Almost All Indian Peoples Have
The Firmly Fixed Notion That The Gods Can Be Propitiated Only By These
Exhausting Dances.
Consequently they are not performed by a few
professional dancers, or even by certain families; all the people must
dance.
The smallest child, as soon as he is able to understand, must take
his place with the elders, and the women and girls enter into the dances
with the same religious fervor and zeal that is displayed by the men. And
there is none of that sex enjoyment injected into their sacred dances, as
there is in the white man's pleasure dances. The Indian men dance together,
and the Indian women together, or, where both sexes participate, men are in
one row and women in another. So that Indian dances are not pleasure
dances. Neither are they competitive. There is none of the negro cake-walk
idea connected with them, nor the Italian peasant's carnival, where rivals
dance to gain the applause of the village.
Gifts Thrown to Spectators. During these dances at Tuba, gifts of corn,
squash, melons, flour, cloth of native texture, and loaves of unleavened
bread were brought and given with accompanying prayers to Mootchka, the
leader. Then, at certain times, these were thrown among the spectators and
eagerly caught, for not only were the articles themselves to be desired,
but there accompanied them the prayers of the original donors, which, in
some subtle manner, were supposed to bring good fortune to the final
recipients.
The "Rooster" Race. The next day the Navahos had their turn. The two
leading chiefs selected a suitable site, and, taking a rooster, buried it
up to the neck in sand. The running course was soon cleared, and excited
Indians on horseback lined up on either side for half a mile. Horseflesh of
all kinds known to the Indians (from fleet, wiry steeds that had won many a
prize, to broken-down cayuses fit only for the boneyard) was to be seen.
The riders were decked in all the gorgeousness they could afford. Silk
bands were around jet black masses of hair; calico of rainbow colors was
made into garments, here and there overshadowed by a beautifully woven and
exquisitely patterned native blanket. Around the waist of many of the men
were leathern belts, to which were attached large silver disks worked by
native silversmiths; and rings, bracelets, necklaces and earrings of
similar work abounded.
Beginning of the Fun. The competitors were soon gathered together at one
end of the course. The chiefs stated the conditions upon which the prizes
must be won, and a signal was given. Like a shot, a rider darted out from the
mass toward the tiny head of the buried rooster, stooping over from the
saddle as he neared the bird, with fingers
of the right hand extended, the left hand holding the bridle and clutching
the horse's mane. With a sweep, sudden as it was delicate, he tried to
catch the rooster's head between his extended fingers. He failed, but
dashed on, for another horse and rider were at his heels, and another and
another; the string seemed endless. Now and again one would touch the bird,
or would actually catch the head, but the body was too securely buried to
be pulled out easily. Cheers would ascend as the riders showed approximate
success. Sometimes a horse would shy, and the white visitor looked for
nothing less than a broken neck for his rider. But, laughing and shouting,
the athletic and careless Indian would swing himself into the saddle, and
in a few rough jerks teach the unruly animal to recognize a master. Of
course, long before this, the rooster was dead, for at the first strong
clutch his neck was broken, so that there was no unnecessary torture. The
stream of riders flowed on, and at last one lucky fellow gave the right
kind of a pull, and out came the rooster, to be swung around his head with
a fierce yell of triumph.
Pursuit of the Victor. Now the real sport begins. With a shout that only
Indian lungs can produce, every rider darts after the possessor of the
rooster, and for an hour, more or less, it is a question of hard riding,
dodging, evading, whirling to and fro. Over the sand-hills they go, pursued
and pursuers, yelling and shouting like demons. The victor's horse seems to
know all about the sport. He watches and dodges and doubles, like a hunted
hare. Now a stalwart ruffian has caught the rooster carrier, and hangs on
like grim death, while he is beaten over head and breast and shoulders with
the rooster as a weapon. Others join in. Surely someone will get hurt!
Watch the horses. They nip and pinch each other, and squeal with pain and
anger. Ah, the winner still keeps his prize! Again he is caught, and this
time it seems as if he must succumb. But his horse helps him out and, by
clinging desperately to the horn of the saddle and his horse's mane, he
wrests himself away from his pursuer, aided by the shying of the pursuing
horse, which is kicked and bitten by his own animal. But where is the
pursuer? His horse is dashing riderless away. Is he trampled to death in
that swirling, sandy conflict? No, he is hanging on to the man with the
rooster, belabored the while with the now bloody and dilapidated bird.
Regardless of this he still clings, although the horse is bounding along at
great speed, and a hundred or more are following, all yelling and
encouraging him not to let go. With a superb effort, he swings himself onto
the horse behind the saddle, and with a second sudden move grabs the
rooster and wrests half of it out of the original victor's hands. Seeing a
chance to escape he drops upon the sand, picks himself up unhurt, and is
soon seated upon a new horse. Now he becomes the pursued, and two bands,
instead of one, of howling, raving, shouting demons, occupy the attention.
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