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They talked with what zest women may whose simple lives give
them no secrets to hold or betray. They laughed as they filled their
baskets, stooping to scrape the earth from a tender root, to strip the
seed from a stalk, or gather grasses used in basketry; and their
voices were as the purling of lazy waters gliding over stones. They
were happy, for as yet they knew naught of the joy-sapping fever of
discontent.
Of a sudden the laughter ceased, and in its stead arose the mocking
wail of Po-ho-no, Spirit of the Evil Wind. The youngest of the
women, venturing near the edge of the cliff to pick an overhanging
wisp of grass, had stepped upon a rock where moss grew like a
thick-woven blanket. She did not know that the soft, wet moss was a
snare of the Evil One, and even as the others cried out in warning,
Po-ho-no seized her and hurled her down among the rocks.
A pair of helpless arms waving in despair; long, loose hair sweeping
across a face, half veiling one last look of terror—and she was gone.
If she uttered a cry, the sound was lost in the gleeful chatter of Po-
ho-no and his impish host.
The two women left above dared not go near the treacherous ledge,
lest they too come within reach of the vengeful Spirit. Afraid even to
give a backward glance, they hurried down the steep path to spread
the alarm. Scarce was their story told before a band of daring braves
rushed to the rescue of the maiden; but though they searched till
night among the rocks where the water swirls and leaps to catch the
rainbow thrown there by the western sun, they found no trace of
her. The maiden’s spirit had joined the forces of Po-ho-no, and could
know no rest, nor be released from his hateful thrall, until by her aid
another victim was drawn to his doom. Here she must stay, hidden
by the mist from watchful eyes, beckoning always, tempting always,
luring another soul to pay the forfeit of her own release. Then, and
then only, would the spirit of the maiden be free to pass on to the
home of the Great Spirit in the West.
Since that day of long ago many of the children of Ah-wah-nee have
fallen prey to Po-ho-no, the restless Spirit of the Evil Wind, who
wanders ever through the cañon and puffs his breath upon the
waterfall to make for himself a hiding-place of mist. Now every Ah-
wah-nee-chee knows this haunt of the Evil One. By day they hurry
past, and not one would sleep at night within sight or sound of the
fall lest the fatal breath of Po-ho-no sweep over him and bear him
away to a spirit land of torture and unrest.
“In its stead they left a pointed rock lodged
in the cliff.”
 Hum-moo, the Lost Arrow

T
EE-HEE-NEH was the fairest of the daughters of Ah-wah-nee,
and the happiest, for she was the chosen bride of the brave
Kos-soo-kah.
When she went forth from her father’s lodge to bathe in the
shadowy depths of Ke-koo-too-yem, the Sleeping Water, her step
was light as the touch of a wind-swept leaf upon the rocks. When
she stooped to lave her cheeks in the cool spray, her dark hair fell
about her shoulders like a silken web, and the water mirror showed
her a pair of laughing eyes of the color of ripened acorns, and in
them the soft light of an Indian summer day. The sound of her voice
was as the patter of rain on green leaves, and her heart was fearless
and full of love.
No other woman of the tribe could weave such baskets as grew by
the magic skill of her fingers, and she alone knew the secret of
interweaving the bright feathers of the red-headed woodpecker and
the topknots of mountain quail. Her acorn bread was always
sweetest, the berries she gathered ripest, the deerskin she tanned
softer than any other; and all because of the love in her heart, for
she knew that Kos-soo-kah would eat of her bread and fruit, would
drink from the baskets she wove, would wear upon his feet the
moccasins she made.
Kos-soo-kah was a hunter, fearless and bold, sure with bow and
spear, always fortunate in the chase. In his veins ran the blood that
surges hot when there are daring deeds to do, and of all the young
chiefs of Ah-wah-nee he had the greatest power among his people.
Like the wooing of the evening star by the crescent moon was the
mating of Tee-hee-neh with Kos-soo-kah; and when the young chief
gathered together robes of squirrel and deerskin and of the skins of
water-fowl, arrows and spear-heads, strings of coral and bear teeth,
and gave them as a marriage token to Tee-hee-neh’s father, the old
chief looked upon him with favor.
This was their marriage. But before Tee-hee-neh should go with Kos-
soo-kah to his lodge there must be a great feast, and all day long
Ah-wah-nee was astir with signs of preparation.
