a number of the prettiest waifs one ever saw. They are children of the
Kâkâ, but what matters that? They are there, running back and forth and clanging their rattles along the very edge of Thunder Mountain. I mean to steal them tomorrow, every one of them, and bring them here!”
“Mercy on us!” exclaimed the old Coyote’s wife. “There are children enough and to spare already. What in the world can we do with all of them, you fool?”
“But they are pretty,” said the Coyote. “Immensely fine! Every Coyote in the country would envy us the possession of them!”
“But you say they are many,” continued the wife.
“Well, yes, a good many,” said the Coyote.
“Well, why not divide them among our associated clans?” suggested the old woman. “You never can capture them alone; it is rare enough that you capture anything alone, leave out the children of the Kʻyámakwe. Get your relatives to help you, and divide the children amongst them.”
“Well, now, come to think of it, it is a good plan,” said the Coyote, with his nose on his neck. “If I get up this expedition I’ll be a big chief, won’t I? Hurrah! Here’s for it!” he shouted; and, switching his tail in the face of his wife, he shot out of the hole and ran away to a high rock, where, squatting down with a most important air and his nose lifted high, he cried out:
“Au hii lâ-â-â-â!
Su Homaya-kwe!
Su Kemaya-kwe!
Su Ayalla-kwe!
Su Kutsuku-kwe!
[Listen ye all!
Coyotes of the Cedar-canyon tribe!
Coyotes of the Sunflower-stalk-plain tribe!
Coyotes of the Lifted-stone-mountain tribe!
Coyotes of the Place-of-rock-gullies tribe!]
I have instructions for you this day. I have found waif children many—of the Kʻyámakwe, the young. I would steal the waif-children many, of the Kʻyámakwe, the young. I would steal them tomorrow, that they may be adopted of us. I would have your aid in the stealing of the Kʻyámakwe young. Listen ye all, and tomorrow gather in council. Thus much I instruct ye:
“Coyotes of the Cedar-canyon tribe!
Coyotes of the Sunflower-stalk-plain tribe!
Coyotes of the Lifted-stone-mountain tribe!
Coyotes of the Place-of-rock-gullies tribe!”
It was growing dark, and immediately from all quarters, in dark places under the canyons and arroyos, issued answering howls and howls. You should have seen that crowd of Coyotes the next morning, large and small, old and young—all four tribes gathered together in the plain below Thunder Mountain!
When they had all assembled, the Coyote who had made the discovery mounted an anthill, sat down, and, lifting his paw, was about to give directions with the air of a chief when an ant bit him. He lost his dignity, but resumed it again on the top of a neighboring rock. Again he stuck his nose into the air and his paw out, and with ridiculous assumption informed the Coyotes that he was chief of them all and that they would do well to pay attention to his directions. He then showed himself much more skilful than you might have expected. As you know, the cliff of Thunder Mountain is very steep, especially that part back of the two standing rocks. Well, this was the direction of the Coyote:
“One of you shall place himself at the base of the mountain; another shall climb over him, and the first one shall grasp his tail; and another over them, and his tail shall be grasped by the second, and so on until the top is reached. Hang tight, my friends, everyone of you, and everyone fall in line. Eructate thoroughly before you do so. If you do not, we may be in a pretty mess; for, supposing that anyone along the line should hiccup, he would lose his hold, and down we would all fall!”
So the Coyotes all at once began to curve their necks and swell themselves up and strain and wriggle and belch wind as much as possible. Then all fell into a line and grabbed each other’s tails, and thus they extended themselves in a long string up the very face of Thunder Mountain. A ridiculous little pup was at one end and a good, strong, grizzled old fellow—no other than the chief of the party—at the other.
“Souls of my ancestors! Hang tight, my friends! Hang tight! Hang tight!” said he, when, suddenly, one near the top, in the agitation of the moment, began to sneeze, lost his hold, and down the whole string, hundreds of them, fell, and were completely flattened out among the rocks.
The warrior of the Kâkâ—he of the Long Horn, with frightful, staring eyes, and visage blue with rage—bow and war-club in hand, was hastening from the sacred lake in the west to rescue the children of the Kʻyámakwe. When he arrived they had been rescued already, so, after storming around a little and mauling such of the Coyotes as were not quite dead, he set to skin them all.
And ever since then you will observe that the dancers of the Long Horn have blue faces, and whenever they arrive in our pueblo wear collars of coyote-skin about their necks. That is the way they got them. Before that they had no collars. It is presumable that that is the reason why they bellow so and have such hoarse voices, having previously taken cold, every one of them, for the want of fur collars.
Thus shortens my story.
The Coyote and the Beetle
In remote times, after our ancients were settled at Middle Ant Hill, a little thing occurred which will explain a great deal.
My children, you have doubtless seen Tip-beetles. They run around on smooth, hard patches of ground in spring time and early summer, kicking their heels into the air and thrusting their heads into any crack or hole they find.
Well, in ancient times, on the pathway leading around to Fat Mountain, there was one of these Beetles running about in all directions in the sunshine, when a Coyote came
