THE LAST OF HIS TRIBE

The thing sprawled on the white stone of the Giant's Steps, in the canyon. Closer scrutiny proved it to be a man who lay on his stomach drinking out of a blue pool of water. He stood up and showed what a miserable thing he was. He had been white, and displayed the pitiable plight of the civilized man reduced to dire extremity. His horny feet were encased in ungainly moccasins, shaggy goatskin swathed him about the middle, while his poor shoulders shivered under their covering of rabbit skins pieced together. The muscles stood out like whip cords on his emaciated limbs. The head, unkempt and shaggy, had a ferocious appearance which was enhanced by the eyes that seemed starting out of his head.

He stooped and filled a misshapen jar with water, then gathered up a leather pouch that contained wild grapes, and a haunch of venison. They were all presents for Gualzine, the woman up at the clift house in gloomy Cave Valley. The deer had cost the life of a man. When the woman sickened and could no longer munch the corn nor drink the water of the place, Ulric and his friend Izehara, had ventured forth in search of fresh meat. A rash undertaking at any time, it was particularly dangerous when the cave dwellers were expecting an attack from their inveterate enemies, the Lamanites. So the chief of the tribe told them when they left, but the remembrance of the woman moaning on her pallet lent wings to their feet.

They shot the doe on the morning of the second day out. They startled her at dawn as she grazed. Though the arrow sped true, she ran a hundred and fifty yards before she fell. They found her panting in the brush. Ulric left Izehara to carve the meat and prepare the camp while he went higher up to look at the traps.

When he found that one of them had caught an old silvertip, he wished that the other man had come along. He beat her to death with his club, and when the quivering brute lay down, the day was well advanced. "I will bring Izehara up to help me skin her. It will make a warm robe for Gualzine." Then panic seized him. What if she were already dead?

Haunted by this new fear, he hurried back to camp where new horrors awaited him. By the side of the partially dismembered deer, Izehara lay writhing in the last stages of poisoning. He had been bitten by a rattle-snake. Ulric flung himself down and applied his lips to the wound. He was too late; even as he sucked the poison out, his friend looked at him for the last time, then closed his eyes forever.

The survivor built up the fire and gnawed at the rarely, broiled meat from a sense of duty, for he knew that he must keep his strength up. He devoted what daylight remained to getting in the wood. During the everlasting hours of the night he prodded himself to keep awake to watch the precious food and the corpse. The coyotes howled in the distance, but more to be feared was the mountain lion, that sends no halloo of its coming.

Though seldom seen, wherever the prey is, there will it be. As his straining ears imagined a padded footfall, he built the fire up until the flames arose and lighted the rock walls of the canyon. Even the "cat" fears man's "red flower"—fire.

At dawn he dragged the dead body down to a gully and covered it up with leaves. He wondered how long the wolves would leave them there. He regretfully left them most of the deer, for urged on always with the thought of the woman, he must travel light. If the horrors of their surroundings palled on him, what must it be to her? A forlorn, transplanted thing she had come among these wild men and won their rude hearts.

Even Ulric, a long time before, had lived in a city. It was called Teotihuacan, which means "House of God," and was famed far and wide for its great pyramids for worship. This fair city contained many splendid houses, although Ulric did not know so much about that, as he was only one of the common people. It had been prophesied that the inhabitants would be destroyed because of their unbelief. Then the Lamanite hordes swept down upon them, and the men went out to fight them. The fields around Teotihuacan were spangled with black bits of obsidian where the opposing warriors shattered one another's spears. When the Indians began to massacre the women, they, with children clinging to their skirts, fought them back. After that Ulric didn't like to remember what happened.

He, with a few survivors had taken refuge in the subterranean city, where there were chambers just as above ground, and a black well with plenty of water. Only they had no sunlight and some of the women sickened and died. When their enemies had left, they sneaked out and made their way across the desert to the north until they reached the Sierra Madres, on the pinnacles of whose peaks they perched their eyries built of sundried mud. They carried up handfuls of soil from the valley and plastered it on the ledges, where they raised a little stunted maize. There, in deadly fear of the marauding bands of Lamanites that were wiping out their race, they eked out a miserable existence, a little lower than the beasts.

