replied.
“Then let us get out of the wind,” the interpreter said, and led us around to the east side of the butte. But, first, one of the old men pointed off to the great fire and asked: “That is the work of the bad white men you spoke of?”
“Yes. They are trying to burn a little sawmill off there, as well as the forest,” I answered; and he sadly shook his head. Hannah and I sure stood ashamed before the old men; ashamed that they should know how mean were some of our own kind!
We sat down in a little circle, close at the edge of the butte, and the old man continued his tale:
“None of us four have ever been here upon this sacred mountain, nor were our fathers, nor our grandfathers ever here; it was long before their time that our people were obliged to give up their every-spring journeys here to Rain God’s home. But just as though we had been of that long-ago time, we priests know how the ancient ones made the long journey, just what they did when they arrived here. For three days certain ones of the priests prayed and performed their mysteries in the kiva out there at the other end of the mountain, while their people, hundreds and hundreds of them, camped close down there in the timber, praying, too, and waiting for the great day, the fourth day, to come. Early in the morning of that day the people all came up on top, men and women, bringing some of their most valuable things, and little children the toys they most loved, to sacrifice to Rain God. These they placed here and there upon this butte, the very highest point of this highest mountain of all the range, where Rain God loved to sit and look out upon the world, and some they placed around the entrance to his kiva, in which he often performed his great mysteries. And as they set them down upon the rocks they prayed him to accept their poor offerings and to drop his rain plentifully upon their plantings. Men taught their little sons and mothers their little daughters to say those prayers, and guided their little hands in the placing of their toy offerings. Why, in that long-ago time this whole butte was covered with gifts to Rain God: beautiful ollas; bead necklaces; the finest clothing; weapons; children’s buzzers, dolls, and other toys.
“Then, on that fourth morning, the priests came up out of the kiva and danced their dance to Rain God, and made him their offerings. And sometimes he answered their prayers at once, right there gathering his clouds around him and then spreading them out until they dropped their water upon the farthest plantings of the people. And if not at once, he later brought his rains to their plantings: in those times there never was a crop failure. No, not even when the Apaches and Navajos came and attacked the prayers for rain right upon the top of this mountain, killing many of them and destroying their offerings.
‘‘No, not even when the Apaches and Navajos finally prevented our ancient ones coming here to pray — not until long after the coming of the first white men did Rain God at times withhold his rains, allow our plantings to die. At first only one summer in ten, or something like that, but of late, very often. And why? Oh, it is not through our fault, we old people; it is because of what the white men have done to our children, things that we, their fathers, are powerless to prevent.
“When, in that long-ago time, our people from the cliffs of Oraibi sighted those first white men coming across the desert, all sitting on top of huge, strange animals, they feared them. The priests hurried to bar their way with sacred meal, but they paid no attention to it —”
‘‘Oh, ask him to wait! Tell us about the sacred meal,’’ I said to the young Hopi.
The old men all patiently smiled assent, and the young Hopi explained:
“Sacred meal. It was corn meal prepared by the priests in their kiva, and was used for several purposes. When a line of it was sprinkled across a trail leading up into one of our villages, it was a warning to all people, all comers, that they were not wanted up on top, and must turn back.”
The old man nodded, and went on.
“Those white men did not even look at the cross-line of sacred meal, nor pay any attention to the priests standing behind it and motioning them back. Instead, they fired their guns and the people fled before them, almost crazy with fear, for they thought that those strange men had thunder and lightning for their weapons.
“On they came, right up into Oraibi, those white men, and camped in the houses and searched them and the kivas, into which none but the priests were allowed to descend. Yes, they searched every room in the village and the piles of rock around it, for what the people could not understand. Long afterward they learned that it was for gold. Metal that the Hopi had never seen or heard of. Angry because they had found none of it, they left Oraibi, forced their way into each of our six other villages, and then turned off to the west and were seen no more. The priests purified the kivas. Years passed, and the entrance of the white men into their homes became like a bad dream to the people, and at last it was thought that white skins would never again be seen in Hopi land.
