There she lay, outside the hut, with a reed matting over her face, her life fast ebbing away. It was about an hour before sunset. The Indians were getting restless, when the missionary walked into their midst. Seeing the form on the ground, he stooped down, taking the matting from the Indian woman’s face.
She whispered: “Water.” Reluctantly it was brought by the Indian husband, but a few minutes later she became quite unconscious. The eyes of the Indians were anxiously looking, not towards the dying woman, but toward the sinking sun, for she must be buried before sunset. They would all have to pack up and hurry away to a new camping place, where the woman’s spirit could not follow.
Impatiently they stepped forward, but were waved back by the missionary. Her grave was ready, everything was prepared for the funeral rites.
“The spirit has not left her yet,” he said; “do not touch her.”
“But we must hasten, or darkness will be upon us before we leave,” replied the husband; “we cannot break our custom.”
The missionary held them off as long as he could, till finally they bore her away. Stepping into their hut, he heard a faint noise, and seeing a small, dark object on the floor, he stooped down and tenderly lifted up the now motherless baby girl. What a dear, wee, brown living thing she was!
Turning round he saw her father, who held out his arms saying that he had come to take her away to be buried with her mother. The missionary gazed at him with horror in his eyes.
“Oh, but you are not going to kill her, surely?” said he, hugging Baby closer.
“Of course not,” said the father; “we are going to put her in the ground alive. It is our custom!”
He did not think about the cruelty of such a proceeding. It was part of their religion, and, therefore, must be carried out. So there was a tussle between the father and the missionary for the Chaco baby’s life, and I am glad to say the missionary won, but the Indians did not like it at all.