So outnumbered were they that only by the utmost caution did they manage to live. The rooms were dark as the apertures were small and had to be crawled through by means of rope ladders that they pulled in after them. They had got so used to climbing over the rocks that they sprang among them like goats.

People who exist in daily fear of their lives do not go in for art. So the cave dwellers' implements were crude, their pottery deformed, and their necessities scant. Obsessed with the idea of keeping the life in them from one day to another, they had lost their sense of feeling, when Gualzine came among them. She was sent accompanied by two attendants, from a neighboring cliff dwelling, for safe keeping during time of war. The other cliff house was demolished, so Gualzine took up her abode in the new place. She was the daughter of the High Priest and the last of her blood. A wan, washed out thing, she took little interest in her mediocre surroundings. Time was when she had been beautiful, as her portrait on the wall of the casa of the priests at Teotihuacan could prove. They called it "Queen of Hearts." But grim circumstance will leave its impress on the fairest form.

Though she toiled not, a new impetus evinced itself in the colony. Like the queen bee, others worked for her, and comforts appeared. She showed the boys how to mould their pottery better, and played with the children and hushed their wails, so that their dragged out mother might be less dispondent. She made ready threaded needles out of the thorns and fibers of the maguey that grows on the foothills, and taught the men how to make medicine from its juice. She was eyes to old Malcre when she sewed the skin garments in the poor light, and she cut out better patterns for their sandals. Because she would eat nothing but cooked food, the others gave up their way of eating it half raw. The men brought fresh pine boughs to sleep on, and they hunted up warmer covering because this frail thing had to be protected. When she fell sick it was a dire calamity. All the inmates loved her. Little wonder that Ulric showed such dog-like devotion.

Dropping with exhaustion, every step a pain, he approached Cave Valley. Finally he lost consciousness of his aching muscles; only one nagging instinct whipped him on. He must get to the house with his precious burden, fresh meat and grapes and good water from the Steps. That ought to put her on her feet again. The water was the hardest to carry. He was afraid that he might spill it. She would have liked the big thick bear robe. It would have been so soft while she was sick. Izehara had died and he couldn't bring it. Poor Izahara, up there in the cold. Then the old gnawing fear. What if she were gone and all of his torture were in vain? The thought spurred on his flagging strength, so he stumbled into the valley. Ulric looked towards the cliffs that he called home. In the evening haze he could not distinguish the familiar curl of smoke. Torn by uncertainty, he hurried up the side of the mountain. He stopped short. The growing feeling that something was wrong was realized. What was the matter with the garden? The corn, which was almost ripe, had been trampled down. At the same instant his foot touched something soft. He reached down, then drew back. The boy Kohath lay there with an arrow in his breast, stark dead. He had been shot down while he was carrying wood. Why hadn't they picked him up and carried him in? Cold chills shook him. What if they were all dead? What if the Indians were there now, waiting for him. Where was Gualzine? Cautiously, he crept along the terrace through the maize.

He waited for what to him seemed an age, while the wolves howled in the distance. No sign of life issued from the place. He could stand it no longer. He must find out what had happened to Gualzine. Careless of his own fate, he went down.

THE CORN CRIB OF THE CITY IN THE GLOOM.

The entrance showed signs of a conflict. Chunks of plaster had been dislodged. His people had put up a fight. As little things will often attract attention in dire extremities, so the first thing he noticed on entering, were the dead white ashes scattered on the hearth. Nearby was a broken pot of hominy, partly spilled.

The massacre had taken place the day before. One of the men lay dead by the fireplace, also the thirteen-year-old girl. The maurauders would have no object in slaying her. Ulric wondered if she had killed herself. The form he sought wasn't there. He passed into the next room. To do so he had to step over the body of the chief that lay through the doorway, a hatchet cleaving his skull. In her chamber he found Merari decapitated. Dear old Merari, Ulric reflected, her servant, who loved her as much as he. Parts of her pallet were scattered about the room, but Gualzine was not there.