‘‘But, after years and years had passed, more white men did come, and because they seemed to be different from the first who had come, because they carried no weapons wherever they went, and were kind and pleasant-voiced, the people made them welcome; gave them a house to live in, food, wood, and the women gladly brought up water for them from the spring at the foot of the cliff. All went well for a time — until the white men learned to speak our language — and then the people learned that they were priests, and trouble began. The Hopi gods were devils, the kivas devils’ holes, the white men said, and forbade the Hopi to pray to any but the white god. And at that the Hopi priests seized those white priests, and carried them to the edge of that high cliff of Oraibi and tossed them off from it: they struck the rocks at the bottom and were dead.
‘‘After that happening, our people saw no more white men for years and years. They who came had been Spaniards. Came at last, and in the time of us four here, a different kind of white men; men of very white skin, and at first they did not bother us. They fought the Apaches and the Navajos; put them upon certain lands and made them tame, and of that we were very glad. Then came, not many years ago, one of them who said that he had been sent by the Great Father of the white men to live with us, and teach us the white men’s ways; we were no longer to live as we had always lived; we were all of us to follow the white men’s trail, on and on, up and up, until we should be just like the white men except for the color of our skins.
“Said our chiefs to him: 'As you came, so may you go, and at once. Tell your Great Father for us that we thank him for his offer of help, but that we do not need it. As we have lived here for hundreds and hundreds of years, so do we intend to live. We ask but one thing of the Great Father, and that is to be let alone.’
“Said the white man: ‘The Great Father has ordered me to remain here with you, and here I stay, and as the Great Father has ordered shall be done for you, so shall it be done.’
“What could we do then? Nothing. We had seen the whites tame our terrible enemies and knew that we few, weaponless Hopis could do nothing against them. This white man brought other white men to help him, and there in our own land they built houses for themselves, and houses for teaching our children their language and their ways, and houses for their gods. And, worst of all, they said that our children must worship their gods, because the Hopi gods were not. That we had made gods of our idle dreams. They said that our beliefs were all lies; that there was no Under World, from which we came and to which we return when we die. They said that their gods made us, as well as the whites, and that if we would not believe, would not pray as they did, then would we go to a place of terrible fire when we die, and forever burn.
So it is with us to-day. Oh, how we suffer from seeing our children taken from us and taught these different ways of life! But though they are taught, though under the eyes of their teachers they speak the white men’s prayers, in their hearts the most of them are at the same time praying to our own gods. A few really do believe the teachings of the whites, and in punishing them for it, our gods punish us all. Because of them, strange and terrible diseases carry many of us away. Because of them, Rain God neglects to water our plantings. Oh, we are poor, very poor, we People-of-Peace!
“And now, you two young fire-watchers upon this sacred mountain, why have we told you all these our troubles? Because we ask your pity and your help. We ask you, while you sit up there in your little house watching this great forest, to watch also for us, that for four days none come to disturb us, out there at the other end of the mountain. Far have we come across the desert, here to beg Rain God to punish us all no longer for the unbeliefs of the few, and we must not be disturbed. Will you do that for us? If any come, your friends maybe, or whoever, will you say nothing to them about us, will you try to keep them from wandering out to the sacred kiva?’’
“Yes! Yes! Of course we will!” cried Hannah.
“We will do our best to protect you,” I told them.
And at that those old men gave great sighs of relief; smiled happily at us; and in the eyes of the one who had done the talking I was sure that I saw tears.
“You will need a rope. Down in the cabin is a rope ladder that we will loan you,” I said to the interpreter.
“But we can use nothing of white men’s make. I shall make a rope of twisted willows,” he answered.
“How can you, without a knife?”
“Two sharp-edged stones shall be my knife,” he said.
They turned from us, to go to the spring after the things they had left there, and to make their rope, and we went up into the lookout. The fire off to the north seemed to be burning as fiercely as ever.
“Well, now we know why so many beads, arrow-points, and pieces of pottery are here,” I said.
