The former chief Snake Priest of Walpi was a young man of good presence, of splendid physique, with regular features and grave, dignified look; in whose face there seemed to be often a trace of melancholy, arising perhaps from deep thought. For it takes a man to be Snake Priest, and the office brings out all there is in one.

Kopeli was as well trained as any civilized man whatsoever, taking into consideration the demands of the different planes of culture. Education is as general among these Indians as it is among the more enlightened people. It would be too long to go into details, but briefly the Hopi child’s life is largely a kindergarten of play-instruction by kind teachers of things useful in active life. He is wrapped in the customs which have become religion, he is initiated into manhood, and takes his place, perhaps inherited, in the fraternities. With all these he is taught the lore, the practices, and the songs—minutiÆ which require a strong memory. He learns the plants and the animals to which the Hopi had given descriptive names long before LinnÆus or Cuvier. The sun is his clock, and all nature is near to him. He must work also in the fields if he would eat—no drones are tolerated. In short, there is a surprising complexity in this life, and its demands are weighty. Thus Kopeli at the head of the most powerful and awe-inspiring society of his people has been put to many tests and bore upon his shoulders the weight of immemorial custom.

While there was in Kopeli a dignity which commands respect from the mirthful Hopi, he could on occasion be as entertaining as any of his tribe, and usually was cheerful and friendly. The exception is when the Snake rites are in progress. Then he seemed a different person, and it was not proper for him to recognize his best friend.

The Walpi Snake Ceremony, of which the public dance is known to many persons, is well worth braving the journey to see. The grand entry of the Snake and Antelope priests on the dance plaza headed by Kopeli and Wiki is one of the most impressive spectacles that can be witnessed on this continent. There is so much energy put into the work; with strides positively tragic, the file of strangely costumed priests march to the kisi, where the snakes have been deposited. Then commences the weird dance with live rattlesnakes held in the mouth to the distant chant of Antelope priests. Kopeli was here at his best. He was a notable figure; no other participant displayed such eagerness and force. These were some of the salient elements of his character, and by these he succeeded, whether as a farmer or as Snake Priest, and took his high position among his people. There is an interesting mingling of the old and new at Walpi. Kopeli became a typical example of the union of past and present. Wiki, his Nestor, was in every fiber imbued with the usages and traditions of the past. One instinctively admires the old man’s firm belief, and his respect for the ancient ceremonies. The leaven of the new was in Kopeli, as may be seen from the following. A wide-awake town in New Mexico wanted the Hopi Snake Dance reproduced at the fair held there in the autumn, realizing that it would be a feature to attract many visitors. Kopeli was approached and offered what seemed to him a large sum of money for the performance. Though in some doubt as to the care and transportation of the snakes, Kopeli and the younger snake priests were tempted to favor the scheme, through his avaricious father, Supela. When Wiki, chief of the related society of the Antelopes, heard the proposal, he became very angry and put his foot down, reading the young men of lax morals a severe lecture on their duties to their religion.

Even had this plan been carried out and had proved a death blow to the so-called pagan and heathenish rites of the Hopi, one would have regretted Kopeli’s share in it. It is well known, too, that, at present, money will admit strangers to view the sacred rites of the Snake Dance, which formerly were kept inviolably secret. Evidently, the Hopi are deteriorating, when they barter their religion for silver; at no distant date, when the elder men are dead, the curious ceremonies of the Hopi will decay and disappear, and let us trust that a new and better light may be given them.

Some years ago Kopeli passed from the scene, and his brother, “Harry,” took his place as Snake Chief.

Dr. J. Walter Fewkes has given an estimate of him as follows:

Kopeli, the Snake chief at the Tusayan pueblo of Walpi, Arizona, died suddenly on January 2, 1899. He was the son of Saliko, the oldest woman of the Snake clan, which is one of the most influential as well as one of the most ancient in Tusayan. His father was Supela, one of the chiefs of the Patki, or Rain-cloud people, who came to Walpi from southern Arizona about the close of the seventeenth century. As chief of the Snake priests at Walpi in the last five presentations of the Snake dance at that pueblo, Kopeli has come to be one of the best known of all the Hopi Indians. He inherited his badge of office as Snake Chief from his uncle, and was the only chief in Tusayan who had a Snake tiponi. His predecessor in this duty was Nuvaiwinu, his uncle, who is still living, and who led the Snake priests in a single ceremony, after which it was found necessary for him to retire on account of his infirmities. At the celebration of the Snake dance in 1883, described by Bourke, Natciwa, an uncle of Kopeli, was Snake chief. The oldest Snake chief of whom I can get any information was Murpi, a contemporary of Macali, the Antelope chief preceding Wiki. Kopeli was a relative on his mother’s side of both these men. At the time of his death Kopeli was not far from twenty-five years of age; he had a strong, vigorous constitution, was of medium size, with an attractive face and dignified manner that won him many friends both among his own people and the Americans with whom he was brought in contact. He was a thoroughly reliable man, industrious and self-respecting. Although a conscientious chief of one of the most conservative priesthoods in Walpi, he was a zealous friend of the whites, and supported innovations introduced by them for the good of his people. He believed in the efficacy of the ceremonial rites of his ancestors and performed his duty as priest without shirking. As Mr. Thomas V. Keam, who knows the Walpi people better than any other white man, told the chiefs in council a few days after the Snake chief’s death: “Kopeli was the best man of the Hopis.” He was a pac lolomai taka, an excellent man, whose heart was good and whose speech was straight. To most Americans who are interested in the Hopi, Kopeli was simply the energetic chief in barbaric attire, who dashed into the Walpi plaza leading his Snake priests in the biennial Snake dance. This is one of the most striking episodes of the ceremony, and its dramatic effect is not equaled in any of the other pueblos. It was through Kopeli’s influence that the Snake dance at Walpi was the largest and most striking of these weird ceremonies in the Hopi pueblos. Kopeli welcomed the educational movement and had two children in the school at Keam’s Canyon at the time of his death. He was buried among the rocks at the base of the Walpi mesa with simple ceremonies appropriate to a chief of his standing.[18]

Wiki, the genial, good-hearted old chief of the Antelope Society was one of the celebrities of Walpi. His very presence breathed benignity and his heart was full of kindness. The years were telling on Wiki, however, and the marks of age were becoming apparent in his wrinkled face. He gave one the impression of a Hopi gentleman of the old school, a survivor of the best of the past generation. Still, Wiki’s form was not bent, nor his hair gray, and he led the Antelope dance with all the fire of youth. Stored away in his brain was a vast stock of ancient lore, of legend, myth, and song. Since he was quite deaf, his body of information was somewhat difficult of access.

Wiki maintained a certain dignity and attention to his own affairs, which commendable trait a few of the prominent Hopi possess. He has long been known by the scientific explorers who have visited Tusayan, and all who have come in contact with him speak highly of his good qualities.

Supela is in some respects the antithesis of Wiki. Wiki was identified with the Antelope Society or brotherhood, Supela assumed a part in everything. Great must be Supela’s ability, since he is capable of counselling the numerous societies on any doubtful points in their rites and ceremonies. In fact, it seems that no observance in Walpi can get along without his aid, and even the farther towns often call upon him to assist them in delicate points involved in the conduct of their religious celebrations.

It is time we should have a pen picture of him. Short of stature, thick, gray hair hanging to his shoulders around a not unpleasant, mobile face. Nervous of movement, cordial, but occupied with pressing business, going somewhere, has scarcely time more than to ask a few curious questions, he seems to have the burden of Atlas on his shoulders. He resembles a promoter or a ward politician and he covers more ground in a day than Wiki could in a week.

If Supela seems head and front of everything religious in the summer, in the winter he plays a more prominent part in the Soyaluna, which is held at the last of December. Of this wonderful sun ceremony he is chief, and is as illustrious a personage to the Hopi as Santa Claus is to the fair-skinned children. At this time Supela is in his element and proud of himself to the last degree, for does he not regulate the rites that are to bring back the sun from his far winter wanderings?

Wiki was a man of action, coming forward to add power and dignity to that most astounding ceremony ever originated by human brain, the Snake Dance; Supela is a man of craft, a worker by formulas and incantations, but first and last a believer in getting all the silver he can in return for an insight into the mysteries—a thing that Wiki has never stooped to countenance.

There are first families in Tusayan. Saalako enjoys the distinction of being by birthright the chief snake priestess of all Hopiland. Hence Kopeli, her son, was chief priest of the powerful Snake Society in that metropolis of Tusayan, Walpi; while Supela, her husband, has no credit for his share in passing on the inheritance. At present, her son “Harry” is the Snake Chief in place of the beloved Kopeli.

Saalako is an old, wise woman. The mystery which hangs around her is born of her connection with the fearful rites of the Snake cult and her store of the knowledge which has been passed down from time immemorial “by living words from lips long dust.” This connection carries her to distant pueblos to mix the “medicine” for the ceremonies, no one in the whole province being better versed in herbs and spells than she. One might meet her on this errand far out in the desert or among the rugged mesas on the trail to Oraibi, afoot, moving actively for a person apparently so frail. It is difficult to measure, especially in a limited time and short acquaintance, the respect and honor given by the Walpi people to Saalako and the Snake Chief’s family. It would seem that there is a certain dignity and reserve natural to people of rank, although in the common associations the Hopi are quite democratic. In any case Saalako is free from the habit of begging, so often observed among her people, which is probably due to this dignity. It is very evident, however, that the vice of begging is becoming general among the Pueblos which have been most in contact with white people.