Many of the inhabitants were missing. Old Malcre was gone. She could make good corn cakes. The Indians had a use for her. The other woman with her babe was missing. They also had a use for her. Ulric hoped the child would live. He did not think that Gualzine would be carried off without a struggle, yet, search as he would, he could find no shred's of her cotton clothing. What if she had died before the cliff dwelling was attacked? In times of siege it was the custom to bury the dead beneath the floor. He hastily searched through the house but he found no sign of a recent excavation.

The next morning he renewed the hunt. He found that a number of bodies had been thrown over the cliff. Hopeful, yet dreading, he made the precipitous descent. Her remains were not there, although he felt rewarded for the climb, for there were several bodies of the Lamanites. The Nephites had clutched their antagonists and locked in their embrace, and leaped over the cliff with them to destruction.

II.

Alone.

At first, overwhelmed with the disaster, Ulric did not realize his condition. He spent a number of days burying the dead beneath the floor. He placed their implements of war with them, and at the head he put an olla, containing a little of the corn that was left; over all he put a layer of charcoal and covered it up with earth. Merari's head he placed upon a shelf, saying, "You stay there old fellow, and help me. You and I are great pals. You are the only friend I've got left."

In the after days he realized his utter desolation. At first he clung to life and he bounded over the rocks like a hunted thing. One night a party of Lamanite robbers passed through the valley and he watched them from the cliffs. He looked hungrily down into their camp, but dared not move, for fear that they would shoot. Later, when he got frightened of the solitude, he would have gladly given himself up. He became a perfect coward. Most scared of all was he of the stillness. The mountains made him infinitely lonely; he felt as if the peaks weighed down on his chest and he could not get his breath. He foresaw that he would go insane, which gave rise to a new fear. What would happen to him there among the hills if he lost his reason? He could not journey to his own people, for he knew not if any of them were alive.

It was not so bad when he could get out and hunt, but one day he slipped and sprained his ankle. It swelled up and pained so he could not walk. After that he crawled down to the stream to get his water. A new horror developed. The corn was almost gone. Already he could see the bottom of the big olla in which it was kept. Since he could not get out and hunt food he must surely die.

He began to prepare for the end. He would write his story on the wall in red and blue and yellow hieroglyphics. Future generations should know how he, Ulric, had outlived his compeers. He picked up a chisel. As he struck the wall with it, it resounded hollow. He remembered the limestone cave back of it. Funny he hadn't thought of it before! He grasped his bludgeon, and with what was left of his remaining strength, hit the wall. It took many of his weak blows to cave it in, but he also went down with the earth. Staring straight at him was Gualzine. She sat upon a stone dais. Her body had been preserved by the peculiar atmosphere of the cave. On her shrunken form the cotton cloth hung limp.

Slowly the realization forced itself on Ulric. The queer little men of the caves, determined that the daughter of their High Priest should not fall into the hands of the enemy, had walled her up there when threatened with attack. She was alive when they took her there; perhaps she lived when he returned. He had let her be slowly asphyxiated.

Ulric threw himself at her feet with all the grief that his warped nature would allow. That marked the beginning of the fever. Starvation had prepared him for it, for he had got down to counting the kernals of corn. Perhaps the rotting skull had been a friend indeed and lent its malignant aid.

Alone, with parched lips burning with thirst, with no human being to speed the parting soul, Ulric died.

* * * * * * * * * * *

One of an alien race, exploring the cave, found there the skeleton of a man lying along the wall, a crumbling skull on a ledge above, and a mummy seated on a dais.

He pondered, "What a tale those blackened lips might tell if they could only speak!"

STAIRS THAT LEAD TO THE SUMMIT OF THE PYRAMID

PYRAMID OF THE SUN, MEXICO

JARED WAS MURDERED AS HE DESCENDED FROM HIS THRONE