“Yes. This little butte was a shrine: a shrine to Rain God. The things that the old-time people scattered here were their presents to him. I don’t care if their beliefs were but dreams. Just think of them coming up here from their far-away homes to pray for water for their corn. How beautiful their faith!”
"‘Yes. And my dream, it, too, comes to nothing: the old man said that his long-ago people had no gold; had never heard of it! And I thought that there would likely be a lot of it in my cave find! Well, they can’t get into the cave without a crowbar to loosen the fallen roof rock. We shall be first into it after all.”
‘‘Don’t be too sure of that. I just feel that the old men will find some way to get into it,” said Hannah.
The little party soon came back up the trail with their packs of food and things, and with the glasses we made out that they each carried an olla — filled with water, of course. Somewhat behind them was the young Hopi, carrying a large bundle of willows upon his back. They all went out along the crest of the mountain, and then down to the cave hole in the west slope and out of our sight. I felt bad that I could n’t be with them to see just what they did there.
Along toward noon the wind ceased blowing. The smoke from the four great fires rose straight up, turned from dense black to a dark gray color and to less volume. We were glad: the men down there would be able to fight the fires with some chance of success. At twelve o’clock I reported no other fires started, and we went down to the cabin for lunch, at the edge of the clearing pausing and making sure that no one was in it. Everything inside was just as we had left it; we had expected to find the place stripped of food. At one o’clock we were back in the lookout. The four fires seemed to be burning as steadily as ever, and we feared that the Supervisor had been unable to get enough men to fight them. That was a long afternoon to us. As the hours passed, we wanted more and more to know what chance there was of the fires being extinguished. And we were all on edge to know what the Hopis were doing out at the other end of the mountain. At six o’clock, when I made my evening report, the office clerk told me that the Supervisor was out at the fires, and that, from what he could learn, they seemed to be steadily spreading. The men who set them had not been caught — not seen, even.
As we were leaving the lookout, I said to Hannah that we might at least go out along the summit far enough to see what the Hopis were doing at the cave hole, but she shortly answered: “We shall do nothing of the kind! You know that they do not want to be spied upon!’’
Again we found that nothing had been taken from the cabin during our absence. I brought in a lot of stovewood, and water from the spring, and we cooked a big supper, and then no more than tasted it. We were too anxious to enjoy the meal. We dreaded the coming night. Soon after sunset we barred the cabin door and sat in the darkness. After a time I asked Hannah what she was thinking about?
“I am wondering if Henry King has fallen in with those firebugs and become one of them,” she answered.
“Just what I was thinking. I believe that he has joined them, and is rustling what food they eat. How I wish I knew where they hide out!” I said.
“Oh, let’s draw the curtains and light the lamp! I just can’t bear sitting here in the darkness, thinking about those terrible men!” she cried.
Right then and there we held a council of war, and decided that I was to tell as little as possible of our troubles and our plans. I then went to the telephone and called the Supervisor: “How about it — I suppose the rain has already killed the fires?’’
“All but the dead, pitchy trees and logs; they are still burning,” he answered.
“But they will soon burn out. We are out of provisions. May I have a couple of days off, to go for some?”
“Yes! Sure! The forest is already so well soaked that those firebugs can’t do any more damage for a time, two days, anyhow.”
“All right! We’ll leave here early in the morning. I don’t have to ring you up again, do I? ”
“No. This is Tuesday. I give you off from now until Friday evening. You be back to your station at that time and ring me up. Good-bye!”
So, there we were, free from that moment, and for three days. When the old men were told what had been said. White Deer remarked that my forest chief must be a good man. None but men of good heart would be watchers of Rain God’s gardens. And there were others: the whites who studied the work of the people of the long ago, and those who raised crops of grain, and raisers of cattle and horses. They were just like the Hopis: they attended strictly to their own business; were never telling others how they must live, and what gods they must worship!
