The province of Tusayan is dotted over in every direction with ruins, all of which were once inhabited by the Hopi people. Indeed, even in the "pueblo" stage of their existence they seem to have retained much of the restlessness and desire for change which marked them when "nomads."

Traditionary lore among modern Hopis asserts that the well-known ruin of Casa Grande was once the home of their ancestors, and Dr. Fewkes has conclusively shown a line of ruins extending from the Gila and Salt River valleys to the present Hopi villages. So there is no doubt but that some, at least, of the Hopis came to their modern homes from the South. It is, therefore, quite possible that such ruins as Montezuma's Castle were once Hopi homes. Every indication seems to point to the fact that all these ancient ruins—some of which are caveate, others cliff, and still others independent pueblos, built in the open, away from all cliffs—were occupied by a people in dread of attack from enemies. Every home has its lookout. Every field could be watched. Nearly all the cliff and cave dwellings were naturally fortresses, and the open pueblos were so constructed as to render them castles of defence to their inhabitants on occasion.

In these facts alone we can see an interesting, though to those primarily concerned a tragic state of affairs; a home-loving people, sedentary and agricultural, willing and anxious to live at peace, surrounded and perpetually harassed by wild and fierce nomads, whose delight was war, their occupation pillage, and their chief gratifications murder and rapine. The cliff- or cave-dwelling husband left his home in the morning to plant his corn or irrigate his field, uncertain whether the night would see him safe again with his loved ones, a captive in the hands of merciless torturers, or lying dead and mutilated upon the fields he had planted.

No wonder they are the Hopituh—the people of peace. Who would not long for peace after many generations of such environment? Poor wretches! Every field had its memories of slaughter, every canyon had echoed the fierce yells of attacking foes, the shrieks of the dying, or the exultant shouts of the victors, and every dwelling-place had heard the sad wailing of widows and orphans.

The union of these people, under such conditions, in towns became a necessity—self-preservation demanded cohesion. That isolation and separation were not unnatural or repulsive to them is shown by the readiness with which in later times they branched out and established new towns. These separations often led to bitter and deadly quarrels among themselves, and elsewhere[2] I have related the traditional story of the destruction of a Hopi city, Awatobi, by the inhabitants of rival cities, who in their determination to be "Hopituh"—people of peace—were willing to fight and exterminate their neighbors and thus compel peace.

Of the present seven mesa cities, towns, or villages of the Hopis, it is probable that Oraibi only occupies the same site that it had when first seen by white men in 1540.

It will readily be recalled that when Coronado reached Cibola (Zuni) and conquered it he was sadly disappointed at not finding the piles of gold, silver, and precious stones he and his conquistadors had hoped for. The glittering stories of the gold-strewn "Seven Cities of Cibola" were sadly proven to be mythical. But hope revived when the wounded general was told of seven other cities, about a hundred miles to the northwest. These might be the wealthy cities they sought. Unable to go himself, he sent his ensign Tobar, with a handful of soldiers and a priest, and it fell to the lot of these to be the first white men to gaze upon the wonders of the Hopi villages.

Instead of finding them as we now see them, however, it is pretty certain that the first village reached was that of Awatobi, a town now in ruins and whose history is only a memory. Standing on the mesa at Walpi and looking a little to the right of the entrance to Keam's Canyon, the location of this "dead city" may be seen.

Walpi occupied a terrace below where it now is, and Sichumavi and Hano were not founded. At the middle mesa Mashonganavi and Shungopavi occupied the foothills or lower terraces, and Shipauluvi was not in existence.

What an interesting conflict that was, in 1540, between the few civilized and well-armed soldiers of Coronado and the warrior priests of Awatobi. Tobar and his men stealthily approached the foot of the mesa under the cover of darkness, but were discovered in the early morning ere they had made an attack. Led by the warrior priests, the fighting men of the village descended the trail, where the priests signified to the strangers that they were unwelcome. They forbade their ascending the trail, and with elaborate ceremony sprinkled a line of sacred meal across it, over which no one must pass. To cross that sacred and mystic line was to declare one's self an enemy and to invite the swift punishment of gods and men. But Tobar and his warriors knew nothing of the vengeance of Hopi gods and cared little for the anger of Hopi men, so they made a fierce and sharp onslaught. When we remember that this was the first experience of the Hopis with men on horseback, protected with coats of mail and metal helmets, who fought not only with sharpened swords, but also slew men at a distance with sticks that belched forth fire and smoke, to the accompaniment of loud thunder, it can well be understood that they speedily fell back and soon returned with tokens of submission. Thus was Awatobi taken. After this Walpi, Mashonganavi, Shungopavi, and Oraibi were more or less subjugated.

