appeared, after all, not such a terrible misfortune; for under present circumstances what else could she expect at the Rito but a horrible and atrocious death?  But Shotaye was intent upon living, not so much for the sake of life itself—­although it had many sensual charms for her—­as out of a spirit of combativeness resulting from her resolute character, as well as from the constant struggles which she had undergone during the time of her separation from her husband.  She felt inclined to live, if possible, in spite of her enemies.  To endure the lot of a captive among the Navajos was repulsive to her instincts; she hated to be a drudge.  Admitting that she succeeded in eluding those enemies, whither was she to direct her flight?  That there were village communities similar to her own at a remote distance was known to her; but she was aware of only one in which she might be received, and that belonged to the Tehuas, of whom she knew that a branch dwelt in the mountains west of the river, inhabiting caves somewhere in the rocks at one day’s journey, more or less, from the Rito.  Between these Tehuas and the Queres of the Tyuonyi there was occasional intercourse, and a fairly beaten trail led from one place to the other; but this intercourse was so much interrupted by hostilities, and the Navajos rendered the trail so insecure beside, that she had never paid much attention to it.  Still, there was no doubt in her mind that if she reached the habitations of the Tehuas, above where the pueblo of Santa Clara now stands, a hospitable reception would be extended to her.  But could she leave Say alone to her dismal fate?

After all, death was not such a fearful thing, so long as no torture preceded or accompanied it.  Death must come to her once, at all events, and then what of it?  There need be no care for the hereafter, according to her creed.  The Pueblo Indian knows of no atonement after dying; all sins, all crimes, are punished during this life.  When the soul is released from the thralls of this body and its surrounding nature, it goes to Shipapu, at the bottom of the lagune, where there is eternal dancing and feasting, and where everything goes on as here upon earth, but with less pain, care, anguish, and danger.  Why therefore shun death?  Shotaye was in what we should call a philosophic mood.

Such careless philosophy may temporarily ease the mind, since it stifles for a moment the pangs of apprehension and dread.  But with the temporary relief which Shotaye felt, the demands of physical nature grew more apparent.  In other words she felt hungry, and the more so as, being now almost resolved to suffer death with resignation, it was imperative to live, and consequently to eat, until Death should knock at her door.  She poured a good portion of the now boiling stew into a smaller bowl and began to fish out the morsels with her fingers, while between times she drank of the broth.  The warm food comforted her, gave her strength, and aroused her vital powers, which arduous thinking had almost put to sleep.