The rain showed no signs of stopping, and as the afternoon wore on, we told the Hopis that they were welcome to remain in our cabin for the night. They refused to do that, saying that they would make a shelter of brush under a spruce tree and be dry and comfortable. They then opened their sacks and gave us a good portion of their corn meal and pinole, and went out to build their shelter. Later on, at about five o’clock, the young Hopi and I started up the mountain to try to kill a deer. I had seen the little band of them feeding evenings and early mornings, as well as he. They were generally on the east slope, and just above the timber line, at the north end of the mountain. So, instead of following the trail up on top, we turned off from it and quartered northward up the slope and soon neared the feeding-place. Rain was still falling; wisps of fog drifted past us through the trees; although the sun was still nearly three hours from setting, night seemed to be right upon us. There was a little better light when we arrived at the edge of the timber and looked out upon the grass slope, and saw no deer, and were disappointed. I said that they might not come out to feed on such a rainy evening, and he laughed softly: “No matter what the weather is, they have to eat!” he answered.
Just then a very heavy bank of fog came drifting past us, and he plucked my sleeve: “Come. We go with it!” he said. I did not understand what he intended to do, but I followed; out into the open and quartering up toward the end of the summit, only two or three hundred yards away; and now it was so dark that we could no more than see where to put our feet. We presently stumbled up against a thick bunch of stunted alder brush and he pulled me down beside him in the lower edge of it; the fog bank cleared and I saw that we were in the center of the open slope.
“Most white men and some Indians are poor hunters,” said my friend. “They trail around, and around, and the deer, ever watchful, see them first, and with a few jumps are gone from sight. Good hunters learn where the game goes to feed, and to drink, and then they go to that place and sit quietly, patiently, for the game to come to them!”
“I will remember that,” I told him. And had no more than spoken, when, straight down from us, four deer came stringing up out of the timber, two of them very large bucks, the others about two-year-olds. They scattered out, moving with quick steps from one patch of brush to another and nipping off the green and tender tips and leaves, and coming always nearer to us. My friend had not brought his ancient bow, because he had been unable to find any feathering for the arrows, and because the rain would have wet the bowstring and made it sag. I whispered to him to take my rifle — to make the shot. He smiled and refused with a quick, out motion of his hand. I took a careful sight at one of the big bucks, broadside to me, and when I pulled the trigger, he keeled over backward, rolled down the slope a few yards, and lay still against a rock. The others stared at him for a moment, and then made for the timber with high, stiff jumps.
An hour later we returned to the cabin with all the meat that we could carry, and then two of the old men came with us and we brought in all the rest of it. During our second trip up the mountain, Hannah had made a large cake of corn meal and water, and, regardless of the rain, brought in a few dry quaking aspen poles and chopped them into right lengths for the stove. We filled the firebox with these, and when they had burned to a mass of red coals, we removed the stone top and broiled some loin steaks of the deer over them. Maybe that was n’t a good supper! Juicy venison and corn-meal cake sure were a feast to us. And we had music with it: through the open door there came up to us, clear and soft, the singing of the old men in their camp down by the spring. They were evidently very happy. A little later, when our friend came up to us, he said that the songs were sacred ones; that the old men had been praying and singing to the gods, giving thanks for the rain, asking that it continue, and that we all might survive danger of every kind, and capture the bad men and recover the bear hide.
We now built a big fire close in front of the little roofed porch, and in the course of a couple of hours thoroughly dried ourselves before it. And while we did that we tried to talk of many things, but always came back to the loss of our bear hide and the meanness of the men who had taken it. It meant so much to us all, that silver-tipped hide: To our friend, the means of carrying out his mission for his people. To Hannah and me, more money than we had ever seen at one time in all our lives; money for Liberty bonds; for the Red Cross; and for some nice Christmas presents to send to our Uncle Cleveland, fighting the Huns in far-away France. And thinking and talking of him made us hate all the more the mean deserter, Henry King, and the terrible I.W.W. fire-setters. And were we really about to trap them in that cave at the edge of the desert I It did n’t seem possible that we could have such good luck. More and more I doubted that the outlaws had found the place, but more and more stoutly our friend insisted that they had found it. ‘H can’t explain how my old priests have the power,” he said, ‘‘but this much I know: it is given them to see things that only they can see. They say that the bad white men are in that cave; without doubt they are there!”
