THE BASKET WOMAN
SECOND STORY
The next time Alan saw the Basket Woman he was not nearly so much afraidof her, though he did not venture to speak of their journey to Pahrump.He said to his mother, "Do you not wish the Indians could have stayedthe way they were?" and his mother laughed.
"Why, no, child," she said, "I do not think that I do. I think they aremuch better off as they are now." Alan, however, was not to beconvinced. The next time he saw the Basket Woman he was even troubledabout it.
The homesteader had taken his family to the town for a day, and thefirst thing Alan saw when he got down from the wagon was the BasketWoman. She was sitting in a corner of the sidewalk with a group of othermahalas, with her blanket drawn over her shoulders, looking out uponthe town, and her eyes were dull and strange.
A stream of people went by them in the street, and minded them no morethan the dogs they stepped over, sprawling at the doors of the stores.Some of the Indian women had children with them, but they neithershouted nor ran as they had done in the camp of Corn Water; they satquietly by their mothers, and Alan noticed how worn and poor were theclothes of all of them, and how wishful all the eyes. He could not gethis mind off them because he could not get them out of his sight forvery long at a time. It was a very small town, and as he went with hismother in and about the stores he would be coming face to face with themahalas every little while, and the Basket Woman's eyes were always sad.
His mother, when she had finished her shopping, gave him a silver dimeand told him that he might spend it as he wished. As soon as Alan hadturned the corner on that errand there was the Basket Woman with herchin upon her knees and her blanket drawn over her shoulders. Alanstopped a moment in front of her; he would have liked to say somethingcomforting, but found himself still afraid.
Her eyes looked on beyond him, blurred and dim; he supposed she must bethinking of the happy valley, and grew so very sorry for her that, as hecould not get the courage to speak, he threw his dime into her lap andran as fast as he could away. It seemed to him as he ran that she calledto him, but he could not be sure.
That night, almost as soon as he had touched the pillow, she came andstood beside him without motion or sound, and let down the basket fromher back.
"Do we go to Corn Water?" asked Alan as he stepped into it.
"To my people of old time," said the Basket Woman, "so that you need notbe so much sorry."
Then they went out by the mesa trail, where the sage showed duskilyunder a thin rim of moon. It seemed to Alan that they went slowly,almost heavily. When they came to the parting of the ways, she let downthe basket to rest. A rabbit popped, startled, out of the brush, andscurried into the dark; its white tail, like a signal, showed the way itwent.
"What was that?" asked Alan.
"Only little Tavwots, whom we scared out of his nest. Lean forward," shesaid, "and I will tell you a tale about him." So the boy leaned his headagainst the Basket Woman's long black hair, and heard the story ofLittle Tavwots and How He Caught the Sun in a Snare.
"It was long ago," said the Basket Woman. "Tavwots was the largest ofall four-footed things, and a mighty hunter. He would get up as soon asit was day and go to his hunting, but always before him was the track ofa great foot on the trail; and this troubled him, for his pride was asbig as his body and greater than his fame.
"'Who is this?' cried Tavwots, 'that goes with so great a stride beforeme to the hunting? Does he think to put me to shame?'
"'T'-sst!' said his mother, 'there is none greater than thee.'
"'Nevertheless,' said Tavwots, 'there are the footprints in the trail.'The next morning he got up earlier, but there were always the greatfootprints and the long stride before him.
"'Now I will set me a trap for this impudent fellow,' said Tavwots, forhe was very cunning. So he made a snare of his bowstring and set it inthe trail overnight, and in the morning when he went to look, behold, hehad caught the sun in his snare. All that quarter of the earth wasbeginning to smoke with the heat of it.
"'Is it you?' cried Tavwots, 'who made the tracks in my trail?'
"'It is I,' said the sun. 'Come now and set me free before the wholeearth is afire.' Then Tavwots saw what he had to do, so he drew hisknife and ran to cut the bowstring. But the heat was so great that heran back before he had done it, and was melted down to one half hissize. Then the smoke of the burning earth began to curl up against thesky.
"'Come again, Tavwots,' cried the sun. So he ran again and ran back, andthe third time he ran he cut the bowstring, and the sun was set freefrom the snare. But by that time Tavwots was melted down to as small ashe is now, and so he remains. Still you may see by the print of his feetas he leaps in the trail how great his stride was when he caught the sunin his snare.
"So it is always," said the Basket Woman, "that which is large growsless, and my people, which were great, have dwindled away."
After that she became quiet, and they went on over the mountain. Becausehe was beginning to be acquainted with it, the way seemed shorter toAlan than before. They passed over the high barren ridges, and he beganto look for the camp at Corn Water.
"I see no smoke," said Alan.
"It would bring down their enemies like buzzards on carrion," said theBasket Woman.
"There is no sound of singing nor of laughter," said the boy.
