Kwasa the cliff dweller

by Katharine Atherton Grimes

The sun came up, hot and strong, just as he emerged from the shadows of the last wooded canyon and stepped forth upon the wide-spaced plateau that stretched away toward Walpi. There was no chance for cover now, he realized, a little startled at the thought, for he had not before considered this difference between a trail on the plateau and one through the canyons. If he had not been afraid both of delay and of losing the trail if he should attempt to follow it by night he would have liked to lie down in a hidden nook and wait for dusk again rather than to run the risk of a race across such open and dangerous country by day. But he knew no time should be lost, so, eating his breakfast from his food-bag as he went along, he swung forward with the long, easy strides of one who is accustomed to travel much by foot.

It was the middle of the forenoon when a fitful gust of wind brought a strange, regular, pounding sound to his ears. He could not think what it was. Again it came, louder than before, a sharp, ringing “clickety-clicket,” that brought him to a standstill. Then, too late for flight or any chance of concealment, he recognized the sound as one that he had never heard more than once or twice in his life—the beating of hard-ridden ponies’ hoofs.

In another minute he saw them coming, a cloud of dark, terrible riders in fantastic head-dress, with their almost naked bodies horribly striped and scarred. At a glance he knew them, though his only idea of them had been formed from the tales he had heard the men tell, and in the same moment gave himself up for lost. For they were the hated enemies whose awful deeds made the blood run cold at the barest thought of them—the Utes of the northeastern mountains.

[Kwasa knew they had seen him].

[Kwasa knew they had seen him], so, giving up the hope of hiding which had flitted momentarily through his mind, he determined to stand his ground and sell his life as dearly as he could. He ran a few steps from the trail and placed his back against a jutting ledge of rock, at the same time drawing his bow and setting one of his sharpest arrows. Hardly had he time to make even this scanty preparation when they were upon him, a yelling, death-dealing whirlwind of fiendish faces and quick-footed, fiery-eyed ponies.

With an agonized thought of home, of the trust in which he now must fail, and of the terrible danger which was sweeping down upon the Cliff people, he drew his arrow back to the head. Excited as he was, he took steady aim, and a painted warrior slid limply from his pony’s neck and rolled over in the dust. As he hastily fitted another arrow he felt a stinging pain in his throat, his hand lost its strength, the sky reeled about him and turned dark—and then he knew no more.

When he came to himself again he lay where he had fallen on his face in the red dust of the plateau. How sick and dizzy he felt! His first thought was to wonder how he came there; the next to remember that the Utes were headed straight for the canyons, on what awful errand he did not dare to think. He knew the Cliff village could be held for some time, but would not these fiendish foes at last be able to overcome the peaceful, unwarlike men of the Cliffs, no matter what their advantages might be? Help must be brought, and brought quickly. A glance at the sun assured him that he had not long lain unconscious, even though he knew he must have been left for dead. With a great effort he pulled himself to his feet. How black the sunlight grew! And what was that queer, choking thing that seemed to be gripping him by the throat? Putting up his hand, he felt the shaft of an arrow which had pierced his neck, running through until the point projected above his shoulders. With a shudder he tried to pull it out, but the pain turned him sick again. Then, too, even through the turmoil of his thoughts he realized that to remove the arrow would mean a great and weakening loss of blood. So, blinded and choking as he was, the brave lad stumbled along as fast as he could, imploring the gods to give him strength to reach Walpi and send aid to his people before he should die.

It seemed ages before he saw the dark outlines of the pueblo of Walpi rising above the rounded crest of the mesa. But it was not so far from where he fell after all, for he had been nearer than he believed when the attack occurred. He could never quite remember how things happened after that. He had a vague memory of Sado’s voice calling out in sharp surprise, of telling his story quickly between the gasps of his failing breath, and of a sudden great bustle in the court of the pueblo. Only one thing he remembered distinctly, the sudden idea that flashed through his mind at sight of Sado.

“The hidden path,” he gasped, “tell them to take the hidden path. It will bring them up from the back. No one knows it except—except—” and here in spite of himself his voice trailed off into silence and the blindness that was worse than midnight came over his eyes again.