It was all of ten o’clock when our friend went back to his old men. As soon as he had gone, Hannah put on her heavy coat and lay down upon the boughs in her bunk, and I stretched out on the floor. We awoke three or four times during the night, and each time I got up and built a fresh fire in the stove, for we were very cold. Rain fell steadily until near morning, when it began to come down with driving gusts of wind, a sure sign, we thought, that the storm was about over. It did pass a little later, and the sun came up in a partly cloudy sky.
During our wakeful hours we had talked a lot about our plan to capture the outlaws. It seemed to be a terribly risky venture, and I told Hannah that she had better keep out of it; that we should take her home, and get Uncle John, and maybe one or two other men to go on with us to the Conaro Creek cave.
‘‘Yes, I see you going there after mother and Uncle John learn about this! she exclaimed. “And as to myself, have n’t I my automatic and can’t I shoot it? I am going to that old cave with you! ”
Well, that settled it. I told her that she should go with us. And then, when morning came and the sun shone and all was bright and clear, I thought our plan not near so desperate as it had seemed in the dark night. In fact, not at all desperate: we could certainly take care of ourselves.
We had more broiled meat and corn cake for breakfast; then washed the dishes, swept out the cabin, locked the door, and sat on the porch waiting for our friends to appear. They soon came up from their camp, each one with his little pack, and we all went up on to the summit, and along it to the north end of the mountain. As we were passing the cave hole, the old men called a halt, and White Deer told our young friend that he had a few words for us:
‘‘You two of good heart,” he said, ‘‘although this place is nothing to you, it is very sacred to us, as you have learned. You have seen what a very powerful place it is: that here, through our prayers and offerings to Rain God, we have brought rain, heavy rain, and saved our plantings out there in the desert. So, to us this kiva here in the mountain is a very sacred place. As we found it so have we left it, putting back into the passage the broken roof rock just as Rain God dropped it there. And now we ask you not to remove that rock, not to go into that place, lest by doing so you make our god angry with us, and with you, too. He might make you prisoners there, as he did the Apache, whose bones we found.”
‘‘We shall do as you ask,” I promptly answered.
“Yes. Of course we shall!” said Hannah.
And then how the old men smiled as they one by one shook hands with us.
We went on to the end of the mountain and looked off at the forest and the great desert beyond. The black burnings were dead; not a wisp of smoke was rising from them. Away to the north the Hopi buttes were hidden in a great cloud bank, and nearer cloud masses were dropping rain. The old men clapped their hands and pointed off to it, talking excitedly, and our friend told us that they were saying that Rain God was very good to them; that he was continuing to soak their gardens.
Pointing then to a little lake to the northwest, and almost at the edge of the timber. White Deer asked me if it was not the head of the creek of the great cave? I answered that it was.
“And just a little way from the lake the creek drops down a very steep and rocky slope, then runs through a narrow slope of timber, and then over the three ledges and out into the desert. Am I not right?’’
“It runs just as you say it does,” I told him.
“You see how we of the kivas keep knowledge of places: none of us have ever been to that creek, nor our fathers nor grandfathers, yet we know it as well as though we had been along it many times!” he said.
He pointed to a large, shining lake midway between us and Conaro Lake. “But I do not understand about that water,” he went on. “Our description of this Rain God garden makes no mention of it. It can’t be that it is the gathering of last night’s rain.”
“It isn’t,” I told him. “White men who live away down the river built a dam there, and so made the lake. When they need water for their plantings they let the water run down into the river, and from it into their ditches.”
“Ah! That explains it!” he exclaimed, clapping hands together with a loud smack. And then, sadly:
“Our people once had ditches; water in plenty for their large gardens!”
We planned our route to Conaro Lake: Down the long ridge running from the mountain almost to the big prairie in which is the reservoir; past its south side and again into the timber and straight on to our destination. Our young friend said that I must kill a duck for him at the reservoir, so that he could have some feathering for his arrows.
