"Them's Pueblo tricks.
"The 'Pache shamans can make a thuder storm in a dark room or cave. Thunder and streaks of lightnin', w'en it's clear as a bell outside an' the stars shinin'. An' they'll swaller eighteen-inch arrers. Then there's the Moquis handlin' of the rattlesnakes. You've heard of them, likely. I tell ye they 're a rum lot. And a bad lot.
"I see a sight once, back in 'eighty-eight, down at San Mateo, New Mexico, that 'ud make yore blood crawl. The Penitentes were celebratin' Holy Week. A fine way of celebratin'. Mexican Indians they was, but kin to these Pueblos. I was trailin' with my burro late one night so's not to make a dry camp, w'en I hears a shriekin' sound thet seemed to come from everywhere an' nowhere. I learns later it was the Indians blowin' through reeds, but it sounded to me then like ten dozen mountain lions gettin' ready to fight. Then a bit of a moon come out an' I see 'em from the top of my ridge. If they'd seen me, or even 'spicioned I was nigh, I'd have been toasted alive. They was on one of their pilgrimages, as they call 'em. A band of 'em, naked as worms, with their limbs all bound tight with wire and rope an' their shoes full of sharp pebbles, scourging each other. An' carryin' big crosses.
"I see one of them crosses nex' day. I didn't foller them that night after they was out of sight. I didn't figger it was healthy. I sneaked back a ways an' camped dry, after all. In the mornin' I found a spring. In the afternoon I come across the cross.
