Immediately there was a great bustle in the court. Women ran here and there, bringing new sandals of tough fiber for the feet of the messengers, and thick woolen blankets for the cool nights in the canyons. The skin food-bags were quickly filled and strapped over the slender young shoulders, and Kwasa, as leader, was given a heavy new spear in addition to the bows and arrows which they all carried. At last all was ready, and the lads stood forth to be sprinkled with the sacred meal from the handsome red and black bowl in Mosu’s hands. “The Old Ones be with you,” muttered the priest, as he strewed the meal in a circle about them, and upon the boys’ bowed heads. “Come back quickly,” called many anxious voices as, one by one, the lads dropped down the niche stairway. Kwasa, the last one to descend, stooped as he left the court and picked up the three red and white dice with which he and Wiki had been playing so short a time before. “For luck,” he laughed, as he dropped them into the deerskin pouch that hung at his belt. “Luck is in the hands of the Old Ones, not in painted sticks,” muttered Tcua, the old grandmother of Kwasa, watching the lads with anxious eyes as they filed down the canyon and out of sight. “May they bring back my son’s son safely--a good lad--a good lad.” And then she went down to grind corn for piki, for waiting in idleness is hard. CHAPTER III In the Season of Planting “The door of the Sun-House is open!” From mouth to mouth flew the word, brought at sunrise from the High Tower far up the cliff where Bimba, the Watcher, kept anxious count of the days till the planting season should begin. As if by magic the court was filled with busy men, women and children. Waka had come back once more to bring them plenty. It had not been in vain that every morning and evening they had thrown sacred meal toward the rising and the setting Sun, beseeching him to return quickly from his long journey to the south. And now the glad news had come that he had at last touched the peak far away to the east that marked his final favor, and they might get the seeds ready. Nor was that their only cause of rejoicing. For Kwasa and his companions had returned the night before, worn and weary from their long, swift race to the far-off neighbors at the southwest, but triumphant and proud. They brought word that the Rainbow people and their near kinsmen, the Bear Clan, were ready at a moment’s notice to join them against the dreaded common foe, whether Ute or Apache. Moreover, in the nine days since Sado had left them word had come that in a terrible battle between the Utes and the Pueblo people of the Seven Cities the foe had been repulsed with great slaughter, and had fled, broken and disabled, to their northern mountain fastnesses to nurse their wounds. For the time the danger of attack was over.