The end of the mountain was so abrupt that we did not dare try to go down it; we turned down the west slope almost to the timber, and then went on around to the ridge. It was bare for nearly a half-mile, and the soft ground was all cut up with deer tracks, nearly washed out by the rain. As soon as we entered the timber we had hard going; windfalls that were breast-high tangles of logs and branches, one after another for all of two miles, down to the lower edge of the spruce belt. We then had fine footing down through the open pine and fir timber to the prairie, which we struck at noon. We went straight out across it to the reservoir, and found it covered with ducks of all kinds, old and young. I shot a drake mallard, and our young friend waded out for it, and, stripping some of the larger wing feathers, began work on his arrows. The old men opened their sacks, produced some roasted meat, and we had lunch. Our young friend finished feathering his arrows, and, gathering and tightly binding a wad of grass about a foot in diameter, set it on top of a bush and fired three arrows at it from a distance of about thirty yards: all three of them plunked into it. We thought that wonderful shooting, and said so.
“If we find those bear-hide stealers, watch what I do to them!” he grimly answered.
We were about to go on when we saw five riders come into the north edge of the prairie, pause for a moment, and then start ’loping straight toward us; and even at that distance, by the way they sat their horses, and quirted them, we knew them for what they were, Apaches.
‘‘We must not show that we are afraid of them. We will not fear them!” our young friend exclaimed, and turned about to sit facing their approach, as did Hannah and I, she taking her automatic from its holster and concealing and holding it in a fold of her dress. Our young friend re-strung his bow, and held it and several arrows across his lap, as I did my rifle. As the riders neared us we made out that four of them wore the blue uniform of the reservation police, the other, khaki trousers and a red calico shirt, and that they were armed with Government carbines and revolvers. They rode close up in front of us, brought their horses to a quick stand and stared down at us, and we returned their stare, and outstared them. Even in the excitement of the moment I noticed how different they were from our kindly and intelligent featured friends. Their faces were coarse and cruel; their bodies short and heavy upon spindly bow legs; and what mean, shifty little eyes they had, sunk deep in the edge of low, retreating foreheads!
Said one of them in broken English, when, as it seemed, he could no longer endure our steady stare: ‘‘What you doin’?”
“You see what we are doing: resting,” I answered.
“Where you come from?”
“From our place.”
“Where you goin’?”
“Wherever we choose to go,” I answered.
“White boy, you think you smart! What you doin’ with old Hopi men — old prairie dogs?”
“Here, you, don’t you call us that again!” our young friend cried, springing up and facing him menacingly.
The other did not answer. He looked shiftily at me, at Hannah, and talked with his companions. And how their language grated in our ears; how different it was from the soft, pleasant-sounding Hopi tongue. It was natural, I thought, that cruel, bloodthirsty people should have a harsh, cruel-sounding language.
Presently the Indian again turned to me: “We huntin’ hims set fires in timber. I guess you hims. You come ’long! I ’rest you all!”
“I guess you won’t!” I told him, and pulled from my pocket my Forest Service badge. ‘‘Do you see that? I am a fireguard! That is my station, up there on that big mountain. Just you go on wherever you are going. If you want those fire-setters, I am sure that you know where to find them!
At sight of my badge all five of the party were noticeably surprised. Again they talked together, and suddenly put quirt to their horses and started past us. The last in line was he of the khaki overalls, and as he rode past us he spit at the old Hopi men and hissed hard words. They pretended not to notice his insult.
Without once looking back at us, the Apaches went on south toward their reservation, and disappeared in the timber, but we felt quite sure that they would stop in the edge of it and watch our movements. So, instead of going on northwest, we changed our course to northeast, as though we were heading for home, for Greer. And after we had crossed the big prairie, we stopped a long time in the timber and watched for the Apaches to come back upon our trail. They did not appear, and at two o’clock we circled on through the timber and then turned straight toward Conaro Lake, often pausing and watching to learn if we were being trailed. We made sure that we were free from that, but the old men were very uneasy.