This sketch of Saalako would be incomplete without the mention of her chief shortcoming, inordinate curiosity. Apologists commend rather than excuse laudable curiosity, affirming it to be a desirable quality in an investigator. No doubt Saalako owes her acquaintance with nature to this class, but she is famous for curiosity in other minor matters. No visitor to Walpi escapes the ordeal of her questions, and popular account has it that very few happenings escape her notice. The Hopi of both sexes are most curious; Saalako has the trait in greater degree. The hoary error of attributing curiosity to woman alone has small countenance in Hopi. However, Saalako’s curiosity is well meaning and harmless. It is only an expression of the infantile which blossoms in this peaceful and isolated people.

Saalako felt it her duty to give a name to one of the exploring party under the direction of Dr. Fewkes. After several days meditation, having tried and rejected several queer sounding appellations, she at last dubbed him Kuktaimu, briefly, “Investigator,” and kindly offered to adopt him; the adoption, however, was not consummated. Kuktaimu owes his name to the ardor with which he collected plants, insects, and geological specimens, this not escaping the sharp eyes of Saalako.

This sketch is given as a tribute to a remarkable Hopi woman whose history is worthy of fuller presentation.

Intiwa was another celebrity whose acquaintance early ripened into a regard for his true worth. His was a modest personality; in him one saw the living presentment of the sages who guided the people before America dawned upon history. A striking instance that came to notice concerning him gives an interesting sidelight on Hopi customs.

One day Intiwa went down to his cornfield to see how the crops were getting on. As he was reaching under the drooping corn blades, feeling for the ripening ears, a rattlesnake struck him on the hand. He hurried home and applied all the remedies which Hopi medical knowledge could suggest, but got no relief. Some white visitors who happened to be near were called in and did all they could for the man, and finally, after much suffering, Intiwa recovered. Now comes the curious sequel of the snake bite. The Snake Fraternity decided that Intiwa, being specially favored by the bite of the snake, must of necessity belong to their order. Perhaps Intiwa was not impressed with the alleged favor of the snake. Still he took the initiation and became a full-fledged snake priest. This is the first record of such happening in Tusayan.

Beside the honor thus thrust upon him, Intiwa was the Kachina chief of Walpi, and thus an important man, the impresario and chief entertainer of his town, honored by the rain-bringing serpent, blessed with a large family, ample house and abundant food—gifts no doubt of the good fairy Kachina.

Several years ago Intiwa took a journey to the underworld across the deserts and down through the sipapu, or earth-navel, finding at last that wondrous land whence all people came out and where they finally must return, according to Hopi belief. Walpi will suffer the loss of his great knowledge; who knows but that he will emerge, and, sitting with the zealous kachinas, watch over the scene of his earthly triumphs?

The first meeting with the Hopi and with the Honani family was one of the most pleasurable experiences of the journey from Winslow to the Middle Mesa several years ago.

The party had toiled to the north for nearly three days through the brilliantly painted deserts that lie between the Little Colorado and the Hopi villages. The grotesque black buttes whose contours had changed so many times during the journey were left behind to the south and the gray cretaceous mesas began to narrow in on the dry washes, fringed with sage-green desert plants that characterize the region of the Hopi villages. Everyone felt that though many miles of loose sand still intervened, this was the home stretch to the goal. Far ahead on the plain several black dots were sighted, and with lively interest the party began to speculate as to what they might be. After a while it could be seen that a mounted party was coming, perhaps Navaho on first thought, likely Hopi on reflection. Soon they were decided to be a number of Hopi mounted on burros and ponies, and in a short time they were greeting the Americans with the fervor of a long-lost brother, their faces wreathed with smiles. These, then, were the taciturn Indians of the story-books.

Honani, “the Badger,” citizen of Shumopavi, was escorting his family on an outing of many miles after berries. Berries, such as they are, do grow in the desert, but they may be enjoyed only by those who never tasted any other variety. Honani’s wife and her three pretty daughters were astride ponies, while the baby was securely fastened in his mother’s blanket; the old grandfather and grandmother who bestrode burros made up the rest of the party, which formed a very picturesque group. The women asked for water, and Honani spoke the magic word piba, tobacco, followed by the word, matchi. These words one very soon finds are the indispensable preliminary to a “smoke talk” in Hopiland.

Honani’s better half is no light weight. So thought her pony which, without warning, proceeded to lie down. Amidst the screaming and chattering, the stout lady managed to extricate herself, being much hampered by her prudence in tying her blanket to the horn of the saddle. When all were quieted and the pony soundly thumped, they started again on their way berrying.