In 1680, as is well known, Popeh, a resident of one of the eastern pueblos near the Rio Grande, conceived a plan to rid the whole country of the hated white men, and especially of the "long robes"—the priests—who had forbidden the ancient ceremonies and dances, and forcibly baptized their children into a new faith, which to their superstitious minds was a catastrophe worse than death. The Hopis joined in the plan, though Awatobi went into it with reluctance, owing to the kindly ministrations of the humane Padre Porras.

The plot was betrayed, but not early enough to enable the Spaniards to protect themselves, and on the day of Santa Ana, the 10th of August, 1680, the whole white race was fallen upon and mercilessly slain or driven out.

For the next nearly twenty years the more timid of the people lived in dread of Spanish retaliation. Then it was that Hano was founded. Anticipating the arrival of a large force, a number of Tanoan and Tewan people fled from the Rio Grande to Tusayan. Some of the former went to Oraibi, and the latter asked permission to settle at the head of the Walpi trail near to "the Gap."

Possibly about this same time, too, the villages located on the lower terraces or foothills moved to the higher sites, as they were thus afforded better protection.

Sichumavi—"the mound of flowers"—was founded about the year 1750 by Walpians of the Badger Clan, who for some reason or other grew discontented and wished a town of their own. Here they were joined by Tanoans of the Asa Clan from the Rio Grande, who for a time had lived in the seclusion of the Tsegi, as the Navahoes term the Canyon de Chelly in New Mexico.

Exactly when Shipauluvi was founded is not known, though its name—"the place of peaches"—clearly denotes that it must have been after the Spanish invasion, for it was the conquerors who brought with them peaches. Nor were peaches the only good things the Hopis and other American aborigines owed to the hated foreigners. They introduced horses, cows, sheep (which latter have afforded them a large measure of sustenance and given to them and the Navahoes the material with which to make their useful rugs and blankets), and goats, besides a number of vegetables.

Here, then, about the middle of the eighteenth century the Hopi mesa towns were settled as we now find them, and doubtless with populations as near as can be to their present numbers.

Hano we have already visited. Let us now, hastily but carefully, glance at each of the other villages as they appear at the present time.

Passing on to Sichumavi from Hano we find it similar in all its main features to Hano, except that none of its houses are as high. In the centre of the town is a large plaza where, in wet weather, a large body of rain-water collects. This is used for "laundry" purposes, as drink for the burros and goats, and a bathing pond for all the children of the pueblo. It is one of the funniest sights imaginable to see the youngsters playing and frolicking in the water by the hour,—I should have said liquid mud, for the filth that accumulates in this plaza reservoir is simply indescribable. Children of both sexes, their brown, swarthy bodies utterly indifferent to the piercing darts of the sun, lie down in this liquid filth, roll over, splash one another, run to and fro, and enjoy themselves hugely, even in the presence of the white visitor, until a glimpse of the dreaded camera sends them off splashing, yelling, gesticulating, and some of them crying, to the nearest shelter.

That supereminence of Hopi character is conservatism is shown as one walks from Sichumavi to Walpi. Here is a literal exemplification demonstrating how the present generations "tread in the footsteps" of their forefathers. The trail over which the bare and moccasined feet of these people have passed and repassed for years is worn down deep into the solid sandstone. The springy and yielding foot, unprotected except by its own epidermis or the dressed skin of the goat, sheep, or deer, has cut its way into the unyielding rock, thus symbolizing the power of an unyielding purpose and demonstrating the force of an unchangeable conservatism.

Between these two pueblos the mesa becomes so narrow that we walk on a mere strip of rock, deep precipices on either side. To the left are Keam's Canyon and the road over which we came; to the right are the gardens, corn-fields, and peach orchards, leading the eye across to the second mesa, on the heights of which are Mashonganavi and Shipauluvi.

These gardens and corn-fields are the most potent argument possible against the statements of ignorant and prejudiced white men who claim that the Indians—Hopis as well as others—are lazy and shiftless.

