The Eagle spread his wings and sailed gently through the air as the maiden sang. Then the people in the plaza below heard the song, and said: “Alas, alas! ye Twain!” said they to the two gods who led the dance. “Our mother, our child, away off through the skies goes she! Ye are fools that ye have let her escape and deceive us!”
Some listened to the song and learned it. Others did not. For the third time the dancers came forth. “Once more have we to dance,” said the two gods. “Where are they now?”
“In the mid-heavens,” said the people.
“Take it easily, my child,” said the Eagle. “Once more are they to come forth. Possibly we will yet have the great good fortune to reach the home of our father.” And they sped along through the air, nearer and nearer to the home of the Sun-father, while the dancers below danced harder and harder—many so joyful that they listened not to the complainings of the people around, but danced only more vigorously.
Then the dancers retired and came out for the fourth and last time. In the van danced the two gods, their faces blackened with the paint of war, their hands bearing bows and arrows with which to destroy the daughter of the priest-chief.
Yes, they were almost there. Now, the Eagle’s heart was high with hope. When the two gods below reached the center of the plaza they turned to the people and asked: “Where are they? Where have they gone?”
“There they are in the skies—almost there,” replied the people.
“Humph!” responded the gods. “Suppose they are almost there; they shall never reach the home of our father!”
“Now, then, hurry, brother younger!” exclaimed the elder; “with which hand wilt thou draw the arrow?”
“With thy hand, my right,” said the younger.
“Very well; with thy hand, my left,” said the elder.41
So they drew their medicine-pointed arrows to the heads. Tsi‑ni‑i‑i! sang the arrows as they shot through the air. Soon they reached the home of the Sun, crossed one another over his face, and shot downward more swiftly than ever toward the coming Eagle and the maiden. “Alas! my mother, my child,” said the Sun as the arrows flew past him and from him, “thou art no more.” And the arrows shot downward on their course.
Tsook! sang the arrow of the elder god as it pierced the back of the girl and entered her heart. Tso‑ko! sang the arrow of the younger as it struck in the middle of her back.
“Alas! my mother, my mother,” cried the Eagle, “it is over, alas, alas!” said he, as she released her hold, and, fainting, he left her to fall through the air. Over and over, this way and that, fell the beautiful maiden; and as the people strained their eyes, nearer and nearer to the town neath the mountain she fell. Soon, over and over, this way and that, she came falling even with the top of the mountain.
Then the people rushed past one another out of the plaza toward the place where they thought she would strike. And just over there below the Home of the Eagles, where the Waters of the Coyote gush forth from the cliff-base, fell the beautiful maiden.
Then there were born twin children—two wee infants who rolled off into the rubbish and were concealed under sticks and stones.
Down rushed the people, and an Acoma spectator seized her body. “Mine!” cried he, triumphantly, as he raised the body above him.
“Thine!” cried the people, for they had lost the beautiful maiden.
“Ours!” cried the Acomas, one to another, who had come to witness the dances. “Great good fortune this day has smiled on us.” And they bore her body away to their pueblo in the east.
Now, under the other end of Thunder Mountain was the home of the Badgers, and an old Badger who lived there was out hunting. After the people had again gathered in the city, he passed near the Waters of the Coyote and heard the voices of the infants crying among the rubbish.
“Ah!” said he, “I hear the cry of children. My little boys, my little girls,” cried he, “whichever ye may be”; and he hastily searched and found them where they were rolling about and crying among the refuse. “Twins!” cried he. “Boys! Somebody has left them here. Soon he will come back to reclaim them. Let me walk away for a few moments.”
So he walked all around, but found no traces of the parents, only the tracks of many men who had gathered near.
“Mine!” said he, as he trotted back; and with soft grass he rubbed them till they were free from the mud and refuse. “Thanks, thanks! Splendid! Children have I, and boys at that, and when I am older grown they will take from me the cares of the chase. Goodness! Thanks! Nothing but boys shall be my children!” So he rubbed them dry and clean with more soft grass, and they stopped crying. Then he took some dry grass and made a bundle and put them in it, and started off for his home in the Red Hills.
The old Badger-woman was up on top of their house looking around, running back and forth and jumping in and out of her doorway. “Hai!” said she; “thou comest?”
“Yes, hurry!” said the old Badger. “Come down and meet me.”
“What have you?” asked the Badger-woman, as she ran down to meet him.
“What have I,” said the old Badger, “but a couple of wee little children! Here, take them and carry them up to the house.”
So the old woman took the bundle of grass and opened it and began to fondle the children. “O my poor little children; poor little babes!” said she.
“Ah! stop