Honani is quite a prominent man and was one time chief of his pueblo. He is one of the very few Hopi who have made the grand tour to Washington—Wasintona, as they call it. He has a farm in the country, where he lives in summer. The vagrant Navaho who encroach on his premises are the bane of his life, and when none of this tribe is near he wishes them all sorts of unpleasant things. Honani himself is no saint; from all accounts, it is advisable to leave nothing loose while he is around. His wife has a pleasant, matronly face that one cannot help admiring. She is a skillful basket-maker and keeps her house neat and clean, which is more than can be said of her contemporaries.

There is a good deal of feeling, mingled with a large element of jealousy, against Honani in the minds of his fellow villagers, because of his friendliness toward the white man and his stand in favor of educating the children in the schools provided by the Government. At ZuÑi, through some pretext or other, Honani would be hung as a wizard, whereas the amicable Hopi merely ignore him for a while.

On another occasion, while the party was encamped in a sheltered valley of the Middle Mesa, the “Honanis” came visiting. It was about supper time; the connection of the time and visit needs no explanation. Among the scanty utensils of the party two cans of similar shape contained respectively salt and sugar. Honani’s wife liberally sweetened her coffee and gave the baby a taste. In a moment his hitherto placid face assumed the contortions of a Hindu idol, and he squirmed and yelled. His mother, not knowing what was the matter, shook him and punched his fat stomach to find out. Then she took a sip of coffee and screamed out, “Ingiwa!” (salt). Her reproachful look seemed to convey the idea that someone had designs on the baby. A few words of explanation soon put her mind at rest on that score, and smiles were again restored. When she heard that several of the party had been at times sufferers from those same malicious salt and sugar boxes, she enjoyed the joke hugely; fellow sufferers are always appreciated the world over.

There is at least one open and above-board infidel at the East Mesa. Chakwaina is his name, and he is a Tewa of Hano. The old nature faith in this pueblo does not show many signs of weakening, so that were Chakwaina less in possessions and in consequent influence, he might have been brought to book long ago for his sins. Chakwaina says “the kachinas are no good.” Perhaps the poor people who so depend on the crops for their existence believe devoutly in the gift-bearing kachinas from ignorance or selfish motives, while Chakwaina, who has sheep, flour, and money, feels independent of any spiritual aids; this is the old story. Chakwaina undoubtedly feels able to take care of himself, for no one has succeeded in getting ahead of him at a bargain. Of course when a pair of sheep shears or a stone is too frequently found in a bag of wool after weighing, people will suspect cheating. It is well to keep watch on Chakwaina!

On the other hand, Chakwaina was one of the first to move down permanently from the mesa when the Government offered inducements to the Hopi to descend from their eyrie. He has always been friendly to the white people; he aided in the establishment of a day school at the “Sun Spring,” and used his influence to persuade the people to send pupils to the school at Keam’s Canyon. He has also traveled much, adding Spanish, Navaho, and a smattering of “American” to his Hopi-Tewan repertory of languages, for the Tewa, besides being the most progressive inhabitants of Tusayan, are the best linguists. This is due to the fact that the people of the little town of Hano have preserved their own language, and being within a stone-throw of Walpi, must also know Hopi. Hence the step toward learning other tongues is made easier.

Chakwaina has his house near Ishba, or “wolf spring,” in very picturesque surroundings. Below, in the wash, are his cornfields and melon patches, showing skillful engineering in diverting the water on the arable ground by means of dams and wings. Here he and his faithful adjutant, “Tom Sawyer,” the Paiute, put in many a laborious hour, the latter waging deadly warfare on the obnoxious prairie dogs whose fate is to be eaten if caught.

Chakwaina is disposed to poke fun at the scientific men who come to Tusayan to study the ways of the Hopi. He has a remarkable laugh, and his mimicry of the Snake Dance is one of the most amusing things to be seen in Hopiland. His object is to ridicule all parties by making himself ridiculous. It is evident that Chakwaina has not the accustomed contentment of the Hopi. Having denied the first article of faith in the kachinas and having received nothing higher in return, he stands in the unhappy position of all unbelievers of whatever race or time.

A portrait gallery of the celebrities of Tusayan would not be complete without Mungwe, or, as his name is translated, “El Capitan,” “Cap” for short; but his name is properly Mongwe, “the owl.” “Cap” is a Tewa whose ancestors were invited long ago to come from the Rio Grande and cast their lot with the Hopi on the Walpi Mesa. Here their descendants still dwell in the village of Hano, preserving the language and customs transplanted from the “Great River of the North.” “Cap” is one of the most energetic and capable Indians in all Hopiland. Wiry in figure, alert of movement, loquacious, quick of comprehension, trustworthy and experienced, he is quite in advance of the large majority of his contemporaries. Long ago he abandoned the inconvenient mesa; his farm-house with its red roof can be seen among his cornfields far out in the broad valley to the southeast of Walpi. The men who work for Mongwe seem to be pervaded with his energy, and there is no doubt that he is regarded by them as a captain of industry, for he allows no laggards to eat his bread. In the line of teaming, Cap excels. No matter how long or bad the road or how heavy the load, his staunch little ponies will carry it through. A rickety wagon and providence-tempting harness seem to prove no bar to any attempt, where money is to be earned. Hence, though a number of the Hopi possess wagons through the generosity of the Government, Mongwe gets most of the hauling.