If a band of white men were placed in such a situation as the Hopis, and compelled to wrest a living from the sandy, barren, sun-scorched soil, there are few who would have faith and courage enough to attempt the evidently hopeless task. But with a patience and steadiness that make the work sublime, these heroic bronze men have sought out and found the spots of sandy soil under which the water from the heights percolates. They have marked the places where the summer's freshets flow, and thus, relying upon sub-irrigation and the casual and uncertain rainfalls of summer, have planted their corn, beans, squash, melons, and chili, carefully hoeing them when necessary, and each season reap a harvest that would not disgrace modern scientific methods.

All throughout these corn-fields temporary brush sun-shelters are seen, under which the young boys and girls sit, scaring away the birds and watching lest any stray burro should enter and destroy that which has grown as the result of so much labor.

An Oraibi Woman shelling Corn in a Basket of Yucca Fibre.

The "Burro" of Hopi Transportation.

Here, too, in the harvesting time one may witness busy and interesting scenes. Whole families move down into temporary brush homes, and women and children aid the men in gathering the crops. Tethered and hobbled burros stand patiently awaiting their share of the common labor.

Yonder is a group of men busy digging a deep pit. Watch them as it nears completion. It is made with a narrow neck and "bellies" out to considerable width below. Indeed, it is shaped not unlike an immense vase with a large, almost spherical body and narrow neck. In depth it is perhaps six, eight, ten, or a dozen feet. On one side a narrow stairway is cut into the earth leading down to its base, and at the foot of this stairway a small hole is cut through into the chamber. Our curiosity is aroused. What is this subterranean place for? As we watch, the workers bring loads of greasewood and other inflammable material, kindle a fire in the chamber, and fill it up with the wood. Now we see the use of the small hole at the foot of the stairway. It acts as a draught hole, and soon a raging furnace fire is in the vault before us. When a sufficient heat has been obtained, the bottom hole is closed, and then scores of loads of corn on the cob are dropped into the heated chamber. When full, every avenue that could allow air to enter is sealed, and there the corn remains over night or as long as is required to cook it,—self-steam it. It is then removed, packed in sacks or blankets on the backs of the patient burros, and removed to the corn-rooms of the houses on the mesa above.

Other fresh corn is carried up and spread out on the house-tops to dry.

All this is stored away in the corn-rooms, into which strangers sometimes are invited, but oftener kept away from. It is stacked up in piles like cord-wood, and happy is that household whose corn-stack is large at the beginning of a hard winter.

Walpi—the place of the gap—though not a large town, is better known to whites than any of the other Hopi towns. Here it was that the earliest visitors came and saw the thrilling Snake Dance. Its southeastern trail, with the wonderful detached rock leaning over on one side and the cliff on the other, between which the steep and rude stairway is constructed, has been so often pictured, as well as the so-called "Sacred Rock" of the Walpi dance plaza, that they are now as familiar as photographs of Trinity Church, New York, or St. Paul's, London. As one stands on the top of one of the houses he sees how closely Walpi has been built. It covers the whole of the south end of the mesa, up to the very edges of the precipice walls in three of its four directions, and, as already shown, the fourth is the narrow neck of rock connecting Walpi with Sichumavi and Hano. The dance plaza is to the east, a long, narrow place, at the south end of which is the "Sacred Rock." It is approached from south and north by the regular "street" or trail, and one may leave it to the west through an archway, over which is built one of the houses.

Several ruins on the east mesa are pointed out as "Old" Walpi, and the name of one of these—Nusaki—(also known as Kisakobi) is a clear indication that at one time the Spaniards had a mission church there. A Walpian, Pauwatiwa, shows, with pride, an old carved beam in his house which all Hopis say came from the mission when it was destroyed. On the terraces just below the mesa-top—perhaps a hundred or two hundred feet down—are a number of tiny corrals, to and from which, morning and evening, the boys, young men, and sometimes the women and girls may be seen driving their herds of sheep and goats, and in which the burros are kept when not in use. These picturesque corrals from below look almost like swallows' nests stuck on the face of the cliffs.

