FOREVER and forever the Three Brothers sit looking over each other’s shoulders from the north wall of Ah-wah-nee.

The Indians likened these peaks to frogs sitting back upon their haunches ready to leap, and called them Kom-po-pai-ses, the Leaping Frog Rocks. This the white man did not know when he named them the Three Brothers.

The story of the Three Brothers is history, not tradition. It has to do with the coming of the white man to Ah-wah-nee, and the downfall of Ten-ie-ya, the last chief of the Ah-wah-nee-chees.

Across the plains that billow away toward the sea, Ten-ie-ya watched the approach of the white stranger, having always in mind the words of the old man who was his counselor when he left the land of his Mo-no mother and returned to Ah-wah-nee to rule over his father’s people.

The patriarch had heard the call of the Great Spirit, bidding him to the happy land of the West, and had told Ten-ie-ya many things. This, last of all:

“Obey my word, O Ten-ie-ya, and your people shall be many as the blades of grass, and none shall dare to bring war into Ah-wah-nee. But look you ever, my son, against the white horsemen of the great plains beyond; for once they have crossed the western mountains, your tribe will scatter as the dust before a desert wind, and never come together again. Guard well your stronghold, O Ten-ie-ya, lest you be the last of the great chiefs of Ah-wah-nee.”

The faded eyes had the light that comes when the call of the Great Spirit sounds very near, and the feeble hand of the patriarch trembled as he raised his pipe above his head, and said:

“Great Spirit, I pray be good to my son, the chief of the Ah-wah-nee-chees. Toward the pines, north, cold wind treat him kindly; toward the rising sun, east, great sun shine upon his lodge in the early morning; toward the place where the sun goes in winter, south, bless my son; toward the land of the setting sun, west, waft on the breezes a peaceful sleep. And, lowering my pipe, I say, kind mother earth, when you receive my son into your warm bosom, hold him gently. Let the howl of the coyote, the roaring of the bear and the mountain-lion, and the sound of winds swaying the tops of the pine trees, be to him a sweet lullaby.”

Because of these last words of the dying seer, Ten-ie-ya guarded his mountain retreat as a she-bear guards the refuge of her young. With vague foreboding he saw the white horsemen coming nearer. They took the land that the Great Spirit had made for the people of his race. They burrowed into it like moles, and washed the sands of its rivers, searching for something yellow and shining that the Indian neither knew was there nor cared to know. They grazed their horses and their cattle upon the broad stretches that had been the Indian’s hunting-ground since time began. They even went so far, these pale-faced strangers, as to steal Indian women for their wives. And always they made their camps nearer and nearer to Ah-wah-nee.

While the vigor of youth remained, Ten-ie-ya did not fear these men of an alien race. He only hated them. With his band of lawless Grizzlies he stole forth in the night and drove away their horses to kill for food; and as they feasted, drunk with the taste of warm blood, their spirits were made bold, and the deep gorge rang with shouts of defiance.

But Ten-ie-ya grew old, and the white horsemen of the plains, now strong in number, were at the very walls of Ah-wah-nee. The words of the dying patriarch were ever in his ears, and he knew that the evil day was come.

At last the white men climbed the western mountains, offering gifts in the name of the Great Father, their chief; and when they went away they led Ten-ie-ya captive to their camp. The young braves fled from Ah-wah-nee, across To-co-yah, the North Dome, to the home of the Mo-nos. It was well that Ten-ie-ya should go to the plains, they said; but they were young and could find plenty in the mountains; they would not go to be herded like horses in the white man’s camp.

Though he appeared to yield, the spirit of Ten-ie-ya was not broken. Like a wild beast in captivity, he chafed under restraint. With the cunning of his race, he watched his chance; and when it came, he returned to his stronghold in the Sky Mountains, bearing in his heart a fiercer hate for the white man, a hate made keener by defeat, a hate that burned for revenge.

But an evil spell seemed cast upon the children of Ah-wah-nee. They were scattered, and they did not rally round their chief. Again the white horsemen climbed the western mountains, this time without gifts. But day and night signal fires had burned upon the mountain tops; and when the messengers of the Great Father entered Ah-wah-nee they found the valley deserted, save for five dark figures that darted like shadows from tree to rock at the base of a jagged spur of the northern wall.

Feeling themselves secure because of the swollen river that lay between, the five scouts came into the open when discovered, and mocked the strangers; then disappeared up the side of a cliff so straight and pathless that no white man could follow. By fair promises carried to them by an Indian guide they were induced to come into camp, and three of them were found to be sons of Ten-ie-ya.

It does not speak for the faith of white men that one of the brothers was killed while held as hostage until the aged chief should come in and deliver himself to the messengers of the Great Father; and that only an uncertain aim saved another who tried to escape through the CaÑon of the Arrow-wood, where his father was hiding. When he saw it was useless to resist further these fearless, faithless horsemen of the plains, who had stolen his lands and his women, who would not let him live in peace in his mountains, Ten-ie-ya came down from Le-ham-i-te, the CaÑon of the Arrow-wood, by a trail that led into the valley through the branches of a giant oak.

The first sight that met the gaze of the twice-conquered chieftain was the dead body of his youngest son. He spoke no word, but lines of sorrow appeared in the hard, old face; and secretly, in the heart of the night, he had the young chief’s body carried away—none knew where. Once more he tried for his liberty; once more was captured. Then in a passion of grief and rage, he turned his bare breast to his captors, and cried:

“Kill me, white chief, as you have killed my son, as you would kill all my people if they would but come to you. You have brought sorrow to my heart. For me the sun shines no more. Kill me, white chief, and when I am dead I will call my people, that they shall come and avenge the death of their chief and his son. My spirit will follow your footsteps forever. I will not leave the spirit world, you will not see me, but I will follow you where you go and you will know it is the spirit of the old chief, and you will fear me and grow cold. This is the message of the Great Spirit.”

But Ten-ie-ya’s hour was not yet come. He was to die, for an act of treachery, at the hands of the Mo-nos, his mother’s people. Even so, the prophecy of the seer was fulfilled, for the white horsemen of the plains had crossed the western mountains, the tribe was scattered, never to come together again, and Ten-ie-ya was the last great chief of the Ah-wah-nee-chees.

Because his three sons were captured at its base, the triple peak in the northern wall was given the name Three Brothers.

THIS EDITION OF YOSEMITE LEGENDS WAS
DONE FOR PAUL ELDER AND COMPANY
AT THE TOMOYÉ PRESS, SAN FRANCISCO, IN
THE YEAR NINETEEN HUNDRED AND FOUR