From many shady places came a sound like the tap-tap-tapping of
woodpeckers, where the older women sat upon smooth, flat rocks
pounding dried acorns into meal to make the acorn bread; and the
younger women went with their baskets to the meadows and woods
for grass seeds, herbs and wild honey.
Early in the morning Kos-soo-kah left his lodge and gathered about
him the strongest of the young braves to go forth into the forest and
net the grouse, and seek the bear and deer in their haunts, for this
was the man’s share of the marriage feast. While his hunters strung
their bows and fastened arrow-heads to the feathered shafts, Kos-
soo-kah stole away for a last word with Tee-hee-neh, his bride; and
when they parted it was with the promise that at the end of the
day’s hunt Kos-soo-kah should drop an arrow from the cliff between
Cho-look, the High Fall, and Le-ham-i-te, the Cañon of the Arrow-
wood. By the number of feathers it bore, Tee-hee-neh could tell
what the kill had been.
The morning mists were still tangled in the pines when Kos-soo-kah
and his hunters began to climb the trail that cut into the heart of the
forest. From a covert spot Tee-hee-neh watched her lover disappear
through the cleft in the northern wall, where the arrow-wood grows
thick; then she joined the other women and worked with a light
heart until long shadows stretched across the meadow and warned
her of the hour when she was to be near the foot of Cho-look to
receive the message from Kos-soo-kah.
Far over the mountains Kos-soo-kah laughed loud with a hunter’s
pride as he bound to his swiftest arrow all the feathers of a grouse’s
wing. Sped by a hunter’s pride and a lover’s pride he leaped along
the rocky trail, far in advance of the youthful braves of his band who
bore among them the best of the kill. Eagerly he watched the
western sky, fearful lest the sun’s last kiss should tinge the brow of
Tis-sa-ack before he reached the cliff whence his bow should let fly
the message to the waiting one below.
The frightened quail fluttered in his path unseen. A belated vulture,
skimming the fading sky, seemed not to be in motion. So swiftly Kos-
soo-kah ran, the wind stood still to let him pass.
He reached the valley wall at last, his strength well spent but still
enough to pull his bow to a full half-circle. Poised for an instant, the
feathered shaft caught on its tip a sun ray, then flew downward; but
though mighty and sure the force that sent it, no message came to
the faithful Tee-hee-neh.
Hour after hour she waited, the joy in her heart changing to a
nameless fear as the blue sky faded gray, and the gray went purple
in the thickening dusk, and yet no sign, no sound of the returning
hunters.
“Kos-soo-kah! Kos-soo-kah!” trembled her voice in the stillness. Only
a weird echo answered, “Kos-soo-kah.”
Perhaps they had wandered far, and Kos-soo-kah could not reach the
cliff till the night shadows had crept out of the valley, and over the
tops of the mountains. Perhaps even now he was returning down
the Cañon of the Arrow-wood. This she whispered to a heart that
gave no answering hope.
She would go forward to meet him, and hear from his lips the
message which the arrow failed to bring. As she hurried along the
narrow trail, clinging to the slanting ledges, pushing aside the
overhanging branches, she called and called, “Kos-soo-kah!”
Now and again she stopped to listen for the sound of voices, or of
footsteps, but only the cry of a night bird or the crackling of dry
twigs stirred the still air.

“Crouching there * * she called again,

‘Kos-soo-kah!’”
Trembling with uncertainty and fear, she reached the top of the
sharp ascent. There by the light of the stars she saw fresh footprints
in the loose, moist earth. Her heart told her they were his; her quick
eye told her they went toward the cliff, but did not return. Crouching
there beside them, she called again, “Kos-soo-kah!” Not even an
echo answered the despairing cry.
Slowly she crept forward, following the fresh trail to the edge of the
wall. She leaned far over, and there on a mound of fallen rock lay
her lover, motionless, nor answering her call. Tight in his grasp was
the spent bow, the sign of a promise kept.
As she looked, there came again to Tee-hee-neh’s mind the dull roar
of rending rock, the low moan of falling earth, that ran through the
valley at the sunset hour. Now she knew that as Kos-soo-kah drew
his bow to speed the messenger of love, the ground beneath his feet
had given way, carrying him with the fatal avalanche.
The girl’s heart no longer beat fast with fear. It seemed not to beat
at all. But there was no time for grief,—perhaps Kos-soo-kah had not
ceased to breathe. On the topmost point of rock she lighted a signal
fire, and forced its flames high into the dark, flashing a call for help.