As we wander about in the narrow and quaint streets of Walpi we cannot fail to observe the ladder-poles which are thrust through hatchways, down which we peer into the darkness below with little satisfaction. These lead to the kivas, or sacred ceremonial chambers, where all the secret rites of the different clans are held. Here we shall be privileged to enter if no ceremony is going on. The kivas are generally hewn out of the solid rock, or partially so, and are from twelve to eighteen feet square. When not otherwise occupied it is no uncommon sight to see in a kiva a Hopi weaver squatted before his rude loom, making a dress for his wife or daughter, or weaving a ceremonial sash or kilt for his own use in one of the many dances.

In every Hopi town one cannot fail to be struck with the nudity of the children of all ages, from the merest babies up to eight and even ten years. With what Victor Hugo calls "the chaste indecency of childhood" these fat, bronze Cupids and embryo Venuses romp and play, as unconscious of their nakedness as Adam and Eve before their fall.

From Walpi we descend to the corn-fields, and, after a slow and tedious drag across the sandy plain to the west, find ourselves at Mashonganavi, or at least at the foot of the trail which leads to the heights above. Here, as at the other mesas, there are two or three trails, all steep, all nerve-wrenching, all picturesque. Arrived at the village, we find Mashonganavi an interesting place, for it is so compactly built that one often hunts in vain (for a while, at least) to find the hidden dance plaza, around which the whole town seems to be built. Some of the houses are three stories high, and there are quaint, narrow alley-ways, queer dark tunnels, and underground kivas as at Walpi. The Antelope and Snake kivas are situated on the southeastern side of the village, on the very edge of the mesa, and with the tawny stretch of the Painted Desert leading the eye to the deep purple of the Giant's Chair and others of the Mogollon buttes, which Ives conceived as great ships in the desert, suddenly and forever arrested and petrified.

About one hundred and fifty feet below the village is a terrace which almost surrounds the Mashonganavi mesa, as a rocky ruff around its neck. This terrace is so connected with the main plateau that one can drive upon it with a wagon and thus encamp close to the village. Here in 1901 the two wagon loads of sightseers and tourists which I had guided to the mysteries and delights of Tusayan, over the sandy and scorched horrors of a portion of the Painted Desert, encamped, during the last days of the Snake Dance ceremonies.

From here a trail—at its head an actual rock stairway—leads down to a spring in the valley, where the government school is situated, and from whence all our cooking and drinking water had to be brought. Each morning and evening droves of sheep and goats passed our camp, coming up from below and going down to the scant pasturage of the valley. Scarcely an hour passed when some Indian—oftener half a dozen—came to our camp, and failed to pass. Especially at meal times, when the biscuits were in the oven, the stew on the fire, the beans in the pot, and the dried fruit in the stew-kettle, did they seem to enjoy visiting us. And they liked to come close, too; far too close for our comfort, as their persons are not always of the most cleanly character, and their habits of the most decorous and refined. Hence rules had to be laid down which it was my province to see observed, one of which was that visiting Indians must keep to a distance, especially at meal times. Another was that if our blankets were allowed to remain unrolled (in order to get the direct benefit of the sun's rays) they were not so left for our Indian friends to lounge upon.

We were generally a hungry lot as we sat or squatted around our canvas tablecloth, our table the rocky ground, and there was scant ceremony when ceremony stood in the way of appeasing our appetites. But we were not wasteful. If there were any "scraps" or any small remains on a plate or dish they were "saved for the Indians." So that at length it became a catch-word with us. If there was anything, anywhere, at any time, that we did not like, some one of the party was sure to suggest that it be "saved for the Indians." And that has often since suggested to me our national policy in treating the Amerind. There is too much national "Save that for the Indians." Land that is no good to a white man—save it for the Indians. Beef cattle that white men don't buy—save them for the Indians. Spoiled flour—save it for the Indians. Seeds that won't grow—ship 'em to the Indians.

And that reminds me of a now not undistinguished artist who once accompanied a small party of mine some years ago to the Snake Dance at Oraibi. I came down to camp one day and found him cooking several slices of our finest ham, dishing up our choicest and scarcest vegetables, crackers, and delicacies, with a large pot of our most expensive coffee simmering and steaming by the camp-fire; and when I asked, "For whom?" was coolly told it was for three lazy, fat, lubberly, dirty Oraibis, who sat in delightful anticipation around the pump close by.

My objection to this use of our provisions was expressed in forceful and vigorous Anglo-Saxon, and when I was told it was "none of my business," I emphasized my objection with a distinct refusal to allow my provisions to be thus used. Then for half an hour immediately afterwards, and for days subsequently, at intervals, I was regaled with vocal chastisement worthy to be ranked with Demosthenes' "Philippics." "The Indian was a man and a brother. We were Christians, indeed, and of a truth when we would see our poor red brother starve to death before our sight," etc., ad libitum.

