continued to descend from one branch to another, croaking and chuckling as it were to herself.  At last she fluttered down to the ground, a few paces from the body, peeped slyly over to where it lay, and walked toward it with slow, stately steps and eager nods.  But something rattled in the distance; the bird’s head turned to the east, and as quick as lightning she rose in the air and flew off with a loud, angry, “kuawk, kuawk, kuawk!”

Two men are coming toward the spot.  They are Indians from Tyuonyi who came up in the course of the afternoon with bows and arrows.  They perceive the body, and the blood on it and around it.  Both stand still, terrified at the sight.  At last one of them exclaims,—­

“It is one from the Zaashtesh!”

They run together to the spot, heedless of the danger which may yet be lurking about.  They bend over the dead, then look at each other speechless, confused.  At last they find words, and exclaim simultaneously,—­

“It is our father, Topanashka Tihua!”

“It is sa nashtio maseua!”

Both men are young yet, they weep.  Their sorrow is so great, in presence of the loss sustained by them and by all, that they forget all caution.  Had the Navajos been about still, two more of the house-dwellers would have fallen.

They attempt to decide what is to be done; their thoughts become confused, for the terrible discovery distracts them.  Little by little they become conscious that it is impossible to leave the body here, a prey to the wolves and carrion crows; that it must be brought home, down into the valley where he was so beloved, so worshipped almost, by everybody.  Nothing else can be done.

With sighs and sobs, stifled groans and tears, the body is raised up, one supporting the head, the other the feet.  Thus they drag and carry it along on the old trail to the Rito.  Blood clings to their hands and to their dress.  Never mind.  Is it not the blood of a good man, and may not with that blood some of his good qualities perhaps pass into them?  Not a word is spoken, not even when they lay down the corpse to rest themselves a while.  In such moments they stand motionless, one by the mutilated head, the other at the feet.  They look neither at each other nor at it, for if they should attempt it tears would be sure to come to their eyes.  Without a word they lift up the body again, tenderly as if it were a child’s, and on they go, slowly, painfully, and silently.

It is night now, and the forest is more full of life.  The dread voices of the darkness are heard around them; coyotes howl and whine; in the distance owls hiss and shriek and flit from tree to tree, as the panting men approach.  They think not of danger, not even of those who so ruthlessly slaughtered their great and good maseua; on they go as fast as the heavy load permits and as their heavy hearts afford them strength.