told her many things, and showed her many things which she had not known before, and counselled her thus: “It is not fearful that a maiden should marry; therefore, O maiden, return unto thy people in the Village of the Gateway of the River of Zuni. This morning we will slay rabbits unnumbered for you, and start you on your way, guarding you down the snow-covered valley, and when you are in sight of your home we will leave you, telling you our names.”
So, early in the morning the two gods went forth; and flinging their sticks among the soap-weed plants, behold! as though the soap-weed plants were rabbits, so many lay killed on the snow before these mighty hunters. And they gathered together great numbers of these rabbits, a string for each one of the party; and when the Sun had risen clearer in the sky, and his light sparkled on the snow around them, they took the rabbits to the maiden and presented them, saying: “We will carry each one of us a string of these rabbits.” Then taking her hand, they led her out of the cave and down the valley, until, beyond on the high black mesas at the Gateway of the River of Zuni, she saw the smoke rise from the houses of her village. Then turned the two War-gods to her, and they told her their names. And again she bent low, and breathed on their hands. Then, dropping the strings of rabbits which they had carried close beside the maiden, they swiftly disappeared.
Thinking much of all she had learned, she continued her way to the home of her father and mother; and as she went into the town, staggering under her load of rabbits, the young men and the old men and women and children beheld her with wonder; and no hunter in that town thought of comparing himself with the Maiden Huntress of Kʻyawana Tehua-tsana. The old man and the old woman, who had mourned the night through and sat up anxiously watching, were overcome with happiness when they saw their daughter returning; and as she laid the rabbits at their feet, she said: “Behold! my father and my mother, foolish have I been, and much danger have I passed through, because I forgot the ways of a woman and assumed the ways of a man. But two wondrous youths have taught me that a woman may be a huntress and yet never leave her own fireside. Behold! I will marry, when some good youth comes to me, and he will hunt rabbits and deer for me, for my parents and my children.”
So, one day, when one of those youths who had seen her come in laden with rabbits, and who had admired her time out of mind, presented himself with a bundle at the maiden’s fireside, behold! she smilingly and delightedly accepted him. And from that day to this, when women would hunt rabbits or deer, they marry, and behold, the rabbits and deer are hunted.
Thus shortens my story.
The Ugly Wild Boy Who Drove the Bear Away from Southeastern Mesa
In the days of the ancients there lived with his old grandmother, not far from Kʻiákime, east, where the sweet wafer-bread is pictured on the rocks, a frightfully ugly boy. The color of his body and face was blue. He had a twisted nose, crooked scars of various colors ran down each side of his face, and he had a bunch of red things like peppers on his head; in fact, in all ways he resembled the Héhea, or the wild men of the Sacred Dance who serve as runners to the priest-clowns.
Now, one season it had rained so much that the piñon trees were laden with nuts, and the datilas were heavy with fruit, and the gray grass and red-top were so heavy with seeds that even when the wind did not blow they bent as if in a breeze.
In vain the people of Kʻiákime went to the Southeastern Mesa, where the nut trees and datilas and grass grew. They could not gather the nuts and the fruit and the seeds, because of the ugly old Bear who claimed the country and its products for his own, and waxed fat thereon. Some of the people were killed by him, others were maimed, and all the rest were driven away.
One day the ugly little boy said to his grandmother: “O grandmother, I am going out to gather datilas and piñon nuts on the Southeastern Mesa.”
“Child, child!” cried the grandmother, “do not go; do not, by any means, go! You know very well there is an ugly Bear there who will either kill you or maim you frightfully.”
“I don’t care for all that!” cried the boy; “I am going!” Whereupon he went.
He followed the trail called the Road of the Pending Meal-sack, and he climbed the crooked path up Shoyakoskwe (Southeastern Mesa), and advanced over the wide plateau. No sooner had he begun to pluck the sweet datila fruit and eat of it, and had cracked between his teeth an occasional piñon nut, than “Wha‑a‑a‑a!” snarled the old Bear; and he came rushing out of the nearest thicket toward the boy.
“U shoma kutchi kihe!” shouted the boy. “Friend, friend, don’t bite me! It’ll hurt! Don’t bite me! I came to make a bargain with you.”
“I’d like to know why I shouldn’t bite you!” growled the Bear. “I’ll tear you to pieces. What have you come to my country for, stealing my fruit and nuts and grass-seed?”
“I came to get something to eat,” replied the boy. “You have plenty.”
“Indeed, I have not. I will let you pick nothing. I will tear you to pieces!” said the Bear.
“Don’t, don’t, and I will make a bargain with you,” said the boy.
“Who should talk of bargains to me?” yelled the Bear, cracking a small pine-tree to pieces with his paws and teeth, so great was his rage.
“These things