Now between my artist friend's course and the one first named the happy mean lies. I do not believe we should give to the Indian only the scraps that fall from our national table; neither, on the other hand, do I believe we are called upon to give him the very best of our foods and provide special coffee at seventy-five cents a pound.

And this sermon has occupied our time, by the way, as we have walked up the trail, by the Mashonganavi kivas to a spot from which we gain a good view of the village and of Shipauluvi on its higher and detached pinnacle a mile farther back. Again descending the trail to the terrace below, we walk half a mile and then begin the ascent of a steep stone stairway, carefully constructed, that leads us directly to Shipauluvi. This is a small town, occupying almost the whole of the dizzy site, with its few houses built around its rectangular plaza.

Here I was once present at a witchcraft trial. It was a complicated affair, in which the dead and living, Navahoes and Hopis, were intertwined. A Hopi woman accused a Navaho of having bewitched her husband, thus causing his death, and of stealing from him a blanket and some sheep. The evidence showed that the Navaho had met the Hopi, and that soon afterwards he was taken sick and died, whereupon the sheep and blanket were found in the possession of the Navaho. There was little doubt of its being a case of theft, and the Navaho was ordered to return sheep and blanket, but he was exonerated from the charge of witchcraft.

Living in Shipauluvi is one of those singular anomalies so often found in the pueblos, an albino woman. There are a dozen or so living in the other villages. With Hopi face, but white hair and skin, pink eyes, and general bleached-out appearance, they never fail to excite the greatest surprise in the mind of the stranger, and to those who see them often there is still a lingering wonder as to the cause of so singular a variation of physical appearance. At Mashonganavi there are two men albinos, one of them one of the Snake priests. It is claimed by the Indians that these albinos are of as pure Hopi blood as those who are normal in color, and the fact is incontrovertible that they are born of pure-blooded parents on both sides.

Returning now to the terrace below, common to both Mashonganavi and Shipauluvi, the trail is descended to Shungopavi. A deep canyon separates the mesa upon which this village is built from the one upon which the two former are located. Near the foot of the trail the government has established a schoolhouse, and close by are the springs and pools of water. It is a sandy ride or walk, and on a hot day—"a-tu-u-u"—wearisome and exhausting. For half a dollar or so one may hire a burro and his owner as guide, and it is much easier to go burro-back over the yielding sand than to walk. There are straggling peach trees on the way, and a trail, rocky and steep, to ascend ere we see Shungopavi.

The wagons may be driven to the village (as mine were), but it is a long way around. The road to Oraibi across the mesa is taken, and when about half-way across a crude road is followed which runs out upon the "finger tip" where Shungopavi stands. Here the governor in 1901 was Lo-ma-win-i, and he and I became very good friends. Knowing my interest in the Snake Dance, he sent for the chief priests of the Snake and Antelope Clans (Kai-wan-i-wi-ya-u-mÁ and Lo-ma-ho-in-i-wa), and from them I received a cordial invitation to be present and participate in the secret ceremonials of the kiva at their next celebration. I have been privileged to be present, but was never invited before.

The governor is an expert silversmith, the necklace he wears being a specimen of his own art. It is wonderful how, with their crude materials and tools, such excellent work can be produced. Mexican dollars are melted in a tiny home-made crucible, rude moulds are carved out of sand—or other stone into which the melted metal is poured, and then hand manipulation, hammering, and brazing complete the work. Their silver articles of adornment are finger rings, bracelets, and necklaces.