It would be long, she knew, before any one could come; but this
was the only chance to save Kos-soo-kah.
Hours passed. With feverish energy she piled dry branches high
upon the signal fire, nor let its wild beckonings rest a moment. At
last old men came from the valley, and the young braves from the
mountains bearing with them the carcasses of deer and bear.
With their hunting-knives they cut lengths of tamarack, and lashed
them together with thongs of hide from the deer killed for the
marriage feast. By means of this pole they would have lowered over
the edge of the cliff a strong young brave but that Tee-hee-neh
pushed him aside and took his place. Hers must be the voice to
whisper in Kos-soo-kah’s ear the first word of hope; hers the hand to
push aside the rocks that pinioned his body; hers the face his slowly
opening eyes should see.
They lowered her to his side; and, loosing the cords that bound her,
she knelt beside him, whispering in his ear, “Kos-soo-kah!” No sound
came from the cold, set lips. The wide-open eyes stared unseeing at
the sky. Tee-hee-neh knew that he was dead.
She did not cry aloud after the manner of Indian women in their
grief, but gently bound the helpless form with the deerskin cords and
raised it as high as her arms could reach when the pole was drawn
upward; then waited in silence until she was lifted by the willing
hands above.
When she found herself again at Kos-soo-kah’s side, she stood for
an instant with eyes fixed upon the loved form, there in the cold,
starless dawn of her marriage day; then with his name upon her lips
she fell forward upon his breast. They drew her away, but the spirit
of Tee-hee-neh had followed the spirit of Kos-soo-kah.
The two were placed together upon the funeral pyre, and with them
was burned all that had been theirs. In Kos-soo-kah’s hand was the
bow, but the arrow could not be found. The lovers had spirited it
away. In its stead they left a pointed rock lodged in the cliff between
Cho-look, the High Fall, and Le-ham-i-te, the Cañon of the Arrow-
wood, in token of Kos-soo-kah’s fulfilled pledge. This rock is known
to the children of Ah-wah-nee as Hum-moo, the Lost Arrow.
“The moon floated high above Cloud’s
Rest.”
 Py-we-ack, the White Water

S
INCE the peaks of Sky Mountains were little hills, the Ah-wah-
nee-chees have lived in the deep, grassy valley the white man
knows as Yo-sem-i-te. Eastward of To-co-yah, the Acorn Basket
Rock, live the Mo-nos; and for a thousand years the sachems of the
Ah-wah-nee-chees and the sachems of the Mo-nos smoked the pipe
of peace together.
In the autumn when the Great Spirit swept through Ah-wah-nee
with a breath of frost, painting the leaves all scarlet and gold and
brown, scattering tufts of snow-white cloud across the blue sky, and
weaving a web of bluish haze among the green pine tops, the Ah-
wah-nee-chee braves prepared for the last great hunt of the year.
The feast of the manzanita berries was past, and the feast of acorns,
and after the autumn hunt came the feast of venison.
As the time of the feast drew near, runners were sent across the
mountains, carrying a bundle of willow sticks, or a sinew cord or leaf
of dried grass tied with knots, that the Mo-nos might know how
many suns must cross the sky before they should go to Ah-wah-nee
to share the feast of venison with their neighbors.
And the Mo-nos gathered together baskets of piñon nuts, and
obsidian arrow-heads, and strings of shells, to carry with them to
give in return for acorns and chinquapin nuts and basket willow,
which do not grow on the farther side of Sky Mountains and which
the Great Spirit has given in plenty to the children of Ah-wah-nee.
At the feast the great chiefs sat side by side and the smoke of their
pipes curled into a single spiral in the air. And when all were gorged
with food, they danced about the fire chanting the mighty deeds of
their ancestors, or sat upon the ground playing the ancient hand
game, he-no-wah, staking their arrows and their bearskin robes,
their wampum and their women upon the hand that held the hidden
willow stick.
Not only in their pastimes were they friends. When the Great Spirit
wafted a soul to the happy land in the West, the runners went again
across the Sky Mountains and the tribes gathered together to join in
the funeral dance and mingle their voices in the funeral wail. In grief,
as in joy, they were friends,—for a thousand years.
But the law of the mountain and the forest is not a law of peace,
and it was the will of the Great Spirit that they should not dwell
always in harmony.
The Ah-wah-nee-chees numbered more men than women; and from
time to time bands of young braves, in the flush of primal strength,
swept through the country with the ungoverned madness of a
bullock herd, carrying away women from the villages they raided.