Our friend, alas, is not modest in the announcement of his worth. It is a subject on which his tongue works like a spinning-jenny. At night after the cares of the day, sitting around the camp-fire with ample bread, unlimited rashers of bacon, and a circle of hearers, Cap eats and talks in the plural. The word plural calls for a sentence or two in reference to Cap’s wives. Not that he has ever defied Hopi customs to the extent of having more than one wife at a time, but the list of the ones who have disagreed with him, if completely up to date, would be interesting reading. From what can be gleaned, in this Utopian land, women have the right of divorce. The relationship of Cap’s children, it will be seen, is very assorted. To hazard a guess, Cap’s matrimonial ventures are marred by his general “fussiness.” Aside from this, Mongwe is an honor to Hopiland. His success has drawn to him a party of the young generation who are afflicted with the universal desire for shiba (silver), and if they are inspired with Mongwe’s example it will be a benefit to Tusayan, the Hopi body politic, which needs active young blood to overcome the centuries of inertion.

Another vivacious Hopi is Wupa, whose name means “great.” The fatherly interest which Wupa takes in the white man was sufficient recommendation to attach him to our camp as man-of-all-work, and a closer acquaintance brought to view other sides of his character in which the gay features far outnumber the grave. Faithful to the extent of his lights, though averse to steady work, he managed to earn his bread and a small stipend, but considering the entertainment he furnished, his pay should have been equal to that of the end-man in a minstrel show.

So it happens that the memories of Wupa bring forth a flood of pleasing recollections. The merriest of all that merry race of laughing, joking, singing Hopi, his presence around the camp-fire diffused an atmosphere of cheerfulness which does not always prevail amidst the discomforts of roughing-it in the desert. Short of stature and bandy-legged, possessed of a headpiece wrinkled and quizzical, one cannot by any stretch of the imagination make him out handsome; but he is so loquacious, witty, and full of tricks that it is not possible to doubt his fitness for the position of king’s jester. Wupa has his moods, though. Sometimes an air of preternatural gravity and unspeakable wisdom enwraps him; very close behind this mask, for such it is, lurks a mirth-provoking skit and boisterous laugh. Like other humorists Wupa has the fatality of being most amusing when serious. Still, in the iridescent interworld between smiles and tears Wupa has a romantic and sad history.

The dramatis personae woven into this history are white men, Mexicans, ZuÑi Indians, and his fellow Hopi. The first misfortune that befell Wupa was to be born at the time when famine harried the Peaceful People in their seven villages to the north of the Little Colorado. Famine is an old story with the Hopi. For two years no rain had fallen, and neither the Snake nor the Flute dance availed to bring the good will of their gods. The sacredly reserved corn laid up to tide over a bad year had been eaten, and the Hopi were in distress. They gathered the wild plants that seem to be independent of drought, and tried to keep soul and body together till the rain-clouds should again sweep across the Painted Desert; but many were those who never saw the time of ripe corn. Many deserted the pueblos and cast their lot among the Navaho shepherds, the Havasupai of Cataract Canyon, and other more fortunate tribes of friendly people.

So it happened that Wupa’s mother with her hungry babe took the well-known trail to ZuÑi 100 miles away, and nerved with the strength of desperation at last reached the pueblo under “Corn Mountain.” Indian philanthropy rarely extends outside the circle of relatives, and the ZuÑi had no mind to give corn to the poor Hopi woman beyond enough to keep her from starving. But little Wupa was worth a bushel of the precious ears, and for that amount he was exchanged, becoming, without being consulted, a ZuÑi, while his mother trudged back to Hopiland with food for her starving kinsfolk, feeling, no doubt, little sorrow at the loss of her babe, so great is the levelling power of famine and misfortune. There are usually strays at all Indian villages, and thus the presence of the little Hopi stranger passed without notice. When the crops were assured in the fields of the famine-stricken Hopi, they ceased coming to ZuÑi, and Wupa seems to have been unclaimed and forgotten.