Said old White Deer: “Those blue coats will tell that they have seen us, and some of their brother sneaking-killers will soon be coming after our heads!”
“Oh, I don’t believe they will dare do that,” I said.
“But you don’t understand,” he replied. “The whites are so powerful that the Apaches fear to kill one of them. They know that they can kill the poor Hopis as they do deer, and with no more fear of punishment.”
It was five o’clock when we looked out upon Conaro Lake from the timber. It was black with quacking ducks; seven big turkey gobblers were chasing grasshoppers along its near, grassy shore; and at its far end a doe with two fawns was drinking. We watched them for a few minutes and then I led on, across the hundred yards or so of level tim-berland, and down the steep slope on the right of the creek canyon, and finally, at sundown, we crept to the edge of the timber and looked out upon the three ledges over which the creek was tumbling, a hundred yards away. Straight across from us was the big brush patch at the foot of the center ledge, it, too, about a hundred yards from the stream. The old men smiled and nodded and whispered to one another when they saw it.
And now, as we had planned to do, we lay perfectly quiet, watching the brush patch: if the outlaws were in the cave that it concealed, we felt sure that they would be coming out at dusk for a supply of wood and water. Hannah lay close to me on my right; close on my left was our young friend; and beyond him the old men all in a row, each with a little gathering of rocks in front of him. For a time, sister and I were tremendously excited; we expected every moment to see some of the bad men or all of them come out into the open. But as the day faded and none appeared, we became quiet enough; then doubtful; and at last, when it was so dark that the brush patch was little more than a blur on the farther side of the creek, she whispered to me: ‘‘We have had our long tramp for nothing! Of course those firebugs are not here! Why should they be here instead of in any one of the thousand hiding-places that there are in this forest!’’
And just then our young friend nudged me with his elbow, and I did the same to Hannah, and heard one of the old men give a low hiss of caution: a man was leaving the brush, was coming toward the creek! He came on swiftly, and as he neared it became more plain to us, and at last we made out that he was carrying a bucket. We saw him stoop at the edge of the creek and fill and raise it to his face and drink, and then he refilled it and went back the way he had come and was lost to us in the darkness even before he entered the brush. We had been unable to see his features, but by the way he walked and the general outline of him, Hannah and I both thought that he was the deserter, Henry King. I whispered our belief to our young friend, and he told the old men, and they all whispered together, and finally, after some talk with me, it was decided that we should sneak across to the brush patch as soon as the night became quite dark.
And now we were again tremendously excited— Hannah and I, anyhow. We wondered what was going to happen when we arrived in the brush — if we were to make a success of our undertaking, or get into terrible trouble? Yes, I’ll say it: to cross to that brush patch and the cave hole in it was the last thing that we wanted to do; we wished, as we never had wished before, that we were right then safe at home! I told sister that she had best remain right where we were and wait for us to come back to her, but she refused to do that. To stay there all alone would be worse than following us, she said.
The time came for us to start. Our young friend took the lead and I fell in behind him, then Hannah, and after her the old men. We were a long time making the two hundred yards to the brush patch. At the edge of it we stood and listened, heard nothing, then little by little moved into it, and at last stood before a small, black hole at the foot of the ledge. Excited and scared though I was, I almost laughed at our foolish confidence in our plan: We were to seize some big rocks quickly and block the cave entrance with them. Lo! there were no rocks, large or small, other than the great rock ledge itself!
As we stood there listening, hearing nothing, we caught the odor of smoke and knew that a fire was burning down in the cave.
Our young friend leaned over and whispered in my ear: ‘‘Will you follow me down into the hole, just a little way; far enough to see who is there — how many of them?”