When the Mo-no men came to Ah-wah-nee to the feasts of the
manzanita berry and of acorns and of venison, they brought their
women with them. These mountain women were pleasing to the
eye, erect as the silver fir that grows upon the mountain side, clean-
limbed and free of motion as the panther; and more than all others
were they coveted by the Ah-wah-nee-chees, who chafed under a
friendship that thwarted desire.
And the story is told that at a certain feast of venison Wa-hu-lah, a
Mo-no maiden, stirred the fancy of a young warrior of Ten-ie-ya’s
band. Spring, the love season of Nature’s children, had passed the
young warrior many times since he came to manhood, and he had
not heeded her soft whisper. But never before had he seen Wa-hu-
lah, the Mo-no maiden.
Now, through all the time of feasting, he watched eagerly for the
love sign in Wa-hu-lah’s eyes; but he saw there only the depth and
the darkness and the mystery of a pool hidden in the heart of a
forest of pines, which no ray of sunlight pierces.
Love was dead in the heart of Wa-hu-lah. On her face could still be
seen dim traces of mourning, lines of pitch and ashes not yet worn
away, though there had been two seasons of grass and flowers since
her voice rose in the funeral wail beside the pyre of her dead lover.
She had not died as the dove does when her mate is gone; but she
could not forget, and as she sat among the feasters sorrow throbbed
in her heart like the ceaseless whirr of a grouse’s wing. The Ah-wah-
nee-chee warrior sought in vain for an answering sign, and when the
days of feasting were over Wa-hu-lah went away with her father.
Day and night the Ah-wah-nee-chee thought of his love; the face of
Wa-hu-lah was ever before his eyes; and he knew that he must
follow her and bring her to his lodge. But already the snow-clouds
resting on the peaks of Sky Mountains were scattering their burden,
soft and white as the down of Tis-sa-ack’s wings. Valley and forest
lay lifeless under a thick blanket, and the trails were choked with
snow.
The Ah-wah-nee-chee’s love smouldered through the winter months,
with naught but the memory of Wa-hu-lah’s sad, unanswering eyes
to feed upon. Far away, in the wig-wam of her father, Wa-hu-lah
nursed her grief.
At last spring came, with soft, straying winds that breathe of new
life. Birds sang in the trees as they built their nests; squirrels
chattered softly among the rocks; Too-loo-lo-we-ack, the Rushing
Water, babbled of the joys of summer; and Yo-wi-we dashed from
the heights to carry the message of love brought by the sun from
the southland to all the valley.
While yet the trails were heavy with melting snows, the Ah-wah-nee-
chee warrior stole away from his lodge one night and set his face
toward the rising sun, yonder to the eastward of To-co-yah; and ere
the day god had wrapped himself in his flaming cloud blanket in the
far-off West, the Ah-wah-nee-chee was smoking the peace pipe with
the chief of the Mo-nos, Wa-hu-lah’s father.

“The white spirits of the water

threw themselves around the
maiden and hid her in a shroud of
spray.”
Before the sun again strode the bald peaks of the Sky Mountains, he
was gone; and when the women came forth to make ready the
morning meal, the old chief saw that Wa-hu-lah was not among
them; and he knew that the spirit of the peace pipe had been
violated.
Wa-hu-lah made no struggle when she found herself borne along in
the arms of her captor. Her heart beat like the heart of a hunted
thing that feels the hunter near and cover far away, but her face
showed no sign. It was useless to resist; but had the Ah-wah-nee-
chee looked into the still, sad depths of her eyes, he would have
seen there a glittering spark, the fire of a woman’s lasting hate.
Along the heavy trail he toiled, and not until he reached the kinder
paths that Spring had cleared did he let Wa-hu-lah’s feet rest upon
the ground. Then she walked before him, silent, submissive, but with
the spark still glowing in her downcast eyes.
Silent, submissive, she followed as he led the way to the place he
had prepared for her,—a woodland bower, pine carpeted, roofed with
boughs of oak and alder, the couch of branches spread with
deerskin.
Silent, submissive, she ate of the food he brought her, fresh bear
meat and acorn bread, and grass roots fattened by the melting
snows.
