The party had toiled to the north for nearly three days through the brilliantly painted deserts that lie between the Little Colorado and the Hopi villages. The grotesque black buttes whose contours had changed so many times during the journey were left behind to the south and the gray cretaceous mesas began to narrow in on the dry washes, fringed with sage-green desert plants that characterize the region of the Hopi villages. Everyone felt that though many miles of loose sand still intervened, this was the home stretch to the goal. Far ahead on the plain several black dots were sighted, and with lively interest the party began to speculate as to what they might be. After a while it could be seen that a mounted party was coming, perhaps Navaho on first thought, likely Hopi on reflection. Soon they were decided to be a number of Hopi mounted on burros and ponies, and in a short time they were greeting the Americans with the fervor of a long-lost brother, their faces wreathed with smiles. These, then, were the taciturn Indians of the story-books.
Honani, “the Badger,” citizen of Shumopavi, was escorting his family on an outing of many miles after berries. Berries, such as they are, do grow in the desert, but they may be enjoyed only by those who never tasted any other variety. Honani’s wife and her three pretty daughters were astride ponies, while the baby was securely fastened in his mother’s blanket; the old grandfather and grandmother who bestrode burros made up the rest of the party, which formed a very picturesque group. The women asked for water, and Honani spoke the magic word piba, tobacco, followed by the word, matchi. These words one very soon finds are the indispensable preliminary to a “smoke talk” in Hopiland.
Honani’s better half is no light weight. So thought her pony which, without warning, proceeded to lie down. Amidst the screaming and chattering, the stout lady managed to extricate herself, being much hampered by her prudence in tying her blanket to the horn of the saddle. When all were quieted and the pony soundly thumped, they started again on their way berrying.
Honani is quite a prominent man and was one time chief of his pueblo. He is one of the very few Hopi who have made the grand tour to Washington—Wasintona, as they call it. He has a farm in the country, where he lives in summer. The vagrant Navaho who encroach on his premises are the bane of his life, and when none of this tribe is near he wishes them all sorts of unpleasant things. Honani himself is no saint; from all accounts, it is advisable to leave nothing loose while he is around. His wife has a pleasant, matronly face that one cannot help admiring. She is a skillful basket-maker and keeps her house neat and clean, which is more than can be said of her contemporaries.
There is a good deal of feeling, mingled with a large element of jealousy, against Honani in the minds of his fellow villagers, because of his friendliness toward the white man and his stand in favor of educating the children in the schools provided by the Government. At Zuñi, through some pretext or other, Honani would be hung as a wizard, whereas the amicable Hopi merely ignore him for a while.
On another occasion, while the party was encamped in a sheltered valley of the Middle Mesa, the “Honanis” came visiting. It was about supper time; the connection of the time and visit needs no explanation. Among the scanty utensils of the party two cans of similar shape contained respectively salt and sugar. Honani’s wife liberally sweetened her coffee and gave the baby a taste. In a moment his hitherto placid face assumed the contortions of a Hindu idol, and he squirmed and yelled. His mother, not knowing what was the matter, shook him and punched his fat stomach to find out. Then she took a sip of coffee and screamed out, “Ingiwa!” (salt). Her reproachful look seemed to convey the idea that someone had designs on the baby. A few words of explanation soon put her mind at rest on that score, and smiles were again restored. When she heard that several of the party had been at times sufferers from those same malicious salt and sugar boxes, she enjoyed the joke hugely; fellow sufferers are always appreciated the world over.
There is at least one open and above-board infidel at the East Mesa. Chakwaina is his name, and he is a Tewa of Hano. The old nature faith in this pueblo does not show many signs of weakening, so that were Chakwaina less in possessions and in consequent influence, he might have been brought to book long ago for his sins. Chakwaina says “the kachinas are no good.” Perhaps the poor people who so depend on the crops for their existence believe devoutly in the gift-bearing kachinas from ignorance or selfish motives, while Chakwaina, who has sheep, flour, and money, feels independent of any spiritual aids; this is the old story. Chakwaina undoubtedly feels able to take care of himself, for no one has succeeded in getting ahead of him at a bargain. Of course when a pair of sheep shears or a stone is too frequently found in a bag of wool after weighing, people will suspect cheating. It is well to keep watch on Chakwaina!
On the other hand, Chakwaina was one of the first to move down permanently from the mesa when the Government offered inducements to the Hopi to descend from their eyrie. He has always been friendly to the white people; he aided in the establishment of a day school at the “Sun Spring,” and used his influence to persuade the people to send pupils to the school at Keam’s Canyon. He has also traveled much, adding Spanish, Navaho, and a smattering of “American” to his Hopi-Tewan repertory of languages, for the Tewa, besides being the most progressive inhabitants of Tusayan, are the best linguists. This is due to the fact that the people of the little town of Hano have preserved their own language, and being within a stone-throw of Walpi, must also know Hopi. Hence the step toward learning other tongues is made easier.
Chakwaina has his house near Ishba, or “wolf spring,” in very picturesque surroundings. Below, in the wash, are his cornfields and melon patches, showing skillful engineering in diverting the water on the arable ground by means of dams and wings. Here he and his faithful adjutant, “Tom Sawyer,” the Paiute, put in many a laborious hour, the latter waging deadly warfare on the obnoxious prairie dogs whose fate is to be eaten if caught.
Chakwaina is disposed to poke fun at the scientific men who come to Tusayan to study the ways of the Hopi. He has a remarkable laugh, and his mimicry of the Snake Dance is one of the most amusing things to be seen in Hopiland. His object is to ridicule all parties by making himself ridiculous. It is evident that Chakwaina has not the accustomed contentment of the Hopi. Having denied the first article of faith in the kachinas and having received nothing higher in return, he stands in the unhappy position of all unbelievers of whatever race or time.