“Yes. But I go first with my rifle,” I answered, and told Hannah what we were to do, and he told the old men. Sister tried to prevent me going, but I loosened her grasp upon my sleeve, and the next moment was crawling slowly into the hole, the young Hopi close at my heels. For twenty-five feet or more, the passage sloped down at an angle of about thirty degrees to the floor of the cave. When halfway down it, I passed the level of the roof and saw, not far off in the intense blackness, a small fire and men sitting facing it. Three men! And to the left of the fire, leaning up against the wall of the cave, was the big bear hide, laced again into a frame of poles! All three of the men had their backs to me, and how glad I was of that. Noiselessly I began to crawl back, and the young Hopi kept out of my way. I could hear the men talking; their voices sounded deep and hollow. One of them dropped something and the echo of its fall rumbled like thunder.
At last I got back into the open. “All three are down in there! They have the big bear skin!” I whispered to Hannah. The young Hopi whispered to his old men what we had seen. Noiselessly we all drew away from the cave entrance, out from the brush patch to a safe distance, and in whispers decided upon what was to be done. Hannah was to go to the sawmill, five miles away, for help, and the Indians and I were to guard the cave entrance. I wonder how many girls there are who would have had the courage to make that journey through the dark forest? She did not fear it, however, nor had I any fears for her: the bad men were in the cave; old Double Killer was dead; there were none to do her harm. She left us, and we sneaked back to the cave hole, and sat in a row in the brush, facing it. If the outlaws started to come out, we were to shout to them to go back or we would shoot; if they refused to obey, we were to do our best with rifle, and arrows, and rocks.
I thought that, having water, wood, the food and bedding that they had stolen from us, and a roof over their heads, the outlaws would not think of coming out until morning. How I hoped that they would n’t! I asked myself how I could possibly have the nerve to shoot a man, outlaw though he were?
“If it comes to a show-down, I’ve just got to shoot, and shoot first!” I kept saying to myself.
For a time we could now and then faintly catch the odor of smoke. Time passed slowly, but at last we got no more of the smoke, and the young Hopi whispered to me that he was sure the bad men were asleep. Without doubt they were. Big, strong, grim old William Hammond would be with us when the outlaws came sneaking out of the cave hole. All would be well with us. I felt better.
It was about three o’clock in the morning when we heard, off across the creek opening, the faint click of an iron shoe upon rock; and another click, nearer, more plain. And then, in a little while, came Hannah to us, and behind her William Hammond and five of his men.
‘‘You have n’t had any trouble? The firebugs are still in there?” Hammond whispered to me.
“No, no trouble. I think they are asleep in there,” I answered.
“Good! We’ll wait until daylight, and then get ’em out I ” He whispered to his men, and they all sat down with us, in a half-circle facing the hole.
Day was not long in coming. We were all silent, watching the hole, looking at Hammond, wondering what was his plan to capture the outlaws. We all but jumped when he suddenly roared out: “ Well, it is time we were callin’ those sleepers in there to breakfast!” And with that, he started to go into the cave.
‘‘You are not going in there? They will kill you!” cried one of his men.
“Not they! Nary a kill! Them kind have n’t got the sand to kill a chipmunk, even! Just you watch me get ’em out of there.”
In he went, crawling down the incline, and his men, the young Hopi, and I started to follow him, but he ordered us back. We stood close around the hole, listening, and soon heard him shout: “Hi, there! Henry King, you and your partners come out of that! Come out, I say, poco pronto!
Then silence. We held our breath, every moment expecting to hear the boom of guns as the outlaws shot down the sawmill man.
Then again he roared: “Come out, I say. You can’t get away from us! If you won’t come, we’ll starve you to death, in there. But you’ll die from thirst before you starve!”
This time he was answered. We could not hear what it was, but afterward learned that the deserter whined: ‘‘We’ll come, if you all won’t shoot us.”
And “Jones,” as he called himself, one of the I.W.W., had blustered: “Course we’ll come out! We ain’t done nothin’; you ain’t got anything on us!”
And then, in a moment or two, out came Hammond, and after him, “Jones,” then “Smith,” and last the deserter. And when he straightened up and saw Hannah and me, he started back as though he had been struck.
“That bear hide of ours that you have in there is a big one, is n’t it, Henry?” I said to him.