As for Shotaye, the case was different; she might leave her cave and her scanty effects at any time, provided she knew where to go. This was not so easy to determine. The Navajos, or Dinne, haunted the country around the Tyuonyi; and in case she fell in with one or more of their number, it became a matter of life or death. The Moshome, or enemies of her tribe, might take a fancy to the woman and spare her; but they might feel wicked and kill her. Death appeared, after all, not such a terrible misfortune; for under present circumstances what else could she expect at the Rito but a horrible and atrocious death? But Shotaye was intent upon living, not so much for the sake of life itself—although it had many sensual charms for her—as out of a spirit of combativeness resulting from her resolute character, as well as from the constant struggles which she had undergone during the time of her separation from her husband. She felt inclined to live, if possible, in spite of her enemies. To endure the lot of a captive among the Navajos was repulsive to her instincts; she hated to be a drudge. Admitting that she succeeded in eluding those enemies, whither was she to direct her flight? That there were village communities similar to her own at a remote distance was known to her; but she was aware of only one in which she might be received, and that belonged to the Tehuas, of whom she knew that a branch dwelt in the mountains west of the river, inhabiting caves somewhere in the rocks at one day's journey, more or less, from the Rito. Between these Tehuas and the Queres of the Tyuonyi there was occasional intercourse, and a fairly beaten trail led from one place to the other; but this intercourse was so much interrupted by hostilities, and the Navajos rendered the trail so insecure beside, that she had never paid much attention to it. Still, there was no doubt in her mind that if she reached the habitations of the Tehuas, above where the pueblo of Santa Clara now stands, a hospitable reception would be extended to her. But could she leave Say alone to her dismal fate?
After all, death was not such a fearful thing, so long as no torture preceded or accompanied it. Death must come to her once, at all events, and then what of it? There need be no care for the hereafter, according to her creed. The Pueblo Indian knows of no atonement after dying; all sins, all crimes, are punished during this life. When the soul is released from the thralls of this body and its surrounding nature, it goes to Shipapu, at the bottom of the lagune, where there is eternal dancing and feasting, and where everything goes on as here upon earth, but with less pain, care, anguish, and danger. Why therefore shun death? Shotaye was in what we should call a philosophic mood.
Such careless philosophy may temporarily ease the mind, since it stifles for a moment the pangs of apprehension and dread. But with the temporary relief which Shotaye felt, the demands of physical nature grew more apparent. In other words she felt hungry, and the more so as, being now almost resolved to suffer death with resignation, it was imperative to live, and consequently to eat, until Death should knock at her door. She poured a good portion of the now boiling stew into a smaller bowl and began to fish out the morsels with her fingers, while between times she drank of the broth. The warm food comforted her, gave her strength, and aroused her vital powers, which arduous thinking had almost put to sleep.
She placed the pot with the stew in a corner and sat down again, leaning against the wall. No sleepiness affected her. There was too much to think of as yet. Her thoughts returned to the absorbing subject of the day, and with these thoughts, random at first, a pale, wan figure rose before her inner eye,—a form well, only too well, known to her; that of Say Koitza. She saw that figure as she had seen it not long ago,—crouching before that very fire in bitterest despair, bewailing her own lot, lamenting her imminent untimely death, and yet without one single word of reproach for her who had beguiled her into doing what now might result in the destruction of both. Was not that thin, trembling woman her victim? Was she not the one who had led Say astray? The Indian knows not what conscience is, but he feels it all the same; and Shotaye, ignorant of the nature of remorse, nevertheless grew sad.
Indeed she it was who had beguiled the poor frail creature,—she it was who had caused her to perform an act which, however immaterial in fact, still entailed punishment of the severest kind according to Indian notions and creed. She was the real culprit, not Say,—poor, innocent, weak-minded Say. Shotaye felt that she had done wrong, and that she alone deserved to suffer. But would her punishment save the other? Hardly, according to Indian ideas. Therefore, while it dawned upon her that by accusing herself boldly and publicly she might perhaps ward off the blow from the head of her meek and gentle accomplice, that thought was quickly stifled by the other, that it was impracticable. Again a voice within her spoke boldly, Save yourself regardless of the other.
Yet she discarded that advice. She could not forsake her victim. For in addition to the legitimate motives of sympathy, another and stronger reason prevailed,—the dread of the very powers whom she thought to have invoked in Say's behalf, and to whose dark realm she fancied that she would be fettered and still faster riveted by committing an action which she regarded as worse than all her other deeds. Dismissing every thought of self she resolved to remain true to Say, happen what might. Shotaye had almost become—
"part of the power that still
Produceth good, whilst ever scheming ill."
She believed that death stood plainly at her door. Nevertheless she hated to die. The philosophy of careless, frivolous resignation could not satisfy her strong vitality, still less her stronger feelings of hatred against her enemies. She felt that there might be a bare possibility of saving her companion; and the wish to save herself at the same time, and in the very teeth as it were of the Koshare, grew stronger and stronger. It waxed to an intense longing for life and revenge. But what was to be done? There was the riddle, and to solve it she thought and thought. Shotaye became oblivious of all around her, completely absorbed in her musings.
It thus escaped her notice that the curtain over the doorway had been cautiously lifted several times, and that a human face had peered into the apartment. She even failed to hear the shuffling step of two men who stealthily entered the room. Only when they stood quite near her did the woman start and look up. Both men broke out into roaring laughter at her surprise. Shotaye grew angry.
"Why do you come in so unceremoniously," she cried. "Why do you sneak in here like a Moshome, or like a prairie wolf after carrion? Cannot you speak, you bear?" she scolded without rising.