When he was five or six, the ZuÑi in turn sold him to some Mexicans, and the next account there is of him he was living at Albuquerque, a stout young peon, with cropped hair, a devout Catholic, speaking Castilian after the fashion of the “Greasers.” Wupa thus became, to all intents and purposes, a Mexican, and perhaps had lost sight of his origin. Neither is the transition from Indian to Mexican at all difficult or incongruous. Few Americans realize the new problem of the population that came to us through the treaty of Guadalupe-Hidalgo, the clannish, unprogressive foreigners who were made American citizens without being consulted. It must be said, however, that the Anglo-Saxon prejudice of the Latin leaves quite out of sight the good qualities of the Mexican; it rarely considers that his ignorance is due largely to lack of advantages during several centuries, and that the strain of Indian blood has not helped matters. According to the white man’s way of looking at it, this listless race, seemingly satisfied to be peons in the land of the free, is inferior and doubtfully classed with the Indians, with the doubt in the latter’s favor.

Wupa quickly picked up the language and associations of his accidental compatriots, and soon the Padre rejoiced in another brand plucked from the burning. His next step was to find a seÑorita and to marry her, and after the semi-barbarous wedding his woes really begin. In explanation of the description given of Wupa as he appears at present, it may be fair to say that twenty years off his age would leave him a passably young man, but even with this gloss, one cannot form a very high estimate of the seÑorita’s taste.

During the period of Wupa’s exile, one knowing the Hopi would be curious to find out how he bore himself and whether an inherited love for the freedom of the desert was ever shown. Perhaps the early age at which he began kicking about the world, and his varied experiences, completely lost him to the feeling of his kith and kin. Civilization is irksome to the desert-bred Hopi and he soon becomes as homesick for his wind-swept mesas as the Eskimo for his land of ice or the Bedouin for the Sahara. These questions may have a suggested answer in the home-coming of Wupa, for he returned again to his native pueblo after one of the most varied and remarkable series of adventures that ever filled out a true story. The events that led up to the home-coming of Wupa form not the least interesting episodes in his history and occurred along the old Santa FÉ Trail, immortalized by Josiah Gregg. The railroad builders had labored across the plains, up the steep slopes of the Rockies, following the famous trail to old Santa FÉ, leaving behind two bands of steel. Blasting, cutting, filling, and bridging, they were advancing toward quiet Albuquerque on the lazy Rio Grande, and the news of these activities stirred that ancient town from center to circumference.

The dwellers in the Southwest are brought squarely up against the “proposition,” as they call it, that one must work if he would live. The Mexicans, though reputed lazy, are on the contrary always anxious to work for wages, and the motley and wicked railroad camp had a large population of the dark-skinned believers in Montezuma recruited from long distances.

Wupa joined with the Albuquerque contingent. What his duties were it is not difficult to imagine; his skill in “rustling” wood and water in later years gives a good clue as to his work on the railroad. As messenger and general utility boy where steady labor was not required, he no doubt proved useful and picked up sundry pieces of silver for his seÑora. Perhaps not the least of his services lay in his unfailing good-humor expressed in cheering songs with which he softened the trials of railroad pioneering through that almost desert country.

The picturesque wickedness of the westward traveling construction camp with its fringe of saloons, gambling hells, and camp followers seems never to have taken Wupa in its snares. Of shooting irons and drunken men he had the inborn terror shown always by the Hopi, a feeling still kept alive among them by that later incursion into New Mexico and Arizona, the Texas cowboy. There was no fight in Wupa; the most that could be gotten out of him was a disarming laugh and a disappearance, as soon as that move could be made. Picturesque as was the construction camp, the stern side of life came very near, and the wonderful hues of the landscape were but mockery to the tired and thirsty men, who prepared the Santa FÉ Trail for the iron horse. Poor food, worse water, alkali dust, parching heat and chilly nights of summer and the severity of winter were living realities; there were health and vigor in the air of the mountains and elevated plateaus, though food and appetite did not always strike a balance of compensation.

Wupa moved along with the camp, little realizing the meaning of the struggle with the drifting sand, the rocky canyons, and the dry rivers that became torrents and in an hour swept away the work of a month, burying ties and rails in the limbo of boiling sand. By night he rolled himself in his blanket and after his orisons slept under the brilliant stars, while his fellow Mexicans snored in strangely assorted heaps among the sage-clumps.

The rails came down the treacherous Puerco and along the banks of the Little Colorado. To the north the dark blue Hopi Domes reared their fantastic summits, signifying nothing to this expatriated Indian, though the mother who bore him and sold him into bondage waited for him there. To the west the San Francisco peaks stood always in view, but Wupa was ignorant of the traditions of his tribe that cluster around them. The rails left the river, stretched across a flat country, and halted at the edge of a tremendous chasm, whose presence could not be suspected until it yawned beneath the feet. Here the camp halted for months, while a spider’s web of steel was spun across the Devil’s Canyon.

One day several Hopi came to the camp, and after staring, open-mouthed, at the labors of the white man, wandered about, as if looking for someone. Soon they ran across Wupa, and the leader spoke to him in Hopi language to this effect: “You are a Hopi; we come to bring you to your house.” A doubtful shake of the head from Wupa, who did not understand the tongue of his people.

