“Tewa, is it true you are one of the Snake Priests?” Mrs. Burton demanded unexpectedly.
The young man turned and came up to her.
Ralph Marshall, who was standing beside Mrs. Burton at the moment, gave a low exclamation.
“Mase, it can’t be you,” he said in astonishment, making no effort to conceal his bewilderment. “Why, at college I should never have thought you would ever dress or behave like your own people again. You were a grind except when it came to being on top in athletics.”
It was the Indian who explained the situation.
“Mr. Marshall and I were classmates at college.” Then, without appearing to notice the others in the group, all of whom were listening to his reply: “I see no reason, Marshall, why you should be astounded. I am an Indian; being educated as a white man has neither changed my race nor blood. Many of the customs that seemed good to my father still seem good to me. We shall never understand each other. When the Indian wants rain to save himself and his people from hunger he prays to the gods who have power over the clouds to send down rain on the earth. In your white man’s religion, though you say if you have faith the size of a mustard seed you can remove mountains, yet you make no prayers to the forces of nature. No, Mrs. Burton, I am not a Snake Priest,” Se-kyal-ets-tewa answered, “or my costume would be unlike this, as you will see later. But I am one of the runners at dawn and at dusk when the ceremony is over.” He stopped, hesitating a moment and looking from Mrs. Burton to Bettina, to whom he had not yet spoken.
“You said at one time that you would like to see inside an Indian house. This is my home. Would you and your friends care to look through it?”
No one could have spoken more simply or more courteously, and Mrs. Burton was unfeignedly glad to accept. Indeed, she was first to follow the young man indoors, the rest of the party close behind her, and Bettina still holding to Peggy’s arm.
They came into a big living room, the floor covered with sand, but clean and straight. Jars and vases of handsome pottery were about the room and the walls hung with bright blankets.
In the room was Dawapa and an elderly Indian squaw whom Tewa explained was his father’s wife. Only here did he show any feelings of embarrassment or shame. He was careful to let them know that the squaw was not his own mother.