Oraibi is the most western and conservative of the Hopi villages. It is by far the largest, having perhaps a third of the whole population. It is divided into two factions, the so-called hostiles and friendlies, the former being the conservative element, determined not to forsake "the ways of the old," the ways of their ancestors; and the latter being generally willing to obey orders ostensibly issued by "Wasintonia"—as they call the mysterious Indian Department. These divisions are a source of great sorrow to the former leaders of the village. In the introduction to "The Oraibi Soyal Ceremony" by Professor George A. Dorsey, of the Field Columbian Museum, and Rev. H. R. Voth, his assistant, and formerly a Mennonite missionary at Oraibi, this dissension is spoken of as follows: "During the year 1891 representatives of the Indian Department made strenuous efforts to secure pupils for the government school located at Keam's Canyon, about forty miles from Oraibi. This effort on the part of the government was bitterly resented by a certain faction of the people of Oraibi, who seceded from LolÚlomai, the village chief, and soon after began to recognize Lomahungyoma as leader. The feeling on the part of this faction against the party under LolÚlomai was further intensified by the friendly attitude the Liberals took toward other undertakings of the government, such as allotment of land in severalty, the building of dwelling-houses at the foot of the mesa, the gratuitous distribution of American clothing, agricultural implements, etc. The division thus created manifested itself not only in the everyday life of the people, but also in their religious ceremonies. Inasmuch as the altars and their accessories are the chief elements in these ceremonies, they soon became the special object of controversy, each party contending for their possession; and so it came about that the altars remained to that faction to which the chief priests and those who had them in charge belonged, the members of the opposing faction, as a rule, withdrawing from further participation in the celebration of the ceremony."

The dance plaza is on the western side of the village, and there the dances and other outdoor ceremonies take place.

One of my earliest visits to Oraibi was made in the congenial company of Major Constant Williams, who was then the United States Indian Agent, at Fort Defiance, for the Navahoes and Hopis. We had driven across the Navaho Reservation from Fort Defiance to Keam's Canyon, and then visited the mesas in succession. We drove to the summit of the Oraibi mesa in his buckboard, a new conveyance which he had had made to order at Durango, Colo. The road was the same one up which the soldiers had helped the horses drag the Gatling gun at the time of the arrest of the so-called "hostiles," who were sent to Alcatraz for their refusal to forsake their Oraibi ways and follow the "Washington way." It was a steep, ugly road, rough, rocky, and dangerous. The Major's horses, however, were strong, intelligent, and willing, so we made the ascent with comparative ease. The return, however, was different. There were so many things of interest at Oraibi that I found it hard to tear myself away, and the "shades of night were falling fast"—far too fast for the Major's peace of mind—ere I returned to the buckboard. By the time we had traversed the summit of the mesa to the head of the "trail" part of the descent, it was dark enough to make the cold tremors perambulate up and down one's spine. But I had every confidence in the Major's driving, his horses, and his knowledge of that fearfully precipitous and dangerous road. Slowly we descended, the brake scraping and often entirely holding the wheels. We could see and feel the dark abysses, first on one side and then on the other, or feel the overshadowing of the mighty rock walls which towered above us. I was congratulating myself that we had passed all the dangerous places, and in a few moments should be on the drifted sand, which, though steep, was perfectly safe, when we came to the last "drop off." This can best be imagined by calling it what it was, a steep, rocky stairway, of two or three steps, with a precipice on one side, and a towering wall on the other. Hugging the wall, the upper step extended like a shelf for eight or ten feet, and the nigh horse, disliking to make the abrupt descent of the step, clung close to the wall and walked along the shelf. The off horse dropped down. The result can be imagined. One horse's feet were up at about the level of the other's back. The wheels followed their respective horses. The nigh wheels stayed on the shelf, the off wheels came down the step. The Major and I decided, very suddenly, to leave the buckboard. We were rudely toppled out, down the precipice on the left,—I at the bottom of the heap. Down came camera cases, tripods, boxes of plates, and all the packages of odds and ends I had bought from the Indians, bouncing about our ears. Like a flash the two horses took fright and started off, dragging that overturned buckboard after them. They did not swirl around to the left down the sandy road, but to the right upon a terrace of the rocky mesa, and we saw the sparks fly as the ironwork of the wagon struck and restruck the rocks. The noise and roar and clatter were terrific. Great rocks were started to rolling, and the echoes were enough to awaken the dead. Suddenly there was a louder crash than ever, and then all was silent. We felt our hearts thumping against our ribs, and the only sounds we could hear were their fierce beatings and our own hard breathing. Fortunately, we had landed on a narrow shelf some seven feet down, covered deep with sand, so neither of us was seriously hurt except in our feelings; but imagine the dismay that swept aside all thoughts of thankfulness for our narrow escape when that crash and dread silence came. No doubt horses and buckboard were precipitated over one of the cliffs and had all gone to "eternal smash." My conscience made me feel especially culpable, for had I not detained the Major we should have left the mesa long before it was so dark. I had caused the disaster! It was nothing that I had been "spilt out," that doubtless my cameras were smashed, and the plates I had exposed with so much care and in spite of the opposition of the Hopis were in tiny pieces—for I had clearly heard that peculiar "smash" that spoke of broken glass as I myself landed on the top of my head. Think of that span of fine horses, and the Major's new buckboard! The thought about completed the work of mental and physical paralysis the shock of falling had begun. I was suddenly awakened, not by the Major's voice, for neither of us had yet spoken a word,—and indeed, I didn't know but that he was dead,—but by the scratching of a match. Then he was alive! That was cause for thankfulness. Setting fire to a dried cactus, the Major, after thoroughly picking himself up and shaking himself together, proceeded to gather up the photographic dÉbris. Silently I aided him. Still silently we piled it all together, as much under the shelter of the rocks as possible, and then, still without a word, we climbed back upon the road and started to walk to the house of Mr. Voth, the missionary, where we were stopping. For half a mile or more we trudged on wearily through the deep and yielding sand. Still never a word. We both breathed heavily, for the sand was dreadfully soft. I was wondering what I could say. My conscience so overpowered me that I dared not speak. I was humbling myself, inwardly, into the very dust for having been the unconscious and innocent, yet nevertheless actual cause of this disaster. I simply couldn't break the silence. To offer to pay for the horses and buckboard was easy (though that would be a serious matter to my slender purse) compared with appeasing the sturdy Major for the shock to his mental and physical system. Then, too, how he must feel! At the very thought the cold sweat started on my brow and I could feel it trickling down my chest and back.