“Yes, come; they sit up there waiting for you.” This ought to have stirred in Wupa a desire to go at once, but he “no sabe.” Finally, after parleying in a mixture of Hopi, ZuÑi, and Spanish, pieced out here and there with sign language, they persuaded him to desert the camp and set out with them for his native town a hundred miles to the north.

The home-coming of Wupa was a great affair, and his reintroduction to his mother was touching, for the Hopi are more demonstrative than other Indians. The event must have been a nine days’ wonder in the gossipy pueblo of Walpi. His education was taken up at once with the intention of eradicating the evil effects of Mexican training, especially on the side of his religious instruction. If the grave priests are satisfied with their labors in helping Wupa to begin anew as a Hopi, an outsider would consider the results as rather mixed. To this day Wupa is taunted with being a Mexican; these taunts he answers with silence and an air of superiority he knows so well how to assume; how, indeed, can they know what he has gone through in his remarkable experiences?

While Wupa was willing to desert and become a pagan, as were his ancestors, exchanging the quaint cathedral of Albuquerque with its figures of saints and grewsome Corpus Cristi in a glass case for a dimly lighted room underground and familiarity with rattlesnakes, his seÑora had other ideas. Wupa mourned that his seÑora would not cast her lot with the “Peaceful People” of Tusayan; but money was scarce and the distance too great for a personal interview; the letters written by a laborious Mexican scribe were productive of no results. Though the seÑora might have done worse, who will blame her? During the years that passed one might think that Wupa would have forgotten his wife on the Rio Grande, but it was always the dream of his life to bring her to him at Walpi. It was pathetic to hear his schemes and to see the way in which he treasured letters from her written in the scrawl of the town scribe and addressed to SeÑor Don JosÉ Padilla, which is Wupa’s high-sounding Castilian name. His constancy seemed admirable, for he did not take an Indian wife, granting that he could have secured one of the Hopi belles for spouse.

Still, with all this care Wupa was light-hearted, caroled with abandon Mexican or Hopi songs, or intoned solemn church music. Though a much-traveled man, he remained at his native place, the mainstay of his old mother who sold him aforetime, his father long since having traveled to the underworld. Hopi-Mexican, Pagan-Christian, he still occupies a somewhat anomalous position among his people, who have consistently hated the proud proselyting Spaniards during the more than two hundred years since they threw the “long gowns” from the rocky mesa.

About the camp Wupa was very useful. Mounted on his agile burro, a sight well worth seeing, he brought the mail from Keam’s Canyon. He collected wood and water, indulging in many a song and exclamation. The cook especially seemed to him a fit subject of jest. The cook was really an adept at snoring and the still watches of the desert night were often too vocal. Wupa used to sing out “Dawa yamu, Kook!” “Daybreak, cook!” followed by a fine imitation of snoring which the subject of the jest did not enjoy. But Wupa was at his best when prospecting an ancient ruin to locate the most promising place to dig for relics. At such times his gravity and wisdom fairly bulged out. His advice was clearly and forcibly given, but the nemesis of humorists followed him, and no one ever thought of taking him seriously. And he never seemed disappointed. Wupa is a true humorist, without bitterness, one to be laughed at and loved. He was almost tearful at parting and made many protestations of friendship, at the same time presenting two watermelons from his field. These melons were unripe, according to un-Hopi standards, but were received in the spirit in which they were given, and later some natives met on the road to Keam’s Canyon had an unexpected feast.

The romance of Wupa’s devotion to his Mexican seÑora and the fine flavor of constancy he showed toward her received a rude shattering the year after the commencement of this account. He took unto himself a Hopi helpmeet,—an albino,—and a whimsical pair they looked when they came to the Snake Dance the following summer.

This step of Wupa’s, in view of the repeated confidences that Hopi maidens were not to his taste anyhow, was a surprise to his friends. His choice of an albino for a mate clears him to some extent, as no doubt he believes her to be as near an approach to a white woman as a Hopi may hope to reach. However, his friends wish him well and feel like saying, “Long live Wupa, ‘great’ by name and truly great in quip, gibe, and gest by nature.”

A visit to the East Mesa cannot be regarded as complete without an interview with Toby. Usually no one leaves this portion of Tusayan without seeing him. His name, which means “the fly,” exactly fits Toby, who has all the pertinacity of that well-known insect.

Several years ago, however, the writer failed to meet Toby and remained in complete ignorance of his great possibilities, except by hearsay, until the next season. Then when the party wound its way up to the first bench of the mesa under the dizzy cliffs and camped on a level spot near a peach tree on land which the Tewa have held for two centuries, Toby was there as a reception committee.