Silent still, but with submission changed to defiant purpose, she
watched him go away and take his place among the braves of his
tribe who ate as the women prepared their food. Hunger possessed
him and he gave no thought to caution. At another time his quick
ear might have caught the sound of twigs snapping under the
pressure of a moccasined foot; now it heard only the hiss of meat
thrown upon live coals.
The moon floated high above Cloud’s Rest and the valley was full of
light, yet none saw the dark figure that crept stealthily, warily, into
the shadow of the crouching chaparral, keeping with the wind that
blew from, not toward, the camp-fire. Once only Wa-hu-lah paused,
and turned to see that she was not discovered; and from her eyes
shot one swift look that would have killed, could looks deal death.
Then she sped forward on the trail that led from Ah-wah-nee, with
its blossoming dogwood and azalea, its buckthorn and willow, to the
snows of the higher mountains, the home of her people.
Swiftly she ran, frightened by the night shapes that danced before
her in the path, nor daring to slacken her pace or give a backward
glance. But scarce had she passed through the spray thrown across
the trail by Py-we-ack, the White Water, when she heard wild shouts
rising from the half-darkness below, shouts that told her the Ah-
wah-nee-chees knew that she was gone, had started in pursuit.
Behind her on the trail her footprints lay naked on the yielding earth,
and she knew that here in Ah-wah-nee the men of Ten-ie-ya’s band
knew every path that she might choose, every tree and rock where
she might find a hiding-place. Already the race was won.
Nearer they came, her Ah-wah-nee-chee captor and a score of
braves who joined with boisterous shouts this chase that had no
need of cunning since for a weak prey there was no escape.
Among the trees they caught uncertain glimpses of the fleeing
figure, but at last Wa-hu-lah bounded into a clear, broad stretch of
moonlight where the trees fall back to let the river widen to a calmer
course after its reckless plunge from the cliff above.
The pool that shines emerald bright by day lay still and black with
the pale gold moon upon its breast. Straight for its bank Wa-hu-lah
ran, and as her foot touched the rocky ledge, her pursuers sprang
with a cry of triumph into the open. Not a moment did the maiden
dare to lose. Stooping, she unloosed the canoe that floated in the
shadow of the ledge, a canoe used by the Ah-wah-nee-chees in
crossing the Emerald Pool.
Stepping into the shallow bark, Wa-hu-lah pushed it from the shore,
and with quick strokes drove it toward the middle of the stream,
where she knew the water ran swift and deep and strong.
Like some strange night bird the canoe skimmed the surface of the
pool, the girl erect, defiant, her long black hair tossing, winglike, on
the wind. Drawn by the current it glided on, dark and silent, toward
Py-we-ack, where the water with a second leap dashes itself to
death upon the rocks.
Along the shelving bank the baffled Ah-wah-nee-chee ran, but
swifter ran the dark and silent figure in the stream; and even as the
young chief plunged into the icy water in one last effort to reclaim
his stolen bride, the boat slipped over the edge of the cliff and went
to pieces on the rocks, where the white spirits of the water threw
themselves around the maiden and hid her in a shroud of spray.
Thus Wa-hu-lah proved herself faithful to her Mo-no lover, and the
Ah-wah-nee-chee was cheated of his bride.
“Along the edge of the river and over
the meadows * * one can now find
tiny white violets.”
 Tu-tock-ah-nu-lah and Tis-sa-ack

S
INCE the world was young Tu-tock-ah-nu-lah, the Rock Chief,
had guarded Ah-wah-nee, the home of the children of the sun.
For his watch-tower he chose a storm-tried rock on the
northern wall of the valley, and from this far height defied all the
powers of evil.
In the spring he besought the Great Spirit to send rain that the wild
corn might hang heavy with tasseling grain, the berries cluster thick
on the branches of the manzanita, and the fish abound in the waters
of the river. In the summer he fattened the bear and deer, and in the
autumn he wandered through the mountains driving them from their
haunts that the hunter might not return empty-handed from the
chase. The smoke of his pipe spread like a soft haze through the air,
sheltering the women from the sun when they went forth to gather
acorns and wood for winter.
His form was like a spear, straight and strong; and he reared his
head high above the clouds. In his arm was the strength of an
untamed grizzly; and his voice was like the sound of Cho-look, the
great fall that thunders down from the north, starting deep echoes
from crag and gorge. When the sunlight danced upon the water, the
Ah-wah-nee-chees were happy, for they knew that Tu-tock-ah-nu-lah
smiled; when the sky was overcast, they trembled, fearful of his
frown; when his sighs swept mournfully through the pines, they, too,
were sad. The children of Ah-wah-nee loved the mighty Rock Chief
who dwelt above them in his lonely lodge.
