le, to say the least, if one
or other of the Navajos who were in pursuit of Cayamo should cross her
path; but of this she had little fear. She was already too near the
Rito for that. Soon the gorge opened at her feet, showing a placid,
lovely picture,--the little valley down below, huge pines raising their
dark columns by the side of light-green corn-patches, and the tall pile
of the big houses looming up like an enormous round tower. But Shotaye
was not affected by scenery. Walking along the brink to the west she at
last reached the upper end, where twelve days ago she had ascended, and
where the brook, swollen by late rains, now gushed down the ledges in a
series of murmuring cascades. Here she began her descent, and as the sun
disappeared behind threatening clouds over the western mountains, she
entered her home again. Shotaye had spent nearly the whole day on the
mesa, had spent it profitably, and was--so she fancied--in complete
security as regarded her ultimate designs.

And yet had the woman, after taking leave of the strange Indian and
after the latter had gone out of sight, peered into the shadow of the
pines on one of which the panther had so nimbly captured the
unsuspecting turkey, she might have noticed something that would have
greatly modified her ideas on this point. For behind one of them there
stood, all the while she and the Tehua were carrying on their pantomime,
a human figure intently watching them. Pressed against the trunk of a
tree there was, motionless, quiet, calm, not a common spy, but a cool
observer of her doings, whose presence was accidental, but who not only
watched but at the same time judged and passed sentence on her actions.

A short time after Shotaye had set out on her walk, Topanashka Tihua
also started in the same direction. With all the self-control he had
maintained, inward agitation and sorrow nearly overcame him. The nearer
the hour came when the momentous question that was going to shake the
existence of the tribe to its very foundations would be taken in hand,
the more conscious he became that he was carrying a terrible load, and
that upon his action depended nearly everything. The feeling of
responsibility was crushing. He had, of course, ascertained nothing new;
neither had he thought of making notes of what met his gaze. But on this
last day he felt the necessity of being alone ere the dread moment came.
Others could not help; he was alone with his thoughts, and yet, as h