His “how do” was rather startling and unexpected. After the routine of handshaking, Toby remarked, “This my lan’,” and pointing to the antique tree long past fruit-bearing, “This my peach tlee.” Proud of his possessions he squatted on the ground and drew a plan of his lan’ and inquired as he pointed out the locations of his crops, “Have you seen my con [corn]? Have you seen my beanzes?” Suddenly an idea struck him. He approached the leader of the party and put these questions to him, “You good man, uneshtan’, you honesht man?” Then as if satisfied, he turned to another of the party and said, “You handsome man; you beautiful man,” and it was not long before Toby had a packet of coveted smoking tobacco, although from the unkempt appearance of the explorers, his laudations were base flattery.

It was plain that Toby was desirous of airing his remarkable English, of which he is very proud, and also of paving the way to sundry small gratuities. These intentions of the Hopi are quite as apparent as that of the little child who says, “Ducky likes sweet cakes.” Toby was asked to bring in a burro load of wood for cooking purposes, but with great suavity he explained that on this day the Snake priests hunted in the East world-quarter, and according to custom no one must work in that direction. On account of these conscientious scruples of Toby’s, the venerable peach tree was requisitioned for enough dead branches till such time as he should sally forth with his burros for cedar billets.

The day before the Antelope Dance Toby came down to the camp on important business chewing a moccasin sole which he was stitching. He broached the subject by mysteriously saying, “Plenty Navaho come to see Snake Dance. Navaho velly bad, steal evelything.” (This in a furtive way, because the Hopi are afraid of the Navaho.) “Me stay, watch camp; you go see dance; Navaho bad man.” It is well to say that after Toby’s watchful care at the camp all the baking powder and matches were missing. Few Hopi are proof against these articles, especially before a feast, and Toby is evidently no exception. He fought shy of camp after that, no doubt fearing a “rounding up.” Perhaps, however, Toby appropriated the matches and baking powder as rent for his “lan’.”

Toby is father of a large family. When asked to give a census, he counted on his fingers, “Boy, girl; boy, girl; boy,” then with great enthusiasm, “Babee!” Toby’s command of English is due to the fact that he was the prize pupil of a teacher at the Keam’s Canyon School some years ago. He delights to show how he can spell. If no one should ask him to exhibit this accomplishment, he usually brings up the subject by asking, for instance, “How you spell box?” pronounced “boxsh.” If ignorance is professed, Toby spells b-o-x, and follows with dog, cat, man, and other words of one syllable, and proudly finishes by writing his own name in the sand.

Toby thus furnishes great amusement to sojourners at Walpi and also leaves the suspicion in the minds of most that he is a trifle “light in the upper story.”

Another character is “Tom Sawyer,” a Paiute Indian who lives with the Peaceful People at the East Mesa. As handsome as a Japanese grotesque mask and almost as taciturn, his gravity seems to have telescoped his squat figure and multiplied the wrinkles in his face, half hidden by his lank, grizzled hair. Keen, shrewd eyes has he and very evasive. Tom, however, is not “bad” in the Arizona sense, nor will his make-up allow him to be altogether good. He is, therefore, a man, for which this sketch is to be congratulated. While Tom’s early history may never be known to the world, his step in leaving the Paiute for the Hopi is very much in his favor. Here he fell naturally in his place as serf to Chakwaina, of whom something has already been said.

Tom became washerman for the Fewkes expedition while the party sojourned at Walpi. Percy, who prides himself on his faultless “American,” held the position in former years, but having gotten a few dollars ahead, felt above work at this time. It must be said that Tom is an excellent laundryman. The idiosyncrasies of wayworn civilized garb do not stump him; in fact, he is “ol’ clo’es man” for the whole East Mesa. His many quests for discarded garments to Winslow, Holbrook, and other points on the railroad are always successful. The people of Winslow affirm that wearing apparel often disappears from clotheslines and other exposed situations coincidently with the visits of Hopi, who clear the town of rags as the winds do of loose paper. When the physician of the place lost a pair of overshoes which were reposing on the back kitchen steps, he remembered too late that a Hopi had gone down the alley sometime before. The disappearance of the overshoes can scarcely arouse as much wonder as their presence and utility in arid, dusty Winslow. No doubt Tom has caused many of these mysterious disappearances and the spoils borne northward on his patient burros have promoted a dressed-up feeling among the Hopi braves.

It has not yet been found out whether Tom gave an exhibition of artistic lying or was telling the truth about the following matter. Tom was starting on one of his periodical clothes raids to Winslow, and he was asked to bring back a can of plaster. About a week later Tom returned with the following laconic tale, “Snake bite burro, burro die; me take can back, give to man.”

At the time it was thought that Tom had overloaded his burro with old clothes and had invented the story. There is much to be said on Indian invention. If Tom is living he is still an active citizen of Hopiland.