One morning, as his midnight watch drew to a close and the first
pale glint of day shone on his forehead, he heard a soft voice
whisper, “Tu-tock-ah-nu-lah!”
His eyes burned with the passion fire as a fair vision rose before
him, yonder on the granite dome of the southern wall. It was the
form of a maiden, not of the dark tribe he loved and guarded, but
fairer than any he had seen or known in dreams. Her face had the
rosy flush of dawn, her eyes took their color from the morning sky,
and her hair was like strands of golden sunlight. Her voice was low
as a dove call when she whispered Tu-tock-ah-nu-lah’s name.
For a moment she lingered, smiling; but even as the Rock Chief
leaped from his tower in answer to her call, she glided across the
rounded dome and faded from his sight, leaving her throne
shrouded in a snowy cloud. Piqued by the mystery of her flight, Tu-
tock-ah-nu-lah followed the sound of her rustling garments,
wandering all day over the mountains; but the pine trees wove a
blue mist about her, hiding her from his eyes. Not until he returned
to his citadel at night did he see her face again. Then for an instant
she appeared upon her throne, her pale brow tinged with the rose
glow of the sun; and he knew that she was Tis-sa-ack, the Goddess
of the Valley, who shared with him the loving care of the Ah-wah-
nee-chees.
Every morning now at dawn Tu-tock-ah-nu-lah left his tower and
sped across the valley to meet the lovely goddess of his heart’s
desire. Through the day he hovered near her, gazing upon the fair
form, always half hidden by billowing cloud, trying to read an
answering love in her wide blue eyes. But never again did he hear
the voice that came to him across the valley in the stillness of that
one gray dawn.
Tu-tock-ah-nu-lah’s passion grew day by day, as summer ripens the
fruits of springtime budding; but Tis-sa-ack had no joy in his love.
Her heart was heavy with a great sorrow, for she saw that the Rock
Chief was blind to the needs of his people, that he had forsaken
those who looked to him for life.
The sun burned his way through the sky, and no rains fell to cool the
aching earth. Tu-tock-ah-nu-lah paid no heed to the withering leaves
of the wild corn, the shrunken streams from which the fisherman
turned with empty nets, the shriveling acorns that fell worthless to
the ground. He neither knew nor cared that the hunter, after weary
days in the mountains, came to his lodge at night with arrows
unused, to meet the anxious glance of starving women and hear the
wailing cry of hungry children.
The Ah-wah-nee-chees called upon the Rock Chief in vain. He did
not hear their cries; he thought only of his love. The harvest moon
looked down into the valley and saw the dark form of Famine
skulking there. Then it was that Tis-sa-ack’s love was swept away by
an overwhelming pity; and as she lay upon her couch she cried out
to the Great Spirit to send the rain-clouds that bear life to all things
of the earth.
And even as she prayed, there came an answer to her prayer. With a
voice of thunder the Great Spirit gave commands to the spirits of the
air. With a barbed shaft of lightning he rent the granite dome where
Tis-sa-ack prayed; and from the cleft rock came a rush of water that
filled the dry basin of Wai-ack, the Mirror Lake, and sent a
wandering stream through the thirsty fields.
Now the withered corn-stalks raised their drooping heads, flowers
nodded among the waving grasses and offered their lips to the wild
bees, and the acorns swelled with sap that crept upward from
reviving roots. The women went joyously into the fields to gather
the harvest, and the men no longer returned with empty pouches
from the forest or fished by the riverside in vain.
The chief of the Ah-wah-nee-chees ordered a great feast, and all
faces were turned in gratitude to the dome where Tis-sa-ack dwelt.
But Tis-sa-ack was gone. She had sacrificed her love, her life, for the
children of Ah-wah-nee. Through her they had suffered; through her
their sufferings had ceased; and that all might hold her memory
dear she left them the lake, the river and a fragment of her throne.
Upon the bosom of Ke-koo-too-yem, the Sleeping Water, her spirit
rests, wandering sometimes of a summer evening to the Half Dome,
there to linger for a moment as the sun slips over the western wall
of the valley.

“Her spirit, * * wandering * * to the Half

Dome, there to linger for a moment.”
