CHAPTER IIThe Warning
The long line of hunters, laden with the game secured by a week’s vigorous chase, was at the niche stairway before the boys reached them. Impatient to be in the court when they should arrive, to partake in the welcoming ceremony, the boys could not wait until the last of the procession had filed up the dizzy rock steps. Long before, in their explorations about the canyon, they had discovered another way to reach the cavern, steeper and more perilous, but entirely passable for boys whose lives had been spent in scaling cliffs and finding footholds in all sorts of precarious places.
Running around a projecting spur and diving through a thicket of scrub oaks, Kwasa and Wiki were at the second stairway in a moment.It was one that few boys of to-day would care to attempt. It ran almost straight up the side of the cliff, and in many places they had to pull themselves from ledge to ledge by straggling tufts of wiry grass or by the tough, well-rooted clumps of grease-wood brush. At one spot, to bridge a particularly smooth and difficult part of the ascent, a pole with sticks bound upon it at intervals to make a sort of rude ladder had been swung down from a rocky ledge above.
Up this dangerous ascent Kwasa led the way nimbly, Wiki following close behind him. The young stranger,after looking doubtfully for a moment from the hunting band to the boys, finally plunged through the thicket and took the steeper path, reaching the top only a moment after Kwasa and Wiki had landed with a final active spring upon the safe ledge at the rim of the cavern.
“I must speak to your chief quickly,” he said gravely, as Kwasa, who in the excitement had forgotten all about the stranger at the spring, looked at him in surprise.
“But,” began Kwasa, “this is no time—”
“All times are alike when danger threatens,” said the youth impatiently. “Tell me with whom I should speak.”
Kwasa pointed to a little group of men who stood a little apart from the rest, waiting to greet the hunters as they came up, one by one, over the edge of the cliff.
“Mosu is a priest,” he said, indicating a tall old man with a band of flat red and black beads bound about his forehead. “Honau is very wise, too, and then there is Bimba—”
But the young stranger had hurried away and was accosting Mosu, the tall priest, respectfully. Before he had spoken many words the whole group was listening intently, and in a few minutes the court was hushed and all came crowding about to see what this unusual interruption might mean.
Presently the lad stopped speaking and Mosu held up his hand for attention.
“This young man is Sado. He comes from the Seven Cities to bring us tidings to which it were well to listen, for the Utes are again on the warpath, and the Buffalo and Fox clans have sent out runners to warn all to thesouthward. They reached Walpi yesterday, and from there this messenger brings us word, that we, too, may be in readiness for an attack.”
“But surely we are safe—”
“They can not reach our village—”
“We could hold the cliff against a thousand, even—”
A babel of voices broke out anxiously. Mosu held up his hand again.
“All you say is true,” he said. “When our fathers came here from the Great Mesa, driven out by the savages from the far north, they sought a place where they might rest secure from attack. And here they found it.” He waved his hand toward the great walls of rock rising protectingly all about them.
“But we must eat, and planting time is near. Those who stay in the village are indeed secure, but what of the men who must plant the seeds and care for the grain in the far fields? We must say farewell to Waka (the sun) with full storehouses, and with heaped fuel for the cold days of winter. And if the thieving Utes swarm down upon our fields and carry off our corn and beans and squashes, what then? Then there is the danger while we plant and harvest. The Watcher in the High Tower must indeed be keen of eye to guard every path that leads to the fields. It is of these things we must think. And in the meantime,” he broke off abruptly, “this lad is weary and hungry. See that he has refreshment and rest. We must not send him back to the Seven Cities to tell of our ingratitude for a friendly deed.”
But Sado shook his head.
“There are many others to warn,” he said earnestly. “I must not stay, though the thought of rest is tempting. But first I will eat—”
“Has the Snake Clan no runners?” interrupted Mosu proudly.
Old Honau stepped out from the group.
“I am not fleet of foot as when I was young,” he began, “but rather than suffer this brave lad to go farther without rest, I myself will take the warning to the farthest clan.”
But a dozen lads were already pressing forward, Kwasa and Wiki among them. Motioning Honau kindly aside, four of the tallest and strongest were quickly chosen, and Mosu, drawing them to one side, had Sado repeat carefully the message he had brought.
“The Rainbow people are yonder,” he said, pointing southwestward down the open canyon. “And the Bear Clan is not far from them. It is a three days’ journey—”
“They must take plenty of meat and piki,” called one of the women, hurrying forward. “We will fill the food-bags well. It is a long way, but, praise to Waka, the new springs are filling and they cannot suffer from thirst.”
Immediately there was a great bustle in the court. Women ran here and there, bringing new sandals of tough fiber for the feet of the messengers, and thick woolen blankets for the cool nights in the canyons. The skin food-bags were quickly filled and strapped over the slender young shoulders, and Kwasa, as leader, was given a heavy new spear in addition to the bows and arrows which they all carried.
At last all was ready, and the lads stood forth to be sprinkled with the sacred meal from the handsome red and black bowl in Mosu’s hands.
“The Old Ones be with you,” muttered the priest, as he strewed the meal in a circle about them, and upon the boys’ bowed heads.
“Come back quickly,” called many anxious voices as, one by one, the lads dropped down the niche stairway. Kwasa, the last one to descend, stooped as he left the court and picked up the three red and white dice with which he and Wiki had been playing so short a time before.
“For luck,” he laughed, as he dropped them into the deerskin pouch that hung at his belt.
“Luck is in the hands of the Old Ones, not in painted sticks,” muttered Tcua, the old grandmother of Kwasa, watching the lads with anxious eyes as they filed down the canyon and out of sight. “May they bring back my son’s son safely—a good lad—a good lad.”
And then she went down to grind corn for piki, for waiting in idleness is hard.