the tribal council. One of the few things Jujul knew about American law was that it did not extend into Mexico. For both reasons, then, it was a logical place to go. That was why he had chosen this direction instead. The Anglo’s army would comb the desert along the border, searching for some sign of them, and they would bring powerful weapons to the task. They had automobiles and trucks and far-seeing glasses. They could use their far-talkers to speak across great distances. They could even send winged machines to prowl the winds in search of his people. If the village went south and the Americans looked for them, there was a real chance they might be found.
We are the Desert People, he thought. This is our land. I will not allow the Whites to find us unless I choose to let them. Since the search would concentrate to the south, he had gone in another direction, toward the edge of the Reservation and the White Man’s village of Tucson. One cannot find that which is not where one looks.
He had first visited Black Caves with his father. The place became deserted during his childhood, but when they had passed through it on their way to visit relatives at the place where the river sank and the grand white mission of the Catholics stands, the place called San Xavier del Bac, it had been a thriving village. The water in the springs here had turned bitter after the long ago day when the earth moved, and, though it was still plentiful and safe to drink, the People abandoned it. Now Jujul needed it. His band could put up with bitter water for a time.
Jujul liked the place. There were few villages nearby. Ample game roamed the vicinity and they had found plenty of roots and berries and wild seeds. They were near the invisible border of the reservation, close to White ranches where they could trade, so long as they did not let it be known who they were. Close, also, to the San Xavier Reservation where many cousins from his clan would welcome visits from members of his village. There was interaction there. Whites and Mexicans lived and worked alongside the People. News could be gathered, information about how the Anglos intended dealing with his village. And information was what he needed.
He had sent people to the San Xavier and a few other villages already. He had also sent a party of young people to trade at one of the nearby ranches. That group was back. It was what he wanted to speak of at tonight’s council.
All the men in camp would come. It was their right and duty, but only the mature ones, those who had lived at least thirty summers, would be allowed to speak. It was a place for wisdom, not passion or intuition.
The men filed in. They nodded greetings as they passed Jujul and took their places in the circle, places won by right of age or a history of sage advice. The young men crowded in behind in no particular order. Most of the women casually wandered up the slope and found comfortable spots to sit and gaze at the place where Father Sun had gone to rest. They could watch as the stars came out of hiding, and, incidentally, overhear whatever might be discussed in the village council. Women had no official place there, no voice in the proceedings, but woe to the man who did not take his women’s opinions into careful consideration before he had his say.
Traditionally, a village must be in unanimous agreement over any matter before it could be acted on, but that practice had weakened over the centuries since they came in contact with the Spaniards, then the Mexicans and Anglos. In practice, Jujul always tried to achieve that unanimity, but, if necessary, he held the deciding vote. It was a vote he seldom cast. Wisely so, for he had no wish to be replaced as governor of his village.
Jujul took his place at the head of the circle and they began without ceremony. He talked about the day’s events, what hunter had brought in game, which foragers had added to their larder. There were no interruptions, no comments as there
We are the Desert People, he thought. This is our land. I will not allow the Whites to find us unless I choose to let them. Since the search would concentrate to the south, he had gone in another direction, toward the edge of the Reservation and the White Man’s village of Tucson. One cannot find that which is not where one looks.
He had first visited Black Caves with his father. The place became deserted during his childhood, but when they had passed through it on their way to visit relatives at the place where the river sank and the grand white mission of the Catholics stands, the place called San Xavier del Bac, it had been a thriving village. The water in the springs here had turned bitter after the long ago day when the earth moved, and, though it was still plentiful and safe to drink, the People abandoned it. Now Jujul needed it. His band could put up with bitter water for a time.
Jujul liked the place. There were few villages nearby. Ample game roamed the vicinity and they had found plenty of roots and berries and wild seeds. They were near the invisible border of the reservation, close to White ranches where they could trade, so long as they did not let it be known who they were. Close, also, to the San Xavier Reservation where many cousins from his clan would welcome visits from members of his village. There was interaction there. Whites and Mexicans lived and worked alongside the People. News could be gathered, information about how the Anglos intended dealing with his village. And information was what he needed.
He had sent people to the San Xavier and a few other villages already. He had also sent a party of young people to trade at one of the nearby ranches. That group was back. It was what he wanted to speak of at tonight’s council.
All the men in camp would come. It was their right and duty, but only the mature ones, those who had lived at least thirty summers, would be allowed to speak. It was a place for wisdom, not passion or intuition.
The men filed in. They nodded greetings as they passed Jujul and took their places in the circle, places won by right of age or a history of sage advice. The young men crowded in behind in no particular order. Most of the women casually wandered up the slope and found comfortable spots to sit and gaze at the place where Father Sun had gone to rest. They could watch as the stars came out of hiding, and, incidentally, overhear whatever might be discussed in the village council. Women had no official place there, no voice in the proceedings, but woe to the man who did not take his women’s opinions into careful consideration before he had his say.
Traditionally, a village must be in unanimous agreement over any matter before it could be acted on, but that practice had weakened over the centuries since they came in contact with the Spaniards, then the Mexicans and Anglos. In practice, Jujul always tried to achieve that unanimity, but, if necessary, he held the deciding vote. It was a vote he seldom cast. Wisely so, for he had no wish to be replaced as governor of his village.
Jujul took his place at the head of the circle and they began without ceremony. He talked about the day’s events, what hunter had brought in game, which foragers had added to their larder. There were no interruptions, no comments as there
Similar Books