As she flew away a soft down from her wings fell upon the earth;
and where it fell, along the edge of the river and over the meadows
stretching toward Tu-tock-ah-nu-lah’s watch-tower, one can now find
tiny white violets, whose fragrance is the secret of a loving spirit, a
breath of happiness to all who gather them.
When Tu-tock-ah-nu-lah found that Tis-sa-ack was gone, a great
sadness came upon him. Day and night his sighs swept through the
pine trees. He puffed gloomily at his pipe until his tower was hidden
in a cloud of smoke. At last, thinking to follow and find his lost love,
he went away; and lest he be forgotten, he carved with his hunting-
knife the outlines of his face upon the wall of his fortress, which the
white man has named El Capitan.
As he turned sadly from his lodge, Tu-tock-ah-nu-lah perceived that
the air was filled with a rare and subtle perfume, blowing from a
stretch of meadow fringed with tamarack. Thinking it the breath of
Tis-sa-ack, he followed on and on, forgetful of the arts of E-ee-ke-
no, who dwells among the water-lilies in the lake which the Three
Brothers hold in the hollow of their hands.
E-ee-ke-no had long loved the Rock Chief, but Tu-tock-ah-nu-lah
scorned her unsought love, which turned through jealousy to bitter
hate. Now as she saw him go away in search of Tis-sa-ack, she
threw around him the mystic fragrance of the water-lily, which,
gentle as a caress, is deadly to all who win the hatred of E-ee-ke-no.
On and on across the meadow fringed with tamarack, among the
wild flowers and the waving grasses, Tu-tock-ah-nu-lah wandered,
following blindly the transformed spirit of E-ee-ke-no until he
disappeared forever in the depths of the lake.
“Forever and forever the Three Brothers sit
looking over each other’s shoulders from
the north wall of Ah-wah-nee.”
 Kom-po-pai-ses, Leaping Frog Rocks

F
OREVER and forever the Three Brothers sit looking over each
other’s shoulders from the north wall of Ah-wah-nee.
The Indians likened these peaks to frogs sitting back upon their
haunches ready to leap, and called them Kom-po-pai-ses, the
Leaping Frog Rocks. This the white man did not know when he
named them the Three Brothers.
The story of the Three Brothers is history, not tradition. It has to do
with the coming of the white man to Ah-wah-nee, and the downfall
of Ten-ie-ya, the last chief of the Ah-wah-nee-chees.
Across the plains that billow away toward the sea, Ten-ie-ya watched
the approach of the white stranger, having always in mind the words
of the old man who was his counselor when he left the land of his
Mo-no mother and returned to Ah-wah-nee to rule over his father’s
people.
The patriarch had heard the call of the Great Spirit, bidding him to
the happy land of the West, and had told Ten-ie-ya many things.
This, last of all:
“Obey my word, O Ten-ie-ya, and your people shall be many as the
blades of grass, and none shall dare to bring war into Ah-wah-nee.
But look you ever, my son, against the white horsemen of the great
plains beyond; for once they have crossed the western mountains,
your tribe will scatter as the dust before a desert wind, and never
come together again. Guard well your stronghold, O Ten-ie-ya, lest
you be the last of the great chiefs of Ah-wah-nee.”
The faded eyes had the light that comes when the call of the Great
Spirit sounds very near, and the feeble hand of the patriarch
trembled as he raised his pipe above his head, and said:
“Great Spirit, I pray be good to my son, the chief of the Ah-wah-nee-
chees. Toward the pines, north, cold wind treat him kindly; toward
the rising sun, east, great sun shine upon his lodge in the early
morning; toward the place where the sun goes in winter, south,
bless my son; toward the land of the setting sun, west, waft on the
breezes a peaceful sleep. And, lowering my pipe, I say, kind mother
earth, when you receive my son into your warm bosom, hold him
gently. Let the howl of the coyote, the roaring of the bear and the
mountain-lion, and the sound of winds swaying the tops of the pine
trees, be to him a sweet lullaby.”
Because of these last words of the dying seer, Ten-ie-ya guarded his
mountain retreat as a she-bear guards the refuge of her young. With
vague foreboding he saw the white horsemen coming nearer. They
took the land that the Great Spirit had made for the people of his
race. They burrowed into it like moles, and washed the sands of its
rivers, searching for something yellow and shining that the Indian
neither knew was there nor cared to know. They grazed their horses
and their cattle upon the broad stretches that had been the Indian’s
hunting-ground since time began. They even went so far, these pale-
faced strangers, as to steal Indian women for their wives. And
always they made their camps nearer and nearer to Ah-wah-nee.
