“The Arms of the Great Mystery!” So that was what they called Red Mesa! thought Sid as they walked toward the lodge. Truly, like great protecting arms, those mighty red ramparts rose on each side of this little valley, shielding this lost band of Apache forever against further encroachment. As to the chief’s remark about giving a Sun Dance, it seemed to Sid that he himself appeared to be a vital and necessary part of it. Whether he would be a sacrifice in it or what part he would be called to play in it was a mystery to him. To-morrow he would know, though!
Sid entered the lodge with Honanta, Hano following submissively. He looked about him curiously at the giant hoops of ironwood overhead which formed its arches, at the dense thatch of galleta grass bundles which kept out rain and sun alike. There was little furniture. A red olla, sweating cool water on its porous surface, stood on a three-pronged fork in a corner. A gourd dipper hung beside it and at a motion from the chief Sid drank. There were bundles of cane-and-ironwood arrows which Sid noted were curiously tipped with native copper heads. There were bows strongly backed with bone; parfléche skins for storing dried meat and berries; baskets holding shelled corn. From the rafters hung strings of red peppers and dried corn ears, and loops of dried squash. Shallow baskets held red beans, specked with white dots.
Sid sat down on a roll of skins. Hano, who had entered with them, still remained standing. He seemed to be waiting for something, and Sid noted that the chief had not yet ordered him to be seized and bound. After a time, while the chief was apparently thinking over some further questions, an interruption came—the sound of a woman’s voice crooning softly. She entered the lodge, beautiful as the night. She was clad in soft white buckskin, long-fringed, heavily beaded, and in her arms she bore a tiny bundle from which came soft infantile noises.
Hano’s bronzed face was working in agony of feeling as she entered. Sid and the chief rose respectfully.
“One boon, my father!” burst out Hano hoarsely as the girl hesitated before them, the soft smile of motherhood on her face.
“Which is?” queried the chief turning upon him sternly.
“To perform the whispering ceremony for my newborn son—before I die,” begged Hano brokenly.
Sid’s heart gripped him as he watched the tiny bundle being passed across into the young father’s arms. He hugged his baby close; then pressed his mouth to the little ear that he uncovered. Sid knew that he was whispering the name of the Great Mystery into his son’s ear, the very first word of the human voice that the newborn Indian babe hears. It was an old, old ritual of ancient Indian custom.
Then: “Farewell, little one!” he heard Hano’s anguished tones murmur as he passed the child over to its mother. The girl started back and looked at him astounded, then at Sid, and finally she turned to the chief, her eyes dark pools of questioning.
“It must be, my daughter,” said Honanta. “My son has erred grievously. It is for the old men to decide.”