Suddenly the Major stopped, and in the darkness I could dimly see him take out his large white handkerchief, mop his brow and head, and then, with explosive force, but in a voice charged with deepest and sincerest feeling he broke the painful silence: "Thank God, the sun isn't shining."

Brave-hearted, generous Major Williams! Not a word of reproach, no suggestion of blame. What a relief to my burdened soul. I was almost hysterical in my ready response. Yes, we could be thankful that our lives and limbs were spared. We were both unhurt. New horses and buckboard could be purchased, but life and health preserved called for thankfulness to the Divine Protector.

Thus we congratulated ourselves as we slowly plodded along through the sand. Arrived at Mr. Voth's, we soon retired,—he in the bedroom prepared for him by kindly Mrs. Voth, I in my blankets outside. The calm face of the sky soon soothed my disquieted feelings and nerves, and in a short time I fell asleep. Not a thought disturbed me until just as the faintest peepings of dawn began to show on the eastern ridges, when, awakening, I heard a noise as of a horse shaking his harness close by. Like a flash I jumped up, and, in my night-robe though I was, rushed to the entrance to the corral. There, unharmed and uninjured, with harness upon them complete, the lines dangling down behind, the neck yoke holding them together, as if they were just brought from the stable ready to be hitched to the wagon, were the two horses which I had vividly pictured to myself as dashed to pieces upon the cruel rocks at the foot of one of the mesa precipices.

I could scarcely refrain from shouting my joy. Hastily I dressed, and while dressing thought: "The horses are here; I'll go and hunt for the wagon." So noiselessly I hitched them to Mr. Voth's buckboard and drove off. When I came to the scene of the disaster, I found I could drive upon the rocky terrace. There was no difficulty in following the course of the runaways. Here was part of the seat, farther on some of the ironwork, and still farther the dashboard. At last I reached the overturned and dismantled vehicle. It was in a sorry state. Two of the wheels were completely dished, the seat and dashboard were "scraped" off, one whiffletree was broken, and the whole thing looked as if it had been rudely treated in a tornado. I turned it over, tied the wheels so that they would hold, and then, fastening it behind Mr. Voth's buckboard, slowly drove back to the house.

When the Major awoke he was as much surprised and pleased as I was to find the horses safe and sound and the buckboard in a repairable condition. With a little man?uvring we got the vehicle as far as Keam's Canyon, where old Jack Tobin, the blacksmith, fixed it up so that it could be driven back to Fort Defiance, and thither, with care and caution, the Major drove me. A few weeks later, under the healing powers of the agency blacksmith, the buckboard renewed its youth,—new wheels, new seat, new dashboard, and an all covering new coat of paint wiped out the memories of our trip down from the Oraibi mesa, except those we carried in the depths of our own consciousness.