While the vigor of youth remained, Ten-ie-ya did not fear these men
of an alien race. He only hated them. With his band of lawless
Grizzlies he stole forth in the night and drove away their horses to
kill for food; and as they feasted, drunk with the taste of warm
blood, their spirits were made bold, and the deep gorge rang with
shouts of defiance.
But Ten-ie-ya grew old, and the white horsemen of the plains, now
strong in number, were at the very walls of Ah-wah-nee. The words
of the dying patriarch were ever in his ears, and he knew that the
evil day was come.

“Toward the pines, north, cold wind

treat him kindly.”
At last the white men climbed the western mountains, offering gifts
in the name of the Great Father, their chief; and when they went
away they led Ten-ie-ya captive to their camp. The young braves fled
from Ah-wah-nee, across To-co-yah, the North Dome, to the home
of the Mo-nos. It was well that Ten-ie-ya should go to the plains,
they said; but they were young and could find plenty in the
mountains; they would not go to be herded like horses in the white
man’s camp.
Though he appeared to yield, the spirit of Ten-ie-ya was not broken.
Like a wild beast in captivity, he chafed under restraint. With the
cunning of his race, he watched his chance; and when it came, he
returned to his stronghold in the Sky Mountains, bearing in his heart
a fiercer hate for the white man, a hate made keener by defeat, a
hate that burned for revenge.
But an evil spell seemed cast upon the children of Ah-wah-nee. They
were scattered, and they did not rally round their chief. Again the
white horsemen climbed the western mountains, this time without
gifts. But day and night signal fires had burned upon the mountain
tops; and when the messengers of the Great Father entered Ah-
wah-nee they found the valley deserted, save for five dark figures
that darted like shadows from tree to rock at the base of a jagged
spur of the northern wall.
Feeling themselves secure because of the swollen river that lay
between, the five scouts came into the open when discovered, and
mocked the strangers; then disappeared up the side of a cliff so
straight and pathless that no white man could follow. By fair
promises carried to them by an Indian guide they were induced to
come into camp, and three of them were found to be sons of Ten-ie-
ya.
It does not speak for the faith of white men that one of the brothers
was killed while held as hostage until the aged chief should come in
and deliver himself to the messengers of the Great Father; and that
only an uncertain aim saved another who tried to escape through
the Cañon of the Arrow-wood, where his father was hiding. When he
saw it was useless to resist further these fearless, faithless horsemen
of the plains, who had stolen his lands and his women, who would
not let him live in peace in his mountains, Ten-ie-ya came down from
Le-ham-i-te, the Cañon of the Arrow-wood, by a trail that led into
the valley through the branches of a giant oak.
The first sight that met the gaze of the twice-conquered chieftain
was the dead body of his youngest son. He spoke no word, but lines
of sorrow appeared in the hard, old face; and secretly, in the heart
of the night, he had the young chief’s body carried away—none
knew where. Once more he tried for his liberty; once more was
captured. Then in a passion of grief and rage, he turned his bare
breast to his captors, and cried:
“Kill me, white chief, as you have killed my son, as you would kill all
my people if they would but come to you. You have brought sorrow
to my heart. For me the sun shines no more. Kill me, white chief,
and when I am dead I will call my people, that they shall come and
avenge the death of their chief and his son. My spirit will follow your
footsteps forever. I will not leave the spirit world, you will not see
me, but I will follow you where you go and you will know it is the
spirit of the old chief, and you will fear me and grow cold. This is the
message of the Great Spirit.”
But Ten-ie-ya’s hour was not yet come. He was to die, for an act of
treachery, at the hands of the Mo-nos, his mother’s people. Even so,
the prophecy of the seer was fulfilled, for the white horsemen of the
plains had crossed the western mountains, the tribe was scattered,
never to come together again, and Ten-ie-ya was the last great chief
of the Ah-wah-nee-chees.
Because his three sons were captured at its base, the triple peak in
the northern wall was given the name Three Brothers.
THIS EDITION OF YOSEMITE LEGENDS WAS
DONE FOR PAUL ELDER AND COMPANY
AT THE TOMOYÉ PRESS, SAN FRANCISCO, IN
THE YEAR NINETEEN HUNDRED AND FOUR
Transcriber’s Note
This book uses a double asterisk, * *, as an ellipsis.
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