"Who laughs in the time of war?" said she.
"Is there war?" asked Alan.
"Long and bitter," said the Basket Woman. "Let us go softly and comeupon them unawares."
So they went, light of foot, among the pines until they saw the wickiupsopening eastward to the sun, but many of them stood ruined and awry.There were only the very old and the children in the camp, and these didnot run and play. They stole about like mice in the meadow sod, and ifso much as a twig snapped in the forest, they huddled motionless asyoung quail. The women worked in the growing corn; they dug roots on thehill slope and caught grasshoppers for food. One made a noose of herlong black hair plucked out, and snared the bright lizards that ranamong the rocks. It seemed to Alan that the Indians looked wishful andthinner than they should; but such food as they found was all put by.
"Why do they do this?" asked the boy.
"That the men who go to war may not go fasting," said the Basket Woman."Look, now we shall have news of them."
A young man came noiselessly out of the wood, and it was he who had sungthe new song on the night of feasting and dancing. He had eagle feathersin his hair, but they were draggled; there was beadwork on his leggings,but it was torn with thorns; there was paint on his face and his body,but it was smeared over red, and as he came into the camp he broke hisbow across his knee.
"It is a token of defeat," said the Basket Woman; "the others will comesoon." But some came feebly because of wounds, and it seemed the womenlooked for some who might never come. They cast up their arms and criedwith a terrible wailing sound that rose and shuddered among the pines.
"Be still," said the young man; "would you bring our enemies down uponus with your screeching?" Then the women threw themselves quietly in thedust, and rocked to and fro with sobbing; their stillness was morebitter than their crying.
Suddenly out of the wood came a storm of arrows, a rush of strange,painted braves, and the din of fighting.
"Shut your eyes," said the Basket Woman, "it is not good for you tosee." Alan hid his face in the Basket Woman's dress, and heard the noiseof fighting rage and die away. When he ventured to look again on theruined huts and the trampled harvest, there were few left in the camp ofCorn Water, and they had enough to do to find food for their poorbodies. They winnowed the creek with basket-work weirs for everyfinger-long troutling that came down in it, and tore the bark off thepine trees to get at the grubs underneath.
"Why do they not go out and kill deer as before?" asked Alan.
"Their enemies lurk in the wood and drive away the game," said theBasket Woman.
"Why do they not go to another place?"
> "Where shall they go, when their foes watch every pass?" said she.
It seemed to Alan that many days and nights passed while they watched bythe camp; and the days were all sorrowful, and always, as before, thebest meat was set aside for the strongest.
"Why is this so?" asked the boy.
"Because," said the Basket Woman, "those who are strong must stay so tocare for the rest. It is the way of my people. You see that the othersdo not complain." And it was so that the feeble ones tottered silentlyabout the camp or sat still a long time in one place with their headsupon their knees.
"How will it end?" asked Alan.
"They must go away at last," said she, "though the cords of their heartsare fastened here. But there is no seed corn, and the winter is close athand."
Then there began to be a tang of frost in the air, and the peoplegathered up their household goods, and, though there was not much ofthem, they staggered and bent under the burden as they went up out ofthe once happy valley to another home. The women let down their longhair and smeared ashes upon it; they threw up their lean arms andwailed long and mournfully as they passed among the pines. Alan began totremble with crying, and felt the Basket Woman patting him on theshoulder. Her voice sounded to him like the voice of his mother tellinghim to go to sleep again, for there was nothing for him to be troubledabout. After he grew quieter, the Indian woman lifted him up. "We mustbe going," she said, "it is not good for us to be here."
Alan wished as they went up over the mountain that she would help himwith talk toward forgetting what he had seen, but the long hair fellover her face and she would not talk. He shivered in the basket, and thenight felt colder and full of fearsome noises.
"What is that?" he whispered, as a falling star trailed all across thedark.
"It is the coyote people that brought the fire to my people," said theBasket Woman. Alan hoped she would tell him a tale about it, but shewould not. They went on down the mountain until they came to the bordersof the long-leaved pines. Alan heard the sough of the wind in theneedles, and it seemed as if it called.
"What is that?" he whispered.
"It is Hi-no-no, the wind, mourning for his brother, the pine tree," butshe would not tell him that tale, either. She went faster and faster,and Alan felt the stir of her shoulders under him. He listened to thewind, and it grew fierce and louder until he heard the house beamscreak, for he was awake in his own bed. A strong wind drove gustilyacross the mesa and laid hold of the corners of the roof.
The next morning the homesteader said that he must go to the campoodieand Alan might go with him. Alan was quite pleased, and said to hismother while she was getting him ready, "Do you know, I think Indiansare a great deal better off as they are now."
"Why, yes," said his mother, smiling, "I think so, too."
From photograph by A. A. Forbes A "CAMPOODIE," OR INDIAN VILLAGE]